The Captain felt reassured, as he always did when the Musaid agreed with him. The whining Deputy was a political officer, not a submariner. The Musaid was, like him, a warrior at heart. Warriors took chances.
“But we did not set the attack condition,” observed the Musaid, and the Captain’s sudden surge of euphoria dissolved.
The Senior Chief was entirely correct. They should have set the attack condition—if it had come to it, they might have had to fight, and he had become so engrossed in the problem of evasion that he had forgotten to prepare the boat to fight. It had been a major omission. The Captain nodded slowly, grateful that the Musaid had kept his voice down. Had the other officers noted the error? They would, later. He would have to bring it up at the debriefing session. They all needed to hone their procedural awareness. Someone should have made a recommendation to set the attack condition.
“You must compliment them, encourage them again,” said the Musaid, as if reading his mind. “They fear you, and your threat of shooting the next one to make an error smothered their initiative. Encourage them to speak out with recommendations, and they will remember the things you might forget in the heat of the moment. It is the proper way.”
The Captain nodded again. He would reflect on it. The Musaid saluted him, and left the control room. The Captain walked back over to the sonar console, and tapped the operator on the shoulder. The operator passed back the earphones. There, in the distance, the drawn out ringing sound, succeeding pulses ranging gently down the doppler scale as the destroyer moved away from them. The raucous background noises of the Gulf Stream were steadily overcoming the enemy’s ping, even as they enfolded the Al Akrab in a cloak of living noise, reinforcing the submarine’s great advantage of being immersed in the sea instead of upon it.
TWENTY-NINE
Mayport Naval Station, Friday, 25 April; 2100
Mike walked rapidly down the waterfront towards the Group Twelve headquarters building. The piers were darkened by the bulk of gray warships tied alongside as he passed from the light of one amber halogen streetlight to the next. The Squadron duty officer had met Goldsborough when she tied up and relayed the message that Group wanted a final debrief from the Captain upon Goldsborough’s arrival. He had said that the Group public affairs officer had been told to wait around until he had seen Goldsborough’s Commanding Officer. Mike had wanted to talk to the Commodore before seeing anyone at the Group, but the Commodore was at sea grading an engineering trial on another ship, and would not be in until tomorrow afternoon. Mike had asked the duty officer if the public affairs officer could come over to the ship, but the duty officer had recommended Mike go over there.
“He said he couldn’t come over to the ship,” the young Lieutenant had said. “There might be something else going on, because he said the Admiral and the Chief of Staff were still in the office.”
That changed everything. Mike had done a quick shift into a fresh uniform and headed for the white headquarters building as soon as the brow was over. If the heavies were staying late because of Goldsborough, Mike did not want to be the cause of any further night hours.
But when he arrived at the headquarters he was surprised to find a great deal of activity. Most of the offices were still open, and a number of staff officers were coming and going. The Group staff yeoman at the front desk gave him the news that there had been a collision between one of the carriers and a replenishment ship, and that there had been considerable damage and a number of personnel casualties. Mike acknowledged this news with a grimace; a collision at sea was always nasty business. He did feel a momentary and almost guilty sense of relief that all the commotion was not about Goldy.
The yeoman pointed him in the direction of the PAO’s office. He walked down the hall, acknowledging the greetings of two staff officers who were headed into the Admiral’s office. Mike knew that Captain Martinson’s office was right next to the Admiral’s office. As he walked past the two executive suites he hoped that he could just make his report to the PAO and get out of there without having to see Martinson or the Admiral.
He found the PAO’s office at the end of the hall. The PAO, a tall, thin Lieutenant Commander who needed a haircut, was on the phone. He waved to Mike and indicated a chair. From the conversation Mike deduced that the PAO was talking to his counterpart at the Navy headquarters staff in Norfolk. He waited patiently for the conversation to end.
“There,” said Lieutenant Commander Fishburne, banging the phone down onto its receiver. “Norfolk is just about as much of a pain in the neck as the so-called working press. You heard about the Coral Sea?”
“Just now,” replied Mike. “How bad is it?”
“Well, first reports aren’t terrific. They were alongside the Susquehanna, and the oiler lost power. They drifted apart initially but then came back together, side to side, with the oiler scraping her way down Coral Sea’s starboard side. Some fuel hoses parted and started a fire, and some guys were knocked over the side from the oiler, and a helo on the number one elevator was also knocked overboard with a flight deck crew inside. So we’re gonna be here awhile; the press already has it, and the families are starting in on us now.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. My phantom submarine seems like pretty tame stuff compared to all that.”
The PAO gave him a twisted grin. “Only as long as you didn’t find one.”
“You got my last sitrep—this morning?”
“Yes, Sir. We put out a final statement to the local press at noon, and hopefully terminated the whole thing. Unless you’ve got something to add to that—”
“Nope,” said Mike quickly, getting up. “And you’ve got your hands full here, it looks like. I’ll just get back to my ship.”
The PAO stood up also.
