Barracuda: Final Bearing mp-4

by Michael Dimercurio

  McDonne, who had been scribbling, his finger whirling across his Writepad, stopped and tapped a fingernail at a software button displayed at the top of the notepage display. A menu flashed onto his page, and he selected another button, until finally the information he sought blinked on the display.

  “Pasadena and Cheyenne.”

  “Who are the commanding officers?”

  “Pasadena is run by a Jackson Vaughn—”

  “Lube Oil Vaughn,” Pacino said, grinning. “Murph, Lube Oil was with you on the Tampa, right?”

  “Good man,” Murphy said, looking at the far wall, but lost for a moment in a memory.

  “He was my XO on the Seawolf.” Lube Oil Vaughn was damned good, Pacino thought, feeling some guilt for not keeping up with him.

  “Cheyenne is commanded by one Gregory Keebes. I think he was also on the Seawolf with you. Admiral.”

  “Navigator. Smart guy, cool as they come. Unflappable. While I’m out, Sean, you’re in command. We’ve got some new priorities. Everything you were doing before this meeting, I want you to forget. Drop it. No reports, no paperwork, no wives’ bake sales. You need to stay absolutely focused.” Pacino’s intensity was getting through to Murphy, who on the outside looked calm but his finger tapping his thigh gave him away.

  “Here are the priorities. Number one. Get the USS Piranha to sea.”

  “She’s ready now, sir,” Murphy said, puzzled.

  “No. We just put her into the Electric Boat manufacturing barn to be fitted out with Vortex missiles.”

  “Has someone figured out a way to keep them from blowing up their own tubes?” McDonne asked.

  “Yes, but EB has a month of work to do and I gave them a week. You have to get that down to five days, six max. I want Bruce Phillips at sea yesterday.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “Get him to the Japan surrounding waters. Which reminds me, we’re going to start calling that chunk of ocean the Japan Oparea. And for the submarine force, we need an operation name for this… blockade.”

  McDonne pinched the flesh around his throat, his habit when thinking hard. “How about Operation Steel Trap or Operation Stranglehold or Operation Airtight?”

  “No,” Pacino said. “I want something that sounds almost Japanese. Let’s call it Operation Enlightened Curtain. This blockade is a curtain around Japan that will give her leaders something to think about, a curtain of enlightenment.”

  He didn’t wait for their approval. “Okay, next priority. Get the rest of the sub force to sea. Send a flash message, sub force to Defcon three. CB, what’s that mean to you?”

  “All repair availabilities are canceled. Tenders and shipyards stop all work. Crews button up any systems they’re repairing. All leaves are canceled. All personnel to be within an hour of their ships. All ships are to be ready to get underway within two hours. Every submarine loaded with torpedoes and cruise missiles. The ready-status ships are already fully loaded out.”

  “Send the order. Defcon three, all submarines in the Unified Submarine Command.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  McDonne scribbled on his Writepad. He stroked a software button and the scribbled handwritten notes became block letters, machine typed. Pacino scanned the message.

  “Start an authenticator system.”

  “That normally doesn’t happen until Defcon two—”

  “Start it anyway.”

  McDonne wrote on the message, Pacino read it.

  131912ZDEC

  FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH

  FM COMUSUBCOM

  TO ALL FAST ATTACK SUBMARINE UNITS USUBCOM

  SUBJ READINESS CONDITION/OPERATION ENLIGHTENED CURTAIN SECRET

  AUTHENTICATOR BRAVO FIVE ECHO

  BT//

  1. (S) SET DEFENSE READINESS CONDITION (DEFCON) THREE.

  2. (S) AUTHENTICATION:

  3. ADMIRAL M. PACINO SENDS.

  //BT//

  Pacino looked at the message and nodded.

  “All we need is the authenticator,” he said. “Break it out.”

  The two men in front of him suddenly became serious and formal, standing up at attention.

