Read Scorpion in the Sea Online
Authors: P.T. Deutermann
Scorpion in the Sea
Table of Contents
Title Page
SCORPION IN THE SEA:
-
The Goldsborough Incident
CHAPTER ONE
-
FIVE DAYS EARLIER
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
SEVENTY-SIX
SEVENTY-SEVEN
SEVENTY-EIGHT
SEVENTY-NINE
EIGHTY
EIGHTY-ONE
EIGHTY-TWO
EIGHTY-THREE
ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES BY P.T. DEUTERMANN
OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR
SCORPION IN THE SEA:
About the Author
THE FIREFLY
Copyright Page
SCORPION IN THE SEA:
-
The Goldsborough Incident
CHAPTER ONE
-
FIVE DAYS EARLIER
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
SEVENTY-SIX
SEVENTY-SEVEN
SEVENTY-EIGHT
SEVENTY-NINE
EIGHTY
EIGHTY-ONE
EIGHTY-TWO
EIGHTY-THREE
ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES BY P.T. DEUTERMANN
OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR
SCORPION IN THE SEA:
About the Author
THE FIREFLY
Copyright Page
For S.C.D., a keeper
My thanks to the many friends who encouraged this project and who read the manuscript and offered friendly fire; in particular, Peter and Patty B., Joan M., Royce L., and Cathy N., and to Barbara B. for shepherding the manuscript through the security review process.
15 April, the fishing boat Rosie III; off the northeastern coast of Florida, near Mayport; 0445
Christian Mayfield drew himself another mug of coffee from the battered pot secured to the back bulkhead of the pilothouse. The Rosie III was running east at six knots towards the edge of the Gulf Stream, passing through line showers every fifteen minutes or so, her bluff bows thumping into a short swell. The tiny pilothouse was completely darkened except for the green glow from inside the radar repeater cone, and the red glow of his engine instruments and the compass. He had the Rosie on the Iron Mike, as the auto-pilot was called in the trade. One deck below, his two crewmen were asleep in the truncated cabin above the engineroom. He would roust them out when they reached the Stream and began seining. Outside the night was warm and wet; visibility was two miles except in the line squalls where it went down to nothing. Humid gusts of wind blew in through the doors on either side of the pilothouse.
Mayfield reached inside the small wooden cabinet next to the plotting table and pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam. He was a large, florid faced man in his mid-sixties, with the beefy build and mannerisms of a midwestern farmer, although he had been fishing for decades. He added two dollops of whiskey to his coffee, and restowed the bottle in the cabinet. Suitably fortified, he climbed back into the Captain’s chair behind and to the right of the helm console, and squinted out through the rainswept windows, but there was nothing to see. One clacking wiper made a feeble effort to keep the window clear, but the accumulating salt smear from the seawater was winning between the rain squalls.
Mayfield scanned the instruments, paying close attention to engine temperature. He had the nets out astern, dragging them in his wake to wet tension the lines. The mouth of the seine was still gathered shut, because six knots was much too fast for seining. It was somewhat dangerous to cruise with the nets out; they would lose the whole rig if the mouth happened to pop open. Mayfield made a practice of deploying the nets on the way out, however. It saved time once in the fishing grounds, or if he unexpectedly encountered evidence of a school. He could slow to trawl speed, pull a releasing wire, and the huge net would open like the giant maw it was without ever having to stop the boat.
Mayfield scanned the instruments, paying close attention to engine temperature. He had the nets out astern, dragging them in his wake to wet tension the lines. The mouth of the seine was still gathered shut, because six knots was much too fast for seining. It was somewhat dangerous to cruise with the nets out; they would lose the whole rig if the mouth happened to pop open. Mayfield made a practice of deploying the nets on the way out, however. It saved time once in the fishing grounds, or if he unexpectedly encountered evidence of a school. He could slow to trawl speed, pull a releasing wire, and the huge net would open like the giant maw it was without ever having to stop the boat.
He scanned the relative wind dials; broad on the starboard bow at sixteen knots. Means we got beam wind coming out of these squalls, he thought. To confirm this he swung around in the chair, punched a button, and looked aft through the window in the back of the pilothouse. At the very stern, a small white light came on that illuminated the towing wire, a tough, plow steel, one and three quarter inch tow cable. The cable veered out to the boat’s starboard quarter in the cone of light, confirming his appraisal that the boat was being set to port. Below them, at a depth of 150 feet, the long, closed bag of the steel and nylon net was trailing the boat at six knots, but offset to the starboard side.
