Scorpion in the Sea

by P. T. Deutermann

  “Yes, Sir, but our doctrine says you stack the deck when you go after a submarine. One on one is not very good ASW tactics.”

  “Look at it from the Coral Sea’s perspective: one submarine against an unescorted carrier is the alternative. We squeak now and they’d keep us inport. Let’s just get ourselves ready as best we can and go out there Thursday. We’ve got a shot at it—the bad guy expects Coral Sea to be running alone and un-alerted. We’ll at least screw up his attack geometry for him.”

  After the Exec left, Mike took a tour of his ship. It was after liberty hours, but most of the weapons people were still onboard. On the torpedo decks under the bridge wings, the torpedomen were opening and inspecting the torpedo tube machinery and running communications checks with the anti-submarine torpedoes nested in the tubes, their stainless steel noses glinting in the orange light of sunset. Below, on the forecastle, the gunner’s mates had mount fifty one lit off, and were doing transmission checks with gun plot down below decks. Back aft, on the fantail, Mike found the sonarmen checking over each of the five hundred pound depth charges, greasing up the plug caps where the hydrostatic fuzes would go when the order came down to arm them, and cleaning the accumulated salt out of the antiquated launch mechanism hanging out over the stern.

  Below decks he found the engineers in both firerooms and the forward engineroom, fitting in the new steam seals and preparing for level one, high pressure welding to close the steam admission valves back up. The main engine lubricating oil purifier was in a hundred pieces on the deck plates of the forward engine room, with three machinists mates ankle deep in parts and shiny bits of metal, putting it back together. Down on the second deck in the after berthing compartment, he peered through the hatch to Mount Fifty Three’s magazine and found the junior Chief Gunner’s mate directing two gunner’s mates in rearranging some five inch powder cans, bringing specific lots of powder cans forward in the bins so that they would be loaded first. Mike asked him why he was doing that. The young Chief, who had only made Chief a year ago, moved away from the sweating sailors.

  “Senior Chief said to get this lot of powder up close to the loader drums; some of that other stuff has caused jams, and he said we didn’t need any jams this Friday.”

  Alerted by this response, Mike asked why Friday was special.

  “Don’t know, Cap’n, but Senior Chief, he seems to think we got somethin’ cookin’. All those guys polishing up the torpedoes and the depth charges, and the sonar girls tweakin’ and peakin’ the gear … Senior Chief don’t think it’s just an inspection.”

  Mike smiled. He should have known better than to try to fool his crew. Especially the Chiefs. But he decided to maintain the facade.

  “Senior Chief is just suffering from a bout of wishful thinking, I’m afraid, Chief. Friday’s just a sea trial. If we’re lucky, we’ll get out to sea before the inspection goes down; if we’re not, we get to do them both.”

  The Chiefs expression was non-committal. “Yes, Sir, Cap’n. Anyhow, I gotta move the rest of this powder.”

  Mike went back up to his cabin as sundown began to paint the harbor a reddish orange. There was a quiet hum of activity about the ship, in contrast to the normal silence of empty spaces, offices, and passageways. He reflected not for the first time that the ship was a living thing, animated by its crew of three hundred fifty men. He had disturbed the routine by pressing the engineers for a Thursday evening sailing, and by the instructions to the weaponeers to go over all their equipment. Two thirds of the crew was still on board instead of tearing up the gin mills along Mayport Road. His guys were not fooled. Mike was suddenly certain of it. And more than a little proud of them.

  He had been in command for nearly two years, with only months to go before his change of command. Pretty soon his relief would be named. The new guy would take it through decommissioning and mothballing; now, there’s a good deal. You think you have it bad, he mused. He had been surprised that they didn’t just leave him onboard to finish out Goldy’s career along with his own. But the system didn’t work that way. The new guy would take Goldy through a year of decom procedures, decommission the ship, and then he’d be given another ship for a regular two year CO tour. That way he’d hang two sets of plaques in his I-love-me room, showing two destroyer commands. Mike smiled. The system. Designed by a few geniuses to be run by many fools, someone had said. Mike wasn’t sure about the numbers, but the system sure did run. And ran right over anyone who didn’t want to play ball, too.

