Phoenix Sub Zero

And then something else changed. Mcdonne shut his eyes, trying to listen, his eardrums still ringing from the previous gale-force winds. But he was sure he heard it. Even though he realized he wanted to hear it enough to make himself hear it.

No. It was real. Aircraft engines. So powerful he could feel their throbbing. He stoked the fire, frantic to show the aircraft they were there. It took several minutes for him to remember that with the wind gone he could start a fire on top of the sail and not have it blown overboard. Quickly he assembled the piles of paper on top of the frozen metal of the sail, trying and failing several times to get it lit from the lighter in his pocket. Finally he grabbed flaming papers from the cubbyhole fire and put them to the pile of paper on the sail, burning his hand but lighting the fire. He watched the fire burn, and only then turned his face to the direction of the aircraft engines.

Far off in the distance he saw lights, aircraft beacons flashing. He began jumping up and down on the grating, shouting stupidly into the night. He wondered if they could be airliners, but no regular airline routes went this far north, and the lights looked like they were flying in formation.

The aircraft got closer until one of them put a bright spot light on the ship. As it floated downward into view, Mcdonne could see it was a V-22 tilt rotor, the big transport using its props as helicopter rotors while it lowered itself down near the bow. Lights came on, illuminating the fuselage, the star in a circle flanked by stripes on either side painted beside large block letters that spelled u.s. navy.

Mcdonne sank to the deck.

Finally, incredibly, it was over.

EPILOGUE Tuesday, 4 March

BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

Janice Pacino kissed her husband’s damp forehead and walked out the door with her son.

Around the corner she nearly collided with Admiral Richard Donchez. She stepped back for a moment. Donchez saw the look in her eye and said only, “How’s he doing?” “He’ll live,” she said, then took hold of Tony’s arm and hurried off down the hall.

Donchez watched after her for a moment, wondered if he should call her back and tell her what her husband had achieved, then decided against it. She was in no mood to hear it.

He walked into the room, looked at Pacino lying in the bed surrounded by machinery, IV needles snaking into his arm. The Vortex had saved him and damn near killed him.

At least they’d taken the respirator out. He had gained consciousness for the first time the day before.

“Mikey,” he said, touching the only exposed surface above the blankets, Pacino’s face. “Mikey, are you with me?”

Pacino’s eyes opened, he tried to smile. The attempt left him exhausted, his eyes falling half-closed.

“Mikey, you made it. I won’t be long, I just wanted to bring you something.”

“What …” Pacino got out. Donchez leaned close “… happened?”

“You did it, son,” Donchez said. “You sank the Destiny before he could fire the missile with its warhead. Silhoud’s dead. Without him, the UIF gave it up and surrendered in Paris last week. I’ll fill you in more later.”

General Barczynski, Secret Service agents and, after a moment, President Bill Dawson, came in. Barczynski and the president moved close to the bed. Donchez edged a Secret Service agent aside so he could see from the other side.

“So this is the man,” the president said. “Congratulations, Captain Pacino. Or I should say. Rear Admiral Pacino. I have your stars here. We skipped you to upper half. One star seemed lonely.”

Pacino wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

“And something else.” Dawson read the citation, the buildup giving Pacino the Navy Cross with silver star.

When Dawson finished his speech he bent to pin the medal to Pacino’s pillow, but Rear Admiral Upper Half Michael Pacino had fallen asleep, beginning to snore in the president’s face. Dawson didn’t miss a beat as he pinned the medal to the pillowcase and left with his entourage.

Donchez was the last one by Pacino’s side, looking down on him as if it were his own son sleeping there. Then he turned and walked to the door.

As he snapped off the room lights, he said quietly, “Good job, Mikey. Your old man and I are proud of you.”

* * *

The survey ship Diamond tossed in the swells in the Virginia Capes Submarine Operating Area, a piece of ocean 150 miles east of Virginia Beach, Virginia. Aboard the small ship were several men, all in service dress blue uniforms with long overcoats, shoulder boards on their shoulders, white gloves, and ceremonial swords hanging from their left hips.

One of them was Captain David Kane. Next to him stood Commander CB Mcdonne. All stood at the railing of the deck, at attention, looking to sea. Off on the horizon a lone submarine floated on the surface.

“Ready, Captain Kane,” the voice of Admiral Roy Steinman called out.

“Ready, sir,” Kane said, staring into the distance, at the submarine.

“Then let her be put to rest.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Executive Officer,” Kane barked.