  “Break out the authenticator, aye, sir. Commander?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  They left the room briskly, shutting the door behind them. While they went to the safe-within-a-safe, locked inside a vault that held top-secret material, compartmentalized material and codeword material, Pacino waited.

  War, he thought, hadn’t happened yet, but the ball was rolling and picking up speed.

  CHAPTER 12

  OVAL OFFICE WASHINGTON, D.C.

  President Jaisal Warner frowned at Admiral Wadsworth on the videolink screen.

  “Tony, what about Admiral Pacino’s statement?”

  “Madam President,” Wadsworth said slowly, quietly, his accent flat and Midwestern now that he addressed the president, although he had a tendency to slip into a dialect of Mississippi African-American when addressing subordinates. “I think Pacino is out of line. I want a USUBCOM commander I can work with. Pacino, frankly, is too parochial. All he sees are submarines. I’m coming back right now to begin the selection process for Pacino’s replacement.”

  “Tony, about Pacino being too focused on enemy subs… he did mention the Firestar fighter squadrons.”

  “Yes, but he has overlooked the power of our surface fleet. I have major antisubmarine equipment at sea right now, all at the command of the Reagan battle-force commander. Just because Pacino’s power base is a bunch of sewer pipes doesn’t mean the rest of the world’s navies have lethal submarines that should make us tremble.”

  “Admiral, Pacino pointed out the specifics of what he’s worried about. The Destiny III robotic submarines, the Destiny II-class—”

  “Ma’am, the Destiny classes are more often than not at their piers. We don’t believe they’re threats to us.”

  Warner sighed, the weight of her office falling on her all at once. There were times that she seemed surrounded by men who didn’t want to listen. During times like these she asked herself, “what would a man do?” and the answer was usually the same. A man would take charge and give orders. Even Iron Jaisal Warner would rather build a consensus, which was why she asked her subordinates for their honest opinions, and all she received was conflict and resistance. Especially in this case.

  There was something about Pacino she liked. It was a presence, a certainty he had. He focused on the issues, not the politics, not the possible political gains he could make. Other than Dick Donchez, he alone in her administration was like that. It added up to something she hadn’t sensed in a long time, and it was almost hard to admit it, but when Pacino was in the room offering a blunt opinion, Warner felt safe. Yes, safe, that was exactly the word she had been searching for. There was something about the young looking but white-haired admiral that reminded her of her own father, a New York City policeman, a street cop. It was elemental, naked, a certain fearlessness her father had had. In his career he had been forced to shoot two criminals, both times exonerated by the boards of review. She had known he had felt terrible about it, but it made her love him all the more, because when he was around, no one could hurt her. Her father shot criminals, he made the streets safe.

  And there was that quality in Pacino. He was something of a world cop, making the hostile seas safe, making her job safe. He would not fall to Tony Wadsworth’sax. She took a deep breath.

  “Admiral Wadsworth, about Admiral Pacino… I want you to make damned sure you don’t lose Admiral Pacino. He has a good head. I like his style. This administration has plans to promote him, whether it means demoting or retiring certain other naval officers. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I don’t want to hear that you’ve put him in charge of paper clips in Guam.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And I want a position paper from you addressing Admiral Pacino’s memo in detail, saying exactly why
you believe he is incorrect. If you still do.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And I want you to send Pacino a message, and I want you to copy me on it. This message will go out within the hour.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It will read that Pacino has full authority with respect to his submarines to pursue the best possible resolution of this crisis. He is to work with the commanders of your surface battle groups, but he will also be independent and of equal operational rank.”

  “Ma’am, you’d have to promote him to vice-admiral to do that, and that can’t be done without congressional confirmation.”

  “Then put a recommendation on my desk for his promotion. I’ll take care of the rest. And another thing, Tony. Stay out there for the duration of your planned trip. I don’t want the world to see us running around looking panicked, especially with this upcoming action off of Japan.”

  “But ma’am—”

  “No buts. Tony. You’re staying. Pacino is to have the authority I have prescribed. Understand?”