  He felt a pang of regret, sitting there in the darkening solitude of his cabin. Not like you didn’t know the rules, Hoss. The Navy selected only a very few for command, and then gave every one of them a free scope of chain to produce his own command persona. He had chosen to be an independent. Ah, well. Again he felt the familiar thrill of impending action in his belly, followed by a hollow pang of fear. He realized that he had not felt that kind of physical fear since Vietnam and the river gunboat days. You should be afraid, he thought. Hell, you should be scared shitless. This ship is not ready to go out and duke it out with an attack submarine all by herself—she’s too old, has the wrong gear, the wrong weapons, and almost no edge on her. So whose fault is that, Captain? She’s supposed to be ready. Did you possibly get seduced by all this peacetime, too? You bitch and moan about the staffies and the politics —could you have maybe done a little more about battle training? What if this thing is real? His mind whirled. What if there is a goddamned submarine out there, a tightly trained professional killer submarine, who has come 6000 miles to do a bloody job of work? Is he going to swat Oldy Goldy aside like a fly? Unlike yours, his torpedoes will work just fine in shallow water. Big, Russian torpedoes, fifty miles an hour and 2000-pound warheads; tear a tin can to pieces. Was he going to take his troops out to die in a boiling, bellowing sea?

  Mike turned in his chair, his throat dry and his eyes wide open, staring through the gloom of the cabin at the porthole and the waiting Atlantic beyond the breakwater.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  USS Goldsborough, Mayport Naval Station, Wednesday, 7 May; 2250

  Mike sat at his desk in the cabin and rubbed his eyes. It was nearly twenty three hundred, and the day was not quite over yet. He had to call the Commodore at home one more time and give him an update on the main plant repairs. As he reached for the phone, however, it rang. He hesitated for a second, and then picked up.

  “Captain,” he announced.

  “Captain, indeed,” said a throaty voice. “I might have known you’d be on the damn ship.”

  “Diane. Jesus, did I forget—”

  “No, silly. I made an escape tonight. I’m on the boat. Max told me you hadn’t been home since Sunday. I got him to let me in so I could check on Hooker; your poor bird is not happy. He said some awful things to Max.”

  “Max is used to it; he usually says awful things back. Damn, I’m sorry I missed you. I’m missing you right now.”

  “A likely story. You haven’t even called.”

  “We’ve been pretty wrapped up getting ready for, well, you know.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, her tone more serious. “You’re really going to go forward with this crazy scheme? Alone?”

  Mike took a deep breath and let it out, a sigh of fatigue tinged with frustration.

  “No way around it. We even have another indication that it might be true, but the Commodore is still keeping the whole thing under wraps. The way he sees it—but we’ve been through this. Right now I’ve got my hands full getting ready. Some of the crew is getting wise, I’m afraid. I just want to get her out of Mayport before somebody runs his mouth.”

  “No chance of your coming back to the boat tonight?” she asked.

  “Well, hell, yes; the engineers are about done with preparations for light-off; I’ve just got to sign the light-off orders for tomorrow morning. I was going to hit the sack here, but, if there’s a future in it …”

  “There’s a future in it, sailor.”

  “Uh, what a
bout—”

  “J.W.? Didn’t you know? He flew down to San Juan Monday afternoon to oversee the final report of the collision investigation. And, here’s the interesting bit: he’s going to ride back in the Coral Sea.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Yeah, I thought you might find that an ironic note. Think of how proud you’ll be if the submarine shows up after all. You can write I-told-you-so in the water with depth charges.”

  Mike laughed weakly. It made a pretty image, as long as the good guys had something to crow about.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I really want to see you.”

  “Getting cold feet?”

