Piranha: Firing Point

“Bad news. Admiral,” White said to the video image when Pacino’s face appeared, the sunshine of the Hawaiian afternoon shining in the windows behind him.

“What, Paully, you heard about the Cyclops system failing Cl?”

White blinked. He hadn’t heard, and it was incredibly serious, something that could derail the SSNX program for a year, maybe more.

“No, sir, that isn’t it. I’m calling because a few minutes ago I got a call from Fort Meade.”

Pacino looked up uncertainly.

“It’s Admiral Donchez, sir. He’s in a coma. They say it’s late-stage lung cancer.”

Pacino’s jaw clenched. “How much time are they giving him?” “They ain’t sayin’,” White said, his Philadelphia accent infecting his speech. “Maybe days. Could be hours.

The attending at Bethesda came up when I videoed him.

Said any family members should get to the hospital now.

He could fade out at any moment.”

“Have a car waiting at Andrews Air Force Base. I’ll be there by the wee hours.”

“But the SS-12 isn’t back yet,” White said, referring to the supersonic twelve-passenger staff jet. He’d just flown it back from Pearl, and it needed maintenance at Norfolk Naval Air Station before they flew it back.

“I’ll grab an F-22 fighter. UAIRCOM owes me a favor.”

Pacino’s shoulders seemed to sink, his head to grow heavy. White bit his lip.

“I’ll meet you at Andrews myself, sir.”

“No, Paully, you stay by Dick Donchez. Tell him I’m on my way. Even if he’s unconscious, you tell him.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

The video image clicked out, Pacino hanging up on him. White leaned into the front seat. “Why are we going so goddamned slow? Tell the trooper ahead to kick it or we’re passing him,” he ordered the driver.

“Yessir.”

The car, usually whisper quiet, rumbled with the sound of the engine and the road and the wind noise.

Paully White sat back, deep in thought.

Chapter 4 Tuesday October 29

PENTAGON E-RING

SUITE OF THE CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

Admiral Richard O’Shaughnessy answered the video phone when his aide. Lieutenant Doreen O’Connell, looked up at him and indicated it was the director of the Combined Intelligence Agency.

“Hi, Chris,” O’Shaughnessy said, his deep baritone voice commanding yet matter-of-fact.

“Hi, Dick. We need to be on for three o’clock. My DDO has me scheduled later.”

O’Shaughnessy looked at his watch. It was quarter to three. Chris Osgood, the DCIA, never gave him less than two hours’ notice. And that stuff about the DDO— short for Deputy Director for Operations, Chris’ number two at the agency — was their code that the CIA director had something that couldn’t wait.

“Where are you calling from?”

“Car. I’m well on the way.”

“You’re not dressed,” O’Shaughnessy said, amusement in his voice, noticing Osgood’s pressed shirt collar and striped tie.

“What am I supposed to do, give you a show? And see myself on the evening news strip teasing when some idiot with a microwave interceptor grabs the cell call and peddles it to the evening news?” Osgood smiled over his half-frame reading glasses.

“Three it is,” O’Shaughnessy said, clicking off. Standing up he said to his aide, “Doreen, I’m going running early.”

O’Shaughnessy was tall, over six feet three inches, yet weighed in at less than eighty-five kilograms. He didn’t look thin, but like the decathlon athlete he once was.

He was fifty-eight years old, used to being told he looked ten years younger. His hairline was healthy, showing more forehead now than he had a decade ago, but the increased real estate was barely noticeable. His skin was taut, his chin strong, his cheekbones prominent, his eyes dark brown under thick brows. But, of all his features, the most striking were his ears. They protruded impossibly out into space. He had commonly been referred to as “monkey ears” in his days as a midshipman and later as a junior officer, though predictably they were never mentioned now that he was the Big Boss. He had once hired a new aide because, as he had told Deanna that night, “Know why I hired him? Only one reason. He has big ears. Nothing shows good character like big ears.”

He was a natural-born speaker. His voice was fully an octave deeper than most large male voices, the boom of it full and musical. He spoke with his hands, surveying his crowd, his delivery able to set up the most hilarious jokes, his expressions animated yet natural.

But when Dick O’Shaughnessy was the listener, his charm seemed to vanish. Those who had suffered briefing him had described his blank, penetrating stare, always accompanied by extended silences; sometimes lasting so long that grizzled war veterans lost their nerve in front of him. O’Shaughnessy had even become afraid of being lied to by his inner circle, so intimidated were they. He had tried to work on that aspect of himself, trying hard to interject warm words or sounds of encouragement when he listened, but more often than not he was listening too intently to remember to do that.