Piranha Firing Point

by Michael Dimercurio

  Emmitt Stephens stood, knowing that Pacino was pulling his old trick, giving him a pep talk that could fire him up, make him work around the clock, coax from him the impossible, and he smiled suddenly, knowing that once again it had worked.

  “Aye, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  “Good man. See you pierside.”

  Pacino waved at him, then turned to Colleen O’Shaughnessy.

  She looked back at him, and he found himself somehow drawn to her. She started talking about the Cyclops battlecontrol system and how it was still nonfunctional.

  “… failure modes have revealed almost nothing, and the decision was made early this morning to scrap the Dynacorp code and return to an earlier version before the acquisition and restart all code entries at that point.”

  “Okay, I admit it, I’m lost. What’s all that mean?”

  “Well, Admiral Pacino, it means your onboard computer has just had a lobotomy and has the brain of a newborn.”

  “So what now?”

  “So now I recede it, writing it so it’ll work.”

  “Just you?”

  “That’s right. Just me.” Her voice was deep, throaty, yet refined and certain, the voice of a woman unused to being questioned.

  “How long?”

  “About a month to get to the C-1 test, maybe a week after that to get to C-9. And just so you know, that’s the optimistic schedule. If I’m honest with myself, this could take three months all told.”

  “Today is Monday, right? You’ve got until Thursday.

  By then we’ll be in the East China Sea. And you’d better go get some sensible clothes. You can’t dress like that at sea.”

  “Excuse me? What are you talking about?”

  “The SSNX is leaving. Colleen, and you’re going with it. You’ll have to do your coding on the way. We leave in sixty minutes. See you at the pier.”

  Her air of confidence cracked, just a little. “I’m not reading you here. I—”

  “You’re getting underway on the Devilfish, Colleen.

  The SSNX is deploying to the East China Sea operation area—for those of us in the know, the’op area’—and you are the battlecontrol system.”

  “But—”

  “Joanna, can you help Ms. O’Shaughnessy pack? Get her to her house and down to the pier by zero six hundred.

  Yes?”

  Paully White poked his head into the room.

  “You’d better see this,” he said, switching the widescreen on. A reporter was standing on the tarmac in the noon sunshine in front of Air Force One. The stairway led to an open door, and the airplane was flanked by Secret Service agents and newsmen.

  “… an announcement concerning the war in White China and the deployment of the U.S. backup Rapid Deployment Force. And here she comes now.”

  Jaisal Warner walked down the ramp, wearing a dark suit that emphasized her slimness, smiling and waving at reporters. Behind her was Admiral O’Shaughnessy in his service dress blues, his stripes gleaming gold and climbing high up his sleeves. Colleen O’Shaughnessy froze, having moved behind Pacino’s shoulder at his seat at the conference table. Pacino could faintly smell her perfume, and he turned to look up at her. Her features had become soft while she watched her father walk down the steps behind the president.

  Warner walked up to a podium, looking determined.

  “Good afternoon, Americans,” she began. “Effective immediately, I am appointing Admiral Michael Pacino, U.S. Navy, the supreme commander-in-chief of Pacific U.S. Military Forces. As such. Admiral Pacino will lead the invasion and liberation of White China. All force commanders will, as of this moment, immediately report to him. And, per the special request of Admiral Pacino, also effective immediately, the U.S. military and all branches of the federal government are commencing a total news blackout of the conduct of this conflict against the Red Chinese.” A small uproar broke out among the reporters. Warner held up one hand. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, bear with me. After a detailed study into the loss of the first Rapid Deployment Force, and under the direction of Admiral Pacino, I am ordering the press removed from all U.S. military establishments, starting with the aircraft carriers of the task force of the backup RDF. In addition, any aircraft of any nationality which attempts to approach anywhere within a thousand miles of the task force will be intercepted by the Navy fighter jets of the force and escorted away. In the event any aircraft does not heed the orders of the fighters, that aircraft will be shot down.” Warner paused for effect, greeted with pin-drop silence. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the press, for your cooperation. And for all Americans, I ask for your prayers for the men of the Rapid Deployment Force, and for Admiral Pacino. That is all.”

