It had taken Pacino all day to set up to penetrate the antisubmarine net around the carrier but he finally had sneaked in past the outer barriers and had gotten in close. He could have simply launched a series of purple flares from the center of the task force, but somehow that didn’t seem enough. Pacino had maneuvered Devilfish directly beneath the Eisenhower, steamed up on her port side, the opposite side of the ship from the island and bridge. Pacino had launched a purple flare from the signal ejector, filming it from the periscope as it arced high in the sky and landed on Wadsworth’s flight deck. The carrier flight-deck crew had panicked, not expecting the burst of purple smoke from out of nowhere. The crew had treated it like a fire, stringing out hoses, alarms blaring. Pacino had gone deep, increased speed to flank and pulled away from the carrier, then when he was a mile away, had come back up to periscope depth and taken a panoramic photograph of the Eisenhower, the purple smoke obscuring half the deck, frantic firefighters scrambling to put out the flames.
Back in port after the incident, the squadron commander had called Pacino to his stateroom on the tender and chewed him out for a quarter-hour. Wadsworth had apparently put up a stink about Pacino violating safety rules with the flammable smoke grenade, not to mention violating the Oporder and showing that a lone submarine could humiliate the carrier battle group’s antisubmarine defenses and get close enough to poop a flare onto the carrier’s deck, which, of course, was the idea. All that saved Pacino’s career was that at the time Admiral Donchez was Commander Submarines US Atlantic Fleet, and had admired Pacino’s gutsy move. But even Donchez had taken Pacino aside to tell him to save his aggression for real combat and not embarrass politically connected senior officers.
When a few months later Wadsworth had held a reception on board the Eisenhower for the fleet staff, one of Pacino’s junior officers had presented Wadsworth with a framed four-foot-wide blowup of the periscope photograph of Eisenhower with her deck half-obscured by purple smoke, the crosshairs on the picture leaving no doubt who had taken the photo. Another junior officer had snapped a shot of Wadsworth looking at the huge photo, his mouth wide open in shock and anger. That photo had been framed and hung on the bulkhead of Devilfish’s wardroom. The incident had been somewhat typical of Pacino’s approach to life and to command before the arctic mission Donchez had sent him on, the one that had led to Devilfish’s sinking. The years before that ice-cap mission now seemed so remote as to be from somebody else’s life, but the fallout from them was still real, including Wadsworth’s feelings about Pacino.
Pacino emerged from his reminiscence to look at Donchez, closeted as he was with men who were as difficult for him as Wadsworth was for Pacino. Sitting in the chairs next to Leach were Air Force general Felix Clough, the outgoing Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Army general Kurt Sverdlov, the newly nominated chairman. Pacino knew Donchez and Clough shared a professional dislike that went back decades, based partly on each man’s disregard for the other’s service. But Clough was a lame duck, and Sverdlov and Donchez seemed to be forming a close working relationship, Sverdlov apparently realizing that having a friend at NSA could help him. Meanwhile, Donchez was no longer in the Navy or in competition with Sverdlov the way he had once been with Clough. Pacino knew that Donchez hoped that when Leach was gone he would inherit CIA, and from that point on, the Blowtorch notwithstanding, he would have a seamless, functional network surrounding and leading up to the president.
As if cued by Pacino’s thought, President Jaisal Warner swept into the office with aides in tow, her low-voiced orders flying to each until she reached her seat and dismissed them. The men in the room all stood as if someone had called them to attention. Warner waved them to their seats. Pacino tried not to stare at her, but wasn’t successful.
Jaisal Warner was only in her second year in office, yet it was already a charmed administration. Warner had come into office almost unopposed, the previous incumbent withdrawing from the race for reasons of health, his announcement coming just after Warner was nominated. His party’s nomination was a tired old senator who was in the race for show.
Warner’s campaign had focused on her energy and competence as the remarkably successful governor of California, where her hard-nosed leadership had pulled the state out of severe financial troubles. After the governorship she had become the state’s junior senator yet had been named to the Armed Services Committee, making news with her proposals on revolutionizing the military. She had become something of a media darling, as well as of even the military and the American people over a period of ten years. Her campaign slogan still graced the bumpers of countless cars, the green letters proclaiming on a white field: JAISAL WARNER — JUST GET OUT OF HER WAY.
Even her name was symbolic of her rise to power — the name Jaisal was Indian for “victory.” Her first hundred days in office had been a thunderstorm of activity as she cleaned house in the government, eliminating half the government bureaucracy and replacing the administrators with handpicked replacements. She made the cover of Time three times in two years, one caption reading: JAISAL CLEANS UP, the next: WARNER’S MACHINE, the third: GOVERNMENT NOW WORKS! the last in capital letters with an exclamation point. Warner seemed to live for crises, Donchez had once remarked to Pacino. She often quoted wartime leaders, her favorites Winston Churchill, the two Roosevelts, Eisenhower, even Nixon, but her clear number one was Margaret Thatcher.
Warner stood now in front of the large chair at the desk end of the couch-and-chair arrangement. She was in her late forties, and remained a very beautiful woman. She wore a dark suit, the skirt midlength, with a cream silk blouse, a small diamond necklace at her throat. Her hair was cut in a bob, the straw color graying but attractive. Her hands were graceful, her fingers long and unadorned by rings. Her husband had died when she was in the Senate, and she had never remarried, all her energy pouring into her job. Her eyes were dark and unreadable, but the lines around her mouth seemed to indicate her concern. When she spoke, her voice was clear.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. “Please sit down.” She remained standing herself. “I assume you’re all up to speed on what’s happened in Greater Manchuria. I think you should all see this.” She nodded at an aide, who passed out folders.
Pacino opened his, finding an advance copy of the next week’s Time magazine. On the cover was: JAPAN STRIKES AGAIN. Pacino opened the old-fashioned paper magazine, this version the one that would be sold on the newsstands.
Magazines had gone digital four years before so that they could be downloaded onto a Writepad personal notesheet computer, but some people, particularly the over-fifty generation, preferred a hardcopy to hold in their hands, so the glossy paper version continued to be published. A photo of Kurita was shown, the caption quoting him as saying Japan had nothing to do with the attack. Another picture showed the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs spokesman issuing the statement that the bombing was justified to eliminate the threat of the nuclear weapons in Greater Manchuria, making Kurita an instant liar. The lack of coordination of the Japanese government was astonishing, as it added even more to the picture of Kurita as a treacherous operative. Next was a story on the growing sentiment of Americans to “do something” about Japan, the bar graphs showing the burgeoning anti-Japanese sentiment. A final article profiled the US military, showing the possible military options that could be used against Japan. No one had attacked the US directly, but the mood of America now approached the intensity of feeling immediately before Pearl Harbor, if Time’s graphics were to be trusted.