In three motions of Demeers’ hands a hunk of limp rubber appeared on the waves with them. Demeers pulled the COZ bottle and the life raft inflated. Patton was exhausted, giving in to shock. He barely remembered being pulled into the raft by the senior chief. Then he was lying on his back, his left forearm throbbing and swelling, nausea threatening but nothing but dry heaves shaking his body.
“Is it just me,” he croaked, “or were we, just four minutes ago, aboard the Annapolis steaming southeast at emergency flank?”
“We were. Skipper. And now we’re all that’s left.”
Demeers’ face took on a grim look. He frowned deeper as be pulled the pin on the emergency satellite radio, a device resembling a grenade, that would broadcast their distress signal to the overhead Comstar satellite.
“There were 134 men aboard. Senior. One hundred thirty-two of them just died. And so did my ship. What the hell happened?”
“Had to be a torpedo,” Demeers said.
“Well, hello,” Patton said, sitting bolt upright. He’d noticed a periscope close enough to swim to in ten strokes. “I think you’re right, Byron. Look.”
Demeers’ eyes bulged out, his face turning red.
Patton glared at the periscope, the design of it strange-looking, and without thinking, he nipped it his middle finger. “Fuck you,” he muttered.
As quickly as it had come, the periscope vanished, sinking vertically into the water.
“Did I imagine that?” he said, dizziness starting to overtake him.
“No, sir. I saw it too. I’d like to kill that murdering bastard with my own two hands.”
Patton didn’t hear him. Darkness had come to claim him at last.
* * *
The crew of the American submarine named Santa Fe heard the torpedo coming and turned to run. The ship’s superior speed slowly opened the distance, but the vessel was unable to overcome the effects of the plasma detonation within five kilometers, and the ship’s hull ruptured.
The Santa Fe’s men, all 138 of them, died not from fires or smoke inhalation, but from a hull fracture that opened up the entire forward compartment at test depth. The water poured in with such force that it separated flesh from bone, turning muscle and organs to liquid that mixed instantly with the seawater, and they were no more.
The hull of the Santa Fe came to rest eleven kilometers from the position of what had once been the Annapolis, and when it did, what had once been the most powerful naval force in the history of the planet ceased to exist with barely a sign left on the surface of its passing.
* * *
Not far from the ocean bottom that had become a field of debris. Admiral Chu Hua-Feng, PLA Navy, climbed out of his cramped command-console cockpit and limped to his bunk in the captain’s stateroom. His muscles were aching and tired as he lay down to sleep.
When he closed his eyes, the faces of the doomed men in the life raft were staring back at him, the angry black-haired man raising his middle finger again and again.
Chapter 9
Monday November 4
BARBERS POINT NAVAL AIR STATION
OAHU, HAWAII
The SS-12 cabin was heavily soundproofed, yet the sounds of the flaps and slats could be heard whining as their mechanisms lowered them into the slipstream of the airflow around the supersonic jet, making its final approach to runway zero four, illuminated by bright white lights in the predawn darkness. None of this registered with the admiral, sunk in deep concentration.
“Time’s our enemy,” Pacino said. “If the backup rapid deployment force leaves now, it’ll take them five days and six hours to get to the East China Sea. That’s dawn on Sunday the tenth, local time. The Pacific Submarine Force we sent yesterday, at emergency flank, arrives late Friday the eighth. That leaves thirty hours to try to scour the East China Sea before the BU-RDF arrives. It’s not enough.”
“We’ve got to think long and hard about the 688s,” White said. “Still no word.”
“How long has it been since the second ELF call to periscope depth?”
“Ninety minutes, sir. We should have heard an hour ago one way or the other. I think we may have to presume the Annapolis and the Santa Fe are unable to hear our radio call.”
Pacino felt a black feeling. He knew that the 688’s radio receivers or transmitters weren’t the problem. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. Annapolis and Santa Fe were gone. And with them at the bottom of the ocean were his two handpicked, personally trained commanding officers, Chris Carnage and John Patton.
He bit his lip. The war had suddenly become personal.
With those officers almost three hundred highly trained crewmen of Pacino’s Unified Submarine Command were gone. He felt an anger rise in him like none he’d experienced in years, perhaps exceeded only by the day Dick Donchez had told him his father had been murdered. And now these men, his sons, had died at the hands of a rogue submarine commander, and that commander and his men were still lurking in the East China Sea, mocking him.
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?”
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.”
Piranha: Firing Point mp-5 Page 26