Scorpion in the Sea Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  SCORPION IN THE SEA: - The Goldsborough Incident

  CHAPTER ONE - FIVE DAYS EARLIER

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  SEVENTY

  SEVENTY-ONE

  SEVENTY-TWO

  SEVENTY-THREE

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  SEVENTY-SIX

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  SEVENTY-NINE

  EIGHTY

  EIGHTY-ONE

  EIGHTY-TWO

  EIGHTY-THREE

  ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES BY P.T. DEUTERMANN

  OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR SCORPION IN THE SEA:

  About the Author

  THE FIREFLY

  Copyright Page

  For S.C.D., a keeper

  My thanks to the many friends who encouraged this project and who read the manuscript and offered friendly fire; in particular, Peter and Patty B., Joan M., Royce L., and Cathy N., and to Barbara B. for shepherding the manuscript through the security review process.

  SCORPION IN THE SEA:

  The Goldsborough Incident

  15 April, the fishing boat Rosie III; off the northeastern coast of Florida, near Mayport; 0445

  Christian Mayfield drew himself another mug of coffee from the battered pot secured to the back bulkhead of the pilothouse. The Rosie III was running east at six knots towards the edge of the Gulf Stream, passing through line showers every fifteen minutes or so, her bluff bows thumping into a short swell. The tiny pilothouse was completely darkened except for the green glow from inside the radar repeater cone, and the red glow of his engine instruments and the compass. He had the Rosie on the Iron Mike, as the auto-pilot was called in the trade. One deck below, his two crewmen were asleep in the truncated cabin above the engineroom. He would roust them out when they reached the Stream and began seining. Outside the night was warm and wet; visibility was two miles except in the line squalls where it went down to nothing. Humid gusts of wind blew in through the doors on either side of the pilothouse.

  Mayfield reached inside the small wooden cabinet next to the plotting table and pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam. He was a large, florid faced man in his mid-sixties, with the beefy build and mannerisms of a midwestern farmer, although he had been fishing for decades. He added two dollops of whiskey to his coffee, and restowed the bottle in the cabinet. Suitably fortified, he climbed back into the Captain’s chair behind and to the right of the helm console, and squinted out through the rainswept windows, but there was nothing to see. One clacking wiper made a feeble effort to keep the window clear, but the accumulating salt smear from the seawater was winning between the rain squalls. Mayfield scanned the instruments, paying close attention to engine temperature. He had the nets out astern, dragging them in his wake to wet tension the lines. The mouth of the seine was still gathered shut, because six knots was much too fast for seining. It was somewhat dangerous to cruise with the nets out; they would lose the whole rig if the mouth happened to pop open. Mayfield made a practice of deploying the nets on the way out, however. It saved time once in the fishing grounds, or if he unexpectedly encountered evidence of a school. He could slow to trawl speed, pull a releasing wire, and the huge net would open like the giant maw it was without ever having to stop the boat.

  He scanned the relative wind dials; broad on the starboard bow at sixteen knots. Means we got beam wind coming out of these squalls, he thought. To confirm this he swung around in the chair, punched a button, and looked aft through the window in the back of the pilothouse. At the very stern, a small white light came on that illuminated the towing wire, a tough, plow steel, one and three quarter inch tow cable. The cable veered out to the boat’s starboard quarter in the cone of light, confirming his appraisal that the boat was being set to port. Below them, at a depth of 150 feet, the long, closed bag of the steel and nylon net was trailing the boat at six knots, but offset to the starboard side.

  Mayfield turned back to face forward and sipped his coffee, lulled by the warm whiskey and the steady drone of the diesel two decks below. Not a bad life, he thought. Don’t have to commute, don’t have to sit in an office all day, listen to a bunch of gabbing women, and work for some tight-assed “manager.” Get to witness the glory of a sunrise at sea most every day. He would never admit such thoughts out loud; he made a point of bitching about every aspect of the fishing trade. Secretly, he wanted to do nothing else until the day he died.

  He shifted in his chair to compensate for a slight heel to starboard on the boat. He glanced into the radar, and saw the two blips about eight miles ahead, with the fuzzy line of a rain squall between the Rosie III and them. He sat back in his chair, and suddenly heard the engine begin to strain, the throaty roar of the diesel changing tone as it came under a sudden load. He sensed a change in the boat’s motion, almost a deceleration. He frowned and leaned forward to look at the engine dials, and saw the jacket temperature starting to climb slightly. What the fuck, he thought. Then the engine really started to lug, as the governor poured the fuel on in response to an increasing demand for power. The autopilot had sensed speed dropping off, and was trying to compensate.

