Voyage of the Devilfish

A single dim light in the kitchen. Pacino went down the stairs, intending to try Hillary’s therapy of staring out to sea when the phone rang, making him jump.

“Pacino.”

“Duty Officer, sir.” Lieutenant Stokes. “You wanted a zero one hundred status report, sir. Are you awake?”

“Go ahead. Stokes,” Pacino said, forcing himself to concentrate on the needs of the Devilfish, to respond to the request to start up the reactor, to hear the package of data needed to plug himself into his ship from forty miles away and guide the actions of young Stokes.

“Station section three watches aft and start up the reactor,” Pacino ordered. “Divorce from shore power and get the squadron crane on the pier by six. When you’re ready take off the shorepower cables.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Stokes said, repeating back the order.

“Sir, should I call for tugs and a pilot?”

“No tugs. Stokes, and no pilot. Devilfish will get under way on her own steam.”

“Aye aye, sir. Do you want a call when the reactor’s critical?”

“No. I’ll see you in a few hours. Make sure the coffee’s very damn hot.”

“Aye aye, sir. Good night. Captain.”

“Good night Stokes.” Pacino put the phone down slowly, moving in a sea of molasses, his eyes roving to the pictures on the wall, the wedding photographs, the crossed swords at the Naval Academy Chapel, Hillary kissing him under the swords of his classmates, Hillary holding newborn Tony, himself saluting on the deck of Devilfish at the change-of-command ceremony, his whites starched and shiny in the Virginia sunshine. So long ago. So very damn long ago. Finally his attention went to the one faded photograph of him and his father taken during his plebe summer, his father in dress whites with the three stripes of the rank of commander, looking so damned proud. For the next two hours Pacino stood on the deck facing the Atlantic. He considered waking Hillary and talking it out but knew it was a dumb idea. Finally he went in to pack, washing his khakis, ironing some shirts, filling the duffel bag with his gear. After an hour he decided to write a note to Hillary and one to Tony. It occurred to him that if he didn’t return he wanted Tony to hear the story from him firsthand. He let it spill from his pen — not the specifics of the mission but that he was going especially because of his father. He tried to push a lifetime of fatherly advice and love into one twelve-page letter, remembering how he had searched his own father’s effects for some sign, some note. How there had been nothing. He wrote a second letter to Hillary, telling her how he felt, trying to bring her back to the days when they were drunk with their discovery of each other… the first time they made love in her car, the windows steamed up on the parking strip of Halsey Field, and how the Jimmylegs security guard had pounded on the window with a flashlight, how she had giggled at him as he tried to get back into uniform, his shirttail hanging out, his hair a mess, lipstick all over his face from her kisses, how he’d told her about when he’d been placed on report for the infraction, a “Class A” offense for public displays of affection, and had been restricted to his spartan room in Bancroft Hall for six weeks. After he had tried to evoke the good times, and a few of the bad, Pacino sealed the letter and inserted it into the coffee can in the freezer, where she was sure to see it in the morning long after Devilfish would have slipped away from the pier. Tony’s letter, intended to be read only if Pacino failed to come back from the OP, was placed in the file cabinet in the folder marked WILL, where Pacino knew it would be found if… He checked his watch. The night had evaporated. He hurried into his khakis, put his bag by the door and went up the stairs to Tony’s room. For a moment he watched his sleeping son, so quiet and handsome in his sleep. He H uched his hair, and left. Hillary was curled in a ball in the center of the bed, lying on her side, a pillow between her knees. Pacino walked to the head of the bed and kneeled down so his face was even with hers, kissed her lips and she sighed, and for a moment a trace of a smile was on her face. Pacino’s wristwatch alarm beeped — time to go. He looked at Hillary one last time, then left the room, shutting the door quietly.

CHAPTER 6

TUESDAY, 14 DECEMBER, 0756 EST

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

NORFOLK NAVAL BASE PIER?