Pacino looked at Commander Romanov. Was Bruno here to reclaim his relationship with Rachel? Then more guilt came, because that assumed she’d wake up, and no one knew whether she would.
“How is she?” Pacino asked. “What are the doctors saying?”
Bruno Romanov’s expression fell. “Physically, the doctors are not worried about her burns or the skin grafts, but her lungs and heart were damaged by the smoke inhalation. But what’s worse is that her brain activity is not good, Patch. There’s not a lot the staff will share with me, but the fact they look away when I ask? I don’t like it.”
Pacino shook his head sadly, looking at Rachel. He’d wanted to spend a moment with her alone, but the guilt came through him like a blast of cold water. Perhaps, he thought, it would be best to leave.
“Well,” Bruno said, “I’d like to stay with her, but you know — you must know by now — we’re not married any longer. The divorce was final the day of the accident. Keep that to yourself, or the hospital will kick me out of most of the visiting hours. Even with this, though, I’ve got ship’s business to attend to. Time, tide, formation and Big Navy wait for no man. Or no family emergency. I’ll leave you to sit with Rachel.”
“Thanks, Bruno,” Pacino said, unsure what else he could say.
Romanov clapped Pacino on the shoulderboard and walked out. Pacino stared after him, then turned to look at Rachel. Her long shining hair was spread smoothly over the pillow, as if someone had lovingly brushed it — Bruno, maybe? Pacino sat on her bed and took her hand in his, and when he spoke, emphatic words came from somewhere deep inside him, without conscious thought.
“Rachel, it’s me, Patch. Listen, when you get better — and you will get better, I swear you will — I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I don’t care what you say. I’m in love with you and I know you have feelings for me. So we’re starting a relationship, dammit. You read me, Madam Navigator?” He felt her hand carefully to see if she’d squeeze his, but her hand was as asleep as when he’d first held it. But he looked over at the vital signs monitor.
Was it his imagination, or had Rachel’s pulse rate suddenly jumped?
2
National Security Director Michael Pacino stepped quickly into the large jet helicopter with the presidential seal on the outside flank. The president’s rig, he thought. President Carlucci had called shortly after the younger Pacino left the base, asking the admiral to come to D.C., adding that the presidential helicopter would be waiting. Pacino strapped himself into the plush leather seat and looked across the row at CIA Director Margo Allende.
Allende was in her mid-forties and had a habit of dressing frumpy, keeping her sleek copper auburn hair in a bun, avoiding makeup and hiding her deep blue eyes behind large-lensed red-framed 80s glasses, as if doing that would make men take her more seriously, or perhaps keep them from finding and expressing interest in her, but today Director Allende wore her gleaming hair straight and down below her shoulders, the glasses gone, her face and eyes made up, and she wore a tight cashmere dress hugging her almost perfect figure. Pacino looked at her appreciatively, winked and said, “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Why, Admiral Pacino,” she said in her honey-smooth Atlanta Southern accent, smiling brightly at him, “if I didn’t know better I’d swear you were hitting on me.”
Pacino smiled back. “Guilty as charged.”
He and Allende had been dating since the end of the Panther mission. He spent at least three nights a week at her Georgetown townhouse, but they were careful to take separate cars to the West Wing to avoid interoffice gossip. Pacino never said it aloud, but sometimes he thought being with her was like a wartime romance, all the drama and intrigue of their jobs making them comrades as well as paramours, and he hated to think about it, but he knew that eventually he’d retire from Carlucci’s administration and she’d still be in the thick of the intelligence business, and it wouldn’t be the same. But if he ever made any noises like that, Allende became possessive and swore that the only way she’d ever let him leave her would be in a box. She smiled when she said it, probably realizing it sounded psychopathic, but he had to admit he liked how fierce and passionate her feelings were for him. He had to admit, when he thought about it, his affair with Allende was the best relationship of his life.
“Patch,” she said, her expression serious, “how did Anthony do? Is he okay?”
“The inquest acquitted him, or more accurately, found him without fault, but he’s pretty badly rattled. His navigator and buddy, a pretty young thing named Rachel Romanov, got burned and is in a coma. The Vermont’s torpedoman chief got badly burned fighting the fire. Anthony feels tremendous guilt about what happened to them.”
“I saw the video, Patch. He did nothing wrong.”
“I know. But now he has to know.”
Allende looked out the window. “God, life absolutely sucks sometimes.”
The two were quiet for some time as the lush Virginia countryside sped by out the windows.
“What were you doing down in Norfolk, Margo? I didn’t expect you on this ride.”
She gave him a half smile. “I wanted to see you. I made up an excuse that I needed to prepare you for the Situation Room briefing.”
“Okay, so what’s up?”
“There’s a Russian super sub, called the Belgorod. An old and refurbished Omega-II class.”
Pacino puffed out his lips. “I know the Omega class,” he said, barely audible over the roar of the helicopter’s rotors and engines. “You’ll remember, Omega unit one and my Devilfish had it out under the polar icecap. It didn’t end well, for either of us.”
Pacino knew Allende knew the story. He’d shown her the top secret file in her office SCIF conference room. His attack sub, back when he was a Navy commander, had been sent under the icecap to counter the original Omega when the Russian super sub had been tasked with being a command platform for the launch of a tactical nuclear strike on the U.S. east coast. His Devilfish and the Omega had fought it out to a draw, killing most of their crews.
“This Omega, Patch, is modernized far beyond the old Omega’s technology. It carries multiple very large torpedoes called ‘Status-6’ weapons. They’re really more like autonomous mini-subs than torpedoes. The Russians renamed them ‘Poseidon’ torpedoes. They can swim to a programmed area and loiter on station for months — they’re nuclear powered. And they pack a ten megaton punch. We think the Russians are either going to use Belgorod to deploy these Poseidons or their ride-along deep-diving sub will deploy them.”
“That isn’t good, Margo, but it doesn’t sound particularly urgent. After all, they aren’t on the way now, are they?”
Allende shook her head.
“So, why the sudden call to Washington?”
“We think the Belgorod is preparing to leave port with orders to deploy these weapons. Think of this as the launch of a Russian intercontinental ballistic missile — or three or four — but with the missile speed slowed down to ten knots.”
“When will the Belgorod sail?”
“Unknown, but they may be waiting for President Vostov’s visit. He’s got tentative plans to visit the Sevmash Shipyard to tour the Poseidon factory and the Belgorod. And you know from experience how presidential plans constantly change. Scheduling something a month out? It could move ninety days further out. Or it could happen tomorrow.”