by Don Brown
Dr. Berman stepped in, almost as if on cue.
“I think,” the doctor said, “that it’s probably best if we keep the patient as calm as possible, as long as possible.”
“Sorry, Doctor,” Paul said. He looked at Caroline. “I apologize. We didn’t mean to upset you. We just care. That’s all.”
Captain Guy looked at her. “Just promise you’ll obey the doctor’s orders. I’ll see you back at the Pentagon when you’re released.”
“Aye, sir. Sorry if I was out of line.”
“No worries.” Captain Guy nodded. “We’ll see you soon.”
As quickly as they had come, they all left. And once again she was alone, in the sterilized antiseptic callousness of an impersonal hospital room.
Alone with her memories of P.J. and with her determination to avenge his death—or join him in the afterlife.
APPROACHING OPERATIONAL HEADQUARTERS
U.S. NAVY DRONE COMMAND
U.S. NAVAL AIR STATION “PAX RIVER”
LEXINGTON PARK, MARYLAND
EVENING
Why did she have to be so stubborn?
Paul had asked himself this question a hundred times on his drive from the Pentagon to Lexington Park, and he asked it once again as he drove the staff car up to the main gate of the air station.
“Evening, sir.” He accepted a sharp salute from the Navy shore patrolman who had jumped to an exceptional level of attention at the sight of a U.S. Navy captain approaching.
“Evening, Petty Officer.” Paul snapped a return salute from the driver’s seat of the U.S. Navy Taurus and drove alone onto the base, on his way to the headquarters of the command he had been given, even though for the time being he had been forced to spend most of his time at the Pentagon and in Washington schmoozing.
And now, in the midst of the murders of two JAG officers and the attempted murder of Caroline, it seemed that he would be glued to Washington for the foreseeable future.
Frankly, he wished she would resign her commission and marry him. If she would agree, he would request a transfer out of Washington. Or maybe he would soon be transferred out anyway, once Congress approved the money for a hundred thousand drones. Perhaps she could accompany him to Lexington Park after his temporary schmooze-fest had ended.
Or if he had to stay in Washington for a while to continue nursing the incubation period of this project, perhaps they could move far enough out of town to get her out of the rat race of it all.
Of course, he knew in his gut that she was probably a pipe dream. She hadn’t gotten P.J. MacDonald out of her blood yet, and might never get over him.
Still, whether or not she eventually married him, or whether she would ever even give him the time of day, his feelings for her had become real, and he would do everything possible to keep her alive so that one day, just maybe, she would have a chance to change her mind about him.
This idea was a long shot, and he’d probably wasted gas driving over here. But it was worth a try.
The sun hung low in the sky now, about to set in the west and casting an alluring, late-afternoon orange glow over the windswept base that sat on a peninsula jutting into the Chesapeake.
Paul slipped his officer’s cover on his head, then got out of the car, pausing just a second in the parking lot to allow the air of the sea to fill his lungs. He noted off to his left that the color guard had already moved into position to de-hoist the flag for the evening. He would have to hurry, lest he got caught outside.
He turned and started a brisk walk into the breeze across the near-empty parking lot to the entrance of the building. But seven steps into his short journey, a chorus of long, shrill whistles, like the sound of a hundred NFL referees blowing their whistles at the same time, descended upon the base.
Cars, trucks, and SUVs driving along the road pulled over. Naval officers and enlisted men still outside stopped in their tracks.
Paul, too, came to a stop and pivoted toward the flagpole.
A solitary trumpet began sounding the colors, a long, lyrical bugle call that sounded like a slow, melodic rendition of taps. Everything on base froze. Paul rendered a salute toward the flagpole, holding it reverently as Old Glory descended through a flapping breeze into the white-gloved hands of the color guard members, who began folding it into a tight triangle.
The call to colors ended as whistles blew again, signaling that it was okay to resume activity on base. Paul dropped his salute and turned, walking toward the entrance of the temporary headquarters of the new U.S. Navy Drone Command.
