“Still not enough? How about the comms we broke from Red China in the months before this war broke out? We got some quite juicy things out about an Operation Red Dagger. I’m not going into the details of that, but suffice it to say, a while back a Korean sub sank with no warning. It sank because it was hijacked, then intentionally scuttled as a demonstration. Number Four has all the details on that, by the way.”
“So why didn’t I or NSA go to Warner with this, or the CNO, or Gaz? By now you’ve probably answered your own question. There’s a certain knowledge you and I have because we were sub officers, Mikey, and until you’ve looked at a cruise ship at close range off Club Med, seen it in periscope crosshairs, knowing you could take it down with one shot, with no one knowing it was you, you don’t know what being a submariner is. Warner’s officials don’t know and they don’t want to know.”
“I tried to tell them about the Rising Suns. Every person I told about it in private mysteriously forgot about it. I spoke to advisers in groups. Same cold shoulder. I went to Warner and Gaz. Now, a lot of the evidence hadn’t come in yet, and I was coughing and in a lot of pain, and Gaz heard what I was driving at, and he wouldn’t let me finish the briefing. Warner leans on him, and also on a Harvard professor named Masters who thinks he knows everything. If they disagree with you, you are sunk.”
“But I didn’t want you going in cold, so I asked Number Four to give you some things to think about, but at the same time I didn’t want your credibility as damaged as mine is. Maybe that way you can still get something done.”
“Now, I asked you to listen to me, and I hope you still are. You probably recommended to Warner that she use caution in using the RDF. You will not see caution from her on this. Push to do anything you can to get those Rising Suns, but realize something — they are good, and the only thing we can hope for is that the Reds can’t operate them very well.”
“Beyond that, my clairvoyance is at an end. For all I know, the mere threat of using the RDF has sent the Reds scurrying back home and you’re on your way to trying to get the SSNX ready to go. Or perhaps the worst has happened, and the Reds sank the entire RDP, and we lost White China. I don’t know.”
“But I do know this. Whatever happens, your instincts will be right. Follow them, Mikey. And use O’Shaughnessy and Number Four. They’re good resources, good men. They can help you.”
Donchez paused, taking a final puff and putting the cigar out.
“And now, Mikey, if anyone else is watching this with you, please ask them to step away for a moment. I want to talk to you.”
Paully White left, reaching for another cigarette in the smoke-filled cabin. Pacino kept watching.
“Listen, goddammit, I know you’ll mourn my death. The only thing I regret, the only thing, is that I’m not around to help you anymore. You’re on your own, Mikey. I don’t know what’s in store for me, but if I can help you from the great beyond, I’ll try to. I’ve got to tell you, though, I believe that this life is it. After that it’s dirt and dust and worms and blackness. Nothing more. But so what? You have to keep living, you have to keep pushing. And even if you lose this thing with the Reds, even if Warner tosses your career down the toilet and you become just some guy going to a job during the day and watching television at night, I want you to know something.” Donchez cleared his throat and then blew his nose. “I love you, Mikey. You’re my son, more my son than if you had come from me, and I know Tony, your father, would appreciate my saying that. And you’ve been a wonderful son to me, Mikey. I don’t want you having any doubts, any regrets.”
The old man’s eyes filled with water. He brushed it away with his handkerchief, annoyed.
“Just one more thing, Mikey. You’ve got to move on, move on from losing me, move on from losing Eileen. You can’t do your job if you live in the past. And your job is being yourself. Do your job, Mikey. Be yourself, the one you once were when we were younger and you commanded the Devilfish. That’s why I renamed the SSNX program, Mikey, so you would remember.”
“So remember, my son. Remember.” Donchez coughed, drying his eyes and his nose again. “Goodbye.”
His lip quivered, just for a second, and then the image vanished, the screen reading:
MESSAGE SELF-DELETED
Pacino turned off the Writepad and stared out the window.
“Operation Sealift is now into its eleventh hour, Bernard,” the reporter said.
She stood in front of a massive Sea King helicopter, the block letters reading U.S. NAVY above the door. The rotors were spinning above her head at idle. The reporter was pretty, dark hair and green eyes, long, elegant fingers holding her microphone. A crewman handed her a helmet, the kind that bulged at the ears with a built-in headset.
“We’re going on a trip aloft from the deck of the USS James Webb to take a look at this huge fleet, the biggest armada ever to go to sea.”
The camera view followed the reporter as she went to the far side of the helicopter where there was a large opening.
“Bernard, they’re hooking me to a safety line now so I won’t fall out this doorway, and from here we should be able to see the entire formation of the fleet.”
The noise of the helicopter grew to a roar as the chopper throttled up and took off from the deck. In the lower right side of the television was a small logo that read SNN, for Satellite News Network, a small dual panel below reading 2:10 a.m. EST, a second one reading 2:10 p.m. China Time. On the lower left side was a war logo that SNN had concocted, showing a Red Chinese flag next to a burning White Chinese flag next to an American flag. The words underneath read OPERATION SEALIFT.
The view from the helicopter changed to a gray patch of deck, a section of the sea, and the overcast sky. As the view rotated, the island of the carrier came into view.
The tall structure was a naval architect’s dream, a sort of slender pyramid, but with layers on it, each layer bristling with equipment — slanting large, flat panels of phased-array Aegis radars, spheres holding radars, and on top a gigantic flat radar that rotated slowly, majestically above the structure. Flags flew from the island’s tall aft mast, the biggest an American flag two stories tall. Painted on each face of the island was the number 80. The chopper continued to rise until the entire carrier came into view. The vessel was streamlined and impressive, the deck one huge expanse of flat gray, angled off to the side. The forward deck rose slightly in a ski-jump arrangement, the bow sharp, a razor cutting into the sea.
The wake behind the mighty ship was violent and foaming on a dark blue sea. It could be seen extending far behind the ship, still white and churning in the sea. From afar the carrier seemed to be plowing the sea with purpose and determination.