  “Yes, Madam President.”

  She wondered, as she cut off the videolink, whether he did.

  USUECOM HEADQUARTERS

  NORFOLK NAVAL BASE, NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

  Pacino looked up as Murphy and McDonne came in the room. Their serious faces indicated the authenticators had shocked them into the awareness that this was no longer one endless drill, that the filmy boundary between peacetime and wartime had just been crossed.

  Murphy held up the authenticator, so that both he and McDonne had it in sight at all times, since the little foil packet was so secret it was under two-man-control. Never in its lifetime, from printing to destruction, would an authenticator be under the control of one man alone. And for good reason, since one man with an authenticator could start an all-out war. Once Pacino set Defcon two, not a single unit of his sub force would listen to him or follow his orders without a valid authenticator.

  Murphy held out the authenticator packet, the size of an Alka Seltzer foil container, and put it in front of Pacino. “Sir, it reads as authenticator number bravo five echo.” The name of the authenticator matched the one they had described in the subject area of the message to the fleet.

  “Very well,” Pacino said. “Open the authenticator.”

  “Open the authenticator, aye, sir,” Murphy said, opening the packet. A simple piece of cardboard was inside with the code “XC83JOEM” written in block letters. “Sir, authenticator reads x-ray, charlie, eight, three, Juliet, oscar, echo, mike.”

  “Very well,” Pacino said, “insert the code into the message, verify it and transmit.”

  It took some time to get the message out. The men reassembled in the seating area. “Sir,” Murphy said, “we’ve got as priorities getting you to sea, getting Piranha to sea, setting Defcon three. And then what?”

  “Inspect the ships. Atlantic coast ships first. Talk to every skipper behind closed doors. Tell him what we know.”

  “Aye, Admiral.”

  “We have a contingency warplan for Scenario Orange for blockade erupting into war, correct scan? I remember doing revisions on that.”

  “Admiral, we rewrote that eighty times.”

  “Good thing we did, because here we go. Brief the skippers on the Oporder, which will be out of the Scenario Orange contingency-planning manual. How are the plans going for my trip to the Reagan?”

  “Joanna’s got UAIRCOM working on it. Probably get a ride out of Pearl to the Reagan on an F-14.”

  “Not good enough.” Pacino growled. “Get me out of Norfolk on an F-14. The SS-12 would be too slow.”

  McDonne grabbed the phone on the end table. He whispered something to Joanna, then put the phone down. “She’ll go to work on an F-14 out of Oceana. The jet will come to you here at the airstrip, fuel up and be idling when we’re done. I assumed you’d be leaving after this briefing, sir.”

  “Is my seabag ready?” Pacino kept a closet full of uniforms, submarine coveralls, at-sea sneakers, underclothes, shaving kit and reading disks, which had replaced books with the widespread use of the Writepad. He could have it packed for a sea trip within minutes.

  “Should be ready in five minutes.”

  “Brief the East Coast sub skippers on the warplan, then get them to sea, full deployment. I want them deployed to the Japan Oparea.”

  “Panama Canal?”

  Pacino considered. The canal passage was much faster than going around the horn or going under the polar icepack, but transiting the canal meant that Tokyo’s Galaxy satellites would see them coming. Which could be a good thing, except Pacino didn’t want them to know the exact number of subs that would be coming at them.

  “Let’s start this out right. Give each captain the option. If they want to go under ice, let them. If they want the canal passage, okay. Just tell them I want them there in one piece as fast as they think they can make it.”

  “Sir, polar passage is risky. And slow this time of year.”

  “I know. But a few skippers will take it, anyway.”

  “What would you do. Admiral?”

  “Murph, I’d take it through the canal. It’s faster.”

  “Sir, doesn’t giving them an option make it look like we don’t know what we’re doing?”

