Piranha: Firing Point mp-5

by Michael Dimercurio

  “Since you were so right last time, this time there is one thing I want to know.” She looked at him, her blue eyes wide, her smile encouraging. “And that is, will this fleet be safe in the East China Sea? Can your two escort submarines keep them out of trouble? From any Red diesel subs, or mobile mines, or robot mines, or manned minisubs, or any other threats that the Reds may have? Are we doing the right thing here? If we’re putting our force in jeopardy, to hell with what I said to the press, I’ll backpedal like crazy if you tell me to. Is the fleet safe? You spoke up last time, and I should have listened. Now, please speak your mind, I guarantee I’ll listen.”

  So will the rest of the room, he thought.

  What did Pacino’s gut tell him? Daniels had proved to him that six Rising Sun submarines had sunk — say, disappeared. The Reds had jumped over the line into White China. They had done so without fear of reinforcements from the East China Sea. A senile old man had said that Pacino would be up against Red subs. For all Pacino really knew, Donchez might have been telling him he’d be standing against the red anti-barnacle paint of his own SSNX. But he was being too cerebral, he told himself. The real question was, What did his gut say?

  “Madam President,” Pacino heard himself saying, his voice miraculously level and deep. “I would never presume to come into this group and think out loud. I would very much like to issue an opinion in two sentences that everyone here nods at, and you send me on my way. But before I give you my opinion, I just want to say a few things first.”

  He had their complete attention. Daniels had raised an eyebrow. O’Shaughnessy had gone into his zombie stare. Baldini frowned, as did Lido Gaz, lines furrowing into his forehead. Pinkenson smiled encouragingly, though the smile was strained. National Security Adviser Cogster was leaning far back in his couch seat, his hands behind his head, his eyes half shut behind the wire-framed glasses.

  “As a submarine admiral, I have some concerns about the East China Sea.”

  “Now you tell us,” Gaz spat, only half under his breath.

  “Madam President, gentlemen, this invasion was sudden. I know you stationed the RDF over in Yokosuka for just this contingency, Madam President, and I agreed with your decision to do that. I also fully support the speech you gave today. But, gentlemen, we need to recognize the risks. And one thing we’re risking is a submarine attack in the East China Sea.”

  “What?” Cogster sputtered. “What the hell you talking about?”

  Baldini joined in, peeved. “Pacino, what is this?”

  “Admiral,” Lido Gaz said slowly, drawing out the first syllable, “do I understand you to say there are enemy submarines in the East China Sea?”

  “I said we are taking risks,” Pacino continued, iron in his voice. “I didn’t say those risks were unjustified. But I have to tell everyone in this room, I’m worried about something. Number one, eleven days ago six frontline Japanese attack submarines disappeared.”

  “Sank, you mean,” Cogster said.

  “Did they?” Pacino shot back. “No emergency buoys, no black-box transmissions?” He was out on a limb, he knew, but Cogster had gotten his blood up.

  “Let’s ask Chris Osgood what he thinks of that statement,” Gaz said in his peculiar lisping manner.

  The CIA chief looked up, sitting straight. He shot a look at Pacino, and Pacino was sure there was an almost imperceptible nod behind it. Osgood put on reading glasses, half frames like O’Shaughnessy’s, and read through his Writepad. “Admiral Pacino is correct. There were no black-box buoys found at the wreckage sites. And no black-box transmissions recovered at NSA.”

  “Well, okay,” Gaz said slowly, doubtingly, “I guess if you say that, Chris, we’ll all just have to accept it.”

  “Is that true, as far as NSA knows?” Cogster said, shooting a glance at Daniels.

  “We didn’t get anything from any transmitter at the Pacific wreckage sites,” Jack Daniels said, addressing Warner, turning to Osgood and Gaz.

  An odd thought occurred to Pacino. “Any salvage vessels at the wreckage sites?”

  Osgood nodded, looking down at his Writepad. “Matter of fact, quite a few,” he said.

  “Anything that can haul up a sub hull?” Pacino asked.

  “Only one. Two ships went out there, each one with a surveillance minisub, robot operated. The salvage ship that can haul up floor debris jumped around from site to site. We never saw them bring up anything, but then we weren’t watching them carefully. We figured any information on this would come through more official channels. Your contact at the MSDF, Tanaka, did you speak with him. Admiral?”

