Scorpion in the Sea

SIXTY-SEVEN

“Captain, surface radar has a contact we believe is the Coral Sea, bearing 140, range twenty miles, closing on course 310, speed twenty three knots; ESM confirms, Sir.”

There was a stirring among the bridge watch team. Mike leaned forward in his chair on the bridge, and keyed the bitch box.

“Captain, aye. I’ll be right in.”

He turned to the Exec, who was looking wilted in the afternoon heat. Everyone was looking wilted. The strain of waiting was beginning to tell.

“XO, we’re about to turn into a tin can again. I’ll speak to the crew from CIC as soon as I’ve seen the picture in there. Make a quick tour through the ship and let everybody know we may be in action soon. Wake ’em up if they’re slacking off. I know it’s been a long wait.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” said the Exec, taking off his binoculars.

Mike got out of his chair and hurried into CIC. As hard as the air conditioning was working, it was still only ten degrees cooler in Combat than out on the bridge. He went directly to the plotting table, putting his sunglasses away in his shirt pocket.

“OK,” he said, approaching the plot. “Where is he?”

“Right here, Cap’n. Good solid contact, and ESM holds a GCA radar on that bearing. We’re pretty sure it’s the bird farm. I’ve projected his track, and we’ve laid out the search plan on that axis.”

“All right. Come around to match her course, speed fifteen. We’ll let her overtake us while we sweep out ahead of his track. Tell Main Control to release the locked shaft, and get the sonar going in omnidirectional mode. Make sure they’ve taken a BT drop in the past half hour. Let’s go find this guy if he’s out here. Are there any other contacts?”

“Only two fishing boats, about 12,000 yards away to the south and west. They’re no problem to our track or the carrier’s.”

“OK. Ops, activate the 1MC for me.”

The operations officer handed him a long cord microphone and threw a switch, and then nodded at the Captain. Mike stood by the side of his chair.

“Gents, this is the Captain speaking. The carrier has been sighted, and we’re going to begin our hunt. We’re going to sweep the waters ahead of the carrier’s track for the next hour or so, until we flush this guy or until we’re into the beach and the Coral Sea is safe. I know it’s been a long day of waiting around. Look to your gear, and check your spaces, and figure out what you’re going to do if we take some damage. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: we don’t know for sure that there’s a bad guy out here, but if there is, Goldy is the only thing between him and the carrier, so pay attention. That is all.”

“It’ll be a couple of hours before he overtakes us,” said the operations officer, looking down at the track geometry.

“Not really,” replied Mike. “Once we begin the search plan, we’ll be maneuvering on various courses and speeds on either side of the carrier’s track; our net effective speed of advance will probably only be ten knots or so relative to his twenty three. He’s going to be on us like stink on shit before we know it. I just hope we shake something out before he runs right past us.”

“Sonar going active,” announced the 29 MC speaker.

“Find his ass, Linc,” muttered the Captain.

“And if we do get a contact, Captain, we’re to tell the carrier something about a possible floating mine, and recommend he turn away?”

“Right. I’ll do that myself so they pay attention. Get a radio check on Fleet Common with the bird farm in the next five minutes.”

The radio messenger came through the door a moment later and handed Mike a message board. Before he could read it, the CIC radio talker took off his headset, and gestured for Mike to come over.

“Captain, I’ve got a message from ComDesRon Twelve himself.”

“Hang on a minute, messenger,” said Mike, handing him back his board. He headed for the communications console.

“But, Sir,” said the radio messenger, “this is a—”

“Hang on, this is our boss calling here.”

Mike picked up the message pad with the Commodore’s message about the Toyota carrier and read the message. He whistled once. He handed the message pad back to the operator, and then took the message board from the anxious radio messenger.

“That was the Commodore,” he announced to the officers at the plotting table, as he scanned the board. “Remember that big Toyota car carrier that went by this morning? It apparently blew up all over the entrance to the St. Johns river a few minutes ago. First reports are that it was torpedoed! Gentlemen, we may be in business after all. Now, what’s this.”

“Sir,” began the messenger again. “It’s a flash message to the Coral Sea, info us, warning him—”

“OK. Lemme read it,” said Mike.

He finished scanning the message.

“Well I’ll be goddamned,” he said, finally. “This is from CincLantFlt, warning Coral Sea of a possible submarine threat in its path into Mayport. He’s been ordered to divert back to sea at best speed until otherwise directed.”

He looked up at their eager faces.

“I wonder what the hell triggered this? Maybe the Commodore tried again.”

“Are they sending any additional forces out, like heloes?” asked the operations officer.

“This message doesn’t say anything about help, and I suspect nothing’s getting by the river entrance right now. A helo or two would sure be useful, wouldn’t they. What’s the carrier doing on the scope?”

“Sir, the carrier is continuing to track straight in.”

Mike shook his head.

“Typical aircraft carrier; sometimes they act like a dinosaur: smack ’em on the ass and it takes fifteen minutes for the head to get the message. You watch, it’ll take ten minutes to get the message up to the CO from radio, and then another five for the aviators to decide there’s no pictures in it and then someone will have to read it to them.”

There were grins around the CIC. Destroyer officers did not think much of the fly boys.

“OK, everyone, let’s settle down and let’s get to work finding this sewer pipe, preferably before the Coral Sea tramples all over both of us. Ops, tell the XO about what’s happened back at the base.”

“Yes, Sir, but if the Toyota boat got torpedoed back there, it means we don’t have a submarine out here …”

“Those weren’t torpedoes, Ops. Nobody would shoot torpedoes into the mouth of a river — they’d go out of control in all those shallow water currents and blow up on the bottom. Those were mines. Which means somebody had to put ’em there. And I’m betting that somebody is within our sonar range. Now tell the XO, and then get me comms with the carrier. We need to make him believe that flash message from CincLantFleet.”