“This is Admiral Alexi Viktoryvich Novskoyy, Supreme Commander, Russian Northern Fleet. A reactionary hawk who still wants to bring back the old discredited Soviet Union, when he and his ilk were riding high.”
Pacino waited.
“He is also the man who murdered Patch Pacino.”
Pacino looked at the photograph, stunned, his eyes finally rising to look into Donchez’s face.
“You know this for a fact?”
“Alexi Novskoyy, commanding officer, fleet submarine Leningrad, a VICTOR III attack submarine, the only VICTOR III, I might add, from 1973 to 1976. He was the new construction commanding officer. Awarded Hero of the Soviet Union medal in 1973 for classified action. In the Arctic Ocean. That’s him, there’s no doubt.”
“And now? That was a long time ago—”
“The new Omega submarine got under way three hours ago, Mikey,” Donchez pointed to the folder. Pacino put the photo of Novskoyy aside and looked at the satellite photo beneath, a God’s-eye-view looking directly downward that showed the huge Omega submarine angled away from her pier and pulling out.
“What do you see?”
“Sub getting under way. One last line on the pier. Topside crew getting ready to pull the line in. Two cranes on the pier. Probably one for shorepower cables and one for the gangway.”
“What else?”
“Car on the pier. Limousine. Flags on the fenders. Stars on the flags.” Pacino looked up. “Admiral’s limo.” Donchez nodded. “And how many stars?” he said, offering a magnifying glass. Pacino studied the photo with the glass. “Four stars.”
“Correct. And do you see flags flying on the OMEGA?”
“Yes. Northern Fleet Banner. Russian flag. Commissioning pennant.”
“And?”
“And a flag with stars on it. Four stars.” Pacino looked into Donchez’s eyes. “Admiral Novskoyy’s on board?”
“Bingo. Novskoyy’s on board the OMEGA. The mission, as we understand it, is a one-week trip under the icepack. Sea trials. And the admiral is along to see how his baby performs. He designed the OMEGA himself.”
Pacino sat back in his chair. Suddenly he understood the urgency of the OP. And for him in particular. The son-of-a-bitch who’d killed his father was aboard—
Pacino jumped as the phone rang. Donchez nodded at it.
“It’s for you, Mikey.”
Pacino shook his head. How would Donchez know who the phone was for?
“Pacino here.”
“Captain, XO here.” It was Rapier. “They said you were in a briefing but they put me through anyway.”
“Go ahead,” Pacino said, looking at Donchez.
“Sir, we’re moored at berth 7.1 took the liberty of bringing on shorepower and ordering the reactor shutdown… Something very strange is going on here. The squadron sent over some guys from the tender with about ten forktrucks full of food. They’re loading it aboard right now.”
Pacino stared at Donchez, who returned his look. “Yes, XO. What else?”
“Arctic gear, sir, four pallets. Squadron wants to load that on, too, in the ship’s office and the fan room. I told them to hold off until we talked. There’s also a truck here with five torpedoes. They’re painted red instead of green. Tender says they’re a new weapon system. Mark 50 torpedoes. They call them Hullcrushers. Squadron Weapons Officer is here and wants permission to load them aboard. I said hell no. Sir… you got any orders for me?”
Pacino didn’t hesitate. “XO, you have permission to load weapons and Arctic supplies. And notify the crew that all liberty and leaves are cancelled. We sail at dawn tomorrow. While you’re at it, request a clearance message from COMSUBLANT for transit—”
“Sir, I’m holding the clearance in my hands right now. I suppose you’ll be letting me know what’s up?”
“It’s a secure phone,” Donchez broke in.
“XO, Devilfish will be getting under way for a classified OP tomorrow morning. You can let the crew know they won’t be home for Christmas.”
He broke off the connection before Rapier could protest. Donchez pulled his long cold cigar out of the ashtray and lit it, looking out the plate glass window to a plaza across the street where construction vehicles had been parked for the night.
“You know, Mikey,” Donchez said, “the polar icecap is a lonely place. Things can happen there that no one on earth will ever know about. Look at Stingray. Only a few men know what really happened to her.” Donchez swivelled around in his chair and looked directly at Pacino. “Those Mark 50 torpedoes, the Hullcrushers, they’re new, experimental. They have shaped charges designed to penetrate and blast through doublehulled submarines with one hundred times the killing power of the old Mark 49’s. And as far as your tubes and fire-control systems are concerned, they’ll look exactly like Mark 49’s. No system modifications necessary. They’ll go fifty-five knots. Their sonars have improved doppler filters. And their crush-depth is deeper than 10,000 feet. We figure they’re the antidote to the OMEGA.”
Pacino’s mind raced, wondering whether Donchez really meant what Pacino thought he did.
“In fact, Mikey,” Donchez went on, “those torpedoes are so new and so experimental that we’ve never had a chance to take inventory of the five on the squadron truck. Why, if you came back from up north and those torpedoes were missing, well, no one would ever notice. As far as squadron and SUBLANT are concerned, those torpedoes don’t exist.”
Pacino stood up, hands balling into fists. Donchez stood up and held out his hand. Pacino saluted, turned and walked to the door, putting on his blue baseball cap.
“Merry Christmas, Uncle Dick,” he said and closed the door behind him.
Admiral Richard Donchez sat back down and said! “Merry Christmas, Mikey… and good hunting.” He looked out again over the grass to the plaza across the street. The construction going on was for a contract he had written personally: to build a marble monument in honor of the officers and men of the USS Stingray. Donchez took a long puff on his Havana cigar. “And Merry Christmas to you. Patch,” he said softly, “and rest in peace, old friend.”
CHAPTER 5
Sandbridge Beach, a small village of beach houses, fish restaurants, convenience stores and bait shops, was bathed in the moonlight of a cloudless night sky. The large beach houses were quiet in the off-season. A few were decorated with Christmas lights. As midnight approached, the lights of all but a few houses were off.
Michael Pacino’s old Corvette rumbled to a halt in the carport under a large three-story redwood house on stilts overlooking the water. He turned off the engine, brought back to the present by the silence, surprised that he had driven the forty miles from the base to the house without conscious thought or motion. Slowly, feeling like an old man, Pacino emerged from the cramped car, pulling a duffel bag from a cubbyhole behind the seat. He stood, watching the waves break on the beach on the other side of the property, then climbed to the second-floor entrance to the house.
Hillary had bought the beach house with her own money. Commander’s pay might afford a modest colonial in the suburbs but never a house on the water, not on Sandbridge. It had bothered him some, living here.
As he searched his pocket for his key the door opened. Hillary’s face was always a welcome sight after a long run on the boat. She had beautiful tanned skin, dark blue eyes over high cheekbones and perfectly full red lips. With long blonde hair, she was tall and thin. Her own complaint about herself was that her breasts were too small. He had no complaints. She was also a high-strung, thoughtful, at times brooding woman. On many nights after Tony was in bed she’d spend hours on the deck overlooking the beach, smoking cigarettes and staring out to sea, sometimes writing poetry in a notebook she never could bring herself to let Pacino read. When he was assigned ashore she would tend to come out of herself, laughing and talking more.