Read Online Scorpion in the Sea by P.T. Deutermann - Free Book Online
Authors: P.T. Deutermann
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changed to a full throated roar, and a wash of foaming water had roiled back along the submarine’s hull as the propellers bit in. Harbor debris boiled up
between the submarine and the pier, and then the sub began to back out, slowly at first, and then more quickly as she gathered sternway out into the harbor. After thirty seconds her bows cleared the head of the pier, and the Captain stopped the port shaft, and ordered it ahead to begin the twist. The sub had come about slowly, vibrating as the narrowly spaced propellers opposed each other in their effort to twist the boat in place. As her head came around, beginning to point for the harbor entrance, he stopped the twist, and ordered both engines ahead. The Captain remembered glancing over to the shore; he had thought he could just see the dark staff car, stopped at the top of the hill. The submarine had gathered speed quickly, the night air pushing the diesel exhaust clear over the side.
The Captain had swept his binoculars around the harbor entrance, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Behind them the tugboat had started up, a large cloud of gray smoke hovering above her, as she headed for the pier which they had just left. The Captain had nudged the watch officer,
“The decoy,” he had said. “Our stand-in.”
“I hope it is authentic,” replied the watch officer, correcting the course by one degree to avoid a buoy. “They say those American satellites can count the shoes on the front porch of a zawiya.”
The Captain had laughed.
“They probably can, but what does it tell them? Only how many shoes there are on the mosque’s porch. Increase speed to twelve knots. We must get out to the dive point before 0200.”
The submarine had begun to pitch very gently as she met the first deep sea swell rolling in from some distant storm out over the Mediterranean. The petty officers on the foredeck finished turning the bitts under, folding each mooring line attachment point upside down and stowing it under the deckplates, while keeping an eye on the bow for any sudden waves. Each in turn made a hand signal to the conning tower, and then disappeared down the forward hatch. The Musaid had checked everything again, and then stepped
down into the forward hatch, clanging it shut behind him. The Captain could remember hearing the search periscope turning in its greased tube above him as the Navigator took bearings from his station down in the attack center. The sea breeze had felt fresh and clean, containing no hint of sand and dust for a change. Their wake made a broad path behind them, parallel to the shine of the moon on the black waters. The base had remained dark, sliding aft and dwindling now as they left the harbor, with everyone there oblivious to the steady rumble of diesels carrying the submarine out of the harbor.
The Captain remembered breathing deeply, a rush of adrenaline filling his veins. It had begun. They would have to run for about an hour in order to reach deep water. Time enough. The decoy would have been in place by then, and his sub would have vanished into the black depths of the Gulf of Sidra on its way out into the middle Mediterranean Sea, safe from the probing, hostile eyes in space. Assuming the satellite could see in the dark, there would still be six, old, and inactive Soviet Foxtrot class submarines tied up to their piers, as they had been for nine months. Their entire submarine force, thought to be barely operational, and therefore no threat. He remembered baring his teeth in the dark. The Americans would be five-sixths right. The Scorpion was loose in the sea, and unaccounted for.
He was startled back to the present when the steward dropped a handful of silverware on the deck outside the wardroom curtain. He rubbed his face with both hands as he considered his next move while the subdued sounds of life in a submerged submarine intruded on the edges of his thinking. He knew that his threat to execute the next person who made a major
between the submarine and the pier, and then the sub began to back out, slowly at first, and then more quickly as she gathered sternway out into the harbor. After thirty seconds her bows cleared the head of the pier, and the Captain stopped the port shaft, and ordered it ahead to begin the twist. The sub had come about slowly, vibrating as the narrowly spaced propellers opposed each other in their effort to twist the boat in place. As her head came around, beginning to point for the harbor entrance, he stopped the twist, and ordered both engines ahead. The Captain remembered glancing over to the shore; he had thought he could just see the dark staff car, stopped at the top of the hill. The submarine had gathered speed quickly, the night air pushing the diesel exhaust clear over the side.
The Captain had swept his binoculars around the harbor entrance, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Behind them the tugboat had started up, a large cloud of gray smoke hovering above her, as she headed for the pier which they had just left. The Captain had nudged the watch officer,
“The decoy,” he had said. “Our stand-in.”
“I hope it is authentic,” replied the watch officer, correcting the course by one degree to avoid a buoy. “They say those American satellites can count the shoes on the front porch of a zawiya.”
The Captain had laughed.
“They probably can, but what does it tell them? Only how many shoes there are on the mosque’s porch. Increase speed to twelve knots. We must get out to the dive point before 0200.”
The submarine had begun to pitch very gently as she met the first deep sea swell rolling in from some distant storm out over the Mediterranean. The petty officers on the foredeck finished turning the bitts under, folding each mooring line attachment point upside down and stowing it under the deckplates, while keeping an eye on the bow for any sudden waves. Each in turn made a hand signal to the conning tower, and then disappeared down the forward hatch. The Musaid had checked everything again, and then stepped
down into the forward hatch, clanging it shut behind him. The Captain could remember hearing the search periscope turning in its greased tube above him as the Navigator took bearings from his station down in the attack center. The sea breeze had felt fresh and clean, containing no hint of sand and dust for a change. Their wake made a broad path behind them, parallel to the shine of the moon on the black waters. The base had remained dark, sliding aft and dwindling now as they left the harbor, with everyone there oblivious to the steady rumble of diesels carrying the submarine out of the harbor.
The Captain remembered breathing deeply, a rush of adrenaline filling his veins. It had begun. They would have to run for about an hour in order to reach deep water. Time enough. The decoy would have been in place by then, and his sub would have vanished into the black depths of the Gulf of Sidra on its way out into the middle Mediterranean Sea, safe from the probing, hostile eyes in space. Assuming the satellite could see in the dark, there would still be six, old, and inactive Soviet Foxtrot class submarines tied up to their piers, as they had been for nine months. Their entire submarine force, thought to be barely operational, and therefore no threat. He remembered baring his teeth in the dark. The Americans would be five-sixths right. The Scorpion was loose in the sea, and unaccounted for.
He was startled back to the present when the steward dropped a handful of silverware on the deck outside the wardroom curtain. He rubbed his face with both hands as he considered his next move while the subdued sounds of life in a submerged submarine intruded on the edges of his thinking. He knew that his threat to execute the next person who made a major
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