  “Wrong, it makes it look like we trust our commanding officers. Don’t micromanage these guys.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Once the Atlantic boats are away, get the Hawaii ships to sea. Brief their skippers first, then get them going.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “When everyone is there in the Japan Oparea, I’ll be positioned to help the fleet. At that point your job, Murph, is to feed me as much information as you can to help me make decisions, and in the absence of word from me, make the orders to the fleet that you believe you need to. There’s only one thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “No one, no one, is to countermand any of my direct orders but the president. Not Wadsworth or anyone else. And if someone tries to give you orders of any kind to relay to the fleet, I want you to refuse, unless it is authorized by President Warner in person. And Sean, I don’t care if you have to go to jail to carry out that order.”

  “I don’t understand. Admiral.”

  “There’s a reason I’m going to sea aboard one of our subs. I want you to think about that and what I said before.”

  “Aye, sir.” Murphy no longer looked confused, just concerned.

  “Now, let’s work on a way to get all the USUBCOM authenticators out to the Reagan with me.”

  “We’ll put them in a double-locked case, the same way we get them from the manufacturer to our safes, then have the F-14 pilot sign for them, then the radiomen aboard the Reagan, then the chopper pilots and the top-secret control officer aboard your final sub.”

  “Make it happen.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And Murph. About the Piranha. Get yourself up there personally. Visit there every twelve hours if you have to, between briefing skippers. But get that sub out to sea.”

  “Admiral,” Joanna interrupted. “Your aircraft is at the naval air station and your car is waiting out front. The bag is packed and aboard the car.”

  “Gentlemen, good luck. Keep me covered, Sean. CB, give Sean your max support.” Pacino shook their hands, wondering for a moment if he would ever see either of them again.

  NORFOLK NAVAL AIR STATION

  NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

  Pacino got out of the staff car and walked across the concrete apron to the waiting F-14 Navy fighter jet, impressed by the size of the plane. He was dressed in a flight suit and parachute. Joanna carried the case of authenticators and his flight bag and stowed them with the ground technician. Pacino returned Joanna’s salute, then shook her hand. She vanished into the car and watched from the window. Pacino turned to the pilot, a young officer with a name patch reading shearson and a flight helmet in the crook of his arm, the name on the flight helmet reading TUBESTEAK.

&
nbsp; “Good afternoon. Admiral, I’m Lt. Brad Shearson. We’ll be on the way as soon as I can brief you on the trip.”

  “Fine, Shearson. What’s your handle there from — after-hours exploits?”

  “No, Admiral. I just eat a lot of hot dogs. I survived on them all through flight school. Admiral, you ever flown in a Tomcat before?”

  “Never.”

  “Let’s get you in the cockpit, first, sir.”

  Shearson pointed Pacino to the wheeled ladder to the cockpit high above the concrete. Pacino looked down over the top of the wings of the two-engined craft with its twin tails, the wings extended outward but designed to be pulled in tight into a delta-wing configuration. It was astonishing how big it was. Pacino swore it was bigger than his twelve-passenger Gulfstream. He looked down into the cramped cockpit, the seat little more than an olive-drab section of canvas stretched across aluminum tubing. A flight helmet sat on the seat, shiny and new, two silver stars across the top, the words PATCH engraved in black letters.

  “Compliments of the squadron boss. Captain Tomb, sir. He said he knew you at the academy.”

  Pacino smiled, remembering. “Tell him I said thanks.”

  “If you’ll climb in, sir. That’s good.”

  Pacino stepped into the cockpit, feeling like he was stepping into an electronic canoe, the side consoles and front display bursting with toggle switches and function keys, the display glowing electronically green. Pacino was careful to avoid hitting any of the electronics of the consoles, and found himself sitting deep inside the airplane, the sills of the cockpit rising all the way to the top of his shoulders. He felt like a child in an amusement park ride, too short to see out. He was completely surrounded, enveloped, by the consoles and screens and displays of the rear cockpit. He pulled on the flight helmet at Shearson’s prompting, further sucked into the tight world of the aircraft. Now that he was here, he thought, the interior of a nuclear submarine would always seem roomy by comparison.