The airplane landed on the runway with a hard jolt, the engines screaming in reverse, the jet down at the naval air station two miles from Pearl Harbor.
“Paully, Annapolis and Santa Fe are gone, they’re down. And I have to assume that any other 688s we send in will get attacked before they can react.”
“I don’t know. Admiral. The Annapolis and Santa Fe were operating under the late JeanPaul’s orders, out ahead and flanking it, loud as train wrecks compared to these Rising Suns. Is it possible that if they were doing a proper sonar search, they’d have detected them?”
“Maybe. I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, we’ve got a videoconference with Warner in fifteen minutes. We owe her an answer about whether the rogue subs will be coming out of the East China Sea to meet the task force of the backup RDF in the mid-Pacific.”
“I’d say it depends on what goes out on the news, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, with all the news transmitted instantly to the world from Satellite News Network and all the other wannabes, this rogue force is cut into our plans. President Warner announces to the world that we’re coming, they embark news reporters on the Webb, and they take a chopper up to look down at the goddamned formation.
What better tactical data could this rogue commander have?”
“Stop calling him a rogue. It makes him sound like a good guy. Let’s call these subs the Red Squadron and the flotilla commander Red One.”
“Fine, Red goddamned One. Anyway, this dude gets his intelligence beamed right to his television widescreens, and SNN transmits Warner’s every mood.” “Quiet, let me think,” Pacino said. “Maybe there’s something I can do.”
“About the media? Are you kidding?”
“Sshh.” Pacino rubbed his eyes, an idea beginning to surface.
When he opened his eyes, the jet had taxied to Pacino’s hangar, the lights overhead flickering as the engines died. Pacino and White stood, gathering their things as the door came open.
Pacino walked out into the warmth of the Hawaiian night. A breeze was coming off the sea, and the smell of it was comforting, the hot air welcome after the chill of the Tetons. At the bottom of the stairs Joanna Stoddard waited, his administrative assistant, there at four-thirty in the morning to meet him and Paully. She was in her thirties, pretty in a suppressed librarian manner, married to a surfer. When she was younger she had worked for Pacino as a lieutenant, one of his junior aides. She had left the Navy to get married, then immediately asked him to hire her as a civilian, and had been with him ever since.
“Joanna, good to see—”
She interrupted him. “The reporters have been after me. Everyone wants to know what you’re going to do next. Including Warner and the CNO. The president and Admiral O’Shaughnessy are waiting for your videoconference once we get there. And there are four visitors in your office now, a Japanese man claiming to be Akagi Tanaka.”
Pacino and White shared a look. “Who else?”
“Colleen O’Shaughnessy and Emmitt Stephens from the shipyard. Admiral Dick Livingston from Naval Personnel.”
“How’s the SSNX?”
“I canceled the christening ceremony so Stephens could get it lowered into the water. You better bet the press were mad about that—”
“Christening ceremony?”
“Yessir. To name it, remember? Admiral O’Shaughnessy’s orders came over on your Writepad? Naming the SSNX the USS Devilfish’ “Oh, yeah.” Donchez again, Pacino thought, feeling an ambivalence to the ship’s name, the memories of the first submarine by that name too painful. “So is it in the water? And loaded out with Mod Charlies and Mark 52s?”
“Captain Stephens called and said something about the SSNX security provisions being complete. Beyond that, he wouldn’t answer my questions.”
The two officers and Joanna walked to an idling staff car. The big black Lincoln utility truck lacked the usual fender flags, and the decals of the Unified Submarine Command had been removed, evidently to avoid the SNN and network news crews. Pacino got in the back right-side seat, Paully in the back left, Joanna riding shotgun.
“And Colleen O’Shaughnessy? What’s she doing in my office at oh-dark-thirty?”
“Wouldn’t say. You know her, if she doesn’t want to answer, she just stares you down with those huge brown eyes of hers.” Stoddard sounded almost catty, he thought.
“I think she got that from her old man.”
