Panic Switch полностью

He looked down, remembering he was only wearing a T-shirt and boxers. Bunking in with Styxx seemed like XO was playing a joke on both of them. He hurried to the officers’ head, turned on the water and got wet, then shut off the water, soaped up, shampooed, then turned the water on briefly and rinsed, then took a squeegee and wiped down the stainless steel shower enclosure, finishing the shower in less than ninety seconds. “Submarine showers” like this made a sailor long for home and a “hotel shower” long enough for the hot water to run out. He smirked — they’d been underway less than nine hours, and here he was, already longing for the comforts of home.

He carried his dirty clothes and walked back to stateroom three wearing only his towel, and fortunately Styxx had evacuated the room, presumably for the midnight meal. He dressed quickly in his black coveralls, but he’d brought the ones from Norfolk. They still had the emblem of the USS Vermont on the right sleeve. Somehow, he doubted the XO would object.

Aft, in the wardroom, the XO was holding court over the officers seated for midnight rations, sitting in the captain’s chair, his habit when the command duty officer watch was stationed. The CDO watch had the executive officer assuming all the functions of the captain so the commanding officer could get some rest, but that seemed odd with them approaching the Point Delta dive point. Pacino had assumed Seagraves would want to be in control for the dive.

Both Engineer Kelly and Weapons Officer Styxx were seated in their usual seats on the outboard side of the table near the captain’s end. On the inboard side of the table, the XO’s seat was empty with him having commandeered the captain’s chair. The navigator’s seat next to the XO was empty, probably with Lewinsky in control, supervising the chart for the surface run to the dive point, but Vevera was at his usual inboard seat facing the engineer, with Dankleff on his right. The supply officer’s seat was vacant. Varney’s chair and Long Hull’s were also empty. Pacino crossed behind Quinnivan to take his usual seat next to Communications Officer Eisenhart. Short Hull Cooper hurried into the room and plopped down to Pacino’s left. The mess steward came in with a serving tray and served the XO first, then Kelly, then Styxx, going down the table, slopping the thick goo of the beanie-weenies into Pacino’s bowl, then serving the other side of the table, serving Vevera, finishing with Dankleff. Pacino grabbed the large bowl of cornbread and passed it to Styxx, who offered it to Kelly and Quinnivan, then gave it back to Pacino, who loaded up on two portions and handed it down to Short Hull.

Quinnivan looked happily down at his plate as if it were Thanksgiving dinner.

“Ah, lads and lassies,” Quinnivan noted, “there’s nothing quite like the first midrats of a voyage, yeah? And you may not know this, Mr. Short Hull Cooper, but the rules of Quinnivan’s midrats are that we can discuss anything openly. This, people, is one of the joys of serving in the submarine force. In this room, during midnight rations, no subject is off limits, and we all leave our ranks behind. At my table, during midrats only, we are all equals. And I would like this team to come together for this operation, yeah? So I thought we would talk about some things that could get us better acquainted. Certainly, the old guard of Vermont-ers all know the drill. But you, Madam Engineer, and you, Madam Weapons Officer, are new to us, and we’re all new to the Hulls. So let’s talk, okay?”

There was an awkward silence in the room for a moment. Pacino saw Vevera and Dankleff smirking at him and looking at Short Hull Cooper, as if to say, this should be good. Finally, Eisenhart spoke up.

“XO, with your permission, I think it would do me good to talk about relationships. You know, love and sex and what this submarine force does to relationships.”

“Excellent topic, Mr. Easy,” Quinnivan said, the laugh lines at his eyes crinkling. “You see, people, the secret to a good Navy relationship is picking out the right person.”

“We can’t all find people like Shawna Quinnivan,” Eisenhart said. “The perfect wife.”

Pacino had met Shawna several times, before and after Operation Panther. She was a stunning brunette from upper-crust London, and it had been a running joke in the wardroom that she was slumming, having married a rough Irish scrapper like Quinnivan.

“That she is,” Quinnivan said. “So you, Mr. Cooper, are you married, engaged, dating?”

Cooper blushed and put down his spoon. “No, sir. I had a girlfriend senior year, but no one since.”

“Back to you, Mr. Easy. Word on the street is you’ve had some trouble along these lines.”