“It was epic,” Aquatong said, grinning. “Suddenly three hundred people spin their heads around to stare at me.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t even get a single biker girl’s phone number out of it, you pathetic loser.”
“Hey, fuck off, at least I’m single now, not like a certain boss of mine who has to ask permission to go to a strip club.”
“So this bike,” Romanov said seriously. “How many miles and how much you want for it?”
“Whoa,” Fishman said, “hold on there, little lady. You couldn’t handle a bike like this.”
“I used to own a Fat Bob back in the day,” Romanov said. “I burned so much rubber on that bike I had to replace tires every season.”
“Wait, you’re a, you’re a…biker chick?” The commandos stared at Romanov. Li No didn’t even glance up.
Romanov shrugged. “I used to be. Back when I was a surface ship Navy officer.”
“Man,” Fishman said, getting up to get a refill. “A skimmer, a bubblehead, and a biker chick. You got any sisters at home, kid?”
Romanov laughed. “You’d hate my sister. She has four kids and gained a hundred pounds.”
“Hey, Tiny Tim,” Aquatong said, “you’re getting in the way of negotiations, here. Navigator, she’s got eight thousand on the clock. A mere ten grand gets you the keys to this fine scooter.”
Romanov handed back Aquatong’s tablet. “Nine grand and you’ve got a deal.”
“Nine thousand five hundred.”
She looked at him, frowned, and said, “Nine-five and you buy me a helmet and leather jacket. And boots.”
“Nine-five, helmet, jacket, and you buy your own fuckin’ boots.”
“Deal,” she said, bursting into a smile as she shook his hand. “Is it on base, officer parking?”
“That it is, Madam Navigatrix.”
“Let’s go see it,” she said, getting up and leaving the wardroom with Aquatong.
Pacino decided to go aft and visit the engineering spaces and say hello to U-Boat Dankleff.
6
Pacino had been in the wardroom since 0600, staking out a seat near the supply officer’s end of the table, with his back to the bulkhead, drinking coffee, reading the classified intelligence digest and reviewing ship’s information, starting with the layout.
So far his caution about being early for things had paid off. The room began to fill with frowning officers who seemed sleepy or grumpy. The merriness of Saturday night had inevitably yielded to the tense edginess of Monday morning. The chair to the right hand of the captain’s end seat, the aft end of the wardroom, would be reserved for the XO, Pacino knew, the chair to the left, the engineer. Next to the XO’s seat would be the navigator’s, and next to the engineer, the weapons officer. At the far end, opposite the captain, was the supply officer’s seat. The other chairs were up for grabs for the junior officers. Generally, if they did things on Vermont the way they did on Piranha, the engineers’ officers — the main propulsion assistant, damage control assistant, and electrical officer — would sit on the XO’s side so they could face the engineer. The engineer’s side would then fill up with the torpedo officer, the sonar officer, and the communications officer. That left two open seats, one on each side, then the supply officer’s seat at the end.
The coffee maker was doing triple duty, with the pod coffee maker gurgling loudly and the espresso machine making angry steaming noises. Navigator Silky Romanov flipped her long hair into a ponytail while she waited for coffee, then grabbed her cup and sat down next to the XO’s seat. Romanov opened her tablet computer and paged through it. Damage Control Assistant U-Boat Dankleff and Main Propulsion Assistant Lobabes Lomax entered the room, grabbed coffee and took their seats to the navigator’s right, their attention also taken up with their tablet computers. There was no sign of Boozy Varney, the electrical officer. Pacino guessed he had relieved U-Boat aft to run the nuclear plant since U-Boat was seated next to Silky. Engineer Elvis Feng Lewinsky came in then and made himself a double espresso, his booming baritone voice addressing U-Boat.
“So DCA, your report?”
U-Boat straightened his posture in his chair and answered formally. “Engineer, estimated critical position coincided with the calculation to within one half of one percent. Plant is in a normal full-power lineup running natural circulation in both loops, propulsion is on the main motor, motor tested ahead and astern, test sat. All tanks are full or higher than nine zero percent with the exception of San One and San Two, which are at ten percent. Out-of-commission log has ten discrepancies, all minor. Engineering is ready for alert status.”
Elvis nodded. “Very well.”
The supply officer arrived, made his coffee from the pod machine, a hideous smelly witch’s brew of hazelnut and vanilla, then plopped down near Pacino as Li No came in, sitting one seat over from the weapons officer’s seat. Eisenhart, the outgoing sonar officer and incoming communications officer, came in from the captain’s end door and squeezed past the engineer, the weapons officer’s seat and Li No’s seat and settled to Pacino’s right. He leaned over to say something to Pacino.
“You catching up with the intel digest?” he asked.
“I’m locked out of half of it,” Pacino said quietly. “Clearance level isn’t high enough, according to the software.”
“Okay, I’ll fix that after officers’ call,” Eisenhart said. “If the XO asks, though, tell him you’re running hot, straight, and normal.”
“Got it.”
When Quinnivan entered the room holding a coffee cup, everyone in the room seemed to stiffen up, sitting at attention in their chairs. The executive officer frowned and took his seat, annoyance in his voice when he said, “Where’s the weapons officer?”
As if on cue, Spichovich came into the room on the supply officer’s side door and made his way aft to the seat by the engineer. “Good morning, XO. Morning, everyone,” he said gravely. Quinnivan seemed satisfied, looking around the room as he took a mental roll call of the officers present.
Quinnivan looked at his old watch. “Let’s start, people. Officers’ call. We are on alert status in exactly fifty-nine minutes and thirty seconds. Readiness for alert — Engineer?”
“Engineering’s ready,” Elvis said, his face serious. “Ship is divorced from shorepower with propulsion on the main motor. Ready to answer all bells.”
“Good work, Eng. Weapons?”
“Weapons department is ready,” Sprocket said. “Battlecontrol is online and nominal, self-checks complete.”
“Very good, Weps. Navigation and operations?”
“Operations department is ready,” Romanov reported. “Charts are updated and uploaded to the tactical apps. All lines are singled up. The crane is ready and manned and prepared to remove the gangway. Ship is rotating and radiating. The harbormaster’s pilot is in the mess decks, standing by. Both tugs are in the slip with engines at idle, on stand-by. Radios to the tugs tested, tested sat.”
“Very well, Nav. Supply?”
“Supply department is ready,” Gangbanger said, quietly. “Load-out complete for forty days, spares inventory complete and sat, no major items on the out-of-commission log and no major discrepancies.”
“Whatever happened to the fookin’ washin’ machine?” the XO asked, his tone aggressive. On Friday, the day Pacino reported aboard, the ship’s washing machine had burst into flames. Pacino had heard it from Gangbanger at the party and the long story of what he had to do to get it fixed. The part couldn’t be borrowed—“cannibalized”—from other ships of the same class, since they were all at sea.