Code 13

by Don Brown

  A weighty silence ensued, except for the hum of the ship’s power system.

  “As you know”—he paused, stealing a glance at her as all remained silent—“this ship is about to sail to the far corners of the earth. Tonight, as we prepare to get under way, we have in our presence our most honored guests, Captain Rudy, Commander Reynolds, and Lieutenant Commander McCormick, all from the Regional Legal Service Office here in San Diego. They have been invited here tonight because of the work of an outstanding naval officer, whose competence, professionalism, charm, and wit have helped us get our affairs in order on the eve of our debarkation.

  “Gentlemen, let us raise our glasses in a salute to Lieutenant Commander Caroline McCormick, Judge Advocate General’s Corps, United States Navy!”

  All eyes turned to Caroline.

  “Hear, hear!”

  “I’ll drink to that!”

  “By all means.”

  Ding-ding. Ding-ding. The captain tapped his glass with his spoon again, practically hypnotizing her with his eyes. His men went silent under the authority of his command, waiting with bated breath as he prepared to speak again.

  “I have another announcement. Last year I was honored to serve as your commanding officer as the Cape St. George deployed to the Western Pacific, and from there through the Malacca Straits into the Andaman Sea, then the Indian Ocean, and then the Arabian Sea. Each of you performed superbly on that mission, and to serve as your commanding officer in the War on Terror has been the highest honor of my life.

  “As you know”—another quick glance into her eyes—“in less than forty-eight hours, this great warship will once again be under way to support the USS Ronald Reagan battle group. Commander McCormick and her staff have performed superbly in helping us get our affairs together so we are ready to sail. I am supremely confident that each of you”—he paused to eye his men—“will perform superbly once again, just as you did last year.

  “However”—yet another glance in her direction—“there is something you should know.” He waited a few seconds. “I will not be going with you on this voyage.”

  Had she heard that right? She glanced around the table. Stunned looks covered the faces of the officers around the dinner mess, their mouths open, eyebrows raised, and eyes darting back and forth in confusion.

  “I know this is a shock to many of you,” Kriete continued. “Frankly, it’s a shock to me too. But as many of you know, the Navy is a jealous mistress. We are here today, gone tomorrow. Our duty as officers is to obey the lawful orders of our superiors, to be ready to move anywhere in the world on a moment’s notice, and beyond that, to fulfill the ultimate duty of the officer’s oath, which is to defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”

  Not a word in response.

  “Now I am pleased to announce that my good friend and colleague, and your executive officer”—he stepped to his left and put his hand on the shoulder of the ship’s XO—“Commander Bill Turner, will serve as the ship’s acting commanding officer on your voyage to Japan. And I’m pleased to announce that Lieutenant Commander Fred Carber”—Kriete smiled at the officer sitting to Commander Turner’s left, directly across the table from Commander Reynolds—“has been promoted to interim executive officer.”

  Carber’s eyes widened, a look of disbelief on his handsome face. “I . . . I don’t know what to say, sir.”

  “What you say, Commander, is that it is my pleasure to assume whatever duties I am ordered to assume to accommodate the needs of the Navy and to defend the United States of America.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Carber broke into a grin, accepting a handshake from Commander Turner, the ship’s new commanding officer.

  “Now then,” Kriete said, “I am sure you all have questions. And it’s my pleasure to answer all your questions so you aren’t sailing into the dark. But before I do, I’d like to ask you to stand as I propose a toast to your new commanding officer and your new executive officer.”

  The stewards swarmed the table, refilling wineglasses.

  Caroline stood up, stunned, uncertain of what to think. Was this Paul Kriete’s unspoken motive for inviting her tonight? Because he was going to announce he was leaving his warship? He was as full of surprises as he was astonishingly handsome.

  The indomitable captain spoke again. “The USS Cape St. George was named for the Battle of Cape St. George in the Pacific in 1943, which was the last engagement of surface ships in the Solomon Islands campaign. Under the command of the great Admiral Arleigh Burke, the American victory proved decisive, sinking three Japanese ships, marking the end of the Tokyo Express, ending Japanese resistance in the Solomon Islands.

