Lieutenant Anthony Pacino nodded a solemn farewell at his father after begging off the old man’s offer of dinner. The elder Pacino would undoubtedly want to talk more about the accident and the inquest, but that was the last thing the younger man wanted. He walked slowly out to his old ‘69 Corvette, climbed in, tossed his officer’s cap onto the passenger seat and turned over the engine, the more modern LS-2 power plant he’d installed himself with the low profile supercharger. The engine throbbed with power, but Pacino’s mind was too far away to enjoy it.
The words of the inquest commander still rang in his mind.
Of course, the question was, did the board’s findings arise from them being leaned on by Pacino’s father, or Vice Admiral Catardi, or even the president himself? And even if not, in his own mind, was he truly blameless for what had happened? When he had screened the conn open mike video, he’d searched for signs of incompetence or wrongful action, and although he still had no memory of anything that happened after the underhull of the cold water scoops, the actions taken by the figure of himself in the control room all seemed appropriate, although having unfortunate consequences for Rachel Romanov and Senior Chief Nygard. The answer to his father’s second question nagged at him, though—
He couldn’t answer the question without regaining his memory, but the fact that he’d demanded to know propulsion plant status from the reactor plant watchstanders made him think he had been getting ready to sail the boat down below crush depth. And that would make him a suicidal mass murderer, certainly one with exigent circumstances — to keep the top secret, front line attack submarine and crew out of Russian hands — but could he really have given orders that would kill the whole crew? And himself? To avoid capture by the Russians? Thinking about this was madness, he thought.