“But ma’am—”
“No buts. Tony. You’re staying. Pacino is to have the authority I have prescribed. Understand?”
“Yes, Madam President.”
She wondered, as she cut off the videolink, whether he did.
Pacino looked up as Murphy and McDonne came in the room. Their serious faces indicated the authenticators had shocked them into the awareness that this was no longer one endless drill, that the filmy boundary between peacetime and wartime had just been crossed.
Murphy held up the authenticator, so that both he and McDonne had it in sight at all times, since the little foil packet was so secret it was under two-man-control. Never in its lifetime, from printing to destruction, would an authenticator be under the control of one man alone. And for good reason, since one man with an authenticator could start an all-out war. Once Pacino set Defcon two, not a single unit of his sub force would listen to him or follow his orders without a valid authenticator.
Murphy held out the authenticator packet, the size of an Alka Seltzer foil container, and put it in front of Pacino. “Sir, it reads as authenticator number bravo five echo.” The name of the authenticator matched the one they had described in the subject area of the message to the fleet.
“Very well,” Pacino said. “Open the authenticator.”
“Open the authenticator, aye, sir,” Murphy said, opening the packet. A simple piece of cardboard was inside with the code “XC83JOEM” written in block letters. “Sir, authenticator reads x-ray, charlie, eight, three, Juliet, oscar, echo, mike.”
“Very well,” Pacino said, “insert the code into the message, verify it and transmit.”
It took some time to get the message out. The men reassembled in the seating area. “Sir,” Murphy said, “we’ve got as priorities getting you to sea, getting Piranha to sea, setting Defcon three. And then what?”
“Inspect the ships. Atlantic coast ships first. Talk to every skipper behind closed doors. Tell him what we know.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
“We have a contingency warplan for Scenario Orange for blockade erupting into war, correct scan? I remember doing revisions on that.”
“Admiral, we rewrote that eighty times.”
“Good thing we did, because here we go. Brief the skippers on the Oporder, which will be out of the Scenario Orange contingency-planning manual. How are the plans going for my trip to the Reagan?”
“Joanna’s got UAIRCOM working on it. Probably get a ride out of Pearl to the Reagan on an F-14.”
“Not good enough.” Pacino growled. “Get me out of Norfolk on an F-14. The SS-12 would be too slow.”
McDonne grabbed the phone on the end table. He whispered something to Joanna, then put the phone down. “She’ll go to work on an F-14 out of Oceana. The jet will come to you here at the airstrip, fuel up and be idling when we’re done. I assumed you’d be leaving after this briefing, sir.”
“Is my seabag ready?” Pacino kept a closet full of uniforms, submarine coveralls, at-sea sneakers, underclothes, shaving kit and reading disks, which had replaced books with the widespread use of the Writepad. He could have it packed for a sea trip within minutes.
“Should be ready in five minutes.”
“Brief the East Coast sub skippers on the warplan, then get them to sea, full deployment. I want them deployed to the Japan Oparea.”
“Panama Canal?”
Pacino considered. The canal passage was much faster than going around the horn or going under the polar icepack, but transiting the canal meant that Tokyo’s Galaxy satellites would see them coming. Which could be a good thing, except Pacino didn’t want them to know the exact number of subs that would be coming at them.
“Let’s start this out right. Give each captain the option. If they want to go under ice, let them. If they want the canal passage, okay. Just tell them I want them there in one piece as fast as they think they can make it.”
“Sir, polar passage is risky. And slow this time of year.”
“I know. But a few skippers will take it, anyway.”
“What would you do. Admiral?”
“Murph, I’d take it through the canal. It’s faster.”
“Sir, doesn’t giving them an option make it look like we don’t know what we’re doing?”
“Wrong, it makes it look like we trust our commanding officers. Don’t micromanage these guys.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Once the Atlantic boats are away, get the Hawaii ships to sea. Brief their skippers first, then get them going.”
“Yes sir.”
“When everyone is there in the Japan Oparea, I’ll be positioned to help the fleet. At that point your job, Murph, is to feed me as much information as you can to help me make decisions, and in the absence of word from me, make the orders to the fleet that you believe you need to. There’s only one thing.”
“Sir?”
“No one, no one, is to countermand any of my direct orders but the president. Not Wadsworth or anyone else. And if someone tries to give you orders of any kind to relay to the fleet, I want you to refuse, unless it is authorized by President Warner in person. And Sean, I don’t care if you have to go to jail to carry out that order.”
“I don’t understand. Admiral.”
“There’s a reason I’m going to sea aboard one of our subs. I want you to think about that and what I said before.”
“Aye, sir.” Murphy no longer looked confused, just concerned.
“Now, let’s work on a way to get all the USUBCOM authenticators out to the Reagan with me.”
“We’ll put them in a double-locked case, the same way we get them from the manufacturer to our safes, then have the F-14 pilot sign for them, then the radiomen aboard the Reagan, then the chopper pilots and the top-secret control officer aboard your final sub.”
“Make it happen.”
“Yes sir.”
“And Murph. About the Piranha. Get yourself up there personally. Visit there every twelve hours if you have to, between briefing skippers. But get that sub out to sea.”
“Admiral,” Joanna interrupted. “Your aircraft is at the naval air station and your car is waiting out front. The bag is packed and aboard the car.”
“Gentlemen, good luck. Keep me covered, Sean. CB, give Sean your max support.” Pacino shook their hands, wondering for a moment if he would ever see either of them again.
Pacino got out of the staff car and walked across the concrete apron to the waiting F-14 Navy fighter jet, impressed by the size of the plane. He was dressed in a flight suit and parachute. Joanna carried the case of authenticators and his flight bag and stowed them with the ground technician. Pacino returned Joanna’s salute, then shook her hand. She vanished into the car and watched from the window. Pacino turned to the pilot, a young officer with a name patch reading shearson and a flight helmet in the crook of his arm, the name on the flight helmet reading TUBESTEAK.
“Good afternoon. Admiral, I’m Lt. Brad Shearson. We’ll be on the way as soon as I can brief you on the trip.”
“Fine, Shearson. What’s your handle there from — after-hours exploits?”
“No, Admiral. I just eat a lot of hot dogs. I survived on them all through flight school. Admiral, you ever flown in a Tomcat before?”
“Never.”
“Let’s get you in the cockpit, first, sir.”
Shearson pointed Pacino to the wheeled ladder to the cockpit high above the concrete. Pacino looked down over the top of the wings of the two-engined craft with its twin tails, the wings extended outward but designed to be pulled in tight into a delta-wing configuration. It was astonishing how big it was. Pacino swore it was bigger than his twelve-passenger Gulfstream. He looked down into the cramped cockpit, the seat little more than an olive-drab section of canvas stretched across aluminum tubing. A flight helmet sat on the seat, shiny and new, two silver stars across the top, the words PATCH engraved in black letters.