“But what about the risks Pacino mentioned? And what about the Japanese subs that vanished?”
“Oh, please, they sank, Jaisal. Don’t give in to Donchez’s senile drama. Let’s keep our heads on. There ain’t no ghosts and there ain’t no Rising Suns flying Red Chinese flags. Now, can I please go to bed? I’m telling you, you and your damned five-hour encounter sessions, I’ve gotta sit on my fat butt and listen to your political appointees try to find their butts with both hands. Christ, what the hell do you think I was doing with my time, planning my investments? No, I’m covering your pretty little rear end and thinking this thing through. The sad thing is, I feel like I’m the only one thinking it through. Everyone else is looking for the political answer, all afraid Iron Jaisal Warner’s gonna fire them and send them home like you did the Japan crew.”
“Okay, okay, enough, Freddy. That’s my style, and those are my advisers, each of them as handpicked as you are. They just see reality differently, that’s all.”
“I think they’re blind.”
“Freddy, my daddy said something to me I’ll always remember. You know the story of the elephant and the blind men? Well, reality is an elephant, and we are all blind. So, Freddy, you want to know reality, you’ve got to interview every blind man who’s touched the elephant.”
“Do me a favor, Jaisal? Just don’t seat me next to the blind man who tried to find out about the elephant’s asshole, okay?”
Warner laughed. “Carol, get the advisers back!”
“What’s your decision?”
“Patrol planes from Japan. Escort subs go on ahead to sweep the sea. Otherwise, damn the Red subs, full speed ahead, parade field formation. Let’s make it look good, and get the hell to the beach. We’ll know by dinnertime tomorrow if it works.”
“Attagiri. You explain that to the blind men. I’m going to bed.”
STORM
Chapter 8
Monday November 4
WESTERN OREGON
ALTITUDE: 53,000 FEET
“Paully,” he said dully, “I think you’d better look at this.”
“What’s up?” White called from aft, where he’d been searching for a Coke.
“And while you’re at it, you’d better tell me what the Navy regulations say about a mentally incapacitated commander, how and when he can and should be relieved.”
“Okay,” White said, frowning, walking forward. “Why, one of your skippers go bananas?”
“No. I’m talking about me,” he said thrusting the Writepad at White. The summary line clearly showed the message had been sent two minutes before, and was from Dick Donchez.
White examined it a long time. Then, in gross violation of Pacino’s standing orders, he withdrew his cigarette pack with one hand and shoved a Camel into his mouth. His USS Reagan lighter brought the cigarette to life, a cloud billowing around him. He looked up through the smoke.
“Is it just me, or did I think I buried this man not two days ago?”
“Three days,” Pacino said, still looking dumbly at the Writepad. “It’s after midnight.”
“Well, I’m Jewish — I don’t believe in guys rising from the dead after three days, not even Donchez.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Double-click on it and let’s see what he has to say,” White said, sinking into a seat.
Pacino clicked into the E-mail software, but there was no written text. There was a video clip, a fairly large one from the listing next to-the symbol of the video file.
He double-clicked on the video clip, and the Writepad’s video software engaged. The screen flashed, the video rolling.
A man in an expensive Armani suit was sitting at a desk, his head bald, a thick ashtray next to the man’s hand, a large cigar lying idle. It was Dick Donchez, perfectly healthy, or at least seeming so by comparison with how he’d looked at Bethesda. He looked into the camera.
“Hello, Mikey,” he said, his tone gentle, which hadn’t often happened. “By the time you see this, I’ll be dead, and you’ll be fighting the Red Chinese.”
He slowly picked up the cigar and puffed it. Diverging from his normal style, he put it back in the ashtray instead of keeping it in his fist.
“They say these things finally are killing me.” He laughed. “Have killed me. Listen, Mikey, and please listen hard. I have a deputy director here, his name is Mason Daniels IV. His enemies call him Jack. His friends, his few close friends, call him ‘Number Four,’ after his three predecessors, who were all in the intelligence game one way or another. I know you’ve never met him before this, but I had great plans for the two of you. I’d hoped one day you would run the CIA and Number Four would take on NSA. That way you two could sort of,” Donchez sniffed, “keep me alive somehow, long after I’ve gone.”
