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  HATTERAS BLUE

  "Fast-paced and convincing ... TERRIFIC!"

  —Baltimore Sun

  "A CLASSIC! ... Poyer knows his territory well and leads his reader through it masterfully."

  —Robert Houston, author of Blood Tango

  "GRIPPING! ... A tale of mystery and adventure by a superb storyteller."

  —William P. Mack, Vice Admiral, U.S. Navy (Ret.), co-author of South to Java

  "A can't-put-it-down-til-you're-done book ... FANTASTIC!"

  —Times World News, Roanoke, VA

  "Plot twists and turns that chart a tricky course through the deep waters of human need and greed. A yarn to make readers keep turning the pages."

  —Ocala Star-Banner

  "COMPELLING! ... One of the best mystery adventures about the sea that I've encountered!"

  —Muncie Star

  It was a foot-long, three-inch tube, dull gray. Attached to his starboard shaft by a loop of cheap yellow polypropelene rope. Strategically placed, right underneath the fuel tanks. It was meant to kill.

  Galloway began to want air. Sculling his hands, he moved closer. The yellow rope did not foul the prop, which meant that his first thought, that it was rigged to go when the shaft began to turn, was wrong.

  The desire for air became a need. He'd been down for over two minutes. It seemed to take forever to reach the surface. When he did, coming up off the counter, there was no one in sight on the deck.

  "Keyes!"

 
  "We've got a bomb on our hull ..."

  Novels by D. C. Poyer

  STEPFATHER BANK THE SHILOH PROJECT

  By David Poyer

  THE GULF THE MED THE DEAD OF WINTER THE RETURN OF PHILO T. MCGIFFIN WHITE CONTINENT

  ST. MAR WS PAPERBACKS

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as 'unsold and destroyed' to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this 'stripped book'.

  HATTERAS BLUE

  Copyright © 1989 by D. C. Poyer.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-30125

  ISBN 0-312-92749-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin's Press hardcover edition published 1989 St. Martin's Paperbacks edition/March 1992

  10 987654321

  For all my friends on the Banks

  "Gradually it was disclosed to me that the line separating good from evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties

  either—but right through every human heart____"

  A. Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago

  Note C: Caution Hydrography is not charted on Diamond Shoals due to the changeable nature of the area. Navigation in the area is extremely hazardous to all types of craft.

  NOAA Chart 12200; Cape May to CapeHatteras

  Prologue

  HALFWAY DOWN THE ATLANTIC COAST A BEAK

  of sand juts into the sea, curved and cruel as the beaks of the falcons that soar above its dunes.

  This is Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, the sea-wardmost point of the Outer Banks. For four centuries mariners have approached it with apprehension. Sometimes they passed safely, close-reefed, and gave thanks. Sometimes, as the timbers that still litter its beaches testify, they lost their gamble.

  This is no myth, no Devil's Triangle or Sargasso Sea. Two ocean currents meet here, one warm, one cold; their eternal struggle is shrouded in fog and storm. The low, deceptive coastline has lured hundreds of ships to their deaths, the roar of surf muffling the screams of the drowning. And when war last came to America, it came first to Hatteras.

  Seamen still call it the Graveyard of the Atlantic.

  Fifty miles to the southeast of Cape Point, close enough that on a clear night one might see the loom of Hatteras Light, a wreck lies motionless on the bottom.

  Almost undamaged, except for the slow fingers of encroaching coral, it lies on its side on hard gray sand. Its bow planes are jammed on hard dive. Its hatches gape open, wells to the dark interior. Cold silt swirls slowly amid dead gauges, twisted air lines, half-loaded torpedoes, the occasional writhe of a moray. Its cannon points upward, toward the faint glow that is all that remains of the sun at thirty fathoms. Its conning tower, flaked with corrosion, lies frozen in a roll to starboard that will last till its metal dissolves in the all-devouring sea.

  Over forty years have passed since the sunlight touched it. The memories of men have eroded, eaten away by time as salt eats steel. Yet far beneath, silent except for the stir of sheltering fish, the de^d ship waits.

