“Duty Officer U-I,” he said.
“Engineering Officer of the Watch here,” Lieutenant Dieter “U-Boat” Dankleff said formally. He’d stopped being ‘engineering duty officer’ and started being ‘engineering officer of the watch’ when the reactor was started. “Reactor is self-sustaining and shorepower breaker is open. Request to divorce from shorepower and remove the shorepower cables.”
“I’ll call you back,” Pacino said, replacing the handset. He looked at Lieutenant No. “The EOOW,” he said, pronouncing it ee-ow, “wants to remove shorepower cables.”
“So, Mr. Pacino, whose permission do you need to do that?”
Pacino considered. “I think it was part of the captain’s permission to start the reactor.”
“You sure, or are you guessing?”
Pacino looked at Li No. He wasn’t sure, but this was a submarine. Indecision was penalized harshly here. Better to miscalculate and beg forgiveness than to seem uncertain.
“I’m sure.”
No nodded and waved a hand in the air. “Well, then, divorce from shorepower.”
Pacino dialed maneuvering. Dankleff picked up.
“Engineering Officer of the Watch, divorce from shorepower,” Pacino ordered Dankleff.
Dankleff’s voice was jovial. “Divorce from shorepower, EOOW aye.”
Pacino sat back down and took a pull from his coffee. While he’d been up at the phone, the SEALs had pulled out their weapons and put them on the table in front of Li No, who for the first time showed an interest in something other than his WritePad tablet. Fishman looked over at No.
“Mark nineteen Desert Eagle,” he said. “Fifty cal. The actual most powerful handgun in the world. And it actually will blow your head clean off.”
“That sissy piece of shit only holds seven rounds and weighs a ton,” Aquatong sneered. “Now this is a real man’s weapon. Sig Sauer chrome-plated model 1911 shooting a magazine of twenty-one rounds of forty-five caliber freedom nuggets. Stars on the grip, the number 1776 engraved on the barrel.”
“Grip actually wanted a pink one with a Powerpuff girl riding a unicorn on one side and Hello Kitty on the other, but the stars and the 1776 inscription were all he could get.”
“Shit, Tiny Tim, all I have to do to win a gunfight with you is wait till you’ve got off seven rounds, then unload three times that number into you.”
The SEALs took back their weapons and put them back into their holsters.
Grip Aquatong looked over at Lieutenant No. “U-Boat Dankleff still around?”
Li pointed his thumb aft, still staring at his tablet computer. “He’s back aft, starting the reactor.”
“He still getting divorced from Eurobitch?”
Li No nodded. “They couldn’t work it out.”
Pacino lifted an eyebrow. “U-Boat’s getting divorced?”
“It’s been coming for years,” No said. “Eurobitch was introduced that way to the crew when U-Boat reported aboard as a non-qual nub two years ago. That tells you something right there. Now U-Boat’s the Bull L-T and she’s worse than ever.”
“Bull L-T?”
“Bull lieutenant,” No explained. “Senior man amongst the junior officers aboard.”
“So, what’s U-Boat doing about a place to live?” Pacino asked. If he’d known U-Boat were becoming single, he might have been able to get an apartment with him and saved on rent.
“Probably move onboard the boat,” No said. “It’s been done.”
“Damned shame,” Pacino said.
“Hello, gentlemen,” Navigator Rachel Romanov said from the forward wardroom door.
“Navigator,” Li No said, looking up. “What are you doing here?”
Romanov walked past the SEALs and Pacino to the pod coffee maker. “Bruno got underway Saturday. Nothing to do at home but drink vodka and take care of the cats, so I got a cat-sitter and came in. No sense being hungover and late for Monday. Especially not for this Monday.” She looked at the SEALs. “You,” she said to Fishman. “Commander Fishman, commanding officer, right? Tiny Tim?”
Fishman stood and offered his hand and the navigator shook it. “You remembered. You’re Romanov? Silky Romanov?”
“That’s me. And you? I remember you but I forgot your name.”
Aquatong stood and offered his hand. “Grip Aquatong, executive officer of our little task group.”
“Rachel Romanov, navigator of this humble boat.” She got her coffee and took her normal chair, the one forward of the executive officer’s, tipping it back on its back two legs, her face becoming serious. “So what’s going on with U-Boat?” Romanov asked the table.
Li No shrugged. “Trouble with Eurobitch. He’s moving out.”
“It’s a shame,” she said. “But then a lot of folks saw that one coming.”
“Divorce ain’t for wimps,” Aquatong said. “I’m going through one myself.”
“Yeah,” Fishman added. “He has to sell his loud-ass Harley for money to pay the ex her half of the — quote — marital estate — unquote.”
“Don’t remind me,” Aquatong said, his perpetual smile fading away.
“What kind of Harley?” Romanov asked, sipping her hot brew, her chair back on all four legs.
Aquatong pulled out his tablet computer and showed the navigator the photos of the bike. “2014 Heritage Softail Classic, leather bags, windshield, double pipes, tuned for high torque, loudest motorcycle in a three-state area. If Elvis Presley ever rode a motorcycle, this would be the bike he’d ride.”
“Oh yeah?” she said, taking Aquatong’s handheld so she could see the photos close up.
“Oh yeah,” Fishman confirmed. “Remember that bike rally last summer?”
“That was awesome,” Aquatong said, his smile returning.
“So there we are at this bike rally,” Fishman said, leaning far back in his chair and settling into telling the story while Romanov scanned intensely through the photos. “We’re all there. I’m on my Dyna Wide Glide. Scooter’s there with his Fat Bob. And Swan Creek is there with that rice burner of his, what is that thing—”
“Suzuki Hayabusa,” Aquatong said.
“Right. Hayabusa. A horrible thing painted baby blue, looks like a teenaged girl’s dream of a motorcycle. Second fastest production motorcycle in the world, as Swan Creek keeps telling us.”
“Not that he got to prove it,” Aquatong added. “He got pulled over for going a hundred and thirteen in a fifty-five. He was trying to see if he could get to the advertised 195 mile per hour advertised top speed.”
“I had to bail him out that time,” Fishman said. “Anyway, so we’re there waiting for the bikes to get lined up and finally we’re ready. In fact, that guy from your boat was there too, what’s his name?”
“Vevera,” Aquatong said. “You introduced me to him, Tiny Tim. Vermont’s communications guy. Squirt Gun Vevera.”
“Yeah, that fat fucker,” Fishman continued. “He’s on that shiny, fancy Indian bike. Chieftain or something. Only a yuppie like you, Grip, would own a sissy bike like that.”
“Hey. Them’s fightin’ words, Tiny Tim.”
“Anyway, finally the rally leader gives the signal to start engines. So about a thousand motorcycle engines all start at once. Swan’s bike’s two hundred horsepower engine just does this little whispering sizzle, sounds like a sewing machine. Can’t even hear it even if it’s pin-drop quiet. Anyway, all those bikes cranking at once? You’d think that would be the loudest sound you’d ever hear, right? Oh no. Grip here, he waits about six seconds and only then hits the starter on that Heritage of his, and suddenly the eardrums of a hundred people shattered as his engine cranked up.”