Piranha: Firing Point

It would be just Pacino and White on this flight, Paully having sent Cressman back east with a Writepad full of instructions for Admiral Kane. As the Land Rover arrived at Jackson Airport, the wind was blowing the quarter-sized snowflakes at a gentle angle. The SS-12 could be seen behind the small general aviation building. Pacino directed the driver to pull up to it. The lights inside were a warm gold color, viewed in the darkness. As the Land Rover screeched to a halt, the hatch forward of the swept wing opened, a ladder extending downward to the snow. Pacino ran up and in, greeting the pilot, spinning his finger in a “start-engines” whirl Paully had barely shut the hatch behind them when the turbines came up in a moan, then a shriek.

“You know the airport’s closed, right, sir? The weather’s not good enough to take off. Admiral,” the pilot called back. He was well versed in the admiral’s disregard for most civil aviation weather restrictions.

“Of course it isn’t — because we’re in a hurry. Now, get this damned thing in the sky before it gets any worse.”

“If the FAA comes, it’s your ticket.”

“Haven’t paid those guys yet.”

The jet arrived at the end of the runway. The snow had been cleared off an hour before, leaving plenty of time for more snow to accumulate and drift from the wind. The pilot throttled up slowly, allowing the plane to accelerate gently on the slick surface, then, as the midpoint of the runway approached, he gunned it. After a tense moment of bouncing down the snowy runway, the supersonic transport rocketed skyward, engines howling.

Pacino took off his arctic parka and threw it on one of the seats up front, then burrowed into his seat. He turned on his Writepad, deciding to see the latest upload from Satellite News Network on the Chinese Civil War.

As he flashed through the magazine-style articles, the unit began to flash — urgent E-mail coming in.

He looked at his Rolex. The last thing he felt like doing after that hairy meeting at the Western White House was work, but he decided he might as well get the E-mail out of the way. After meeting Jack Daniels and getting confronted with his lack of attention to routine administration, Pacino had cleared his entire electronic desk off on O’Shaughnessy’s 777, so this would be the only E-mail. As he opened up the system, he saw it was top-secret release 24, the highest Pacino’s system could accept. He went through the software, validating his identity, even putting his thumb on the scanning sector so that he could make sure he was Michael A. Pacino before it downloaded.

He read the summary line, listing the date and time of transmission, the classification, the subject, and the sender. He looked at the summary, blinking in astonishment The line read:

Date: 4 Nov

Time: 0505Z

Classification Subject ____ TS Release 24 [Classified]

Sender: R. Donchez

A message from a dead man? Pacino felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

TETON VILLAGE

PRESIDENTIAL COMPOUND

She stood at the window and looked at the black Land Rover that drove Admiral Michael Pacino back to his staff plane. Now her RDF had set sail for White China, and her mind whirled with all the policy meetings she’d had in the week before, as Red China mobilized, and how they had been filled with guessing and unanswered questions, with the wild speculation of NSA Director Donchez before his collapse in his office last week, and with Lido Gaz’s exasperation with the idea of Red Chinese submarines in the East China Sea.

In Wamer’s customary attempt to flush out the opinions of her cabinet, she went around the room. The results were predictable. Al Meckstar, the easygoing VP, voted with Pacino, remembering for the room the devastation last time after the loss of the surface battle fleet to the Japanese. Lido Gaz was disgusted. He insisted the fleet hit the beach after all his work to get it underway fast, and then accused Pacino of failing to finish the SSNX, embarrassing the administration. General Pinkenson, consummate politician, chose a middle ground, suggesting the Japan-based aircraft deploy while the fleet steamed on. O’Shaughnessy voted with Pacino, enraging Gaz, who had to be canned by Warner. Finally Chris Osgood, CIA director, weighed in, gently disagreeing with O’Shaughnessy and voting for the present timeline.

Blowtorch Cogster, the National Security Adviser, attacked Pacino personally, calling his mental clarity into question. Finally she turned to the Secretary of State.

“And so now it comes to you, Secretary Masters.”

Masters drew himself up in his seat, puffed out his chest, and stuck his lower lip out.

“Madam, if you want my opinion, you’ll just have to hear it in private. I’m not rendering it here.”