Mayfield turned back to face forward and sipped his coffee, lulled by the warm whiskey and the steady drone of the diesel two decks below. Not a bad life, he thought. Don’t have to commute, don’t have to sit in an office all day, listen to a bunch of gabbing women, and work for some tight-assed “manager.” Get to witness the glory of a sunrise at sea most every day. He would never admit such thoughts out loud; he made a point of bitching about every aspect of the fishing trade. Secretly, he wanted to do nothing else until the day he died.
He shifted in his chair to compensate for a slight heel to starboard on the boat. He glanced into the radar, and saw the two blips about eight miles ahead, with the fuzzy line of a rain squall between the Rosie III and them. He sat back
in his chair, and suddenly heard the engine begin to strain, the throaty roar of the diesel changing tone as it came under a sudden load. He sensed a change in the boat’s motion, almost a deceleration. He frowned and leaned forward to look at the engine dials, and saw the jacket temperature starting to climb slightly. What the fuck, he thought. Then the engine really started to lug, as the governor poured the fuel on in response to an increasing demand for power. The autopilot had sensed speed dropping off, and was trying to compensate.
in his chair, and suddenly heard the engine begin to strain, the throaty roar of the diesel changing tone as it came under a sudden load. He sensed a change in the boat’s motion, almost a deceleration. He frowned and leaned forward to look at the engine dials, and saw the jacket temperature starting to climb slightly. What the fuck, he thought. Then the engine really started to lug, as the governor poured the fuel on in response to an increasing demand for power. The autopilot had sensed speed dropping off, and was trying to compensate.
Mayfield gathered himself to get out of his chair to check the tow wire, when the boat suddenly heeled sharply to starboard even as the bow jerked to port. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the helm spinning to starboard, as the Iron Mike tried for a right turn to get back on course. Frightened now, and aware that the problem somehow involved the net, Mayfield struggled to get out of his chair as the Rosie III, its engine driving now at full power, heeled even more. From below decks Mayfield dimly heard a thump and a shout from one of the crew, but he was plastered by the boat’s heeling moment into the side of his chair as it swivelled to keep him upright. He yelled himself as his coffee cup spilled its hot contents into his lap. Try as he might, he could not reach the control console. He sensed that the hull of the boat was now banging sideways into the swell. Something big let go below decks, and he heard the galley drawers crash open and dump their contents. In the next instant, the boat went all the way over on her beam ends to starboard, the engine howling out of control as the screw momentarily came out of the water. A wall of warm seawater flooded into the pilothouse through the open doors on either side. The engine made a strangling noise, and then shut down as the sea poured into the engineroom through the cabin doors below. Mayfield thought he heard somebody yelling as the boat capsized, but then a second wall of seawater swirled him out of his chair and turned him upside down in the pilothouse, banging him against the steering console. Stone sober and frantically holding his breath, he flailed to get out of the
pilothouse, flapping his arms and legs in the maelstrom, colliding with several hard objects, until he suddenly burst out of the water, gasping and spitting salt water, his eyes stinging and his ears roaring. He paddled in a circle for a few seconds, trying to regain control over his pounding heart and his pumping lungs. He could not see. He shook his head several times to get the water out of his eyes before realizing that they were screwed shut. He opened them in time to see the bow of the Rosie III being pulled backwards and down in a boiling froth of loose deck gear, a life ring, two potato crates and other topside gear that had not been tied down dancing in the roiling water. And then it became very quiet. Until, twenty feet away, his first mate, Jack Corrie, popped up out of the water like tethered buoy suddenly released from below. He subsided into a fluttering swirl of his own, inhaling deep gulps of fresh air, and hacking out the substantial piece of the Atlantic Ocean he had swallowed.
pilothouse, flapping his arms and legs in the maelstrom, colliding with several hard objects, until he suddenly burst out of the water, gasping and spitting salt water, his eyes stinging and his ears roaring. He paddled in a circle for a few seconds, trying to regain control over his pounding heart and his pumping lungs. He could not see. He shook his head several times to get the water out of his eyes before realizing that they were screwed shut. He opened them in time to see the bow of the Rosie III being pulled backwards and down in a boiling froth of loose deck gear, a life ring, two potato crates and other topside gear that had not been tied down dancing in the roiling water. And then it became very quiet. Until, twenty feet away, his first mate, Jack Corrie, popped up out of the water like tethered buoy suddenly released from below. He subsided into a fluttering swirl of his own, inhaling deep gulps of fresh air, and hacking out the substantial piece of the Atlantic Ocean he had swallowed.
