Piranha: Firing Point

And finally, if Shanghai is the target, let’s set up a feint for someplace else, Tsingtao or Lian-yung-ang, and then zig our way to Shanghai.”

Pacino looked at the faces in the room. For a moment he was about to launch into a speech about Dick Donchez’s premonition, or vision, or hard intelligence, about Red subs, when Gaz asked him straight out: “Admiral, does your excessive caution here have anything, anything at all to do with Dick Donchez?”

Pacino glared at Gaz, trying not to blink. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see O’Shaughnessy’s head looking downward, slowly shaking from side to side.

“No,” Pacino said. “I hadn’t spoken to Dick in weeks, maybe months. When I got to the hospital, he was in a coma. He died within hours.” He felt like he’d just betrayed his own blood, his ear almost waiting to hear a rooster crow three times. Uneasy, he decided to press Gaz in return, to see what was going on. “Why? What’s the deal with Dick Donchez? Why did you ask me that, Mr. Secretary?”

Gaz waved the question away, as if it were insignificant, yet he was flustered.

“Admiral, we all know how you felt about Director Donchez,” Wamer said to him, her face serious, looking him in the eyes. “Toward the end he was saying some odd things, some, well, quite frankly, some very wild things.” Pacino shot a look at Daniels, whose eyes were on the rug. “And he was convinced that the Red Chinese had plans afoot to obtain submarines.” She looked at Pacino even harder.

“Madam President, I appreciate your concern.” He was about to mention that he’d only been briefed on the Japanese subs that very day, but decided that, as John Paul Jones had said, discretion was the better part of valor, and said instead, “I don’t have anything from Donchez on this. I’d have to ask Director Daniels his opinion on this subject. He was closer to Donchez than anybody here.”

The focus of the room immediately turned from Pacino to Daniels, as if in the lions’ den he’d thrown a raw T-bone steak at the young NSA director. Wamer stood and walked around the back of O’Shaughnessy’s and Baldini’s couch to Daniel’s chair.

“Well, Jack?” she asked. “What’s your report?”

“Well, Madam President, at NSA we’re running a code-breaking shop, not a naval intelligence task force.

We were busy intercepting the Japanese comms coming down on the loss of the Rising Suns and the Red Chinese as they mobilized. I never saw Donchez discuss this or give any evidence. And frankly, Dick was busy himself.” “Doing what?” Wamer asked.

“Dying,” the outspoken agency chief shot back.

Wamer sighed, walking back to the fireplace. “Admiral Pacino, your advice on taking cautions with the fleet is duly noted. And we sincerely appreciate your input I assume you’ll be returning to Norfolk now?”

“No, ma’am, I’ve got work in Peari Harbor.” He didn’t feel like mentioning the SSNX, a sore subject with the president “Have you got a ride?” she asked, gesturing with her chin toward the window. Snow had begun falling, driven by a slight wind, the flakes large in the gable’s spotlights.

“Staff plane’s at Jackson Airport,” he said, looking at her, standing up and buttoning his service dress blue jacket “Well, then, good luck. Admiral. Thanks again.” With that she came over to him. He tensed for a moment unsure of what was going on. Over a head shorter than him, she put her arms around him, hugging him slightly, and gave him a brush on his cheek with her lips, the gesture a sister would give him.

He felt the heat on his face, sure he was blushing, as he turned to the room, nodding to Wamer and his Pentagon bosses. “Madam President, Mr. Secretary, Generals, Admiral.” He spun on his heel and followed the staff woman quickly down the log stairs, exhaling in relief as he hit the bottom step.

The Land Rover Warner had lent Pacino spun its wheels, finally digging into the fresh, powdered snow and bouncing down the road leading to Route 390.

Pacino had changed into working khakis, wearing an arctic parka over the light uniform. While he had been changing, back in the room, Paully had given him a sardonic look.

“You been kissing the Secret Service girl?”

“What?”

“Your cheek? Lipstick? Honestly, I leave you alone for a half hour, and look what trouble you get into—” “Shut up,” Pacino said, grinning. Wiping off Wamer’s mark, he felt an odd guilt that he was finding humor in what had been the bleakest period of his life since his divorce. Something came back to him, something one of his submarine skippers, Bruce Phillips, had said to sonarman Gambini, the one who’d lost his wife — he’d said, “don’t feel bad about feeling good.” A seemingly obvious comment, but perhaps only those who’d lost a close loved one knew how tough it was to do just that.

Yet perhaps that was the meaning of the dream he’d had, at least what he could remember of it, that he should do whatever he could to move on, and the past would forgive him for moving on.