Scorpion in the Sea

FORTY-EIGHT

Mike returned to the Goldsborough after lunch and sent for the Exec. They went over the status of the engineering repairs, and then went down to the wardroom for the weekly meeting with the department heads. Afterwards, back in the Captain’s cabin, Mike debriefed his lunch with the Commodore. When he was finished, the Exec gave a low whistle.

“I’m surprised,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought Captain Aronson would persist with this. I thought he was bucking for Flag pretty hard.”

“Maybe we underestimated him. I think he’s a team player up to the point where a real threat presents itself, and then he’s regular Navy and damn the consequences. I was just as surprised. But what we have to do now is some planning, first on these repairs, and second on how we’re going to approach our little ASW problem.”

“Yes, Sir, but are we gonna tell the troops what’s going on?”

“No, at least not yet. The Commodore was specific: I was to keep this between us chickens. But as Exec, you are part of my official self, and besides, I need your tempering influence. He told me I couldn’t light any fuzes for a whole week.”

“Golly, Gee, Cap’n, a whole week …?”

“Yeah, wiseass, a whole week. But keep in mind that I’ll just save it up.”

“Now that’s a comforting thought.”

“Right. First the engineering plant: can they fix those valves and the steam leaks in time for us to run pierside tests by, say, Wednesday of next week?”

The Exec consulted his notebook. All Execs carried the ship’s entire lifestream of events, problems, issues, and crises in little green notebooks. It was an Exec’s job to know everything, and the green notebooks served as a memory flywheels.

“It’s going to be tight for the lube oil purifier — not the fix, but the parts. The ETA on parts is Tuesday. On the other hand, there’s not much of a test for that repair. The main steam systems require hydros, some X-rays on the key welds, and then a light off for the real test. When might we have to go to sea to do business?”

“Friday, I think. No, Friday, we ought to be at sea. Which means Thursday underway, say, late in the afternoon. If the carrier comes in on Friday, they’ll try for a morning arrival so they can get people ashore that afternoon. You know what a zoo that is when 3500 guys hit the beach.”

The Exec thought for a minute.

“Actually,” he said, “they’ll come in when the tide is high and we have slack water in the basin.”

Mike gave himself a Polish salute with a slap to his forehead.

“Of course. What was I thinking about. Of course — high, slack water in the basin. Which is, what, an hour after high tide in the river?”

“Yes, Sir. About that. Lemme make a quick phone call, if I may.”

He picked up the phone on Mike’s desk and called Port Operations.

“Yes, this is Lieutenant Commander Farmer, XO on Goldsborough. When’s high slack in the basin this week? Yeah. Right. Advancing fifteen minutes each day, right? Much grass.”

He hung up the phone.

“Port ops says high slack is 1700 today, advancing about 15 minutes a day. So for next Friday, it’ll be around 1900 in the evening. Seven o’clock — almost nightfall. Which is good, because if they’re coming back Friday, that effectively gives us another day inport if we need it.”

Mike thought for a few moments. “1900 Friday means Coral Sea has to be ten miles from the river entrance by 1730, to give her time to make her approach to the river, pick up her tugs, and be entering the turning basin by 1900.”

The Exec agreed. “And that means her approach window to the ten mile point happens between about three thirty and five thirty in the afternoon.”

Mike felt the first tendril of apprehension wrap around his vitals. If there indeed was a submarine lurking out there, he and the Exec had just fixed the attack window at around five in the afternoon. The submarine could not come in any closer than ten miles because the water was too shallow. She would not operate much farther out than thirty miles because she could not know the precise approach track of the carrier, and a diesel boat could not afford to get into a long, submerged chase situation. The attack position, therefore, had to be between ten miles and thirty miles from the river entrance to minimize any pursuit maneuvers and yet keep the submarine hidden. Mike could see that the Exec was thinking the same thing.

“We need a chart, XO. We need to figure a great circle track from San Juan to the Jacksonville approaches, and then a rhumbline from the end of the great circle to the river. That rhumbline will be the axis of the attack zone. Then we need to look at the hydrographic characteristics in the attack zone. And we need to figure this out in a way that doesn’t alert the rest of the officers or the crew.”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll just do it myself. If anybody asks, I’m doing the initial planning for the sea trial next week. No biggee.”

“OK. We’ll do the geography planning first, and then we’re going to have to figure out both our search tactics and our attack plan. Again, just the two of us right now; we’ll cut in the weapons and ops officers later. Once we get to sea we’ll brief the crew. Now, I hate to say this, but can you work up something tomorrow, maybe bring it to the Lucky Bag? We can skull it there in privacy.”

“No problem, Cap’n.”

“Right, good. I’ll square it with Mrs. XO, somehow. And another thing — I’ve heard there’s going to be a surprise ASW ordnance inspection week after next. You might alert the weapons officer to spruce up the torpedo tubes, check out the sonar fire control, the depth charges, etc.”

The Exec grinned. “Gotcha covered, Cap’n. How ’bout the guns?”

“Shit, Ben, we have to use guns we’ll be in pretty desperate straits.”

“It has happened, Cap’n.”

“Yeah, OK, tell the guys it’s either an ASW or a gunnery inspection — we’re not sure which. Tell ’em we’ll do some practice firing on the sea trial. That’ll do it. Those gunners mates love to shoot those things. And in the meantime, make sure the plant gets fixed, all the paperwork gets done, everybody gets paid, you know — the little shit.”

The Exec stood up and put away his little notebook, into which he had copied the Captain’s latest instructions.

“Piece a cake,” he said airily. “Piece a cake.”

“You’re bragging again, XO.”

“Hackers never brag; we just chop it up and get it done. And, by the way, you’ll need to change into whites for the reception tonight.”

Mike abruptly sat forward in his chair. “What fucking reception?!”

“Group Twelve hosting the Chambers of Commerce from Jax Beach, Neptune Beach, and Ponte Vedra at the Club. All CO’s inport command performance. CO’s only, no XO’s. You’re gonna love it, Cap’n.”

Mike closed his eyes and began to count to ten. The Exec wisely fled.