  As Warner walked away, bedlam broke out, shouted questions flying at her from all directions. Paully White clicked the widescreen off. The silence in the room was only momentary, though, for a dozen phones suddenly began ringing in the outer office.

  Colleen O’Shaughnessy looked at him in astonishment.

  “You’d better hurry. Colleen,” Pacino said, putting his feet on the desk and his hands behind his head. “The supreme commander has spoken.”

  “Good to see this hasn’t gone to your head. Admiral,” Colleen said, crinkling her nose at him. Then she swept out the door.

  “You knew,” White said in awe. “You knew she’d do that.”

  “Of course,” Pacino said. “What the hell else was she going to do? Fire me and Dick O’Shaughnessy? And have the second RDF put on the bottom by the Reds?

  I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, well, when this is over, you’ll be retired. Your paycheck stops the day they hit the beach.”

  “Paully, if we can do this, I’ll be happy to retire. Let’s just worry about coming out of this with a task force that reaches the beach instead of the bottom of the ocean.”

  “You ready for Tanaka?”

  “Listen, I want to talk to him, but I need to talk to Dick Livingston, then to Bruce Phillips on the Piranha, and we’ve both got to pack. Get out to the SSNX and meet me aboard. And get Tanaka out there—”

  “He’s going with us?”

  “Yes, so get him some clothes and set him up in a stateroom. Settle Colleen into one of the other staterooms—in fact, give her the executive officer’s stateroom, so she doesn’t have to share the bathroom with anyone but the captain.”

  “Sir? Um, who is the captain?”

  “Don’t know yet. That’s what Admiral Livingston is here for. Now shove off, and I’ll see you at the SSNX.”

  “Maybe you should start calling it by its real name.

  Devilfish.”

  “I don’t know if I can. It’s just a little too weird.”

  “Sir,” Joanna interrupted.

  “I thought you were taking Colleen down to the pier.” “She said she didn’t need my help,” Joanna said, glaring at Pacino. “Anyway, sir, SNN has some good news.”

  “The only good news that could come right now is no news,” Pacino grumbled.

  But when the widescreen came up, there was John Patton, wearing orange search and rescue coveralls. The voiceover said, “… survivor of the sinking of the submarine USS Annapolis. Captain Patton, who didn’t go down with the ship, was plucked from the sea by a helicopter of the Japanese Kaijo Hoancho, or coast guard.

  After arriving at Yokosuka, Captain Patton and an unidentified second survivor had no comment for our news cameras. Meanwhile, Admiral Pacino, the newly announced supreme commander of the Pacific forces, has made no statement and has been unavailable for comment.

  Meanwhile, at the Pentagon, inside sources revealed today that—”

  Pacino switched it off, feeling an exhilaration he hadn’t since he’d married Eileen. With a stab of guilt he realized that in his moment of happiness, her memory had been swept aside.

  “Did you see that. Admiral?” White asked, incredulous.

  “Looks like the SSNX has her captain,” Pacino said, unable to suppress his smi
le. “Joanna, get on the horn to Navforcepac Admin in Yokosuka. Get Patton down here on a supersonic jet—an F-22 maybe, or an F-14, but get him back here fast.”

  “You’re putting him in command of the Devilfish?

  After he lost Annapolis?”

  “Damned right I am. He’s probably pretty angry at the Reds by now. Let’s put him in the saddle. He’ll do fine. Now get me Admiral Livingston. We’ve got to get a crew for the SSNX—I mean Devilfish.” “Yessir,” White said, smiling back.

  Suddenly Pacino had a good feeling about the operation.

  It wouldn’t be easy, but then, at least if it failed, it would be his fault, not some politicians’ or the news media’s. He smiled at Livingston, ushered him to a seat, and began to speak.

  pacific ocean 300 nautical miles west-northwest of oahu aircraft carrier USS douglas macarthur, CVN-85

  Rear Admiral Gregory Copenflager sat up straight in his seat before the videoconference camera.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, receiving an order he would be glad to follow.

