“Roundabout way to get to the office,” Pacino remarked to Joanna.
“You’re the man of the hour. Admiral,” she said, looking at him strangely. “They all want to know what your submarines are going to do to keep the backup RDF out of the drink.”
Pacino grimaced at her. “So do I. Come on, let’s get to work.”
A jeep at the peninsula pier took them the half mile to the USUBCOM building. The white three-story edifice looked like it had been built in the Hawaii of 1905, complete with columns and small windows, yet inside it was equipped with the latest technology. Pacino’s office had the only large window, looking out over the East Loch toward the submarine piers, now empty. The office had a feeling of tropical airiness, and on the light, knotty pine plank walls were framed photographs of nuclear submarines, old friends standing next to the sails of their subs, a picture of Pacino the day he took command of the Seawolf, a picture of Donchez standing by his ancient Piranha, and a photo yellow with age, of Anthony Pacino and his young son standing next to the sail of the Stingray.
Facing the window was a huge desk made of the timbers of the USS Bonhomme Richard, John Paul Jones’ ship from over two centuries before. The desk had two lamps and a dozen photographs of young Tony Pacino.
On one side of the desk was a black glass conference table used for videoconferences and meetings. On the other side was Pacino’s oak library table, where he did most of his work.
He threw his hat on the library table and sank into the chair, already thinking.
“Chart display,” he said, snapping his fingers. Paully White found the large electronic chart computer display and put it on the empty table. Pacino punched into the large menu and configured the display to show the East China Sea, then the sea between Hawaii and Japan. He studied it for some time, then looked up at Paully.
“I’m ready. Joanna, get the videoconference set up, then get with Emmitt Stephens and Colleen O’Shaughnessy. Tell them they’ll be on next in about ten minutes. Then when we’re done with them, get Dick Livingston in here.”
Paully White and Pacino sat at the glass videoconference table and waited for the screen to come up.
“What are you going to do, boss?” White asked quietly as the presidential seal flashed on the large video widescreen.
“Just watch,” Pacino hissed. Warner’s face appeared, her eyes glazed and tired, her hair — for the first time in Pacino’s memory — not perfectly coiffed. Next to her was an equally tired-looking Dick O’Shaughnessy.
“Admiral,” Warner said, smiling. “Let’s get to it. Have you thought about what we’re going to do with your submarines? And how to escort in the backup RDF? And will these Red submarines be penetrating the deep Pacific to get the RDF? And when will we be able to come ashore in White China?”
She still didn’t understand, Pacino thought. If he was going to win this submarine war, he would need to control it all, including the timing, the surface force, the media, and the president herself.
“I’ve thought about all that, ma’am. And the answer is good. Madam President, I have a plan to clear the East China Sea of these Red submarines and get the backup RDF to shore with no losses. We can win this thing, ma’am. And I can make that happen for you.”
“Okay,” Warner said, one eyebrow lifted. “And exactly how do you plan to do that?”
“Believe me. Madam President, Admiral O’Shaughnessy, the plan is solid. I’m sure you’ll find out just how solid when General Baldini comes ashore with every single man of the force behind him.”
Warner scowled, unused to having her questions evaded.
“Admiral Pacino, what is your plan?”
“My plan is to take full command of the U.S. Naval Force Pacific, including all elements — the Unified Naval Air Command, the Unified Surface Naval Command, the Navforcepacfleet, including the backup Rapid Deployment Force. All force commanders will report to me, and I will have absolute authority over the entire operation. General Baldini will be my subordinate until we reach a point twenty miles from the beach, at which point he will take tactical command from me with the exception of the submarine assets of the USUBCOM and the ships of the Navforcepacpleet, which will remain under my operational command.”
“During the RDF’s transit to Chinese waters, all elements of the press will be ejected from the ships of the RDF and flown back to Hawaii. The press will be absolutely in the dark about the operation, and in fact Admiral Copenflager of the task force will have orders to send F-22 fighters aloft to intercept any aircraft of any nationality trying to see what the task force is doing, including aircraft chartered by the press. All such planes will be jammed and escorted to Hickam Air Force Base, where they will be impounded and the reporters detained until the end of the operation. If press planes fail to turn back, they will be fired upon.”
“Hold on right there, Admiral!” Warner was furious. “What the hell are you talking about, firing on reporters, are you crazy?”
“Madam President, that’s my plan. I want orders in writing from you and Admiral O’Shaughnessy making me supreme commander-in-chief U.S. Pacific Military Forces, and I want it in twenty minutes. Then don’t plan on hearing anything for a while, a week, ten days. The next thing you’ll hear is a call from the Red Chinese ambassador begging your forgiveness.”
“Pacino!” O’Shaughnessy began to shout, but Warner put her hand on his gold-striped sleeve.
“Admiral, this is impossible, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to know your plan for your subs, and I want it now.”
“No,” Pacino said.
“What?” A look of disbelief crossed her features.
“I said no,” he said calmly, sensing Paully White staring at him. “Either I’m Supreme Commander Pacific or I quit.”
“Admiral, there’s no way! You aren’t running anything except your subs. Now, get this idea out of your head and tell me right now what the subs are going to do to keep the force safe. I have a press conference in forty minutes.”
“Madam President?”
He had her complete attention, a look of understanding and even fear dawning on her face.
“Yes, Admiral?”
“I quit. Goodbye.” He hit the kill switch on the video console, and the widescreen winked out.
“Um, sir, what the hell did you just do?”
“You sound like Warner, Paully.”
“Admiral? Captain Stephens and Ms. O’Shaughnessy are ready,” Joanna said.
“Send them in. Ah, Emmit, Colleen.”
The two shipyard officials walked in. Pacino smiled and pointed at the table.
“Has he gone completely nuts?”
Admiral Richard O’Shaughnessy was still staring at the dark widescreen. He turned to face a president so angry as to be on the verge of losing control.
“No, ma’am,” he said slowly in his deep baritone voice. “I think I know what he’s concerned about.” He picked up a remote control and nicked the satellite-receiver console to life.
“… task force on the way to the East China Sea, where we’ve asked Commander Fred Duke to explain how the antisubmarine-warfare units of the task force work. Commander, you indicated that this task force has helicopters that can attack submarines. Will they be able to do the job against what would seem to be—”
O’Shaughnessy killed the tube.
“Pacino’s right. Whoever was out there in the East China Sea knew we were coming and what our tactical deployment was. He blew us away so easily because he knew exactly when and where we were coming. He knew the very mood of the task force commander, may he rest in peace.”