Scorpion in the Sea (9 page)
Read Scorpion in the Sea Online
Authors: P.T. Deutermann
“Closing outer doors,” declared the weapons officer.
It was standard procedure to prepare to make an attack when classifying an enemy warship. More than one submarine
had been sunk in the act of taking a look at a prepared and alerted destroyer. There was nothing like a torpedo to disrupt such an attack, even one that was just fired into the bearing wedge of the approaching destroyer. His attack team had set up and maintained a firing solution on the destroyer the entire time he was at periscope depth.
had been sunk in the act of taking a look at a prepared and alerted destroyer. There was nothing like a torpedo to disrupt such an attack, even one that was just fired into the bearing wedge of the approaching destroyer. His attack team had set up and maintained a firing solution on the destroyer the entire time he was at periscope depth.
“Stand down from attack condition one,” the Captain ordered. The word went out at once over telephone circuits, and the men began to secure their consoles, reducing the crowded control room to the basic maneuvering watch. The Deputy approached.
“It was smoothly done.”
“Yes, it was. They have not lost their edge. Now we will see if this destroyer is a hunter or a target.”
He eyed the depth gauge, which was passing 85 meters as he spoke. Nearly back to two layer protection, and acoustic safety. The old hull creaked under the increasing strain of sea pressure. The Captain frowned. One of the propeller shafts had a rumble in it. They listened to the pinging sounds from the distant destroyer. The doppler was consistently down. He was not turning around.
“A target,” declared the Captain, contempt in his voice. Allah be praised were the words echoing in his mind, however.
USS Goldsborough, Mayport Naval Station; Friday, 11 April; 1500
Mike watched impatiently from the bridge wing as the harbor pilot talked his tugs through the mooring evolution. Mayport was a very crowded mooring basin, with ships nested three and sometimes four deep at each berth, with only fifty feet from the bow of one to the stern of the nest ahead. There was little maneuvering room for the practice of traditional landings, which meant that most ships came into the basin, stopped, tied up a tug at each end, and then let a harbor pilot use the tugs to push the ship sideways into one of the tight berths. Goldsborough was moving compliantly,
if slowly, sideways alongside one of the new Perry class frigates. The frigate’s Skipper was out on his bridge wing, watching the evolution. He waved to Mike, his voice echoing in the rapidly narrowing space between the steel sides of the ships.
Mike watched impatiently from the bridge wing as the harbor pilot talked his tugs through the mooring evolution. Mayport was a very crowded mooring basin, with ships nested three and sometimes four deep at each berth, with only fifty feet from the bow of one to the stern of the nest ahead. There was little maneuvering room for the practice of traditional landings, which meant that most ships came into the basin, stopped, tied up a tug at each end, and then let a harbor pilot use the tugs to push the ship sideways into one of the tight berths. Goldsborough was moving compliantly,
if slowly, sideways alongside one of the new Perry class frigates. The frigate’s Skipper was out on his bridge wing, watching the evolution. He waved to Mike, his voice echoing in the rapidly narrowing space between the steel sides of the ships.
“Have a nice trip?” he called.
“Yeah, it was OK,” responded Mike. “Until yesterday; then we had to go out to the edge of the Stream to look for some unident. Waste of time, naturally.”
The Goldsborough landed softly against the camels, the floating wooden fenders positioned between ships in a nest. The camels groaned as they were squeezed by Goldsborough’s 4000 tons for a moment.
“Yeah, I saw the message in my traffic yesterday,” replied the other Captain. “Somebody smoking dope.”
The line handlers passed over Goldsborough’s mooring lines to the other ship, where sailors quickly made them fast to bitts on deck.
“At least dope. Probably whiskey-soaked dope. Anyway, nothing seen or heard of any pigboats. Like I said, waste of time.”
“Sir, the ship is moored,” called the Exec from inside the pilothouse. “Request permission to secure the special sea and anchor detail.”
“Permission granted,” Mike replied. He waved at the other CO, and went back inside his own pilothouse, stopping next to his chair. “What’ve we got for the rest of the afternoon?”
“Well,” said the Exec, consulting his notebook. “We have to get the plant shut down so those boilers can begin cool-down. Porkchop says he has some stores on the pier. And you wanted to go over and call on the Commodore. Other than that, we’ll do a freshwater washdown tomorrow with the duty section—Saturdays are good for that—and let the guys go on liberty as soon as the stores are onboard.”
“Right, OK. I’ll give the Commodore a call as soon as they get the phones hooked up, and walk over. Verify that Linc was able to make those tapes, so I can tell the Commodore
we got some good out of this little wild goose chase.”
we got some good out of this little wild goose chase.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Mike took a last look around at the berth and the mooring lines before going below. In his cabin, he changed into a clean set of wash khakis, and replaced his seagoing boondocks with shiny black corfam shoes. The Commodore, Captain Eli Aronson, Commander Destroyer Squadron Twelve, was a stickler for military appearance, of both ships and CO’s. Captain Aronson was the immediate boss for every destroyer commanding officer in Mayport, reporting, in turn, to the Admiral, who was the Commander of Cruiser-Destroyer Group Twelve. Although Aronson was a four striper, he was called Commodore because he commanded a squadron of ships. There were two other Commodores in Mayport, one who commanded the squadron of frigates, and the other who commanded the Squadron of Service force ships, replenishment ships, fleet tugs, and the single repair ship.
