Scorpion in the Sea

SIXTY

The lights ashore fairly blazed in the night’s crisp, cool air; the channel buoys seemed to be beckoning the submarine as she moved silently between them under the cover of a new moon. This time the Captain could see the two lights of the river range without his binoculars. The sea dazzled with reflected light, its glossy black surface fragmenting into a million shards of undulating mirror with each passing wave. The darkened sector between the lights of the base on the left and the silver gray sand beaches to the right was the river itself, and there were no lights indicating downstream traffic. This time, in place of the confusion and uncertainty of the last approach, there was a calm stream of positional information coming up, with crisp course recommendations.

The practice run had been well worth the time, he thought. He scanned the naval base, the clustered sodium vapor lights almost painful to his night adapted eyes. The yellow lights of a car driving along the carrier pier perimeter flashed into his glasses, and then away as it turned around to return to the main base. A security patrol, he thought; you are not secure, you Americans. One of the lookouts above called a number as a buoy went by to starboard.

“Buoy four abeam to starboard,” he relayed into the intercom. Below, the Deputy acknowledged the report.

“Navigator, aye, and request permission to open outer doors aft,” he replied.

“Permission granted; open outer doors aft on tubes 5, 6, and 7. Do not open door 8.”

The Deputy acknowledged. Tube 8 contained the defective mine, and had been locked out of the fire control system. The Captain wondered for a moment if he should fire tube eight anyway, but again dismissed the idea. It would not do to have the thing detonate under the first fishing boat to come along and alert the Americans that something dangerous was going on. Let the other three detonate under the first really big thing that came along, like the Coral Sea.

“Range to turn point is 3500 meters,” reported the intercom. “Request conn control.”

“You have conn control,” responded the Captain.

He now had to become like one of the lookouts, content to scan the waters ahead, watching for any sign of movement or alarm on the shore, while the navigation team in the control room turned the boat, steadied her against the current, and then fired the three mines up into the channel junction. The Captain found himself holding his stomach in tightly as he waited for the maneuver, first to starboard, and then the swing to port, just inshore of the last two buoys. It was unnatural, not to be in control. But they had the precise navigation picture, and he did not. He waited.

They were now no more than a third of a mile from the firing point. The lights seemed incredibly bright now; he could see individual sets of masts on the destroyers in the basin. How could they not be seen! Because no one is looking. But suddenly, one of the lookouts called to him urgently.

“What,” he said, impatiently, turning to see where the lookout was pointing his binoculars. At the long, dark breakwater that ran down the left side of the river channel. There. He saw it, too. The flare of a match, a cigarette lighter. He scanned the rocks with his binoculars. Great God! There were people on the rocks. Fishing from the breakwater, their poles jammed into crevices between the great, black stones. He could just make out the white blobs of faces, the shine of metal ice coolers perched on the rocks. He had not realized that the breakwater jutted this far out into the sea channel, or that the authorities would ever permit people to be on the breakwater at night in a security zone. He numbly counted more than a dozen shapes along the rocks, and caught the sound of music as a gust of the night breeze swept over them.

He thought frantically, unwilling to report what he was seeing to the team below: they needed their full concentration on making the swing maneuver. Would they see him? Would they understand what they were seeing? The submarine was ballasted down again, with only the shark’s fin of the conning tower jutting up above the water; the smaller dorsal fin of the rudder assembly would not be visible in the darkness. He had ordered no lights to be turned on unless another vessel was sighted, so there would be no lights to attract attention, and there was not much light on the opposite shore to backlight the fin. A man would have to have keen eyesight to see the big, black conning tower cutting across the river. And yet … He swallowed nervously as he swept his glasses ahead, feeling almost naked. He sensed the submarine begin the swing-right maneuver, and then scanned the breakwater again. The shapes along the rocks were not doing anything different, no alarms, no arms waving and pointing, no sudden stab of searchlights from the base. Thank God they had come in on the battery: the big diesels would have had everyone looking.

The submarine checked her swing to starboard, and then came around to port, the screws rumbling and thumping the structure of the conning tower as opposing power was applied to bring her around. He kept his glasses steadied on the breakwater, watching for any signs that someone saw something out on the river. He felt the boat steady up as she pointed seaward again, the vibrations pause as the direction was changed on the screws, and then the strain of both screws backing now to steady her against the current, the sea breeze fresh in their faces.

“Preparing to fire the after tubes,” reported the Deputy.

“Yes,” said the Captain, his throat dry. “Fire the after tubes when the boat is on bearing. Wait until the turbulence from the screws has subsided.”

“Navigator, aye.”

He looked over the side as the wash from the beating propellers came swirling up the sides, casting great sheets of gray water over the submerged bulk of the afterdecks like waves over a reef. The stink of river bottom washed up to them from the foam. The submarine began to gather sternway as the Navigator backed her upriver to the precise firing point. The Captain scanned the upstream channel and the breakwater, but there were still no changes. He was beginning to fear that the boiling wash from the screws would be seen and heard ashore, but apparently no one was looking out into the mouth of the river.

Finally, the screws stopped their urgent drumbeat, and the wash subsided aft. Then a thump and a roiling wash of air and water broached the surface astern; a second thump, and a third. There was no sign of the mines as they shot aft, arcing down through the black water to the mud and silt below. Then the screws again, this time kicking out a wash astern, and the boat gathering headway, her bows pointed out to sea and safety. The Captain scanned the breakwater again, but there was still no sign of anyone seeing them. He glanced around to see where they were, and noted the junction buoy watching just upstream. He conjured up the 900 foot long hull of the carrier as she nosed into the river, and swung her bows to make the left turn into the basin. He looked again at the junction buoy, disappearing rapidly now as the A1 Akrab jumped ahead under full power. Yes. Very good. There was no way the carrier would avoid the mines. He keyed the intercom.

“The placement looks perfect, Navigator. Well done!”

Three hours later and many miles from the enemy’s shore, the A1 Akrab shut down her main engines, switched over to the electrics, and submerged, levelling off at a depth of two hundred feet. The Captain held a short meeting with his department heads, and then returned to the control room, the Musaid as ever at his side. The steward’s mate offered tea, but he had had enough and needed sleep. He checked with the sonar station.

“One significant contact only,” reported the young sonarman. “A single screwed vessel, a steam ship, since there is no diesel engine noise. She is headed east on a bearing of 120. Barely down doppler. Distance probably beyond twenty thousand meters. Two fishermen on the trawl to the north, small diesels; winch machinery noises. Nothing else.”

“Is the steam ship a warship?”

“We cannot tell, Captain. There are no sonars or other military indications, and she proceeds east. More than likely a merchant.”

“Very well,” replied the Captain, relieved that there were no warships. He dismissed the Musaid and headed forward to his cabin for some much needed sleep. Tomorrow was going to be another long day. With any luck, the last long day.