“And then, of course,” he continued, “in the inimitable fashion of all intel weenies everywhere, it may, on the other hand, be a submarine and the photo might be bad. Or it may be a fox terrier and the satellite is bad, or it may be a rainy day in Washington and the weather is bad!”
He swivelled back again.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
Before the perspiring N2 could answer, the Admiral yelled past him to the open doorway.
“Mike, where the hell is Aronson—I want to talk to him now, goddammit!”
“Working on it, Admiral,” came the voice of the EA.
The Admiral looked back at his intelligence officer.
“Well?”
“Well, Sir,” he began, nervously. “I listened to the tape of the phone conversation. She said they had several scraps of “evidence,” but no one thing that’s conclusive. I would say that this estimate could be considered another scrap, and one that’s just as ambiguous as the rest of them. But the whole thing, Admiral, is so—I mean, Khadafi would have to be out of his fucking—”
The Admiral’s flat stare cut him off.
“Muammar Khadafi,” he said. “Out of his mind. What a novel concept.”
The EA appeared in the doorway. “Line two, Sir. Commodore Aronson.”
The Admiral punched a button violently on his phone console, pointing the red faced N2 and the EA into chairs, and putting line two on his speaker. The Admiral wasted no time with polite preliminaries.
“Eli, what in God’s name have you got going down there in Mayport? What’s all this shit about a submarine and the Coral Sea—you guys been getting downwind of all those dope smokers down there in Florida, or what?”
“Hello, Admiral,” replied Aronson in a subdued voice. “And, no, we’re not doing any dope. I almost wish we were. Bill Barstowe told me you called and said the magic word. Before I tell you our side of it, may I ask a question of my own—what prompted your call?”
“A very disturbing, thirty minute phone call from one Mrs. Diane Martinson, wife of your Group Commander’s Chief of Staff. How she knew about this is a second Mayport mystery, but it involves the CO of the Goldsborough somehow. I’ll leave that little problem to you Mayport types; I suspect that’s going to be easier to solve than this submarine mystery. Now lemme have it—what’s going on? I haven’t told the CinC anything yet, but I’m getting the feeling that I’m going to have to go see him pretty soon.”
The Commodore sighed and went through the story from the very start to their current situation. He covered his and Mike’s joint presentation to Admiral Walker in detail, and described the net result of that presentation. He reviewed all of the tendrils of evidence indicating that there might be a threat to the Coral Sea, and then, to preserve balance and to show that they had thought of other possibilities, postulated alternative explanations for each one of them.
“As you can see, Admiral,” he concluded, “each of these little indicators is pretty flimsy; it’s the fact that there were so many of them that gave me pause. It has cost me nothing to send Goldy out there, because she had to do a sea trial anyway. I would have preferred to get a crowd out there for a real look, but, well, my boss thinks it’s all bullshit, and he’s the boss.”
Admiral Bennett thought for a moment.
“And if you guys are right, and there is a Libyan pigboat out there, then what happens?” he asked.
It was Aronson’s turn to be silent for a long moment.
“Mike Montgomery is a pretty good guy,” he said. “No E-ring ballerina by any stretch of the imagination, but he had a solid, combat operations record in Vietnam over several tours. He’s one of those warriors we talk about a lot but don’t promote so much, you know? And Goldsborough? Well, Goldy is a bit of an antique—she’s going out next year, you might remember—but she’s got a good, medium power active sonar, and this situation needs a medium power active sonar more than the fancy, new passive stuff. If we’re right—big if, I admit—this is a diesel-electric boat. Not even the Spruances would have much of a chance hearing him when he’s on the battery, and the reverberation from their own active sonars would blow their own sonarmen out of their chairs in that shallow water. But, still: one tin can versus one sub is bad odds. I just didn’t know what the hell else to do, except that I couldn’t sit back and do nothing. I guess that says it all.”
Admiral Bennett nodded thoughtfully to himself. He respected Aronson’s instinctive approach to an ambiguous problem, and, given the circumstances, was rapidly concluding that he himself might have done the same thing, but with one important difference. He would never have done it on his own.
