“That’s because your nuclear navy overlords grind into ye so much reactor safety, you’ve lost your tactical warrior footing. Lucky for you, Skipper, ya have me aboard.”
Seagraves laughed. “That I am, XO.” He puffed the stogie for a moment. “How did the young man react to your classified briefing?”
“The expected, yeah? Disbelief at first. Nothing in the news about it, yeah? Once he saw it was real, well, he was not thrilled. But he didn’t show disgust either. Didn’t shy away.”
“So he’s not bloodthirsty and he’s not morally opposed to submarine warfare. That’s about as balanced a reaction as you could hope to get.”
Quinnivan thought about it for a moment, then leaned on the deck rail and turned to face the captain. “I suppose, as you Americans would say, he was raised right, yeah?”
Seagraves nodded somberly. “So, do you think Vevera is coming back like he says?”
Quinnivan looked at the captain and shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said somberly. “That lad’s standin’ on a trap door.” He checked his antique Rolex. “I guess we should return to our party before the boys get into any more trouble, yeah?”
Seagraves checked his phone. “It’s nearly midnight. I’m going to leave you guys to it.”
“You have a car service?”
“Already on its way,” the captain said. “Good night, XO.”
“Night, sir. See you Monday.”
Pacino opened his eyes to bright morning sunlight. He was in a guest bedroom, tucked into the bedclothes, still wearing his jeans and shirt. The walls were a pastel blue shade, and for a moment he thought he was in Carrie Alameda’s condo in Alexandria. He thrashed in the covers, vaulting out of the bed to try to find her, and then his headache punched him like a giant fist. As he stood there stupidly, he realized this wasn’t Carrie’s house and that she was long dead. And with that thought he seemed to deflate, and he collapsed to the floor in a heap. Then he asked himself, if he weren’t at Carrie’s, where the hell was he?
When he opened his eyes, he saw that his boots were placed by a high-boy and the contents of his pockets were on the nightstand. He sat up to check his phone, his head pounding. Quinnivan’s, he thought. He’d had too much to drink. It was almost nine in the morning. Someone had carried him into bed. He tried to think. The last thing he could remember was Duke Vevera getting blasted by water cannons.
Pacino put on his boots, got his phone and wallet and went into the hallway to go down the stairs. In the kitchen, Shawna cooked breakfast, now wearing jeans and a simple top with sneakers, her long hair in a ponytail.
“Well, good morning, Patch,” she said. “I see you survived your first ship’s party.”
“Am I the only one still here from the party?” Pacino’s voice was a croak.
She laughed. “Oh no, that party went on to six in the morning. I think you were out before one o’clock AM. Everyone’s crashed down below, but you seemed to have passed out first, so the boys carried you upstairs and continued on. Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” he said. “And water.” His head still pounded. A big man walked into the kitchen and plopped down next to Pacino. He had a completely bald head except for short tufts of white hair over his ears, a full face, blue eyes and wire-rimmed glasses with small lenses. He had to outweigh Pacino by fifty or sixty pounds, probably from submarine cuisine. He wore jeans, a plaid shirt and cowboy boots.
Pacino went to stand to greet the stranger, but the man waved him back down. “Sit, please, sir. I’m Joe Quartane, chief of the boat. COB for short.”
Pacino shook his hand. “I’m Pacino. Newly reported. Taking over as sonar officer.”
Quartane nodded. “Morning, ma’am,” he said to Shawna. She handed him and Pacino steaming cups of coffee. “Ensign?” the COB asked Pacino.
“Lieutenant junior grade.”
“That’s odd.”
“Had a year of grad school before nuclear power school.”
Quartane nodded. “Graduate school. Art history? Ancient cultures? Gender studies?”
“Mechanical engineering,” Pacino said, smiling. “Thermodynamics and heat transfer.”
“That your hotrod out front?”
“Not the Ferrari, if that’s what you mean. The Corvette.”
“Feng still running that hot red Ferrari, eh?”
Pacino looked at him. “So, your rating — mechanic?”
“Yep,” Quartane replied. “A-gang.”
Auxiliary gang was a group of tough-guy non-nuclear mechanics who tended to ships’ systems and had a crazy esprit de corps despite what the other divisions said to deride them, that they were mere plumbers.
“Senior chief?” Pacino guessed.
“Master chief,” Quartane replied.
“Whoa,” Pacino said. He’d only met one in his life, and he was now at the bottom of the eastern Atlantic.
From the entrance behind Quartane, Duke Vevera walked in, wearing only boxer shorts and a black T-shirt with a snarling skull and gothic script spelling It Never Happened. We Were Never There. USS Vermont. He plopped down opposite Pacino, next to the chief of the boat.
Shawna brought him coffee and smiled at him. “Man Mountain, dear, aren’t you a bit underdressed?”
“Two things,” Vevera smiled. “The Quinnivan residence rules prohibit wearing leather pants at the breakfast table. And also, I can’t seem to find them. After I rested my eyes, some scumbag seems to have run off with them.”
Pacino tried not to smile or laugh. Vevera seemed genuinely hurt by the prank. As Shawna put down plates of eggs, sausages and bacon, Mario Lewinsky came in, white as a ghost, smelled the food and waved it off, disappearing for the bathroom.
“Tough night,” Pacino said, waving his thumb to where the engineer went.
“You seemed to have had fun,” Vevera said, smirking. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone dance with the Dominatrix Navigatrix quite the way you did.”
“Oh hell,” Pacino groaned.
“Don’t worry about it, kid, I doubt she’ll even remember. But every cell phone in the house will, so, perhaps you’d better stand by for the blackmail photos later. Oh, and if I were you, I’d watch out for the wrath of Bruno. Damned good thing you’ll be working for the weapons officer and not the navigator.”
Pacino finished his food. “I should go,” he said. Suddenly all he wanted was a shower and a nap. He said good-bye to Vevera and Quartane, thanked Shawna, who kissed him on the cheek. He walked out to his Corvette. At least, he thought, he had the keys. Vevera was missing everything that he’d had on him, phone, keys, wallet. Motorcycle helmet. A large black Indian Chieftain classic motorcycle was parked in front of Pacino’s car — it must be Vevera’s, he thought, which would explain all the leather. Perhaps the leather was also meant for shielding against the deluge of squirt gun water that he may have anticipated. Odd that Vevera still rode the motorcycle, as allegedly seriously sick as he was.
Pacino rolled to his apartment and dragged himself inside.
5
After crashing all day Saturday, horribly hungover, Pacino woke early on Sunday. He’d intended to unpack his apartment, but when he looked around at how stark and dark and dingy it was, he decided to save doing all that for later. It made more sense to go the base and spend Sunday night on the boat. That way, he’d be ready for whatever Monday threw at him.
He opened several boxes and found toiletries, clothes, and uniforms and packed them into a duffel bag, grabbed his electronics and packed his backpack. After showering and changing into working khakis, he clicked his phone’s app for a car service and waited the eight minutes it took for the driver to arrive.