were shadows of Pacino in the lad. The boy in the picture was his son, Midshipman Anthony Michael Pacino, a plebe at Annapolis when the picture was taken. Pacino was standing and staring at the photo when a knock came at the door.
Putting aside the strong emotions the pictures caused, Pacino called to the door, "Come." His secretary, Joanna Stoddard, appeared, her hair in a bun, her steel glasses obscuring her eyes. "Admiral Phillips, Commander Unified Submarine Command, is aboard, sir."
"Send him in," he said, smiling to himself at Stoddard's attempt to sound nautical and military at the same time. She was an old hand, with him since the days when he'd been named to be the first commanding admiral of the unified sub force, a time that seemed generations ago.
Bruce Phillips was speaking before he was even through the door, his hat under one arm, his briefcase in the other.
"Glad you could see me, sir. Wow, you've redone the office. I like it." Phillips stopped to look at the paintings, ending up at the one portraying young Anthony. "He's really growing up, isn't he?"
"He is," Pacino said, trying to keep the pride from his voice: "He may grow up even faster if they kick him out of the Academy."
Phillips turned to look at Pacino. "I doubt they'd dismiss him, not with his connections. Dad's the Big Boss."
"The Academy superintendent is Sean Murphy, my old roommate. He took the 688-class sub Tampa into Chinese waters a few years back and
got caught, and I and Seawolf had to pull him out. He owes me a few, and not just from the Chinese bay incident. I told Sean I'd fire him if he showed or allowed favoritism to young Anthony."
"Bad connection, I see."
Pacino laughed. "Exactly. Sit down. Can I buy you a drink? Sun's over the yardarm." Pacino's scratched Rolex diver's watch read five-thirty.
"Thanks. That'd be perfect, given what I'm proposing today."
Pacino opened the bar to the left of the fireplace, took two glasses and ice, and poured two generous portions of the single-malt scotch that O'Shaugh-nessy had given him as a wedding present.
"I'm more of a Jack Daniel's man myself, Admiral," Phillips said, sniffing the glass.
"Drink it, you'll like it. That's an order."
Phillips sat on the deep leather of one of the chairs, Pacino sinking into the chair beside it. He offered Phillips a cigar and watched as Phillips fit up, Pacino not taking part.
"I feel like I'm in a gentlemen's club in old London."
"Bruce, you'd be amazed how much better my results are in an environment like this. People can relax instead of bracing up like plebes. You should have seen this place when O'Shaughnessy had it."
"Boss, I'm here to promote exactly that," Phillips said, sitting up in his seat. "You know you had an idea for a senior officer retreat? And we were going to invite our key junior officers, their reward for good performance? Make it a week in Hawaii, you said, or the Bahamas."
"I remember. We were thinking about July." Pacino grimaced. He'd become caught up in the administrative burden of running the Navy, with its truckloads of problems and the politics that went with it.
"Someone said it sounded like what the aviators do with their Las Vegas convention every year, what do they call it, Tailhook, and they have a good time but do some business in between."
"I know you have an idea percolating in there, Bruce. You don't have to sell me, just come out with it."
"Why don't we have a fleetwide version of Tail-hook, sir? We'll have the sub officers—bubbleheads like us—the skimmers—surface pukes—the Marines and the flyboys, all under one roof. We'll have seminars where we'll learn each other's frustrations, we'll hang out with our hot-running junior officers, see what they're made of, and all away from the drudgery of the fleet and the usual headaches from the headquarters weasels like us. We'll get away from it all and get some real thinking done. You can take one day to discuss equipment, get feedback from the officers about ship problems, gripes about the platforms, what we need for the Navy of tomorrow. Then a day to discuss personnel issues, see how our fleet is or isn't taking care of its people. Then a day to go over our strategic vision for combat in this century, who the enemies are likely to be. Then a day or two just to relax. We'd all come back the better for it."
"Nothing new there, Bruce. That's all in my memo to the type commanders." The "type com-
manders" were the heads of the submarine force— Phillips—the naval aviation force, and the surface navy force and the commanding general of the Marines.
"Roger that, sir. But it occurs to me that going to a hotel in Hawaii or the Bahamas is not our style. That's too Air Force for us. That's what our friends in blue would do. We need to do something more, well, more Navy-like."
"Go on."
"Picture this, Admiral. We charter an entire cruise ship and take it out, have our seminars and parties onboard. In between we can hang out on the bridge, even take the watch. Some of our old salts will probably be in the engine room inspecting the bilges. They'll absolutely love it, criticizing the captain for his shiphandling as he maneuvers off the pier on day one, bitching about how he navigates in mid-Atlantic. The boys will love it."
Pacino looked at Phillips, amusement crinkling the crow's-feet at his eyes. "You've been thinking about this for a while."
"No, not really. Just since last week." Phillips blushed slightly. "My company bought a cruise line. The Princess Dragon comes out of her shakedown in three weeks. I propose we book her maiden voyage."
