Despite the boat being far from ready, the crew of the New Jersey had been reassigned to the New England, assisting the shipyard in bringing her back to life. It was Monday, and Pacino was the off-going duty officer. The XO had made a new policy that after standing duty, an officer could take the next day off. Standing duty for a ship in the dock seemed stupid to Pacino, since there was not much for the duty officer to do in the shipyard. He looked at his watch, and it was 1045. He was about to cross the street and get in the car for the ride back to the Snake Ranch when a car glided to a halt behind him.
The driver’s window rolled down. It was Commander Quinnivan in a black Lincoln town car. Quinnivan grinned at Pacino.
“Get in, loser. We have a lunch date at Squadron Six.”
Pacino walked to the passenger side, but Quinnivan waved at him to get into the backseat. As he climbed in, he saw there was another passenger. It was Rachel Romanov, in uniform. She wore oversize sunglasses and her uniform ballcap, the cap featureless rather than the blue one with dolphins and the embroidery spelling USS NEW ENGLAND. Pacino looked at her.
“Hi, Rachel,” he said. He wondered, now that his head wounds were healed, would she recognize him? Would his face return her memory? But so far, she hadn’t reacted.
“Hello Patch,” she said without looking back at him, her voice neutral. Was there a coldness in her voice, he wondered, or was he just being too sensitive?
“What’s going down, XO?” Pacino asked.
“I got a phone call from Balaclava Driscoll, my opposite number on the New Hampshire. He and his captain, Gray Wolf Austin, agreed to bring you and Rachel down for a tour of their boat.”
Pacino stared at Rachel. “Really?”
“Captain Seagraves thinks it’s important that Madam Romanov reacquaint herself with the Virginia-class. I’ll be there to remind her of what’s what. You’re coming, young Pacino, since XO Driscoll and Captain Austin want to talk to you. They’ve got a slot in their wardroom opening up.”
“If it’s all the same to you, XO, I’d prefer to stay with the old Vermont crew on the New England.”
“Ah, but young Pacino, the New England will take months to get out of the dock. I figured you’d be craving action and want to get back to sea pronto.”
“Well, normally, yeah, XO, but I’m still coming down from our most recent action. I could use a nice boring month or two.”
“It may not be up to you, Patch, but let’s see what happens.”
The hull of SSN-778, the USS New Hampshire, looked exactly like the Vermont before the fire, or like the New Jersey before the battle with the Russians. Commander Jeremiah Seamus Quinnivan seemed almost out of place, one of the few people on the crowded pier not wearing the Navy’s two-piece organizational clothing uniform, an ill-conceived, baggy-looking outfit that resembled pajamas tucked into black combat boots. By contrast, Quinnivan wore his sharp Royal Navy-issued blue uniform, his tailored long-sleeved shirt smartly tucked into starched pants, with gleaming leather black shoes, wearing a black beret with the emblem of the Royal Navy’s submarine force, his rank displayed on the center of his chest, the emblem showing three broad gold stripes, the uppermost stripe forming a circular loop at the top.
Quinnivan, Pacino, and Romanov walked up to the topside sentry, who was wearing a set of crisp, dark blue crackerjacks. The sentry came to attention and saluted, and the three officers saluted back.
“Ahoy, lass, I’m Quinnivan, XO of the New England,” the Irishman said to the topside watchstander, his brogue suddenly becoming comically thick. “I’m here to see your XO and Captain.”
“I’ll call down, sir,” the topside petty officer said, reaching into a comms box and dialing a number on the phone inside.
“They’re not using VHF radios with the repeaters anymore?” Romanov asked Quinnivan.
“Nah,” Quinnivan said. “They’re a security risk. A Pentagon ‘red team’ of hackers was able to use the VHF repeaters, in-hull radios and exterior system to eavesdrop on conversations inside the boats. So we’re back to what worked from forty years ago. It may be old, but it works just fine, and it’s secure.”
The topside sentry put the phone back in the box and turned to Quinnivan. “XO will be right up, sir.”
“So, lassie, how long have you been assigned to this bucket o’bolts?” Quinnivan smiled at the sentry.
“A year, Commander,” she replied, obviously uncomfortable with the question.
“No submarine dolphins yet? These qualified lads not taking care of you, gettin’ ya trained?”
“Oh, no, sir, nothing like that. I’m just delinquent in my qualifications.”
“Is it studyin’ ya need to do, or do ya need practical experience at sea?”
“Sea experience, Commander. New Hampshire has been tied to the pier for a month.”
Quinnivan nodded, filing the information away, Pacino noted, probably to use in conversation with the New Hampshire exec.
“Well, Petty Officer Schwarzengruber,” Quinnivan said, stumbling over her name, “as soon as the New England is waterborne, you can join our crew any time and leave these New Hampshire pikers in the rearview mirror.”
The petty officer blushed. “Thank you, sir. I’ll bear that in mind.”
A man wearing the khaki two-piece working uniform emerged from a canvas doghouse that had been erected over the plug trunk hatch. He was extremely tall and thin, with closely cropped black hair showing a receding hairline, his face long, his cheeks hollow. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and his expression was grave, as if he were walking into court as a handcuffed criminal. Pacino stared — he had thought Quinnivan and this officer, Lieutenant Commander Oliver Balaclava Driscoll, were friends. Apparently not.
Driscoll approached, frowned deeply at Quinnivan and snarled, “You’ve got some nerve coming here, Bullfrog.”
“I came to return your mother’s panties, Lurch — at least I was,” Quinnivan said in hostility, “but the stench was just too great, so I tossed them in the Elizabeth River and got written up for causing an environmental disaster.”
Driscoll flushed, his expression murderous. “Oh yeah? Well, your mother smells like a dumpster baking in the August sunshine that hasn’t been emptied in a month and just got vomited on by a homeless guy and shit on by a flock of seagulls.”
“Oh yeah? Well, fuck you, Lurch.”
“Oh yeah? Well, fuck your mother, Bullfrog.”
“Come here, ya skinny-ass fart-breath,” Quinnivan said, bursting into a grin, and Driscoll came up and hugged the Irishman, the two men laughing and smiling. “Goddamn, Lurch, how long has it been?”
“At least a year,” Driscoll said. “I meant to call you when we got back from being forward deployed for six months, but you know how it is. The in-port time is busier than the sea duty.”
“Yeah, I get you. You’ve got to come to the house before I leave for my new assignment,” Quinnivan said. “Shawna will whip up something. And I’ll break out the good scotch.”