“When’s Coral Sea due in?” he asked.
“At 1900 tonight in the basin, to make the high slack water. Which means sometime in the next three hours we ought to know if this was a drill or for real.”
“And you say the Group Commander doesn’t know anything about this?”
He heard Aronson sigh.
“About Goldy being out there looking? That’s correct, Admiral. If it’s a drill, I figured no one had to be the wiser, and if it’s not a drill, then there’s going to be hell to pay anyway you look at it.”
“Eli, Eli—basic rule,” intoned the Admiral in a chiding voice. “Gotta keep the boss informed. Now there’s going to be a rocket coming down from CincLantFleet, and we’re going to catch ComSecondFleet, ComNavSurflant, and ComCruDesGroup Twelve all off base.”
“They had their chance, Admiral,” said Aronson stiffly. Across the room, the EA rolled his eyes. He knew the sounds of political suicide when he heard them. The Admiral stared down at his desk.
“I think on the face of it,” he declared after a moment, “we need to send a warning message to Coral Sea, but I’m going to have to get to the CinC before I do that. And we also have the minor problem of figuring out how and what to tell those bit actors in Washington like JCS, the Secretary of Defense, and the President.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Aronson. “I realize that. I think that was the major underlying part of our problem down here. We are postulating that a foreign power is going to attempt an act of war against one of our largest ships. That’s a lotta water to carry to Washington, and I just didn’t feel there was anybody in my chain of command who would be willing to carry it. I should also point out that even if something happens to Coral Sea, or Goldsborough, or both, we probably still won’t have any proof it was the Green Hornet over there that did it unless we pick up a boatload of Libyans. The way I see it, we’re all going to have to wait and see if anything happens out there, and then figure out a way to explain it if it does.”
Admiral Bennett shook his head.
“We might have been able to get away with doing nothing if Mrs. Martinson hadn’t called, Eli. But now that we know, and now that it can be shown that we knew about the possibility in advance, we gotta do something. How long would it take you to get a couple of Spruances and some heloes out there to where you think this action might take place?”
“I’m sitting in the Deyo right now, waiting for word from Mike that he’s turned up something. I guess I could—”
His voice was drowned out by the sound of thunder rumbling over the amplified speaker phone. The three officers in Norfolk sat up in their chairs as another and then another thundering blast echoed in the room.
“Eli? Eli? What the fuck is that?” yelled the Admiral.
“Hang on a minute, Admiral. It sounds like something’s just blown up out on the river. Wait one!”
They could hear the sound of a phone being dropped on a desk, and then a hubbub of voices in the background. Admiral Bennett began to get a cold feeling in his stomach.
“Did you turn on a crisis action team down at the Command center?” he asked the EA, holding his hand over the phone.
“Affirmative, Admiral, right after you heard the CSO say ‘Oh shit.’”
“Good man.”
After a very long minute, a new voice came o
n the line.
“Uh, Admiral Bennett, Sir—this is Ensign Purvis, Deyo CIC? Are you still there, Admiral, Sir?”
“Yes, goddammit!”
“Uh, yes, Sir, sorry. There’s a big merchie in the channel junction—one of those Japanese car carriers? She’s on fire from stem to stern, and looks like she’s rolling over in the river.”
“What were those explosions, Mr. Purvis?”
“Sir, the XO of the Fife—she’s nested alongside?—said it looked like the merchie got torpedoed. He told the Commodore up on the bridge just now that there were three big fu—, uh, real large explosions under the merchie, just like in the movies?—as she came into the channel. He said they lifted her right up out of the water, and these car carriers are fifty, sixty thousand tons!”
“What’s happening now, Ensign? Quickly!”
The EA had run out of the room to call the Command Center again.
“Buncha people running around topside, Admiral. They—”
His excited voice was interrupted by the sound of yet another blast, big enough to buzz the little speaker on the Admiral’s desk, and then the sounds of people yelling “Take Cover” in the background.
