“XO,” Dankleff asked, “What about the chiefs? Are they staying here with the Vermont or going with us to the New Jersey?”
“We’re handling that on a case-by-case basis. Tactical divisions will probably take their chief petty officers and leading petty officers with you junior officers to the New Jersey. Obviously, torpedo division will need a new chief, since Blacky Nygard is laid up for some time. Supply and engineering chiefs will most likely stay with Vermont to aid in her rebuild. But that’s still to be determined.”
Quinnivan concluded officers’ call, telling them to pack their seabags and report to the pier at Groton Submarine Base in forty-eight hours, and to be ready to disappear for a while. A long while.
Back in the junior officer bullpen, Vevera whispered to Pacino. “A spec-op? What do you think is going on?”
A “spec-op” was short for special operation, the kind that the USS Vermont had done before going into the drydock. The kind that couldn’t be spoken of outside of a SCIF, a special compartmented information facility, or inside the hull of the submarine.
“Who knows?” Pacino said. “Are we all keeping our present jobs? Am I still sonar officer and you main propulsion assistant?”
“It would seem logical,” Vevera said. “The fastest way to staff the new boat with minimal disruptions.”
“What about the present crew and officers of the New Jersey? What happens to them?”
Vevera shrugged. “They’re a bunch of drydock rats and have been building the Jersey for four years. I suppose they’ll cross-deck them onto the Vermont so they can fix her.”
“And what about our department heads? And the XO and captain?”
“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” Vevera said as he packed his backpack and headed for the door. “I’ll see you at the Snake Ranch.”
Commander Jeremiah Quinnivan, Royal Navy, knocked on the open door jamb of Commander Seagraves’ temporary office on the admin building’s third floor.
“Come on in, XO,” Seagraves said, rolling his high-backed chair away from the desk and putting his steel-toed boots on the spread-out printouts on top. “Have a seat. Something on your mind?”
Quinnivan settled into one of the chairs in front of the captain’s desk, leaning forward, his tense body language a contrast to Seagrave’s relaxed pose.
“I’m a bit worried about that wee lad, Lipstick Pacino, yeah? All this seems to have taken the wind from the boy’s sails, if you know what I mean, Skipper. And I’m still convinced he’s our good luck charm. So, frankly, sir, we need him cocky and full of himself again, ya know?”
Seagraves shrugged. “That should come soon enough, XO.” Seagraves never called Jeremiah Seamus Quinnivan by his given names or his “Bullfrog” callsign — taken from some forgotten 1960s rock and roll song lyric — but always simply “XO,” perhaps to keep reminding the Irishman that while they were friends, good friends, they still were in command of a high-stakes weapon system and the people who ran it. Seagraves had seen excessive informality hurt military discipline in the past, and he swore it wouldn’t happen on his command.
“You think we’ll be able to bring him back to life in the next assignment?”
“Let’s hope so, XO. All we can do is give the young man time.”
Quinnivan stroked his beard, the way he did when weighing his words carefully.
“I suppose so, Cap’n. Did you decide yet whether to tell the lads about where we’re going?”
Seagraves looked for a moment out the window, frowning to himself. “I’m thinking we should let that be a surprise to the boys,” he finally said.
“Yeah, a big surprise, sir.”
“Hopefully, they’ll see it as a good sign.”
“I don’t know, Skip. They may see it as the gravestone for the USS Vermont.”
“Don’t say that, XO. The spirit of the project submarine Vermont is immortal. She shall return in all her glory, and when she does, we and our wardroom and goat locker of pirates, misfits and cutthroats will be right there with her.”
“I don’t know, sir. Two years in a dock? A lot can happen in two years.”
Seagraves smiled, took his boots off the desk and rifled through a pile of disorganized papers until he found what he was looking for. He handed the stapled package over to Quinnivan and waited for the exec to skim it. Quinnivan looked up, stunned.
“Six months? They’ll repair her in six months?”
“Crash program. Admiral Stiletto Patton came down hard on the Navy shipyard personnel and on McDermott Aerospace and Shipbuilding. He told both organizations that heads will roll unless Vermont sails the seven seas on her own power by the first of March.”
“Wow. I suppose, sir, it’s nice that we command a project boat. President needs her back in service.”
“Nothing like a phone call from the White House to get things rolling,” Seagraves said, taking back the sheave of papers from Quinnivan. “Now we just have to get through our own TDY assignment.”
“That we do, Cap’n, that we do.”
4
Mid-August, and the weather in Murmansk, Russia, was only a few degrees above freezing, a cold rain beating down, making a drum-beat noise on the metal roof over the bar’s outside porch. Georgy Alexeyev looked up at the lit sign above the door, the sign showing a graphic of a wolf ripping off the head of a sheep, blood splashing onto the face of the wolf. The Lamb’s Valhalla had been a popular hangout for the officers of the Northern Fleet before the brass came down and blackballed it for the practice of a backroom filled with friendly hookers. Ridiculous, Alexeyev thought, wondering if one of the senior female officers had insisted on the bar being made off limits.
Inside the solid wood door, the bar’s atmosphere was steaming hot, the wave of heat a welcome feeling. Alexeyev pulled off his heavy sheepskin coat and hung it on one of the many hooks by the door. A smiling, large-breasted, tall blonde waved him to his usual booth. After he settled in, she returned with a bottle of Glenfiddich scotch and two glasses. She asked if he would want any food, but he waved her off. Tonight was for drinking, he thought.
Captain First Rank Georgy Alexeyev had a thick, full head of gray-streaked hair swooping over his forehead and ears, the mirror reminding him that he needed a haircut. He wore a black eyepatch over his right eye. He really didn’t need the patch anymore, now that the surgery had been done to put in a glass eye, but he was self-conscious that the glass eye didn’t look realistic, and he’d rather people just realize he was half blind rather than try to guess why his face looked odd.
Alexeyev was tall, a bit over 185 centimeters, and he’d always been thin — even gaunt — although since the disaster in the South Atlantic, he’d gained a few kilograms he could stand to lose. But the weight was largely unnoticeable at his waist, his jawline still ruler straight.
Tonight he’d decided to dress in jeans and a denim shirt under an olive-drab submarine service pullover, forgoing his usual uniform. After all, showing up to an off-limits bar in uniform would seem to tempt the bosses. He was halfway into a glass of the scotch, which was cold despite being unrefrigerated, when his friend walked in, still wearing his coat, which was dripping wet.