“It’s a grill. I figure you’re an expert at it now. What are you, well done?”
“Go to hell, Daniels,” Pacino said, clicking off but smiling.
As he shut his eyes, he thought about Dick Donchez, and about what he would have said if he had seen Pacino today.
Pacino got out of the staff car and slowly walked to the end of the piers where the twelve 688-class submarines had been berthed before they had sailed for the East China Sea mission. For some time he watched the water washing against the piers. Then he turned and accepted a wreath from Colleen, dropping it into the water. The flowers of the wreath floated on the gentle waves of the harbor. Pacino stood there for several minutes before finally drawing himself to attention, his hand coming up in a ruler-straight salute, then dropping it by his side.
Reluctantly he turned and walked back to the staff car. He was still staring at the piers as the car roared off to return to the airport, where the SS-12 waited to take the next Chief of Naval Operations back to Washington.