Authors: Don Brown
Code 13 (24 page)
Caroline released the chaplain's hand and opened her eyes. From behind her she heard another voice, a man's voice that sounded familiar, say, “Amen.”
She turned around. “Captain.”
“It's okay. You can call me Paul,” said the handsome U.S. Navy captain who had followed her from San Diego. “I thought maybe you could use some support.”
“Admiral, this is . . .”
“Sir, I'm Captain Paul Kriete. I'm the one who called in the report. Caroline did some excellent legal work on my ship when I was the skipper of the
Cape St. George
. Thank you for being here, sir.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Captain, although I wish it was under more pleasant circumstances.”
“Likewise, sir. Do we know anything yet?”
“Commander McCormick?”
Another man's voice came from behind, interrupting the conversation between Paul and Admiral Lettow. Caroline's heart instantly shot into overdrive. The doctor was coming to tell her P.J.'s condition. She stood and turned, her stomach feeling sick.
The sight of the Navy captain standing there, in summer whites, calmed her soul. For a millisecond she didn't recognize him, until her eyes found the gold mill rinde, the symbol of the Navy JAG Corps, on his black shoulder boards.
“Captain Guy.” Delayed recognition caught up with her. She heard the relief in her own voice that he wasn't the doctor.
“Do we know anything?”
Thankfully, Admiral Lettow stood up and provided the necessary responses. “Captain, I'm Rear Admiral Lettow, Chief of Navy Chaplains.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for being here, sir.”
“You're welcome,” Lettow said.
“What do we know?”
“I haven't spoken with the doctors, but the surgeons did come out and speak with Commander McCormick earlier. It sounds real touch and go, Captain.”
Captain Guy turned to Caroline. “Commander, can you talk about what happened?”
Caroline bit her lip and tightened her stomach. She would not fall apart in front of her superiors. No matter what, she would remain strong for P.J. “We were jogging, sir. Just talking back and forth. We circled the Monument and started back down the Mall. We had just passed the World War II Memorial. I pulled ahead of him and heard a pop. I didn't think much of it. But a second later, I sensed that he
wasn't there. I turned around and he was lying on the ground, bleeding. Someone called 911. The rest was a blur. They lifted him into the ambulance, and a DC police officer drove me over here.”
“Did you see where the shooter was?”
“No, sir. The detectives came in earlier and asked me the same thing. It seems like I heard the popping noise from behind, and the detectives think the shooter might have been at an angle behind us. It all just happened so fast. None of it makes any sense.”
“No, it doesn't.”
“Commander McCormick?” Another male voice. Caroline looked over and saw Commander Bill Dockerty, Medical Corps, United States Navy. Dr. Dockerty was P.J.'s surgeon.
Dr. Dockerty hadn't uttered a word, but Caroline already knew. His head hung. The somber look on his face said it all.
Shakespeare said the whole world was a stage, and we were but actors upon it. If only life were that simple. She'd once seen a movie called
The Truman Show
where everything was staged. Everything was televised. Everything was preplanned.
If only life were so choreographed. If only the world were really a stage, as Shakespeare said. If all that were true, then pain could also be choreographed. Like water streaming from a faucet in a kitchen, tears could be turned on and off. In the words of the song, “No more pain. No more tears.”
She mustered all the strength within her to embrace what was coming.
“I'm sorry. We did everything we could.” His voice reflected an aloof professionalism yet also carried a strain of compassion. “He . . .” Dockerty adjusted his glasses. “We lost him about five minutes ago. He'd lost too much blood. On top of that, the bullet severely damaged his brain. And anytime a vital organ sustains that kind of tearing, survival can be nothing short of a miracle. I'm very sorry for your loss, and I'm sorry that we could not save him.”
Her stomach churned and her heart cried, but she would not allow the tears to flow. Not here. Not now.
Still, she was grateful when Captain Guy stepped in.
“Doctor, I'm Captain David Guy. I'm Commander MacDonald's commanding officer. I'll need to make the call to his family. Is there anything at all you can share with me that might bring them words of comfort?”
The doctor looked at Caroline, as if calculating his answer to project a special sensitivity toward her. “Tell them he was a strong man who fought to the end. Given the severity of the gunshot wound, ninety-nine out of one hundred people would have died on the spot. Lieutenant Commander MacDonald was strong, in fact incredibly strong, to survive as long as he did. He was a fighter.”
THE CLOISTER RESORT
ON THE ATLANTIC
SEA ISLAND, GEORGIA
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
The breakers coming in at low tide broke into whitecaps. The ocean along this stretch of Georgia's Golden Isles was anything other than blue, and the beach not exactly golden. In fact, the surf and the beaches, at least around the luxurious resorts of Sea Island, St. Simons Island, and Jekyll Island, were notoriously brown in color. If it came down to beachcombing and venturing into the water, Richardson Wellington DeKlerk preferred the wide white beaches and blue waters of Hilton Head and Llandudno Beach in his native South Africa, on the Western Cape.
But the luxury of the old five-star resort they called the Cloister and the alluring history of the Golden Isles still made the place curious and desirable. Draft legislation creating the U.S. Federal Reserve was written just down the coast at the Jekyll Island Club in 1910, and President Jimmy Carter assembled his first “kitchen cabinet” right here at the Cloister in 1976.
