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
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
“What boat, XO?” Dankleff asked as Quinnivan slid a sheaf of papers to him.
“The 796
Pacino scanned his orders. The 796
Vevera caught it first, having consulted his pad computer. “XO,
“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
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