The phone rang. An IC-man was testing the circuit, and reported that the shore lines were now open. Mike called the Commodore’s office, and was told that Captain Aronson was available. He hung up, grabbed his Commander’s hat with the brass scrambled eggs on the visor, and left the cabin, walking directly aft through the narrow passageway which led out onto the midships replenishment deck. His crew was busily pulling aboard the heavy, black shore power cables, which, when connected, would plug the ship’s 2000 amp electrical load into the pier, thus permitting the main steam plant to be shut down for maintenance. He nodded to the men as they heaved and wrestled with the heavy cables, and continued aft on the weatherdecks until he reached the quarterdeck area, where there was the usual crowd of people present whenever a ship came back into port. The Officer of the Deck saw him coming and cleared the quarterdeck so that the Captain could get through the milling crowd. The ship’s loudspeakers blared out four gongs, and the words, “Goldsborough, departing.” Mike saluted the Officer of the Deck and then the American flag
flapping at the stern, and then walked across the narrow brow to the next ship, whose own announcing system was proclaiming “Goldsborough, crossing,” to the world at large.
flapping at the stern, and then walked across the narrow brow to the next ship, whose own announcing system was proclaiming “Goldsborough, crossing,” to the world at large.
He crossed the frigate’s quarterdeck, and walked down her brow to the pier itself. The Commodore’s office was up on a small, man-made hill above the piers, less than a half block away. The office had a large plate glass window on its pier side, with darkened one-way glass. Mike was conscious of the probability that the Commodore was sitting up there at his desk watching him walk down the crowded pier. It was a typical Mayport afternoon, clear, sunny, and hot, with an afternoon breeze pumping some loose papers along the waterfront street. It being Friday, there was already a steady stream of sailors walking down the street with the Captain, their beach outfits in vivid contrast to his pressed khakis and shiny shoes. Hope Himself is in a good mood, thought Mike. He was always a bit nervous when he went to see Captain Aronson, whose mercurial temper was legendary on the waterfront.
He was met in the Commodore’s outer office by Commander Bill Barstowe, the Chief Staff Officer of Destroyer Squadron Twelve. Bill was a good friend, which was fortunate, because he was in a position to make life much easier or very much harder for any CO. He had already finished his command tour, and was thus an experienced filter of both good news and bad news to the Commodore.
“Michael,” he said, warmly, standing up as Montgomery walked into his office. “How’s the deep blue sea, Sir?”
“Deep and blue, Bill. And empty of submarines, I might add.”
“Sit down. The Commodore’s talking to some guy in Washington. Want some coffee?” He reached for his own mug on the corner of his cluttered desk.
“No thanks; it’s almost Miller time. I’m coffee’d out, anyway.”
“Right; hang on a minute while I refill.”
Mike looked around while Barstowe went to refill his coffee cup. The Chief Staff Officer’s desk was literally piled
high with paperwork. For all the hassle of being a destroyer commanding officer in the peacetime Navy, it had to beat being a staff officer, even a Chief Staff Officer. Or a Chief of Staff, he thought, darkly. He was still convinced that his nemesis on the Group staff, Captain J. Walker Martinson, III, had been behind the little trip out to the Gulf Stream. Barstowe returned.
high with paperwork. For all the hassle of being a destroyer commanding officer in the peacetime Navy, it had to beat being a staff officer, even a Chief Staff Officer. Or a Chief of Staff, he thought, darkly. He was still convinced that his nemesis on the Group staff, Captain J. Walker Martinson, III, had been behind the little trip out to the Gulf Stream. Barstowe returned.
“So,” he said, sitting down again. “No U-boats lurking out there amongst those upstanding citizens of the real Mayport, our shrimpy friends?”
“Nary a one,” replied Mike, stretching his long legs out in front of the overstuffed chair. “We could have made better use of our time back here going cold iron and working steam leaks.”
“Yes, Sir, I know. Even the Commodore thought that was a little strange. But the Chief of Staff—”
“I knew it!” exclaimed Mike. “I just frigging knew it. That guy has a hardon for Goldsborough, and takes every opportunity to jerk us around. He’s just trying to cut us out of the Fleetex.”
Barstowe grinned. “Now, now, you can’t make a federal case out of it just because he sent Goldy—you guys were already out at sea, and you are technically duty destroyer this week, until 1600 today as a matter of fact.”
Barstowe, along with almost every other Commander on the waterfront, knew of the antipathy between Montgomery and Martinson. It was just one of those things—the two officers had taken an instant dislike to one another at their first meeting. It was Mike’s bad luck to be one grade junior, and two levels in the chain of command beneath Martinson. Martinson’s reputation as a jerk was secure; it was commonly acknowledged that the only thing good about him was his beautiful wife. But the burden of comity was on Mike to get along with his seniors. As the old Navy saying had it, a personality conflict between a Captain and a Commander had two elements: the Captain had a personality, the Commander had a conflict.