“Uh, Admiral, there’s shit landing all over the basin—pieces of the merch, it looks like. Whoa! Goddamn!”
There was a loud, metallic banging noise, and then the line went dead. The speaker hissed impotently in the office.
Admiral Bennett found himself on his feet, along with the N2. Another phone line buzzed, this one the red phone from the LANTFLT command center. The Admiral grabbed it.
“Bennett!” he said. He listened for a minute.
“Does the CinC know this? OK. Thank you very much.”
He hung up the phone as the EA came back into the office. He looked at the other two officers.
“That was the duty officer, reporting a major incident in the entrance to the St. Johns river. The river is apparently completely blocked, and so is the base channel. I’m going down to the Command Center. The CinC is on his way down, too. Mike, get me that tape and meet me downstairs. You, too, Larry.”
Admiral Bennett left the room, his face grim as he pulled on his service dress blue blouse and headed for the Atlantic Fleet Command Center in the basement.
SIXTY-SIX
Mayport Naval Station, Friday, 9 May; 1535
The Commodore and several other officers stared out the windows of Deyo’s expansive pilothouse at a scene from hell. Huge clouds of black smoke were rolling in over the base, obliterating the afternoon sunlight and making it appear that many ships in the basin were on fire. The smoke was so thick that its source, the partially submerged wreck of the car carrier, was visible in the murk only as a brilliant, pulsating orange glare. An entire sector of the horizon along the carrier piers was obscured, and the towering pillar of black smoke was pushing itself into a mushroom shaped cloud above the base.
The sound of police and ambulance sirens could be heard all over the base. Men on the ships moored near the Deyo were scrambling to help injured shipmates who had been hit by the hail of metal raining down out of the sky when the car carrier, packed with over 2000 partially filled automobile gas tanks, had blown up on the river. It was plain that there was now a major problem on the base as well as in the river junction, with scores of people injured. The Captain of the Deyo hurried in through the back door of the pilothouse, and walked over to where the Commodore was standing.
“Sir, I’ve got some people injured out on deck, and there seem to be a lot of injuries on the ships all around us. My medical people are helping our guys, and then we’re going to send a team out on the base. The base command center has apparently sent out an operational incident report. If you don’t need me right now—”
“Yeah, go ahead,” interrupted the Commodore. “But make sure I still have that circuit up with the Goldsborough. I need to talk to Mike right now.”
“Yes, Sir, base shore power is stable, so we shouldn’t have lost comms, unless an antenna got hit. I’ll verify you’re still on the air.”
He stared out the windows for a moment. “What on earth do you suppose happened out there?”
“I have the inkling of an idea, Captain,” said the Commodore, shaking his head, his face grim. He hurried below to CIC. The IV looked at his Exec, who shrugged his shoulders in a beats-me expression, and hurried back down the ladder.
The Commodore took the handset from the anxious looking watchstander and called the Goldsborough. A radio talker in Goldsborough’s CIC answered at once.
“This is Charlie Delta Sierra One Two,” said the Commodore. “Pass to your Charlie Oscar that a large merchant ship has blown up in the St. Johns river channel. An eyewitness reports that the merchant was torpedoed, I repeat, torpedoed. Tell your Charlie Oscar, Heads Up, we may be right after all, over?”
“This is One Sierra, roger, copy all, out.”
The Commodore put down the handset. Mines, he thought. Fucking mines, not torpedoes, not in sixty feet of water. The bastards laid down mines, right on our front fucking door!
SIXTY-SEVEN
USS Goldsborough, 1610
“Captain, surface radar has a contact we believe is the Coral Sea, bearing 140, range twenty miles, closing on course 310, speed twenty three knots; ESM confirms, Sir.”
There was a stirring among the bridge watch team. Mike leaned forward in his chair on the bridge, and keyed the bitch box.
“Captain, aye. I’ll be right in.”
He turned to the Exec, who was looking wilted in the afternoon heat. Everyone was looking wilted. The strain of waiting was beginning to tell.
