by Geri Krotow
“Okay, thanks.” She did her best to maintain an air of unconcern. Captain Leo Sanders, Wing Commodore, never made direct calls to any of his staff. They jokingly referred to him as the “CEO.” He made sure everyone knew he was the boss, no questions, but was also more friendly and personable than the average high roller. Ro had worked for Commodore Sanders since she’d reported to N.A.S. Whidbey fourteen months ago. He’d been more than fair on her fitness reports so she didn’t have a personal beef with him. But she’d also seen him slice and dice her colleagues for transgressions in front of the entire staff. He regularly broke the “reprimand in private, praise in public” rule of thumb. It was the epitome of how a leader shouldn’t behave. But he was in charge and it wasn’t her call how he acted. He gave her enough room to do her job as the wing intelligence officer without micromanaging her.
Besides, he had a great sense of humor that was most welcome when the staff was under the gun for an inspection or unplanned mission.
Why does he need to talk to me?
Ro ran her fingers along the edge of the polished maple conference table. She hadn’t screwed up on anything that she was aware of. She also hadn’t done anything that merited a surprise award or commendation, either.
She felt a distinct ripple of unease. She’d never gotten into any kind of trouble as an officer, yet she knew from experience that when a high-ranking superior wanted to see you on such short notice it was usually for something pretty serious. Commodore Sanders was a busy man in a responsible job. He wouldn’t be asking to see her for something he could have had his chief staff officer request from her.
Her apprehension was further piqued when Master Chief Reis handed Miles the same yellow slip of paper, with the same quiet request, right after he sat down in the chair opposite her. His expression remained unreadable as he read the note but when he raised his head and caught her staring, he grinned.
Oh, no. He thought she was looking at him for an entirely different reason.
“I got the same message.” She blurted out the obvious.
Miles raised his brows. He didn’t appear as concerned as she was. Of course, he was the weapons officer and probably got called into the commodore’s office a lot more often than she did. Weapons cost a lot of money, hence they were right behind the costs of aircraft maintenance and fuel as the budget-driving concerns.
Ro rarely spoke to the commodore one-on-one; there was no need to. He received his daily intelligence briefings from her or her staff via a short classified memo, and if he required further explanation he called her in along with his CSO to help explain and ask questions, too. The CSO served as the commodore’s extra eyes and ears in most instances.
Ro thought about asking Miles if he knew what the summons was about when the ops officer barked out, “Attention on deck!” Ro pushed out her chair and stood at straight attention in one fluid movement, as did everyone else. Commodore Sanders strode in.
“At ease, everybody. Take your seats.” He was always quick to put them at ease and get on with the briefings. Ro liked this about Commodore Sanders. He didn’t have time to waste and he didn’t want to waste anyone else’s time, either.
She folded the admin message into fours and placed it in the front pocket of her khaki skirt. She’d worry about whatever the meeting was about later.
The briefings all went as usual with nothing significant to report from most departments. The meteorologist pointed out that the current gale-force gusts were from a Pacific storm that could make landfall on Whidbey over the weekend but would most probably break up before it arrived.
Ro had just finished her first full year here and had never experienced a major storm on the island. She looked around the room. No one else seemed too worked up over that piece of news.
She noted that the commodore was quiet this morning, which boded well for the junior officer who was about to give the intelligence brief.
The JO from Patrol Squadron Eighty-Six started up well and appeared to hold the commodore’s interest throughout his brief spiel. He concluded his presentation with an overview of the current political situation in the Middle East.
“So you’re telling me what I’ve already seen on CNN this morning, Lieutenant?” Commodore Sanders never held back on the intel types. Typical of most aviators, he liked to think that being a pilot was the only career in the navy worth anything.
Ro stifled a frustrated sigh. Sanders had been quiet so far. Why now, why her briefer?
“No, sir. CNN is open-source. What I’m providing is verifiable by multiple classified sources.”
“The new data about the movement of the weapon sites is the salient point here, Commodore.” Ro jumped in before the commodore could twist the skewer he’d lobbed into the junior officer. Let the big guy aim his ire at her, not one of her subordinates.
“I heard him, Ro.”
Ro did her best to keep a grimace off her face.
“Sir, I can look up more information for you, sir.” The red-faced lieutenant junior grade didn’t get it. Ro shot him a look that she hoped conveyed her desire for him to shut up and sit down. The JO didn’t move, caught in the clutches of wanting to make such a high-ranking officer happy.
“Thank you, Mike.” She nodded at the row of seats behind the conference table as she spoke to the lieutenant. He shoved his pointer into the pocket of his uniform pants and sat down. Ro made a mental note to talk to him later, to tell him he’d done a bang-up presentation. It wasn’t his fault that the commodore was in a prickly mood.
She knew his prickly mood could be the result of myriad things—but she hoped it didn’t have anything to do with her meeting with him a few minutes from now.
The rest of the AOM was rocky in parts as the commodore grilled everyone from the admin to the ops officer about the particulars of their presentations. Everyone took it in stride; Commodore Sanders had a lot on his shoulders, and besides, it was the staff’s job to inform and support the commodore, not wonder why he had his knickers in a twist.
