Panic Switch полностью

Lieutenant Anthony Pacino waited impatiently on the wood bench outside the hearing room, wearing his starched dress white uniform — the outfit given the name “choker whites” due to the stiff, high collar. The formal uniform made it even more uncomfortable in the hot, airless corridor. Per Navy regulations, Pacino wore full medals with the uniform, feeling his usual discomfort at the Navy Cross, but at least proud to wear the Silver Star — that at least he knew he had earned without people claiming that he’d only acted mindlessly on animal instinct like they alleged after the Piranha incident. Above his ribbons were the polished, solid gold dolphins awarded him by the commander of the submarine force, Vice Admiral Catardi. Anthony felt his father’s palm on his shoulderboard, the old man attempting to comfort him.

“I can’t come into the room with you, Son,” the older Pacino said quietly in his baritone voice.

Anthony looked over at his father, who was wearing a dark suit and dark black tie. It still felt strange not seeing him in his Navy uniform. Even though the senior Pacino was older now, in his mid-sixties, he still looked the same as he always had. Tall and gaunt, with a deeply tanned face, crow’s feet at the corners of his bright green eyes. His white hair had started to thin just a little, but it would take a close look to confirm.

“I know, Dad.” Anthony’s voice was still just a hoarse croak from the damage from the smoke inhalation.

“Look, it’s not for me to tell you your business,” Michael Pacino said gently, “but I’ve been through four of these boards of inquiry. One for the original Devilfish, one for Seawolf, one for the War of the East China Sea and one for the SSNX. And if there’s one thing that seems to work best in this situation, it’s this — just look them in the eye, leave all feelings of guilt aside, and tell them the straight, honest damned truth. Make them understand you’ll take whatever judgment is coming to you. Take responsibility, but never condemn your own actions. Make them see that at all times, you did what you thought was right.”

“I know, Dad,” Anthony said, his croaking voice dull and dead. “But people got hurt. Torpedoman Chief Blacky Nygard got third degree burns. And my friend Rachel — the navigator — is still in a coma, on life support, with some serious burns. They don’t even know whether she’ll come out of it. And on the conn open mike video they showed me, one of my last orders was directing her right into the goddamned fire.” Anthony clamped his eyes shut, sniffing back his emotions.

“Has any of your memory returned?”

The younger Pacino shook his head sullenly. “The last thing I remember was the underhull. Looking into the Omega’s giant cold water scoops.”

Michael Pacino nodded. “Son, the physicians testified that smoke inhalation — particularly toxic smoke from cable insulation, hull insulation, paint, laminate wall coverings, amines, lube oil, and a thousand other chemical compounds that caught fire in that hull — combined with the low oxygen levels and the high concentration of carbon monoxide and carbon dioxide — could have led to severe changes in the crew’s mental states. Confusion, fainting, seizures, and coma, I’m afraid, are all on the menu. I have to believe partial memory loss is possible as well, and especially hallucinations.”

“They have the video, Dad. They don’t need me to testify to what I remembered.”

“Son, your mental state at that time is important. They’re going to ask you that one question that’s on everyone’s mind.”

“Yeah, I know,” Anthony said, staring at the deck as he twirled his hat in his hands, “when the fire started, why didn’t I just terminate the exercise and evacuate the hull, get everyone out of there and let the shipyard fire brigade fight the fire?”

“Right. But given the altered mental state that the toxic smoke caused, leading to hallucinations,” the older Pacino said, “it’s possible you no longer recognized you were in a training drill. In your mind, you could have actually been in the Zapadnaya Litsa Fjord with a raging oxygen fire and the emergency air system failing. Hell, Anthony, the doctors said that cocktail of smoke may as well have been a super-dose of LSD. You weren’t responsible for your actions from the moment you had to dump your EAB.”

“I guess it’s possible,” Anthony said. “I don’t know if they’ll accept that answer, though. And if they do, they’re saying that they believe I was crazy at the time.”

“Don’t think like that. Keep your thoughts positive. Now, assuming you get through that, they might ask the follow-up question.”

“What’s that?” Anthony looked up at his father. No follow-up question had occurred to him. The main question was difficult enough to consider.