“Thanks for coming over, Cap’n; normally I would have come to you, but—”
He stopped as the phone began to ring again. Mike waved goodbye and left the office. He went down the long hallway and out the side exit in order to avoid going past the executive suites again. He was walking through the darkened Group Twelve parking lot when a voice called to him out of the darkness.
“Hello, Stranger.”
Mike turned to see Diane Martinson smiling at him from the front left window of the Volvo. He made a quick course change and walked over to the car.
“I see you’ve got this hummer dried out and running again,” he said.
She was sitting behind the wheel, her features only dimly visible in reflected light from the office building.
“That’s literally what they did,” she replied. “They took it to a paintshop and put it in the oven for several hours, and it runs fine. I’m waiting for J.W.—there’s some sort of flap on.”
“Right; I’ve just heard about it. The Coral Sea and the Susquehanna have managed to lock horns. It may be a late night for the Staff.”
“Oh, dear,” she said with a sigh.
She knew full well the import of a collision at sea, especially one involving an aircraft carrier. There was a moment of silence between them. Mike felt an urge to fill it, before the silence gave his real feelings a chance to escape.
“So, the Volvo runs and now you’re no longer guilty,” he offered.
He wanted to bend down to see her better, but felt exposed in the nearly empty parking lot. She smiled up at him, a cool if somewhat mischievous expression on her face.
“Not for the car, anyway.”
He laughed nervously at this.
“Story time went OK?” he asked.
His voice unintentionally revealed his discomfort. He was suddenly angry with himself: he had thought about her at sea, and now that she was right here, all he wanted to do was bolt before someone looked out an office window and saw them together. Her face became neutral.
“Story time went just fine. I felt bad about the lie, but it didn’t change the fact that I want to see you again.”
She reached out a hand and covered his resting on the window sill of the door.
He felt his face flush at her accurate intuition. Her hand was warm on his, and despite himself he covered hers with his other hand. Her eyes were large and luminous in the shadow. His desire welled up and he suddenly wanted to make love to her right there. She saw his expression change, read it accurately. They stared at each other for a long moment, mutual doubts evaporating in the presence of a suddenly urgent need. She put a finger to her lips.
“Don’t say it, don’t say anything—just when.”
“Tomorrow night? At the boat?” he said softly.
“Yes. I’ll be there. I don’t know when, but I’ll be there.” Her voice was husky.
Suddenly there were voices coming from the headquarters building doors, and a flare of white light from the hallway inside. Mike straightened up, squeezed her hand, and walked away into the darkness between the buildings, his mind awhirl. What was it about this woman? He had come within a few seconds of climbing in the car with her and damning the consequences. His desire struggled with his fear: had anyone been watching from the office? Had Martinson looked out his window to see if his wife was waiting for him, and seen them together? How much of her allure was due to the illicit nature of their attraction? And, if so, what of it? He knew that some people carried on affairs precisely because it was illicit and therefore more exciting than the routine of marriage.
But Diane was different, he told himself. That long look they had exchanged had changed everything. Their sincere discussion of her needs for a friend, for someone to confide in and to provide comfort, had been shoved into the background. At this moment, it was all much simpler. He wanted her. She wanted him, and the look they had exchanged through the car window had transmitted and acknowledged a message that transcended any mere words. He felt a thrill of anticipation.
Shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts, he strode rapidly back down the piers to the ship, trying to refocus on the business of settling the ship in for the next week. At least he had some control over that; his personal life seemed to be slipping swiftly out of control.
THIRTY
USS Goldsborough, Mayport Naval Station, Friday, 25 April; 2200
When he returned to the ship, Goldsborough was tied up port side to the pier. Mike crossed the quarterdeck and made his way up the outboard side to avoid the press of sailors passing shore power cables and steam lines between the pier and the ship. The Exec caught up with him on the 01 level amidships as he was picking his way through the snarl of cables.
“That go OK, Skipper?” asked the Exec.
“Yeah; they weren’t interested in us after all,” replied Mike. He related the news about the Coral Sea as they walked forward.
“Damn. Sounds like they really got into it out there. She was due back here in a couple of weeks; I wonder if they’ll bring her home early. My neighbor’s the MPA. His wife is always a nervous wreck when the ship’s gone for a couple of months. Now she’ll be a basket case.”
They walked together through the radio passageway and up to the Captain’s cabin. The Exec had to walk behind Mike; there was not room for two men to walk abreast in the cramped passageway. Mike pitched his hat onto the bunk shelf and sat down. Hooker croaked some obscenity from the corner of the cabin.
“Up yours, bird,” said Mike. The XO remained standing; he had a folder of papers in his hands.
“So. We shut down?” asked Mike.
“Yes, Sir. We’re on the diesels right now, and expect shore power in about a half hour. Here is a bunch of paperwork that I’ve accumulated over the week which needs to get signed out by Monday, and also Linc wants to come see you before you shove off, tonight, if that’s possible.”
Mike frowned. It was after 2200, and he was tired. He did not feel like getting into a discussion with his ASW officer, especially since Linc would want him to explain why they had broken off the contact that afternoon. The Exec saw Mike’s expression.
“I told Linc he could have five minutes tonight,” he said hurriedly, “and that he was not to come in here all hot and bothered.”
