Piranha: Firing Point

All hell broke loose, cameras thrust toward the president, a thousand voices shouting a thousand questions, some barely heard, some phrases echoing out over the snow: “What about the allies?”

“The European Union president talked to you by—”

“Will you be attacking Beijing—”

“—Russian Prime Minister in London—”

“—air raids—”

“—nuclear weapons?”

“—Madam President, what about Japan—”

“—declaring war?”

“—Madam President!”

Wamer ascended the steps of the lodge deliberately, unhurriedly, the slim woman looking almost regal as she walked in the open door.

Chapter 7 Sunday November 3

40 MILES SOUTHEAST OF PITTSBURGH

ALTITUDE: 41,000 FEET

Pacino stared out the window as the barren scenery slipped below, the aircraft climbing steadily to its cruising altitude.

His thoughts had turned to Dick Donchez, missing him, wondering what he would make of this situation.

He shut his eyes, leaning against the window, and thought about Eileen, missing her too, but feeling a guilt that he missed her — was it possible? — less than Donchez.

It occurred to him that Dick’s death was moving him into the next sphere of his life, where Donchez and Eileen no longer existed. Was that possible? Would the pain of missing them ever not exist…?

Hell, he thought, this was all part of the craziness of losing Uncle Dick. He must still be in a kind of shock.

A shock he had to shake off if he was to keep his stars.

A half-remembered dream came back to him, something about Eileen with no face and the SSNX. And what Donchez had said about Red subs.

Now that the Reds were attacking, he wondered, could Donchez have been trying to tell him something?

Up to now he’d dismissed the rambling speech, assuming it to be part of the old man’s delirium. Maybe he should reconsider.

A knock rapped on the door of the office cabin he’d been assigned with Paully White and Kathy Cressman while they waited for O’Shaughnessy to call the staff meeting in the forward cabin. Cressman looked at him, and he nodded. “Come in,” she called.

The door smoothly opened, revealing a figure standing in the doorway with a half smile on his face. Pacino stood, thinking the man lost. He looked somewhat familiar, but Pacino was certain he’d never met him. He was as tall as Pacino, but without his gauntness, the man conveying a sense of solidity and certainty, a sort of body confidence, as if he were a professional ballplayer.

He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, yet didn’t seem young. His hair was long, slicked back from his forehead to his neck. His features were Irish but seemed almost too large, his eyes light green over a protruding nose, his mouth smiling over a strong jaw with an indented chin. He wore a dark sports coat over a linen shirt, the kind that buttoned at the throat like a choker collar, no tie, khaki chinos, and after-ski hiking boots.

Pacino was about to tell the man he was lost, when normally reserved Kathy Cressman leapt to her feet and threw her arms around the big man, squealing, “Jack!

Jack Daniels, you son of a bitch! Where have you been?”

“Golfing, mostly,” the dry reply came.

Pacino shot a look at Paully, who looked back with a raised eyebrow. Cressman pulled away, smoothing her dress and her hair, her face red.

“Sorry, Admiral. You know Jack Daniels?”

“I need the admiral alone,” Daniels muttered to Cressman. Just like that she seemed to disappear into thin air. Daniels looked up, extending his big hand, his smile from before looking like more of a snarl. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t friendly. “My name is Daniels.

Mason W. Daniels the fourth. Director — temporary director — of the National Security Agency. Everybody just calls me Jack.”

Pacino held out his hand tentatively. “What do your friends call you?”

“Frequently,” Daniels said, dropping his hand before Pacino gripped it, an edge to his voice. “What the hell, Admiral. I’ve put in no less than eighteen requests to talk to you on your goddamned Writepad. Dick Donchez says, ‘Oh, yeah, you call Mikey, he’ll get right with you.’ Well, bullshit. Kathy ought to be asking where the hell you’ve been. Admiral, not me.”

“Pleased to meet you too,” Pacino said. “It’s been wonderful, really, but I’m sure you’ll excuse us if—”

“I was trying to reach you for a reason. Then I tried to get you at Dick’s funeral. You were a zombie, so I left you alone. Then I rang you at your Annapolis house, where Kathy said you were staying. No answer. I rang it off the hook.”

Pacino wasn’t surprised. He’d unplugged the main connection to the phone center after the funeral, assuming the calls were coming from reporters. He sat down, waving Daniels to a seat.

“So, what’s on your mind?” he said, his voice authoritative but feeling uneasy in the presence of the angry agency head.

“Who’s he? Captain White?”

“Meet Paully White, my chief of staff,” Pacino said, giving White a conversational promotion. “He’s cleared for everything I’m cleared for.”