Panic Switch полностью

In the long moments before he came to, there was nothing but darkness. But then, when he did emerge from unconsciousness, he was still in darkness. Darkness with the smell of smoke.

That same instant, Lieutenant Anthony Pacino was standing at the USS New Jersey’s command console. The next, he was flying through space until he hit the aft bulkhead. He faded out into unconsciousness before his body slid down the wall and onto the deck. As he lay in a heap on the deck, blood from a head wound ran down his face.

Midshipman Third Class Anthony Pacino felt himself becoming drowsy in the huge amphitheater in Michelson Hall, the physics lecture not only boring, but exactly repeating what was in chapter seven. Why couldn’t they just let him read the book and take the exams, he thought. It was his last thought before he fell into a light slumber.

Until he felt a hand shaking him awake by his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see a full lieutenant in service dress blues waking him. Pacino bolted upright in his chair. At the Naval Academy, first class midshipmen were like gods, but if they were gods, the officers appointed over them were some celestial beings from even higher above. Pacino reminded himself that his own father was an admiral, and not just any admiral, but the CNO, the admiral in command of the entire Navy, and he told himself that officers were not beings to be feared, and yet, here, in this cloistered enclave, they were. An officer could put him on report, confine him to Bancroft Hall for ninety days, force him into formal uniform inspections daily, and the conduct report could snowball. A deficiency in a uniform inspection could add demerits to the original batch. And too many demerits and he’d be automatically kicked out of the Academy. Separated from the naval service.

Pacino was already perilously close to being kicked out. He’d been caught “going over the wall” last month. It was really just a rite of passage, to get up from his room at two in the morning, sneak out of Bancroft Hall, skulk out to the closest wall of the Academy, vault over it, and walk to a diner named Chicks that served breakfast around the clock. It was discouraged to graduate without going over the wall, and yet, getting caught was a major conduct violation. The insane cops-and-robbers game at the Academy was woven into its very fabric, and everyone who attended had played it, but play it poorly? That midshipman would find himself a civilian.

So it was that when he felt the hand shake him awake, Pacino’s heart slammed in his chest, his pulse instantly racing. He gasped for breath as if he were running hundred-yard dashes. He looked up at the lieutenant. Sleeping in class, he thought. How many demerits was that? Then the lieutenant spoke.

“Midshipman Pacino? The superintendent wants to see you in his office.”

Those words had to be the most terrifying of Pacino’s life. The only reason the superintendent — the admiral-in-command of the Academy — would want to see him would be to discharge Pacino from the Navy. Dear God, Pacino thought, how the hell would he explain this to his father? Dad was going to kill him.

The walk to the superintendent’s office in Leahy Hall seemed like a walk to the gallows. Pacino’s knees felt so weak it was like they’d turned to liquid. The passage through the door of Leahy Hall to the admiral’s office was like falling through a blurry tunnel, all luxurious walls and fixtures, paintings of past commanding admirals on the walls, elaborate models of ships in glass display cases, until finally the double door of Admiral Murphy’s inner office was opened.

Murphy came up to Pacino, but his expression wasn’t what Pacino had expected. Instead of harshness, the admiral’s face was a mask of pain and sympathy.

“Sit down, Mr. Pacino, please,” Murphy said, pointing to a chair in front of his desk. Murphy leaned on his desk in front of Pacino. “Anthony, I hate to be the one to bring this news to you. But your father’s cruise ship, the Princess Dragon, was torpedoed eighty miles outside of Norfolk harbor and went down with all hands. Your father is presumed to be among the dead. I’m so sorry, Anthony.”

Pacino felt the hot tears wet his eyes and trace their way down his face. He put his face in his hands, the tears, unwelcome and unbidden, shaking his entire upper body.

He felt a soft washcloth on his forehead and strong fingers touching the back of his skull. He decided to risk opening his eyes and when he did, he was no longer in Admiral Murphy’s office but seated at a table in the crew’s mess. A crew’s mess completely black but for the uneven lights of several battle lanterns, one of them shining on the back of his head. Even in the dimness, he could see over his left shoulder a large framed photo depicting the World War II battleship New Jersey firing all her guns at once, flames and billowing smoke blowing out over the seascape.