  Above it the Atlantic rolls relentlessly inshore. Below the gray light filters weakly down. Only the sleepless shark swims now beside and over the patiently waiting hull.

  Beyond the rolling curve of sea is the shore. A narrow strip of wet sand where sanderlings skitter like windup toys. Then dunes, waving with sea oats and panic grass.

  Beyond the dune line several men are working. In the glaring sun sweat glistens on their chests; light flashes from the sand-polished blades of their shovels. A heap of torn-up yaupon crackles as it burns. Plastic flaps listlessly atop a stack of concrete blocks. Beyond the workers a yellow machine rolls to and fro on steel tracks, spewing smoke into the clean wind, gouging away the side of a sandhill. A sign by the highway proclaims FIND YOUR PLACE IN THE SUN. SITE OF THE NEW PIRATES' REST TIME-SHARE RESORT. MARKETED BY O R. GALLOWAY REALTY & CONSTRUCTION.

  The heavy blade gouges deep into the dune. A moment later it pauses. A man shouts. Two of the laborers amble over and begin clearing sand. At first they think the black layer is trash. It is rotten and flakes as their shovels bite into it. The dune slides away reluctantly.

  Both stop at the same time. Desiccated, fragile, but still recognizable, a boot sticks out from the sand. They look at it and at each other. They shovel again, less willingly.

  There are bones above the boots. There are the bones of three human beings under the remains of a rubber raft. The laborers stare at them wordlessly. At last one of them shakes his head. Dropping his shovel, he trudges back to the truck and climbs in. A moment later the engine roars.

  The long wait is over.

  1945

  one

  LIEUTENANT COMMANDER LYLE GALLOWAY H,

  U.S. coast guard, dug his fingers around his eyes in indecision and fatigue. When the colored patterns stopped he straightened, and stared around the dimly illuminated bridge of his ship.

  Galloway was tired. He and the Russell were the same age, twenty-seven, and she was tired too. After a year of near war and four of the real thing, after supporting the landings in North Africa, and North Atlantic convoy duty in winter, he was glad of this assignment: coastal patrol off Cape Hatteras, a quiet sector for two years now.

  Best of all, the war with Germany had ended two days before.

  Now they were running south from the mouth of the Chesapeake on the fourth day of a two-week patrol. The night was clear and starry, and at eighteen knots the knife bow of the old destroyer pared phosphorescence from the sea. No one expected contact. The European war was over, this was a milk run. Yet five minutes earlier the officer of the deck had called him from a warm bunk. The radar on the bridge showed a pip ten miles ahead.

  Galloway ground a fist into his palm. "Going back to CIC," he said aloud.

  "Aye, Captain/' said an anonymous voice from the darkness.

  Russell's makeshift combat center was dark except for the green glow of the scope. He leaned over the radarman's shoulder, watching the flickering point of light. The day before, he remembered, the sailor had been raucous with the news of peace. Tonight he was silent, intent, moving his dials slowly as if afraid to startle whatever was ahead of them.

  If this was a U-boat, it had no business at sea. After six years of war Europe was quiet, a smoldering heap of bomb-stirred ash. The Soviets and the Americans had met at Torgau two weeks before, cutting Germany in half. Russian troops were mopping up in Berlin. The Fiihrer and the rest of the high command were rumored dead in the flames of the greatest city of the Reich. It had been a close war. Twice—at Stalingrad, and in the Atlantic—it trembled in the balance. But the Russians held. And at sea, though Admiral Doenitz's Unterseeboote sank twenty-three million tons of shipping, the Allies had won at last. Quickly built ships, radar, air patrols, and the convoy system had cut die knot of the Nazi noose.

  Now Galloway thought rapidly, hands thrust into his leather foul-weather jacket.