  “Cold pit in my stomach is more like it. I’m beginning to think I know what the knights felt like, suiting up in their tents before dawn. Just a little bit scared.”

  “You probably should be,” she said softly. “You should also be going out there with some support.”

  “Too many people have painted themselves into a corner, Diane. We squawk now, and you can come visit me in the rubber room at NAS Jax hospital. And then Coral Sea might drive directly into an ambush.”

  She was silent on the phone for a long moment. “Hurry out here,” she said finally.

  Mike went down to the wardroom where the Engineers were preparing the main plant light-off orders. The Executive Officer handed him a cup of coffee, which Mike dutifully carried to his seat. Mike was glad he had decided to let them spend all day getting the plant ready and everything picked up in the main spaces after all the repairs, some of which had required around the clock work. The engineering people were tired. He wanted everyone to get a good night’s sleep, breakfast, and then proceed with light-off with all hands rested and alert. With the final status report in hand, he made a call to the Commodore and reported in. Then he called for the light-off orders.

  The light-off orders were a formality carried over from the nuclear navy. They specified which boiler would be lit off first, the main and support machinery that would be placed on the line to bring up half the ship’s propulsion power, and named the supervisors who would be in charge of the main spaces for the light-off. The conventional surface engineers took a dim view of the procedures, but Captains appreciated the discipline the procedure brought to major engineering evolutions. Many of the navy’s worst boiler fires and explosions had taken place after a long siege of repairs, when tired people made mistakes. He read through the orders book carefully, asked a few questions, signed off on the approval line, and went over a few last minute details with the senior engineering people. When he was through, the senior boiler tender asked if he could ask a question. Mike shot the Exec a look before answering.

  “Yeah, Chief, what is it?”

  “Scuttlebutt is that there’s more than a sea trial going down tomorrow night, that maybe there’s some real business to be done.”

  The senior BT was a leather tough old man of thirty six, who had almost eighteen years in steam plant firerooms. He was well known in the ship for going directly to the point in any conversation.

  Mike stood up, and looked at his watch. “I never shit the troops I march with,” he announced. “I’ll be back aboard at 0700. Good night.”

  As everyone stood up in some confusion, he left the wardroom without looking at anyone, and headed aft for the quarterdeck. After the wardroom door banged behind him, there was an awkward moment of silence. The Chief BT looked across the table at the Exec.

  “Was that an answer, XO?”

  The other engineers watched and listened carefully.

  “Just get her lit off safely, Chief,” said the Exec, his face set in a blank mask. The Chief Sonarman had obviously been talking.

  “But we really do have to get out to sea tomorrow night. Take it from me—that’s a no-shitter.”

  The Exec’s mind was on the Captain as he walked aft to his own cabin. The Captain had said he’d be staying aboard tonight, but now he was headed for the beach. The bells rang four times announcing his departure over the 1MC. Going to see her, no doubt. Talk about playing with fire. He felt a flash of male admiration, and then felt it subside when he wondered how he would feel if it was his wife waiting at the Marina. The Chief of Staff’s wife, for Chrissakes!

  FIFTY-SIX

  The Al Akrab, submerged, Jacksonville operating area, Wednesday, 7 May; 2245

  The Captain sat erect in his steel chair at the head of the wardroom table. The officers watched him attentively as he re-read the message from naval headquarters. The Musaid stood behind him as always, his eyes focused on the other end of the wardroom. The Captain cleared his throat.

  “The evening of Friday is confirmed,” he announced. “The day after tomorrow.”

  “We will conduct a daylight attack, then?” asked the Engineer, his eyes intense.

  “I think a twilight attack better describes it,” replied the Captain. “The intelligence report indicates the carrier must be in the basin by 1900 to ensure sufficient depth of water. So sometime between 1600 and 1900, probably closer to 1730, we will make the torpedo attack. But there is more.”

  The officers leaned forward.

  “The agents report that the three ships escorting the carrier are based in Norfolk in the state of Virginia, to the north of Mayport; our agents in Norfolk confirm the names.”

