“Yeah, boss. Makes you wish you’d never become a diver in the first place.”

Fishman clapped Aquatong on the shoulder. “We did a good thing today. An important thing. The spirits of our dead watch us right now and I know they approve.”

“I hope so, boss. I hope so.”

* * *

Anthony Pacino shut off the engine of the old Corvette, the supercharger still emitting a high-pitched whine for a long minute after engine cut-off. Pacino got out and shut the door, pocketing his phone.

He walked up the front walkway to the door of the suburban Virginia Beach house, the two-story center-hall Colonial identical to what seemed ten thousand others in the beachside village. He knocked and waited, and after a short wait, the door opened and Bruno Romanov’s large, shaved head appeared. He smiled in genuine pleasure.

“Patch Pacino. Come in, come in. Can I get you a drink?”

It was Saturday at two in the afternoon. A little early to drink, Pacino thought, but he looked at Bruno and said, “is there any good scotch in the house?”

Bruno laughed. “Of course! Let me go get us a round. Double, right? Three fingers?”

Pacino smiled. “Three fat fingers,” he said.

“Rachel!” Bruno called up the stairs. “There’s a visitor here for you. A certain Lieutenant Patch Pacino.”

Rachel Romanov came down the stairs, her shining and partly curled dirty blonde hair down past her nipples, dressed in a form-fitting red sweater — which Pacino thought might be the same one she’d worn when he first met her at the XO’s party a million years ago — with tight jeans and tall brown boots. She smiled, showing her even, white, perfect teeth, but there was no recognition in her smile.

“Hello. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Patch, is it?”

“Anthony Pacino,” he said, taking Rachel’s outstretched hand. “My callsign is Patch, but some people used to call me Lipstick.” He watched her face for any sign of her remembering, but her face was blank.

“Did I know you before?” she asked.

“Yes, Rachel,” Pacino said, as Bruno handed him a rocks glass with three fingers of scotch in it and Rachel a glass of red wine.

“A toast,” Bruno said in his booming, deep voice with his slight eastern European accent. “To old friends, even if we don’t remember who they are.”

Pacino took a sip of the whisky, the liquid burning down his throat. “Dear God, Bruno, what is this?”

Bruno laughed. “I’m told you and your guys in Faslane liked it. Anyway, come over to the living room. Let’s sit down and talk.”

Rachel sat on a wing chair facing the couch. Pacino put his drink down on a coaster on the coffee table and looked at Rachel, but her face was still blank.

“Rachel,” Pacino said, “you and I were in the control room of the Vermont when the fire started. You went aft to take charge at the scene.”

She shook her hair off her shoulders and pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, Patch. Patch, right? I’m sorry, I just don’t remember.”

“Did someone show you the video of the control room before and during the accident?” Pacino asked.

She nodded. “Bruno got it for me. I watched it.” She shrugged. “It was like watching strangers.”

Pacino nodded and took another sip of the whisky. “I get that. What is the last thing you do remember?”

“I was getting off a limo bus and walking up to Quinnivan’s house for a ship’s party.”

Pacino looked down at the carpeting. She had remembered up to ten minutes before the moment when she’d met him for the first time. If her memory had only gone one hour longer, he thought, she’d know who he was.

“I wanted to ask you and Bruno something,” Pacino said.

“Go ahead, Patch,” Bruno said.

“Commander Quinnivan, our XO, made arrangements with the captain and XO of SSN-778, USS New Hampshire, out of Norfolk’s Squadron Six, to give Rachel a classified tour including the control room. The doctors I talked to said the sights, sounds, and smells of the submarine might bring back your memory.”

Rachel shook her head. “I don’t want a tour. I’m not sure I want my memory back,” she said. “I heard the fire on the Vermont was awful. And I’m not sure if I’m staying in the Navy or if I stay, whether I’ll stay in the submarine force.”

“Oh,” Pacino said, his face and tone giving away his disappointment.

“Listen, Patch. Anthony. I’d just as soon forget about my experiences on the Vermont.”

“I should be going,” Pacino said, draining his scotch and standing.

“You sure you won’t stay for dinner?” Rachel said, smiling brightly. “Bruno’s grilling steaks and I’m making salad and sides.”

“No, I’ll leave it to you two,” Pacino said.

The conversation at the front door seemed endless, and Pacino just wanted to go. Finally, they said their last good-bye and he walked out to the Corvette.

He knew what he needed, he thought. He programmed the destination into his phone and followed the app’s turn-by-turn directions toward the north.

Toward Annapolis.

<p>31</p>