“Yes, Captain,” Rachel said, her voice neutral, almost dead sounding. She obviously was not happy with this errand. Pacino wondered if Bruno had convinced her to visit the sub or if Quinnivan or Seagraves had demanded the trip. “I’ve just lost a few months of my memory. There is the valid concern that what I do remember is complete enough to return me to submarine duty, or if I need to be retrained. Hopefully I haven’t suffered so much brain trauma that I’ve lost what I know about operating a submarine.”
“Good, good, well, you’ve come to the right place.
“Hey now,” Quinnivan said, striking a boxing pose. “Captain, Lieutenant Pacino here, you may have heard stories about him. Disregard them. They’re all lies.”
Austin laughed. “What, are you saying he
“And not only that,” Quinnivan said, “he’s the son of Admiral Pacino.”
“Wow, that’s your dad? He’s running for president against Carlucci,” Austin said.
“No, I don’t think so,” Pacino said.
“He just announced his candidacy this morning,” Austin said, finding his tablet computer, putting on his reading glasses and handing the unit to Pacino. Pacino squinted at it and scanned it. Austin was right. Dad was running for president. Pacino blinked, feeling disoriented, like he’d stepped into an alternate universe, one where his father had become a politician and his woman had no idea who he was.
“Anyway, you guys go wherever you want,” Austin said. “If you’re going aft, get set up with the engineer first with dosimeters. Eng is in stateroom two. Come to the wardroom at 1145. We’re having an amazing meal today.”
“What’s for lunch, Captain?” Quinnivan asked.
“Sliders,” Austin grinned. “With steak fries and my favorite, cornbread. No one makes cornbread like my mess cooks. They make my old Aunt Martha from Waycross, Georgia, look like an amateur.”
“We’ll be there, Captain,” Quinnivan said. “I’m hungry already.” He looked at Pacino and Romanov. “Come on, let’s go hang out in control first.”
The three of them spent a half hour in the control room, which was cold and quiet, all the electronics shut down when in port, the air conditioning tuned for when every console would be operational and hot. Pacino kept stealing glances at Romanov to see if she’d recognize him, but she just stood there, silent as a statue. He’d moved close to her to get her to move to the space aft of the command console and he took the position to her immediate left, where they had stood for the early parts of Operation
Eventually, the supply chief came for them, announcing that lunch would be dished up in the next few minutes. They all walked aft to the wardroom. Pacino stood behind the seat he used to sit in on the
The captain entered the room with Driscoll and they all took their seats. Pacino unfolded a guest linen napkin and placed it in his lap. A messcook came by and put two hamburger buns on each officer’s plate, the buns full size. Submarine sliders weren’t the same as what civilians called sliders. A submarine slider was simply a grilled hamburger, but so greasy that it would slide down one’s throat. The onions, tomatoes, and pickles came next, then the hamburger patties.
“Where are your officers, Captain Austin?” Rachel asked.
“I told them to eat in the crew’s mess today, Madam Romanov,” Austin said. “I wanted to talk to you three without my junior officers misbehaving, those ill-mannered scurvy youngsters.”
Quinnivan, Driscoll and Austin soon became deeply engaged in conversation. Old stories about former senior officers, former junior officers, their exploits on former submarines. The buzz of them talking soon faded in Pacino’s mind, and his focus narrowed to Rachel, looking at her while trying to appear that he wasn’t staring at her.
She slowly assembled a hamburger and took a bite. Pacino waited, hopeful, that the taste of the slider would bring her back, but there was still no recognition.
“So, Patch,” Austin said, his voice penetrating Pacino’s trance. “Or do you prefer ‘Death Toll’? Tell us the whole story of Operation