“But that’s an old man’s dream. Let’s get to business, which is this old man’s nightmare. First, Mikey, the cancer’s in my throat and my lungs, not my brain. I know, the attending physician at Bethesda told you different, the guy with dark hair, big glasses, never shaves? Well, he works for me. If there’s any doubt at all, you make your judgment by listening to me here. You think I’m sane, you act on what I’m telling you. You think I’m nuts, you just delete this video and remember our good times.”
“You’ve either found this next bit out from Number Four or from Tanaka at MSDF. Six Rising Sun subs were hijacked. Not lost, stolen. Number Four has given you a video of their meeting when the subs presumably went down. During the conference one of the captains says he will arm the black-box buoy so Tokyo will know what happened. They never found it, did they? In fact, they never found any of the black-box buoys.”
“But that’s not all. Roll the video to track coordinate 1143. All you’ll see on the frame is an open doorway on the Lightning Bolt after the ship’s captain ran to the control room. This is a photograph of the frame in question.”
Donchez held up a grainy photo. In the doorway a blur of black was shown, a hump, a circle, and a vertical protrusion.
“Looks a little fishy, doesn’t it? Look at the computer-enhanced version.”
Donchez put the first photo down and picked up another.
A clear photograph of a man appeared, hunched over in the corridor, wearing a stocking cap, black makeup, black jumpsuit, the vertical protrusion clearly the barrel of an automatic pistol.
“Even more fishy. The man’s height, by the way, shows him to be very tall. In fact, he violates the height standards for the MSDF submarine force. He’d never pass the physical. The weapon is also interesting. It’s an AK-80. Brand-new, made only in Red China for the PLA. None have ever been exported or obtained by our people, so doubtful the MSDF has any.”
“All six Rising Sun subs disappeared just before our Pacific sound-surveillance systems picked up noises. The recordings were poor, but we managed to intercept the recordings the Japanese were passing from the salvage ships to Tokyo. Check this out.”
Donchez raised another display board, this one showing six graphs, one atop the other.
“Sound graphs. Shows the explosions as the hulls crushed. Interesting, isn’t it? The six initial explosions were all separate. But look here, starting at this line. This second explosion is supposedly the noise of the hull passing through crush depth. The second-explosion noises all came at different intervals from the first explosions, but look at the noise profiles of the second explosions. It’s all the exact same noise, the graphs are the same! Here, check it out.”
Donchez lifted a fourth display board, this one showing the “second explosion” graph blown up.
“This isn’t just the sound profile of the second explosion; this is all six explosion-noise graphs superimposed. I say again, there weren’t six hull-implosion noises. There was one, replayed six times, the exact same noise. Isn’t physics fun, Mikey?”
“Next, video clip of the wreckage at the site. They’d uplinked this to a Galaxy satellite from the salvage lead ship. And yes, we intercepted it and decoded it. Not a
bad job, frankly. Now, check out the wreckage.”
The video clips of the wreckage rolled, one by one.
Donchez’s image returned, showing him puffing on the cigar again. “You didn’t notice anything out of place, no casual observer would. But guess what. See the floating shoe polish? The enhancement our fancy computers did reveals something interesting about it. The Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force is relentless about atmospheric contaminants on their submarines. You know, floor wax, cooking grease, cigarette smoke. It all gets into the air ducts, it contaminates the computer systems, eventually it can screw up the ship. The MSDF does not allow any, repeat any shoe polish onboard, of any manufacturer. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, someone just brought it aboard unthinkingly. Nope. Back to our enhancement. The shoe polish is made, guess where? You got it, Red China, standard issue for the PLA. Not enough for you? Well, we did the same with the cleaner-fluid bottle floating next to the shoe polish. If they’d used that aboard a Rising Sun-class, they would have killed the DNA processors within hours; it’s a nerve toxin to the computer. And no, that’s not what sank them, by the way. If you lose the biological part of the computer, it switches to manual, and the lower functions of the Second Captain drive the submarine out of danger, surface it, unless the crew takes manual control. Oh, and guess where the cleaning fluid is made? Can’t tell from the video, but the computer enhancement — oh, hell, you’ve guessed it. Red China once again.”