A yeoman put his head into the office. “Commodore will see you now, Captain Montgomery.”
“Thanks,” said Mike. “Bill, be good. See you around this weekend, maybe.”
Barstowe stood up. He was a year senior to Montgomery, and also senior by virtue of his staff position, but he affected a reverse rule of military courtesy, calling all the commanding officers Sir, and acting generally as if they were all senior to him instead of the other way around. It was a small flattery, but it was one of the secrets to both his popularity and his effectiveness as the Chief Staff Officer.
“Don’t forget, Mike—reception for P-3 guys tonight at 1800. You were planning to be there, right?”
Mike groaned. He had forgotten all about it. On purpose. Another goddamned reception. This one was one of the Admiral’s pet rocks—to get the ship drivers and the antisubmarine patrol bomber guys together to build “intercommunity spirit.” Just what everyone needed on a Friday night. Barstowe was watching, his eyes amused. Mike settled his face into a polite smile.
“Why, of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it. It will be the perfect cap to a perfect week, talking to a bunch of overpaid aviators. Arrrgh!”
Barstowe laughed, and pointed him down the hall, to the office with the plate glass window. Mike walked past the junior staff officers’ cubbyholes, and knocked on the Commodore’s door, or actually, door frame. The Commodore had a set of wooden bat-wing doors, reminiscent of a western bar, the legacy of a past incumbent who had tried to make the office look like Chester Nimitz’s World War II Pacific Fleet headquarters office.
“Yeah, come in,” called the Commodore. Mike went in and walked over to the imitation leather chair positioned exactly in front of the Commodore’s large desk. The Commodore did not stand up, nodding instead with his head for Mike to sit down. Eli Aronson had an oversized head and upper body attached to legs which yielded a grand total of five feet, five and one-half inches of overall height when standing very straight. He would have had to crane his neck up several degrees if he stood up to greet someone as tall as Mike. He was Jewish, and pugnaciously proud of it. His
hooknosed face reminded Mike of one of the ancient patriarchs, missing only a flowing white beard to bring a picturebook image of Moses to mind. He was reading a message, marking certain lines with a yellow hi-liter, as Mike sat down. He read on for a minute, and then discarded it into a pile of messages. He looked up, fixing Mike with his bright, dark eyes.
hooknosed face reminded Mike of one of the ancient patriarchs, missing only a flowing white beard to bring a picturebook image of Moses to mind. He was reading a message, marking certain lines with a yellow hi-liter, as Mike sat down. He read on for a minute, and then discarded it into a pile of messages. He looked up, fixing Mike with his bright, dark eyes.
“So, a good week at sea? The plant all right?”
“Yes, Sir. Pretty productive, although I’ve got to chase down some HP drain valve leaks this weekend. We’re looking forward to going on the Fleet-Ex.”
Aronson nodded. “Yeah, I suspect you are. Beats sitting around here. How about that submarine report—anything to that?”
Mike shook his head. “No, Sir. We discovered the Gulf Stream, but that’s about it.” His attempt at flippancy appeared to fall flat.
“That’s been done, already,” said Aronson. “Figured it was a waste of time, but you never know about submarines.”
“Did anyone cross check with our guys, or with the intel people, to see if—”
“No,” interrupted Aronson. He had a habit of cutting people off in mid-sentence.
“Fisherman reported seeing a sub, and the Coast Guard forwarded it to us. If the Coasties had just called on the phone, we’d have told them to pack it. But they send a formal message through channels, so we send a ship out. You guys file a message closing it out, and we’re done. OK?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“So, anything else? You coming to this reception tonight, I presume—Admiral’s going to be keeping score.”
“Yes, Sir,” replied Mike, his face neutral. Aronson studied his face.
“You’ll be there, but you don’t want to be there, do you.”
Mike squirmed a little. “Actually, I don’t mind; I just—”
“Yeah, stow it. You just don’t want to play the game,
that’s your problem. You’re a good enough Skipper, but when it comes to Navy politics, well, you’re hopeless.”
that’s your problem. You’re a good enough Skipper, but when it comes to Navy politics, well, you’re hopeless.”
Mike bridled at that hopeless label. “I thought my job was to be a good Skipper.”
Aronson snorted. “Don’t give me that ‘my job’ shit.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying Mike for a moment before continuing.
“I’m trying,” he said patiently, “to get your ignorant ass promoted. Being a good skipper gets you into the selection boardroom. Being politically adept gets you selected. And that means putting on an enthusiastic face when you show up tonight, and not cutting out after the first thirty minutes like you usually do. You ever gonna get married, by the way?”
This last question caught Mike off guard. “I suppose if the right woman—”
“Yeah, right. OK. So, go get your steam leaks fixed, and get me that closeout message on the street tonight. See you at the club.” He picked up a new message, and began to hilite it.
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