Piranha: Firing Point mp-5

by Michael Dimercurio

  Admiral Pacino-san, here you will find all the data I have been able to accumulate on the class of the Rising Sun. Regrettably the noise signature is a mystery even to me, as the sea trials tests were designed to find out exactly how detectable the Rising Suns are, but with this data you will at least know what you are up against.

  Best luck to you, Admiral, and with full wishes of your quick prevailing, I remain your servant, Akagi Tanaka.

  “Paully, put the data disks of the Rising Sun into the computer. I want to assign one of our officers to analyze it. But it would be nice if we had that decided by now. We need to go over the crew manifest.” Pacino checked his watch. “What’s taking the diesel so long?”

  “Emmit will get it going. Besides, aren’t you waiting for Captain Patton?”

  “Hell, no. I’ll put him on a speed cruiser to catch up to us.”

  “Wouldn’t a helicopter be better?” Paully asked. “He could grab a Sea King chopper right from Hickam Air Force Base and be here in a half hour.”

  “No. Don’t forget we’re a garbage scow. Someone lowered to a trash barge from a chopper would raise news reporter eyebrows.”

  “I keep forgetting.”

  Just then the ship’s emergency diesel roared to life, loud even though it was located a hundred feet aft, two compartments away.

  “I’d rather breath diesel fumes than this garbage stink,” Pacino said. “Let’s see what’s going on with Bruce Phillips.”

  “I’ll call the Piranha to periscope depth.”

  From the files that Admiral Livingston had downloaded to his Writepad computer, Pacino went over the list of officers for the prospective crew. There was Lieutenant Commander Christopher Porter, academy grad, top of his nuke school and sub school classes. Navy diver, sport sky diver, single, ex-sonar officer of the Barracuda when Pacino had been aboard during the blockade, now at shore duty in San Diego, in Honolulu on vacation, put under arrest a half hour before, the young girl in the hotel room left to wonder what was going on, but security too tight to tell her what was up. Porter would make a good officer, and he knew sonar. Pacino made his decision — Porter would be the ship’s navigator and operations officer. He’d also be charged with studying the Rising Sun and determining how to attack it.

  Next on the list. Commander Walt Hornick, ex-chief engineer of Bruce Phillips’ USS Piranha, assigned in the normal course of duty rotation to teach at the nuclear-power school in Groton when the Reds had begun mobilizing, he’d been given temporary orders to attend an urgent training class. The school at the Pearl Harbor Training Facility was a sham, of course, and he’d been awakened at four in the morning on Saturday and taken to the SSNX. He’d gotten the hull lowered into the water and placed under the garbage-carrying barge. Hornick now waited in the wardroom with the others, mystified that he’d been shanghaied for the purpose of getting out of its dock a new construction sub that had never been to sea. Pacino dictated the words “executive officer” to the computer, and the words appeared below Hornick’s photograph.

  The chief engineer slot was occupied by Emmitt Stephens, even though he wasn’t an officer of the line. That left the junior officers. The file opened up to a dozen photos, all of the officers waiting down below. It occurred to him that this was a job for the ship’s executive officer, and he buzzed the wardroom. A tentative voice answered.

  “Send Commander Hornick to the VIP stateroom,” Pacino said.

  Paully came in just then. “Piranha’s up on the videoconference, Admiral. Are you ready?”

  No, Pacino thought, but I’ll fake it. After all, that’s what fleet command is all about — faking it and making it look planned.

  USS PIRANHA, SSN-23

  He felt better with fresh coveralls on, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him on the conference table, the stateroom tidied up by his steward while he was in the shower.

  Captain Bruce Phillips sipped from a mug with the emblem of the Piranha, a scaly, snarling sharp-toothed fish staring out, the hull of the Seawolf-class submarine behind it. The legend above read USS PIRANHA SSN-23, and the ship’s motto below, DEEP — SILENT — FAST — DEADLY.

  On his starched collars were two silver eagle pins, the emblems of his rank. Above his left breast pocket his gold dolphin pin gleamed in the spotlights rigged for the videoconference.