  “Not yet,” Pacino said, hating the way his priorities could become crystal clear in hindsight, yet so murky in real time.

  “Please,” Gaz said in disgust. “Those subs sank. What are you saying. Admiral, that six captains faked their deaths so that they could link up with their revolutionary comrades in the Red PLA? Like my grandmother used to say, ‘Maybe so, sonny, but I kinda fuckin’ doubt it.’”

  “Worry number two,” Pacino drove on, fighting for his credibility, “we’ve never secured the East China Sea, not the first sonar surveillance, not the first SSN patrol.”

  O’Shaughnessy sat up straight, his face forming into lines of thought, the zombie look dissolving.

  “If there is anything there, from whatever source, we’d best get on it now. Get the Seahawks and the Blackboards and the Pegasus planes out over the water now and get the dipping sonars wet, get some sonobuoys out there. And for God’s sake, get the Annapolis and the Santa Fe, the 6881’s attached to the fleet, out ahead of the carriers and scour the lane from Japan to Shanghai, clean it completely up. And one other thing, let’s get the fleet on a random antisubmarine warfare zigzag pattern immediately. It’s damned hard to shoot at a serpentine target, especially if the zigs come randomly. And let’s form the fleet into an antisubmarine formation, destroyers and frigates in front, troop ships spread out, high-value aircraft carrier targets — I mean, ships — coming in three separate task forces, far apart, each carrier surrounded by its close-in-radius destroyers with a roving destroyer-frigate force combing the waters ahead. And finally, if Shanghai is the target, let’s set up a feint for someplace else, Tsingtao or Lian-yung-ang, and then zig our way to Shanghai.”

  Pacino looked at the faces in the room. For a moment he was about to launch into a speech about Dick Donchez’s premonition, or vision, or hard intelligence, about Red subs, when Gaz asked him straight out: “Admiral, does your excessive caution here have anything, anything at all to do with Dick Donchez?”

  Pacino glared at Gaz, trying not to blink. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see O’Shaughnessy’s head looking downward, slowly shaking from side to side.

  “No,” Pacino said. “I hadn’t spoken to Dick in weeks, maybe months. When I got to the hospital, he was in a coma. He died within hours.” He felt like he’d just betrayed his own blood, his ear almost waiting to hear a rooster crow three times. Uneasy, he decided to press Gaz in return, to see what was going on. “Why? What’s the deal with Dick Donchez? Why did you ask me that, Mr. Secretary?”

  Gaz waved the question away, as if it were insignificant, yet he was flustered.

  “Admiral, we all know how you felt about Director Donchez,” Warner said to him, her face serious, looking him in the eyes. “Toward the end he was saying some odd things, some, well, quite frankly, some very wild things.” Pacino shot a look at Daniels, whose eyes were on the rug. “And he was convinced that the Red Chinese had plans afoot to obtain submarines.” She looked at Pacino even harder.

  “Madam President, I appreciate your concern.” He was about to mention that he’d only been briefed on the Japanese subs that very day, but decided that, as John Paul Jones had said, discretion was the better part of valor, and said instead, “I don’t have anything from Donchez on this. I’d have to ask Director Daniels his opinion on this subject. He was closer to Donchez than anybody here.”

  The focus of t
he room immediately turned from Pacino to Daniels, as if in the lions’ den he’d thrown a raw T-bone steak at the young NSA director. Warner stood and walked around the back of O’Shaughnessy’s and Baldini’s couch to Daniel’s chair.

  “Well, Jack?” she asked. “What’s your report?”

  “Well, Madam President, at NSA we’re running a code-breaking shop, not a naval intelligence task force. We were busy intercepting the Japanese comms coming down on the loss of the Rising Suns and the Red Chinese as they mobilized. I never saw Donchez discuss this or give any evidence. And frankly, Dick was busy himself.”

  “Doing what?” Warner asked.

  “Dying,” the outspoken agency chief shot back.

  Warner sighed, walking back to the fireplace. “Admiral Pacino, your advice on taking cautions with the fleet is duly noted. And we sincerely appreciate your input I assume you’ll be returning to Norfolk now?”

