Headquarters was a sandy colored concrete building in the middle of the base. Before she could pull in the parking lot, Chase had to wait on a long line of running Marines, bare-chested, in shorts and boots, from the Third Marine regiment, singing cadence and clapping to the left-right rhythm of their swaying column. Once parked, she grabbed her notebook and climbed out of the car to the assault of cackling parrots in the palm trees.
“Got cheated out of your weekend, did you, Captain Anderson?” Provost Marshal Major Sims, the base’s top cop, was so tall it actually hurt to look up at him. One night at the O’Club, he’d told Chase he’d always wanted to fly, but he was too tall for the cockpit. Since his father and grandfather had been cops in Boston—his grandfather during the 1920s strike and walkout—Sims figured police work was in his blood.
“Another black eye for the 81, I’m afraid,” she said and saluted.
Sims returned her salute. “Guess you’ve heard the disturbing news about Major O'Donnell—”
“No, sir.” As the junior officer, Chase maneuvered to Sims’ left side and struggled in her high heels to match his long stride as she was expected to do. She fought the urge to hike up her skirt to free her legs, showing Major Sims she could keep up. Ordinarily, Sims was less the sort of military officer who enjoyed the backing of traditions. Today, however, he was walking with a purpose, with a sense of anger. He was forgetting the Marine by his side was a woman in high heels who had to walk on the balls of her feet to keep her heels from sinking into the hot asphalt. Or was he?
“O’Donnell’s in the base hospital,” Sims said. “Tried to commit suicide last night.” He jogged up the steps.
She stopped. “What?”
Sims never answered but halted at the top and stepped aside for her to open the door.
Sims dashed down the polished corridor ahead of them and disappeared in the office belonging to Hickman’s executive officer. Chase headed toward the raucous voices emanating from the conference room. As she entered, a hush fell across the room, and the first thing that occurred to her was that they’d been discussing Major O'Donnell’s suicide attempt. She crossed the room to the chair she always took—why was it everyone followed such habits as always sitting week after week in the same chair as if they’d been assigned? Still, as the only captain in a room of field grade officers, she wasn’t about to break the habit. She walked toward her chair, feigning interest in the framed photographs of Hickman in various poses taken back in the Middle East: there was Hickman in front of an 81 with Colin Powell, and Hickman posing outside a tent with Generals Franks and Abizaid, just after the “shock and awe” phase of the war—the broad smiles of Franks and Hickman in sharp contrast to Abizaid’s prescient stare.
Chase glanced around the conference room. There was the new intel officer, Colonel Figueredo, whose top-secret missions in Afghanistan were still on a need-to-know basis. She’d heard the rumors, though. If they were true, he’d been living undercover with the tribes for nine months. He was Hispanic with dark hair, dark eyes, and a deep olive complexion. She tried, unsuccessfully, to picture the clean-shaven major as a renegade with a thick black beard, in Muslim clothing, and on horseback.
She pulled her chair from the table and sat on the edge, prepared to jump to her feet when the XO called the room to attention for the general. She fiddled with her pen, aligning it next to her notebook so that she could appear busy. Her mind wandered back to Major O'Donnell. They’d first met in Qatar where they both worked for Armstrong, who, thanks to wartime, had risen from colonel to major general in less than three years. Two Silver Stars for bravery had also elevated Armstrong to legend status. Anyway, O’Donnell had shown up at the airport to greet her and Stone when they’d arrived on the island. “Aloha, Skipper!” he’d shouted, causing a group of Japanese tourists to turn and stare. “Welcome to the Rock.”
By the time the XO called the room to attention, every officer had found a chair and now urgently pushed from the table to stand for Hickman. The general was an inch or so shorter than Chase when she was in high heels. She had little difficulty imagining that his patrician features and combat pilot swagger had elevated him to quite-a-catch status in his younger years. Now, his drinking had taken its toll, bloating his face, like her father’s had been getting before he’d been scared sober. Did everyone need some sort of metaphorical fall or crash to enact a significant change of direction? Had Stone? He’d started drinking heavily after learning he was headed back to the Middle East for a second tour. Her father, apparently, had needed one, his wake-up coming the night he had crashed into a car loaded with teens on their way to the senior prom. No one had been seriously injured, but the crash had been enough to compel her father into sobriety. What about Hickman? Would a fizzling second star do it?
Hickman walked to the front of the conference room. “As you were,” he commanded, and Chase and the others settled into chairs. His gaze shifted around the room, perhaps gauging the temperature of his staff officers, eyes lingering a second longer over the empty chair belonging to Major O'Donnell. Hickman listened intently to the intelligence brief from Colonel Figueredo, to the training updates from the G-3, and to a report by the G-4 regarding the need for a new roof at the enlisted club. Major Sims spoke about a new directive from headquarters that required his Marines on the gate to carry live ammo in their pistols again, at least during the recent heightened security alert. Sims turned to Chase. “But none of that’s for release!”
She felt her face grow hot under the sudden attention, and she hoped she wasn’t blushing before everyone. Figueredo, who was seated beside Sims, was staring at her. “Roger that, sir,” she said and was about to set her pen on the table beside the notepad when she decided that to do so would signal submissiveness.
