Panic Switch полностью

“No, it’s not,” Pacino said, his voice solemn. “We’ve lost the captain. We lost the XO. The navigator’s gone. The engineer is dead. The weapons officer is dead. The communicator is dead. Supply officer? Dead. Reactor controls officer? Dead. So are the COB, the E-div chief, radio chief, AI chief and A-gang chief. And a dozen more. The sub we sailed lies on the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. Did you notice that NavPersCom didn’t assign a commanding officer to this boat? That’s because nobody wants the fuckin’ job. And you, after your trouble at nuke school? You got assigned here, not because you fought to get the billet, but because this is a hardship tour. A punishment tour. And meanwhile, the boat is being Frankensteined together from the halves of two other boats, and God knows if that will work, and the shipyard’s rushing it, trying to beat an arbitrary deadline thought up by a pissed-off admiral, and shipyard mistakes cause subs to sink. Don’t believe me, ask our good friends on the Thresher. Not to mention, it’ll be months before this thing gets its hull wet. And all that time will be lost to you for the purpose of qualification progress. It would have been better if you had requested an operating boat where you could work on quals and stand watches instead of waiting here while our boat sits high and dry on the drydock blocks.”

Farina looked at Pacino, the color draining from his face. “I’d always heard you were an optimist. That’s a pretty downer view of things.”

“A military funeral for two dozen of your friends will do that to you. That’s another thing. Despite all the levity at the Snake Ranch party, the crew from the old wardroom, before you new guys showed up, all feel the same. The loss. The sadness. The hopelessness of it all. The dead all died for a cause, I suppose. The mission got accomplished, but not by us. Sure, we tossed weapons at the bad guys, but in the end, those Poseidons were destroyed by the Russians themselves, and they sank themselves with their own goddamned nuclear-tipped torpedo. We were just along for the ride.”

“I know I’m just a non-qual nub,” Farina said. “But I see it differently. After all, there’s Silky Romanov. Squirt Gun Vevera. U-Boat Dankleff. Boozy Varney. And you. The revered-and-feared Death Toll Pacino. You guys are all storied heroes. Combat tested bad-asses. Real life pirates. You’ve all sailed into harm’s way and fired torpedoes in anger. You’ve all gotten medals for valor that the rest of the Navy just dreams of. You? The silver star, second award. The goddamned Navy Cross? And one of my nuke school buddies sent me a picture of the brass plaque in the Naval Academy’s Memorial Hall on the wall right next to your father’s plaque. It reads, ‘If I have to die on this mission, I intend to die with an empty torpedo room.’ Lieutenant Anthony Pacino, USS Vermont, Operation Panther. So, in what universe would I not want to join this crew?”

Pacino smiled, perhaps for the first time that day. “You know, for a non-qual air-breathing puke, you make a good point. Tell you what. Monday, you and I will walk over to the New Hampshire at Squadron Six and I’ll give you a sonar walkthrough. I’ll ask their skipper, Gray Wolf Austin, if he can take you for a few weeks or a month on their next op so you can get some sea time under your belt. And I’ll threaten his life if he tries to steal you. Then XO and the yeoman will get temporary duty orders cut for you. You’ll come back in a couple months halfway to your dolphins.”

“You’d do that for me?” Farina looked at Pacino in gratitude. “Thank you, Patch.”

“Any time, Cool Hand. Have a good weekend. Oh, and Cool Hand? Text the photo of that plaque to me. I want to send it to my dad.”

Pacino walked slowly to his car, hearing his own words again in his mind that he’d said to Farina. He was reminded of his father, who used to get in dark moods, sitting in his office with the lights out, staring into space, drinking alone, especially after the sinking of the cruise ship. It could take the old man a year to snap out of a funk, Pacino thought. He hoped this heavy hopeless feeling wouldn’t last a goddamned year.

He got to the car, tossed his bag in the back, and moved slowly through the lot and wheeled the car to the door of the admin building, where an annoyed Lieutenant Commander Rachel Romanov waited for him. He rolled down the window.

“Get in, loser,” he said, grinning in spite of his mood. “We’re going to Annapolis.”

“Where have you been?” she said. “I’ve been out here waiting for you for ten minutes.”

“I stopped to yell at one of our new nubs. Cool Hand Farina.”

“What do you think of him?” she asked, tossing a bag in the back, shutting the passenger door and strapping in.

Pacino tilted his head, considering his answer. “I think we can make him into a submariner.”