“Attention on deck!”
“Good evening, Chief. At ease. Looks like you and Petty Officer Martinez are the skeleton crew down here tonight.”
“Aye, Skipper. Good to see you. Commander Jefferies gave us a heads-up that you were coming over.”
Paul nodded. “Last-minute thing. Is he up in flight control?”
“Yes, sir. Would you like me to accompany you up, sir?”
“No, I’m okay. Maintain your post. Second deck, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Carry on.”
“Aye, sir,” the duty chief said just as Paul stepped into the elevator.
When the door opened on the second deck, this time, unlike the last time he was here, the place was almost empty. Only a light crew remained.
That would change if the drones were purchased and deployed into the fleet. This place would become a hubbub of round-the-clock activity if Congress ever passed the bill that was currently the subject of Caroline McCormick’s legal opinion—if Caroline lived long enough to finish the opinion.
“Evening, Skipper.” Paul heard the voice of Commander John Jefferies to his left as he stepped off the elevator. Wearing a working khaki uniform, Jefferies approached with two mugs of coffee, one in each hand. “Chief called and said you were on your way up. As I recall, you like yours straight black?”
“Appreciate it, John.” To be polite, Paul accepted the mug and took a swig, even though he didn’t yet need his evening caffeine shot.
“Come on in, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a seat.”
“Appreciate it.”
A long conference table sat in the middle of the room, just behind the flight control area, where only a couple of controllers were stationed. Paul set his coffee down on the table and took a seat, and Commander Jefferies followed.
“So, sir.” Jefferies took a swig of coffee and continued, “You said you wanted to ask me something in person.”
“Yes, John. You heard we had another shooting at the Pentagon this morning.”
“I heard,” Jefferies said. “Wish we’d have kept a drone on Commander McCormick.”
“As a matter of fact, John, that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“You want me to get another one up?”
“Well, that’s a dicey situation, especially if we overdo it at this point. But you know how I had you get that bird up in the air to follow her after P.J. MacDonald’s funeral?”
“Of course, Skipper. That’s how we tracked her to the scene of Lieutenant Ross Simmons’s shooting.”
“Could I see the aerial video of her car approaching Simmons’s house?”
“Yes, sir. Want to see it now?”
“That’s why I’m here, Commander. Now’s as good a time as any.”
She wouldn’t listen to anybody. And despite what anybody told her, despite all attempts to reason with her, she was going to get herself killed.
Of course, this determined, stubborn streak of hers was one of the many things he had grown to love about her.
“Something struck me. Wanted to check it.”
“Fire away, sir.”
“Remember my orders to keep the drone up on Commander McCormick the day of the funeral?”
Jefferies winced. “Of course, Skipper. How could I forget? Probably violated every FAA regulation known to man, and it would probably get us both court-martialed if word got out.”
“Right,” Paul said. “Posse comitatus issues. I got that. We’re not supposed to be using military equipment in any sort of civilian law enforcement.”
Jefferies nodded. “That’s why they want us to turn these drones over to the Homeland Security weasels when the drones fly over CONUS.”
Paul sipped his coffee. “Except it wasn’t Homeland Security flying the drones that day. It was U.S. Navy.”
Jefferies looked out over the runway. A U.S. Navy F/A-18 taxied down the runway, its running lights blinking, the roar of its twin turbojets audible, though barely, even through the supposedly sound-proof glass of the newly constructed drone observation tower.
A second later, fire blazed from the back of the Hornet, and both men watched as the jet raced down the runway and lifted off into the twilight’s last gleaming.
“John,” Paul said, “I don’t want you to worry about that flight at all. If anybody has any questions, I’ll take full responsibility for it. I’m the one who ordered it, and if anybody says anything, I’ll take the heat. Got a bottled water?”
“Yes, sir. Hang on a second.”
“Sure.”
Jefferies got up, stepped into the kitchen, and came back with a bottled water. “Here ya go, sir.”
