“Captain,” came the quiet voice of the Musaid over the intercom. “The special team is assembled under the forward hatch.”
“Very well. Keep them ready. Night adapt their eyes.”
The special team was a seven man squad of naval infantry. They lived by themselves in one corner of the forward berthing compartment, having little to do with the rest of the crew. They were big, silent, and hardened soldiers, disdainful of all sailors. Trained in the Palestinian commando camps, they spent most of their time doing physical exercise and cleaning their AK-47 assault rifles. Their leader was a ferocious looking black Algerian from the Atlas mountains. A few words from the Musaid, and they would deal with any survivors.
“Captain,” came the Deputy’s voice over the intercom. “We are on the reverse of our track. At this speed it will take ten more minutes to cover the area of the—ah—incident. We have about thirty minutes until nautical twilight.”
“Very well, come up to seven knots.”
The speed order was acknowledged. Now, he thought, how do I find one or more men swimming in the ocean, if there are any. He swept the area ahead with his binoculars, as did the two lookouts. Thirty minutes to nautical twilight, the official time for star fixing, when the horizon would be just visible against the night sky. The air was cool and the visibility clearing rapidly in the wake of the rain squall. It must have happened very quickly for them. A light. He needed to show a light. Men in the water would make themselves visible if they saw a light. He ordered the control room to raise the search periscope, train the optics down into the water, and then to turn on the periscope interior tube light and begin sweeping the periscope from side to side. The prisms in the periscope would project a beam of dim white light down into the water. It would not be visible to ships or boats on the horizon, but, thirty five feet below, on the surface of the sea, a swimming man might see it.
He heard the tube hiss up to full elevation behind him, and begin to swivel from side to side like a cobra seeking prey. He kept his eyes pressed into the optics of his heavy, Russian binoculars in order to keep his night vision intact, and continued to scan the arc of black water ahead.
They had gone for six minutes back down their underwater track when one of the lookouts touched his sleeve, and pointed in the direction of the port bow. He trained his binoculars in that direction. There. He saw something white in the water. The pungent smell of diesel fuel was suddenly noticeable. The Captain reached for the intercom switch.
“All engines stop. All engines back slow together. Bring the special team on deck.” He turned to the senior of the two lookouts. “Well done. You may go below now.”
The men looked at him blankly for an instant, and then they both unstrapped their binoculars, and climbed down off their perch, disappearing into the conning tower hatch at the Captain’s feet. A moment later, the Musaid’s head appeared above the hatch coaming.
“Permission to come on the bridge,” he requested formally.
“Permission is granted,” replied the Captain, not taking his eyes off the bobbing white objects coming slowly into view ahead.
Up forward, on the wet, black foredeck of the submarine, seven bulky shapes rose up out of the dim red light showing through the forward hatch. Each shape carried an assault rifle.
“Come left twenty degrees; all engines stop. Secure the periscope tube light,” ordered the Captain into the intercom.
The orders were acknowledged below, and the boat turned toward the white things in the water ahead. The Captain continued to adjust the boat’s heading as they closed in on what appeared to be two men in the water. The big submarine began to wallow as her speed through the water dwindled. Twilight was coming fast now that the rain had moved out. The fishing boats on the horizon were still visible only as lights, but the lights were dimmer now in contrast to the lightening horizon. Fortunately, they were several miles distant. Time was running out. This had to be done quickly.
The two survivors began to wave as they saw the dark shape of the submarine approaching. One of the men in the water stopped waving, and held his hand near his face, as if trying to make out what kind of vessel was silently approaching them. The submarine, which had slowed to bare steerageway now after the backing propellers dragged her way through the water down, was rolling slowly in response to some unseen swell.
