Piranha: Firing Point

To lessen the intimidating effect of his stare, he’d taken to wearing half-frame reading glasses. For some reason, peering over the rims of the half-frames gave him a fatherly quality. He didn’t use them just as a prop, however, since he genuinely needed the reading glasses now, the Writepad displays having gotten harder and harder to read with each passing year. Yet they illustrated another problem he had. He had difficulty hanging on to the glasses. They managed to disappear every time he needed them. Deanna found them in all his service jackets, briefcases, lying around the house, yet they were never around when he needed them. Finally, Deanna had ordered forty-five of them and distributed them to his aides, his personal assistant, his driver, placing five of them at his favorite chair, five in his staff car, three in his briefcase, two in his workout bag, five in his desk, and one in each jacket pocket. And still he mislaid his glasses.

After his aide left the office, O’Shaughnessy quickly undressed, pulling on the worn but comfortable jersey reading navy ‘80 and a pair of Seal running shorts. He made his way to the VIP entrance, then stopped to return to the office to pick up his bar-coded ID — absentmindedness kicking in again. He had been stretching out for a few minutes when Osgood’s black limo pulled up.

Christopher Osgood IV was young for the position of director of the CIA. Osgood was in his late forties, his hair slightly thinning, not enough to detract from his near-perfect good looks. Osgood shared little in common with O’Shaughnessy save his slimness and good nature.

Osgood was an Anglo Protestant from Boston, his father prominent in Massachusetts politics.

O’Shaughnessy had met Osgood four years ago at the Marine Corps Marathon, run annually in the city in the springtime. At the time, O’Shaughnessy was one of Donchez’s dozens of deputies. Osgood said he was a mid-grade CIA employee. He’d asked O’Shaughnessy to train with him, since he was frequently in the city at lunchtime or after work. O’Shaughnessy had agreed, and on their thrice-weekly runs he’d ask Osgood about work.

Osgood would say a few words, mostly shrugging it off.

O’Shaughnessy had eventually learned that he worked in intelligence, but had not gotten Osgood to open up about it beyond that. They contented themselves to run, commenting on the weather, letting their friendship grow.

Osgood’s and O’Shaughnessy’s runs in the last two years had begun to be more than workouts. Since O’Shaughnessy had taken over the Navy and Osgood the CIA, the runs had become intelligence briefings for O’Shaughnessy, and gossip mills for Osgood on Capitol Hill office politics. Occasionally, when something was up, Osgood would schedule a run early, like today. Calling O’Shaughnessy with only fifteen minutes’ notice was breaking new ground, though. Something had to be up, O’Shaughnessy thought.

As usual, they started out slowly, picking up the pace only when they crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge.

Once they were past the Lincoln Memorial, no one near them, Osgood started talking.

“Something’s brewing in Red China,” he said without preamble, talking between deep breaths.

“What?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

“Armies are mobilizing all across the border. Seventy armored divisions, one hundred forty infantry divisions, support units all across the western border of White China. Four million uniformed men, all strung out along the border.” O’Shaughnessy said nothing, not wanting to break the flow of the CIA man’s monologue. When Osgood had paused long enough, making it clear he had stopped talking, O’Shaughnessy said, “Sounds like the entire People’s Liberation Army.”

“It is.”

“They calling this an exercise?”

“Nope. Nothing published.” Osgood pointed to the right. “Long way? Around the Tidal Basin?”

“Yeah. I’ve been missing miles. They don’t refer to their real exercises as exercises, do they?”

“Nope.”

“So maybe it is just an exercise.”

“They’ve pulled the divisions manning the Mongolian frontier. Airlifted most of them.”

“Fuel for that must have cost millions.”

“Yup. They pulled their divisions off the Indian border too.”

“That was gutsy. Nipun in India’s not the nicest guy, and he’s spoiling to grab territory.”

“We found out that all PLA military leaves are canceled.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“Leg’s cramping,” Osgood said, which is what he always said when O’Shaughnessy asked a question that went too far. The Navy man smiled, saying nothing, waiting for the spook to continue. But he didn’t.

“All leaves?”

“Every man.”

“I hate when it gets cold early,” O’Shaughnessy said as two pretty young women came jogging by from the other direction. Osgood smiled at them. They smiled back, then shot quick glances of appreciation at O’Shaughnessy. “Getting dark earlier now.” The women were out of earshot behind them. “Every goddamned man?”

“Yup.”

“What else?”

“All the airwing fighter aircraft have left the western and central bases. All of the jets have been moved east.