Scorpion in the Sea

FOURTEEN

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.