“Well, like Commander Cydice over there, I’m also from Pearl Harbor, from the USS Texas, where I was main propulsion assistant. Where’s my MPA in this crowd?”
“That would be me!” Vevera shouted from the rear of the room.
“What’s his name?” he asked Quinnivan.
“That there be Squirt Gun Vevera.”
“Ah, yes, the one for whom Commander Cydice has to buy all that beer. Squirt Gun — I’m sure your handle has a story behind it?”
Vevera blushed. Quinnivan said something in Byrehind’s ear, who grinned and laughed.
“Oh, okay, the XO informs me that the story is unsuitable for mixed company. My callsign, Prettyboy, was given to me by my older brother when I was three and it stuck hard. He’s pushing fighter jets off the USS Ronald Reagan somewhere. Anyway, I went to Dartmouth and Northwestern for physics, I’m married to lovely Linda — where are you, Linda? There she is, wave to the boys and girls, honey. We have two kids and I plan to spend long hours on the boat to keep away from them, they are absolute terrors. Linda’s genes, you know. Anyway, that’s about it.”
“Is that true, Linda?” Quinnivan asked.
A female voice from the rear answered. “It’s a lie, XO,” she said, smiling. “Those boys are just Prettyboy clones. There’s nothing of me in them at all.”
“For our next guest,” Quinnivan said, “I’d like to have our new weapons officer step up.”
A tall, slender woman with streaky blonde hair stepped up to the crate. She was pretty, wearing light makeup, with a long-sleeved silk blouse and bell-bottom jeans, which had inexplicably come back into fashion.
“I’m Lieutenant Commander Alexis D’Assault. My callsign? The original one was ‘Allen Wrench,’ since I was good at working on engines.”
“You’ll enjoy working with Pacino, then,” Quinnivan said, pointing to Pacino. “That young man replaced a Corvette engine and transmission himself, put in computer control and a supercharger. How many horses does that beast have, Patch?”
“Six hundred and forty,” Pacino called. “But who’s counting?”
“But there’s a more recent callsign, isn’t there, Madam Weapons Officer?” Quinnivan said, prompting her.
She sighed and smiled, her face flushing red. “I graduated from Kings Point, the Merchant Marine Academy, and I was a merchant marine sailor, third mate on a container ship and in the Navy reserve. We were off Yemen when a fairly large pirate raider boat came out of nowhere and zoomed up and started tossing grappling hooks up to the deck. I had one of the AR-15 rifles. They were really just for show and the captain wanted us to keep them unloaded and just wave them at any pirates, like that would do anything. I was about to do some recreational shooting, but when I saw the pirates, I just started blasting. Four of the raiders died, four more were wounded, and we had to call a medical helicopter. And yes, that incident got me fired. And it earned me the other callsign, ‘Pirate Killer Girl.’ Thank God for the Navy,” she said. “I doubt I would get hired anywhere, but my dad knew Admiral Patton and made a phone call, and here I am.”
“Dear God,” Romanov said. “Now the boat has pirates and a pirate killer girl. You’d better watch out for her. Do you think she’s pretty?”
Pacino stared at Romanov. “All women are ugly compared to you, Silky,” he said, deadpan, trying not to smile.
“I’d punch you right now if we were alone,” she growled. “Tell me the truth.”
“Yeah, she’s a cute-ass babe,” Pacino said. “But Lewinsky should watch out. Redhead will claw his eyes out if he looks at her twice.”
“Well, Pirate Killer Girl,” Quinnivan said, “there are three no-shit actual pirates in this crowd. You should have fun comparing notes. One of them, Mr. Pacino — that lad over there — he’s as trigger-happy as you are. You should all get along famously. Thank you, Madam Weps. Now, Mr. Elvis Lewinsky, come on up here.” Lewinsky stepped to the front of the room. “Elvis only found this out an hour ago. He’s leaving the New England and taking over as the XO of the USS Montana, also in Squadron Six.”
“Congrats, Elvis!” Pacino shouted. The crowd clapped and shot sarcastic remarks at the former navigator.
“Don’t be strangers, you guys,” Lewinsky said. “Come over to my boat for lunch whenever you want.”
“Thank you, Elvis, and now the junior officers. You three get up here.”
A tall, slim blonde kid walked up, a stormy look on his face. The second officer was a short, well-built black man. The third was a petite blonde woman with pale skin and hair so fine it looked like a comb would fall through it.
“This tall guy is Ensign Adam ‘Cool Hand’ Farina. Say a few words for us, Cool Hand.”
“Hi everyone,” the youth said in a baritone voice, obviously not happy to be speaking publicly. “I was a mechanical engineer out of the University of Vermont. I played baseball. I almost flunked out of nuclear power school, a little bit of trouble with a girlfriend, so I’m trying to make a comeback. I have to tell you, I had to fight to get assigned to this crew. I asked the recruiter for the New England specifically, and there was a waiting list, but I got lucky. So it’s good to be here.”
“Mr. Cool Hand here will be the new communications officer, yeah?” Quinnivan said. “Welcome to the New England, lad. Next is Ensign Rupert ‘Three Round’ Harrington. What say you, Three Round?”
“Hi folks,” Harrington said in a gentle, almost feminine soprano voice. “I’m from Louisiana and an electrical engineer from Tulane and Georgia Tech. I boxed in college and had some luck in the third round, so that explains the name. Now I’m into mixed martial arts.”
“Mr. Three Round will be our new supply officer,” Quinnivan said. “So, Three Round, do you have any experience in felony grand larceny?”
Harrington laughed. “No, sir, sorry.”
“Not to worry, lad, we’ll teach you. You’ll be stealin’ parts by dark o’night from the supply depot in no time. And now for our third J.O., Ensign Regina ‘Suction Cup’ Ingersol. How about sayin’ a few words for us, yeah?”
“Hello,” Ingersol said, blushing. “I’m from California and a math and physics major from Stanford, master’s in political science from Berkeley.”
“She almost looks like an albino,” Rachel whispered to Pacino.
“Nah, she’s just fair.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?”
“Oh my God, would you stop?”
“Poly sci, eh?” Quinnivan said. “Maybe Pacino’s da’ could use ya. He’s runnin’ for president, don’t ya know? And your callsign?”
She blushed deeper. “Also not suitable for mixed company,” she said. “I run marathons and I do ballet. At least I did. I have a knee injury, so I’m nursing it for a few months.”
“Madam Ingersol will be our reactor controls division officer. So, okay then, thank you, you new nubs. I want you all qualified in ten months,” Quinnivan said. “Or at least the new XO will, maybe even sooner.”
“Who is the new XO?” Pacino shouted.
“I’m glad you asked that question,” Quinnivan said, winking at Seagraves. “Captain?”
Seagraves took the post on the milk crate. “We have an unusual situation,” he began. “First of all, we’re replacing three officers with no turnover from the previous holders of each position due to their deaths. We have a gapped position of commanding officer with the new XO becoming acting captain. So, with all the turnover and lack of continuity of leadership, ComSubCom had to make some tough decisions. Either to delay my departure — and that of Commander Quinnivan — or propose a flea-flicker play. So here’s the deal, guys. You all already know and love your new XO and acting captain. Could I have Lieutenant Commander Rachel Silky Romanov step up to the front of the room?”