Code 13
Page 28
But nothing was guaranteed, except the fact that somebody was likely to get killed.
If it were the last day of her life, then maybe, at least, she would see P.J. again today.
Not that she felt fatalistic, but the morning had brought yet another radical and unexpected emotional shift. This morning there was little pain . . . little sorrow . . . mainly a strange sense of surrealism. It was as if she were an actress, suspended somewhere on some inanimate stage, and she had been given a catbird’s view in the balcony of a theater, about to watch herself perform onstage, down below, under a bright spotlight.
Why did she feel like her personal balcony seat, to watch her own performance, was in the presidential box at Ford’s Theater?
Enough internal philosophizing.
She had to get her head in the game. She had to do it not only for P.J. but also for herself.
He had spoken these words so many times as they kicked into high gear to finish their runs.
“You can do this. Bring it across the finish line, baby.”
And now she could hear his voice again. So clearly. Here and now. If she didn’t know better, she would swear he was right here. Right now.
Yes, she would bring this across the finish line, not just for him, but for herself, for the sake of justice, and for the Navy.
She could do this. She would do this.
She took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and headed for the door.
CHAPTER 29
OUTSIDE LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK’S TOWNHOUSE
NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS
OXFORD HUNT
WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, 6:10 A.M.
Did the doorknob move?
The assassin held the rifle still, refocused his eye, and took another look through the high-powered scope.
The front door cracked, but just barely. Maybe an inch or two.
His heart pounded with the excitement of a hunter closing in on his prey.
The target—he thought of her as a target because that made it easier to embrace the idea of shooting a woman—would be emerging any second, and hopefully he would be able to nail her right there on her front door stoop, dropping her like a stuck pig with a bullet to the head, and then he would be on his way, out of sight before someone noticed her lying there.
He pulled back on the bolt action and then pushed it forward, chambering the single .223 death bullet, and with his right finger he began caressing the trigger, waiting for the target to emerge.
He felt himself enter into a zone. Only a hunter-killer could relate. The seconds before a kill, the body of the killer was filled, from head to toe, with adrenaline-charged electricity that couldn’t be replicated by any other human sensation known to man. Nothing else could satisfy the appetite of the professional killer. Not money. Not sex. Not fame. Not luxuries.
Only the kill could satisfy the greatest of all innate desires.
And when the target’s head exploded from the bullet, an ecstatic ecstasy would explode within him like nothing describable, a sensation that most weaklings would never experience or understand.
Now she was so close he could taste her death, and his tongue salivated like a hound dog eyeing a rib eye steak.
“Come on, baby. Come home to Daddy.”
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK’S TOWNHOUSE
NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS
OXFORD HUNT
WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA
6:11 A.M.
“Where is the darn thing?” Caroline mumbled aloud. She had become so enraptured in her thoughts, so distracted by what she was about to do, that she realized she had forgotten her cell phone.
She had started to open the front door and was about to step out when she remembered.
Thank goodness she wasn’t halfway to the Pentagon, when it would be too late to turn around and she would be stuck without it all day.
No luck in the bedroom.
She stepped into the bathroom.
“Thank goodness.” She had left it on the counter as she checked her ribbons.
Already she had three missed calls from him.
She hit the speed dial.
Two rings.
Paul answered. “How are you this morning?” A tinge of concern filled the captain’s voice.
“Fine. So far, anyway.”
“I was worried about you.”
“Sorry. I forgot to turn the phone off silent and then started out the door and realized I forgot it.”
“Okay. I know you have a lot on your mind. Just call when you get to the Pentagon, will you?”
“Sure. If it will make you feel better. But you know, I’ll be fine, and we can’t keep this up every day.”
“Just one step at a time. Just for the next few days, anyway,” he said. “That okay?”
“Okay, I’ll keep you posted for the next few days.”
“Thanks. Be safe on the way to work.”
“I’ll call you in a few.”
She hung up, put the phone in her purse, and headed for the door.
OUTSIDE LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK’S TOWNHOUSE
NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS
OXFORD HUNT
WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA
6:12 A.M.
He held the rifle in firing position, his finger on the trigger, his eye peering through the high-powered scope.
The exterior of the door was painted black, making the small red laser-beam light that shot across the street, straight onto the outside of the door.
Any second now . . .
The door swung open, and there she stood.
She stepped out onto her front porch, looking hot in her white navy uniform, and turned her back to him as she locked the door. He could see her so clearly through his scope. Her legs were so toned and tanned. Her backside so shapely. She had the body of a runner. No doubt she worked out.
He gazed at her for a moment through the scope. What a colossal waste this would be.
He considered shooting her through the back. Then, when she turned, he moved the laser to the center of her heart.
No.
That would mean too much red blood seeping through that white uniform. What a shame.
He moved the laser back up to her head.
“Bye-bye, baby.”
He pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, and instantly a Springfield Mass Transit bus pulled up on the street, blocking his view.