  Seated next to Phillips was Roger Whatney. His British executive officer was wearing an olive drab sweater with soft shoulder boards on his epaulets, the boards showing two broad gold stripes with a narrow stripe between them, one of the stripes making a loop-the-loop.

  The XO had short hair and a fuzzy mustache, not to mention a dry sense of humor and a mind like a razor blade.

  “Good morning. Admiral,” Phillips said crisply.

  “Bruce, it’s good to talk to you,” Pacino said. “You too. Commander Whatney. I know you’re both in a hurry to get to the operation area, so I’ll get right to it. Geography lesson first. On the left half of your screen you should be seeing a chart display of the East China Sea. To the east you’ll see the eastern border of the East China Sea, the Ryukyu Island chain. To the north in the chain is the island of Yakushima, just off Kagoshima, Japan. There’s a substantial gap in the islands from there south to the island of Naze. To the east of the Nazeyakushima Gap is the Point Delta Hold Position, which is on the great circle route to Shanghai from Honolulu. Southwest by a hundred miles is the Point Echo Hold Position, which is our destination. Farther south by fifty nautical miles is the Point Foxtrot Hold Position.”

  “I have the surface force making a serpentine course toward the Point Delta Hold Position at the north end of the island chain. They will orbit there until the East China Sea is clear. Once we’ve cleaned up the op area, the fleet goes in, straight shot to the Shanghai beach.”

  “Next, how we clean up the op area. Zero hour is midnight Friday evening Beijing time, four days from now. I’m proposing you come into the op area northwest from Point Echo. That’s just on the south part of the Naze-Yakushima Gap, just a little south of where the initial RDF task force went down. I’m not sure if you’ve briefed your crew on the Red force, but we have reason to believe it consists of six Japanese Rising Sun-class subs, all of them hijacked at sea by some kind of fast submersible. Which means I want you to rig for non-penetration, Bruce. Put chains and locks around your escape-trunk upper and lower hatches. I don’t want you guys being hijacked like the Rising Suns were.”

  “Anyway, you’ll penetrate at Point Echo and search for the Rising Suns. The 688s will be entering far to the south, from Point Foxtrot, heading north. This is the tough part of the plan, Bruce, because we have reason to believe the 688s are at a severe disadvantage. So I have something special in mind for them.”

  Pacino continued for another fifteen minutes, then called for questions. When there were none, he closed, saying that he’d transmit the official hard copy of the orders, and that they would soon be back in touch as he and the SSNX got closer to the op area. Then, without fanfare, he clicked off.

  Phillips hoisted a phone to his ear and ordered the ship to return to base depth, course, and speed. As he hung up the phone, he shot Whatney a look.

  “Roger, what the hell is going on? East China Sea? Rising Suns? Locking the escape hatches? The goddamned SSNX?”

  Whatney had the grace not to smile. “You missed a lot. Skipper. I took the liberty of compiling some hard copies of messages and a video disk of the news reports for you to brief yourself on. You’ve been pretty sick, sir. Maybe you’d better go back to bed.”

  “The hell,” Phillips said, now intrigued, and glad to have something that would take his mind off Abby. “I’m going to curl up with this for an hour. Then meet me in here and let’s go over this.”

  Whatney left, and Phillips began to read. On the bulkhead clicked the second hand of an old-fashioned brass chronometer. He’d been reading for twenty minutes when he noticed that his headache was gone.

  * * *

  “Sir, the ship
is divorced from shore power. The diesel is carrying all ship’s loads.” At the door to the VIP stateroom, Walt Hornick was holding his hat in both hands looking like a supplicant.

  “Ship’s company embarked?” Pacino asked.

  “No, sir, we’re missing the captain and the Dynacorp Cyclops system representative.”

  “O’Shaughnessy?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Well, what are you doing about it?”

