Piranha: Firing Point

“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.