While the four junior officers sat there in silence, a procession of enlisted men walked down the corridor outside the room, each one ceremoniously sticking his hand through the door and lighting a disposable lighter, then moving on, the next hand coming in and lighting a lighter, then the next. Vevera and Eisenhart started laughing and Dankleff clapped, both glancing at Pacino’s red face.
“For fuck’s sake, dammit,” Pacino said quietly, “I didn’t start the—“
After the last enlisted man walked on, the executive officer stuck his head in the doorway. Commander Jeremiah Seamus “Bullfrog” Quinnivan was on loan from the Royal Navy as part of a U.S. Navy / Royal Navy exchange program, and had been second-in-command to Captain Seagraves during the Panther run. Quinnivan was an Irishman with the thick-as-Irish-stew brogue to go with it. A medium-height, slightly built officer, Quinnivan sported a tightly trimmed beard streaked with gray, his ultra-short haircut attempting to hide the fact that he was half bald. In contrast to the American officers’ shapeless working uniforms, Quinnivan wore a tailored dark blue shirt tucked into dark blue pants, his rank worn in the center of his chest, the dark emblem showing three horizontal gold stripes, the top one making a loop in the middle. He grinned at the junior officers with unnaturally white teeth, who some said had been capped after he’d been in a bar brawl that he insisted he’d won.
“Pacino! You arsehole! You fookin’ burned my boat!” Quinnivan’s voice rattled the windows.
“Sir, I—“
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ve all watched the fookin’ video, yeah? And we all know you only had seconds before the EAB system shit the bed, so I’m not really blamin’ ye, lad, but you coulda given us better luck, don’t ya know? Like some of that fookin’ Operation Panther luck, yeah?”
“Sir, um…” Pacino’s voice trailed off.
Quinnivan addressed the room. “Now listen, all you half-witted scurvy junior officers, I want you all early to officers’ call. Your United States Navy has new plans of all of ye.”
The four lieutenants glanced at each other, then back at Quinnivan.
“Sir, may I ask,” Pacino started, but Quinnivan had just waved and disappeared down the corridor.
“New plans?” Dankleff asked.
“Sounds like TDY to some other boat,” Vevera said. TDY meant temporary duty. Maybe sea duty, Pacino thought, thinking maybe they’d augment another attack submarine’s crew.
Ten minutes later the four junior officers were joined by the rest of the boat’s officer cadre, the other younger officers showing up directly to the conference room, placing their briefcases and backpacks against the outside wall. The seat at the end of the long table would be reserved for the captain, but he almost never attended officers’ call, leaving that to the XO. The executive officer would hold court from the seat immediately to the right of the captain’s chair. Next to him, the seat was empty, reserved for the navigator. Across from the navigator’s seat sat the engineer, and next to the navigator’s seat, the engineer’s direct reports would sit so they could look across the table at their boss. Damage Control Assistant Dankleff sat next to the navigator’s seat, since he was the senior officer of the engineering department — and in fact, he was also the “Bull Lieutenant,” the most senior of the junior officers aboard, although that title remained disputed by Vevera — and next to him sat Main Propulsion Assistant Vevera. The seat to Vevera’s right was taken by Electrical Officer Muhammad “Boozy” Varney. On the other side of the table, next to Lewinsky, sat Weapons Officer Al Spichovich, then Eisenhart, then Pacino, then Torpedo Officer Li No. Finally, at the other end of the table from the captain’s chair sat Supply Officer Anik “Gangbanger” Ganghadharan.
Quinnivan frowned at the assembled officers. “Well, lads, I suppose you’ve all heard the bad news that our beloved navigator is hurt and in hospital and in a deep coma. And that Senior Chief Nygard is still in the burn unit and will be for some time. Since Lipstick here burned up the entire forward compartment to the ground and hosed the Vermont, she’ll be stuck here for at least two years while the shipyard tries to figure out what to do to fix it.”
Pacino bit his lip, realizing that for the next week, at least, every crewmember he’d run into would be casually mentioning that he’d burned the ship to the ground. They all knew, of course, that he didn’t, but in keeping with submariners’ tradition, any weak spot would be pounded away at. It would seem ruthlessly cruel to outsiders, but it was actually a twisted form of showing affection, as strange as that sounded.
Just then the captain stuck his head in the door. Captain Seagraves was tall, with a full head of what Quinnivan called “politician hair,” his chiseled face looking like it belonged to a soap opera actor or a senator. He frowned as he said, in his booming baritone voice, “Good going, Mr. Pacino, for burning my boat down. Nice work.” Before Pacino could react, he disappeared down the passageway.
Pacino looked dejectedly down at the table. “Fuck me,” he said quietly. He felt Eisenhart’s hand clapping him on the shoulder, as if to encourage him to take heart.
“Don’t worry,” Eisenhart whispered. “In two years, she’ll be good as new.”
“Okay, next order of business,” the XO said, opening a folder and tossing papers across to the officers. “All of you junior officers are going TDY to another boat until the shipyard un-fucks the Vermont. I’m passing out your orders now.”
“What boat, XO?” Dankleff asked as Quinnivan slid a sheaf of papers to him.
“The 796 New Jersey, newest Block IV Virginia-class attack sub coming freshly out of new construction. Her alpha sea trials and commissioning shakedown runs are complete, and there’s a long laundry list of things that are hosed on the boat, but she’s putting to sea anyway. All repairs and post-repair sea trials are postponed for an urgent spec-op. She’s being officially placed in commission today, as I speak.”
Pacino scanned his orders. The 796 New Jersey was moored at DynaCorp Electric Boat Division in Groton, Connecticut.
Vevera caught it first, having consulted his pad computer. “XO, New Jersey was built at the McDermott Aerospace and Shipbuilding facility at Newport News, a half mile from where we sit. Why is it at Electric Boat in Groton?”
“Ah,” Quinnivan said. “The post-sea-trials list of shit to fix, yeah? The deal is the Electric Boat ships are repaired by the McDermott shop and vice versa. The cost of repairs is backcharged from one shop to the other, as an incentive to build in quality the first time. It’s also more efficient. But I’m guessing. Maybe there’s another reason.”
“Sir,” Pacino asked, “if the Jersey is in Groton — maybe she’s going to go to ComSubDevRon Twelve up there instead of SubRon Six down here.”
“Jersey was originally destined to be a DevRon Twelve boat,” Quinnivan replied, “but since she’s the direct replacement for Vermont, she’ll be in-chopping to Squadron Six here in Norfolk. When Vermont is repaired, the bosses will make a decision then whether to have the rebuilt Vermont go to Groton and leave Jersey in Norfolk. That decision is TBD, people.”