“Still not enough? How about the comms we broke from Red China in the months before this war broke out? We got some quite juicy things out about an Operation Red Dagger. I’m not going into the details of that, but suffice it to say, a while back a Korean sub sank with no warning. It sank because it was hijacked, then intentionally scuttled as a demonstration. Number Four has all the details on that, by the way.”
“So why didn’t I or NSA go to Warner with this, or the CNO, or Gaz? By now you’ve probably answered your own question. There’s a certain knowledge you and I have because we were sub officers, Mikey, and until you’ve looked at a cruise ship at close range off Club Med, seen it in periscope crosshairs, knowing you could take it down with one shot, with no one knowing it was you, you don’t know what being a submariner is. Warner’s officials don’t know and they don’t want to know.”
“I tried to tell them about the Rising Suns. Every person I told about it in private mysteriously forgot about it. I spoke to advisers in groups. Same cold shoulder. I went to Warner and Gaz. Now, a lot of the evidence hadn’t come in yet, and I was coughing and in a lot of pain, and Gaz heard what I was driving at, and he wouldn’t let me finish the briefing. Warner leans on him, and also on a Harvard professor named Masters who thinks he knows everything. If they disagree with you, you are sunk.”
“But I didn’t want you going in cold, so I asked Number Four to give you some things to think about, but at the same time I didn’t want your credibility as damaged as mine is. Maybe that way you can still get something done.”
“Now, I asked you to listen to me, and I hope you still are. You probably recommended to Warner that she use caution in using the RDF. You will not see caution from her on this. Push to do anything you can to get those Rising Suns, but realize something — they are good, and the only thing we can hope for is that the Reds can’t operate them very well.”
“Beyond that, my clairvoyance is at an end. For all I know, the mere threat of using the RDF has sent the Reds scurrying back home and you’re on your way to trying to get the SSNX ready to go. Or perhaps the worst has happened, and the Reds sank the entire RDP, and we lost White China. I don’t know.”
“But I do know this. Whatever happens, your instincts will be right. Follow them, Mikey. And use O’Shaughnessy and Number Four. They’re good resources, good men. They can help you.”
Donchez paused, taking a final puff and putting the cigar out.
“And now, Mikey, if anyone else is watching this with you, please ask them to step away for a moment. I want to talk to you.”
Paully White left, reaching for another cigarette in the smoke-filled cabin. Pacino kept watching.
“Listen, goddammit, I know you’ll mourn my death. The only thing I regret, the only thing, is that I’m not around to help you anymore. You’re on your own, Mikey. I don’t know what’s in store for me, but if I can help you from the great beyond, I’ll try to. I’ve got to tell you, though, I believe that this life is it. After that it’s dirt and dust and worms and blackness. Nothing more. But so what? You have to keep living, you have to keep pushing. And even if you lose this thing with the Reds, even if Warner tosses your career down the toilet and you become just some guy going to a job during the day and watching television at night, I want you to know something.” Donchez cleared his throat and then blew his nose. “I love you, Mikey. You’re my son, more my son than if you had come from me, and I know Tony, your father, would appreciate my saying that. And you’ve been a wonderful son to me, Mikey. I don’t want you having any doubts, any regrets.”
The old man’s eyes filled with water. He brushed it away with his handkerchief, annoyed.
“Just one more thing, Mikey. You’ve got to move on, move on from losing me, move on from losing Eileen. You can’t do your job if you live in the past. And your job is being yourself. Do your job, Mikey. Be yourself, the one you once were when we were younger and you commanded the Devilfish. That’s why I renamed the SSNX program, Mikey, so you would remember.”
“So remember, my son. Remember.” Donchez coughed, drying his eyes and his nose again. “Goodbye.”