  “One other thing,” Admiral Pacino said from his Pearl Harbor office, “even before you redeploy into the ASW formation. You may have seen this on the news.

  I want all reporters rounded up and transported to Pearl Harbor. I want their gear—suitcases, underwear, cameras, tape recorders, computers, all of it—sent on a separate airplane. And before you bring them up on deck, blindfold them. I know it sounds paranoid, but I don’t want them reporting anything except how poorly they were treated. No ship formations, order of battle information, attitude of the troops, nothing. We’ll see to their reception on this end. And don’t worry about them smearing your career. You just blame the whole thing on me. Is that completely clear?”

  “Yes, Admiral. We’ll get on it immediately.”

  “And, Greg, you should expect to be at the Point Delta Hold Position for some time. I want you to make the best time you can, with your random zigzag pattern, for Point Delta, but don’t expect to go in as soon as you get there. You’re not crossing the line until you hear from me personally, and that word won’t come until I know the East China Sea is clear.” “Aye-aye, sir,” Copenflager said, his jaw muscles clenching.

  “Good luck, Greg. And watch yourself.”

  “Same to you. Admiral. Good hunting.”

  Copenflager, the admiral-in-command of the backup Rapid Deployment Force Fleet, clicked off and looked over at his staff and the captain of the MacArthur.

  “Round up the press, put them in the ready rooms, and confiscate their gear, then blindfold them. Get five Hawkeyes ready to airlift them back to Pearl, and put their gear on the sixth. No more ship announcements until they are all off. Once they’re gone, execute the maximum-dispersion order, cargo vessels no closer than two miles from each other, random distribution, ASW ships in a large-area screen. It’s zero five forty-five now.

  In one hour’s time I want the reporters off and the formation redeployed. Questions? Very well, gentlemen.

  Execute.”

  The staff rose and vanished. Copenflager stood up, relived. Maybe with Pacino in command, things would be different. They’d better be, he thought, looking out the window at the formation, or else for him it would be a very short war.

  unified submarine command headquarters west pearl harbor, hawaii The president was glaring at him. Pacino couldn’t remember her ever looking at him like that, even after he got kicked out of the Oval Office before the Japan blockade.

  “I’d still like to know what you’re doing. I’ve heard rumors about the SSNX.”

  “I’d like to know where you’re getting rumors like that,” Pacino said to the camera, hoping his voice sounded sufficiently hard.

  In the background Admiral O’Shaughnessy’s face, as usual, was unreadable, yet Pacino thought he detected just a slight smile. Pacino felt a certainty he hadn’t had in a long time. A single word was running through his mind: Devilfish. He knew it was silly and superstitious, but somehow that name was making a difference to him.

  Donchez must have known that the name would bring back other things from that time to him. His old cockiness seemed to be returning, the self that had been lost now beginning to resurface.

  “Like I told you, I’ll be damned if the Red force commander learns anything about this mission from the news. And the reason I want to know where you got those rumors is because my plan may be starting to work. Madam President, the absence of news is not enough against this guy. We need to get things into the news that are misleading, some completely false, some edged with enough truth to confuse him. If you’ll just lay low until this operation is over, ma’am, you won’t be embarrassed by anything you say that turns out to be my disinformation.”

  Jaisal Warner was not happy. “So I’m just supposed to trust you, and three weeks from now you’ll call up and say you’re at the beach?”

  “Not quite like that, ma’am.”

  “You’re the supreme commander. Admiral. I’ll give you your autonomy. And you’d better win this thing. If anything goes wrong, I’ll consider today’s developments evidence of your insubordination, and the only thing you’ll command is your Annapolis sailboat.”

  Just a few months ago, a statement like that from the president would have upset him. Maybe it was his new-found— or rediscovered—confidence, but instead of just acknowledging the president, he narrowed his eyes at her, stared her down O’Shaughnessy-style, and said: “What do I get if I win?”

