Pacino blushed, hoping no one noticed him ogling the navigator, and plopped into a seat for the short ride to the officers’ club. The club was a humble, rusted Quonset hut with a neon domestic beer sign in the front window. Inside there were what seemed dozens of cheap tables and chairs, with the bar and grill in the back of the long narrow structure. The club was deserted except for them, Pacino imagining that the DynaCorp personnel had flown back to the mainland for the weekend. At the back, near the bar, half a dozen tables had been pushed together. Standing at the end of the table was Vice Admiral Catardi with his attractive aide. Catardi wore jeans, sandals and a motorcycle T-shirt. His aide wore tight jeans, boots and silk blouse, made up with warpaint and looking like she’d be going to an upscale nightclub later in the evening. Catardi broke into a warm grin when he saw the Vermont’s officers walking in. Pacino walked over and waited for the admiral to greet the captain, XO, navigator, engineer and weapons officer, then shook Catardi’s hand.
“Patch Pacino, how are you doing with this scurvy crowd of rough pirates, son?” he asked, pumping Pacino’s hand, his other hand clapping his shoulder.
“Good, sir, fine. Best officers in the fleet.” Pacino smiled back. “Oh, I heard from my father — he called the wardroom, sir, and said to give you his warmest regards.”
Catardi smiled even wider. “That man taught me everything I know about being a combat submariner. And now we have the privilege of teaching you.”
Catardi found Seagraves and asked him where the SEALs were.
“They decided on a ten mile run before coming out drinking,” Seagraves said, a slight smirk on his lips.
“Speaking of which, Wanda! Get that bartender over here! Let’s get some beers and whisky out.”
A few moments later, when they were all holding a drink, Pacino sipping from a frosted mug with a beer that tasted fantastic, Catardi called the group to silence.
“Before we go too much further, officers, I have two promotions to make.” He looked at Styxx. “This is the best part of the job. Can I have Lieutenant Commander Quinnivan step up? Front and center, Executive Officer.”
Styxx produced an envelope. Catardi took out the insignia badge and held it up for the crowd to see, the three gold stripes with one of them making a loop.
“Jeremiah Seamus Quinnivan,” Catardi said officiously, “you are hereby promoted to the rank of commander, Royal Navy, by order of the Admiralty on this date, thirteen May.” Catardi accepted a safety pin from Styxx and pinned the badge to the center of Quinnivan’s T-shirt.
Pacino clapped with the rest of the crowd, noticing that Quinnivan was choked up. The tough-as-nails senior officer was actually tearing up.
“Thank you, Admiral,” Quinnivan said, his voice trembling. “I honestly never thought I’d see this day.” He looked up and smirked at the crowd. “It’s not April Fool’s Day, is it?”
Catardi shook his hand as Lomax took a picture, then a second picture with Seagraves shaking his hand.
“Now, I’d like our young non-qual to step up,” Catardi said. “Mr. Pacino, get up here.”
What was all this, Pacino wondered, taking the half dozen steps to join the admiral, the XO and captain at the head of the table. Styxx handed Catardi another open envelope.
“Mr. Pacino,” Catardi said, “you are hereby promoted to the rank of lieutenant, United States Navy, by order of U.S. Naval Personnel Command on this date, the thirteenth of May.”
The officers clapped enthusiastically. Pacino stared at Catardi with his mouth half open. Full lieutenant. Senior lieutenant. The same rank as all the other veteran junior officers in the wardroom. He hadn’t expected to be a full lieutenant for another year. He wondered if Seagraves and Catardi had made this happen inside the bureaucracy of the Navy.
Catardi withdrew the new insignia, double silver bars, from the envelope and pinned one on Pacino’s left collar, the other on his right. Pacino supposed if he’d worn a T-shirt, Catardi would simply have pinned it to the fabric near his throat.
Catardi pumped his hand while Lomax took another photograph, then one shaking Seagraves hand, the captain grinning for the camera. Pacino realized until now he’d never seen the captain smile, which was odd, because Seagraves had teeth so perfect he could have been in a toothpaste ad.
“And now, as is tradition when in port,” Catardi said, “with a promotion like this, you’ll have to drink your bars.” He looked at Quinnivan. “Your weird Royal Navy insignia, being cloth and all, won’t go well inside a glass of whisky, but you’re drinking anyway.”
Quinnivan laughed, mumbling he’d be fine dunking the commander’s insignia.
Styxx handed Pacino a tall tumbler half full of brown liquid in it.
“That’s the best scotch available in Andros,” Catardi said. “It’s some cheap off brand, but we can reasonably expect it’ll work as well as the good stuff. So go ahead. Wanda, put Mr. Pacino’s new bars in the glass.”
Styxx unfastened the new insignia from Pacino’s collars and dropped them into the scotch. Pacino realized everyone in the group was staring at him, the SEALs included, who had just shown up.
“You’re still a non-qual puke,” Romanov said to him, her smile shining on him, her long-fingered hand on his shoulder, her touch warm. “But now a full lieutenant non-qual puke,” she added. “Next, we’re going to get some fucking dolphins on that uniform of yours. Now drink up and don’t stop till you’ve got your silver bars in your mouth.”
Pacino woke before daylight, unsure of where he was. He opened one eye in the dim light of a clock-radio on a nightstand, and realized that there was an arm on top of his chest. He touched the hand. It was warm, soft and small. He traced his way up the arm, slowly turning in the bed to face where the arm met the torso. It was a slender naked woman with brown hair, her skin warm against the skin of his chest. He stealthily moved her hair away from her face to reveal who she was.
Wanda Styxx.
Wanda “River” Styxx.
Lieutenant fucking Commander Wanda “River” Styxx.
Oh my God, he thought. Seriously? He drank his lieutenant’s bars and woke to this?
Styxx stirred and opened her eyes, smiling slowly at Pacino.
“Good morning, Tiger,” she said, a look of happy satisfaction on her face.
Pacino’s mind raced, trying to remember the evening before. He remembered Styxx pulling him to the dance floor. Then fragments of a conversation.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, this wasn’t happening. Pacino vaulted out of Styxx’s bed and lunged for his khaki pants and Polo shirt, searching the room for his wallet and the lieutenant’s bars. Styxx looked up at him.
“Leaving so soon?” she pouted.
“I have to go, I’m starting the reactor and then driving us out today.” God, his head hurt. Note to self, he thought. No more slamming down cheap scotch the night before an underway. “I can’t find my silver bars. Where are they?”
“Probably on top of my clothes,” Styxx said sleepily.
Pacino found the collar devices, leaned over Styxx, kissed her briefly on the lips and half ran out of the room, down the hall, down the stairs, luckily finding the island’s van idling in front of the hall.
“Can you take me to the pier?”
“Absolutely, sir,” the Jamaican driver smiled. “Your captain had me posted here waiting for you.”