  He looked up at them with a cold smile.

  “This means Coral Sea will be alone.”

  “An easy target, then,” observed the weapons officer. “We know the most likely approach route from the sea, we know the area which she must pass through to make the sea buoy, and we know the arrival time in the basin. We can kill her at sea,” he said with an excited grin on his face.

  The weapons officer had little faith in the mines, and wanted the torpedoes to succeed. The Captain appreciated the weapons officer’s blood lust. They were all excited by the prospects of finally making the attack. But there were still risks. He held up his hand in admonition.

  “What we do not know is whether any escorts will be sailed from Mayport,” he began. “And we do not know if the carrier herself will put up helicopter screens. They could make this very difficult because the water is quite shallow along the attack area. But the report analysis indicates that since she is coming home after a month in the Caribbean, the carrier’s airplanes will all be flown off and dispersed to their bases around Jacksonville that morning, and that the concentration will be on getting safely in and their people ashore.”

  He permitted himself another wolfish grin.

  “But, yes, this may succeed beyond our best dreams.”

  “When shall we plant the mines, then,” asked the operations officer. “Tomorrow night?”

  The Captain nodded.

  “Yes, tomorrow night. We have reviewed the practice run, and we will allow another hour to make the approach. The field will be planted at the same time, around 0200; the weather will be what it will be. The Navigator has found two other lights which can be used for rough cross bearings in case we cannot see the river range. We did not really get to practice the firing of the mines the other night, but that is a relatively simple detail once we put the Al Akrab in position. Open the outer doors, fire three tubes, close the outer doors and run for the sea. Deputy, brief the approach plan.”

  The Deputy unfurled the approach chart on the wardroom table; the other officers stood and gathered around him to look down at the chart.

  “Sir: we are currently fifty miles out from the base,” he began, pointing with his finger to their current position. “We will begin a submerged approach this evening, aiming for a point here, where there is a shallow, submarine canyon. We will spend the entire day there tomorrow, and then begin a submerged approach to this point, twenty miles out from the river. Our plan is to surface at midnight, run in on the diesels for an hour and a half in the darkness while recharging, flood down and switch to electrics for the final approach at 0200. We have established that there is no radar surveillance of the base and river approaches.
Once the mines are laid, we will withdraw on electrics, switch to diesels and run on the surface while recharging batteries until 0430, submerge in this area here, and then commence a slow, submerged transit to the attack corridor, which we estimate to run from here to here.”

  He pointed to a long, trapezoidal shaped box drawn on the chart, beginning with its wide end some fifty miles out from the base, and narrowing down at the seaward end of the river approach channel.

  “Why this shape, Deputy Commander?” asked the weapons officer.

  “Because she can enter the box from many directions, and thus there is uncertainty at that end. There is no uncertainty about where she must be when she finishes transiting the box. Thus it narrows.”

  The Captain put his finger about two thirds of the way down the box.

  “Here would be ideal. The water depth is sufficient for a submerged approach and for some, but not much, maneuvering room. There is this gradual ridge running north-south, behind which we could loiter and be masked from sonars looking inshore. The box has begun to narrow, which means that the probability of Coral Sea being in the box has begun to rise, and thus we ought not to end up in a pursuit maneuver. That is important—we cannot pursue on the surface, and there is limited depth for any submerged maneuvering. The essence of this plan is that he must come right by us.”

  “Sir. You will fire from ahead?” asked the Engineer.

  “No. I will fire from the quarter, as he goes by. Remember these are steam driven torpedoes and they leave a wake.”

  The mission planning in Tripoli had been specific on the torpedo type. The Russians had the best electric anti-shipping torpedoes in the world, but their older, straight running, steam driven torpedoes packed the largest warheads in the world in a torpedo that went better than fifty miles an hour. They had decided to trade off the detectability of the World War II type torpedo wakes for the lethality of those 2000 pound warheads. The Deputy stood back from the chart.