Next up was a lieutenant who was filling in for the JAG officer and nervously reporting on the status of the upcoming court-martial of the Marine lance corporal who had been sitting in the brig for the past nine months on charges of sexually assaulting another Marine’s wife in the parking lot of the enlisted club. The husband was in Iraq. The lieutenant stumbled through his report so that Chase was torn between looking him in the eye as a show of solidarity and looking to her notepad to allow him to save face.
She hadn’t time to act on either when Hickman turned his attention to her. “So what’s the buzz on Saturday’s crash, Captain Anderson?” The dismissed lieutenant crumpled into his chair.
Chase felt her body rise a bit in hers. “We have confirmations from both local media and wire services for the memorial service tomorrow, sir.”
She thought she detected a flash of anger in his eyes, but his voice was checked. “Did we have to tell them about the memorial service?”
“We didn’t tell them, sir. Most likely a reporter from the local newspaper got word about it from one of the families.” She didn’t have to mention Paul Shapiro’s name for everyone in the room to know to whom she was referring. Shapiro was the local beat reporter on all things military. He was infamous for wrangling man-on-the-street comments from unsuspecting, inebriated Marines when they were off duty and off base. A few months ago, a frustrated General Hickman and the squadron commanders, per Chase’s suggestion, finally issued directives to base Marines about how each represented the Corps as an official spokesperson. Still, Shapiro had recently managed to ambush a group of young enlisted Marines on a payday as they stumbled from a bar. He’d found them more than eager to talk about their role in the Middle East and how they felt about pulling another tour. Hickman, she’d learned from O'Donnell, had been furious, even throwing the front section of the newspaper across his office. What had happened to each of those Marines, Chase didn’t know. She, on the other hand, when called to Hickman’s office, had expected a raking. She’d locked her body into attention before him, bracing herself. “Relax, Anderson,” he’d said. “This isn’t your fault, but what’s your suggestion for damage control?”
Her suggestion had been that the general invite Sha
piro to meet and interview several combat pilots who had flown missions in Iraq. She would coach the officers. Two days later, Hickman called her with the okay. The Associated Press picked up Shapiro’s feature with four helicopter pilots a week later. It looked as if Chase had Paul Shapiro in her pocket—that is, until Saturday when he pressured her at the front gate during the media conference for confirmation about Major White as the pilot. Like it or not, Shapiro had just been doing his job.
Hickman looked around the conference room. “Mandatory attendance for Tony’s memorial service—roger that?” Aye-ayes and Yes-sirs reverberated from the staff, followed by a breath of memorial silence. Hickman turned to Chase, this time pointing a finger at her. “Tell Shapiro, who thinks he’s an expert now on the 81, that we will not be grounding the entire fleet over Saturday’s crash. I read his article this morning and the one in yesterday’s paper.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll pass the word.”
“And tomorrow? Keep him away from me, from everyone. Roger that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s lucky I don’t have him barred from this base—and if he’s not careful, that’s exactly what I’ll do.” Hickman pushed his chair from the table. Everyone jumped to their feet. The XO followed Hickman to the door, shouting “Dismissed!” over his shoulder, and the two men disappeared.
The young lieutenant from the JAG gave Chase a consoling glance as he collected his things and walked out. Colonel Figueredo had already disappeared from the room. At the door, Chase stepped aside for Major Sims to exit. This time, Sims was back to playing the gentleman, inviting her through the door ahead of him and whispering as she passed, “Looks like you get to be the lightning rod for a change.”
CHAPTER 3
After the meeting, three men stood quietly in the general’s office while the general’s aide presented folders of paperwork that required signatures. Figueredo sized up the others. Colonel Farris, the 464 squadron commander, appeared the most uncomfortable. His eyes darted around the room like a nervous mouse searching for something, or nothing in particular, possibly on the pretense of a new discovery. Every few seconds or so, he gazed at the floor or maybe at his boots. Each time he glanced down, he rocked back and forth on his heels two or three times.
The provost marshal, Sims, who towered above the rest of them and especially over the general, who was hunched over his desk flipping through papers and signing where shown by the aide, appeared the most comfortable in the general’s presence, comfortable in that way a man does when he holds the upper hand. In fact, in his left hand he held a green folder by his side, and Figueredo wondered about its contents. Sims gave away nothing. He stared intently at the interaction between the general and his aide and appeared to Figueredo, to be taking mental notes for the future.
When the general signed the last document, he waited for the aide to close the door behind him and then motioned toward the sitting area. Sims folded himself into one of the chairs, crossed his legs, and in doing so grazed the edge of the coffee table, causing several upright books on military history to tumble. It was Farris, however, who gathered the books to their upright position between intricately carved bookends before settling for one end of the sofa. Figueredo, seeing the general had opted for the other single chair, moved toward the opposite end of the sofa.
“What have you got?” the general asked Sims.