“Thanks.”
Paul unscrewed the cap of the Dasani. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking.”
“About what, sir?”
“Couple of things. One”—he took a sip of water—“if anybody asks, we’ll . . . I’ll argue that the drone flight that day was not for domestic law enforcement but rather was to protect members of the U.S. military from an internal domestic threat.”
Jefferies raised an eyebrow in a knowing look. “Good point, Skipper.”
“Exactly,” Paul said. “We had FAA clearance for the demo flight the day P.J. MacDonald was shot. Correct?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“So as long as we’re not flying the drones over land for law enforcement issues, frankly, I don’t see the problem. At least I don’t see a posse comitatus violation.”
“I like your argument, Skipper.”
“Which leads me to another question.”
“What’s that, Captain?”
“The day I had that drone follow Lieutenant Commander McCormick after the funeral at Arlington, was the drone filming anything?”
“Yes, sir, Skipper. Right now our test drones are programmed to make digital recordings on all test flights. I logged that as a test flight.” “Interesting.” Paul scratched his chin. “How long do we maintain the video?”
“Indefinitely, sir. Digital recordings inside the drone transmit to a database here at Pax River. Our capacity to maintain those videos is virtually unlimited.”
“Hmm.” Paul pondered the situation, thinking out loud. “Going back to the day of P.J. MacDonald’s funeral in Arlington, do you think you could go back and show me the aerial video?”
Jefferies nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem, Skipper. But that little Blue Jay was up in the air for at least a couple of hours. You want to see the whole thing?”
Paul sipped his water. “No. Just the last minute or so before Commander McCormick arrived at Lieutenant Simmons’s house.”
“Martinez!” Jefferies called to one of the petty officers manning the runway observation area.
“Yes, sir.” Martinez turned around.
“Bring us two laptops. Key up to synchronize. I want the aerial video of the last sixty seconds of Lieutenant Commander McCormick’s drive to Lieutenant Simmons’s house.”
“Aye, sir.”
Jefferies looked at Paul. “This should only take a minute, sir. May I ask what you’re looking for?”
“Not sure, John. I followed her in my car that day while you guys were keeping me apprised of her whereabouts by phone. I wanted to see if we could find any clues by looking at the aerial tapes.”
“Good idea, sir.”
A moment later, Martinez and another petty officer, both enlisted air traffic controllers, returned with two large-screen laptops and set one each in front of Paul and Jefferies.
The frozen screen showed an aerial shot taken from somewhere in the sky, above what appeared to be Caroline McCormick’s black Volkswagen Passat.
“Okay, sir,” Jefferies said. “This is an overhead shot of Commander McCormick’s car, at this point headed south on Fort Hunt Road. Now before I play this, let me do a quick switch to the map just to help us get oriented. Then I’ll flip back over to the video recording.”
“Very well.”
“Okay. At this point, sir, we’re seeing a still shot of Commander McCormick’s car, the black Passat, and it’s headed south on Fort Hunt Road, just in front of this Wells Fargo bank. Now, when I roll the tape, we’ll see the car move south past the Village Hardware, and then past the Rite Aid Pharmacy, and then it will slow just a bit and turn right on Lafayette Drive, the street where Lieutenant Simmons had leased a condo.
“And see this little balloon pin on the map? On Lafayette and almost in front of Hamilton Lane?”
“I see it.”
“That’s Lieutenant Simmons’s condo. Ready to roll it?”
“Roll it.”
Jefferies tapped his computer, and the screen morphed from the map back to the still photograph of the aerial view of the Passat. Just before Jefferies tapped the Play button, Paul noticed at the bottom right of the screen superimposed numbering.
U.S. NAVY DRONE COMMAND
PROJECT BLUE JAY
DRONE 003
The Passat started moving again and a second later wheeled right onto Lafayette, just as Jefferies said it would. A moment after that, the car whipped left into the driveway in front of Simmons’s house.
