Terminal Run

Alameda led Pacino to the aft passageway and knocked on a door labeled cosr, the abbreviation for Commanding Officer’s Stateroom. The door opened and a man stepped out into the passageway and shut the door behind him. He was a scowling, hard-looking Navy commander in a working khaki uniform, Pacino’s height, in his late thirties or early forties with crow’s feet at his eyes, and a touch of gray at the temples of his black hair running down his long sideburns. He had olive-colored skin and the blackest eyes Pacino had ever seen, with deep dark circles beneath them and coal-black eyebrows above, set in a round face with a square jaw and defined cheekbones. He looked at Pacino, and his previously grim expression melted into a smile that seemed to light up the passageway, a raw enthusiasm suddenly shining out of him. The change in the captain’s expression from a dark haunted look to an effervescent brightness was so stark that Pacino doubted he’d seen right. The commander’s hand sailed from out of nowhere and gripped Pacino’s as if he’d seen a long-lost friend.

“Patch Pacino, great to see you again.” His sharp Boston accent rang out through the passageway, the pitch of his voice a smooth tenor. “You probably don’t even remember me, but I’m Rob Catardi.” He stepped back, looking Pacino over, his expression becoming one of approving wonder. ““My God, look at you. Last time I saw you, you were five years old, sitting at Devilfish’s firecontrol console, asking your dad what a fixed-interval data unit was.” Pacino searched his memory, coming up blank. Catardi’s hand clapped Pacino on the shoulder board “I was a green junior officer on the Devilfish under your old man. Gutsiest god damned submarine captain ever born. We worshiped him. He taught me everything I know about driving a combat submarine. I was transferred off before the old girl went to the bottom.”

Catardi let go of Pacino’s shoulder, a deep sadness coming to his face. “It’s a damned shame what happened last summer, Patch. How is your dad?”

Pacino grimaced, the memory one of his most painful. The summer before, Pacino’s father had been the Chief of Naval Operations, the supreme admiral-in-command of the U.S. Navy. A year into his tour as the Navy’s commander he had come up with the idea to take his senior and mid grade officers to sea on Admiral Bruce Phillips’ company’s cruise liner Princess Dragon for two weeks of “stand-down” to discuss tactics and equipment away from the drudgery of the fleet. Princess Dragon had left Norfolk under heavy guard, with an Aegis II-class cruiser, two Bush-class destroyers, and the SSNX submarine screening her for security. Eighty miles out of Norfolk the stand-down plan went horribly wrong. The first plasma torpedo cut Princess Dragon in half and sent her to the bottom. The rest had taken out the fleet task force. Admiral Pacino had been sucked deep underwater with the broken hull of the cruise ship. He hadn’t been found until hours later, and by then more than a thousand of the Navy’s leading officers perished in the surprise terrorist attack. Almost every friend the admiral had lay dead at the bottom of the Atlantic or vaporized by the fireballs of the plasma detonations.

The admiral had resigned from the Navy as soon as he was well enough to walk, and had done nothing since except putter with his sailboat. The elder Pacino was deeply depressed, Anthony Michael thought, but he couldn’t just say that to Captain Catardi.

“He was in bad shape for a while, Captain, but he’s getting better.” A thought occurred to Pacino. “Sir, how did you know my nickname is Patch?”

Catardi looked at him with a sort of recognition. “It’s what we used to call your father,” he said gently. Pacino swallowed hard.

“Excuse me, Captain,” Alameda interrupted. “Request permission to start the reactor and shift propulsion to the main engines.”

“Start the reactor and shift propulsion to the mains.”

“Start the reactor and shift propulsion, aye, sir. If you don’t mind, sir, I need to get Mr. Pacino settled.”

Catardi held up his palm, holding off the energetic chief engineer. “Patch, you’re driving us out. Get with the navigator and get the nav brief. You need to know the current and tides cold, and memo rise (he chart. You done much ship handling

Pacino blinked as his stomach plunged, his armpits suddenly melting. “Well, sir, they have ship handling simulators at the Academy with a submarine program, and radio-controlled four-meter models in the seamanship lab. I’ve driven the yard patrol diesels.” The answer sounded lame, Pacino thought glumly.

“You’ll be fine. I know conning a Seawolf-class special project submarine is an intimidating order, but Alameda and I will be up there with you. And I’m expecting a trademark Pacino back-full-ahead-flank underway.”