  “When you sail to the west, gentlemen, remember the battle for which this great ship was named. Be brave, decisive, and victorious. And do so under the banner of your new CO, Commander Turner, and your new XO, Lieutenant Commander Carber, for whom I propose these toasts.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “Hear, hear!”

  Caroline smiled, nodded at Turner and Carber, raised her glass, then sipped her pinot noir.

  Her eyes caught Paul’s. Again.

  Their little game of mutual catch-a-glance was driving her batty. The furtive looks between them were brief and hopefully unnoticeable to everyone except each other. But what the glances lacked in time, they made up in power.

  “These two men are good men. I have supreme confidence that under their leadership, the Cape St. George will sail to even greater heights than ever before.” He looked at Commander Turner and smiled, then continued.

  “Now, we’ve spoken of this ship’s great history, of the battle for which it was named, of the great victory achieved by the U.S. Navy over Japan in that battle. Therefore, I find it ironic that your first stop, forty-five days from now, will be in Japan, at U.S. Fleet Activities in Sasebo.

  “When you arrive in Sasebo, I’ll be waiting for you there. But not to reassume command of the ship. I’ve been called to other things. Instead, I’ll be on hand, along with Admiral Clarke, for the formal change-of-command ceremony, promoting Commander Turner from interim commanding officer to permanent commanding officer. It will be a glorious day.” He surveyed the room with a smile. “Any questions?”

  Hands rose. Kriete nodded. “Lieutenant Mitchell.”

  “Sir, if it’s okay to ask, how recently did you learn of the news?”

  “Of course it’s okay to ask, Harold. As a matter of fact, I caught wind of this as a possibility a couple of days ago, and just learned that the orders had been finalized this morning at 0800 hours local time. Commander Turner got let in on the secret so he could take a couple of hours to think about the notion of commanding a warship. Now, poor Lieutenant Commander Carber over here”—he nodded at the new XO—“I’m afraid he found out about his new job at the same time all of you found out.” Kriete looked at Carber and grinned devilishly, as if he’d played a sneaky trick on his best childhood friend. “Surprise, surprise, XO!”

  That brought a round of laughter.

  “Other questions.”

  More hands rose. Kriete pointed at an officer sitting across from Caroline.

  “Lieutenant Rouse.”

  “Sir, are you at liberty to say where they’re sending you?”

  “Yes, I am at liberty. Before assuming command of the Cape St. George, I completed a dual master’s at the Naval War College in counterintelligence and counterterrorism, specializing in domestic littoral regions. And that relates to my next assignment.

  “As you know, because of the curvature of the earth, the United States is always under threat from maritime terrorism. Our radar doesn’t go beyond seven miles, and it’s a big ocean out there. An enemy vessel with a hydrogen bomb on board could slip over the horizon undetected and sail into a large civilian port—New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles—and we wouldn’t have much reaction time.

  “Once that ship is within seven miles of the coast, depending on where it’s coming in, it would
be hard to get aircraft or other vessels in place quickly enough to stop it. So the Navy has come up with a solution. It’s called Operation Blue Jay. Some of you may have heard of it. But the plan is to deploy thousands of drones, up and down both coasts and along the Gulf of Mexico, to be on station twenty-four hours a day to guard against terrorism and drug infiltration.

  “The Navy has been awarded the contract, subject to final approval by JAG and final approval by Congress.” He looked her way, flashing a quick smile. “Which we don’t see as a problem. Just a formality, you know.”

  He followed the smile with a quick wink, making her weak in the knees. Captain Paul Kriete should be illegal. At least, it should be illegal to turn him loose in the presence of a single woman. Thank goodness she could think about P.J. The prospect of reuniting with P.J. excited her.

  “Anyway, I’ve been selected to be the officer in charge of the project. So while you gentlemen are sailing to the west, I’ll be headed east. To Washington.” He looked at her again. “To the Pentagon, where I am honored to become commander of the very first littoral drone fleet in U.S. Navy history, the brand-new U.S. Navy Drone Force.”