“XO, we’re about to turn into a tin can again. I’ll speak to the crew from CIC as soon as I’ve seen the picture in there. Make a quick tour through the ship and let everybody know we may be in action soon. Wake ’em up if they’re slacking off. I know it’s been a long wait.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” said the Exec, taking off his binoculars.
Mike got out of his chair and hurried into CIC. As hard as the air conditioning was working, it was still only ten degrees cooler in Combat than out on the bridge. He went directly to the plotting table, putting his sunglasses away in his shirt pocket.
“OK,” he said, approaching the plot. “Where is he?”
“Right here, Cap’n. Good solid contact, and ESM holds a GCA radar on that bearing. We’re pretty sure it’s the bird farm. I’ve projected his track, and we’ve laid out the search plan on that axis.”
“All right. Come around to match her course, speed fifteen. We’ll let her overtake us while we sweep out ahead of his track. Tell Main Control to release the locked shaft, and get the sonar going in omnidirectional mode. Make sure they’ve taken a BT drop in the past half hour. Let’s go find this guy if he’s out here. Are there any other contacts?”
“Only two fishing boats, about 12,000 yards away to the south and west. They’re no problem to our track or the carrier’s.”
“OK. Ops, activate the 1MC for me.”
The operations officer handed him a long cord microphone and threw a switch, and then nodded at the Captain. Mike stood by the side of his chair.
“Gents, this is the Captain speaking. The carrier has been sighted, and we’re going to begin our hunt. We’re going to sweep the waters ahead of the carrier’s track for the next hour or so, until we flush this guy or until we’re into the beach and the Coral Sea is safe. I know it’s been a long day of waiting around. Look to your gear, and check your spaces, and figure out what you’re going to do if we take some damage. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: we don’t know for sure that there’s a bad guy out here, but if there is, Goldy is the only thing between him and the carrier, so pay attention. That is all.”
“It’ll be a couple of hours before he overtakes us,” said the operations officer, looking down at the track geometry.
“Not really,” replied Mike. “Once we begin the search plan, we’ll be maneuvering on various courses and speed
s on either side of the carrier’s track; our net effective speed of advance will probably only be ten knots or so relative to his twenty three. He’s going to be on us like stink on shit before we know it. I just hope we shake something out before he runs right past us.”
“Sonar going active,” announced the 29 MC speaker.
“Find his ass, Linc,” muttered the Captain.
“And if we do get a contact, Captain, we’re to tell the carrier something about a possible floating mine, and recommend he turn away?”
“Right. I’ll do that myself so they pay attention. Get a radio check on Fleet Common with the bird farm in the next five minutes.”
The radio messenger came through the door a moment later and handed Mike a message board. Before he could read it, the CIC radio talker took off his headset, and gestured for Mike to come over.
“Captain, I’ve got a message from ComDesRon Twelve himself.”
“Hang on a minute, messenger,” said Mike, handing him back his board. He headed for the communications console.
“But, Sir,” said the radio messenger, “this is a—”
“Hang on, this is our boss calling here.”
Mike picked up the message pad with the Commodore’s message about the Toyota carrier and read the message. He whistled once. He handed the message pad back to the operator, and then took the message board from the anxious radio messenger.
“That was the Commodore,” he announced to the officers at the plotting table, as he scanned the board. “Remember that big Toyota car carrier that went by this morning? It apparently blew up all over the entrance to the St. Johns river a few minutes ago. First reports are that it was torpedoed! Gentlemen, we may be in business after all. Now, what’s this.”
“Sir,” began the messenger again. “It’s a flash message to the Coral Sea, info us, warning him—”
“OK. Lemme read it,” said Mike.
He finished scanning the message.
“Well I’ll be goddamned,” he said, finally. “This is from CincLantFlt, warning Coral Sea of a possible submarine threat in its path into Mayport. He’s been ordered to divert back to sea at best speed until otherwise directed.”
Scorpion in the Sea Page 52