“He was disappointed that we quit, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, Sir, but he’s a pretty professional guy for a junior officer. He got wound up in this thing, and he really believes we had something out there.”
“How do you recommend I handle this?”
“Like we discussed earlier—I think he wants reassurance that you’re not blowing this thing off. He’s got all his charts and tapes ready, but I told him that had to wait.”
“I can come back in tomorrow morning,” said Mike. “But I hate to make him and his Chief come in on a Saturday after a week at sea; the wives get an attitude about that.”
The Exec laughed. “Tell me about it.”
The Exec, like all Execs in the Navy, came in almost every Saturday morning for a few hours of undisturbed paperwork.
“OK, I’ll see him. Then I’m going to take this impolite bird and my weary ass home to the houseboat. Leave that stuff in my in-basket. You want to sit in on this?”
The Exec thought about it for a moment, trying to determine if Mike wanted him to stay or was just being polite.
“I think it’s you he really wants to hear this from, Captain. I kind of set the stage this afternoon, but I think he wants to be sure we’re not putting him off.”
Mike nodded and put on an injured expression.
“You’re a hard man, XO, making your poor, ole CO deal with this all by himself, abandoning me to the slings and arrows of an offended J.O. I guess nobody loves me but my parrot, and he craps on the rug all the time. I’ll remember this at fitrep time.”
The Exec grinned back at him. “Yes, Sir. I’ll get him up here.”
He left the cabin, and Mike went over to the perch and picked up his parrot.
“Hello, Bird,” he said.
He scratched the bright feathers on the bird’s neck. Hooker looked up at him sideways and then closed his eyes to concentrate on the neck rub. Mike stood by the single porthole in his cabin, staring out over the twinkling waters of the harbor basin in the moonlight. The bulk of the super-carrier Saratoga loomed against the carrier bulkhead across the basin, the detail of the 96,000 ton monster lost in the shadow of her own overhanging flight deck.
Once again he sympathized with the Captain of the Coral Sea, the other Mayport carrier, who was now going through all the hell of an accident investigation, although it sounded like it had been entirely the oiler’s fault. Still, he had lost some people and an aircraft. He remembered the pit in his stomach during the days of his own collision investigation. There was a knock on the door behind him.
“Come in,” he called.
Lincoln Howard stepped through the door. Howard was the sole black officer in the ship. He was of medium height and slim build, and he carried himself with a quiet dignity that belied his age. He was a Naval Academy graduate and an extremely sharp young man. Both his mother and father were civil servants in Washington, and every one of their five children had achieved success in professional careers. Mike thought he was one of the best officers in the wardroom, and so did most of his shipmates.
“Linc, sit down, please,” said Mike. “I’m pleased that you wanted to hang around tonight and talk about our little mystery out there.”
Howard cleared his throat nervously. He was always extremely polite and respectful around the more senior officers in the ship, to the point where they were careful not to kid him too hard because he tended to take it literally. He sat almost at attention on the edge of the couch which concealed the Captain’s folding bunk bed.
“Thank you, Sir, for seeing me tonight.”
He appeared to be working up to a prepared speech, so Mike cut him off. He remained standing, the parrot in the crook of his left arm.
“I know you guys were disappointed when I broke this thing off today, but it was not a frivolous decision, as
I think the XO explained earlier.”
“Yes, Sir. He did, and I understand what you want to do.”
“OK, then, and if you can come in tomorrow morning, or Monday if you want, I’m ready to hear your rationale and look at the evidence that we really had a contact. But for now, I want your personal, professional opinion: do you really think that contact was a submarine?”
Linc cleared his throat again, and then plunged in.
“Yes, Sir, I do. I know I haven’t been at this very long, and I have to admit I’ve never seen a diesel electric submarine on the sonar. But that contact was different from anything else we’d seen out there. We’d had some solid contacts before, but they always kind of melted after a few minutes of pinging. The senior sonarmen, they know the difference; they can usually tell by the audio that a contact is marine life or a mud bottom or a heavy thermal layer. But everybody in sonar sat up on the first ping we got on this guy, Cap’n, and the Chief got on the stack himself after only a couple of pings. It was just like at ASW school—you know those trainer tapes, where the contacts are always perfect—it sounded like that. And we had a change in doppler, after we gained contact. That’s significant. The contact responded when we got on him.”
Mike paced the narrow space between his desk and the end of the cabin.
“And then you lost him,” said Mike. He regretted his terminology almost immediately. It sounded like an accusation, and he saw the flare of concern in Linc’s eyes.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounds: you were unable to maintain contact.”
“Yes, Sir. We did. But the Chief said we would. We were right there on the margins of the Stream, so any solid contact was something of a fluke in that water—we knew he could slip into a thermal vortex and disappear. You remember we reported that the contact was intermittent due to layering. But when we had him, it was solid. The echoes damn near clicked at us. The fact that we got a contact of that quality in the Stream margins almost has to mean it was a real contact, because the other stuff we get out there would not have persisted for more than just a few pings. And then, of course, we had the decoy.”
Scorpion in the Sea Page 27
