Authors: Don Brown
Code 13 (47 page)
“You misread me, Mark. I want to do this. Bad. But I wanted to put that bug in your ear in case I don't survive this mission. If they say we illegally used military assets for a civilian law enforcement exercise, your response has to be this: First, we didn't get civilians involved. This was solely an operation between the Navy and NCIS. Tell them you were given an opinion . . . As a matter of fact, I'm going to record my advice to you right now just in case.” She pulled out her iPhone and began to speak into it.
“Therefore, I have advised these gentlemen that the operation planned is legally executable under
posse comitatus
solely as a military exercise to protect military personnel from attack, presumably by an enemy of the United States. It is not being executed as a civilian law enforcement exercise. Very respectfully, Victoria Fladager, Lieutenant, Judge Advocate General's Corps, United States Naval Reserve.”
She stopped, punched a few buttons on her phone, and looked up. “There. I've emailed my recording to each one of you. If something goes wrong, take it to Captain Guy at Code 13.”
The men glanced at one another. “Your courage is amazing, Victoria,” Paul said.
“Thank you, sir, but it's not a matter of courage.” Her dazzling green eyes flashed his way. “It's a matter of doing the right thing. I have to do this.”
The pause gave Paul a second to reflect on the bravery shown by this young officer.
“Let's make it happen,” Mark said. “Victoria, maybe you should go with the captain. I've got to contact Navy Public Affairs to get this press release out, and I need to coordinate with Captain Guy.”
“That okay, Captain?” Victoria asked.
“Glad to have you,” Paul said. “You are a courageous woman.”
MAIN PARKING LOT
WALTER REED NATIONAL MILITARY MEDICAL CENTER
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
Victoria sat alone in thought in the backseat of the staff car. Captain Kriete and Commander Jefferies had headed up to Caroline's hospital room to try to get her keys.
She had declined to join them, on the theory that her presence in the room, if Caroline was awake, would slow them down even more. Time wasn't something they could waste.
She ticked off the things she needed to do to prepare. If they could get Caroline's keys, she would need to have the captain stop by her house to get her uniforms and other personal items. Then she would need to stop by Walgreens or Giant Food and purchase a box of hair color.
She had sworn to herself that she would never go blonde again. Mark had never seen her as a blonde, and it appeared now, if Caroline McCormick were any example, that P.J. preferred blondes.
A wave of guilt washed over her for even thinking the thought. Yes, she had experienced a foolish, silly, cat-like jealousy when Caroline arrived on the scene at Code 13. She had wanted to put her claws in the woman and scratch her face and stow her on the first plane back to California.
But truthfully, in just a few short days, she had come to admire the woman in ways never imagined. Her courage. Her commitment. Her patriotism. Her love for the Navy. The way she had carried herself with a serene sense of sublime dignity at P.J.'s funeral, even though deep down, Victoria knew, Caroline's heart was being ripped out.
No wonder P.J. saw something in her.
But P.J. was gone, and in the bittersweet aftermath, a new and strong resolve had descended over the officers at Code 13.
In a strange way, Victoria and Caroline had already become friends, baptized in a sudden and unexpected fire of love, petty jealousy, death, sorrow, fear, anger, patriotism, and unwavering determination.
Why was Victoria's life traveling at the speed of light?
She heard two electronic beeps, saw the car's headlights flash, then looked up and saw Captain Kriete and Commander Jefferies approaching.
The doors unlocked. The front doors opened.
“Any luck, sir?” she asked as each of the senior officers got into the front seat.
“Like taking candy from a baby,” Captain Kriete said. “She just nodded her head and pointed to her purse. The nurse said she was drugged up for pain, and Dr. Berman came in when we were leaving the room and said they're going to hold her at least another day. So we've got a little bit of working room before she's up and causing trouble for us.”
“But not much time,” Victoria said.
The captain started the car, and as he began to drive through the hospital parking lot, his cell phone rang.
“It's Mark Romanov,” he said. “Hang on. I'll put him on speaker.” The dial tone blared twice over the Bluetooth as Kriete hit the Answer button. “Mark, I'm with Jefferies and Lieutenant Fladager. What have you got?”
“It's on, Captain.” Mark's voice filled the inside of the car. “Navy Public Affairs just called me back. Starting at the top of the hour, Fox, CNN, and other outlets will be going with our press release.”
“Excellent,” Captain Kriete said. “We're coming up on two minutes to the top of the hour right now. Let me flip on Fox Satellite Radio and see if they run it.”
“Good enough, Captain. Call me back if you don't hear it.”
“Roger that.”
The
click, click, click
of the signal light broke the silence as the car came to a halt approaching Rockville Pike Road.