  Warner tried to look serious, but she was too much an open book. She flashed the smile that had gotten her on the front pages during her campaign. “I’ll prepare something for you that I’m sure you’ll appreciate, Admiral.” “No, I want to know,” Pacino said, feeling suddenly that he had to get Warner convinced on a gut level that the operation would succeed, even if he himself had his doubts. “Because you’re going to have to deliver.” “Don’t you have a war to win. Admiral?” she asked, shaking her head.

  “This is good-bye for a while, ma’am. Remember, don’t believe the rumors.” He clicked off, turning to face Paully White, who looked at him in astonishment.

  “What was all that about disinformation, boss? We didn’t do any of that. We didn’t put out any rumors about the SSNX.”

  “I know, but I want Warner off balance about that.

  If she thinks I’m using the SSNX, then the media will find out, and then our Red force friend finds out.”

  “So how will you sneak the sub out of Pearl?”

  “Emmitt Stephens and I had a talk about that a few months ago. Emmitt put something together to get SSNX to sea in broad daylight with no one the wiser. I think you’ll like it.”

  “What now?”

  “Lets shift over to the SSNX. We’ll have to do this so we avoid the telephoto lenses of our media comrades.

  Get Joanna, she seems pretty good at this sort of thing.”

  It took a half hour to get to the pier at Ford Island on the south side, where Emmitt Stephens had berthed the SSNX. When Paul White saw it, he stared, whistled, then laughed.

  pacific ocean 850 nautical miles west-northwest of oahu USS piranha, SSN23

  Bruce Phillips was more hungover than at any time in his adult life. Truth be told, he was probably still drunk.

  He lay deep in his rack, in the captain’s stateroom, buried under the covers, wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt. The air conditioning in the room was turned up to full blast, practically cold enough to make his breath visible. It was early in the morning on a Monday. The ship had been shifted over from Hawaii time to the East China Sea time zone, eighteen hours ahead, resetting the ship’s clocks to just before midnight. Which meant he could get away with sleeping in the bunk even though he’d been in it for hours, trying to sleep off the alcohol.

  It had all started Saturday night, when Abby O’Neal had told him their relationship was over. She’d flown into Honolulu for a week’s vacation from her Washington, D.C., job, where she was a senior partner at Donnelly & Houston
, a firm of maritime attorneys and lobbyists. They were slated to get married in a year’s time, but the Piranha, Phillips’ command, had been moved four months before from Norfolk to Pearl Harbor as a permanent change in home port. It hadn’t bothered Phillips, since he knew he’d be giving up command of the ship in the next year. It was a long time to be away from his fiancee, but then they were engaged, and he had thought that had meaning to her.

  A future in the Navy didn’t hold any great promise for him. After all, what good was commanding a desk after commanding the last remaining Seawolf-class nuclear fast-attack submarine? He had made plans to resign his commission and try a new career. Abby knew of his plans, and she had fully agreed to the temporary separation.

  Yet as the weeks apart grew into months, her calls started coming less frequently. More and more she mentioned the managing partner, Albert Donnelly, son of her firm’s founding partner, who had recruited her to the D.C. company and advanced her career beyond her wildest dreams. He learned that Bert had gotten a nasty divorce a year before, becoming one of Washington’s most eligible bachelors. He was interested in her despite her engagement, but she’d held him off. By the fifth month of their separation, she seemed distracted, almost cold. Phillips had shrugged it off, knowing she was susceptible to fairly strong mood swings. On impulse he had invited her to Hawaii for a week to be with him, to grab some fall sunshine, get her tan back before Thanksgiving.

  When he met her at the airport, he had dressed in his best tropical suit, armed with a dozen red roses. When Abby appeared, Phillips smiled at her, his arms outstretched.

  As she drew closer, though, he saw that something was seriously wrong.

  Despite fresh makeup she looked like she’d been crying.

  She couldn’t look him in the eye when she came up. Her hands were clasped together, and she seemed somehow small. Her hair was different too, the sleek black gone, now done in soft, brassy red curls, the length far shorter. Her eyes were different too, the brown gone, replaced by the odd blueness of colored contact lenses.