  Another glance in her direction. An impish smile as he reveled in the applause and adoration of his men, which set her heart into such a loud pound-a-thon that she could barely hear their applause. She felt herself growing angry. So that was what this was about. He called her here to drop a bomb on her. He was going to Washington too. From the head of the table, more clings and dings on water glasses. This time Commander Turner took the stage.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Like Kriete, most naval officers, at least the largest single block of naval officers, were southerners. But Turner spoke with an accent that sounded Bostonian. “Your attention, please.” Ding-ding. “I think I can speak for Lieutenant Commander Carber in saying that we are honored and humbled to step into what will be a great leadership vacuum to replace a great man.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “Hear, hear!”

  Caroline smiled plastically and nodded. Why the sudden urge to get up and walk out? Perhaps because all the adulation these officers had for their captain made him that much more irresistible? When she wished he were resistible? Perhaps she worried about the dynamic of going to Washington, of going to the Pentagon and facing both Paul Kriete and P.J. in the same building. A Washington-spiced love triangle was the last thing she needed right now. For now, she had to sit tight and resist Kriete internally. A hard task, but hopefully doable.

  “Every officer strives for command.” Turner’s voice cracked. He looked reverently at Paul as if grasping for words. “But, Skipper, no one strives to take command in this way.” He put his hand on Paul’s broad shoulder. “I shall work hard to fill your shoes, sir.” His voice cracked again. “Which will be next to impossible to fill, but I will do my best.”

  “You will do a great job, XO.” Kriete stood, shook Turner’s hand, and patted him on the back.

  More applause.

  The XO spoke again. “Gentlemen”—he, like Turner, apparently forgot that not all officers in the wardroom were gentlemen—“I want us to fully grasp what has happened here.” He looked at Paul, then at his officers. “What’s happened to our captain is not a relief from command but rather a major-league promotion as the initial commander of what will become one of the most powerful commands in the U.S. Navy—the U.S. Navy Drone Force.” Applause. “And the captain didn’t tell you this, because he’s too modest. And he hasn’t asked me to announce this, because again, he is a leader of men and he would never blow his own horn.

  “But I will take a little liberty as your new commanding officer to announce that our skipper, Captain Paul M. Kriete, has been nominated by President Surber, subject to confirmation by the senate, to the rank of rear admiral!”

  More applause. More “Hear, hear!”

  “And, Captain.” Turner spoke again. “I am happy for you.” He wiped his eyes. “But I want you to know that no matter how many stars they wind up pinning on your collars, sir, you will always be my skipper. And you know what an affectionate term that is in the U.S. Navy.”

  The two men embraced in a big bear hug. The officers stood, and from the right corner of the table came, “For he’s a jolly good fellow . . .”

  Others joined in. “For he’s a jolly good fellow.”

  Now the entire wardroom.

  “For he’s a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny. Which nobody can deny! Which nobody can deny! For he’s a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny!”

  As the singing died down, Catherine heard, “To our captain!”

  “Hear, hear! To our captain and our skipper.”

  Glasses were raised in the air. Alcohol flowed.

  Caroline sipped her red wine, then took another sip. As the wine lightened her head, his eyes found hers again.

  Somehow she knew he had gotten his way. He would always get his way.

  CHAPTER 3

  OFFICE OF THE NAVY JUDGE ADVOCATE GENERAL

  ADMINISTRATIVE LAW DIVISION (CODE 13)

  THE PENTAGON

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  The Pentagon, the nerve center for the most powerful military machine ever assembled in the history of civilized mankind, had been built in the middle of World War II, of Indiana limestone, on what amounted to swampland by the banks of the Potomac River.

  In addition to its five equidistant sides, making it the most recognizable building in the world, especially from the air, the massive building had five “rings” and five “levels.” The rings were associated with the order of prestige and rank. The most prestigious, the outer E-Ring, housed the Secretary of Defense and many four-star flag and general officers.

