The helicopter’s jets had spun up to idle, the loud whine of them drowning out the other questions from the crowd. Pacino approached the chopper. A Marine guard in dress blues saluted him. Pacino stopped, turned to face the Marine, and rigidly returned the salute. The Marine couldn’t help smiling as Pacino turned at the top of the steps and waved toward the White House, wondering if Carlucci could see him, and ducked into the helicopter as the rotors started spinning.
“Welcome, sir,” a Marine officer said, saluting him. Pacino saluted back. “Destination, sir? Your Annapolis house?”
“Yes. Annapolis,” Pacino said, and buckled into a seat. He looked up as someone brushed past him and took the seat opposite his.
It was CIA Director Margo Allende, who smiled at him as she buckled in.
“What do I call you now, sir?” she asked. “Mr. Vice President? Or Admiral?”
Pacino smiled back. “How about ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie’?”
“How about babe?” she asked, smiling at him.
He winked at her. “That works.”
The helicopter lifted off the south lawn and flew out toward the Washington Monument, then turned toward the southeast.
The Air Force C130 had landed at Joint Base Thule in northern Greenland. Off to the side of the runway, there had been half a dozen Gulfstream SS-12s at idle, their hatches open. Captain Seagraves and XO Quinnivan had directed that their jet’s passengers should also include Pacino, Lewinsky, Dankleff and Vevera.
As soon as Lieutenant Anthony Pacino climbed out of the cargo turboprop and stepped to the SS-12, he felt exhaustion overtake him. He’d taken his seat behind Quinnivan’s and opposite Dankleff’s, strapped in and shut his eyes. He’d fallen into a deep sleep when an attendant in the blue uniform of an Air Force sergeant nudged him awake and asked if he’d like a drink.
“I’d love a scotch, double, neat, Macallan if you have it,” Pacino said, his hand going up to his head to feel his bandages. The wounds throbbed. He wondered how frightful his face would look when the wounds healed.
“Yes, sir,” she said, returning with drinks on a tray, delivering Seagraves’ and Quinnivan’s drinks first, then Lewinsky’s, then Dankleff’s, then Vevera’s and Pacino’s.
Pacino looked solemnly at Dankleff and Vevera. “A toast, U-Boat and Squirt Gun. To our fallen. To Moose Kelly. To River Styxx. To Easy Eisenhart. To Gangbanger Ganghadharan. And our non-qual, Long Hull Cooper.”
“And to our lost friends in the goat locker,” Dankleff said, referring to the chief petty officers of the submarine. “To the COB, Q-Ball Quartane. Fancy McGraceland, E-div. Drive Shaft McGuire, A-gang. And Gory Goreliki, radio, and K-Squared Kim, firecontrol, both fellow pirates from Operation
“All on eternal patrol,” Pacino said, his eyes getting moist as he thought of Lieutenant Commander Wanda River Styxx. What was the last thing she’d said to him before the shitshow started?
Pacino downed half the whisky in one gulp, putting the glass down on the table between his and Dankleff’s seat and looking out the window. There was nothing to see, just sky above and clouds below. The sun was harsh, so Pacino shut the window blind. He drained the glass and the sergeant came back with a second whisky. He was about to take a sip when XO Quinnivan stood up and shouted.
“Lads, take a look at this,” Quinnivan said, then sat back down.
The television flatpanels at the forward and aft bulkheads of the jet, which had previously been showing a projection of their route from Greenland to Washington, and their progress on that route, switched to a Satellite News Network news segment, the reporter standing on the White House south lawn as the Marine One helicopter lifted off and sailed away. The scroll at the bottom of the screen read,
“Vice President Michael Pacino’s resignation leaves the White House with the decision of whom to replace him with, with many suggesting that Secretary of War Bret Hogshead is first in line for the position, since President Carlucci likes having a military expert as his number two person. When asked if he would run for president against Carlucci, Vice President Pacino refused to comment. Back to you in the studio, Freddy. Monica Eddlestien, SNN News, the White House.”
“Wow,” Dankleff said. “Looks like Patch here just lost all his juice.”
