Piranha: Firing Point

Said he’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Said he had only a few weeks to live. Goes to show you what doctor’s time lines are worth — he beat the hell out of that estimate. But he asked me if I’d do something for him. He called it one of his last two requests to me, said I’d been a great staffer for him, and needed two last favors. And here I am, I mean, what the hell am I gonna say?” O’Shaughnessy’s big hands spread apart in a comical gesture of helplessness. “I ask him what he wants.

He looks at me and says, ‘Richard, you gotta take care of Mikey Pacino for me.’ I bite my tongue and say, ‘Look, from what I can see, that guy doesn’t need anybody to take care of him.’ He gets pissed off, throws a spaz attack, just like the classic Donchez of old, and just like the days when I used to bring him coffee, I back up and say, ‘Okay, okay, yessir.’ So then I asked him what he meant, what he wanted me to do, how he wanted me to do it, and Jesus, you know that crusty old bastard Dick Donchez, he just looks at me, fires up a cigar and says, ‘O’Shaughnessy, you’re a grown-up, a bright SOB, tough-guy Navy Seal, made CNO, four-star admiral, you figure it out.’ I’m not biting. I mean, what the hell is he talking about?”

O’Shaughnessy got up to poke the fire, threw two more logs on. He went to the desk and poured more scotch from a crystal decanter, gestured at Pacino, who nodded. The Irishman carried the glasses over, handed one to Pacino, and sat back down.

“All he says is, ‘Look, Richard, Mikey’s not just like my son, he is my son. But I’m not gonna be here anymore, so I want you to protect him.’ He points the cigar at me, and I say, ‘Fine.’ He gets up to leave, go back to his NSA headquarters, and I say, ‘Listen, you said there were two requests. What’s the other?’ He stops at the door and hands me an envelope. ‘Don’t open that till I’m gone,’ he says, then slams the door behind him.”

“What was it?” Pacino asked.

“I’m getting to that. But before I do, I have to go back to my original question. Where did Patch Pacino go? What happened to him?”

“I’m not sure—”

“Yeah, you do. Patch,” O’Shaughnessy said, looking at Pacino with his trademark stare. An uncomfortable silence lingered in the room, the logs popping in the fireplace the only sound.

Finally Pacino grew tired of the look.

“Sir, I don’t know what you want. Maybe I should just go,” he said, standing.

“Sit the fuck down,” O’Shaughnessy said, cold steel in his voice. Pacino sat. O’Shaughnessy continued, “Two years ago, after the blockade was over. President Warner decides to push the SSNX submarine program, you’re in charge of it, and it’s kicking ass. Now, a year after that, the ship is pulled out of Electric Boat and taken to Hawaii, a zillion miles from the experts, progress is crappy, your reports don’t say why, in fact, they don’t say anything at all. You’ve deserted your command, your staff is doing your job for you out in Norfolk, the Unified Submarine Command is a shambles, and the entire Navy, Congress, and the White House want to know why. I want to know why.”

“Sir—”

“Shut up, I’m not finished. Now I find out that SS/Ws Cyclops computer battlecontrol system failed its Cl test. Which, as I understand it, puts the ship a year behind schedule. And I don’t find that out from you. I don’t find it out from your staff, I don’t find it out from the Dynacorp ship superintendent.”

“How did you find out?” Colleen, Pacino figured.

O’Shaughnessy reached below the lamp stand and pulled out his Writepad. He clicked the software until the on-line version of the Washington Post came up on the screen. He handed the computer to Pacino. The headline read:

SSNX SUPERSUB CALLED ‘SCRAPMETAL’ BY TRACHEA

Pacino scanned the article. Senator Eve Trachea, the National Party leading member of the Armed Services Committee and Warner’s opponent in the coming election, had blown the whistle on the SSNX, saying that its computer system was hopelessly fouled up, that the submarine would likely never sail, that the trillion-dollar weapon system was a hopeless failure, indicative of the Warner administration’s wasteful and unwise defense spending during a time of peace.

“I don’t get it, Pacino. You blow off your command, you decide to work on your new sub program as your only duty, and you screw that up. Hell, from what I’ve seen, the only thing that’s kept you in office is that President Wamer liked you. I say that in the past tense, by the way, because she also liked the SSNX program, and it’s not exaggerating to say that that submarine may cost her the next election. So I’ll ask again. Patch, what’s going on with you?”

Pacino looked at him, wondering why he was taking this approach. If he was to be fired, why didn’t the admiral just get on with it? Then the older man’s voice mellowed.