Scorpion in the Sea

by P. T. Deutermann

  “Well, XO,” he said. “It’s a hard monster to get your hands on. Each of the Navy’s mandated management programs is, in and of itself, justifiable and possibly even necessary. The problem comes when you aggregate them. I spent six weeks going through a Prospective Commanding Officer school in Newport prior to coming here, just like you spent six weeks in your Prospective XO course. The whole curriculum was focused on this enormous array of special management programs required of every ship. They did a good job of explaining where each program came from, and how each one evolved from the discovery of problems in the fleet, ranging from poor engineering maintenance to ineffective oversight of personnel records.”

  “So each time a fleet-wide problem is discovered, the Navy charges the Fleet Commander or the Type Commander to design a special management program to fix it.”

  “Right. And each program gets designed by a whole staff of people as if the ship were going to do nothing else but that one program. Nobody ever coordinates all the programs, and the resulting paperwork requirements. You read the directives: the Commanding Officer shall personally devote X amount of time and attention to seeing to it that the Personnel Qualification Standards program is, etc., etc. I keep hoping someday the CNO will sit down and add up the total paper requirements of all these programs.”

  “If he does,” snorted the Exec, “we’ll get another program, a paperwork reduction program, complete with reports, how many pounds of paper got reduced today, and so on.”

  “You got it, XO. Watch out, they’ll make a staffie out of you for thinking that way.”

  They were interrupted by a knocking on the wardroom door, followed by the radio messenger bearing a steel clipboard.

  “Personal For, Cap’n,” he announced, passing the clipboard to Mike.

  Mike opened the clipboard, initialled the record copy of the message, and then took the back copy, dismissing the messenger.

  “It’s from Pierce, in Deyo,” said Mike. “Addressed action to the Commodore, info to me. And it says: ‘have recorded underwater sound survey in diesel bands for two successive nights. Not surprisingly, have detected several diesels, but nothing to indicate unusual characteristics or anything but the normal anomalies of the Jax opareas and fishing grounds. Unless otherwise directed, intend to continue survey for one more night prior to return to port Thursday, unless engineering trials completed Wednesday, in which case will return to port Wednesday P.M.’ Rest of it is on his engineering trials, which went, unlike ours, swimmingly. ‘Very respectfully, etc, the IV.’” Mike tossed the message over to Farmer, who scanned it briefly.

  “So nothing to write home about there, either, XO. I think now maybe this thing’s dead. Or gone. Or both.”

  “I wonder what he means by ‘normal anomalies,’” muttered the Exec.

  “Shit, I don’t know. The professional ASW guys tend to speak in tongues,” said Mike. “As everybody seems to know, ASW is an imprecise business.”

  The Exec put the message down on the table, and drank some more coffee.

  “This stuff is getting worse,” he commented, peering suspiciously into his cup. “Navy gets cheap on coffee; we’re really getting down there.”

  He studied the message form, as if by looking at it he could compel it to explain the mystery submarine. Mike stared off into space.

  “I wonder,” said Farmer, “if we’re not running into the same thing on Deyo that we got up in Norfolk.”

  “Like?”

  “I mean that the IV may have dismissed this whole project a priori as something from fantasy land. Maybe we ought to send Linc and his Chief over to Deyo tomorrow when they get in to actually look at their tapes. Informally, of course. Let the Chief set it up; matter of fact, don’t send Linc, just send the Chief. Chiefs are forever coming and going along the waterfront, so nobody would notice. See what we get.”

  Mike nodded thoughtfully.

  “That’s probably not a bad idea, although from the sound of things, he’s coming in tonight, so we’ll only see two nights’ worth of tapes.” He looked over at the Exec. “And if we see something on his tapes that he didn’t? Then what?”

  “Then we hold another skull session with the Commodore and we figure out what to do next. We’re going to be back out there ourselves next week, if they fix these fornicating feed pumps.”

  “That’s not on the schedule.”