Plus, for a splendid opportunity to get away for a day with Ivana, Sea Island was perfect. Hilton Head was too close to Savannah and thus proved a likelier place for someone to see them together. And Jack Patterson, who was expensive enough already, had already warned
him about the added expense should he find himself in the midst of divorce litigation. Not that Richardson worried about Ivana's husband, Harold Martin, whom he could either crush in court or buy off at a price.
The other thing about the Cloister that separated it from other locations was that it was a five-star expense, which, frankly, put it out of reach of most of his employees and most residents of Savannah.
Indeed, wealth had its privileges, and pending legal approval of the AirFlite contract from the Navy JAG, Richardson DeKlerk would claim as much wealth, privilege, and power as any man in the world.
He pushed up on his beach towel and looked over at Ivana as she sunned on a green towel beside him, lying on her back in a dark-blue bathing suit, a shock of her blonde hair blowing in the wind across her face.
He couldn't see through her designer shades whether she had made eye contact, but the smile on her face, which came when he leaned up and looked at her, and the tilting of her head as she smiled, let him know that she could see him and she was pleased with what she saw.
Richardson usually got whatever he wanted, and right now, with the hypnotic, lulling sound of waves washing up on the beach just a few yards from their feet, with the sporadic chirping of seagulls overhead . . .
He leaned over to her just as a cool breeze whipped in from the ocean. When their lips met, the instant electricity proved any risk of being seen was worth it.
“You are incredible, Richardson. Harold doesn't have a clue.”
He didn't respond but instead leaned in and kissed her again. Just as the second kiss was about to turn from electric to something more, his cell phone rang. He cursed, then opened his eyes and looked down.
Jack Patterson.
“Pardon me, my dear, but I need to take this.”
“I understand.” Her pretty face reflected disappointment.
“Jack. What do you have for me?”
“It's taken care of, Richardson.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm talking about the uncertainty over this legal opinion about Project Blue Jay. I just got a call from our contact in DC. Let me put it this way. We don't have to worry about this Lieutenant Commander MacDonald authoring any legal opinions that will influence the Secretary of the Navy against us.”
Richardson smiled. “Excellent work. What did this cost us?”
“No need to worry about that.”
“You're right. Plausible deniability. It works for your Democrat friends. Why not us?”
“It's not just the Democrats who use it.”
“Point well taken. Anyway, whatever they do, that legal opinion must give the Secretary of the Navy an excuse to rubber-stamp recommended approval of this contract. Then we need to get it before Congress ASAP. Billions are riding on this, Jack, and we pay your firm a ton of money to lobby for us. So I expect no more road bumps. Are we clear on all this?”
“Perfectly clear. We're on it.”
“Excellent. Now, unless you have an emergency situation, I'm going to be detained for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Tell Ivana I said hi.”
“You weren't supposed to know about that.”
“You pay me to know everything, Richardson. Besides, it's attorney-client privilege. I can't say anything about it even if I wanted to.”
“Just get that bill through Congress, Jack.” He hung up.
“Is everything okay, Richardson?”
“Just lovely, my dear. Everything just got a bit rosier.” He pulled her close to him and kissed her.
HEADQUARTERS
NEW YORK CONCRETE & SEAFOOD COMPANY
EAST 161ST STREET
THE BRONX
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
“Mr. D'Agostino, you got a call!” The woman's voice, resonating in a thick Brooklyn accent, blared through Phil's office phone.
“Who is it, Vivian?”
“It's Vinnie, sir. On line one. He says it's important.”
“Tell him to hang on a second.”
“Yes, sir.”
Phil took a last, satisfying drag from the Marlboro cigarette, sucking the nicotine into his lungs, then snuffed it out in an ashtray alongside the six other ash-tipped cigarette butts he had smoked this afternoon alone.
“Vivian!” He raised his voice loud enough to be heard through the open door out to his secretary's office. He didn't believe in the intercom. Yelling was the Italian way.
“Yes, sir, Mr. D.”
“Come get this ashtray and empty it, will ya? I've gotta take this call from Vinnie.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vivian walked in and picked up the ashtray as Phil punched line one and picked up the phone. “Vinnie. Whatcha got?”
“There's some good news, boss. Big Sal is going to be happy.”
“Talk to me.”
“You know that naval officer threatening to write that paper approving this contract? MacDonald?”
“What about him?”
“We got him.”
“You mean . . .?”
“I mean he just got a promotion to captain of the morgue.”
“Are you serious, Vinnie?”
“As dead serious as that guy is dead.”
Phil smiled and extracted another cigarette from his shirt pocket as Vivian returned and put a clean ashtray on his desk. “Excellent work, Vinnie. You're turning into a smart son-in-law. Maybe I'll tell my daughter, who you don't deserve and never deserved to begin with, that there's hope for you after all.” He took a first satisfying drag from the new cigarette.
“Thanks, boss. Coming from you, that means a lot.”
“Listen, Vinnie, I don't need to know details, but I want you to monitor this situation, find out who gets to write this memo now that this MacDonald guy is gone, and make sure it gets written like we want it. Go back to Chuckie Rodino's office and get them involved if you have to.”