They looked so small in the sea, with seven eighths of their bodies under water, like tiny ice floes in the black sea. The Musaid turned to look at the Captain from the side of the cramped bridge area. The special squad were in line, their rifles at formal port arms in the darkness. He could hear the men in the water shouting now, their voices a mixture of anxiety and relief at being found. The boat was close now, moving through a slick of diesel oil and debris from the fishing boat. Suddenly, the men in the water stopped shouting, as they saw the soldiers and their rifles, and realized what that silent line of men on the foredeck might mean.
The Captain raised his right hand, waiting for the submarine to pull almost alongside the swimming men, and then dropped it. The night erupted in automatic weapons fire, the hammering sounds penetrating to flinching men below decks. Ten seconds later, there was nothing on the water except the oil slick and some bits of debris from the Rosie III, including a life ring that was floating very close to the submarine’s side.
“On deck,” called the Captain. “Retrieve that ring!”
The sergeant in charge handed his rifle to another man and ran back along the deck, past the conning tower, his boots clumping on the deck. Just aft, he stepped out onto the swell of the ballast tanks, putting his foot into a limber hole along the submarine’s water line, and reached out to retrieve the life ring that was bumping its way aft along the side. The Captain watched from above, approvingly. The life ring would have a name on it. The rest of the debris would be dispersed in a few hours, but the life ring would have floated and been proof that the fishing boat was sunk.
“Prepare to dive,” he ordered over the intercom, as the men on the foredeck went back down the hatch, one by one, passing their rifles before them.
The sergeant, clutching the white life ring, waited for them impatiently. The Captain turned to look at the Musaid, who was staring impassively down at the oil streaked water.
“Well, Musaid? This was a necessary thing, yes?”
The Musaid nodded grimly, trying to erase the sight of the thrashing figures in the water as their faces were obliterated by the AK-47’s.
“Very well, then. Clear the bridge,” ordered the Captain softly.
He then took one last look around before keying the intercom and giving the command to dive. The Musaid dropped down the hatch, slithering down quickly in the manner of old hand submariners, letting the tips of his boots just brush the rungs while sliding the ladder rails through his gloved hands.
The Captain suppressed a stab of guilt at what they had done to the men in the water. It violated the law and every tradition of the sea. Would that be their fate when the final encounter came with the American carrier? The mission, he reminded himself. You must keep the mission in the forefront of your mind. Let nothing distract you. He conjured up the cold fire in the Colonel’s eyes on the pier. This is a mission of vengeance, to be carried out in the old way, by the precepts of the Book. This killing of innocent men was necessary; these two men had to die in order that his men and this holy mission would live. He felt a chill, despite the tropical warmth of the air. He knew the real reason for his guilty feeling: he should not have passed so close to the fishing boat in the first place. These men had died because of his stupid error. His second major error of the trip—the first was that equally stupid edict about shooting the next man who made a major mistake. By rights, he should go shoot himself. The sounds of the ballast tanks spewing air and the sudden downward tilt of the bow snapped him back to reality. He shook his head and looked around again, before turning to the hatch as the submarine leaned into the dive.
FOURTEEN
The
Mayport Marina, Wednesday, 16 April; 1830
Mike Montgomery parked the Alfa in his usual spot at the Marina, and sat in the car for a minute, rubbing his eyes. It had been a tough three days. Daylight was fading quickly because of a low overcast and a drizzling rain that had set in Monday evening, one of those systems which made commuters wish they had bought intermittent windshield wipers. Goldsborough had been a veritable zoo, with engineering repairs, four unannounced staff inspections, two Captain’s mast sessions, briefings for the upcoming fleet exercise, and all of the end of the month reports. Monday had gone late enough to warrant his staying on board in his cabin rather than driving home.
He became aware that the rain seemed to be turning into a steady affair, judging from the sound on the car roof. He jammed his brass hat on his head, zipped up his khaki windbreaker, and climbed out of the car. He noticed a small knot of men standing under the streetlights at the head of the commercial pier. There seemed to be something wrong. Curious, he walked over.
One of the younger men he recognized nodded in greeting. “Evenin’, Cap,” he said.
“Evening,” replied Montgomery. “What’s happening?”
