“Girlfriend dumped him,” Kelly said in a stage whisper to Styxx. “He claims it was because of our long operations, but I think she just woke up to the fact that Easy Eisenhart is a slug.” Perhaps the three worst things a submarine sailor could be called were
“Fuck you, Eng,” Eisenhart said, but he was smiling.
“Well, then, lass, what about you?” Quinnivan asked Kelly.
“Me? I gave up on the idea of a committed relationship years ago, XO,” she said.
“Feel free to call me ‘Bullfrog’ during midrats,” Quinnivan said. “Pass the butter, please.”
“Anyway, Bullfrog,” Kelly continued, “the fact is, men are at best a mixed bag. I mean, look at you submariners. All pasty white. Not one of you has a tan. You look like you’ve been hiding in caves. And as men age, pot bellies, male pattern baldness, loss of muscle tone? And that all starts happening at thirty-five. God help you if you stick around another twenty years. And sometime along the road, the main reason for dating a guy pretty much dies unless dosed up on a sex drug. Men smell bad. They’re all hairy. And you kiss a guy? You just get enough bristles on your mouth to give you a rash. And we all know, you men are dogs. Acting like they deserve a woman who looks like a centerfold while they’re at best a three. And men cheat as often as they breathe. So, what the hell, I crossed the street and started dating women.”
Vevera looked at her. “Really, Eng? You? You’re gay?”
Kelly shook her head. “Not really. I suppose I’m sort of half-and-half. I mean, the right guy might actually get my blood pumping, but that would be one chance in a thousand. And he’d have to be one hell of a guy. But mostly, sexually, I think women do it for me. But as for romance? It’s a myth.”
Dankleff swallowed a bit of cornbread and motioned his head for the coffee carafe and poured a cup for himself, looking at Pacino, who nodded and took the carafe and filled his up. The beanie-weenies were not to his liking, but the cornbread and creamy butter had hit the spot.
“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
“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?”
