Scorpion in the Sea

THIRTY-NINE

Mike sat in his cabin, and stared with distaste at the paperwork piled in his in-basket. Out in the harbor he could hear the sounds of horns as two tugs berthed the Deyo, which had just come into the Mayport basin from the sea. He was tired, and not just from the day’s work of meetings, walking around the ship to check on the repair work, fitness report counseling sessions with two of his not so good junior officers, a training session with the department heads, and the latest discussion with the Exec on the submarine. He was also tired from two wonderful, marathon nights on the house-boat, where he and Diane had made up for their respective dry spells. He had been only half-joking when he had whispered in her ear that it was a good thing the Group staff was getting back because he was too old for this pace of affairs. She had proceeded to demonstrate that he was not that old, but it had been a close run thing.

He speculated on their relationship for the ninety-ninth time. It was not that she was any more demanding than he was; they were both taking as big a measure of loving out of the situation as they could, knowing that it would soon become more difficult to do so. But the fact that it was forbidden and even dangerous for both of them, if for different reasons, made it all the more exciting. Once in the early hours he had again professed his love for her, and she had laughed softly in the darkness, rolled over on top of him and told him the facts of life, her face a dim blur framed in the darker shadow of her hair hanging in his face.

“This is called fucking, Mike, not love. Love is something altogether different. Love is intimacy over a long time; what we’re doing now might lead to love, or it might not. But right now, this is something more basic: I need it and you need it and we’re terrific in bed and damned lucky to have struck the spark in the first place, because from what I can tell, most people don’t even get close. But let’s not call it love, OK? Not yet, anyway. Both of us have probably missed our chance for love, for whatever reason, which is why we’re doing this and now kiss me …”

He had obliged and soon forgotten her rebuff, if that was what it had been. He had a feeling now that there was more to it, but he was unwilling to disturb what they did have. The occasional weekend with one of the beach bunnies was good enough to take the horns down a little, but this was, like the lady said, something different.

But now it was Wednesday, and her husband was coming back in a few hours, and the Commodore was coming back and even the Deyo was coming back and tomorrow he would still have to deal with this submarine issue. At the very least he would have to go see the Commodore, and then maybe even the Admiral and the Group staff. He did not relish either prospect, especially if it elevated to a session with the Group staff, which he dreaded. He could already see the knowing smirks, the amused looks around the table, as always orchestrated by the politely caustic and ever so patronizing commentary from the Chief of Staff as he dealt with Montgomery the Misfit. Boy, do I have the ultimate put down line for that bastard, he thought. Right, just as long as you’re prepared to fall on your sword out on the headquarters parade ground once you’ve used it.

The tugs across the basin gave out two long, final blats on their horns acknowledging that the harbor pilot was finished with them and that the Deyo was safely moored. Mike had arranged for Chief Sonarman Mackensie to ease on over there this evening to get a look at the passive sonar printouts and video tapes. A lot would depend on what was really on those tapes. Deyo had said there was nothing there, other than “normal anomalies,” and the Commodore had not called him from Norfolk, so perhaps the great submarine mystery was a dead issue, after all. But the image of Christian Mayfield’s sister’s face hovered on the edges of his mind. He had a sinking feeling that this was not over. His outside line phone rang.

“Captain,” he said curtly.

He had decided long ago not to answer his phone with the normal, “USS Goldsborough, this is not a secure line, Commander Montgomery, Commanding Officer, speaking, Sir” routine. He figured if someone called his outside CO’s line number, they knew it was the CO’s phone.

“Captain, indeed,” said a throaty voice.

“Diane!” he said, in a too loud voice, glancing around the cabin almost furtively.

“Wow. I think he misses me. Does he miss me?”

He grinned into the phone. “If you were here instead of wherever you are, I could show you.”

“And what if I were on a certain houseboat, with a certain ill mannered parrot calling me names because I’m not properly dressed …?”

“Are you out of your mind? That plane’s due in here in an hour and a half!”

“I know that. You know that. Hooker might even know that. But I have no intention of going to meet that plane. My very important husband will go from that plane directly to the office in the Admiral’s big, black staff car to make sure there are no ‘smoldering embers,’ as he likes to put it. After all, he’s been gone three full days and God only knows what those cretins on the Staff might have done or failed to do. And when every thing has been put to bed, when all the important papers are tucked in for the night, and the Great Man has gone home, then and only then will he call me to come and get him. And depending on how quickly you can get here, and how interested you are, I may or may not be there to get his phone call. By the way, you ever hear of Victoria’s Secret?”

“Are you kidding? One of the J.O.’s got their catalogue and it made the rounds of the whole wardroom.”

“Well,” she said softly, “I get their catalog too. I even buy things from their catalog.”

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“Don’t whimper. Why don’t you climb into that little sports car instead and go fast, kind Sir, and let’s see what Victoria and I can work out. So to speak.”

“Here I come,” he said, in a voice that was somewhat weaker than he wanted it to be.

“No, not there, Dummy. Here,” she said, hanging up.

Mike quickly called the quarterdeck and told them to ring him off. He looked at his watch. No time for changing clothes, or sprucing up, he thought. Just go. The four bells and “Goldsborough, departing” rang over the ship’s announcing system. He walked quickly down to the quarterdeck, hoping there would not be the usual queue of officers with last minute paperwork. He returned the salutes of the OOD and was halfway down the brow when the Exec came trotting down the main deck. Mike cursed mentally, but paused on the brow to wait for the Exec, who gave a perfunctory salute to the OOD and hustled out to where Mike was standing.

“I just got a call from Commander Barstowe; the Commodore wants to see you at 0900 tomorrow morning. He thinks it’s to discuss our little project, as he called it.”

Mike paused for a moment, aware that the quarterdeck watch personnel were watching curiously.

“Did he elaborate?”

“No, Sir, just said 0900.”

“Then make damn sure that Chief Mackensie gets over to Deyo tonight,” said Mike. “And if he hits any kind of brick wall, do what you have to do to break it down. Or call me and I’ll call Pierce at home if I have to.”

The Exec nodded. “Chief Mackensie doesn’t anticipate any problems; he knows the senior chief over there in Deyo — they served at sonar school together. He’ll get the dope, if there is any. You’ll be on the boat tonight, Sir?”

“Right; I’m headed there now. Give me a call if you need me to help with the Deyo stuff, and have the CDO or Chief Mac call me with the results of his little look-see.”

“Aye, Aye, Sir. I’ll probably call you, myself. I’m kind of curious. Have a real good evening,” he concluded, saluting.

Mike returned the salute, and hurried down the rest of the brow to the pier, wondering fleetingly if the Exec meant anything more than his routine, end of the day farewell. Ben Farmer was a pretty perceptive officer, and Mike did not normally bolt off the ship like this. Time was, however, short. He reached the Alfa and got in, glancing over to the ship to see the small knot of people on the quarterdeck watching him go as he gunned the car down the pier. No way, he thought; there was simply no way they could know. And it had better stay that way, too.