After what seemed like hours but was only twenty-three minutes from the start of the AOM, the CSO, also a navy captain and the commodore’s right-hand man, wrapped up the meeting and everyone stood to attention as the commodore got up and left. The CSO paused and turned around.
“Miles and Ro, I need to talk to you.”
Everyone else cleared out.
Ro liked the CSO. Captain Ross Bedford had been on the same aircraft carrier as she was during the war and they’d enjoyed a good working relationship. He was a solid guy who put his family first whenever possible. Ross and his wife, Toni, had Ro over for family barbecues and holidays from time to time. He served as a great counterpart to the commodore’s often-serious demeanor, as Ross was always ready with a joke and liked to keep things positive. Despite the commodore’s sense of humor, which made an occasional appearance, his job frequently required him to play the heavy or to convey an impression of gravitas.
This morning Ross didn’t have any of his usual jovial spark.
“You two know you’re meeting with the commodore now, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Ro and Miles spoke in unison.
“Do you have any idea why?” He studied both of them as if looking for a reaction.
“No, sir,” Miles replied, and Ro shook her head.
Ross sighed.
“Okay, that’s a good thing, at least. Stand by for a major bombshell—” Ross grimaced at Miles ”—sorry, Miles.” His reference to a bomb only made Miles, an explosive ordnance expert, smile.
“No problem, sir.”
Ro inwardly squirmed. Miles’s leg had been blown off by an IED, close enough to a “bomb.” She thought Ross could have been a little more aware of what was coming out of his mouth.
Whatever was going on was major. First, the commodore had been the crankiest she’d seen
him yet, and now Ross was showing cracks in his usually professional deportment.
“Let’s go.” Ross turned and held the door open for Ro to go ahead, while he and Miles followed her down the carpeted hall. The commodore’s office spaces were the nicest on all of N.A.S. Whidbey, even classier than the base commanding officer’s rooms. The wing commander was at the helm of all patrol squadron operations on the island. If something happened in or to a P-3 squadron in the wing, Commodore Sanders was responsible and accountable. That included ugly repercussions from mishaps, such as last month when a pilot and his crew left their aircraft before completing all the items on the shut-down checklist. They hadn’t noticed that the chocks under the front wheels weren’t secured. When a gale blew across the island that night, it put the P-3 nose-first through a hangar door. The commanding officer of the squadron took a career hit but it was the commodore who’d had to brief Senate staffers on why his overall wing maintenance budget had increased by two million dollars in one operational cycle.
Ro’s gut told her their impending meeting with the commodore was not going to be positive in nature.
The commodore sat behind his massive oak desk perusing his computer screen. He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge them at all on their arrival.
Ro noted how ridiculous the desk still seemed to her. The commodore had insisted on having it moved in here. He’d found it in a government surplus warehouse, he’d said. Ro guessed that the desk had originally been used by a politician from the area. It wasn’t extra-fancy or anything, just massive. Too big for the office space. There weren’t enough seats for them all to sit down so they stood, waiting for the commodore to look up from his screen.
Ro took in the vast number of diplomas and professional awards with which the commodore had basically wallpapered his office. She loathed when navy pilots lived up to stereotypes in any way, shape or form. While the commodore had his “I love me” wall, he never gave off the air of superiority conveyed by his accomplishments.
She supposed he was a good guy, overall. She couldn’t fault him professionally, and who was she to judge? If she stayed the course and took navy orders tour after tour, to different jobs and places around the globe, she might want her own “I love me” wall in her office one day.
The silence stretched and Ro wondered why on earth Ross wasn’t opening his mouth to get the commodore’s attention. Whatever happened to dealing with the live body in front of you instead of an inanimate computer screen?
The commodore blinked before he looked up and studied all three of them. Upon closer inspection Ro saw that the lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes were deeper and more pronounced than usual. A lifelong golfer, the commodore had seen his share of sun and his skin reflected that with its perpetual tan. Today he looked pasty under his bronze.
Her curiosity swelled and she wished she had a cup of coffee to hold, something to cover her anxiety.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” He always ignored the fact that women served in the navy—a fact that Ro didn’t miss but didn’t obsess over, either. She’d experienced worse discrimination over the course of her career to date. He probably thought he was paying her a compliment by considering her one of the guys.
“Morning, sir. I’ve gathered Ro and Miles as you requested. Are you sure you don’t want Master Chief Reis in here, too?” Ross’s tone was more conciliatory than usual.
“No, no, let’s keep it close-hold as long as we can.”
Whatever had them all in here at this moment wasn’t something he wanted his senior enlisted sailor to know about, not yet.
The commodore pursed his lips and fiddled with the fountain pen that sat in a brass holder on his desk.
“We have a big problem, folks, and there’s no easy way to tell you about it.” He steepled his hands in front of his face and took a deep breath.
“One of our young sailors died last night. It’s a clear case of suicide brought on by wartime post-traumatic stress disorder. Miles, I’m sorry to tell you it was a man from your department. Petty Officer José Perez.”
