Читаем Barracuda: Final Bearing полностью

With no further action, a blasting noise sounded in the trunk and a light came on high up in the overhead. Pacino could see the surface of the water coming down until the surface of it came to his chin, his mask clearing like a periscope breaking the surface, the trunk looking different through an atmosphere of air than it had under water. The water drained quickly, the air in the chamber foggy, until the water was gone, puddles remaining near Pacino’s fins. He pulled his mask off, adjusted his eyepatch, dropped his regulator, then pulled off the fins, glancing at Paully to see that he too was removing equipment.

Pacino dropped his lead weight-belt, his tanks and his equipment canister, now wearing only his wet suit. In the dim light of the trunk he could see the hatch to the ship set into the side of the huge trunk, dogged mechanisms that slowly began to rotate, the air between the trunk and the interior of the hull equalizing in a short hiss of air. The mechanism stopped and the hatch came open to the exterior of the trunk. The light of the hull was bright compared to the interior of the trunk. Pacino stepped down two steps to the deck to find himself in the wide upper passageway of the forward compartment.

Standing in front of him were a group of poopysuitclad men — one of them Capt. David Kane. As Pacino extended his hand to Kane, the ship’s announcing circuit blasted throughout the ship.

“COMMANDER, PACIFIC FORCE COMMAND, ARRIVING!”

Pacino smiled at Kane, Kane’s hand dry and hard.

Kane was one of the skippers Pacino had not screened in the training command but he was certifiably excellent.

Pacino had decided to bring him into his training simulator to show some of the younger skippers how a torpedo approach was done — Kane would open some of the kids’ eyes. Kane’s face was deadpan.

“Welcome aboard the Barracuda, Admiral Pacino.”

Cmpteii northwest pacific USS Barracuda Pacino looked at the greeting party formed up behind Captain Kane, the spotless deck, the shining bulkheads.

He took a deep breath, the smell of the submarine what he’d expected, the scent a mixture of cooking odors, mostly grease, sewage from the sanitary tank vents, body odor, ozone from the electrical equipment, oil from the lube oil systems, amines from the carbon dioxide scrubbers.

It was strong but faded into the background after a few minutes.

Pacino looked into Kane’s eyes, thinking the man was a Hollywood Version of a nuclear-submarine commander— tall, tanned, high cheekboned, blue-eyed, trim, assured.

“Finally I get to meet Capt. David Kane in person,”

Pacino said, his smile genuine. He then turned to Paully White: “Captain Kane rescued the survivors of the Seawolf. If it weren’t for this man I’d be long dead. And, Captain, I don’t know that I ever properly thanked you for that. I wanted to present your Navy Cross but I couldn’t walk at the time. Captain Kane, this is Comdr.

Paul White. Paully was the Reagan’s sub ops officer. He pulled me out when I was out cold on the deck and the carrier was going down. I think it’s damn good luck that I have two men who’ve saved my life on the same ship.”

Kane’s expression was blank. “Well, sir, let’s get you to the officer’s head and out of the wet suit.”

Pacino looked down at his feet, where a puddle of seawater had built up. Kane led him and Paully to officers’ country, where the stainless-steel room had two shower stalls and two commodes, amazingly roomy compared to the older 688class layout, Pacino thought.

“When you’re done here, sir, my messenger will take you to your stateroom.”

Pacino peeled off the rubbery wet suit, dumped it on the deck and stepped into the shower. Soon the traces of the sea were gone, he dried off and opened his waterproof canister, pulling out his own black coveralls, a gift from the Royal Navy during a coordination meeting in London. His name was embroidered above the left breast pocket. American-style submarine dolphins were embroidered in a patch above the name, and Pacino’s two admiral’s stars were sewn onto the collars. The shoulders were graced with patches, the left an American flag, the right the emblem of the Unified Submarine Command, the symbols designed by Pacino and a commercial-artist friend. The USUBCOM patch featured a Jolly Roger flag flying above the sail of a submarine, the skull and crossbones standing out on the field of black, the banner reading unified submarine command across the top of the Jolly Roger.