“Chris Mayfield is overdue,” said one of the older fishermen, in a broad north Florida accent. “S‘posed to be in fust thing this mawnin’; nobody’s seen hide ner hair of him or the Rosie, neither. Been on the marine radio all day, ain’t it, boys?” There was a subdued chorus of yeahs.
A black government car pulled up out of the wet darkness, and stopped at the head of the pier, its windshield wipers scraping noisily. Two Coast Guard officers got out, one a Lieutenant, the other an Ensign. The Lieutenant came directly over to the group on the pier.
“Afternoon, gents, I’m Lieutenant Barker from the District,” he announced.
He saw Mike, turned and saluted. “Commander,” he said, and then turned back to address the fishermen.
“We’ve received the boat overdue report, but there have been no reports of incidents or accidents in the fishing areas for the past twenty-four hours. If any of you can show us on a chart where the Rosie III might have been operating, we’ll initiate a search at first light.”
“Why ain’t y‘all goin’ out now?” asked one of the men, his white hair and red face in stark contrast to his black foul weather gear.
“Because the weather is below minimums for helicopter operations after dark,” replied the officer, patiently. “All the fishing boats that are out there have been alerted on marine radio, as have a couple of Navy destroyers who are out in the op-areas for training. That puts a pretty good mix of eyes out at sea; we’ll get a helo up at first light, if the weather permits, and do the aerial surveillance. But we do need a better idea of where they might have been.”
The older fisherman spat noisily over the side of the pier.
“Shit, Mister,” he said. “They coulda been anywheres. Ole Mayfield, he go where he damn well pleases, same’s the rest of us. Ain’t none of us goes around tellin’ where he’s hittin’ good fish, neither.” There was another muttering of agreement from the rest of them.
The Lieutenant looked annoyed. The Ensign was waiting to write something down in a small notebook, which was getting wet in the rain. Montgomery decided to intervene. “Lieutenant,” he said, “are you new in this district?”
“Yes, Sir. Two months. I came from Seattle.”
Mike nodded. “OK, the way it works, these guys go out and do most of their fishing between the Gulf Stream and the coast, depending on what they’re after. Mayfield works the margins of the Gulf Stream, where the mixed water is. Your best bet is to draw a line from the entrance of the St. Johns river directly out to the Stream, and then construct a search box along the inside margin of the Stream, north and south, say, for thirty miles. If he ran into trouble fishing, that’s where he probably was. If he had a problem on the way out, he’ll be on that easterly line somewhere.”
“Much obliged, Sir,” said the Lieutenant. “Are you here for the Navy?”
“No, I live over there,” Mike said, indicating the Marina with a nod of his head. “These guys are my neighbors.”
“I see, Sir. Well, we don’t have much info here, as you can see. The boat’s overdue twelve hours, which doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a problem. As I understand it.”
The Ensign had closed his book and was looking longingly at the car.
“Mayfield don’t come in on time, he gits on the marine,” said another of the fishermen. “Man loves to talk on the goddamn radio, don’t he?” There was more agreement all around.
The Lieutenant shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s all we’re going to accomplish here.” Turning to the cluster of fishermen, he said, “If any of you people come up with any additional information, please call us.”
The fishermen just looked at him; fishermen did not love the Coast Guard, inspectors of licenses and safety regulations. Until, that is, they were in trouble at sea. The Lieutenant saluted Montgomery again, and he and the Ensign got back into their official car and drove off. Mike hunched his shoulders; the rain was definitely settling in for the night. The far shore of the waterway had dissolved in a gray mist; even the sea birds were quiet. The knot of men under the streetlight looked as if they were trapped in the cone of light shining down in the rain. Mike pulled up the collar of his jacket.
“We’re going out tomorrow for some sea trials,” he said. “I’ll work the area so we cover as much of Chris’ stomping grounds as possible. Hopefully, those guys’ll get a helo up.”
