Brady-Hawlings’ replacement is rumored to be the former Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Michael A. Pacino, a longtime friend of the president and the architect of the defeat of the Chinese PLA Navy in the War of the East China Sea.
“Holy shit,” Catardi breathed. It was too good to be true, he thought. Pacino had been Catardi’s first submarine captain, a million years ago aboard Pacino’s first command, the USS Devilfish, the Piranha-class ship, not the SSNX submarine of fifteen years later. Catardi had been a young non-qual, reporting aboard Pacino’s Devilfish just after the change-of-command ceremony. Two years of serving with then-Commander Pacino, Catardi had grown from being a shy, uncertain non-qual newcomer to a swashbuckling, cocky, dolphin-wearing senior lieutenant. Catardi had rotated off for a three-month temporary assignment to study for his chief nuclear engineer’s exam, and as chance had it, that was just before the secret orders came in that resulted in Devilfish sinking under the polar ice cap, with the loss of all souls aboard except for Pacino himself. He’d never seen the senior officer again, and other than serving under his command of the Unified Submarine Command years ago, and later when Pacino was CNO, Catardi hadn’t thought about him until his son, Midshipman First Class Anthony Pacino, reported aboard Catardi’s submarine command, the USS Piranha, for his midshipman cruise.
This would certainly change things. Instead of the ass-chewing he’d expected from Brady-Hawlings over the Kakivak attack, he could explain it to an understanding fellow submariner. He wondered if young Anthony Pacino had heard the news.
Catardi handed back the tablet to Styxx. “Come on. We’ll be late for the Vermont officers and SEALs.”
Lieutenant junior grade Anthony Pacino stood up from the wardroom table when the outside line’s phone rang. He shot a look at Lieutenant Li No, who was the duty officer, who nodded toward the phone, as if to say, you answer it, non-qual.
Pacino picked up the handset. “USS Vermont wardroom, this is a non-secure line, duty officer under-instruction Pacino speaking, may I help you, sir or ma’am?” It was a mouthful to bark out instead of simply saying “hello,” but it was required.
“Hello Anthony,” his father’s baritone voice crackled on the connection, his tone warm.
“Dad! How are you? Where are you? How did you know you could reach me here?”
His father’s laugh came over the phone. “I got asked to take a job in D.C.,” he said. “Turns out I now have the clearance and the need-to-know to be briefed on what you’re up to, so I thought I’d reach out and tell you I’m thinking about you.”
“I miss you, Dad. I wish we could talk about, you know, stuff.” There were so many things Pacino wanted to tell his father about. The narco-sub operation, his suggestion to lob an EMP weapon at the cargo ship, the crew of the Vermont, but no matter what his father’s new clearance was, all that was off the table.
“Listen, I have it on good authority you’ll be going out to dinner with my old buddy Robbie Catardi tonight. Make sure to tell him I send my warmest regards.”
“I would, Dad, but, well, I’m kind of inport duty officer under-instruction. No liberty at the O-club for me.”
The older Pacino laughed again. “I doubt that, Son. But anyway, I’d better bounce, the boss is standing in my doorway.”
“It was good to talk to you, Dad,” Pacino said.
“You too, Son. Good luck and good hunting.”
The line clicked off. Pacino hung up the phone. Good hunting—a submariner’s term for “get out there, find ’em and sink ’em.” What the hell did his father know about the next mission?
Li No looked over. “Must be nice to have a high-powered father. That’s a hell of a connection.”
“Not really,” Pacino said. “Dad’s been retired for years.”
“I don’t think so,” Lieutenant No said, sliding his pad computer across the wardroom table to Pacino. Pacino leaned over and read the article about Brady-Hawlings, eventually getting to the sentence that ended the article.
USNewsFiles — Friday May 13 — President Carlucci tapped the former chief of naval operations and the fighting admiral of the War of the East China Sea, Admiral Michael Pacino, for the position of his National Security Advisor. Pacino had no comment for the press, but his spokesman promised a statement before the end of the weekend.
“You know what that means, right?” Li No said. “Your boss is Captain Seagraves. Seagraves’ boss is Admiral Catardi. And Catardi’s boss is none other than Admiral Pacino, daddy dearest. A complete circle. Talk about nepotism.”
Pacino shook his head. Somehow his world was coming together again after the horror-filled years after the Piranha sinking. At the moment the captain had accepted his recommendation to launch the Kakivak missile, Pacino finally felt like himself again, not the walking ghost of a month ago.
The supply officer’s side door to the wardroom opened. Executive Officer Lieutenant Commander Jeremiah Quinnivan leaned in. He was dressed as he had been for the ship’s party, an old T-shirt over jeans, falling-apart boots, with a lumberjack open shirt worn over the ensemble.
“Pacino! Let’s go, dammit. You’re late and you’re fookin’ out of uniform!”
“I’m sorry sir, I’m duty officer under-instruction.”
“No you’re not. Now get your fookin’ ass into casual clothes and join us on the pier. You’ve got two minutes and thirty seconds.”
“Yessir,” Pacino said, rushing to the ladder to the upper level. He changed and climbed out the plug hatch and emerged into the brilliant Caribbean sunlight of the late afternoon.
President Vito “Paul” Carlucci opened the door to the crowded room, flashed his dazzling smile at the personnel who all rose to their feet at attention. Carlucci was slender, well over six feet tall, in his late fifties, with a distinguished look owing to the gray streaks of hair that swooped over his ears. Normally never seen out of an expensive suit, on this Saturday, he was dressed in golf clothes — chinos, a short-sleeved Polo shirt, multicolored patterned socks and sneakers. The rest of the room’s inhabitants looked like they’d dressed for Monday morning. Generals and admirals in dress uniforms, cabinet secretaries in suits, their aides sitting along the wall likewise formally dressed.
“Let’s make this fast, people,” Carlucci said, seating himself in his leather swivel chair at the end of the polished table and opening a briefing book.
“Mr. President,” Secretary of War Bret Coppin Hogshead began formally, “the Vice President is remote in Austin, Texas and is present by secure videolink. Also present by video is CIA Director Allende, who is at Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv, Israel. Presenting today will be CIA’s Director of Operations, Angel Menendez. Co-presenting will be General Zvi Amit of the U.S. Cyber Command, under the Department of War. Also present today are the chief officers of the Joint Cyber Warfare Task Force, a joint development group of the War Department’s NSA and CIA’s international cyberwarfare team. The briefing book in front of you has a hardcopy of Angel’s presentation.”
Carlucci yawned into his fist. Famously bored by technology and especially computers, he had wanted to delegate these meetings to his VP, Karen Chushi, but after the Stuxnet flap, all cyberattacks had to be personally approved by the president himself. Like authorizing a nuclear strike, it required presidential authority.