Between Gaz and Pacino was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Bill Pinkenson, who shot Pacino a dazzling smile. Pinkenson always seemed like a favorite uncle, telling stories and talking to the troops. Yet when he focused on the task at hand, his judgment was sound and invariably on target.
As Pacino settled into his chair, he found every eye in the room looking at him. A bad taste rose to his mouth, a pool of bile forming in his stomach. This was not the kind of meeting where he would sit in and watch the debate go back and forth. He’d been called to give his opinion. For the tenth time that day, Pacino wondered why he was there, and why O’Shaughnessy had yet to talk to him.
“Admiral Pacino, I want to thank you for coming out with Admiral O’Shaughnessy.” President Warner smiled.
“I know we’ve kept you downstairs while we went through some things, but believe me, it was all boring stuff.” At that Lido Gaz frowned, as if saying Warner was going overboard. She sat back, gesturing with a laser pointer to the map. “I’m sure you gentlemen will correct me if I mess up this explanation to Admiral Pacino, and forgive me, Admiral, if I get any of this wrong, but here is how I understand this. You can see on the map, the big board, that our Rapid Deployment Force will be going in with the transport ships of the Naval Pacific Force Fleet. The target, and this is release 24, will be Wangpan Yang, the bay south of Shanghai. The generals think we have a good landing zone there. Our forces will fight their way to Shanghai and take this whole area. We’ve been discussing that for quite some time, so I’ve spared you about two hours of our deliberations. Once the beachhead is secure, our forces will move farther out to here, while we land more troops by airlift and sealift. Although the RDF will be striking quickly, our main force will be landed over the next weeks and months. Meanwhile we are planning to insert the 82nd Airborne Division here, deeper behind the lines, with the Seals and Green Berets here, the Joint Special Forces Brigade. As you may have suspected. Admiral, the key to this entire operation is the sealift and invasion from the sea. Our question to you centers on the East China Sea.”
Pacino swallowed. Here it comes, he thought. She’ll want to know if they can be assured that the sealift operation would be safe, even though the East China Sea would be an ideal hunting ground for submarines.
“Our three aircraft carriers of the Navforcepacfleet have two escort nuclear submarines, as I’m sure you’re aware. Admiral,” Warner continued, smiling slightly at him. “They, and the surface force, will be escorting nearly seventy ships, loaded with the Marines and the RDF. Now, you remember the discussion we had before the Japanese blockade, I assume.”
“Yes, Madam President,” he said, looking her in the eye.
“As I recall during that discussion, you were critical of the employment of our armed forces. And, as I recall, you were completely right.” Warner eyed the other men in the room. “Which is one reason you see so many new faces at this meeting that weren’t here last time.”
She was warning them, Pacino thought. It was no accident that O’Shaughnessy, Baldini, Pinkenson, and Gaz had come to power over the last eighteen months. Now that the pre-Japan crew had been fired, this group was being told that their decisions here had better work, or these men would also be sent packing. He glanced quickly at the four Pentagon leaders, and saw four poker faces.
“And that is one reason you’re here. Admiral. Consider yourself my rabbit’s foot.” The men laughed shallowly, and Pacino shifted in his seat. He was no Pinkenson, able to schmooze with the president and members of Congress, laughing and drinking with people who pushed the buttons on the future of the world. He could never do for a living what Dick O’Shaughnessy did, commanding the Navy on one hand, on the other glad-handing politicians. All he could do was speak his mind, tell his bosses what he thought. Yet here, he was speaking to a commander-in-chief in the face of three levels of his chain of command, any one capable of putting him in charge of paper clips in the Aleutians. He focused on Warner, waiting for her question.
“Since you were so right last time, this time there is one thing I want to know.” She looked at him, her blue eyes wide, her smile encouraging. “And that is, will this fleet be safe in the East China Sea? Can your two escort submarines keep them out of trouble? From any Red diesel subs, or mobile mines, or robot mines, or manned minisubs, or any other threats that the Reds may have? Are we doing the right thing here? If we’re putting our force in jeopardy, to hell with what I said to the press, I’ll backpedal like crazy if you tell me to. Is the fleet safe? You spoke up last time, and I should have listened. Now, please speak your mind, I guarantee I’ll listen.”
So will the rest of the room, he thought.
What did Pacino’s gut tell him? Daniels had proved to him that six Rising Sun submarines had sunk — say, disappeared. The Reds had jumped over the line into White China. They had done so without fear of reinforcements from the East China Sea. A senile old man had said that Pacino would be up against Red subs. For all Pacino really knew, Donchez might have been telling him he’d be standing against the red anti-barnacle paint of his own SSNX. But he was being too cerebral, he told himself. The real question was, What did his gut say?
“Madam President,” Pacino heard himself saying, his voice miraculously level and deep. “I would never presume to come into this group and think out loud. I would very much like to issue an opinion in two sentences that everyone here nods at, and you send me on my way. But before I give you my opinion, I just want to say a few things first.”
He had their complete attention. Daniels had raised an eyebrow. O’Shaughnessy had gone into his zombie stare. Baldini frowned, as did Lido Gaz, lines furrowing into his forehead. Pinkenson smiled encouragingly, though the smile was strained. National Security Adviser Cogster was leaning far back in his couch seat, his hands behind his head, his eyes half shut behind the wire-framed glasses.
“As a submarine admiral, I have some concerns about the East China Sea.”
“Now you tell us,” Gaz spat, only half under his breath.
“Madam President, gentlemen, this invasion was sudden. I know you stationed the RDF over in Yokosuka for just this contingency, Madam President, and I agreed with your decision to do that. I also fully support the speech you gave today. But, gentlemen, we need to recognize the risks. And one thing we’re risking is a submarine attack in the East China Sea.”
“What?” Cogster sputtered. “What the hell you talking about?”
Baldini joined in, peeved. “Pacino, what is this?”
“Admiral,” Lido Gaz said slowly, drawing out the first syllable, “do I understand you to say there are enemy submarines in the East China Sea?”
“I said we are taking risks,” Pacino continued, iron in his voice. “I didn’t say those risks were unjustified. But I have to tell everyone in this room, I’m worried about something. Number one, eleven days ago six frontline Japanese attack submarines disappeared.”
“Sank, you mean,” Cogster said.
“Did they?” Pacino shot back. “No emergency buoys, no black-box transmissions?” He was out on a limb, he knew, but Cogster had gotten his blood up.
“Let’s ask Chris Osgood what he thinks of that statement,” Gaz said in his peculiar lisping manner.
The CIA chief looked up, sitting straight. He shot a look at Pacino, and Pacino was sure there was an almost imperceptible nod behind it. Osgood put on reading glasses, half frames like O’Shaughnessy’s, and read through his Writepad. “Admiral Pacino is correct. There were no black-box buoys found at the wreckage sites. And no black-box transmissions recovered at NSA.”