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It was early evening when Anthony Pacino cut the engine of the Corvette on the wide driveway of his father’s Annapolis house. The house looked like every light had been turned on inside, with the exterior lights making the driveway look like daylight. He’d texted his father that he’d be driving up, but he wasn’t sure if the old man would be there, or still in D.C. — or perhaps at the Sandbridge beach house.

His father had only replied “OK” to the text message, probably worried about the younger Pacino texting and driving. Pacino walked up to the front door, and looked back at the car, wondering if he should pull out his “go bag” of spare clothes and toiletries, but he had kept a week’s worth of clothes at the Annapolis house.

The house was a huge three-story log structure built on an artificial peninsula jutting into the Severn River, with sweeping views of the Maryland Route 2 bridge over the river and the northernmost grounds of the United States Naval Academy, the green-tinted copper dome of the chapel in the background. Back when his father was the admiral-in-command of the Navy, his direct reports had named the estate “Pacino Peninsula.” Pacino looked up to the second floor’s western deck, where he and his father had had happy hour every night in the month after Carrie Alameda died. He shook his head. Carrie’s death had slammed him hard, but losing Rachel to amnesia seemed almost as bad. She walked and talked, yet had no idea who he was or what she’d meant to him. Perhaps his father would have some advice, he thought.

He tried the front door and it was unlocked.

“Anthony?” his father called down the stairs.

“It’s me,” Pacino said, taking the stairs two at a time. He grinned as he saw his father. The old man wore a NAVY 90 sweatshirt, still grease-stained from when he’d wear it to work on his sailboat, which he’d sold after his divorce.

“Damn, it’s so good to see you, Son,” the elder Pacino said, pulling Anthony into a bear hug. He pulled back and looked at Anthony’s bandages.

“We need to change these dressings,” Michael said. “I know a good plastic surgeon, Son. Not to worry.”

“Hey, the scars might look cool.”

Michael shook his head. “I guarantee you they won’t. Anyway, you’re back and safe, finally.”

“Well, it got close a couple times, Dad. Four nuclear explosions, an arctic storm, and the Russian GRU trying to take us all prisoner.” Anthony bit his lip. “We lost five officers and five chiefs. And fourteen of the enlisted, one of them Snowman Mercer, the sonarman who first detected the Panther in the Gulf of Oman.”

“I heard the USS Rickover is bringing their bodies home,” Michael Pacino said solemnly. “There will be a service at Arlington National Cemetery.” The admiral picked up the crystal carafe from the bar. “Let’s grab a drink on the east deck.” He tossed Anthony a black sweatshirt with the emblem of a skull and crossbones. “It’s a little chilly but it’s a nice night.” He handed the scotch carafe to Anthony and grabbed two glasses and strode to the deck’s sliding glass door. He waved Anthony to a chair and poured for them both, then sat.

“A toast,” Michael Pacino said. “To your safe return and knowing that your mission was accomplished.”

“And to our fallen friends,” Anthony said. He drank, then looked at his father. “What did you mean the mission was accomplished?”

“Your SEAL friends did a dive on the Belgorod wreckage. The entire forward two thirds of the boat were blown to atoms. Those Poseidon torpedoes were vaporized.”

“Well, nice to know. I guess. Dad, I wanted to thank you for, you know, blowing up that Russian rescue plane. I really didn’t want to spend the next ten years in a Russian prison.”

“My pleasure,” Michael smiled. “Any time.”

“So, Dad, did you really resign? Or did Carlucci fire you?”

Pacino took a sip of his drink as if weighing his words. “You know, Anthony, when you eventually leave the military and have a job, you’ll realize that there’s the moment in your mind when you resign, and then there’s a later moment when you tell your boss you resigned. As for me, I resigned mentally ten seconds before giving the order to launch Brimstone missiles at that Russian Il-76.”

“Why?”