Scorpion in the Sea

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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.

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.

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