Piranha: Firing Point

Warner looked at him, one of the most levelheaded, intelligent, and clear-thinking cabinet members she had ever had, but also one of the most pugnacious, far outdoing Gaz on that score. She knew better than to order him to speak — he’d resigned on her too many times for her to do that now. And she needed his opinion. Besides, it was late, far after midnight, and she needed to make a decision.

“We’ll recess again,” she said to the room. “Secretary Masters, please stay. Everyone else, please leave the room, but don’t leave the building and don’t fall asleep.

I’ll reconvene this meeting soon.”

The men filed from the room. When they had gone, talking amongst themselves, Masters’ expression softened.

He joined her at the coffeepot, putting his hand on her shoulder in a fatherly gesture.

“How you holding up, Jaisal? You okay? Anything I can do?”

She put her hand on his, grateful for the support, feeling all the stress and pressure hit her at once. What she wouldn’t give for a real skiing vacation, not one of these winter nightmares.

“I’m fine, Freddy. Thanks. Now give it to me straight.

What the hell do we do?”

“You mean, what are you gonna do? Because after I give you this advice I’ll deny I said anything. Seriously, though, you don’t have time for all this submarine nonsense. You gotta go straight on till morning. None of this zigzag stuff. Just keep plowing.”

“What about the airborne patrols?”

Masters sighed. “If we do all that flying around with antisubmarine planes, those sharp-cookie Pentagon correspondents will shout to the world that we’re flapping about enemy subs. It’s a loser.”

“And what about the fleet formation?”

“We’re showing the flag here. Half the reason SNN is onboard the Webb is that they’re unwittingly campaigning for us. We need a background with cruisers and destroyers and all seventy troop transports. We need to look good out there. You ever think about why they used to have parades, showing the troops? Check out your history. Back in the days when the infantryman was the ultimate weapon, countries thought that if they paraded their soldiers with guns, other countries would count the men and say, whoa, too much, we ain’t messing with them. Well, this is a parade, except we’re doing it at sea. We need to march across that East China Sea like it’s a parade ground. We’re the cavalry, so we gotta ride high in the saddle with flags flying, guns blazing.”

“But what about the risks Pacino mentioned? And what about the Japanese subs that vanished?”

“Oh, please, they sank, Jaisal. Don’t give in to Donchez’s senile drama. Let’s keep our heads on. There ain’t no ghosts and there ain’t no Rising Suns flying Red Chinese flags. Now, can I please go to bed? I’m telling you, you and your damned five-hour encounter sessions, I’ve gotta sit on my fat butt and listen to your political appointees try to find their butts with both hands. Christ, what the hell do you think I was doing with my time, planning my investments? No, I’m covering your pretty little rear end and thinking this thing through. The sad thing is, I feel like I’m the only one thinking it through.

Everyone else is looking for the political answer, all afraid Iron Jaisal Warner’s gonna fire them and send them home like you did the Japan crew.”

“Okay, okay, enough, Freddy. That’s my style, and those are my advisers, each of them as handpicked as you are. They just see reality differently, that’s all.”

“I think they’re blind.” “Freddy, my daddy said something to me I’ll always remember. You know the story of the elephant and the blind men? Well, reality is an elephant, and we are all blind. So, Freddy, you want to know reality, you’ve got to interview every blind man who’s touched the elephant.”

“Do me a favor, Jaisal? Just don’t seat me next to the blind man who tried to find out about the elephant’s asshole, okay?”

Wamer laughed. “Carol, get the advisers back!”

“What’s your decision?”

“Patrol planes from Japan. Escort subs go on ahead to sweep the sea. Otherwise, damn the Red subs, full speed ahead, parade field formation. Let’s make it look good, and get the hell to the beach. We’ll know by dinnertime tomorrow if it works.”

“Attagiri. You explain that to the blind men. I’m going to bed.”

STORM

Chapter 8 Monday November 4

WESTERN OREGON

ALTITUDE: 53,000 FEET

“Paully,” he said dully, “I think you’d better look at this.”

“What’s up?” White called from aft, where he’d been searching for a Coke.

“And while you’re at it, you’d better tell me what the Navy regulations say about a mentally incapacitated commander, how and when he can and should be relieved.” “Okay,” White said, frowning, walking forward. “Why, one of your skippers go bananas?” “No. I’m talking about me,” he said thrusting the Writepad at White. The summary line clearly showed the message had been sent two minutes before, and was from Dick Donchez.