Phillips was from old money, Pacino knew, from Philadelphia's Main Line, where the idea that someone would work at anything other than charity was scandalous. His family had cut him off completely until Phillips became a household name during the East China Sea incident, when his USS
Piranha had turned the tide of an unwinnable naval battle. After that he had become the family hero, entrusted with the entire estate and the corporation shielding the Phillips family's assets from any inheritance taxes. It was just like Phillips to buy something that some in the Navy would consider frivolous, such as a cruise ship, but it was a quality Pacino enjoyed in the younger man, a counter to his own usually melancholy personality. Pacino grinned, giving himself away.
"What's the best time to sail?"
Phillips smirked. "You like it, don't you, sir." A statement, not a question.
"I just want to know when to pack my bags."
"Monday, July 23, we'll depart Norfolk. The Pacific guys will need to fly in the Sunday evening before."
A knock at the door. "Sir, your wife is here. I told her you were in conference."
"No," Pacino said. "Send her in."
Colleen Pacino swept into the room wearing a suit skirt and jacket. She smiled at Phillips, who had come to his feet as she entered. She walked up to him, kissing him on the cheek. "Hi, Bruce." She came up to Pacino and gave him a quick kiss on his lips.
Colleen Pacino, formerly O'Shaughnessy, was the head of a defense contracting company that had pioneered the battle-control system on the SSNX-class submarines. Pacino had met her in the shipyard, losing his heart to her even before her father ascended to the CNO position. She had a head of fine raven-black hair that fell smoothly to her
shoulders, framing a soft-featured face with large almond-shaped black eyes and full lips.
"Can I get you something, Colleen? We've got the best cabernet in the Pentagon."
"That'd be great." She smiled, sinking into the couch. "Bruce, I want to know why you're still single," she said, taking the wine from Pacino. "I have a vice president at Cyclops Systems who's dying to meet you."
Phillips blushed, tamping out his cigar and looking at Pacino in appeal. Pacino refilled their glasses and sat back down.
"Bruce and I are putting our heads together for the all-Navy stand-down retreat, the skull session we were talking about before," he said. "Bruce just bought a new cruise ship. He wants us to take the retreat to sea, get some sun, bother the civilian deckhands."
"You'd better tell me next th
at the wives are invited. Some of your female officers are looking a little too pretty these days."
"What do you think, Bruce? Do we bring wives and girlfriends along?"
Phillips stood. "It's a plan, sir."
Pacino stood, telling Colleen to wait while he walked Phillips to the door. Out of her earshot, he looked into the younger admiral's eyes.
"What's the status of Kelly McKee?"
Phillips' expression sagged. "Worse, Admiral. His father-in-law turned over Diana's trust fund to him, so now he just sits in his house and stares at the pictures of her on the wall." For an instant
Pacino was reminded of himself not an hour before, as he had mooned over his own wall hangings.
"You visit him?"
"Twice. He refuses to even talk about coming back to sea. I'm at a decision point. I can't hold the commanding officer's billet open on Devilfish forever. I have to put someone in to fill the slot, fill the void. It's starting to affect the crew."
"What about the XO?"
"Karen Petri? She's not ready for command at sea, not of a submarine."
"Bruce, I saw the disks. She did a damned good job taking the boat to sea when you scrambled Devilfish out of Norfolk."
"I'll think about it, sir. I don't know. First woman in command and all. She should go through the prospective commanding officer school and attack simulator trial like everyone else. Like I did."
"Maybe so, Bruce. Maybe so. I didn't mean to give you rudder orders on that. Still, you might consider giving her credit for the run she made to the South Atlantic. She was pretty solid. You could send a new XO out to Devilfish for an interim period, let her take acting CO until Kelly comes back." Pacino held his hand up. "I know, it's your call. Still, think about it." He shook Phillips' hand and said goodbye, realizing that he felt about the young admiral the way Donchez and O'Shaughnessy must have felt about him, a mixture of affection, desire to protect the younger man's career, to promote him and encourage his success. Life had come full circle.
He turned to Colleen.
"When's this boondoggle on Phillip's ship?" she asked, smiling.
"July 23," Pacino said. "Why, you got a date?"
Her face fell. "Actually, I do. I'm testifying before Congress that whole week. Cyclops Systems and the fiscal year 2020 plan."
"Damn."
"Oh yeah, don't look too broken up about it," Colleen teased. "A week at sea in the tropics with all those hostesses pouring drinks with little umbrellas in them. It'll be real tough."
"Oh shut up, woman," Pacino said, smiling.
In the Chief of Naval Operations' anteroom, Admiral Bruce Phillips waved to Joanna Stoddard. "Mind if I use the phone?" She waved him on.
With a few clicks on the computer screen Phillips patched himself into his opposite number at Naval Personnel, Admiral David Meeks.
"Dave, it's me. Listen, no time to explain. I need an executive officer for the Devilfish."
"What happened to Petri?" Meeks' fleshy face asked.
"We're making her acting captain, but she needs a second-in-command."
"What about McKee?"
"Let's see what happens. If he comes back, the Devilfish is his. If there's no sign of him in a year, the ship is Petri's."
"A year? Long time to keep the old girl waiting."
"Petri's tough. She can handle it. I don't think
she'd have it any other way. She was tight with McKee."
"Maybe she should talk to him."
