“Welcome, sir,” a Marine officer said, saluting him. Pacino saluted back. “Destination, sir? Your Annapolis house?”
“Yes. Annapolis,” Pacino said, and buckled into a seat. He looked up as someone brushed past him and took the seat opposite his.
It was CIA Director Margo Allende, who smiled at him as she buckled in.
“What do I call you now, sir?” she asked. “Mr. Vice President? Or Admiral?”
Pacino smiled back. “How about ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie’?”
“How about babe?” she asked, smiling at him.
He winked at her. “That works.”
The helicopter lifted off the south lawn and flew out toward the Washington Monument, then turned toward the southeast.
The Air Force C130 had landed at Joint Base Thule in northern Greenland. Off to the side of the runway, there had been half a dozen Gulfstream SS-12s at idle, their hatches open. Captain Seagraves and XO Quinnivan had directed that their jet’s passengers should also include Pacino, Lewinsky, Dankleff and Vevera.
As soon as Lieutenant Anthony Pacino climbed out of the cargo turboprop and stepped to the SS-12, he felt exhaustion overtake him. He’d taken his seat behind Quinnivan’s and opposite Dankleff’s, strapped in and shut his eyes. He’d fallen into a deep sleep when an attendant in the blue uniform of an Air Force sergeant nudged him awake and asked if he’d like a drink.
“I’d love a scotch, double, neat, Macallan if you have it,” Pacino said, his hand going up to his head to feel his bandages. The wounds throbbed. He wondered how frightful his face would look when the wounds healed.
“Yes, sir,” she said, returning with drinks on a tray, delivering Seagraves’ and Quinnivan’s drinks first, then Lewinsky’s, then Dankleff’s, then Vevera’s and Pacino’s.
Pacino looked solemnly at Dankleff and Vevera. “A toast, U-Boat and Squirt Gun. To our fallen. To Moose Kelly. To River Styxx. To Easy Eisenhart. To Gangbanger Ganghadharan. And our non-qual, Long Hull Cooper.”
“And to our lost friends in the goat locker,” Dankleff said, referring to the chief petty officers of the submarine. “To the COB, Q-Ball Quartane. Fancy McGraceland, E-div. Drive Shaft McGuire, A-gang. And Gory Goreliki, radio, and K-Squared Kim, firecontrol, both fellow pirates from Operation Panther.”
“All on eternal patrol,” Pacino said, his eyes getting moist as he thought of Lieutenant Commander Wanda River Styxx. What was the last thing she’d said to him before the shitshow started? Next time, don’t drink so much. Hinting that there would be a next time. But not now, Pacino thought. Her body had been placed in the New Jersey’s frozen stores locker with the other dead. Had the locker survived the torpedo room explosion? Did she lie quietly at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean? Or was she blown to smithereens?
Pacino downed half the whisky in one gulp, putting the glass down on the table between his and Dankleff’s seat and looking out the window. There was nothing to see, just sky above and clouds below. The sun was harsh, so Pacino shut the window blind. He drained the glass and the sergeant came back with a second whisky. He was about to take a sip when XO Quinnivan stood up and shouted.
“Lads, take a look at this,” Quinnivan said, then sat back down.
The television flatpanels at the forward and aft bulkheads of the jet, which had previously been showing a projection of their route from Greenland to Washington, and their progress on that route, switched to a Satellite News Network news segment, the reporter standing on the White House south lawn as the Marine One helicopter lifted off and sailed away. The scroll at the bottom of the screen read, …VICE PRESIDENT PACINO RESIGNS AND DEPARTS WHITE HOUSE…
“Vice President Michael Pacino’s resignation leaves the White House with the decision of whom to replace him with, with many suggesting that Secretary of War Bret Hogshead is first in line for the position, since President Carlucci likes having a military expert as his number two person. When asked if he would run for president against Carlucci, Vice President Pacino refused to comment. Back to you in the studio, Freddy. Monica Eddlestien, SNN News, the White House.”
“Wow,” Dankleff said. “Looks like Patch here just lost all his juice.”
Quinnivan turned off the news clip and the screen returned to showing their route progress. The copilot of the flight, an Air Force major with her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, came into the cabin, stepped up to Captain Seagraves and quietly said something in his ear, then turned and returned to the flight deck. Seagraves stood, putting one hand on Dankleff’s seatback and one on Vevera’s across the aisle.
“Gentlemen, our destination has been changed,” Seagraves said. “We’re apparently no longer invited to the White House to meet the vice president and debrief at CIA headquarters. We’ve been rerouted to Norfolk. Our debriefings will be held at ComSubCom headquarters Wednesday morning.” With that, Seagraves sat back down.
Dankleff and Vevera were staring at Pacino.
“What?” Pacino said.
“The hell happened with your dad?” Dankleff asked. “You think he got fired by Carlucci for shooting missiles at that Russian rescue plane? Which, by the way, was an act of war.”
Pacino frowned. “I’ll ask him when I see him,” he said. “As to an act of war, shooting at the Belgorod was an act of war too, I’d remind you.”
Dankleff shrugged. “That happened under the polar icecap,” he said.
“So what?” Pacino asked.
“Patch,” Dankleff said, “every submariner knows that what happens under the ice… never happened.”
Captain Second Rank Iron Irina Trusov carefully carried the long submarine model to the headstone, then kneeled down and laid the model on the ledge of the stone. The black granite stone’s engraved text read:
Volodya Trusov
Captain First Rank
Navy of the Soviet Union, Red Banner Northern Fleet
Commanding Officer, B-448 Tambov
Medal for Military Valor, 2nd Class
Medal for Distinguished Military Service, 1st Class
Trusov stood, taking a mental image of the submarine model laid at her father’s gravestone. She decided to sit on the granite bench a few feet uphill from the headstone and keep her father company for a little while. Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice from over her shoulder.
“Anything you leave on a grave gets collected for the museum, you know.” The tall man reached into a pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out a cigarette and lit it, blowing smoke from his nostrils. He nodded at the gravestone. “He was a good man, your father. I served with him on Tambov. It was my first submarine. I like to think he taught me all he knew about underwater combat.”
Trusov stared. It was Georgy Alexeyev, with a new black eye patch over his right eye, wearing a black uniform greatcoat, but his shoulder boards were new. Gone were the two gold stripes and three gold stars of a captain first rank, replaced with shoulder boards with two gold stars. He was a vice admiral now.
She stood. “Admiral? Admiral Alexeyev? You got promoted?”
He nodded and smiled. “Do you mind if I sit with you here for a little while?”
“Please, sir, go ahead.” Once he took a seat on the bench, she sat next to him, uncomfortable that the bench was only long enough for two people if they sat close together.