Sims opened the green folder. “She keeps to herself. Hasn’t been involved with anyone that we can tell since her husband’s death. Her daughter, Molly, is five and attends kindergarten and aftercare on base. We could build a case for fraternization with Sergeant North, at least we could distract her with legal issues, or we could threaten to take away her kid. That’s worked before—”
The general nodded and then grinned. “Too bad we can’t pull what worked on that woman captain at Cherry Point.”
Sims shook his head. “She’s too young to claim that.”
“Worked, though,” said the general, grinning wider. “They pulled her security clearance. Can’t have a hysterical female going through the change of life, walking around with a top security clearance, now can we?” The general turned toward Figueredo for a reaction.
“She’s too young,” Figueredo said. “Just twenty-nine, I believe.” Sims confirmed this.
The tennis-like volleys between the general and Sims continued. Was her office bugged? Yes. Was her home being watched? Yes. How much contact was she having with the media? Standard until White’s crash. How much contact had she had with Melanie Appleton? Just once, as far as Sims could tell, and that was immediately after White’s crash. She owned a .45 caliber pistol that had been re-registered in her name after her husband’s death.
Throughout the discussion, Farris never uttered a sound, and Figueredo was guessing the silence was Farris’s way of hiding behind the wall of guilt associated with his squadron’s crash of another M-81.
“Appleton has become trouble,” the general said, then he again turned his attention to Figueredo.
“I’ve got Appleton covered, sir.”
“Then how the fuck did she end up on base talking to Anderson after the crash? What did she say to Anderson, huh? Do you have any idea what that bitch might have said to Anderson?”
“Appleton claims she was just confirming the crash,” Figueredo said. “I believe her.”
“You believe her,” the general said. “Well, you better by-god be right.” He jumped to his feet, causing the other three to do the same. “Okay, gentlemen,” he said, “keep me posted. It’s only the future of Marine Corps aviation at stake here, you know.”
CHAPTER 4
Outside the base chapel, Chase occasionally had to grab at her headgear whenever a windward breeze threatened to whisk it away. Marines in dress uniforms were beginning to pull into the parking lot. The air was thickening with dignity.
The base chapel was on a hilltop with an enviable view of the Pacific and of the two dormant volcanoes of Mokapu. Mountains had always grounded her. She’d grown up in the rural side of western Virginia where the Blue Ridge parkway was her backyard, where she and her brother had trekked up and down steep, forested hills, forged streams, and built forts, pretending to be soldiers on secret missions.
From this height above the Pacific, she could also make out the downtown skyline of Honolulu, even the tip of Diamond Head. Funny, she had never dreamed of visiting Hawaii, much less of living here. After living on the tiny island of Okinawa with Stone, despite its beauty, she’d found herself relieved to be on a more stable surface of the Earth, even if she and Stone had been assigned to Southern California where an occasional tremor reminded her otherwise.
Now in Hawaii, where Chase had been trying to remake a life with Stone and Molly after a year’s separation in the Middle East and until Stone’s second deployment, had she not lost her husband, she might have allowed herself to fall in love with Hawaii, with its enchanting beauty, folklore, and mystery.
Chase glanced at her watch and then back to Perimeter Road. North, Cruise, and Martinez should have arrived with the media. The plan had been to have the media leave their cars at the front gate and then transfer their equipment to the public affairs van that would be driven by North. Cruise and Martinez would use the sedans for any overrun of cameras and miscellaneous gear. Chase had arranged for a section to the rear of the chapel to be cordoned off for the media in an attempt to contain them from disturbing mourners.
She’d arrived at the chapel at the same time as the limousines bearing Major White’s and four other flag-draped caskets. The bodies of the other dead Marines, per family instructions, had been flown stateside for private services. The funeral guard, in dress blues with white gloves, under whispers of commands, had carried the caskets up the chapel steps and to the altar. A few early folks, three men and two women, had even beaten Chase to the chapel. She studied the faces of the women. Would Major White’s other woman show up for his memorial service? Most likely not, since the woman had cared
enough about the major to see that his dog tags were returned to his children. Chase suddenly felt a pang of guilt. Major White’s dog tags were at the bottom of her kitchen trashcan.
Outside, Marines and their families were gathering in groups around the parking lot and under the shady limbs of a banyan tree with roots that had protruded over and down the side of the cliff. Greetings were quiet handshakes and salutes. A few took their last puffs from cigarettes. Junior Marines somberly saluted Chase before disappearing behind the chapel’s double doors that had been adorned with funeral wreaths. Soft organ music spilled into the parking lot each time the doors opened. Chase quietly saluted the tall Major Sims and several other senior officers as they approached. Colonel Figueredo was now walking up the steps beside squadron CO, Colonel Farris. She saluted both men.
Farris acknowledged, returning her salute, then disappeared into the chapel.
“Captain Anderson,” Figueredo said and pushed a hand toward her. “Not the best of circumstances for an introduction, but I’ll take it.”
She slipped her hand in his. He was smiling with teeth so perfectly straight and white they could have won him a toothpaste or dental endorsement. Everything else about him was dark—his hair, his coloring, his eyes, even his past, so it would seem.
“A bit belated, but welcome to Hawaii, Colonel—”
An Unlawful Order (The Chase Anderson Series) Page 4