  The day before, a U-boat had been reported by an Army B-25 on patrol out of Lakehurst, New Jersey. The bomber pilot had come in from astern, recognizing the plume of white water for what it was: a snorkeling submarine, running just below the surface. He had attacked, but misjudged the target's speed. Both depth bombs exploded astern of the sub, which promptly went deep. He reported its position and its southward course, and the Atlantic Antisubmarine Warfare Command scrambled a hunter-killer group of planes and ships east of Cape Henlopen. They had not yet found the U-boat. Had it escaped them? Was this it?

  Galloway's fingers encoun
tered a folded wad in the pocket of his jacket. Moving to one of the radio remotes, he reread the message by the faint glow of the pilot light. The comm officer had handed it to him the day before. It was from Admiral Ingram, CincLantFleet.

  SECRET

  THOUGH LAND WAR IN EUROPE DRAWING SWIFTLY TO CLOSE ... MORALE AND MATERIEL OF U-BOAT ARM OF KREIGSMARINE STILL STRONG. UNITS NOW AT SEA, THOUGHT TO NUMBER APPROXIMATELY FIFTY, HAVE BEEN ORDERED BY GRAND ADMIRAL DOENITZ TO SURFACE AND SURRENDER. IT WILL TAKE SEVERAL DAYS FOR WORD TO REACH ALL SUBMERGED UNITS. THE MORE FANATICAL MAY NOT GIVE THEMSELVES UP.

  ENEMY UNITS FAILING TO SURFACE, FOR WHATEVER REASON, WILL BE DEALT WITH SUMMARILY BEFORE UNNECESSARY ALLIED CASUALTIES RESULT....

  Galloway stuffed the paper back in his pocket. He bent over a glass-topped table on which a light traced the motion of the ship. "Datum?" he said.

  "Contact bears two-three-zero, twelve," the ra-darman reported. "Estimated course and speed, one-seven-zero, speed—fifteen knots!"

  "Here," muttered an ensign. He drew a diamond on the tracing paper, south of the destroyer.

  "Fifteen?" said Galloway to the radarman's back. "You sure about that?" "Checked it twice, Cap'n." "Jesus, that's fast."

  "Sonar reports nothing yet," said another rating. "Tell them just to listen, not to ping. I want to take this bird by surprise, if we can." "Shouldn't we tell the Navy, sir?"

  "They're fifty miles north of us," said Galloway slowly. "But I guess I ought to."

  "Recommend course one-niner-zero at twenty-one knots to intercept."

  "Roger. Bridge, this is the captain speaking. Come right to one-niner-zero and kick us up to flank speed."

  "Bridge, aye."

  The ensign set down the radio handset. "Norfolk says to go after them. They're detaching a destroyer from the hunter-killer group to help. Coast Guard has tactical command—hey, that's us!"

  "Good," said Galloway, surprised and pleased at the unaccustomed courtesy. He did a rough calculation in his head. Thirty minutes to intercept the racing submarine—if it was one.

  For a U-boat did not belong here. Not now.

  It hadn't been like that three years earlier. In 1942 the sea off North Carolina was the front line of the war. The U-boats had left Germany a month after Pearl Harbor. When they arrived in the U.S. shipping lanes it was sudden slaughter. They struck on the surface, at night, not even bothering to dive. Their favorite hunting ground stretched from New York to Charleston. Armed with deck guns and torpedoes, they lay in wait at night, silhouetting passing coasters against the lights of More-head City or Virginia Beach. Ship after ship went down. Oil and debris washed up on the beaches, and beach dwellers found bodies where they had sunned in summers of peace.

  Galloway had seen it. He was from Hatteras. On Good Friday of 1942 he had stood on the beach near Buxton with his bride, their moonlight walk forgotten, and watched the night sky flame as a tanker burned on the horizon. He'd cut his leave short and gone back to the ship the next day.

  But since then the threat had receded, sucked back toward Europe as Germany weakened. A U-boat here, off the East Coast, at the end of the war... ?

  He dismissed it for the present. Already he could feel the old four-piper's deckplates begin to vibrate as she came up to maximum speed. This might be it, he thought. The ensign looked at him. He reached for the intercom again. "Bridge, Captain. Sound general quarters."

