Two decades later, Donchez was commanding the Atlantic Fleet’s submarine force when young Commander Michael Pacino rose to command the USS Devilfish. It was Donchez who sent Pacino under the polar icecap to find the Russian Republic’s Omega-class attack submarine after showing him that the Stingray had not perished from an accident, as the cover story had maintained, but had been intentionally taken down by a Soviet Victor III attack sub, whose captain was now the admiral-in-command of the Northern Fleet and aboard the Omega.
The loss of the Devilfish in that mission remained information so highly classified that only a half dozen men in the upper ranks of the Navy were briefed on it.
After that mission Pacino resigned from the Navy, disappearing to teach engineering at the Naval Academy.
There he was vaguely ill at ease, a void having formed in his life. Something vital was missing. He denied it to Janice, his first wife, but what was missing was the feeling of the deck of a nuclear submarine under his feet.
He was at his worst when Admiral Donchez appeared in his lab one afternoon and asked him to take command of the USS Seawolf for a rescue mission. The submarine Tampa had been captured spying in Go Hai Bay outside Beijing, and Donchez wanted Pacino to bring her out.
When Pacino heard that his own academy roommate, Sean Murphy, was being held at gunpoint by the Red Chinese, he went with Donchez to Yokosuka, Japan, climbed into Seawolf, and took three Seal commando platoons into the bay to liberate the Tampa.
The Tampa escaped the piers, but the mission had just begun, for the entire Red Chinese Northern Fleet awaited the subs at the bottleneck mouth of Go Hai Bay.
He’d fired every weapon aboard, and Seawolf was almost lost, but eventually after the sinking of several dozen Red Chinese PLA Navy warships, Tampa sailed out into international waters. Some thirty Americans had died while under Red Chinese hands, but the remainder fully recovered.
As a reward, Donchez gave Pacino permanent command of the Seawolf. He loved every minute of it, until the ship went down in the Labrador Sea in a confrontation with an Islamic supersub. After Pacino recovered, Donchez recommended he be given command of the newly formed Unified Submarine Command, and ever since Donchez had been Pacino’s mentor and adviser.
When the blockade around Japan was ordered by President Warner, Donchez counseled Pacino to run the operation from one of his forward-deployed submarines.
That had given him the independence he needed to make the operation work.
Without Donchez, Pacino would never have risen to flag rank. But it had been Donchez the man who was important to Pacino. When young Pacino had heard of his father’s death, he had been set adrift in a hostile world. Donchez had stepped in to be Pacino’s surrogate father. Hell, Pacino thought, Donchez had become his father. Pacino had not thought of him that way at the time, because their relationship had not always been smooth, but that was what proved how close they were— the essence of a father-son relationship was the struggle of the old to educate the young and the young to fight for independence. In hindsight, Pacino saw, Richard Donchez was more his father than Anthony Pacino could ever have been.
Pacino sat there on the bed, remembering, for what seemed like hours. Finally he pulled one of the chairs next to the bed and sat in it, eventually yielding to sleep.
In his dreams, he sweated and twitched, the memories rolling by. As he dozed, the man in the bed remained motionless.
Pacino awoke suddenly, in strange surroundings. The only light in the dark room came from a single fluorescent fixture above a hospital bed.
He sat up, his muscles cramped. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at his old Rolex, but the watch’s luminescent numeral dashes were no longer visible in darkness. He held it to the light, the timepiece showing a few minutes past four in the morning. He yawned, and when he looked down, he found himself still wearing the Nomex jumpsuit he’d flown in on the F-22 fighter, the suit sweat-stained and stale. At his feet was his flight bag, probably left there for him by Paully White. After a quick glance at Donchez, who still lay motionless, Pacino stood and carted the bag to the room’s small bathroom. It took him less than ten minutes to shower and change into his working khaki uniform, then return to Donchez’s bed.
The only indication that the old man was still alive were barely discernible sounds of his breathing and the faint beeps of the heart monitor. Pacino sat on the bed to wait.
He must have dozed off, for when he looked again at Donchez, he was startled to find his eyes open, looking up at him. Pacino said, in a rusty, croaking voice, “Dick, you’re awake!”
Donchez didn’t respond at first. His dim blue eyes were rimmed with bloodshot lines. His eyebrows — barely discernible dashes of light gray hair — were drawn down over his eyes in a frown. Still, Pacino grabbed his hand and smiled.
“The Reds,” Donchez said. Pacino barely heard him, the voice of an old man, all traces of his former vigor gone.
“What? Dick, don’t try to talk—”
“You’re up against the Reds, Mikey. Get in quick— ohhh,” Donchez groaned.
“Dick, please—”
“They’re getting subs.”
“What? Dick, come on, why don’t you—”
“Why don’t you listen to me. Admiral?” Donchez said, his old voice returning, a deep strength to it, his bald head beading with drops of sweat.
“Okay, Uncle Dick, I’m listening.” Pacino looked down with concern, both of Donchez’s hands in his. The old man began coughing, a wet, rattling sound. His eyes shut in pain. When the coughing attack was over, his face had turned beet red. He gasped for breath. “Dick, please take it easy. What is it?”
“Reds… have… will have… nuke subs. Plasma… torpedoes. East—” More coughing. Pacino tried to pull the old man up so the fluid would drain out of his lungs.
He finally stopped coughing, obviously an effort of great will. The heart monitor in the corner beeped insistently, faster and faster. “Chinasee.”
“What, what did you say?”
“East… China… Sea. Reds. Subs. Get in. Fast.”
“Dick, I don’t—”
“See… see… enn… oh…”
Pacino shook his head helplessly.
“Ohhh… shawn… ess… zee… chief… naval… opera—”
“Chief of Naval Operations? O’Shaughnessy?”
“Yes… you… talk… CNO…” Donchez’s eyes were shut in the effort to talk, deep lines inscribed around them, tears leaking, streaming down his face. He started to cough, then caught himself. He took a deep breath. “Red subs. Get in… fast.”
“Dick, try to rest. Try to cough.”
Donchez looked up, his eyes no longer even a dull blue but clouded over, milky, so wet Pacino could barely see the irises. “Take care… Mikey… my… son—”
A wet cough, and his body relaxed. He slumped in Pacino’s grasp, and he laid his head back on the pillow.
The heart monitor was faintly whistling through the room, the beeps gone.
“Uncle Dick. Dick! Dick! Goddamn it, nurse—” Pacino lunged for the call button by the bedside, smashing his fingers against it. Three people, he couldn’t tell if they were men or women, rushed into the room. A stethoscope was applied to Donchez’s chest, a hand to his wrist, a quick look at a chart at the foot of the bed.
After a few moments the doctor stood and backed away from the bed. “What? Aren’t you going to try to revive him?”
“Can’t, sir. Orders from the patient. No extraordinary means. No CPR, no code blue, no respirator. You can see yourself.”