  “Yes, Sir, but we’ll need an engineering trial to prove that the feed pumps can handle steaming loads.”

  Mike pushed away the coffee.

  “If the higher ups conclude that there is something to all this,” he said, “they sure as hell are not going to send Goldsborough to deal with it.”

  “But if they conclude that it is all bullshit, we can go out and screw around some more, see what we turn up, and nobody has to know.”

  “The Commodore would have to know. But what the hell can we do that the Deyos of the world can’t do? I mean, shit, she’s an ASW specialist. Sonars up the gazoo, carries a helicopter, and they can even process sonobuoys. All we can do is ping.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Farmer, leaning forward. “But that’s precisely it: we can ping in shallow water where the Deyo’s sonar is useless: it’s too damned big. So far, everything that’s happened has happened inside the continental shelf: the U-boat sighting, the fishing boat going down with a bullet hole in her nameplate, our two contacts, all in water 300 to 500 foot deep, and all inside the Gulf Stream, too. Spruances like Deyo need water 6000 foot deep for their sonars to reach out there and touch someone.”

  Mike sat back in his chair, a surprised look on his face.

  “You’re back to believing this shit, aren’t you,” he said.

  Farmer nodded once.

  “I go back and forth on it. I’ll admit that. But I want to know what Deyo means by normal anomalies—that’s an oxymoron. If our guys can see something on his tapes that might be a sub on the snort, then I think we ought to go out there and try to find the sucker, before—”

  “Before what?”

  Farmer sighed and started rubbing his eyes with both hands.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his voice muffled by his hands. “We’re still missing something here.”

  The wardroom door opened and the Chief Engineer came back into the wardroom with the shipyard superintendent.

  “Cap’n, we think we’ve found out what’s eating those steam seals,” he announced.

  Mike looked at Farmer for a moment, and nodded his head fractionally, acknowledging that the Exec might be right. He then turned to the Engineer.

  “OK, Snipe, sit down and tell me all about it. You know how I love main feed pump steam seals.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  USS Goldsborough, pierside, Mayport Naval Station, Wednesday, 30 April; 1630

  Mike sat in his cabin, and stared with distaste at the paperwork piled in his in-basket. Out in the harbor he could hear the sounds of horns as two tugs berthed the Deyo, which had just come into the Mayport basin from the sea. He was tired, and not just from the day’s work of meetings, walking around the ship to check on the repair work, fitness report counseling sessions with two of his not so good junior officers, a training session with the department heads, and the latest discussion with the Exec on the submarine. He was also tired from two wonderful, marathon nights on the house-boat, where he and Diane had made up for their respective dry spells. He had been only half-joking when he had whispered in her ear that it was a good thing the Group staff was getting back because he was too old for this pace of affairs. She had proceeded to demonstrate that he was not that old, but it had been a close run thing.

  He speculated on their relationship for the ninety-ninth time. It was not that she was any more demanding than he was; they were both taking as big a measure of loving out of the situation as they could, knowing that it would soon become more difficult to do so. But the fact that it was forbidden and even dangerous for both of them, if for different reasons, made it all the more exciting
. Once in the early hours he had again professed his love for her, and she had laughed softly in the darkness, rolled over on top of him and told him the facts of life, her face a dim blur framed in the darker shadow of her hair hanging in his face.

  “This is called fucking, Mike, not love. Love is something altogether different. Love is intimacy over a long time; what we’re doing now might lead to love, or it might not. But right now, this is something more basic: I need it and you need it and we’re terrific in bed and damned lucky to have struck the spark in the first place, because from what I can tell, most people don’t even get close. But let’s not call it love, OK? Not yet, anyway. Both of us have probably missed our chance for love, for whatever reason, which is why we’re doing this and now kiss me …”

  He had obliged and soon forgotten her rebuff, if that was what it had been. He had a feeling now that there was more to it, but he was unwilling to disturb what they did have. The occasional weekend with one of the beach bunnies was good enough to take the horns down a little, but this was, like the lady said, something different.