The assassin cursed, unable to see his kill because the blasted bus had rolled in the way. But he couldn’t wait around. He tossed the rifle on his backseat and hit the accelerator.
CHAPTER 30
DIRKSEN SENATE OFFICE BUILDING
UNITED STATES CAPITOL
OFFICE OF ROBERT TALMADGE (R-GA)
WASHINGTON, DC
TUESDAY, 6:13 A.M.
U.S. Senator Robert Talmadge walked into the front door of his office and nodded at his secretary.
“Good morning, Maryanne.”
“Good morning, Senator. Your coffee is almost ready.”
Bobby checked his watch.
He started to step into his office, then turned and looked at her. “Is Tommy in yet?”
“No, sir. But Mr. Mandela called a few minutes ago and said he’s on his way.”
“Any word from Senator Fowler’s office?”
“Not yet. But Mr. Mandela hopes we hear something today.”
“Okay, thanks. Just bring the coffee into my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
He watched as she turned and held his gaze pleasurably for a few moments as she gracefully stepped away from him, then disappeared off to the right, moving into the kitchen area.
Bobby stepped into his office, laid his briefcase on his desk, took off his jacket, and hung it up. He had already developed a well-deserved reputation for being one of the hardest-working rookie senators in the senate.<
br />
Bobby Talmadge, as a young college student, feasted on political bios, which had inspired him to study law and go into politics.
He had once read an article about Bobby Kennedy, who, albeit from a different political party, also had the reputation of a tireless workaholic.
When RFK had been attorney general, he would often work late into the night. When Kennedy left his office, if he drove by J. Edgar Hoover’s office and saw the lights on, legend was that he turned around and drove back to his own office to work some more.
Bobby was determined to beat his colleagues to the office and routinely arrived before 6:30 a.m., beating even members of his staff into work, with the exception of his secretary, a forty-year-old single brunette named Maryanne Pendleton, who had been more loyal to him than his own wife.
In fact, once when he and Molly Sue had separated, discreetly, not long after he first was sworn into Congress, Maryanne had been there for him—in every way. Fortunately, despite the rumor mill, the story never hit the press in either Atlanta or Savannah.
In a way, Maryanne knew him better than anyone knew him. She had heard about what had happened at the Christmas party, and while she showed signs of jealousy, she had never judged him. Most important, she had never breathed a word of it to anybody.
If that ever got out, it would be all over.
Personally.
Politically.
Professionally.
He had gotten no sleep—none—since the photos showed up. And frankly, he wondered if there were more.
He had to deliver on this contract. Had to. It was now or never. Do or die.
Maryanne came back in, wearing a fitted dark-blue skirt, black heels, and a satin blouse, smiling and holding a cup of steaming black Maxwell House in his favorite Georgia Bulldogs mug.
“Here’s your coffee, Bobby,” she said softly. She often called him by his first name—a practice he rather liked—when she was sure nobody else was in earshot.
“By the way, where’s my copy of the Washington Post?”
“The Post?”
“Sure. You know. That liberal rag Jesse Helms used to call the Pravda on the Potomac. Could I sweet-talk you into bringing me a copy?” He delivered an affectionate wink but did not receive the flirtatious, Marie Osmond–look-alike return glance, as he so often got in the early-morning hours with just the two of them alone in the office.
The look on her face.
Something was wrong.
CHAPTER 31
OFFICE OF THE NAVY JUDGE ADVOCATE GENERAL
ADMINISTRATIVE LAW DIVISION (CODE 13)
THE PENTAGON
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, 6:17 A.M.
Even at the secretive and hush-hush Code 13, as was the case with most military stations around Washington, DC, military protocol demanded that junior officers and junior enlisted personnel be among the first to report to duty for a new workday, or a new shift, or any special or extraordinary assignments involving the military unit.
Although this was not a direct command from on high that was written in stone, the practice was true for naval and marine units in the National Capital Region. Junior officers and enlisted personnel understood that if they wanted to advance within the Navy, they would have to adhere to this rule, get to work before their bosses, and make the work space as accommodating as possible for their superiors.
Usually that meant starting the coffee mess, firing up lights and computers, checking overnight message traffic and making sure that all messages were delivered to the correct recipients, answering before-hours phone calls, and handling anything else that might pop up that would be of service to the command.
Lieutenant Victoria Fladager, still the junior officer at Code 13, had already started the coffee mess and was firing up her computer when the phone rang.
“Navy Judge Advocate General. Code 13. This is a nonsecure line subject to monitoring. May I help you, sir or ma’am?”
“Victoria? Is that you?”
At first Victoria wondered about the identity of the woman on the other end of the line. The Pentagon’s landline, because of scrambling features to deter electronic eavesdropping, sometimes altered the pitch and tone of a caller’s voice.
Then it hit her.
“Caroline?”
“Thank God I got through. I couldn’t reach either you or Paul on your cells.”