  Mayfield gathered himself to get out of his chair to check the tow wire, when the boat suddenly heeled sharply to starboard even as the bow jerked to port. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the helm spinning to starboard, as the Iron Mike tried for a right turn to get back on course. Frightened now, and aware that the problem somehow involved the net, Mayfield struggled to get out of his chair as the Rosie III, its engine driving now at full power, heeled even more. From below decks Mayfield dimly heard a thump and a shout from one of the crew, but he was plastered by the boat’s heeling moment into the side of his chair as it swivelled to keep him upright. He yelled himself as his coffee cup spilled its hot contents into his lap. Try as he might, he could not reach the control console. He sensed that the hull of the boat was now banging sideways into the swell. Something big let go below decks, and he hear
d the galley drawers crash open and dump their contents. In the next instant, the boat went all the way over on her beam ends to starboard, the engine howling out of control as the screw momentarily came out of the water. A wall of warm seawater flooded into the pilothouse through the open doors on either side. The engine made a strangling noise, and then shut down as the sea poured into the engineroom through the cabin doors below. Mayfield thought he heard somebody yelling as the boat capsized, but then a second wall of seawater swirled him out of his chair and turned him upside down in the pilothouse, banging him against the steering console. Stone sober and frantically holding his breath, he flailed to get out of the pilothouse, flapping his arms and legs in the maelstrom, colliding with several hard objects, until he suddenly burst out of the water, gasping and spitting salt water, his eyes stinging and his ears roaring. He paddled in a circle for a few seconds, trying to regain control over his pounding heart and his pumping lungs. He could not see. He shook his head several times to get the water out of his eyes before realizing that they were screwed shut. He opened them in time to see the bow of the Rosie III being pulled backwards and down in a boiling froth of loose deck gear, a life ring, two potato crates and other topside gear that had not been tied down dancing in the roiling water. And then it became very quiet. Until, twenty feet away, his first mate, Jack Corrie, popped up out of the water like tethered buoy suddenly released from below. He subsided into a fluttering swirl of his own, inhaling deep gulps of fresh air, and hacking out the substantial piece of the Atlantic Ocean he had swallowed.

  “Jack!” yelled Mayfield. “Jack, over here!”

  He tried to wave, but the weight of his raised arm sent his head back under. He became aware that it was starting to rain, fat drops pattering audibly on the dark sea. He lost sight of Jack, but heard him calling from within the curtain of rain. He started to swim in Jack’s direction, alternating yells with a few breaststrokes, until he collided with one of the Rosie’s life rings, which smacked him in the lower lip, bringing tears to his eyes momentarily, and the salt taste of blood in his mouth. He grabbed for the ring before it got away in the night. Jack appeared then, dog paddling behind a five foot long plank, the bridge-wing nameboard, with its brass letters spelling out Rosie III glinting in the darkness. It had hung by two brass hooks on the bridge-wing, and being wood, had floated free.

  “What the fuck happened!” spluttered Jack, crawling up the flat face of the board to get some buoyancy under him. He was dressed only in his skivvies, which clung to him now in ridiculous, wet folds.

  “I don’t fucking know,” spat Mayfield. “One minute we’re cruising along on the Iron Mike, the next minute I’m in the fucking water. Any sign of Buddy?”

  Jack shook his head, turning his face up into the rain to wash away the stinging salt water. Mayfield noticed that Jack’s face was a mess, with one eye swelling, and his forehead cut, the blood running in a black line down across his cheek. The rain was really coming down now, slashing the surface of the sea in sheets, and there was the flicker of lightning behind them. The rain came down so hard it seemed to flatten the ocean. Jack reached across his board for one of the cords on the life ring so that he, too, would not drift away. His face was gray-white in the dark, his breathing still rapid.

  “He was in the bunkroom, same’s me,” Jack said. “I woke up outa my rack and bangin’ on the bulkhead, and then the water came in like a fucking toilet flush; next thing I know, I’m in the water and there’s no boat. Buddy—I don’t know … what the fuck we gonna do, Cap?”

  Mayfield shook his head to clear the rain out of his face, but it was no use. Jack was young; he scared easier. Not that Mayfield wasn’t scared, but he had been at sea long enough to take stock when things turned to shit, and not let panic take over. Jack was close to panic. The rain was cooler than the ocean temperature, which was a Godsend. Guy in the water had a chance, if the water wasn’t too cold. With Jack, there, bleeding, well, that was another problem, once the sharks got a whiff. The fucking boat had gone down backwards, not sinking, but making sternway. He remembered that one clear point of reference in the twenty seconds it had taken for her to capsize. He pulled out a handkerchief from his clinging pants. He stuck one arm through the life ring, and then tore the handkerchief in two, lengthwise. He whipped a quick square knot into two strips.

  “Lean forward; I gotta close up that cut on your head,” he ordered.

  “What cut,” said Jack, his hand going up to his head, pulling away, covered in dark blood.

  “Oh, shit,” he said softly.

  He brought his plank closer, and bent his head down, almost into the water, while Mayfield tied the makeshift bandage on. The handkerchief was soaking wet, of course, but it might slow down the bleeding. Jack, a fisherman, did not have to be told that slowing down the bleeding was important.

  When he was finished, Mayfield held his watch up to his face and pushed the light button. An hour until sunrise. He could barely see Jack’s face in the darkness. The rain continued to fall. The fucking boat had gone down making sternway. He was sure of it. He tried to see if he could spy the lights of the two contacts that had been east of them, but the rain blocked everything out. He hunkered down in his life ring and tried not to think about sharks and Jack’s cut forehead.

