Terminal Run

“Let me read the inscription: “Fair winds and following seas to our shipmate and qualified officer of the deck, Midshipman First Class Anthony Michael Pacino, with the hopes of the officers and crew of the USS Piranha for your swift return to the U.S. Submarine Force.”” The room clapped again, Catardi gripped his hand in a firm handshake, and Phelps snapped a photograph. Pacino felt a lump rise in his throat. “Now, I just gave something away there, Patch. Eng, the second package?” Alameda handed Catardi a bound book. “You’ll find here a signed-off submarine qualification book showing you fully signed off as submerged officer of the deck, with a letter of commendation to you and a second letter from me to your future commanding officer suggesting you be accelerated in that ship’s qualification program. The only things keeping you from having your gold dolphins right now are a few signatures for in port duty officer and surfaced officer of the deck. Congratulations, Mr. Pacino. We’ll certainly miss you, son.”

“That’s a big deal, Patch.” Alameda smiled at him as she clapped. “You validated the OOD qual board, and let me tell you, on this ship that one’s a bear.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Pacino said, his voice thick. “Thanks, Eng,” he said to Alameda, wishing he could call her by her real name. “Thanks, everyone. I’ll never forget this ship or this crew.” He sniffed and blinked as he returned to his seat, leaning the plaque and the qual book reverently against the sideboard.

“Very well then,” Catardi said. “Lunch is getting cold.”

Alameda was still beaming. Pacino looked over at Alameda, and this time she met his eyes, smiling.

Michael Pacino was buried inside the mind of Tigershark torpedo test shot number 45, interrogating it about its actions. The unit was in a drug-induced state of half consciousness, with Pacino’s computer feeding it virtual reality sensations. In the test run, he had simulated to the weapon that it had just been launched. He hoped that this time it would leave the torpedo tube and drive on to the distant target far over the horizon. But seconds after launch the Tigershark detected the ship that had just launched it, and ordered its rudder over so it could make a U-turn back. Seconds later the Tigershark ordered its warhead to detonate and kill the mother ship.

Pacino cursed, hurling a tablet computer across the room, shattering it on the heavy wooden door just as it began to open. The door slammed shut, then opened slowly, the face of Rear Admiral Emmit Stephens appearing in the opening.

“Jesus, Patch, whatever I did, I’m sorry!”

“It’s not you, Emmit,” Pacino said. “Come on in. Give me a moment to shut this down and put the Tigershark back to sleep. Damned useless torpedoes.”

Stephens watched as Pacino worked. Stephens was the shipyard commander, a genius shipbuilder who had performed several miracles on Pacino’s submarines, getting them to sea in record time. Years later, he had taken a personal interest in the SSNX submarine rebuild, and had been working hand in hand with Newport News to hurry the sub out of the building ways.

Finally Pacino was done. He swiveled in his chair to face the shipyard engineer. “What can I do for you, Emmit?”

“Come on out to the drydock. I want to show you something.”

Pacino grabbed his hardhat and followed Stephens out the door and down to the floor of the SSNX drydock.

“What are we doing here?” Pacino asked.

Stephens pointed up. The skin of the ship, bare HY-130 steel plate, curving to a point as the hull narrowed to the rear stern planes and rudder, was penetrated by twenty-four holes, the workmen on scaffolding finishing the final penetration and welding in the support grid that would lend strength to the hull despite the missing material.

Stephens grinned. “We call your design the “Pacino Chicken Switch.” If there’s a torpedo on your ass, you pull a lever out of the overhead, HP air blasts over the hull until the steam headers dump both boilers into the system, and twenty-four Vortex missile engines light up back here. Everything you see, the planes, the screw, the ballast tank, everything except the missile nozzles, all of it is melted and carried away in the rocket exhaust, but who cares? You’re out of danger.”

Pacino smiled back. “How fast, Emmit?”

“We think you might outrun a Vortex.”

“Three hundred knots? You really think so?” Pacino asked.

“There’s only one way to find out, Patch,” Stephens said, smirking. “But it’s a onetime-only system. We call that destructive testing.”

Pacino stared up at it, the embodiment of his strange dream being welded into reality. He became embarrassed. “Emmit.” He coughed. “You’ve done good work here, my friend.”