Terminal Run

“Mr. Pacino, please come with us.” The officer took the leash out of his hand, the dog lodging a loud protest, but letting the cop pet him.

“It’s okay, Bear. It’s okay,” Pacino said soothingly.

Two other policemen took Pacino to the waiting state police helicopter, which throttled up and lifted off, the sand flying, the dog barking, the chopper rotating to the north and dipping its nose as it sped up, the houses of Sandbridge flashing by, close at first, then becoming distant.

“What’s going on?” Pacino asked.

The copilot turned and glanced at him. “Sir, I have no idea. The watch commander told us to load you up and take you to Newport News shipyard.”

The chopper flew over Virginia Beach and eventually over the Elizabeth and James Rivers to the Hampton peninsula. The Newport News helipad came into view. The pilots hit the concrete and cut the engines in the dawn overcast. Pacino climbed out of the helicopter, feeling ridiculous in his sweat-soaked running gear. He clamped his hat on and walked to where two men waited for him in front of a shipyard truck. He asked what was going on. but neither man said a word. He sat in the back until the truck arrived at drydock two’s administration building. He climbed out of the truck and began walking to the building, but heard an odd noise. He left his escorts and jogged to the drydock edge and stared in astonishment at the scene below.

The noise had been the diesels of a tugboat pulling the caisson, the massive gate of the drydock, away into the river. The drydock was fully flooded, and the SSNX was waterborne, which was a miracle, since she’d had twenty “closeouts” that needed to be done before she could even become watertight. Even more alarming were the cranes and the activity forward, where the weapons shipping hatch was open, and a Mark 98

Tigershark torpedo slowly vanished into the ship tail first. On the opposite side of the dock, a flatbed with three more torpedoes waited. There had been twenty prototypes of the Tiger shark completed to date, and Pacino wondered where the rest of the prototypes were — onboard or back at the Tigershark facility?

The escorts took him by the arm and led him inside, taking him to a locker room on the first floor. Good, he thought. He could change there. He showered and toweled off at his locker, then pulled on the spare set of chinos and a Polo shirt when the door crashed open and a dozen naval officers walked in, Admiral John Patton at the rear of the phalanx. He walked up to Pacino and nodded grimly.

“John,” Pacino said, even more surprised by the appearance of the Chief of Naval Operations than by the goings-on in the drydock. “Admiral Patton. What’s going on? What’s important enough to bring you here?”

Patton shook his head, still not smiling. He turned to his aides and the shipyard escorts, who all vanished outside the door.

“Patch, we have a grave situation,” Patton began. “I need you to prepare yourself for some bad news. The Piranha went down. Your son was onboard.”

Ten minutes later Pacino rubbed his reddening eyes. “So, let me get this straight. You’retelling me there is a hope of rescue.”

“I have to tell you, Patch, it’s a low probability, but yes. If the Brits get there in time, they can get the Piranha survivors to the surface.”

“In less than a week? I don’t think so, John. Give it to me straight. This fucking Snare you people lost control of killed my son. Or it’s just a matter of time until he’s gone.” Pacino stood and smashed his hand into his locker, then gripped his hand, the pain not a fraction of what he was feeling about Anthony Michael. “I should get out there. Can you get me to the Explorer 77?”

“I can, Patch. But I’m not going to. I have other plans for you.”

“John, no offense, but what could possibly be more important than seeing to my boy?”

“Sit down,” Patton said, pointing to the bench, and telling the story.

“This is crazy, John. I can’t take the SSNX to sea. It’s been years since I commanded a submarine, and the last one I commanded I lost in the Labrador Sea. Jesus, John, I’m not even in the Navy anymore.”

“With a stroke of the pen I reactivated you to the rank of captain as of zero four hundred this morning. Sorry I couldn’t get your stars back for you, not on this short notice.”

“I don’t give a damn. This plan is ridiculous. Besides, the SSNX already has a crew and a captain.”

“Her captain has never taken a ship to sea as commanding officer. He’s fresh out of prospective commanding officer school, and he’s spent his career in the shipyards. He would have driven the SSNX through sea trials, then transferred her to a combat captain. He’s been told he’s taking a bump down to XO, and he’s fine with it.”

“Right,” Pacino said, glancing at his watch, thinking of how fast a supersonic fighter could get him to the sinking site of the Piranha. “You should just replace him with someone qualified.”

“There’s no one. No one who’s ready, and certainly no one who’s fired torpedoes in anger.”