  Just inside the E-Ring, separated by several feet of open-air space, was the D-Ring, which housed a lot of three-star officers. The C-Ring housed two-star officers. Inside the C-Ring was the B-Ring, and inside that, the A-Ring.

  Each of the Pentagon’s rings had its own exterior walls, and with the exception of the E-Ring, the exterior views outside the windows of each ring were only the exterior walls of the ring just inside of it or outside of it. Not much of a view. Only the E-Ring windows, which overlooked the Potomac, Arlington Cemetery, or the snaking turns of the Shirley Highway, allowed anyone to see outside the entire building.

  All the rings were connected by interior covered walkways radiating inward, from the E-Ring all the way to the A-Ring. The five inner walls of the A-Ring surrounded the open-air courtyard known as Ground Zero, so named because it was the bull’s-eye target of Soviet intercontinental ballistic missiles during the Cold War and then of savage Arab terrorists during the War on Terror.

  Ground Zero featured an outdoor food court, the Center Courtyard Café, where Pentagon employees would congregate for lunch during nice weather in the spring and fall, but which could be an open-air oven or a cold wasteland at other times.

  Part of the mystique of the Navy JAG Corps’ elite Code 13 was its location at the Pentagon, giving its officers easy access to the Judge Advocate General, the Secretary of the Navy, and even the Secretary of Defense.

  But what remained unsaid, indeed unknown to the rest of the Navy JAG Corps, which looked upon the mysterious Code 13 officers as the super elite, was that the work spaces assigned to the crème-de-la-crème were among the dumpiest in the Navy.

  Yes, they were the most powerful, the most influential, the brightest of the Navy JAG Corps, but their work environment sure didn’t show it.

  The problem was that they were in the Pentagon, which, for the midgrade officer on a military career path, was the plumiest of assignments. But the Pentagon was also home to more high-ranking brass than any other place on the planet. And a lieutenant commander, or even a captain or a commander at the Pentagon, would always take a backseat to the officer wearing stars on his collar.

  Lieutenant Commander P.J. MacDonald, JAGC, United States Navy, had, before coming to Washington,
been accustomed to receiving salutes, to having subordinates come to attention for him, and to sometimes having the waters parted for him, all because he wore a gold oak leaf on his collar.

  All the attention had been kind of nice. Rank had its advantages. No problems waiting in line.

  But he left all that behind in San Diego, a major working naval base, where something like 90 percent of all naval personnel ranked below him.

  But P.J. MacDonald would never forget the day he first arrived at the Pentagon. He had parked his car way out in the hinterlands of the parking lot, walked across the asphalt for what seemed like a mile, passed what seemed to be about ten thousand cars. But when he arrived at the sidewalk by the entrance of the building, he witnessed a sight he would never forget.

  A tall U.S. Air Force officer stood in the bus line, holding his briefcase, waiting for a public bus to Northern Virginia.

  At first P.J. didn’t think about it.

  But as he walked past the officer, he realized his mind was now registering a delayed reaction.

  Wait a minute. Had he seen that right?

  Surely that had to be the silver oak leaf of a lieutenant colonel on the officer’s epaulette. Why else would he be standing in the bus line?

  P.J. stopped, turned around, and took another look at the officer.

  His mind had told him it had to be an oak leaf, because an officer wearing a star would never be holding his own briefcase at a military installation. But the oak leaf, on second glance, really was a single silver star!

  And when P.J. realized he was witnessing a one-star brigadier general standing in the bus line at the Pentagon, holding his own briefcase, waiting for a bus, reality hit him.

  On any other military installation in America, any one-star flag or general officer, whether a brigadier general in the Air Force, Army, or Marines, or a rear admiral, out in the open would be the recipient of spit polish and brass, ruffles and flourishes. A star on an officer’s collar, even a single star, usually meant the sounding of military band trumpets, a red-carpet rollout, and fanfare. Even without the trumpet call, when a general or an admiral entered the building, everyone jumped to strict attention, not breathing until the “at ease” command was given.