Panic Switch полностью

Flanagan nodded. “The same reason you folks from the Vermont all cross-decked together over to the New Jersey.” Flanagan stood. “I suppose I should get topside for your change of command.”

“Thanks for coming over and delivering the orders personally, Commodore.”

“It was good to see you again, Scotch.” At the door leading to the passageway, Flanagan turned to Seagraves. “Oh, and Scotch, try not to burn New Jersey to smithereens, will ya?”

“Fuck you, Twister,” Seagraves said, a crooked smile on his face.

He pulled on the starched choker whites and buttoned them up, then picked up the orders and reread them. Oddly, there was no code-name for whatever this operation would be. The orders were classified top secret but not code-word, which meant the real secrecy would begin in Faslane. Seagraves put the orders in his safe, locked it, then grabbed his white officer’s cap with the scrambled egg embroidery on the brim, and left his stateroom to head to the plug trunk hatch.

Captain Seagraves stood at rigid attention, saluted the PCU commander of New Jersey, and said, “I relieve you, sir.”

The PCU commander returned the salute and said, “I stand relieved.”

Light applause broke out on the platform and on the pier. Lieutenant Anthony Pacino watched Seagraves shaking hands with the DevRon Twelve commodore. Ditching the after-ceremony conversations, Pacino stepped to the plug trunk hatch. The sooner he could dump these dress whites, the better. He hurried to stateroom three, hoping he would beat River Styxx to the room. Changing into his working uniform for the underway operation would be embarrassing if she charged into the room while he was in his boxers. He finished changing uniforms, grabbed his pad computer, his binoculars and his brand-new USS New Jersey ball cap and opened the door just as Styxx was reaching for the doorknob.

“Ma’am,” Pacino said instinctively, coming to rigid attention. “Weps.”

“There’s no ma’ams onboard, Mr. Pacino,” she said, smiling slightly. “Just Weps or River. Although, I propose if we’re undressed in the same space at the same time, we’re strictly on a first name basis.”

Pacino smiled at her, relieved that she was being friendly.

“Any news about your navigator?” she asked. “Romanov?”

Pacino’s smile vanished, his face drooping to sadness. “Last I heard, she was in bad shape. She may have lost brain function.” It was easier to say that than the words brain dead.

Styxx put her hand on Pacino’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Patch. Maybe we’ll hear an update when we’re on the way to, well, wherever we’re going.”

“Any news on that? Where are we headed?”

“Your buddy Lewinsky plotted navigation points on the chart, but they only go to the dive point due east of Nantucket and then fifty miles beyond. After that, it’s apparently top secret. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

“Did you ask him?”

She nodded. “Predictably, he told me to go fuck myself.” She grinned. “You know, in a totally professional way.”

“Oh, of course,” Pacino laughed. “Anyway. I’d better do a pre-watch tour.”

“Have fun up there, Patch. I’ll be your contact coordinator.”

“Watch out for all that dangerous surface traffic.”

“Yeah, sailboats and the occasional family fishing outing on a motorboat.”

“And the inevitable Russian trawler.”

Pacino turned and hurried aft to go to maneuvering to see Vevera and how the reactor plant was behaving.

Pacino climbed through the deck grating’s hatch up to the cockpit of the sail, joining Ensign Short Hull Cooper on the bridge. The bridge was a recessed standing area cut into the top of the sail, the top surface of the conning tower retracted using segmented flaps called clamshells. The deck of the space was grating set over the bridge tunnel, the vertical accessway to the bridge from the upper level of the forward compartment. With the boat facing south, the way out of the river, the conning officer would start out on the port side to supervise their disconnection from the pier, and since Short Hull would be driving, Pacino put his pad computer on the receptacle on the starboard side. In the river basin, a large tugboat slowly approached them. Short Hull’s VHF radio crackled to life.

“U.S. Navy Submarine Captain, this is Navy tug Massapequa II, requesting permission to tie up on your starboard side, over.”

Short Hull looked over at Pacino. “What do I do, sir?”

Pacino shook his head. “The only ‘sirs’ onboard are the XO and the captain, Short Hull. Call down to the captain’s stateroom and ask permission to bring aboard the tug. Hand me the VHF.”

Short Hull picked up the 7MC, selected the captain’s stateroom and clicked the microphone button. “Captain, Junior Officer of the Deck, sir.”

Pacino clicked the VHF radio’s transmit button. “Navy tug Massapequa II, this is U.S. Navy submarine, please stand by, over.”