Piranha: Firing Point

“I’d never heard it was this serious,” he said. “Schedule delays, maybe. Cost overruns, sure. Some loss of function, possibly. Capability restrictions in the first operational year, okay. But failing C-l? With the damned hardware too? What the hell happened?”

“Even I was surprised. Admiral,” she said, her voice level, her eyes drilling into his own, unintimidated. “The hardware problems are major, but the correction strategies are straightforward. We’re much more worried about software.” “You said you were at a decision point,” Pacino prodded.

“Exactly. The decision is between scrapping the entire code and starting fresh or trying to patch it up. That decision is mine. Since we failed C-l, there have been other decisions, made by my management.” She looked at him, one eyebrow rising.

“And?”

“I’m no longer a temporarily visiting executive. I’m permanently assigned to SSNX until the software commission is done at C-9. I’ll be doing the coding myself.”

Pacino stared at her, startled. He had thought her a business type, an exec. He’d never thought she’d be one to sit at a display and troubleshoot the equipment, much less write the code herself.

“You’ll be coding?” “Exactly,” she said again, her favorite phrase. “I used to own the company that came up with the Cyclops computer system. The system is called Cyclops for a reason — that was my company’s name before Dynacorp bought us out. Bought us and brought in their programmers.

Now they — I mean, we — are going back to basics.”

“How long to get this back on track?” “Good expression” she said, standing and gathering her papers. “Because that’s what this is, a train wreck.

Admiral, you’ll be the second to know.”

“And who’ll be first?”

Her smile flashed at him. He found himself looking at her appreciatively in spite of himself.

“I will.” She put her bag on her shoulder. “By the way, I won’t be attending any more shipyard meetings.

No more admiral’s briefings, no Dynacorp videoconferences.

The only thing I’ll be doing is entering code, eating, and sleeping.”

“Where can I find you?” “In the hull,” she said, pointing out the window overlooking the dock. “Until Cyclops works, the SSNX is home.”

As she swept out of the room, the wind of her passage lifted several fliers tacked to a bulletin board near the door.

Pacino drummed his fingers on the table. Then he stood and walked to the trash can. Pulling out the crisis football, he set it on the window ledge. He was gathering his own things when the yeoman came into the room.

“Admiral? Sir? There’s an urgent videolink on your Writepad, sir, a Captain White?” “I’ll take it here,” Pacino said. “Shut the door.”

He clicked into the video connection, wondering what Paully White needed that was so urgent that he couldn’t wait till this afternoon’s scheduled videolink.

VS. EAST COAST

The Lincoln staff car was not a car at all, but a huge four-door sport-utility vehicle painted a glossy black.

The emblem of the Unified Submarine Command graced the doors and the rear hatch. The logo featured the sail of a surfaced nuclear submarine flying a Jolly Roger pirate flag and, below, three gold stars.

The Lincoln made its way north at one hundred ten miles per hour, hurtling past Monday late-afternoon traffic on 1-95 outside of Fredericksburg, Virginia, heading for Bethesda Naval Hospital in the northern suburbs of Washington. The beacons of the Virginia state police cruiser ahead flashed into the cabin through the windshield, and the escort’s siren blared intermittently to warn traffic out of the left lane. The windows in the back half of the car were polarized dark black, keeping out the sinking afternoon sun and enabling better visibility for the video screen mounted on the headrest of the right front seat.

Captain Paul “Paully” White sat in the rear. His service dress blues were not blue at all but a dark black.

His three rows of ribbons on his left breast pocket were mounted below a gold submariner’s dolphin pin, and a gold rope hanging from his left shoulder indicated he was a flag officer’s aide, along with four gold braid stripes on his sleeves indicating his rank. His face was set in a dark frown as he watched the video screen, waiting for Admiral Pacino to appear.

Paully White had just turned forty-eight, a subject that grew more sore each year. Despite a chain-smoking habit he had recently gained ten pounds at the belt line, and was not used to seeing a mirror reflection that was other than thin. White had become Pacino’s aide in the blockade of Japan by default, when White’s position as the submarine operations officer of the aircraft carrier Reagan had made him the only fellow submariner aboard. The two of them were on the carrier’s bridge when the Japanese torpedoes had hit. The sixth and seventh torpedoes exploded beneath the keel amidships, breaking the back of the giant aircraft carrier, beginning the list to port that would end in the vessel’s capsizing.