Pacino crashed into his office and slammed his body into his leather chair. The oak desk, a relic from John Paul Jones’s command Bonhomme Richard, was covered with papers laid out for Pacino’s signature, the gasoline that fueled the fleet’s bureaucracy. Pacino hated to see the desk like that. He wanted to see an ocean of bare wood in front of him, uncluttered by blotters, pen sets, staplers and, most of all, papers. He had lectured the staff that with the new computer systems, with the four-year-old Writepad computer, there should never be a need for hardcopies. The Writepad Systems were radio-networked to a national megafile server in earth orbit, so that any newspaper or magazine could be accessed with a click of a finger on the flat paper-thin surface.
With the support of officers like Pacino, the Writepads were linked into a defense megafile server, so that messages that before were sent on radio circuits and printed down were now sent by electronic mail to individual Writepads. Paper was mostly obsolete. So why was it still everywhere? With a quick motion of his hands he swept the pile off the desk and looked up at Joanna.
“Where the hell are Murphy and McDonne?”
“Sir, they just arrived. They were out inspecting Eighth Squadron until—”
“Just get them in here.” Pacino bit his lip, wishing he had some bad habit like smoking that could calm him down. He couldn’t remember ever losing his control like this. He had been on the business end of half a dozen warshot torpedoes and twice as many more Chinese depth charges. Now, after having words with his boss he was acting like a plebe being hazed at the academy. Hell, he had served under psychotic Rocket Ron for two years, knowing there were at least five times he had almost punched him out, knowing also that Rocket Ron had been trying to provoke exactly that in order to find Pacino’s limit, one time succeeding as Pacino had left the submarine in the middle of the day and gone home to drink half a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. But now, with the end of his career imminent, he found that he wanted that career. Death was all in a day’s work, but facing ignominious demotion or retirement was not something he could deal with. He fought for control. He owed Joanna an apology.
“Admiral,” Murphy’s gravelly voice called, at the entrance to the office. As soon as Pacino saw Capt. Sean Murphy, his tension evaporated. He and Murphy went back decades. They’d been roommates at Annapolis from sophomore year on. They had doubledated when Pacino had first met Janice, who had introduced Sean to Katrina. Now, twenty-five years later, Katrina and Sean had two children, Janice and Pacino had one, although Katrina and Sean were inseparable while Janice and Pacino were filing for divorce. But their professional lives had been just as close. They had been aboard the same subs during their junior officer and department head tours, both men teaching at the academy during the shore tour in between. Six years before, Murphy had been in command of the USS Tampa, then the newest Improved 688class attack sub, which had been taken hostage in the Go Hai Bay outside of Beijing by the Red Chinese. Pacino had been commissioned by Admiral Donchez to take the then untested Seawolf into restricted waters and rescue the crew of the Tampa in a mission so classified that only the president’s inner circle were aware of it. Murphy had taken two bullets and almost died, but after two years of physical therapy he had regained his strength. Murphy was tall and lanky, blond and tan, his skin wrinkled around his eyes, his voice a deep growl from an old smoking habit. He looked good, a slight smile haunting his lips, his blue eyes dancing with the same mischief they had held when he and Pacino had pulled pranks on the first-class midshipmen when they had been lowly plebes.
“Murph,” Pacino said, feeling like hugging his ops officer.
He reached out and grabbed Murphy’s hand and gripped it hard. Murphy’s own grip painful, their old ritual. “Have I got a deal for you.”
“Oh? Where are you sending me now?”
“That’s the deal — you’re staying home. Where’s CB McDonne?”
“Sir!” McDonne called from the door.
“You’re late,” Pacino said goodnaturedly. “Get your butt in here.”