  “No, ma’am, I’ve got work in Peari Harbor.” He didn’t feel like mentioning the SSNX, a sore subject with the president.

  “Have you got a ride?” she asked, gesturing with her chin toward the window. Snow had begun falling, driven by a slight wind, the flakes large in the gable’s spotlights.

  “Staff plane’s at Jackson Airport,” he said, looking at her, standing up and buttoning his service dress blue jacket.

  “Well, then, good luck. Admiral. Thanks again.” With that she came over to him. He tensed for a moment unsure of what was going on. Over a head shorter than him, she put her arms around him, hugging him slightly, and gave him a brush on his cheek with her lips, the gesture a sister would give him.

  He felt the heat on his face, sure he was blushing, as he turned to the room, nodding to Warner and his Pentagon bosses. “Madam President, Mr. Secretary, Generals, Admiral.” He spun on his heel and followed the staff woman quickly down the log stairs, exhaling in relief as he hit the bottom step.

  * * *

  The Land Rover Warner had lent Pacino spun its wheels, finally digging into the fresh, powdered snow and bouncing down the road leading to Route 390.

  Pacino had changed into working khakis, wearing an arctic parka over the light uniform. While he had been changing, back in the room, Paully had given him a sardonic look.

  “You been kissing the Secret Service girl?”

  “What?”

  “Your cheek? Lipstick? Honestly, I leave you alone for a half hour, and look what trouble you get into—”

  “Shut up,” Pacino said, grinning. Wiping off Warner’s mark, he felt an odd guilt that he was finding humor in what had been the bleakest period of his life since his divorce. Something came back to him, something one of his submarine skippers, Bruce Phillips, had said to sonarman Gambini, the one who’d lost his wife — he’d said, “don’t feel bad about feeling good.” A seemingly obvious comment, but perhaps only those who’d lost a close loved one knew how tough it was to do just that.

  Yet perhaps that was the meaning of the dream he’d had, at least what he could remember of it, that he should do whatever he could to move on, and the past would forgive him for moving on.

  It would be just Pacino and White on this flight, Paully having sent Cressman back east with a Writepad full of instructions for Admiral Kane. As the Land Rover arrived at Jackson Airport, the wind was blowing the quarter-sized snowflakes at a gentle angle. The SS-12 could be seen behind the small general aviation building. Pacino directed the driver to pull up to it. The lights inside were a warm gold color, viewed in the darkness. As the Land Rover screeched to a halt, the hatch forward of the swept wing opened, a ladder extending downward to the snow. Pacino ran up and in, greeting the pilot, spinning his finger in a “start-engines” whirl Paully had barely shut the hatch behind them when the turbines came up in a moan, then a shriek.

  “You know the airport’s closed, right, sir? The weather’s not good enough to take off. Admiral,” the pilot called back. He was well versed in the admiral’s disregard for most civil aviation weather restrictions.

  “Of course it isn’t — because we’re in a hurry. Now, get this damned thing in the sky before it gets any worse.”

  “If the FAA comes, it’s your ticket.”

  “Haven’t paid those guys yet.”

  The jet arrived at the end of the runway. The snow had been cleared off an hour before, leaving plenty of time for more snow to accumulate and drift from the wind. The pilot throttled up slowly, allowing the plane to accelerate gently on the slick surface, then, as the midpoint of the runway approached, he gunned it. After a tense moment of bouncing down the snowy runway, the supersonic transport rocketed skyward, engines howling.

  Pacino took off his arctic parka and threw it on one of the seats up front, then burrowed into his seat. He turned on his Writepad, deciding to see the latest upload from Satellite News Network on the Chinese Civil War.

  As he flashed through the magazine-style articles, the unit began to flash — urgent E-mail coming in.

  He looked at his Rolex. The last thing he felt like doing after that hairy meeting at the Western White House was work, but he decided he might as well get the E-mail out of the way. After meeting Jack Daniels and getting confronted with his lack of attention to routine administration, Pacino had cleared his entire electronic desk off on O’Shaughnessy’s 777, so this would be the only E-mail. As he opened up the system, he saw it was top-secret release 24, the highest Pacino’s system could accept. He went through the software, validating his identity, even putting his thumb on the scanning sector so that he could make sure he was Michael A. Pacino before it downloaded.

