P.T. Deutermanns naval career spanned twenty-six years. An Annapolis graduate, Deutermann commanded a gunboat in riverine operations in Vietnam in the early sixties, and subsequently was Captain of a guided missile destroyer and Commodore of a squadron of destroyers. All of his sea service was in cruisers and destroyers; ashore he was a politico-military policy specialist in Washington, completing his service as the chief of an arms control division on the staff of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He published one text on naval operations and several professional articles during his career; Scorpion in the Sea was his first work of fiction. He has also published three other novels with St. Martins Paperbacks: The Edge of Honor, Official Privilege , and Sweepers .
10 April, USS Goldsborough (DD-920); At sea, Mayport Fleet operating areas
The radio messenger came through the pilothouse door, blinking rapidly in the sudden blaze of sunlight reflecting off the polished bronze sea.
Officer of the Deck, he called out, squinting hard.
OOD, aye, replied Lieutenant (junior grade) OConnor from the port bridge wing.
Got a priority action, Sir.
The OOD came in from the bridge wing, pushed his dark glasses up onto his forehead, and took the steel message board. He scanned the top message briefly, initialled it, and then walked across the pilothouse where Commander Johnston Michael Montgomery was trying to stay awake in the warm morning sunshine.
Priority action, Captain, said OConnor. A little bit off the beaten path, too.
The Captain stretched, and sat up in his bridge chair. The chair protested. Mike Montgomery was a large man, with an oversized, straight nosed, nordic face, permanently ruddy complexioned from years at sea, with bushy white blond eyebrows and a shock of blond hair tinged with gray brushed straight back from a wide forehead. He wore the regulation Navy at-sea working uniform of wash khaki trousers and short sleeved khaki shirt, with the tarnished silver oak leaves of a Commander, USN, pinned to the points of his shirt collar, and a gold command at sea star on his right shirt pocket. A pair of hand-tooled, black leather sea boots rucked up the hem of his trousers. He had largehands and massively muscled forearms; the metal message board looked like a piece of paper in his hands.
Everything we do is a little bit off the beaten path, Tim. Lemme see it.
The Captains voice had a booming quality even when he was calm. He scanned the message. The rest of the bridge watch looked on with interest. The Bosun Mate of the Watch tried to get the radio messenger to let him in on the message. The messenger, a radioman who considered himself superior to all bosun mates, ignored him.
Well, youre right, Timothy. This is indeed different. Get the XO up here, please. Quartergasket!
The Quartermaster of the Watch stepped forward from his chart table. Aye, Sir?
Plot this position, and give me a course at eighteen knots.
Aye, aye, Sir.
The Captain turned back around in his chair, and reached for his lukewarm cup of coffee. Goddamn bosun mates were putting salt in it again; somebody had to talk to them. He knew the bridge watch was dying to know what was going on; he would let them eavesdrop when the Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Ben Farmer, arrived. He leaned back in the bridge chair.
Typical bullshit squirrel assignment for Goldsborough, he thought. The Coast Guard had forwarded a report from one of the Mayport fishermen claiming to have sighted a U-boat out on the edge of the Gulf Stream. Montgomery, a bachelor who lived in the fishing village of Mayport behind the Mayport naval base, knew most of the commercial fishermen personally. He could just see it. Some old fart like Christian Mayfield, stumbling out on deck in the morning twilight to piss over the side after a night-long session with Dr. James Beam and shaking with the predawn D.T.s, sees a frigging U-boat. Right. Thinks hes back on the convoys. Lucky he didnt fall over the side in the excitement. And now Goldsborough, the one antique steam powered destroyer among all the new gas turbine powered frigates and destroyers in Mayport, would get to go out a hundred milesto the Gulf Stream and look for a U-boat. He sighed noisily. This was the kind of operational assignment which tended to confirm his suspicion that his career, just like Goldsboroughs, was drawing to a close.
The Executive Officer appeared on the bridge from the doorway leading to CIC. Lieutenant Commander Ben Farmer was a chunky man, with a round face and a prematurely gray head of hair.
Yes, Sir, Captain. Quartermaster called me and said we have to look for asubmarine? The bridge watch team members pricked up their ears while trying to appear as if they were not eavesdropping.
Yeah, XO. Another Weird-Harold mission for the Goldy-maru. One of the shrimp boats skippers called the Coast Guard on the Marine radio, says he saw a U-boat, gave a position. Group Twelve wants it investigated.
The Exec scanned the message. But this was, hell, twenty-four hours ago, he complained. Yesterday morning. Thats a pretty big time-late. We were supposed to go in tonight. A hundred miles out, a hundred miles back, and some search time, were looking at another day in the opareas.
You broka-da-code, XO. I sense the slick claws of J. Walker Martinson, Chief of Staff to the Lord High Admiral George T., behind this little trip.
The quartermaster interrupted. Sir, we need 085 to get to the original sighting posit.
Very well. Mr. OConnor, 085 at eighteen knots, please.
Aye, aye, Sir. OConnor gave the orders to the helm and lee helm. There was a jangle of engine order telegraph bells, and moments later Goldsborough swung her aging 4000 tons of steel around to the east and headed for the Gulf Stream. A light breeze began to stream through the pilothouse, rustling the charts on the chart table and stirring the general fug of cigarettes and stale coffee.