  The crew, honed after years of war at sea, had felt the heel and the sudden increase in speed. They were already rolling from their bunks when the alarm began to bong. Men shoved into the already crowded compartment. One sailor, eyes not yet adapted to darkness, muttered to Galloway, "Christ, what now. I thought this friggin' war was over."

  "Not yet, Sam," said the captain dryly. The sailor peered, then seemed to melt away as the gold braid on Galloway's cap glinted in the dimness.

  Pushing the darken-ship curtains aside, he stepped out onto the bridge again. It was even darker there and he stood still for a moment. His fingers found the strap of his binoculars. The portholes were open and a warm breeze fanned his cheek. The officer of the deck, a big reserve jaygee from Philadelphia, was taking the reports.

  "Mount thirty-one manned and ready." The forward three-inch gun.

  "Sonar manned and ready."

  "Hedgehog manned and ready." The weapon that had turned the war at sea around. Fired by the dozens, its projectiles detonated only when they hit the steel of a U-boat's hull.

  "K-guns, manned and ready." The depth-charge throwers to port and starboard.

  "After mount manned and ready."

  The lieutenant turned. "Captain, we're ready for action. We're making nineteen knots now, with twenty-one rung up."

  "Feather still there?"

  "I just checked the scope. They haven't spotted us yet."

  He wondered whether he should slow. A sub could hear a destroyer at flank speed from miles away. But if he slowed it would take forever to catch up. Till long past dawn. And at sunrise the Navy would be overhead with the new air-launched torpedoes to take credit for the last kill of the war.

  He smiled tightly in the darkness. That wasn't the way it was going to be. Galloways had been famous in the Coast Guard for more than sixty years, since his great-grandfather Otinus Randall Galloway had rowed into the worst northeaster in memory to rescue the passengers of the doomed schooner Floridian. It would be sweet indeed if here, off the coast of home, he could carry on that tradition by destroying a killer more dangerous than that legendary storm of 1878.

  Minutes ticked by. Seen from the sea, the destroyer would be only a patch of darker black in a moonless night, with only the phosphorescence at her bow to betray her to a periscope.

  Struck by a thought, he bent over a chart of the patrol area. The navigator's dead reckoning estimate showed them some forty miles at sea. To the west Cape Hatteras jutted seaward, its stylized wrecks and dotted lines of shoal fretting the coastline. Galloway chewed his lip. The water shoaled gradually. Still only two or three hundred feet this far offshore. If he could catch the U-boat here it would be unable to go deep.

  It was so pat that he felt again that touch of suspicion, indecision, unwonted caution that had dogged him since the first radar contact. "That thing still on the scope?" he grunted.

  "Minute he dives we'll let you know, sir."

  Twenty-two minutes yet. He went out on the bridge wing to get a grip on himself.

  The wind was warm and strong. He curled his fingers around the binoculars and leaned into it. The only light came from the stars. Immense, glowing, the Milky Way arched over the sea. He leaned over the coaming. like reflected constellations, luminescent organisms sparked and swirled as the bow dipped and lifted, knifing through the chop with a vicious, eager hiss.

  The jaygee came out of the pilothouse. "Fifteen minutes to intercept."

  ''Very well. What speed we making?"

  "Twenty-two knots, Captain."

  "Good." He grinned; the World War I four-stackers the Navy had palmed off on the Coast Guard could only make twenty-one officially. The engineers knew something was up. Well, time to scotch the rumors. He went back inside. A moment later his voice boomed through the ship, calm, enormous, metallic.

  "This is Captain Galloway speaking. We've picked up what looks like a U-boat and are heading to intercept. The war with Germany is officially over, but this guy obviously didn't get the word. Or he may not feel like giving up. So we're not taking any chances. If he doesn't surface as soon as he knows we're around I'm going to attack. That's all."

  Galloway hung up the mike then and stood fidgeting with the glasses. He did not look at the radar screen, though he wanted to. Its brilliance would ruin his night vision, and it might be important shortly for him to be able to see.

  "Ten minutes, sir."