Phillips paused. "Not a bad idea. Phillips out." He clicked off, waved to Stoddard, and hurried to his staff truck waiting at the VIP portal.
Rafael came to my prison cell three weeks ago. I must say I have cultivated a tremendous respect for him, for his enormous appetite for knowledge, for the fact that he is swollen with wisdom. Wisdom in an earthy sense, but also wisdom about people, a knowledge of the human tendencies that goes far beyond my own, and up until I met Rafael, I thought that as an admiral, I had a better grasp on the human mind than anyone I knew. Rafael has proved me wrong in many ways. He knows machines as well as people, and to listen to him explain international politics is like hearing a chess master describe a basic move. It is all so simple to Rafael, but then Rafael is pure genius.
There is another miraculous quality to Rafael. Until I saw it in action I never liked this quality in a man. The quality of which I speak is what Rafael calls "salesmanship." It is almost what I used to call leadership, but it is more. It is a quality of persuasiveness, an attractiveness of personality, the showing of genuine interest and caring in the subject of the selling, and the results of this salesmanship are remarkable. It is as if Rafael has a sort of empathy with his clients, as if he can see into their hearts and determine not just what they want, but what they need. And he sells them. On the way from the prison we made a stop in Libya, where he met with the head of state. The meeting was more of a social call, or so it seemed to me, but Rafael laid the groundwork for a future series of meetings to try to sell a new idea, something exotic and economically out of reach for the present. But Rafael, when we left, was given a warm hug by the Libyan president and an
invitation back. I cannot describe how he does it, but what Rafael wants (to sell consulting services) soon becomes what the customer wants, as if they suddenly become lonely at the thought of not having Rafael there to help them.
I have tried over the last few weeks to learn more about Rafael. He is a walking contradiction. At the same time he is warm to his clients, yet to me he is a closed book. I know nothing of his childhood, where he is from, who his parents were, why he lives in Florence, or what brought him to his career, not even how he made so much money to start this particular branch of business. But what I know of him is that he is successful, in business and with his transactions with others.
I have been given to understand something of a new project Rafael has begun. It is a project that has already cost him tens of millions of dollars over the last four years, begun even before his campaign to get me out of prison. All I know about it is that it involves equipment, and the equipment is somehow connected with undersea sabotage, or as Rafael puts it, the projection of power in an advantageous direction.
Beyond that, Rafael has only told me to wait. At this point I remain uncertain about what I mean to his company. So far I have not contributed much beyond the credentials of having designed the Omega-class submarine. It is painful to call it the Kaliningrad, so now I refer to it by the name Rafael has called it. I sit in the meetings and listen and learn, and to date Rafael seems happy with that. So I am learning while growing rich. It certainly beats
sitting in a prison cell. Which reminds me of something else. We arrived here in the Hindu Republic of India this morning on the Falcon jet Rafael had arranged for us to land at the Indian Air Force Base immediately next to the presidential palace. When we touched down, several aides of Prime Minister Nipun Patel guided us to our quarters in the palace, telling us that Nipun's wife was seriously ill, that Patel would not meet with us until later.
"Let's get this over with," Patel said. He stood, his shoulders slumped, and followed his aide, General Prahvin, out the door to the stairs. Down below, through three archways supported by deeply stained wood columns, was the glow of candlelight from the dining room. A long table crowded with plates of food and goblets of drink was the center of the room, with four chairs arranged at one end. Cushions Uttered the floor, each occupied by a woman more beautiful than the next. Patel walked to the seat at the end of the table and stood behind it. Two women led in the consultants, the Russian looking uncertain behind slightly glassy eyes, Rafael's face crinkling into a smile of pleasure as he came closer.
"Mr. Prime Minister," he said. "Thank you so much for taking your time to see us." A cloud of concern crossed his face. "But I've heard about your wife's illness, and I am so sorry. If you wish we can certainly postpone this meeting till later."
Patel dipped his head, shaking Rafael's hand. "It is not a problem," he said q
uietly.
"We'll eat with you and then see how you feel, Mr. Prime Minister. I can see now this is a bad time for you. I must apologize. I didn't realize the seriousness." Rafael looked embarrassed. "It's just that we found a way that we can economically ruin the Saudi Arabian Consolidated Republics and help you dominate the world oil market. But perhaps we should save this for later, because you'll need to make some very key decisions."
Patel's face had grown dark, but then at the end he burst into a smile. "Rafael, your magic works for everyone but me. I can see the wires, you know."
Rafael smiled too. "Maybe a year ago you'd be correct. But today"—he put his hands wide apart, palms up—"we have more work to do than merely selling you on an idea or trying to get you to sign a purchase order. We have something, something important, something that solves your problems. We stumbled upon the idea three years ago, but it was a concept without a customer. Now the world is different."
They both knew what he meant. Nipun Patel had come to power in India fifteen years ago after a bloody revolution, executing thousands of political enemies and establishing himself in charge of a group of parlimentary puppets.
Three years after the revolution, he had invaded Red China during the First Civil War, but by its end had been pushed back to the prewar border. Two years ago, during Red and White China's Second Civil War, he had fought the same border skirmish, invading Red China when it was busy in the middle of a battle with the Whites to the east, but
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