A second later, the tape showed the car door opening, revealing blonde hair on the figure of a female naval officer in summer white uniform.
She looked great even from the air as she walked to the front steps of the house.
She started knocking on the door, then a moment later pulled out her phone.
“Okay, I’ve seen enough. Question.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can we get a wider angle?”
“Oh yes, sir. We can pull it way back if you want.”
“Okay. Go back and do that. Let me see the map of what we can do first.”
“Yes, sir. Okay, here’s the first map again.”
“Okay, hang on just a second and we’ll pull back on that.”
“Very well.”
Jefferies typed a few keys on the keyboard. A new map appeared.
“Okay, here’s a wider-angle map, and this will correspond to the footage we’ll look at for the same time frame. Now we’ll start with Commander McCormick’s Passat right in the same place again, right up here on Fort Hunt Road, just in front of Wells Fargo Bank.
“The difference here is that we’ll be able to see a wider range of activities outside of the frame of the first shot, because we’ve pulled back on the angle and we’re taking in Bunker Hill Drive, a block to the south of Lafayette, and also more streets to the north and east.”
Paul sipped his coffee. “Okay, let’s switch over to the video and watch the show.”
“Aye, Captain.”
The screen again morphed into the aerial photograph, displaying Caroline’s car moving south in front of the bank.
But Paul wasn’t so interested in Caroline’s car. Instead, he focused on Ross Simmons’s condo.
Just as Caroline’s car turned right onto Lafayette, a figure emerged from the back of Simmons’s house. The figure held something in his arms and started running, straight through the backyard and into an adjacent backyard.
“Do you see that, Jefferies?”
“I see him, sir!”
The figure—it looked like a man—ran past another house and emerged on the street behind Lafayette.
“Here’s over on Bunker Hill,” Paul said.
“What’s he doing?”
“Look. He’s setting
that object on the hood of that red car.”
“He’s opening the door,” Jefferies said.
“Yep. And he’s putting that object in the backseat. Looks like a computer.”
“I think you’re right, sir. He’s getting in the driver’s side.”
“Okay, now he’s pulling out. Heading down Bunker Hill. Turning right. What’s that street?”
“I think it’s Wellington, sir.”
“We lost him. Can we get a wider angle?”
“I’m afraid that’s it, sir. We kept the drone over Lieutenant Simmons’s condo.”
Paul looked at Jefferies. “We just saw the killer, John. If we can just identify him and figure out where he is.”
“Agreed, sir. But it’s a step in the right direction. At least we’ve got an idea of what he’s driving.”
“That’s a fact. Good work. I’ll call Special Agent Romanov over at NCIS. Let’s see if we can track this sucker down.”
CHAPTER 35
GOOD OLE DAYS TAVERN
MASSACHUSETTS AVENUE
GEORGETOWN
WASHINGTON, DC
TUESDAY EVENING
The narrow, dimly lit sports bar paid a historical tribute to the glory days of Georgetown basketball. Large black-and-white photos of the great John Thompson, the huge bear of a man with his trademark white towel wrapped around his neck. Photos of all the Georgetown greats of yesteryear, in uniform, adorned the walls. Patrick Ewing. Alonzo Mourning. Allen Iverson. Dikembe Mutombo.
Almost empty, the bar at first carried the aura of a smoke-filled room, except smoking had been banned in DC bars for years.
It was a place frozen in time, even in its music. The golden voice of Elvis softly caressing “Love Me Tender” would have little appeal to the mindless hip-hop generation of millennials interested in cacophonous rap.
Perhaps that explained why the place looked so empty.
“May I help you gentlemen?” The young hostess, a slim brunette, perhaps in her early twenties and wearing a navy blue Georgetown sweatshirt, approached them with a smile. She wore a name tag that read “Mindy.”
“We’re looking for a Mr. Romanov,” Paul said.
“You mean Special Agent Romanov with NCIS?” The waitress smiled. “Agent Romanov and his friend are in the back.”
