Pacino had checked into the “Q” the night before with the rest of the boat’s junior officers when their airport shuttle had arrived. “Q” was short for “BOQ,” which itself was short for bachelor officer quarters. Now that there were almost as many female officers as there were males, he thought, the term “bachelor” seemed outdated, but he’d leave it to Big Navy to correct any politically incorrect nomenclature. At the Q, he’d slept fitfully, rising late on this Sunday morning to run a few miles around the hilly Groton Navy base overlooking the wide Thames River. After a shower, he logged in and went through his unclassified electronic mail, then tried to relax by reading a novel, but couldn’t concentrate. He considered calling Vevera or Dankleff to see what they were up to, but odds were, they were sleeping off the previous evening’s beer and tequila.
Around five o’clock, he got separate texts from Vevera and Dankleff instructing him to show up for a “command performance” at The Power House, where the attack sub New Jersey’s captain, executive officer, and department heads demanded to meet their new junior officers. Since Commander Quinnivan had given the Vermont junior officers their new orders, there had been no word, not even a whispered rumor, of who the New Jersey’s captain or exec would be. All anyone knew was that the “PCU” captain and XO would not be commanding New Jersey. PCU stood for “pre-commissioning unit,” the designation for a ship not yet accepted by the Navy for combat service. The PCU crew were “drydock rats,” experts at assisting in giving birth to the ship from the millions of components brought to McDermott Aerospace and Shipbuilding’s Newport News assembly plant, but they weren’t combat operators like the officers of Vermont. It was recognized throughout the fleet that Vermont’s crew were the most recent to fire torpedoes and depth charges in anger, and there was a definite prestige that went with that. It was natural that the PCU New Jersey crew wouldn’t take her out on this upcoming special operation, but rather the Vermont-ers, as they began to call themselves. But the success of the crew depended on the success of the wardroom of officers, which was entirely dependent on who the captain and second-in-command were. Great junior officers and department heads were nothing with poor leadership from the skipper and the XO, Pacino thought.
He approached the crowded bar, where Vevera and Dankleff had saved him a barstool. Dankleff clapped Pacino on the shoulder.
“I see you’re twenty minutes early, Lipstick,” Dankleff said, beaming. “Good job.”
Pacino grinned back at him while shaking Vevera’s hand. “That was the first thing you taught me onboard Vermont, U-Boat,” he said to Dankleff. He slumped to give an impression of Dankleff and made his voice sound deep and imbecilic and said, “if you’re early, you’re on time, if you’re on time, you’re late and if you’re late you’re off the team.”
“Fuck you, Lipstick,” Dankleff snorted. “Anyway, Squirt Gun, as I was saying, I’m the bull lieutenant.”
“No way,” Vevera replied. “I got to Vermont two, maybe three months before you showed up as a nub non-qual. So I’m the bull lieutenant.”
The “bull lieutenant” of the boat was the most senior of the junior officers assigned, a title which Pacino had assumed had gone to U-Boat Dankleff.
“Yeah, but you took, what, three? four? entire months off fighting your, well, your diagnosis. So when it comes to time served? I’m the fuckin’ bull lieutenant.”
“What do you say, Lipstick?” Vevera asked. This would not be a dogfight Pacino would involve himself in, he thought, since Vevera and Dankleff were his two best friends, but he and U-Boat had survived Operation Panther, and that counted for something. Pacino just laughed at them and waved over the bartender and ordered a double McAllen 12.
“So Lipstick, looks like you’re not the junior man of the wardroom anymore,” Dankleff said. “We have two new nub officers showing up here. They’re the only hold-overs from the PCU New Jersey crew.”
“We’re keeping some of the drydock rats?” Vevera’s face showed contempt. “So not only are they non-qual nubs, they’ve never been to sea?”
“Well, they must have been aboard to conduct sea trials,” Pacino said, “without dying. There’s something to be said for that.” The bartender placed Pacino’s scotch on a coaster in front of him. Pacino held his glass up for a toast. “Well, gents, to victory at sea.”
Vevera hoisted his on-premises-made beer and Dankleff raised his Jack Daniels.
“So, guys, any word on who the skipper or exec will be?” Pacino asked.
“Nothing at all,” Dankleff said.
“Department heads?”
“No word on that either.”
“Damn,” Pacino breathed. As sonar officer, he would report to the weapons officer. His upcoming life would depend greatly on who that officer would be, and on the XO, since the XO ran the wardroom and could easily make life miserable for all of them.
“The bar’s getting full,” Pacino observed, calling the bartender over for a refill. “All we have are these three stools. We’ve got all the other J.O.s coming.”
“We have that big table over there,” Dankleff waved with this glass, then traded the empty one for a refill from the bartender. Five tables had been pushed together in the center of the high-bay area to form a single large table.
“Let’s go over there now before someone else decides to take it,” Vevera said, dropping his credit card on the bar. “I’ll meet you after I close out.”
“Wait, hold on,” Pacino said, noticing something on one of the large television screens over the bar, the only one not devoted to sports. It was tuned to SNN, Satellite News Network, a 24 — hour news channel, where a female announcer was making a report while standing in front of the Kremlin. The banner at the bottom of the screen read, “MOSCOW TERRORIST HOSTAGE RESCUE SAVES ALL BUT 2… RUSSIAN PRESIDENT’S WIFE DIES AFTER POLICE RAID….”
“Jimmy, turn that up, will you?” Dankleff shouted at the barman, who grabbed a remote and raised the volume.
“…police and elements of the FSB — the follow-on to the KGB — stormed the boutique shop inside Moscow’s famous GUM shopping mall, the giant architectural wonder situated in Red Square itself. President Vostov’s wife was one of the hostages taken, and reports have been received that Mrs. Vostov routinely evaded her SBP security detail, as she did on this occasion. A statement released by the police commander onsite indicated that Larisa Vostov was alive and unharmed by the barrage of gunfire during the raid, but the paralyzing gas used by the police and FSB led to her death and the death of a nineteen-year-old man who was one of the hostages. All of the terrorists were reportedly killed by the police units, and the other hostages were all rescued and are in stable condition in Moscow hospitals. The Kremlin released a short statement from President Vostov, which only indicated that a state funeral will be held for Larisa Vostov and the young man who died today. Meanwhile, there has been no sign of President Vostov, who is believed to have been whisked by his security detail to an undisclosed location. It’s speculated that he is in one of the hardened presidential bunkers outside Moscow. I’m Monica Eddlestein reporting live from Red Square, Moscow, SNN News—”