The Lincoln pulled away from the hangar and sped out Coral Sea Road to the west gate, not the normal way of getting to Pearl Harbor. They came in the Ewa Beach gate to the Pearl Harbor Naval Reservation, the driver waving and roaring past the gate that opened just in time, then closed behind them. The Lincoln raced to a pier where a waiting boat was tied up. As White and Pacino boarded the boat, the diesel exhaust brought back memories from his youth, at the academy when they’d driven the yard-patrol diesels. Two sailors brought their bags and briefcases and joined Joanna as the boat engine throttled up. The boat sailed out of the West Loch past the Waipio Peninsula to Pearl City Peninsula, where the new Unified Submarine Command West Headquarters building was located.
“Roundabout way to get to the office,” Pacino remarked to Joanna.
“You’re the man of the hour. Admiral,” she said, looking at him strangely. “They all want to know what your submarines are going to do to keep the backup RDF out of the drink.”
Pacino grimaced at her. “So do I. Come on, let’s get to work.”
A jeep at the peninsula pier took them the half mile to the USUBCOM building. The white three-story edifice looked like it had been built in the Hawaii of 1905, complete with columns and small windows, yet inside it was equipped with the latest technology. Pacino’s office had the only large window, looking out over the East Loch toward the submarine piers, now empty. The office had a feeling of tropical airiness, and on the light, knotty pine plank walls were framed photographs of nuclear submarines, old friends standing next to the sails of their subs, a picture of Pacino the day he took command of the Seawolf, a picture of Donchez standing by his ancient Piranha, and a photo yellow with age, of Anthony Pacino and his young son standing next to the sail of the Stingray.
Facing the window was a huge desk made of the timbers of the USS Bonhomme Richard, John Paul Jones’ ship from over two centuries before. The desk had two lamps and a dozen photographs of young Tony Pacino.
On one side of the desk was a black glass conference table used for videoconferences and meetings. On the other side was Pacino’s oak library table, where he did most of his work.
He threw his hat on the library table and sank into the chair, already thinking.
“Chart display,” he said, snapping his fingers. Paully White found the large electronic chart computer display and put it on the empty table. Pacino punched into the large menu and configured the display to show the East China Sea, then the sea between Hawaii and Japan. He studied it for some time, then looked up at Paully.
“I’m ready. Joanna, get the videoconference set up, then get with Emmitt Stephens and Colleen O’Shaughnessy.
Tell them they’ll be on next in about ten minutes. Then when we’re done with them, get Dick Livingston in here.”
Paully White and Pacino sat at the glass videoconference table and waited for the screen to come up.
“What are you going to do, boss?” White asked quietly as the presidential seal flashed on the large video widescreen.
“Just watch,” Pacino hissed. Warner’s face appeared, her eyes glazed and tired, her hair—for the first time in Pacino’s memory—not perfectly coiffed. Next to her was an equally tired-looking Dick O’Shaughnessy.
“Admiral,” Warner said, smiling. “Let’s get to it.
Have you thought about what we’re going to do with your submarines? And how to escort in the backup RDF? And will these Red submarines be penetrating the deep Pacific to get the RDF? And when will we be able to come ashore in White China?”
&nb
sp; She still didn’t understand, Pacino thought. If he was going to win this submarine war, he would need to control it all, including the timing, the surface force, the media, and the president herself.
“I’ve thought about all that, ma’am. And the answer is good. Madam President, I have a plan to clear the East China Sea of these Red submarines and get the backup RDF to shore with no losses. We can win this thing, ma’am. And I can make that happen for you.” “Okay,” Warner said, one eyebrow lifted. “And exactly how do you plan to do that?”
“Believe me. Madam President, Admiral O’Shaughnessy, the plan is solid. I’m sure you’ll find out just how solid when General Baldini comes ashore with every single man of the force behind him.”
Warner scowled, unused to having her questions evaded.
“Admiral Pacino, what is your plan?”