  But now it was Wednesday, and her husband was coming back in a few hours, and the Commodore was coming back and even the Deyo was coming back and tomorrow he would still have to deal with this submarine issue. At the very least he would have to go see the Commodore, and then maybe even the Admiral and the Group staff. He did not relish either prospect, especially if it elevated to a session with the Group staff, which he dreaded. He could already see the knowing smirks, the amused looks around the table, as always orchestrated by the politely caustic and ever so patronizing commentary from the Chief of Staff as he dealt with Montgomery the Misfit. Boy, do I have the ultimate put down line for that bastard, he thought. Right, just as long as you’re prepared to fall on your sword out on the headquarters parade ground once you’ve used it.

  The tugs across the basin gave out two long, final blats on their horns acknowledging that the harbor pilot was finished with them and that the Deyo was safely moored. Mike had arranged for Chief Sonarman Mackensie to ease on over there this evening to get a look at the passive sonar printouts and video tapes. A lot would depend on what was really on those tapes. Deyo had said there was nothing there, other than “normal anomalies,” and the Commodore had not called him from Norfolk, so perhaps the great submarine mystery was a dead issue, after all. But the image of Christian Mayfield’s sister’s face hovered on the edges of his mind. He had a sinking feeling that this was not over. His outside line phone rang.

  “Captain,” he said curtly.

  He had decided long ago not to answer his phone with the normal, “USS Goldsborough, this is not a secure line, Commander Montgomery, Commanding Officer, speaking, Sir” routine. He figured if someone called his outside CO’s line number, they knew it was the CO’s phone.

  “Captain, indeed,” said a throaty voice.

  “Diane!” he said, in a too loud voice, glancing around the cabin almost furtively.

  “Wow. I think he misses me. Does he miss me?”

  He grinned into the phone. “If you were here instead of wherever you are, I could show you.”

  “And what if I were on a certain houseboat, with a certain ill mannered parrot calling me names because I’m not properly dressed … ?”

  “Are you out of your mind? That plane’s due in here in an hour and a half!”

  “I know that. You know that. Hooker might even know that. But I have no intention of going to meet that plane. My very important husband will go from that plane directly to the office in the Admiral’s big, black staff car to make sure there are no ‘smoldering embers,’ as he likes to put it. After all, he’s been gone three full days and God only knows what those cretins on the Staff might have done or failed to do. And when every thing has been put to bed, when all the important papers are tucked in for the night, and the Great Man has gone home, then and only then will he call me to come and get him. And depending on how quickly you can get here, and how interested you are, I may or may not be there to get his phone call. By the way, you ever hear of Victoria’s Secret?”

  “Are you kidding? One of the J.O.’s got their catalogue and it made the rounds of the whole wardroom.”

  “Well,” she said softly, “I get their catalog too. I even buy things from their catalog.”

  “That’s not fair,” he said.

  “Don’t whimper. Why don’t you climb into that little sports car instead and go fast, kind Sir, and let’s see what Victoria and I can work out. So to speak.”

  “Here I come,” he said, in a voice that was somewhat weaker than he wanted it to be.

  “No, not there, Dummy. Here,” she said, hanging up.

  Mike quickly called the quarterdeck and told them to ring him off. He looked at his watch. No time for changing clothes, or sprucing up, he thought. Just go. The four bells and “Goldsborough, departing” rang over the ship’s announcing system. He walked quickly down to the quarterdeck, hoping there would not be the usual queue of officers with last minute paperwork. He returned the salutes of the OOD and was halfway down the brow when the Exec came trotting down the main deck. Mike cursed mentally, but paused on the brow to wait for the Exec, who gave a perfunctory salute to the OOD and hustled out to where Mike was standing.

  “I just got a call from Commander Barstowe; the Commodore wants to see you at 0900 tomorrow morning. He thinks it’s to discuss our little project, as he called it.”

  Mike paused for a moment, aware that the quarterdeck watch personnel were watching curiously.

