Pacino blindly waved them out. He couldn’t tell if they left. He didn’t care. He bent over the bed, holding Donchez by his shoulders, saying his name over and over.
He was dimly aware that the front of Donchez’s hospital gown was now soaked.
He never felt Paully White’s strong hands around his arms, pulling him up and away from the corpse.
Chapter 5
Saturday November 2
The early morning sun was just hitting the copper-roofed buildings of the Naval Academy complex. Admiral Michael Pacino stared unblinkingly across the calm water of the Severn River from the deck of his waterfront house. He’d stood there most of the night, looking across the black, glassy water of the river at the lights of the academy, watching as the rooms lit up one by one in Bancroft Hall, the dorm building, the plebes rising for their Saturday classes. Pacino hadn’t seen the inside of this house since he and Janice were married, back when he taught fluid mechanics.
Balanced precariously on the rail of the deck, was a faded photograph in a carved wood frame. In the background was the tall, streamlined sail of a Piranha-C nuclear submarine. The sailplanes mounted on the sail gave away how old the ship was, but in the photo it looked brand-new, the paint sleek and black. White letters were painted on the sail, reading DEVILFISH SSN-666.
Red, white, and blue bunting decorated white-painted wood handrails erected on the deck. Two men stood in the foreground, both wearing starched high-collar dress whites, black and gold ceremonial swords, both uniforms decorated with ribbons and gold submariner’s dolphin pins. On the right was a young Pacino, his hair thick and jet black, his smile untouched by cares, his shoulder boards showing a rank far in the past, the three gold stripes perpendicular to the line of his shoulders. Next to him stood a shorter, bald man, his arm tightly around young Pacino, rumpling the younger man’s uniform.
Donchez’s smile was broad and proud, a Cuban cigar jutting from his mouth. The photo had captured Pacino’s change-of-command ceremony when he had taken command of the old Devilfish over fifteen years ago.
The dust on the picture had been removed by fingers, the marks still clear on the smudged glass. A half-smoked Cuban cigar, long cold, lay alongside the photo, next to a highball glass, the residue of bourbon stale at the bottom. Pacino wore the blue baseball cap he’d found in his dusty office, the gold scrambled eggs on the brim, a gold dolphin emblem in the center of the cap’s patch. The words USS DEVILFISH were written above the dolphins, and the ship’s old hull number SSN-666 was embroidered below.
He had buried Dick Donchez the day before. The funeral had been a crowded affair, blurred in his mind.
Disconnected images were all he’d retained: the unseasonably green grass of Arlington National Cemetery, the colors of the flag on the black casket, the stiffness of the honor guard folding the flag, the crack of the rifles saluting the admiral, the television cameras, the president and cabinet members, staff members everywhere, aides scurrying around. Secret Service agents trying to look nondescript but standing out anyway. Pacino’s friends were all there, flanking him, Paully White, David Kane, C.B. McDonne, Sean Murphy, Jackson Vaughn, Bruce Phillips, a dozen others. His ex-wife, Janice, stood on the other side of the casket wearing a simple black dress, her blond hair cropped short and worn straight, the kinkiness ironed out of it. Young Tony, his son, stood next to him, an awkward teenager in an ill-fitting black suit.
As the bugle wailed taps mournfully, Pacino’s eyes were downcast. Tony held him up on the right, Paully White on the left.
Afterward, a hand grasped his shoulder. A deep bass voice said in his ear, “We’re terribly sorry about your loss. Patch. We knew he was like a father to you. I knew Dick Donchez for years in the Pentagon. Listen, Deanna and I thought you could come over tomorrow. I’ve got some stories about Dick I thought you might want to hear. You okay? I’ll get with Captain White about it. You’ll be okay. Patch. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The hand clapped his shoulder twice, and Pacino turned to the tall man next to him, connected to the deep voice, O’Shaughnessy. He’d called Pacino by his father’s old nickname. He nodded, unable to speak.
The dignitaries and staffers and officers and enlisted men evaporated, slowly at first, then clearing out as the sun drifted toward the horizon, until he sat alone on one of the folding chairs in front of the coffin.
He’d awakened in another strange room, the master bedroom of the Annapolis house. An unease gripped him. He’d dressed quickly, walked through his office on the way to the deck, grabbing the hat and cigar and photograph on the way. The bourbon had come on the second trip, and the third and fourth.
He felt a sudden urge to type a resignation letter. Why not? he thought. Sell the houses, take the sailboat to the Caribbean, be close to the sea, maybe feel closer to the wife and the two fathers and the shipmates he’d lost.
The idea started to make sense. Then he swore he heard a voice in his head. A gravelly, cigar-smoke-laden voice, strong and certain and steely, saying only four angry words: Like hell you will.
The house was painted yellow with red shutters. A bronze plaque was hung by the carved wood framing the doorway, pronouncing the house a historical building, erected in 1817. Before it was a wide brick walkway, the cobblestone street beyond winding through Old Town.
The house was tucked in with a row of other houses built the same year, fronting another similar row on the other side of the street. In the door hung an oval white pottery plaque with a single shamrock above green script reading o’shaughnessy.
The door opened to reveal a smiling woman in her mid-forties, attractive and graceful, her straight blond hair falling to her shoulders in a chin-length bob. She swung her arm around his back, pulling him into the house.
“Admiral Pacino,” she said warmly, “it’s so good to meet you finally. I’m Deanna. I’ve heard so much about you. That article about you in March in the Washington Post was just amazing. Did you read it?”
A glass of single malt scotch was pressed into his hand. Then he was swept on a tour of the house, seeing pictures of their children on every shelf, every table. His eyes seemed to find Colleen O’Shaughnessy everywhere.
In one picture she was laughing, her black hair was windblown around a close-up of her face, her dark eyes filled with mischief. In another shot she was an awkward pre-teen, her hair penned and cut strangely, her hand up to the camera in protest. He stopped at a prom photo, her gown flowing to the door, the movie star teeth shining. Deanna remarked lightly, “Colleen is beautiful, isn’t she?”
He found himself agreeing, adding that she was extremely intelligent. Admiral Dick O’Shaughnessy came into the room then, wearing a sweater and chinos, seeming imposing, one of the few men Pacino had to look up to, despite his being taller by only an inch. He smiled at Pacino, his hand outstretched, his handshake firm. In his face Pacino saw Colleen’s nose and eyebrows. He forced himself to smile back, to engage in the small talk as O’Shaughnessy led him back to a study in back.
The window behind a big cherry desk looked out onto a yard overwhelmed by a single large oak, towering over the houses. Autumn leaves blew aimlessly in the fading daylight. Pacino sat in one of two overstuffed leather seats in front of a fireplace, O’Shaughnessy taking the seat beside him. In the fireplace several logs were snapping.
O’Shaughnessy tipped back his scotch, then put it on a cherry lamp stand between the chairs.
“You know. Patch,” he said. “I worked for Dick Donchez for years. I was his deputy for special warfare before the Islamic War. You know, he used to talk about you all the time.”