“Good news first, lad. Physically, she’s almost fully recovered. The hospital released her last week. She’s resting at Bruno’s house. Bruno’s taking care of her.”

Pacino inwardly winced at the thought of Bruno Romanov, Rachel’s ex-husband, nursing her back to health. “And the bad news, XO?”

“She’s got partial amnesia,” Quinnivan said. “They’re calling it ‘retrograde amnesia’—which usually means the patient loses memory of events before a traumatic brain injury. In Rachel’s case, she’s lost the last six or seven months.”

“Dear God,” U-Boat Dankleff said. “That means she’s lost the entire Panther run.”

“And it means she won’t remember me,” Pacino said, trying to keep his voice level and emotionless, but failing.

“Take heart, laddie,” Quinnivan said, clapping Pacino on the shoulder. “They say familiar sights or aromas can bring the memories crashing back. Maybe if she sees you, it will all return. Or if she smells the inside of a submarine again.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Pacino said. “So, XO, what’s the plan for getting us back to Norfolk?”

“Everyone, gather around,” Quinnivan said in a loud voice. The crew surrounded him, standing close to hear what he had to say, the SEAL officers and enlisted, with their white parkas, among the crowd. “The SEALs will embark aboard the USS Hyman G. Rickover, the sub with the dry-deck shelter. They’ll dive the wreck of the New Jersey and make sure it can’t be salvaged. Then they’ll go out and dive the wrecks of the Russian deep-diver sub and the Belgorod to do a post-action damage assessment. And to see if the Status-6 torpedoes are destroyed. If not, they’ll take care of that little problem.

“The other sub, the USS Montana, has called for a C130 arctic transport out of Joint Base Thule in Greenland. The plane should be in the air as we speak. The Montana will loiter here until we’re all safely embarked and in the air flying back to Thule. However, anyone among the crew who doesn’t have dolphins will be joining the Montana for the trip back, so you can continue to work on qualifications without interruption. And finally, Montana will radio SubCom to dispatch a second Russian rescue aircraft to pick up our good friends from the Belgorod and Losharik.”

Pacino looked at Short Hull Cooper. “Looks like you’re riding home on the Montana,” he said.

Squirt Gun Vevera pulled Pacino aside, away from the crowd. “Patch, if Rachel’s moved back in with Bruno, that leaves her room in the Snake Ranch available. You want to invite Short Hull to join us? We need the rent money. And he seems like a good guy.”

“Let’s wait till Montana pulls into Norfolk,” Pacino said. “There’s still a chance Rachel may regain her memory.”

“I’ll light a candle to that as soon as there’s a convenient church,” Vevera said.

Pacino laughed. “Squirt Gun, if you darkened the door of a church, the roof would cave in.”

“Which is why God will listen,” Vevera smiled back.

The sound of turboprops could be heard in the distance. Pacino shaded his eyes and looked for the plane. Eventually he could make it out. It circled the area, then slowed, made its approach, lowered skids, and landed on the ice, coming to a stop a hundred feet from the shelter. Pacino saw the star and stripes on the tail and the block letters on the fuselage spelling U.S. AIR FORCE and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

“Guys,” Pacino said to his friends. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

<p>30</p>

“Mr. Vice President,” Presidential Secretary Eve LaBelle said from the side entrance door to the Oval Office, “the president and attorney general are here to see you.”

Vice President Michael Pacino stood up from the desk, pushing back the monstrous leather chair and smiling as Paul Carlucci was wheeled in, looking annoyed at being in a wheelchair, but smiling back at Pacino.

“I’m glad you’re back, Mr. President,” Pacino said, reaching out and shaking Carlucci’s hand. Carlucci’s handshake was strong, but nothing like the politician’s grip he’d had before the shooting. “How do you feel?”

“Like hell, Patch. Being shot is not an experience I’d recommend. Zero stars.”

Pacino laughed and looked at the attorney general. Madilynn Campbell was immediately recognizable, her gigantic figure regularly the subject of biting satire on social media. Carlucci had confided to Pacino that he had wanted to replace her, but she was embedded with the party faithful, he’d said, and he couldn’t spend the political capital to fire her. How much damage, he had wondered, could an attorney general really do?

“Good morning, Madam Attorney General,” Pacino said, reaching for her hand, but instead she slapped a folder into his hand.

“I hope you’ll sign this without any drama, Mr. Vice President,” she said, getting straight to business.