Panic Switch полностью

“Shh. Top secret, lad,” Quinnivan said, grinning and glancing at Pacino and Romanov. “Not in front of the children.” He turned toward Pacino and Romanov. “Patch, Silky, this is Lieutenant Commander Lurch Driscoll, my old roommate and stateroom mate on the HMS Astute back home. I was the navigator. Lurch isn’t smart enough to navigate, so they put him in charge of the weapons department. He never could figure out that Spearfish torpedo, though. Damn near blew us up doing maintenance one day. Lurch, this is Rachel Silky Romanov — you’ve heard of iron fist, velvet glove? Well, Lieutenant Commander Romanov here has a titanium fist in a silk glove. And this youngster here is Lieutenant Anthony Patch Pacino. We’re particularly proud of this young’un.”

Driscoll shook Rachel’s hand, then Pacino’s.

“The name is actually ‘Balaclava’ Driscoll,’” he said to Pacino. “I convene a captain’s mast for anyone calling me ‘Lurch.’ But some assholes are just too stupid to be retrained,” he said, winking at Quinnivan. “And you, Mister Pacino. I was informed your callsign is actually ‘Death Toll.’ How many Russians have you killed in the last two ops?”

Pacino smirked. Death Toll Pacino. He supposed anything was better than his old callsign, Lipstick.

“Come on down, you three,” Driscoll said, smiling. “Let me introduce you to the captain, and then you can wander around as needed.”

Pacino followed Romanov and Quinnivan down the gangway to the hull, all three of them saluting the American flag mounted aft, then across to the doghouse overlooking the maw of the plug trunk hatch. When Pacino’s turn came to enter the submarine, that unique and powerful smell of the boat filled his nostrils, an unmistakable witch’s brew of atmo control amines, ozone, diesel fuel, diesel exhaust, cooking grease, seasoned with a touch of raw sewage. Wives of submariners often made husbands take off their boat uniforms before entering the house, the smell soaking into fabric and only a strong detergent able to eliminate it. It could get worse on a long run, Pacino thought, especially in the tropics, when stale human sweat was added to the mix, sometimes exacerbated by the laundry being shut down if there were trouble with the evaporators. Clean water was reserved for the oxygen generator, the reactor, the steam plant, and only after that for cooking and drinking, and dead last, for laundry. Pacino realized he hadn’t smelled that scent since climbing out of the New Jersey, and the strong aroma brought him back to the moments before the sub sank.

He wondered if the smell would hit Rachel the same way it was hitting him. Would that crazy smell wake her up? Or would her amnesia persist? The trouble was, the smell had been present in her memories of her year on the Vermont before Pacino had shown up. He followed the other officers down the steep staircase to the middle level and forward to the door to the captain’s stateroom. When Romanov turned to face Pacino at the door, he could tell from her blank stare that nothing had changed for her. The amnesia was continuing, he thought, his stomach dropping a few floors.

The man in the captain’s stateroom stood. He seemed way too young to be a sub captain, Pacino thought. He stood barely over five feet tall, with a shock of red hair and a red five o’clock shadow. His face was open and friendly. He grinned in pleasure at Quinnivan.

“The mad Irishman cometh,” he said, shaking Quinnivan’s hand. “How the hell are ya, Bullfrog?”

“Great, great,” Quinnivan said. “I’m just about done destroying American submarines.”

“Tour coming to an end? Is the exchange program continuing?” The captain looked at Driscoll. “I hope so. Maybe I could get a British XO who would actually be competent instead of this loafer.”

“Fuck you, Skipper,” Driscoll said, smiling. “Gentlemen and lady, this is Captain Grey ‘Gray Wolf’ Austin, commanding officer of the legendary submarine USS New Hampshire. Captain, this is Rachel Silky Romanov, Vermont’s former navigator, and their sonar officer, Anthony Patch Pacino.”

Austin smiled. “Pleased to meet you guys,” he said, reaching out to shake Rachel’s hand, then Pacino’s. “Your XO is correct about this being a legendary submarine. The New Hampshire is here to save Western civilization, as we have done many times already.” He looked sympathetically at Rachel. “I heard there was, as Bullfrog would say, a spot of bother on the Vermont in drydock. You’re all healed up now?”