Piranha: Firing Point

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.