Panic Switch полностью

Without conscious thought, he realized he’d driven to the parking lot of Naval Medical Center Portsmouth, the hospital that was part of Norfolk Naval Station. He cut the engine, engaged the parking brake, grabbed his cap and walked slowly toward the entrance, realizing he must look absolutely foolish still wearing his starched choker whites with full medals, but he honestly didn’t care. Almost as if in a dream he watched himself ride the elevator to the eighth floor, the burn unit ICU. Pacino found himself in the hospital room and saw Rachel lying there, completely helpless, with burn dressings on her abdomen and legs. She was fed oxygen by a ventilator, multiple IVs snaking into her forearms. He became aware of a second person in the room, the man solid and at least four inches taller than Pacino, dressed in jeans and a golf shirt, with a shaved head and a square jaw, looking like a middle-aged boxer. Slowly Pacino realized he was staring into the face of Commander Bruno Romanov, Rachel’s soon-to-be ex-husband.

“Bruno,” he stammered in his hoarse voice, not knowing what else to say. “Commander Romanov.” An intense stab of guilt sliced into him then as he glanced at Rachel, then at Bruno. He was forming the words to apologize to Bruno for almost getting Rachel killed.

But Bruno smiled down on him kindly, almost in a fatherly way, and put his arm around Pacino’s shoulders. “It wasn’t your fault, Patch,” he said in a gentle but booming deep voice with a slight Eastern European accent. “You did what you thought was right. I heard about the Board of Inquiry. They cleared you, so you’re cleared in my book.”

Pacino looked at Commander Romanov. Was Bruno here to reclaim his relationship with Rachel? Then more guilt came, because that assumed she’d wake up, and no one knew whether she would.

“How is she?” Pacino asked. “What are the doctors saying?”

Bruno Romanov’s expression fell. “Physically, the doctors are not worried about her burns or the skin grafts, but her lungs and heart were damaged by the smoke inhalation. But what’s worse is that her brain activity is not good, Patch. There’s not a lot the staff will share with me, but the fact they look away when I ask? I don’t like it.”

Pacino shook his head sadly, looking at Rachel. He’d wanted to spend a moment with her alone, but the guilt came through him like a blast of cold water. Perhaps, he thought, it would be best to leave.

“Well,” Bruno said, “I’d like to stay with her, but you know — you must know by now — we’re not married any longer. The divorce was final the day of the accident. Keep that to yourself, or the hospital will kick me out of most of the visiting hours. Even with this, though, I’ve got ship’s business to attend to. Time, tide, formation and Big Navy wait for no man. Or no family emergency. I’ll leave you to sit with Rachel.”

“Thanks, Bruno,” Pacino said, unsure what else he could say.

Romanov clapped Pacino on the shoulderboard and walked out. Pacino stared after him, then turned to look at Rachel. Her long shining hair was spread smoothly over the pillow, as if someone had lovingly brushed it — Bruno, maybe? Pacino sat on her bed and took her hand in his, and when he spoke, emphatic words came from somewhere deep inside him, without conscious thought.

“Rachel, it’s me, Patch. Listen, when you get better — and you will get better, I swear you will — I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I don’t care what you say. I’m in love with you and I know you have feelings for me. So we’re starting a relationship, dammit. You read me, Madam Navigator?” He felt her hand carefully to see if she’d squeeze his, but her hand was as asleep as when he’d first held it. But he looked over at the vital signs monitor.

Was it his imagination, or had Rachel’s pulse rate suddenly jumped?

National Security Director Michael Pacino stepped quickly into the large jet helicopter with the presidential seal on the outside flank. The president’s rig, he thought. President Carlucci had called shortly after the younger Pacino left the base, asking the admiral to come to D.C., adding that the presidential helicopter would be waiting. Pacino strapped himself into the plush leather seat and looked across the row at CIA Director Margo Allende.

Allende was in her mid-forties and had a habit of dressing frumpy, keeping her sleek copper auburn hair in a bun, avoiding makeup and hiding her deep blue eyes behind large-lensed red-framed 80s glasses, as if doing that would make men take her more seriously, or perhaps keep them from finding and expressing interest in her, but today Director Allende wore her gleaming hair straight and down below her shoulders, the glasses gone, her face and eyes made up, and she wore a tight cashmere dress hugging her almost perfect figure. Pacino looked at her appreciatively, winked and said, “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”