“Jack!” yelled Mayfield. “Jack, over here!”
He tried to wave, but the weight of his raised arm sent his head back under. He became aware that it was starting to rain, fat drops pattering audibly on the dark sea. He lost sight of Jack, but heard him calling from within the curtain of rain. He started to swim in Jack’s direction, alternating yells with a few breaststrokes, until he collided with one of the Rosie’s life rings, which smacked him in the lower lip, bringing tears to his eyes momentarily, and the salt taste of blood in his mouth. He grabbed for the ring before it got away in the night. Jack appeared then, dog paddling behind a five foot long plank, the bridge-wing nameboard, with its brass letters spelling out Rosie III glinting in the darkness. It had hung by two brass hooks on the bridge-wing, and being wood, had floated free.
“What the fuck happened!” spluttered Jack, crawling up the flat face of the board to get some buoyancy under him. He was dressed only in his skivvies, which clung to him now in ridiculous, wet folds.
“I don’t fucking know,” spat Mayfield. “One minute
we’re cruising along on the Iron Mike, the next minute I’m in the fucking water. Any sign of Buddy?”
we’re cruising along on the Iron Mike, the next minute I’m in the fucking water. Any sign of Buddy?”
Jack shook his head, turning his face up into the rain to wash away the stinging salt water. Mayfield noticed that Jack’s face was a mess, with one eye swelling, and his forehead cut, the blood running in a black line down across his cheek. The rain was really coming down now, slashing the surface of the sea in sheets, and there was the flicker of lightning behind them. The rain came down so hard it seemed to flatten the ocean. Jack reached across his board for one of the cords on the life ring so that he, too, would not drift away. His face was gray-white in the dark, his breathing still rapid.
“He was in the bunkroom, same’s me,” Jack said. “I woke up outa my rack and bangin’ on the bulkhead, and then the water came in like a fucking toilet flush; next thing I know, I’m in the water and there’s no boat. Buddy—I don’t know … what the fuck we gonna do, Cap?”
Mayfield shook his head to clear the rain out of his face, but it was no use. Jack was young; he scared easier. Not that Mayfield wasn’t scared, but he had been at sea long enough to take stock when things turned to shit, and not let panic take over. Jack was close to panic. The rain was cooler than the ocean temperature, which was a Godsend. Guy in the water had a chance, if the water wasn’t too cold. With Jack, there, bleeding, well, that was another problem, once the sharks got a whiff. The fucking boat had gone down
backwards
, not sinking, but making sternway. He remembered that one clear point of reference in the twenty seconds it had taken for her to capsize. He pulled out a handkerchief from his clinging pants. He stuck one arm through the life ring, and then tore the handkerchief in two, lengthwise. He whipped a quick square knot into two strips.
backwards
, not sinking, but making sternway. He remembered that one clear point of reference in the twenty seconds it had taken for her to capsize. He pulled out a handkerchief from his clinging pants. He stuck one arm through the life ring, and then tore the handkerchief in two, lengthwise. He whipped a quick square knot into two strips.
“Lean forward; I gotta close up that cut on your head,” he ordered.
“What cut,” said Jack, his hand going up to his head, pulling away, covered in dark blood.
“Oh, shit,” he said softly.
He brought his plank closer, and bent his head down, almost into the water, while Mayfield tied the makeshift bandage on. The handkerchief was soaking wet, of course, but it might slow down the bleeding. Jack, a fisherman, did not have to be told that slowing down the bleeding was important.
When he was finished, Mayfield held his watch up to his face and pushed the light button. An hour until sunrise. He could barely see Jack’s face in the darkness. The rain continued to fall. The fucking boat had gone down making
sternway.
He was sure of it. He tried to see if he could spy the lights of the two contacts that had been east of them, but the rain blocked everything out. He hunkered down in his life ring and tried not to think about sharks and Jack’s cut forehead.
sternway.
He was sure of it. He tried to see if he could spy the lights of the two contacts that had been east of them, but the rain blocked everything out. He hunkered down in his life ring and tried not to think about sharks and Jack’s cut forehead.
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