“Thanks, Cap,” said the white haired fisherman. “Goddamn Coast Guard, they ain’t too quick on the draw, it comes to fishing boats. Some big banker on his Chris Craft, now, that’d be a different story.” Some of the men had begun to drift away towards Hampton’s back bar.
“Well, hell, Whitey,” said Mike. “Chris probably busted his radio and is just not going to come in until he’s ready. He’s probably found a good hole full of fish and isn’t telling. He’s not going to worry about it until he runs out of Jim Beam.”
The old man didn’t laugh. “I donno, Cap. Ain’t like him, three days now, you count the Monday and all, and he went out on a Monday. Ain’t nobody heard nothin’ from the Rosie. Can’t figure it. We had rain and everything, but nothing bad. Like some damn thing et him up.”
Montgomery patted the old man on the shoulder. “You start seeing sea monsters, time to give it up, Whitey. Tell that fat bartender over in the back bar to buy you guys a round on me. Chris’ll hear about it, and come in to get his share.”
“Yeah, he would, now, wouldn’t he,” grinned Whitey.
Mike walked back to his car, retrieved his briefcase, and started walking towards the Lucky Bag. He had a few hours of paperwork to do, and then an early start tomorrow for two days of sea trials. If the steam seals forward held tight, they would be able to go south on the fleet exercise next Tuesday. If not, well, he did not want to consider that possibility. Goldsborough was showing her age; they were welding on top of welds in some areas of the boiler room.
Funny thing about Mayfield, though. He was infamous for jabbering away on the marine radio. It was not like him to go completely silent. On the other hand, these fishermen were an independent breed. He boarded the boat, let himself in through the pilothouse door, and secured the alarm. From down below in the lounge came a familiar squawk.
“Shit fire,” said Hooker bird.
“Save matches, Bird,” replied his owner, turning on the lights.
FIFTEEN
USS Goldsborough, Mayport operating areas, Thursday, 17 April; 1730
The Captain sat in his chair, glowering out at the persistent rain and the gathering darkness. The ship was headed at slow speed into the wind, which gusted noisily through the open doors. The bridge watch did not exactly tiptoe around the pilothouse but there was none of the usual banter. The red light came back on the bitch box in front of his chair. He leaned forward.
“Bridge, Main Control,” announced the box.<
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“Bridge, Aye,” Mike responded.
“Cap’n, that feed pump is not responding to the control system; she comes up on the governor, but trips off the line when the first demand signal hits. We’re gonna have to bring it down and have another go at the controls.”
“What’s that leave you with, Snipe—one feed pump operational forward?”
There was a slight pause. “Yes, Sir. 1A is feeding 1A boiler; 1B has a 1200 pound steam leak, and now 1C won’t respond to control system signals.”
“OK, Snipe. Look into the possibility of taking the controller off of 1B and putting it on 1C; if we don’t have two feed pumps forward, we’re not going anywhere next week.”
“Snipe, Aye. I’ll talk to the Chief.”
Mike sat back in his chair and watched the red light blink off. His sense of gloom deepened; there went the fleet exercise and their chances of getting out of Mayport for a while. Fucking main feed pumps; overhauled only a year ago by the Philadelphia Navy Shityard in their enduring tradition of half-ass work. That, plus another couple of high pressure steam leaks back aft, and a sick lube-oil purifier, and an intermittent water chemistry problem in 2B boiler … None of them individually fatal, but collectively, enough to convince the Group Commander to pull him out of the Caribbean trip. And his dear friend in high places, Captain Martinson, would be delighted to do just that. Mike finished the last of his cold coffee, crumpled the paper cup, and pitched it through the bridge wing door straight over the side. The bosun mate, about to offer him a refill, thought better of it. The Officer of the Deck took a sudden interest in the radar repeater. Outside, there was a sudden burst of heavier rain against the windows. A bright, narrow wedge of late afternoon sunlight low on the western horizon was being squeezed into the sea by the overcast.
Scorpion in the Sea Page 13