  “Sir, we were going to send a car for her, but—”

  “Oh, stop worrying, you two,” a sultry female voice said from the passageway. The door opened and Colleen O’Shaughnessy appeared. She wore a set of perfectly fitting, creased and starched ship’s coveralls, complete with American flag and the ship’s emblem patches, her name embroidered over one of the pockets. The built-in belt narrowed at her slim waist, the material generous at her curving hips and at her ample chest. Her dark, shining hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her sleeves rolled up two turns, revealing thin forearms and a large man’s watch strapped to her left wrist. Pacino knew he was staring at her, but couldn’t help himself. The uniform was hardly something that should look good on a woman, yet Colleen looked stunning in it, and he completely forgot what he was going to say.

  Fortunately, Paully broke the spell. “That just leaves Captain Patton. I guess we should be shoving off now, Admiral.”

  “Right, right,” Pacino said, finding his voice, blinking at Paully. “Colleen, did you get your stateroom?”

  “Yes, Admiral, I’m hanging out in the exec’s stateroom. Where are you putting him?”

  “Everybody moves down a slot except the captain,” Pacino said, the strangest tight feeling invading his chest. We’re undermanned, so it won’t cause any crowding.”

  “I’ll be below in the computer spaces,” O’Shaughnessy said, looking around the room. “Nice digs. I don’t have much time to waste. But even though we’re on a stinking garbage scow, don’t forget to call me for dinner.”

  She turned on her sneaker-clad heel and disappeared.

  Pacino found Paully White, for perhaps the tenth time that day, watching him.

  “What the hell was that all about?” White stammered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you two staring at each other like that. I feel like I’m watching a couple sixteen-year-olds.”

  “Excuse me? What the hell are you talking about?”

  White sighed. “Nothing, sir. I’m going to the control room. I think your boy Hornick needs help getting this thing to sea. He comes off as somewhat by-the-book.”

  “Good idea,” Pacino said, returning to his charts.

  “You know, Admiral, maybe it’s time you moved on. You know, saw some women socially, dated.”

  “Paully!”

  “Sorry.” The door shut, leaving Pacino alone and confused.

  EAST CHINA SEA

  50 KILOMETERS WEST OF THE NAZE-YAKUSHIMA GAP

  SS-403 ARCTIC STORM

  Admiral Chu Hua-Feng sat in the end seat of the officers’ messroom table and watched the widescreen television with his officers. Cigarette smoke wafted to the ceiling from several ashtrays.

  “… the first fall day of the news blackout. Since her announcement at noon eastern time the president has been unavailable for comment. Our Pentagon correspondent, Diane Shaw, has this report from the War Department. Diane?”

  “Roland, the War Department seems to have issued some incredibly strict gag orders to virtually every officer, enlisted man, and civilian employee here, as the press has been unable to get statements from anyone. We have seen quite a bit of coming and going as the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the Chief of Naval Operations, along with the Secretary of War, have left for the White House and then returned, although within the last hour they have left again. But despite all this shuttling back and forth, there remains no word. Back to you, Roland. This is Diane Shaw, reporting for SNN World News.”

  “Thank you, Diane. Back in our Denver news center we’ve got Annette Spalding, the senior SNN war correspondent who was embarked onboard the USS Douglas MacArthur just after it sailed from Hawaii. Annette, what can you tell us about the forcible ejection of the press corps from the backup RDF task force?”

  “Well, Roland, it was quite arbitrary and almost chilling the way we were treated, marched up to the deck in blindfolds, our cameras confiscated. Then we were literally thrown into the inside of a Navy plane with blacked-out windows. The—”

  Chu shut the widescreen off. “It’s been like this for hours, gentlemen,” he said. “Mr. First, what do you make of it?”

  “Not much, sir. I think our main source of intelligence has just dried up.”

  “We still have the spy-satellite photographs. We’ll be able to track the second-wave task force with those.”

  Lo Sun shrugged. “Photos don’t show intentions. We couldn’t have had it any better in the past. But with this blackout, who knows what’s going on? And it’s not just the task force, sir. Our information about the conduct of the war on the mainland has died out too. It’s not like our people broadcast anything except propaganda. I know, it’s incorrect of me to say that, but if you want truth, you watch SNN.”

  “No need to apologize, Mr. First. I agree with you. At least time is on our side. It will take the task force some time to get here.”

