Piranha: Firing Point

As a reward, Donchez gave Pacino permanent command of the Seawolf. He loved every minute of it, until the ship went down in the Labrador Sea in a confrontation with an Islamic supersub. After Pacino recovered, Donchez recommended he be given command of the newly formed Unified Submarine Command, and ever since Donchez had been Pacino’s mentor and adviser.

When the blockade around Japan was ordered by President Warner, Donchez counseled Pacino to run the operation from one of his forward-deployed submarines.

That had given him the independence he needed to make the operation work.

Without Donchez, Pacino would never have risen to flag rank. But it had been Donchez the man who was important to Pacino. When young Pacino had heard of his father’s death, he had been set adrift in a hostile world. Donchez had stepped in to be Pacino’s surrogate father. Hell, Pacino thought, Donchez had become his father. Pacino had not thought of him that way at the time, because their relationship had not always been smooth, but that was what proved how close they were— the essence of a father-son relationship was the struggle of the old to educate the young and the young to fight for independence. In hindsight, Pacino saw, Richard Donchez was more his father than Anthony Pacino could ever have been.

Pacino sat there on the bed, remembering, for what seemed like hours. Finally he pulled one of the chairs next to the bed and sat in it, eventually yielding to sleep.

In his dreams, he sweated and twitched, the memories rolling by. As he dozed, the man in the bed remained motionless.

Pacino awoke suddenly, in strange surroundings. The only light in the dark room came from a single fluorescent fixture above a hospital bed.

He sat up, his muscles cramped. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at his old Rolex, but the watch’s luminescent numeral dashes were no longer visible in darkness. He held it to the light, the timepiece showing a few minutes past four in the morning. He yawned, and when he looked down, he found himself still wearing the Nomex jumpsuit he’d flown in on the F-22 fighter, the suit sweat-stained and stale. At his feet was his flight bag, probably left there for him by Paully White. After a quick glance at Donchez, who still lay motionless, Pacino stood and carted the bag to the room’s small bathroom. It took him less than ten minutes to shower and change into his working khaki uniform, then return to Donchez’s bed.

The only indication that the old man was still alive were barely discernible sounds of his breathing and the faint beeps of the heart monitor. Pacino sat on the bed to wait.

He must have dozed off, for when he looked again at Donchez, he was startled to find his eyes open, looking up at him. Pacino said, in a rusty, croaking voice, “Dick, you’re awake!”

Donchez didn’t respond at first. His dim blue eyes were rimmed with bloodshot lines. His eyebrows — barely discernible dashes of light gray hair — were drawn down over his eyes in a frown. Still, Pacino grabbed his hand and smiled.

“The Reds,” Donchez said. Pacino barely heard him, the voice of an old man, all traces of his former vigor gone.

“What? Dick, don’t try to talk—”

“You’re up against the Reds, Mikey. Get in quick— ohhh,” Donchez groaned.

“Dick, please—”

“They’re getting subs.”

“What? Dick, come on, why don’t you—”

“Why don’t you listen to me. Admiral?” Donchez said, his old voice returning, a deep strength to it, his bald head beading with drops of sweat.

“Okay, Uncle Dick, I’m listening.” Pacino looked down with concern, both of Donchez’s hands in his. The old man began coughing, a wet, rattling sound. His eyes shut in pain. When the coughing attack was over, his face had turned beet red. He gasped for breath. “Dick, please take it easy. What is it?”

“Reds… have… will have… nuke subs. Plasma… torpedoes. East—” More coughing. Pacino tried to pull the old man up so the fluid would drain out of his lungs.

He finally stopped coughing, obviously an effort of great will. The heart monitor in the corner beeped insistently, faster and faster. “Chinasee.”

“What, what did you say?”

“East… China… Sea. Reds. Subs. Get in. Fast.”

“Dick, I don’t—”

“See… see… enn… oh…”

Pacino shook his head helplessly.

“Ohhh… shawn… ess… zee… chief… naval… opera—”

“Chief of Naval Operations? O’Shaughnessy?”

“Yes… you… talk… CNO…” Donchez’s eyes were shut in the effort to talk, deep lines inscribed around them, tears leaking, streaming down his face. He started to cough, then caught himself. He took a deep breath. “Red subs. Get in… fast.”

“Dick, try to rest. Try to cough.”

Donchez looked up, his eyes no longer even a dull blue but clouded over, milky, so wet Pacino could barely see the irises. “Take care… Mikey… my… son—”

A wet cough, and his body relaxed. He slumped in Pacino’s grasp, and he laid his head back on the pillow.

The heart monitor was faintly whistling through the room, the beeps gone.