Fishman and Aquatong had greeted Pacino warmly enough, but they seemed preoccupied. They probably knew something that they couldn’t talk about, he considered. Fishman was Pacino’s height and solidly built, the clean-shaven and tough-looking black officer rarely smiling, his serious nature seldom reacting to humor. He was working on his doctorate in philosophy at a different university than the one that had rejected his thesis, a theory about life on earth that resembled a religion, but which had helped Pacino gather his courage to invade the Panther. Pacino had hoped Fishman would entertain them at Quinnivan’s midrats with his theory.
In contrast to Fishman, the taller and skinnier Grip Aquatong was the comedian of the pair, and he’d grinned at Pacino and delighted in showing him his new pistol, a Desert Eagle .50 cal, the gun heavier than a box of lead. Aquatong had a mop of black hair and still had his closely trimmed beard, which had started to come in gray, which was odd since the junior grade lieutenant was only twenty-three. But like Fishman, Aquatong had seemed somewhere else, cutting the visit short so he could attend a meeting that Fishman had called, which kept Pacino from greeting the SEAL medic, Senior Chief “Scooter” Tucker-Santos, or his right-hand man, Petty Officer “Swan Creek” Oneida, but Pacino figured the mission had plenty of time for them all to catch up.
Several days out of Faslane, they’d crossed the Arctic Circle and held the traditional Navy “Bluenose” ceremony, but somehow it had lacked the high spirits of the equatorial crossing on the Panther mission. The crew’s mood seemed somehow subdued, Pacino thought. Somber and serious. It just felt different. Pacino wondered if they were all feeling some darkness arriving from their future. And now, off the Russian submarine base, they were rigged for ultraquiet and tiptoeing. The boat seemed wound tighter than a piano wire.
“Petty Officer Sanders,” Pacino called from the chart table to sonarman Walrus Sanders, who had the sonar stack for this watch section. “Anything?”
Sanders had put his hand to his right ear under the headset as if listening hard to something, which had prompted Pacino’s question.
“New sonar contact, designate Sierra Seventeen, OOD. Diesel engine. Sounds like the same support ship we’ve been hearing. Back for another trip.”
“Probably delivering something,” Pacino said.
“Like what?” Short Hull Cooper asked.
“Weapons, food, personnel. Who knows?”
“Sure would be nice if we had an Apex drone overhead,” Cooper complained. “We’d know everything going on. We’d be able to see the BUFF’s captain talking to the admiral on the pier. Down to what brand of cigarettes they’re smoking.”
“You heard the XO,” Pacino said, having stepped to behind Sanders’ shoulder to see the sonar broadband display. “We’re doing this without eyeballs, just using our earballs. Well, hello, you slugs,” Pacino said to the arrival of Squirt Gun Vevera and his under-instruction, Long Hull Cooper. “About fucking time.”
“Fuck off, Lipstick,” Vevera said, smirking. “We’re early.”
“Oh man, Squirt Gun, don’t let XO or Weps hear you call Pacino that,” Long Hull said.
“Hey,” Vevera said, “when I have the deck and the conn, I’m like a king. And besides, I’m a Vehmontah, I do what I wanta.”
“Get that off a bumper sticker, did ya, Squirt Gun?” Pacino asked.
“So, what you guys got?” Vevera said, suddenly serious as he looked over the chart.
“BUFF is still dead cold iron,” Pacino said. “Sierra Seventeen was just detected, a supply boat, most likely bringing the BUFF more shit for his trip.”
“Probably a big load of porno DVDs,” Vevera said.
“No way the Russians are as perverted as you, Squirt,” Pacino said. “Plus, maybe they’re taking along comfort women.”
“No way they’d embark hookers,” Vevera said. “Sure would be nice if we did, though. You ever wonder what it would be like to take those Rooskie submariners drinking?”
“I spent a few hours with some of them on the Panther run. Believe it or not, even after trading torpedoes with us, they seemed like decent guys.”
“And girls, right? I heard that blonde Rooskie weapons officer had a crush on you.”
“Yeah yeah yeah. You guys got the picture?” Pacino said. “Hurry up, I’m hungry.”
“Oh, the XO is in fine form tonight.” Vevera rubbed his tummy, smiling.
“What’s for midrats?”
“XO ordered hot chili, hot in temperature. He violated the rig for ultraquiet. Said he was tired of cold sandwiches.”
“Hey, he does what he wants to also,” Pacino said. “Hard to imagine stirring some chili over a gas flame would alert the Russians.”
“Anyway, I relieve you, sir,” Vevera said.
“I stand relieved. Short Hull?”
“I’m relieved by Mr. Cooper,” Short Hull replied.
“Let’s hit Quinnivan’s midrats,” Pacino said.
When Pacino and Short Hull walked into the wardroom, both Executive Officer Quinnivan and Weapons Officer Styxx were laughing.
“Something funny?” Pacino asked.
Quinnivan frowned in reply. “Your report?”
Pacino nodded at Short Hull Cooper.
“Sir, Mr. Pacino and I were properly relieved by Mr. Vevera and Mr. Cooper,” Short Hull said formally. “As previously reported, we have a new detect. Sonar thinks it’s a supply ship. The BUFF — er, the Omega — is still shut down.”
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Quinnivan said, his mirthful expression returning.
Pacino took a seat next to Styxx and put his napkin in his lap while Styxx passed him the bowl of chili. He loaded up on it and grabbed a cornbread from the platter. “You want to share the joke, XO?”
Quinnivan beamed at Pacino. “Some new intelligence from our esteemed weapons officer. Madam Styxx, you want to declassify this for Mr. Pacino?”
“I suppose it’s about time, XO.” Styxx looked at Pacino, a slight smile on her lips. “So, Patch, that night you spent with me at AUTEC?”
Pacino’s spoon froze in mid-air on the way to his mouth. He put it down and looked at Styxx. “Yeah?”
She laughed and said, “We didn’t do anything.”
“What?”
She nodded. “You were so drunk you passed out at the entrance door to the BOQ. I had to drag you to the elevator and down the hall to my room. And drop you on the bed. And undress you. Have you ever undressed a corpse? You have to roll it to one side, pull off clothes, then roll it back, on and on.”
Pacino stared at her. “Really? So how do you explain all the lipstick on my face?” And how would she account for the happy, satisfied look on her face that morning? What had she said to him? Good morning, tiger.
Styxx put her face in her hands, laughing and wiping tears from her eyes. “Oh my God, I didn’t want you returning to the boat without making it look like you were a conquering hero. Part of my assignment from a certain Royal Navy officer we all know and love.”