Panic Switch полностью

Pacino shrugged. “In my near-death experience, I only made it into the tunnel, not all the way to the afterlife. But before the tunnel vacuumed me into it, I had the thought that I could just stick around earth and watch things. Maybe haunt people. If that’s true, I think the New Jersey dead are probably still with us, maybe even sitting in this car, listening to us talk. I think they’ll attend the funeral Tuesday. Then they’ll feel free to leave and go on to the next world.”

“You know, that’s kind of freaky, the idea of them in this tiny car with us.”

“We have nothing but fond memories of them,” Pacino said. “I’m sure they find that comforting. I just hope they withdraw when you and I are, you know, in a ‘tactical situation.’”

“Oh man, Pacino, now I’m definitely not in the mood.”

Later, much later, the day would just be a blur of intense images in Pacino’s memory.

The mournful sound of a bugle in the crisp, clean, sunny autumn morning.

The clop of hoofbeats of the horses carrying the twenty-four caissons to the twenty-four freshly dug graves.

The caskets covered with bright American flags.

The color guard firing off three shots for each deceased person.

The solemn announcement of each person’s name, rank and job function on the USS New Jersey.

The chaplain, standing in the middle of the two dozen graves, an open Bible in his hands, reading a passage from the Old Testament—

The inconsolable wives, husbands, and children, all of them crying.

The survivors saluting on cue, all of them dressed in service dress blues with full medals and white gloves.

The honor guard taking American flags off coffins, folding them into triangles and presenting them to widows and widowers, children or parents, or just close friends.

The chaplain’s concluding prayer.

The bugle call at the end of the ceremony.

Pacino’s eyes teared up as he and Rachel Romanov walked back to his car. He sniffed and looked at Rachel, who looked back adoringly at him.

“Ahoy there! Attention all hands. Listen up,” XO Quinnivan shouted, “all you rowdy, misfit, criminal pirates, we have a lot to go over, so shut the fook up, yeah?” Quinnivan’s brogue was more pronounced than normal, a sure sign he’d been drinking.

The officers and some of the chiefs of the USS New England stood or sat in the great room of the Snake Ranch, the Virginia Beach rental house occupied by Pacino, Romanov, Dankleff and Vevera. With Quinnivan’s upcoming relocation back to the UK, his house was a wreck from packing. He’d donated his gigantic television, the Sony “Wall,” to the Snake Ranch as a parting gift. Dankleff and Vevera had spent the entire day getting the monstrous TV set up.

Pacino looked around, noting half a dozen new faces. The replacements for the dead officers, he thought. He took a sip of the scotch Quinnivan had brought over, the Irishman showing up with two plastic milk crates full of alcohol that he didn’t want to move back to England. After emptying one of the crates, he now stood on top of it to address the crowded room.

Pacino leaned over and whispered to Rachel, “you think the new captain is here?”

“He could only be that older guy standing next to Seagraves.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right.”

“Okay, so first off,” Quinnivan said, “I want to introduce one of Captain Seagraves’ buddies, one Commander Mikey ‘Headlock’ ‘Side-Eye’ Cydice from Pearl Harbor. He’s got temporary duty here at ComSubCom, so I brought him over to see if he could rent the spare room at the Snake Ranch for the next month. Mikey, say a few words to this crowd. Just speak slowly, they’re all mentally challenged.”

Commander Cydice laughed as he stepped up on top of Quinnivan’s milk crate. He was a few inches taller than Quinnivan but several inches shorter than Seagraves. He was of a slight build, a runner perhaps. His black hair was short on the sides, longer on top. He had pronounced cheekbones and a strong jawline. He wore a gray button-down shirt under a black sportscoat over black jeans, with black harness boots. He could almost be a biker, Pacino thought, if he traded out his jacket to a leather vest.