  He read the summary line, listing the date and time of transmission, the classification, the subject, and the sender. He looked at the summary, blinking in astonishment The line read:

  Date: 4 Nov

  Time: 0505Z

  Classification Subject ____ TS Release 24 [Classified]

  Sender: R. Donchez

  A message from a dead man? Pacino felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

  TETON VILLAGE

  PRESIDENTIAL COMPOUND

  She stood at the window and looked at the black Land Rover that drove Admiral Michael Pacino back to his staff plane. Now her RDF had set sail for White China, and her mind whirled with all the policy meetings she’d had in the week before, as Red China mobilized, and how they had been filled with guessing and unanswered questions, with the wild speculation of NSA Director Donchez before his collapse in his office last week, and with Lido Gaz’s exasperation with the idea of Red Chinese submarines in the East China Sea.

  In Warner’s customary attempt to flush out the opinions of her cabinet, she went around the room. The results were predictable. Al Meckstar, the easygoing VP, voted with Pacino, remembering for the room the devastation last time after the loss of the surface battle fleet to the Japanese. Lido Gaz was disgusted. He insisted the fleet hit the beach after all his work to get it underway fast, and then accused Pacino of failing to finish the SSNX, embarrassing the administration. General Pinkenson, consummate politician, chose a middle ground, suggesting the Japan-based aircraft deploy while the fleet steamed on. O’Shaughnessy voted with Pacino, enraging Gaz, who had to be canned by Warner. Finally Chris Osgood, CIA director, weighed in, gently disagreeing with O’Shaughnessy and voting for the present timeline.

  Blowtorch Cogster, the National Security Adviser, attacked Pacino personally, calling his mental clarity into question. Finally she turned to the Secretary of State.

  “And so now it comes to you, Secretary Masters.”

  Masters drew himself up in his seat, puffed out his chest, and stuck his lower lip out.

  “Madam, if you want my opinion, you’ll just have to hear it in private. I’m not rendering it here.”

  Warner looked at him, one of the most levelheaded, intelligent, and clear-thinking cabinet members she had ever had, but also one of the most pugnacious, far outdoing Gaz on that score. She knew better than to order him to speak — he’d resigned on her too many time
s for her to do that now. And she needed his opinion. Besides, it was late, far after midnight, and she needed to make a decision.

  “We’ll recess again,” she said to the room. “Secretary Masters, please stay. Everyone else, please leave the room, but don’t leave the building and don’t fall asleep. I’ll reconvene this meeting soon.”

  The men filed from the room. When they had gone, talking amongst themselves, Masters’ expression softened. He joined her at the coffeepot, putting his hand on her shoulder in a fatherly gesture.

  “How you holding up, Jaisal? You okay? Anything I can do?”

  She put her hand on his, grateful for the support, feeling all the stress and pressure hit her at once. What she wouldn’t give for a real skiing vacation, not one of these winter nightmares.

  “I’m fine, Freddy. Thanks. Now give it to me straight. What the hell do we do?”

  “You mean, what are you gonna do? Because after I give you this advice I’ll deny I said anything. Seriously, though, you don’t have time for all this submarine nonsense. You gotta go straight on till morning. None of this zigzag stuff. Just keep plowing.”

  “What about the airborne patrols?”

  Masters sighed. “If we do all that flying around with antisubmarine planes, those sharp-cookie Pentagon correspondents will shout to the world that we’re flapping about enemy subs. It’s a loser.”

  “And what about the fleet formation?”

  “We’re showing the flag here. Half the reason SNN is onboard the Webb is that they’re unwittingly campaigning for us. We need a background with cruisers and destroyers and all seventy troop transports. We need to look good out there. You ever think about why they used to have parades, showing the troops? Check out your history. Back in the days when the infantryman was the ultimate weapon, countries thought that if they paraded their soldiers with guns, other countries would count the men and say, whoa, too much, we ain’t messing with them. Well, this is a parade, except we’re doing it at sea. We need to march across that East China Sea like it’s a parade ground. We’re the cavalry, so we gotta ride high in the saddle with flags flying, guns blazing.”