“I know I’m just a non-qual nub,” Farina said. “But I see it differently. After all, there’s Silky Romanov. Squirt Gun Vevera. U-Boat Dankleff. Boozy Varney. And you. The revered-and-feared Death Toll Pacino. You guys are all storied heroes. Combat tested bad-asses. Real life pirates. You’ve all sailed into harm’s way and fired torpedoes in anger. You’ve all gotten medals for valor that the rest of the Navy just dreams of. You? The silver star, second award. The goddamned Navy Cross? And one of my nuke school buddies sent me a picture of the brass plaque in the Naval Academy’s Memorial Hall on the wall right next to your father’s plaque. It reads, ‘If I have to die on this mission, I intend to die with an empty torpedo room.’ Lieutenant Anthony Pacino, USS Vermont, Operation Panther. So, in what universe would I not want to join this crew?”
Pacino smiled, perhaps for the first time that day. “You know, for a non-qual air-breathing puke, you make a good point. Tell you what. Monday, you and I will walk over to the New Hampshire at Squadron Six and I’ll give you a sonar walkthrough. I’ll ask their skipper, Gray Wolf Austin, if he can take you for a few weeks or a month on their next op so you can get some sea time under your belt. And I’ll threaten his life if he tries to steal you. Then XO and the yeoman will get temporary duty orders cut for you. You’ll come back in a couple months halfway to your dolphins.”
“You’d do that for me?” Farina looked at Pacino in gratitude. “Thank you, Patch.”
“Any time, Cool Hand. Have a good weekend. Oh, and Cool Hand? Text the photo of that plaque to me. I want to send it to my dad.”
Pacino walked slowly to his car, hearing his own words again in his mind that he’d said to Farina. He was reminded of his father, who used to get in dark moods, sitting in his office with the lights out, staring into space, drinking alone, especially after the sinking of the cruise ship. It could take the old man a year to snap out of a funk, Pacino thought. He hoped this heavy hopeless feeling wouldn’t last a goddamned year.
He got to the car, tossed his bag in the back, and moved slowly through the lot and wheeled the car to the door of the admin building, where an annoyed Lieutenant Commander Rachel Romanov waited for him. He rolled down the window.
“Get in, loser,” he said, grinning in spite of his mood. “We’re going to Annapolis.”
“Where have you been?” she said. “I’ve been out here waiting for you for ten minutes.”
“I stopped to yell at one of our new nubs. Cool Hand Farina.”
“What do you think of him?” she asked, tossing a bag in the back, shutting the passenger door and strapping in.
Pacino tilted his head, considering his answer. “I think we can make him into a submariner.”
He drove in silence until they’d left the military complex and headed through Norfolk toward the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, Pacino figuring that a transit up the eastern shore would be faster than battling I-64 traffic toward D.C.
“You’re awfully quiet, Pacino,” Rachel said.
“Yeah,” he said dejectedly. “I’m sad. All the loss just sort of hit me all at once. I think I was in shock until now.”
“Pull over here at the diner,” she told him.
“You already changed out of your uniform,” he said. “Did you want me to change?”
“That’s not why I asked,” she said. “Park way over there, where the parking lot is deserted. Underneath the tree.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Pacino said, wheeling the Corvette where she’d pointed.
“Cut the engine and stay there.” She got out of the car and walked around to his side and opened his door. Carefully, she climbed on top of him, straddling him in the close confines of the cockpit, then shut the door.
“What are you doing?” Pacino asked.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, came close, and kissed him, the kiss starting slow but building in passion. He could feel one of her soft hands stroking his face, the other’s fingers going through his hair and he got an electric charge from it, and in spite of his mood, he could feel himself getting aroused. Finally, as Rachel was starting to disconnect from the kiss, the Corvette’s horn honked, loud and long.
“Oh my God,” she said, blushing in embarrassment. “Did my fat ass just honk your horn?”
Pacino laughed. “No, your slender, shapely, feminine ass just honked my horn. And I think you honked my horn metaphorically as well.”
“Good,” she smiled. “Now we can go.”
“You’re just going to start my engine and leave me hot and bothered?”
“Yup,” she said, smirking. “Why don’t you go inside the diner and change? I’ll wait here.” She climbed out of the car, got back in the passenger side, pulled her tablet computer from her bag, and switched it on.
Pacino could feel a bounce in his step as he walked toward the diner with his go-bag. Somehow, Rachel had managed to change his mood in just minutes. There was no doubt. She was definitely a keeper.
Unlike the last time Pacino approached his father’s Annapolis house, there was a security fence erected at the entrance to the long driveway, the part of the yard both inside and outside the fence acting as parking lots. A small metal security building had been placed to the left of the new gate, the roof of it sprouting multiple dish antennae. A man in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, wearing dark shades, came up to the car. He wore a comm unit in his ear, the coiled wire from it snaking into his shirt collar. He looked like a caricature of a Secret Service agent.
“May I help you, sir?” he said formally.
“I’m Lieutenant Pacino,” Pacino said, handing the agent his military ID, then passing him Rachel’s. “That’s Lieutenant Commander Romanov. We’re here to see Admiral Pacino. My dad.”
The agent scowled at the identifications, then went into the security building. He was still frowning as he came out, then handed Pacino the military IDs.
“Have a nice visit, Lieutenant,” he said. “You can drive up to the front door, but leave your keys with an agent there. He’ll park your car and another one will go through your things before you enter the house.”
Pacino wheeled the car to the house, left the engine running, got his bags and walked to the front door with Rachel. A Secret Service agent got in the Corvette and drove it back to the security building. A second asked him to turn over his bags for a search, then patted Pacino down. A female agent did the same to Rachel. Finally the unsmiling agents waved them into the house, where yet another agent waited inside.
Pacino could see into the great room on the main floor, where what seemed like thirty people in suits were gathered around Admiral Pacino, a spirited debate going on there.
“You can wait in the admiral’s office,” the inside door agent said.
Pacino took Rachel to his father’s office, a large space with heavy wood furniture and leather seating gathered around a huge stone fireplace. The walls were covered with painted scenes of the older Pacino’s submarine commands, a painting of the old man as a youth standing by his father in front of the submarine Stingray. The corners of the room were taken up with glass encased submarine models. The first Devilfish, the Seawolf, the SSNX. There were other photos on the bookshelves, showing Michael Pacino shaking the hands of several presidents. A large oil painting of his father’s mentor, Admiral Dick Donchez. Anthony Pacino’s Academy graduation photo had a central place of honor, as did a large framed photo of Anthony as a child standing next to his father in front of the hull of the Seawolf.