“So, Eng,” Eisenhart asked, “you’ve never been in love? Had your heart broken?”
Kelly shook her head. “Nope. And I’d just as soon things remain as they are. I’ve seen the things that people who fall in love do. Very stupid things.”
“Hard-hearted Hanna over there,” Vevera said. “Hey, maybe we should call you ‘Hanna.’”
“So, let me ask you this, Ms. Moose,” Quinnivan said, amusement crinkling his features as he poured coffee for himself.
“I fucking hate that callsign,” Kelly said.
“Ms. Engineer, then. Say that AI progressed to the point that you could get — let’s say — for free, a sex robot. Would it be male or female?”
Kelly pushed her plate away and poured herself coffee. “I’d have to say I’d want one with a selector switch. It could be male on Friday and female on Saturday.”
Dankleff chuckled quietly. Pacino looked at Vevera, who seemed more interested in his seconds on beanie-weenies. Perhaps he was hoping the discussion wouldn’t turn to him.
“Well, at least we know that you, Ms. River, are definitely into guys.” Quinnivan glanced at Pacino. Pacino felt the blood rush to his cheeks.
“That I am, Bullfrog,” Styxx said between bites. “And from what I’ve heard, our esteemed navigator is dating a femme fatale.”
“Ah yes, Elvis Lewinsky and The Immortal Redhead,” Quinnivan said.
“That Redhead,” Dankleff said. “The temperature in the room goes up twenty degrees when she walks in.”
“Really?” Kelly asked. Vevera reached for his handheld and punched up a photo taken at a wardroom party. He’d managed to get a full-length shot of Redhead alone, her face model-gorgeous, her shining red hair coming below the nipples of her expansive breasts, which were barely restrained in a flowing red gown that had a slit in it up to her upper thigh, revealing a tanned, toned, long leg clad in a black thigh-high stocking, her small feet in tall stiletto pumps. “Holy cow, this chick looks like she was dreamed up by an adolescent male fantasy.”
“Here’s another one, from her modeling portfolio.”
Vevera’s pad computer showed Redhead wearing only short-shorts and a revealing halter top, draped across the hood of a fire engine red Ferrari Testarossa.
“Whoa,” Eisenhart said. “Squirt Gun Vevera here is stalking the Redhead. You’d better hope Lewinsky doesn’t get a whiff of your interest in her. He’d flatten you.”
Vevera scoffed. “Any human who has a Y chromosome is interested in that chick.” He glanced at Kelly. “And some humans who don’t have one.”
Kelly looked at the photo for a long time, finally whistling. “Wow, she’s all woman, that one.”
Eisenhart laughed. “Wait till you meet her.”
“Nice car, too,” Kelly said, attempting to deflect the junior officers’ attention.
“That’s not Elvis’ Ferrari, but he has one exactly like it,” Vevera said. “That’s how they met. She saw him climb out of his hot-ass car in Virginia Beach one Saturday afternoon and she swooped in on him like a shark after a tuna,” Vevera paused. “I guess sharks eat tuna, don’t they?”
“Wait, Lewinsky has a Ferrari like that?”
“Catch up, Ms. Moose,” Quinnivan chuckled. “Our young navigator Elvis has a barn full of hot cars. Some he restored himself from rusting wrecks in junkyards, others he bought when his Da’ left him some investments, yeah?”
“Let me see that picture again,” Kelly asked, her cheeks blushing red. Vevera handed her back the WritePad. “There is simply no way she is faithful to him on our long operations, not a woman like that.”
“You kidding?” Pacino said. “Redhead is obsessed with Elvis. She’d kill for him. Squirt Gun, show Moose the shot of what she did to his Ferrari.”
Vevera took back the handheld and found another photo and showed it to Kelly. In white block letters, the word ASSHOLE was scrawled all over the car. Last time Pacino saw that picture, he counted the epithet at least six times.
“Oh dear God, why did she do this?” Kelly gasped.
Quinnivan took the question. “She somehow got the idea that Elvis had developed a thing for the lovely Vermont navigator, Dominatrix Navigatrix. You see, Engineer, jealous obsessed women like Redhead most assuredly do not cheat.”
Pacino, on Quinnivan’s mention of Rachel Romanov, tried to steer the conversation back to Lewinsky. “Elvis said it had taken a twenty-thousand-dollar repair to fix his Ferrari.”
“And they’re still together after all that?” Engineer Moose Kelly looked shocked.
Pacino smirked. “The thunderbolt hit them both, Eng. Disproving your assertion that romantic love is a myth.” God knew, it was real, he thought, thinking of how stunned he was the first time he’d met Rachel Romanov at Quinnivan’s party before the Panther run. He couldn’t even speak.
“What about you, Squirt Gun?” Quinnivan looked over at Vevera. “Did you ever find a replacement for that young lass you were seeing? The, uh, squirty one?” Vevera had been unwise enough to mention during a midrats session with Quinnivan that his girlfriend was a squirter, which had changed his callsign from Man Mountain to Squirt Gun.
Vevera shook his head sadly. “She evaporated when I got the cancer diagnosis. I never heard from her again. I’m pretty much resigned to having a relationship with my goddamned motorcycle.”
“Sorry to hear,” Quinnivan said, genuinely sympathetic. “I guess you and Easy Eisenhart should get your asses to the bar at our, shall I say, intermediate destination.”
Hoping Quinnivan wouldn’t focus his attention on Pacino’s ill-fated love life, Pacino asked, “XO, what is our destination? And what is this operation?”
“Ah, so can I assume this discussion has wandered away from love and sex and back to tactics, yeah? Well, tomorrow, once we’re submerged and headed for Point Foxtrot, we’ll have an op brief. For as much as we can, since our orders are pretty vague right now.”
“Can’t you tell us where we’re headed?” Pacino asked.
“I wouldn’t want to steal the navigator’s thunder, Mr. Lipstick.”
“And that’s something I wanted to talk to you about, XO,” Styxx said, frowning. “Mr. Pacino’s nickname, Lipstick? I most strenuously object. I find it offensive. Seeing how the lipstick on his face was mine.”
There was silence in the room for a moment. Quinnivan became suddenly serious.
“You make a good point, ma’am,” he said, addressing Styxx. “Listen up, all you scurvy junior officers. From henceforth, Mr. Pacino will go by the name ‘Patch.’ No more ‘Lipstick.’ And tell the others when you see them at watch relief.”
Pacino checked his diver’s watch. “That reminds me, Short Hull and I need to make a pre-watch tour, XO. By your leave, if we can be excused?”
“Absolutely, Patch. Have a good watch.”
Pacino stood. “Thanks, XO.”
“And try not to burn the boat down, yeah?”
“Goddammit,” Pacino muttered, but Quinnivan was grinning as Pacino and Short Hull Cooper hurried out of the room.
Quinnivan poured coffee for himself while Kelly asked the question, “What about Lip — I mean, Patch? Is there a story about his romantic life?”
Quinnivan leaned back in his chair. “His first girlfriend was Alameda, the engineer from the ill-fated Piranha. I assume you’ve all heard that story. She died suddenly, what, two years ago? Eighteen months ago? From a brain aneurism. Doctors never could figure out whether it was from the stress of the Piranha sinking or had just cropped up afterwards. Then, later, young Pacino fell hard for Rachel Romanov, our previous navigator. Turns out, our young Lip — er, Patch, has a thing for older female submarine officers, but I’d warn you off, Moose — the women Patch dates tend to end up dead or in a coma.”