“Cells hardly work inside the Pentagon. What’s going on? You sound terrible.”
“Somebody just took a shot at me.”
“What? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay for the time being.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in my car. On Old Keene Mill Road. On my way to work.”
“What happened?”
“I was on my front doorstep. Locking my door. All of a sudden, out of the blue, this bullet whizzed right by my ear and went through my front door. Luckily I’d moved my head just before the guy shot, and this Metro bus pulled up in front of my townhouse. I didn’t see the NCIS agents and didn’t know if whoever it was would shoot their way in the house if I went back inside. I just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. So I jumped in my car and took off.”
“Is anybody following you?”
“I checked my rearview. There are cars behind me, but if the shooter’s back there, I wouldn’t have a clue.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“Negative. In fact, I think he may have used a silencer, because I didn’t even hear a gunshot. Just my door almost exploding beside my head.”
“Did you call 911?”
“No!”
“Do you want me to call them for you?”
“No. I want to keep the local cops out of it. They’re a bunch of buffoons, and I don’t trust them. If they get in the way, it might blow our chances of finding this guy. But I do want you to call Mark and let him know, if he doesn’t know already. Let’s keep NCIS on this. They’ve got a better chance of finding P.J.’s murderer than the Springfield police. And then call Paul and let him know. I should be there in about thirty minutes, assuming I don’t get shot first.”
“Okay. Consider it done. I’ll call them right now, then I’ll call you back. But please be careful.”
“Thanks, Victoria.”
The line went dead. Victoria felt her heart pounding inside her chest in a delayed reaction.
She punched the speed dial for the man who had been out of her life and now had come back into it.
“NCIS. Special Agent Mark Romanov.”
“Thank God.” She realized, for the first time, that the sound of his voice brought her comfort. “Mark, this is Victoria. Somebody tried to shoot Commander McCormick.”
CHAPTER 32
DIRKSEN SENATE OFFICE BUILDING
UNITED STATES CAPITOL
OFFICE OF ROBERT TALMADGE (R-GA)
WASHINGTON, DC
TUESDAY, 6:18 A.M.
Maryanne stepped back into Bobby’s office, looking both sumptuous and worried at the same time.
“You got the paper?”
She nodded, winced, laid it down on his desk, then turned and walked out.
He picked up the paper and felt his stomach drop through the floor.
CHRISTMAS SEXCAPADES:
THE ROOKIE SENATOR FROM GEORGIA
AND THE HOT ITALIAN MODEL
by Julian Morgan III, Staff Writer
WASHINGTON HAS BEEN ROCKED BY THEM SINCE TIME immemorial. JFK and Marilyn. Bill and Monica. Wilbur Mills and Fanne Foxe. Johnny Edwards and Rielle Hunter.
Powerful men in Washington, wielding more power than a million other men combined, still growing discontent and wanting even more.
Theirs is an electric pattern of excitement that must live on the brink of self-destruction.
And so, in pushing themselves to a destructive brink, recklessly womanizing, what’s not clear is whether they secretly want to be discovered.
“Deep down, these men get their turn-on by pu
shing their luck to the limit, hoping they will be exposed. It’s both a macho thing and a masochistic thing at the same time,” said Dr. Jim Bell, professor of clinical psychology at George Washington University and author of the book Playboys of the Senate: Why the Men of the Upper Chamber Cannot Restrain Themselves.
Now a new Romeo-boy has joined a long line of conquistadores, making himself eligible for inclusion in the update to Bell’s book.
Meet rookie senator Robert “Bobby” Talmadge, Republican of Georgia.
Based on eyewitness reports and photos leaked to the press, the newest member of the senate’s playboy club is rumored to have been involved in a tryst with red-hot Italian supermodel Marla Moreno.
The two were first spotted together at a Christmas party at the home of oil-and-gas lobbyist Hub Webster. The picture shown below, taken by a partygoer, shows Ms. Moreno, 27, in a short black leather skirt and Santa cap, sitting cozily on Talmadge’s lap, flopping her arms around him and nuzzling her nose behind his ear.
And from the photographic evidence, it doesn’t appear that the married Mr. Talmadge, who is shown turning his head toward Ms. Moreno and grinning like a satisfied Cheshire cat, is objecting to the attention.
Witnesses at the party report that the senator and the model, who had been carousing with one another under the influence of intoxicating beverages for a good portion of the party, disappeared at the same time, reportedly retiring to a secluded area of the house to be alone.
Fortunately for Talmadge, he doesn’t face reelection for another two years, so it remains unclear just how news of this breaking scandal might affect his political future.
The Post attempted to contact Talmadge’s office for comment, but his office did not return our calls.
Bobby dropped the paper on his desk.
His life was over. Politically. Personally. Professionally. His reputation had fallen into the sewer, and he could never get it back.
It was over. He was ruined.
How? How had this happened?
The phone on his desk rang.
Maryanne. He punched the intercom.
“Yes?”