“My plan is to take full command of the U.S. Naval Force Pacific, including all elements—the. Unified Naval Air Command, the Unified Surface Naval Command, the Navforcepacfleet, including the backup Rapid Deployment Force. All force commanders will report to me, and I will have absolute authority over the entire operation.
General Baldini will be my subordinate until we reach a point twenty miles from the beach, at which point he will take tactical command from me with the exception of the submarine assets of the USUBCOM and the ships of the Navforcepacpleet, which will remain under my operational command.
“During the RDF’s transit to Chinese waters, all elements of the press will be ejected from the ships of the RDF and flown back to Hawaii. The press will be absolutely in the dark about the operation, and in fact Admiral Copenflager of the task force will have orders to send F-22 fighters aloft to intercept any aircraft of any nationality trying to see what the task force is doing, including aircraft chartered by the press. All such planes will be jammed and escorted to Hickam Air Force Base, where they will be impounded and the reporters detained until the end of the operation. If press planes fail to turn back, they will be fired upon.”
“Hold on right there, Admiral!” Warner was furious.
“What the hell are you talking about, firing on reporters, are you crazy?”
“Madam President, that’s my plan. I want orders in writing from you and Admiral O’Shaughnessy making me supreme commander-in-chief U.S. Pacific Military Forces, and I want it in twenty minutes. Then don’t plan on hearing anything for a while, a week, ten days. The next thing you’ll hear is a call from the Red Chinese ambassador begging your forgiveness.”
“Pacino!” O’Shaughnessy began to shout, but Warner put her hand on his gold-striped sleeve.
“Admiral, this is impossible, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to know your plan for your subs, and I want it now.” “No,” Pacino said.
“What?” A look of disbelief crossed her features.
“I said no,” he said calmly, sensing Paully White staring at him. “Either I’m Supreme Commander Pacific or I quit.”
“Admiral, there’s no way! You aren’t running anything except your subs. Now, get this idea out of your head and tell me right now what the subs are going to do to keep the force safe. I have a press conference in forty minutes.”
“Madam President?”
He had her complete attention, a look of understanding and even fear dawning on her face.
“Yes, Admiral?”
“I quit. Goodbye.” He hit the kill switch on the video console, and the widescreen winked out.
“Um, sir, what the hell did you just do?”
“You sound like Warner, Paully.”
“Admiral? Captain Stephens and Ms. O’Shaughnessy are ready,” Joanna said.
“Send them in. Ah, Emmit, Colleen.”
The two shipyard officials walked in. Pacino smiled and pointed at the table.
central ohio air force one Altitude: 38,000 feet
“Has he gone completely nuts?”
Admiral Richard O’Shaughnessy was still staring at the dark widescreen. He turned to face a president so angry as to be on the verge of losing control.
“No, ma’am,” he said slowly in his deep baritone voice. “I think I know what he’s concerned about.” He picked up a remote control and nicked the satellite-receiver console to life.
“… task force on the way to the East China Sea, where we’ve asked Commander Fred Duke to explain how the antisubmarine-warfare units of the task force work. Commander, you indicated that this task force has helicopters that can attack submarines. Will they be able to do the job against what would seem to be—”
O’Shaughnessy killed the tube.
“Pacino’s right. Whoever was out there in the East China Sea knew we were coming and what our tactical deployment was. He blew us away so easily because he knew exactly when and where we were coming. He knew the very mood of the task force commander, may he rest in peace.”
“What are you saying. Admiral? That the television news lost us the battle?”
“Not quite. Madam President. I think what I’m saying is that not listening to Admiral Pacino lost us the battle.
If we’d done what he wanted to do, we’d be ashore in White China now, or tomorrow, or Wednesday, with only the embarrassment of waiting.”
“Okay, and what would I have told the press?”
“That’s Pacino’s point, ma’am.” O’Shaughnessy laughed, the president shooting a look of fury at him. “You, Madam President, are a security risk.”
“What? Choose your words carefully, Admiral.”
