Panic Switch полностью

“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.”

“Any word on Romanov, XO?” Dankleff asked.

Quinnivan shook his head solemnly. “So far, the news isn’t good. But maybe she’ll pull through, yeah?”

Pacino pulled his safety harness on over his foul-weather gear. He must have gotten his sea legs, he thought, since he barely noticed the rocking and rolling of the ship through the waves. He stood at the navigation chart next to Elvis Lewinsky.