  Chu stared at the muted television screen, wondering when and from where the task force was coming. How should he deploy the fleet? What if they came in from the south? And how long could he hold this force off?

  They were down on their torpedoes, and if one of the low-load subs was caught, how long could it fight?

  For the first time in the operation he felt a wave of anxiety. He left the messroom and walked slowly up the steep stairs to his stateroom, remembering once again the dream about his father. He crashed into his bunk for a nap, to contemplate this new turn of events.

  HICKAM AIR FORCE BASE

  OAHU, HAWAII

  The runway seemed to approach slowly. Almost imperceptibly the wheels of the landing gear made contact with the concrete surface of the runway. The jet coasted down the strip, the pilot gently applying reverse thrust, then braking until the blur of the runway became focused.

  The pilot taxied off the strip, throttling up to take the heavy jet over to the hangars on the military side of the airport.

  Patton checked his watch: a few minutes past eight in the morning. It felt like they’d been flying all night. Inside the hangar, the canopy lifted slowly, and the moist Hawaiian air filled the cockpit. Patton climbed out, his muscles aching. At the sound of another jet landing off to the east, he looked up and watched as another Navy F-22 left the runway and taxied toward them. As he stood there, his helmet under his arm, a ladder was wheeled to the opening canopy of the other jet’s cockpit.

  The backseater stood and lowered himself down the ladder and removed his helmet. Patton blinked — it was Byron Demeers.

  “What are you doing here?” Patton asked.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Sirs, the staff car is waiting,” Patton’s pilot said. He thanked the young lieutenant, handed back the flight helmet, and climbed into the car. Soon they were speeding along an empty road. They passed several guarded checkpoints to a small pier head, where the car screeched to a halt.

  A female civilian was waiting for them and she pointed to the boat tied up at the small pier.

  “Where are we going?” Patton asked. The woman just looked at him, motioning to the boat. He shook his head and climbed in after Demeers.

  The boat bounced over the water in the East Lock, past Ford Island, out to the main channel and into the Pacific. Patton raised an eyebrow at Demeers, who just shrugged.

  The boat ride seemed to last forever, but was perhaps only an hour long. By the time the coxswain throttled down, Patton’s back was aching from the pounding of the waves. He stood, joining the coxswain on the helm platform, and looked out over the water.


  “I don’t believe this,” he mumbled. As Demeers joined him on the helm platform, his jaw dropped, too.

  A few hundred yards ahead was an oceangoing tug pulling a huge garbage barge, piled forty feet high with trash, drawing a mob of circling seagulls. The rotting garbage stank, the horrible smell of it rolling across the water and invading Patton’s nostrils.

  “So this is our punishment,” Demeers said. “Driving a garbage tug.”

  “It’s worse,” Patton said. “They’re not pulling up to the tug. They’re bringing us to the barge itself.”

  “I knew I should have listened to Mother,” Demeers said. “She wanted me to stay on the farm.”

  “What the…” Patton said.

  Where the coxswain had tossed over his line to the barge, a piece of scrap plywood moved aside and a man in coveralls stepped out. He grabbed Patton by the arm and pulled him inside. Rapidly he returned for Demeers.

  But stranger than the barge, the man coming from nowhere, the tunnel under the garbage, was what the man in coveralls said when he reached the hatch. The man found a microphone, clicked the speak button, and said, “Devilfish, arriving!” That was the announcement made when a ship’s captain crossed the gangway to the ship. Mystified, Patton looked down the hatch. The ladder led to a deck some fifteen feet below, and the smell coming from within was unmistakable. That odd combination of diesel fuel, lubricating oil, ozone, cooking grease, sweat, amines, and non-contaminating floor wax was unique to one vessel — a nuclear submarine.

  Patton looked over at Demeers, then back down the hatch, then at the man in coveralls.

  “Go on, sir,” the man said. “And welcome aboard the Devilfish, Captain.”

  “Why did you call me that?” Patton asked.

  “Well, sir, because I always call the commanding officer ‘captain.’ Is there a problem, sir?” The man seemed genuine, not understanding Patton’s confusion.