“That’s just it. Madam President, you don’t. Your words go around the world. To White China, we say hold on, the cavalry’s coming. To Red China we say, get out, get out or die. Did I capture that accurately? And then two hundred news crews on the USS Webb tell the world what we’re doing out there. We should be ashamed of ourselves. And how many press conferences did we give, or that you gave, where you let various military cats out of their bags? Pacino’s right. The only way he can clean up the East China Sea is sneak in there while the Reds are kept guessing. Look over here a minute.”
O’Shaughnessy walked to a world globe placed on a small table. “Hawaii’s here, and White China’s here.
The East China Sea is the front yard to White China.
Now look at the great circle route between Pearl Harbor and Shanghai, or Tsingtao or Hong Kong. They all pass through the Ryukyu Island chain about here, give or take a few miles. For the Red forces, they don’t need to know exactly where we’re going, they just need to know when we’ll get there.
“Admiral Pacino has suggested a way to stop the information flow. You’re a politician, you’ve proved yourself to him, and he’s volunteered to take this off your shoulders. He did a great job in Japan. Trust him now.
He’ll do this right, ma’am, if you’ll just let him.”
For a long time Warner didn’t look at him, just kept her back to him. Finally she spoke, and when she did, her voice trembled.
“Admiral? You’re fired. Get out of my conference room.”
Colleen O’Shaughnessy walked into his office as if she owned it.
It was just after five in the morning, and the sun had yet to rise above the shimmering water of the East Loch.
She wore jeans and a simple white blouse under a black blazer, her shoes fashionable black combat-style boots.
Around her throat was a thin gold chain. Her jet black, gleaming hair fell just below her shoulders, her bangs cut just at eyebrow level, bringing out her eyes, which were the biggest Pacino could ever remember seeing.
She sat opposite him with her back to the video screen. On her right sat Emmitt Stephens, the man responsible for the construction of the SSNX. He found Stephens looking at him oddly, then realized Stephens had asked him a question and he hadn’t heard it because he was still staring at Colleen.
“What?” “I said the news is good and bad. Good news first.”
Stephens went through the notes he’d written on his Writepad computer. “SSNX hull and
mechanical systems are ready for sea trials. The reactor is certified, all tests complete with the exception of initial criticality and pierside steaming. All weapons are loaded, but what you wanted with war-shot torpedoes and Vortex Mod Charlies, well, I don’t want to know. Now for the bad news.
I’ll leave that to Colleen. If you’ll excuse me. Admiral, I’ve got a lot to do.”
“Listen, Emmitt, I want you to do something. Start the reactor and bring it to the power range, then bring steam into the engine room and put the electric plant in a normal full-power lineup.”
“Sir, Admiral, are you… sir, you can’t just do that.
This isn’t an operational ship. The initial criticality is monitored by the Naval Reactors people. And it’ll take weeks to get a new reactor even close to the power range. It’s not safe.”
“Emmittt. Reactor. Critical. Now.”
Pacino and Stephens had worked together for years, and the engineering duty officer had never been comfortable with Pacino’s insistent pushing. He had gotten Seawolf out of the dock in four days when the work should have taken three weeks, then done it again for the Seawolf-class ship Piranha when it had had the Mod Bravo Vortex missiles attached. When Pacino wanted a ship, Stephens had always jumped, but it was unheard of to treat initial criticality like a normal startup. The reactor could come screaming out of the nonvisible range with enough reactivity that they wouldn’t be able to control it. A Russian submarine in Vladivostok shipyard had suffered such an incident on a restart after a core replacement, and if not for the Russian-designed double hull, the entire city of Vladivostok would have had to be evacuated.
Pacino looked imploringly into Stephens’ eyes, his hands out in an unconscious imitation of Admiral O’Shaughnessy. “Emmiitt, you’re the only one who can do this. The SSNX is your baby, you built it with your own two hands. Don’t let it be a white elephant, useless in its moment of need. There are about a billion men, women, and children in White China counting on you right now. If we delay a single minute, that’s another minute that the Reds hold the East China Sea. Can you do this, can you get it going?”
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