Captain Kriete turned on the satellite radio just as the car swung out onto the pike.
“And now, this is a breaking Fox News alert from Washington. The U.S. Navy has just issued a press release concerning the status of the naval officer who was the victim of an attempted shooting this morning at the Pentagon. According to Pentagon spokesman Rear Admiral Kirk Foster, the officer, Lieutenant Commander Caroline McCormick,
sustained only minor injuries and was treated and released earlier today. Commander McCormick has returned home and is expected to return to her duties tomorrow.
“Still no word on the identity or the motive of the shooter, and the Department of Defense is cooperating with local law enforcement in an ongoing investigation. So good news from the Pentagon that the officer injured in a shooting attempt earlier has been released and is expected to report to her duty station tomorrow. And now back to our regular programming.”
Captain Kriete reached down and turned off the radio.
Silence followed as the car moved down the road.
“Well, I guess when Mark Romanov says he's going to deliver, he delivers,” Captain Kriete said.
“Sounds like it's game on, sir,” Jefferies said.
“Okay, Captain, if you can swing me by the drugstore to pick up some items, and then by my apartment to get my things, I'll just borrow Caroline's keys and become the next Caroline McCormick.”
“Sounds like a deal,” Paul said.
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK'S TOWNHOUSE
NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS
OXFORD HUNT
WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY EVENING
Victoria, her locks now having been transformed from auburn to blonde, sat alone on a simple sofa in a strange townhouse that she had never seen before.
It wasn't that the townhouse looked strange in appearance. Nothing about the color scheme, artwork, or furniture selection proved odd. Under different circumstances the place might have seemed homey.
The strange sensation, rather, was driven by the surrealistic realization that she was in another officer's home, without the officer's knowledge or permission, on the very day the other officer had a brush with death from an assassin's bullet. Now she was about to disguise herself as the other officer, possibly taking the assassin's bullet herself, to try to trap the worthless animal who had declared open season on JAG officers.
The imminent danger she would soon face should have been at the forefront of her mind, considering what had happened to three of her colleagues at Code 13 over the past few days. Two had been murdered and a third shot.
She should have been shaking. She should want to puke. For tomorrow morning there loomed the strong possibility she would meet the same fate as P.J. MacDonald and Ross Simmons.
Still, all she could feel was numbness. Her numbness was driven by a strange irony.
The poet Robert Frost once said, “The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”
And what would the morning bring?
She got up from the sofa and went to the living room mirror. She stared curiously at herself with blonde locks now draping over her shoulders. The redness in her eyes from crying over the death of her two friends, and especially over P.J., whom she had hoped to know better, made her look like a hapless drunk coming off an all-night drinking binge.
She mouthed the words of the poet. “ âThe afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.' ”
The words haunted her. For she feared, in the deep recesses of her soul, that she might never see another afternoon.
She would see the morning. That she knew. She would step out the doors of this townhouse and see if the animal had taken the bait. And if he took the bait, she could only hope and pray that Mark Romanov and his NCIS agents would spring the trap and break the rat's neck before her own skull exploded under the destructive force of a high-powered sniper's bullet.
Sitting alone, with a deep foreboding that this might be her last night on the face of the earth, she bowed her head and began to pray.
“Lord, it's been awhile since I prayed. I've not always acted as I should. I've been selfish, conceited. You've given me so many gifts and abilities. But too often I've used those gifts for my selfish ends.
“And now, with all this death, with all this senseless murder, it's like you've brought me face-to-face with my own mortality.
“Lord, I don't want to die. But yet, I want my life to mean something. Maybe someone is telling me to do this. To lay down my life for a greater cause.
“Lord, I should be scared. But somehow, I'm not. Maybe that's you.” She wiped a solitary tear. “I feel sad that I've accomplished so little in my life.
“Whether I live or die, let this last act make a difference. Help us catch whoever is doing this and bring him to justice. And if you do take me, then please, tomorrow, bring me to rest in your arms, now and forever. In Jesus' name, I pray.”
She set her alarm for 5:00 a.m., lay down on Caroline's sofa, and closed her eyes.
OPERATIONAL HEADQUARTERS
U.S. NAVY DRONE COMMAND
U.S. NAVAL AIR STATION “PAX RIVER”
LEXINGTON PARK, MARYLAND
WEDNESDAY, 5:43 A.M.
Commander John Jefferies, operating on perhaps two hours of sleep, stood in the command center of the U.S. Navy Drone Command and sipped his black coffee. He was staring up at the center screen, which at the moment displayed a live-feed aerial view of the predawn suburban sprawl of Springfield, Virginia, about fifty-five miles by the flight of the
drone
to the northwest.