The air left Ro’s lungs.
“AMS1 Perez?” She referred to him by his enlisted rate―aviation structural mechanic―and rank―petty officer first class.
“You knew him?” The commodore’s attention made shivers race up her spine.
“Yes, sir.”
The commodore’s hawkish gaze made her feel like she was the one under investigation. She wriggled her toes in her black patent uniform shoes. She’d be damned if she’d ever let anyone see her squirm, no matter the reason.
Her last conversation with the sailor flashed in her mind. Petty Officer Perez had been a friendly, easygoing type, no older than her—probably a couple of years younger, in fact. He’d had the fire in his belly that made her smile. It motivated her when a junior ranking sailor was so dedicated to the navy.
Now he was dead.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” Ross’s voice was gentler than the commodore’s but Ro caught the grim underlying tone.
“I had coffee with him on the hangar deck yesterday afternoon.”
“At the gedunk?” The CSO referred to the snack shack that everyone in the hangar spaces frequented for decent coffee and greasy-spoon fare.
“Yes, sir. He wanted to ask me about switching rates to IS.” Intelligence specialist. “I told him it was pretty much too late in his career as he’s—he was—up for chief on his next exam.” She winced at her word choice. Perez would never be promoted again.
The room was silent. It didn’t matter what Petty Officer Perez wanted from his navy career—it was over. Ro felt a strong sense of sorrow and regret.
“He didn’t work in the weapons office, sir.” Miles broke the tension with his steady professionalism.
“No, but he was in maintenance. You’re on the hangar deck a lot with weapons and no doubt worked with him.” The commodore responded to Miles without any sign of a condescending attitude.
“This is going to hit the press before long, and when it does there’s potential for it to turn into more than it is. At the very least, I expect the media will try to blame this command for not seeing the warning signs of Perez’s PTSD. I need to have you—” he pointed at Miles “—and you—” he waved his hand toward Ro “—on the case. You are hereby appointed to the investigative team for the death of Petty Officer José Perez.”
He turned to Ro. “I’ve picked you because you have experience handling classified information. You know how to put pieces of a puzzle together without added fabrication.” The commodore ran his fingers across the top of his close-shaven head.
“Miles, I’ve picked you because Perez is—was—in maintenance and on the hangar deck, which you’re familiar with. I can’t have the maintenance officer doing this. Plus he’s going to be busy enough handling the JAG, NCIS and possibly a higher-level investigation.”
The commodore paused.
“Hell, Miles, I picked you because you’ve got the most recent wartime experience on the staff. I know you won’t lose it over a dead body. I need your experience and stamina.”
Ro looked at Miles. He was silent, his face solid and not yielding a clue as to his thoughts. A flash of envy hit her as she realized she’d never have that kind of demeanor.
But she’d seen past Miles’s demeanor that morning on the bridge....
“What about NCIS?” Miles finally asked, referring to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. “And the civilian law enforcement authorities?”
“They’re all doing their job, but none of them are required to report back to the commodore. You are,” Ross said. It was obvious he and the commodore had already hashed this out.
So why wasn’t the command staff officer doing this investigation?
Ro didn’t have to ask her question aloud. The CSO needed to handle th
e inevitable bombardment of message traffic and emails.
“Commodore, how often do you want to hear from us, and what kind of report are you looking for when we’re done?” Miles’s expression remained unreadable to Ro. Professional, cool.
“We’ll worry about that later. For now, just call me if anything shows up other than what we already know—that Petty Officer Perez killed himself last night.”
Ro suppressed a sigh. Her instinct was to take some time to mourn Petty Officer Perez, to see what she could do to help his surviving family. She needed a chance to go back over the few conversations she’d had with him these past few months.
Nonetheless, a mental list of the action items she had to clear off her desk, ASAP, rolled through her mind.
Her job wasn’t going to involve her usual wing intel officer duties until the investigation was over; she was certain of that much.
Naval investigations often dragged on for months, and she’d seen firsthand while deployed to the Gulf and detached to Afghanistan that there was little chance she’d have any true influence over the outcome. If the civilian law enforcement agencies had already been called in, she and Miles, representing the wing, didn’t even have jurisdiction to investigate. The local LEAs tended to be more cooperative in a close-knit community like Whidbey but she knew that if the feds got involved she and Miles would be out of luck.
“What about the JAG?” Ro referred to their staff lawyer.
“He’s going to provide support to the deceased’s family during this terrible time, and of course, he represents me for any official statements. He’ll work continuously with the public affairs officer. I named a lieutenant commander who was supposed to join the wing in a month as the casualty assistance calls officer.”
Ro was impressed that the commodore had the foresight to appoint someone who’d probably never met Petty Officer Perez as CACO. That made it easier on the CACO to do his job—to ensure the family was provided for and received all benefits due to them as surviving members of the deceased.
The commodore didn’t even mention any concern over how the intel and weapons departments would run with Ro and Miles out of the office for an indeterminate time. There was no need to. They both had staffs that would fill in until their return.