Panic Switch полностью

Quinnivan turned off the news clip and the screen returned to showing their route progress. The copilot of the flight, an Air Force major with her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, came into the cabin, stepped up to Captain Seagraves and quietly said something in his ear, then turned and returned to the flight deck. Seagraves stood, putting one hand on Dankleff’s seatback and one on Vevera’s across the aisle.

“Gentlemen, our destination has been changed,” Seagraves said. “We’re apparently no longer invited to the White House to meet the vice president and debrief at CIA headquarters. We’ve been rerouted to Norfolk. Our debriefings will be held at ComSubCom headquarters Wednesday morning.” With that, Seagraves sat back down.

Dankleff and Vevera were staring at Pacino.

“What?” Pacino said.

“The hell happened with your dad?” Dankleff asked. “You think he got fired by Carlucci for shooting missiles at that Russian rescue plane? Which, by the way, was an act of war.”

Pacino frowned. “I’ll ask him when I see him,” he said. “As to an act of war, shooting at the Belgorod was an act of war too, I’d remind you.”

Dankleff shrugged. “That happened under the polar icecap,” he said.

“So what?” Pacino asked.

“Patch,” Dankleff said, “every submariner knows that what happens under the ice… never happened.”

Captain Second Rank Iron Irina Trusov carefully carried the long submarine model to the headstone, then kneeled down and laid the model on the ledge of the stone. The black granite stone’s engraved text read:

Trusov stood, taking a mental image of the submarine model laid at her father’s gravestone. She decided to sit on the granite bench a few feet uphill from the headstone and keep her father company for a little while. Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice from over her shoulder.

“Anything you leave on a grave gets collected for the museum, you know.” The tall man reached into a pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out a cigarette and lit it, blowing smoke from his nostrils. He nodded at the gravestone. “He was a good man, your father. I served with him on Tambov. It was my first submarine. I like to think he taught me all he knew about underwater combat.”

Trusov stared. It was Georgy Alexeyev, with a new black eye patch over his right eye, wearing a black uniform greatcoat, but his shoulder boards were new. Gone were the two gold stripes and three gold stars of a captain first rank, replaced with shoulder boards with two gold stars. He was a vice admiral now.

She stood. “Admiral? Admiral Alexeyev? You got promoted?”

He nodded and smiled. “Do you mind if I sit with you here for a little while?”

“Please, sir, go ahead.” Once he took a seat on the bench, she sat next to him, uncomfortable that the bench was only long enough for two people if they sat close together.

“Admiral Zhigunov retired,” Alexeyev said. “He said this operation aged him another five years and he feels he doesn’t have that long left. Meanwhile, Admiral Zhabin was promoted to Chief Commander of the Navy after that asshole Stanislav passed away, and Zhabin and I go way back. Funny thing, Litso Smerti—Death Face — Zhabin was the first officer of Tambov when I reported aboard. He’s an old friend. He insisted I take command of the Northern Fleet.”

“I see,” Trusov said dully. “I’m glad the polar mission of the Belgorod didn’t hurt your career.”

Alexeyev smiled. “It didn’t hurt yours either, Irina. There’s an awards ceremony Wednesday immediately after the memorial service for our fallen comrades. You’re being awarded the Medal for Distinction in Combat, second award. And you’re out of uniform.” Alexeyev reached into his greatcoat pocket and pulled out a clear package containing the shoulder boards of a captain first rank.

Her eyes grew wide. “Really? But I’m so young, Cap — I mean, Admiral.”

“You’re wise and brilliant beyond your years,” Alexeyev said. “And that is not all. I have a project for you. I’m putting you in charge of building a new special-purpose submarine. Not something cobbled together from old spare parts like Belgorod, but planned from the keel up. It will be magnificent.” He smirked. “And hardened against nuclear shock. Once it’s constructed, you will be the captain. Here, let me help you.” She stood to face the admiral, and he removed the new shoulder boards from the packaging, took her captain second rank boards off and replaced them with the new boards of captain first rank. “It looks great on you, Irina.”