His lip quivered, just for a second, and then the image vanished, the screen reading:
MESSAGE SELF-DELETED
Pacino turned off the Writepad and stared out the window.
* * *
“Operation Sealift is now into its eleventh hour, Bernard,” the reporter said.
She stood in front of a massive Sea King helicopter, the block letters reading U.S. NAVY above the door. The rotors were spinning above her head at idle. The reporter was pretty, dark hair and green eyes, long, elegant fingers holding her microphone. A crewman handed her a helmet, the kind that bulged at the ears with a built-in headset.
“We’re going on a trip aloft from the deck of the USS James Webb to take a look at this huge fleet, the biggest armada ever to go to sea.”
The camera view followed the reporter as she went to the far side of the helicopter where there was a large opening.
“Bernard, they’re hooking me to a safety line now so I won’t fall out this doorway, and from here we should be able to see the entire formation of the fleet.”
The noise of the helicopter grew to a roar as the chopper throttled up and took off from the deck. In the lower right side of the television was a small logo that read SNN, for Satellite News Network, a small dual panel below reading 2:10 a.m. EST, a second one reading 2:10 p.m. China Time. On the lower left side was a war logo that SNN had concocted, showing a Red Chinese flag next to a burning White Chinese flag next to an American flag. The words underneath read OPERATION SEALIFT.
The view from the helicopter changed to a gray patch of deck, a section of the sea, and the overcast sky. As the view rotated, the island of the carrier came into view.
The tall structure was a naval architect’s dream, a sort of slender pyramid, but with layers on it, each layer bristling with equipment — slanting large, flat panels of phased-array Aegis radars, spheres holding radars, and on top a gigantic flat radar that rotated slowly, majestically above the structure. Flags flew from the island’s tall aft mast, the biggest an American flag two stories tall. Painted on each face of the island was the number 80. The chopper continued to rise until the entire carrier came into view. The vessel was streamlined and impressive, the deck one huge expanse of flat gray, angled off to the side. The forward deck rose slightly in a ski-jump arrangement, the bow sharp, a razor cutting into the sea.
The wake behind the mighty ship was violent and foaming on a d
ark blue sea. It could be seen extending far behind the ship, still white and churning in the sea. From afar the carrier seemed to be plowing the sea with purpose and determination.
As surrounding ships came into view, the reporter continued. “Bernard, as you can see, the USS James Webb is a huge aircraft carrier, with a displacement of 110,000 tons fully loaded, the biggest ship in the U.S. Navy’s arsenal. The number 80 is the hull number. They call this CVN-80, for carrier vessel nuclear. The ship has two nuclear reactors, four turbines, and four screws, and has a crew of five thousand men.”
“Coming into view next to the Webb are the other two aircraft carriers of the fleet, and as you can see, they are forming a triangle, the lead ships in this mighty armada. On the top of your screen is the USS Kinnaird McKee, CVN-81, and at the bottom you should be seeing the third carrier, the USS Franklin Roosevelt, CVN-82. Behind the three aircraft carriers, in two rows of five, are the ten Aegis cruisers assigned to the task force. Behind them, Bernard, are three rows of seven ships, the destroyers and frigates.”
The chopper climbed even farther, so that the ships behind the carriers came into view. They were beautiful, sharp daggers slicing into the sea, their positions precise in the formation, their wakes ruler straight.
“Behind the warships are six support ships. As you can see, these ships are quite large, the oilers and supply vessels. The ships are sailing in absolutely straight rows and columns. It looks like a parade, except a parade at sea. All the ships are flying giant American flags, and, Bernard, the formation is sailing so precisely that even the radars, the big structures rotating in circles, are synchronized, rotating together. It is just amazing. Then, Bernard, come the troop ships of this convoy. It is absolutely breathtaking seeing so many huge ships. These ships look like toys from up here, arranged in a precise formation of five ships across, fourteen rows of them, a total of seventy troop ships carrying the 375,000 troops of the Rapid Deployment Force.”
Piranha: Firing Point mp-5 Page 15
