Terminal Run

“Which reminds me — you have no torpedoes,” Pacino said. “Just Tigersharks that don’t work, which are all being loaded on a sub that barely works—”

“The Tigersharks are a contingency, for ship safety in a desperate situation, but you can’t use them on the Snare, it’s too dangerous.”

“—and you want the SSNX to do a joint operation with Navy P-5s and Air Force cargo planes to drop bombs on the Snare’s location. You know how stupid that sounds? SSNX would be at periscope depth, Snare would be below the thermal layer, SSNX would lose her, Snare gets away, bombs rain down on the seas in the wrong place, and the Snare, now alerted, shoots the SSNX. Not to mention that the Snare has an acoustic advantage over the Virginia-class and the Seawolf class, which means she’ll have the acoustic advantage over the SSNX. And add to that the fact that Snare has an unknown mission. And that no one knows where she is.”

“Wrong on both counts, Patch. The Snare is coming with twelve plasma-tipped cruise missiles. She’s headed on a straight line path toward Washington. Meanwhile, we’re completely naked. There is no other submarine on the East Coast. There are no other warships on the East Coast. We’re vulnerable to a cruise missile assault, and all we have are the Hammerhead off Africa, chasing Snare in case she slows down, and the SSNX here. We need to do a squeeze play on the Snare, perhaps force her toward the Hammerhead with her waiting Mark 58s. But one thing is sure, Patch. If we don’t catch the Snare, she’ll take apart the East Coast.”

Pacino stared hard at him, thinking. “Snare’s cruise missiles are just plasma units. Let her shoot them. Then have the Air Force and Navy interceptors stand by with an AWACS plane to see the missiles and chop them down when they get in. It’s no big deal.”

Patton shook his head. “That’s twelve plasma warheads, Patch. One of them could bring down the Empire State Building. Or hit the New York Stock Exchange — you want to talk about a market plunge? Or how do you feel about the White House taking a Javelin Block IV missile? What would that do for the nation’s morale? And what do you think would happen politically if we miss four or five missiles? After we lost the cruise ship last summer to a plasma torpedo, do we really need another incident like that? The President would have to resign in disgrace. Patch, we designed these cruise missiles to be invisible — I’m not so sure our own forces can find them ourselves unless we know their launch point and time of liftoff. If you stood here in my shoes, would you risk it?”

Pacino looked at the floor. “I guess I’d send in the SSNX and the best captain I had.”

“Patch, send your wife to see to your son and take this mission. In sixty seconds I’m walking out that door and my aide will hand me a cell phone and I’ll be calling the President. When the President hangs up the phone, all the governmental leadership will be evacuating Washington, including me. I need an answer now. Either accept the mission or reject it. If you reject it, I’ll send the green skipper to sea and take my chances. But if you take it, the renaming of the SSNX falls on your shoulders. You can name it anything you want. Underway time is in one hour.”

Pacino smiled, just slightly. “I get to name the SSNX?”

“Anything you want. Just so you do it quick and get out of here.”

“She’ll be called the Devilfish again, then. Bad luck be damned.”

The locker room door opened, one of Patton’s aides poking his head in. “Sir, the President is on the phone.”

“Can I say you’ll go?”

“It’s done, John. Just one condition. As soon as it’s over, I turn command of Devilfish over to her prospective commanding officer and you helo lift me to something fast that can get me to the Explorer II. And the minute I turn over command, I’ma civilian again.”

“You know, Patch, General MacArthur commanded armies after his chief of staff tour. I could get your stars back — we could use you.”

“This is it for me, John. And there’s another condition. If my boy comes back from the grave of the Piranha, I want him discharged from the naval service. His mother’s right — he has no business going to sea.”

Patton grinned. “You got it.” He snapped his fingers, the aide bringing in the phone and a service dress khaki uniform on a hanger. Pacino’s gold dolphins and his ribbons were attached, even a deep draft submarine command pin on the right pocket, the skull and crossbones of it gleaming and new. Pat ton grabbed Pacino’s hand and shook it hard. “Good luck. Patch. Kill the Snare and get out to your son.”