  CHAPTER ONE

  FIVE DAYS EARLIER

  10 April, USS Goldsborough (DD-920); At sea, Mayport Fleet operating areas

  The radio messenger came through the pilothouse door, blinking rapidly in the sudden blaze of sunlight reflecting off the polished bronze sea.

  “Officer of the Deck,” he called out, squinting hard.

  “OOD, aye,” replied Lieutenant (junior grade) O’Connor from the port bridge wing.

  “Got a priority action, Sir.”

  The OOD came in from the bridge wing, pushed his dark glasses up onto his forehead, and took the steel message board. He scanned the top message briefly, initialled it, and then walked across the pilothouse where Commander Johnston Michael Montgomery was trying to stay awake in the warm morning sunshine.

  “Priority action, Captain,” said O’Connor. “A little bit off the beaten path, too.”

  The Captain stretched, and sat up in his bridge chair. The chair protested. Mike Montgomery was a large man, with an oversized, straight nosed, nordic face, permanently ruddy complexioned from years at sea, with bushy white blond eyebrows and a shock of blond hair tinged with gray brushed straight back from a wide forehead. He wore the regulation Navy at-sea working uniform of wash khaki trousers and short sleeved khaki shirt, with the tarnished silver oak leaves of a Commander, USN, pinned to the points of his shirt collar, and a gold command at sea star on his right shirt pocket. A pair of hand-tooled, black leather sea boots rucked up the hem of his trousers. He had large hands and massively muscled forearms; the metal message board looked like a piece of paper in his hands.

  “Everything we do is a little bit off the beaten path, Tim. Lemme see it.”

  The Captain’s voice had a booming quality even when he was calm. He scanned the message. The rest of the bridge watch looked on with interest. The Bosun Mate of the Watch tried to get the radio messenger to let him in on the message. The messenger, a radioman who considered himself superior to all bosun mates, ignored him.

  “Well, you’re right, Timothy. This is indeed different. Get the XO up here, please. Quartergasket!”

  The Quartermaster of the Watch stepped forward from his chart table. “Aye, Sir?”

  “Plot this position, and give me a course at eighteen knots.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  The Captain turned back around in his chair, and reached for his lukewarm cup of coffee. Goddamn bosun mates were putting salt in it again; somebody had to talk to them. He knew the bridge watch was dying to know what was going on; he would let them eavesdrop when the Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Ben Farmer, arrived. He leaned back in the bridge chair.

  Typical bullshit squirrel assignment for Golds
borough, he thought. The Coast Guard had forwarded a report from one of the Mayport fishermen claiming to have sighted a U-boat out on the edge of the Gulf Stream. Montgomery, a bachelor who lived in the fishing village of Mayport behind the Mayport naval base, knew most of the commercial fishermen personally. He could just see it. Some old fart like Christian Mayfield, stumbling out on deck in the morning twilight to piss over the side after a night-long session with Dr. James Beam and shaking with the predawn D.T.’s, sees a frigging U-boat. Right. Thinks he’s back on the convoys. Lucky he didn’t fall over the side in the excitement. And now Goldsborough, the one antique steam powered destroyer among all the new gas turbine powered frigates and destroyers in Mayport, would get to go out a hundred miles to the Gulf Stream and look for a U-boat. He sighed noisily. This was the kind of operational assignment which tended to confirm his suspicion that his career, just like Goldsborough’s, was drawing to a close.

  The Executive Officer appeared on the bridge from the doorway leading to CIC. Lieutenant Commander Ben Farmer was a chunky man, with a round face and a prematurely gray head of hair.

  “Yes, Sir, Captain. Quartermaster called me and said we have to look for a—submarine?” The bridge watch team members pricked up their ears while trying to appear as if they were not eavesdropping.

  “Yeah, XO. Another Weird-Harold mission for the Goldy-maru. One of the shrimp boats skippers called the Coast Guard on the Marine radio, says he saw a U-boat, gave a position. Group Twelve wants it investigated.”

  The Exec scanned the message. “But this was, hell, twenty-four hours ago,” he complained. “Yesterday morning. That’s a pretty big time-late. We were supposed to go in tonight. A hundred miles out, a hundred miles back, and some search time, we’re looking at another day in the opareas.”

  “You broka-da-code, XO. I sense the slick claws of J. Walker Martinson, Chief of Staff to the Lord High Admiral George T., behind this little trip.”

  The quartermaster interrupted. “Sir, we need 085 to get to the original sighting posit.”

  “Very well. Mr. O’Connor, 085 at eighteen knots, please.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.” O’Connor gave the orders to the helm and lee helm. There was a jangle of engine order telegraph bells, and moments later Goldsborough swung her aging 4000 tons of steel around to the east and headed for the Gulf Stream. A light breeze began to stream through the pilothouse, rustling the charts on the chart table and stirring the general fug of cigarettes and stale coffee.