  “Did he elaborate?”

  “No, Sir, just said 0900.”

  “Then make damn sure that Chief Mackensie gets over to Deyo tonight,” said Mike. “And if he hits any kind of brick wall, do what you have to do to break it down. Or call me and I’ll call Pierce at home if I have to.”

  The Exec nodded. “Chief Mackensie doesn’t anticipate any problems; he knows the senior chief over there in Deyo —they served at sonar school together. He’ll get the dope, if there is any. You’ll be on the boat tonight, Sir?”

  “Right; I’m headed there now. Give me a call if you need me to help with the Deyo stuff, and have the CDO or Chief Mac call me with the results of his little look-see.”

  “Aye, Aye, Sir. I’ll probably call you, myself. I’m kind of curious. Have a real good evening,” he concluded, saluting.

  Mike returned the salute, and hurried down the rest of the brow to the pier, wondering fleetingly if the Exec meant anything more than his routine, end of the day farewell. Ben Farmer was a pretty perceptive officer, and Mike did not normally bolt off the ship like this. Time was, however, short. He reached the Alfa and got in, glancing over to the ship to see the small knot of people on the quarterdeck watching him go as he gunned the car down the pier. No way, he thought; there was simply no way they could know. And it had better stay that way, too.

  FORTY

  The Mayport Marina, Wednesday, 30 April; 2030

  “You better git,” Mike said, without conviction.

  “You throwing me out of your bed, Sailor?”

  Diane lay on her side, her upper body propped up on one elbow. Her right breast was level with Mike’s right eye. He spoke again; the breast appeared to be paying attention.

  “That plane came in at least an hour ago, and you are going to have some questions to answer.”

  “It’s not like I don’t have all the answers,” she said. “I think I could say with a straight face that I’d been out fucking my brains out, and J.W. would give me a condescending smile and say something clever about going to a brain fucking contest unequipped.”

  Mike adjusted the level of his right eye and made a tentative probe with his tongue.

  “Looks like you’re equipped to me. From this aspect, that is.”

  The bedside phone began its electronic trilling. Diane swung herself out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

  “If that’s for me, I might as well stay here,” she said as she closed the door.<
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  “Captain,” grunted Mike, pulling the phone across the bed from the bedside table.

  “Yes, Sir, Captain, Ben here,” came the XO’s voice. “I think it’s not over.”

  Mike groaned, and switched on the bed’s reading light. He could hear the sounds of the shower coming from the bathroom. He looked at his watch. Woman liked to live dangerously, he thought.

  “OK, what’d Chief Mac find out?”

  “Uh, I think it might be better if you saw this stuff for yourself, Sir. Can maybe we come out to the boat?”

  Mike glanced over at the bathroom door. The shower noises had stopped.

  “Yeah, uh, sure, XO,” he said, thinking quickly. “But make sure you bring along the presentation stuff we gave the Commodore, though.”

  The Exec seemed to hesitate for a second.

  “Uh, Aye, aye, Sir. I think Linc’s got that squirreled away in his room; we’ll have to go find it. We’ll be out in about twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

  “That’s fine, XO. See you here. You get chow?”

  “Yes, Sir. I had dinner on board. Meat loaf.”

  “Meat loaf, hunh? Thirty-weight or forty-weight?”

  “Forty weight at least.”

  “OK, I’ll have some decent Scotch ready. See you in a bit.” He hung up as Diane came back out of the bathroom, drying her hair vigorously with a towel. She retrieved her various articles of clothing, and put them on while continuing to rub the towel through her hair. Mike lay back and enjoyed the show of dexterity and wondered what might be accomplished in five minutes or so. She caught his look and smiled, picked up her purse and went back into the bathroom to tend to her makeup. She was back out in three minutes. Her eyes were shining; she fairly exuded an aura of well being.

  “I’m impressed,” said Mike, looking again at his watch. “But you need to dim that glow a little; the whole world will know what you’ve been doing.”