Code 13 (2 page)

Many commands called detailers, saying, “I want Lieutenant So- and-So,” or, “I want Commander So-and-So to fill this billet.” The detailers tried to accommodate those requests.

Commanders in Sigonella, Japan, and London had probably called the detailers already and requested some officer other than Caroline as their first choice, and that was okay. It was nothing against her. It was just that most commanders had their favorites.

The detailer had tried persuading her to volunteer for the USS
George Washington.
But she hadn't yet complied with that, because frankly, her first choice was London, where she hoped to become staff judge advocate for CINCUSNAVEUR—the acronym for Commander in Chief, United States Naval Forces Europe.

She had heard through the grapevine that Commander Torp Kinsley was the top choice of CINCUSNAVEUR. But she had also heard that Vice Admiral Brewer was pushing the detailer to order Kinsley to Washington to Code 13, the most selective billet in the JAG Corps, where he would work alongside P.J.

Be still, my soul.

Deep down, Caroline hoped Kinsley would be unable to say no to the lure of Code 13 and that London would fall into her lap. She had stalled in volunteering for the
George Washington
for this reason.

Still, despite the detailers' used-car salesmen reputation, she knew the
George Washington
would be a great career move for her, because
sea duty, and especially carrier duty, was an absolute prerequisite for the selection board for captain.

Plus, there was a political push to get women into sea billets, another reason the detailer kept throwing the USS
George Washington
into the mix. Not only that, but her first cousin, Commander Gunner McCormick, was the senior intelligence officer attached to the
George Washington.

Gunner had grown up in Tidewater, Virginia. Caroline had grown up in Raleigh, North Carolina. And all the McCormick cousins had spent memorable Christmases and Thanksgivings together.

Gunner was scheduled to rotate off the
Washington
within the next six months. So their time together on the carrier, if that happened, would be short. But it would be nice to spend some time with Gunner, if only for a few months.

So going to sea at this point in her career wouldn't be the worst thing. Still, she could almost hear the sounds of Britain calling—Scottish bagpipes, the long, deep gongs of Big Ben booming down Whitehall and off the banks of the Thames, the precise clicking and flash of the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.

Why not hold out for her first choice? Life only gives you one shot.

Even so, she would miss this place, and she was lucky to be completing her second tour at the 32nd Street Naval Station.

At the end of the day, only God—and the detailer—knew where she would wind up next.

But this she did know: the U.S. Navy was hard on relationships.

When P.J. left for Washington, she thought about resigning her commission to follow him there. But he hadn't insisted. At least not to the degree she had hoped he would. A couple of bland suggestions that maybe she could “get out and move to DC” didn't give her the incentive she needed to resign her commission and forfeit her naval career.

Now he was on the East Coast and she was on the West Coast. Still, she hadn't been able to shake him, nor could she forget what they had together.

In fact, her lingering memories of P.J., and her still-powerful feelings from their romantic whirlwind that had lasted for a year, were
what had kept her from accepting the invitation for drinks from the handsome, steel-chinned, charismatic skipper of the
Cape St. George.

Her flame for P.J. still burned in her soul. Until that flame smoldered into smokeless ashes, she couldn't look another direction, no matter how attractive another direction might appear.

Her girlfriends had encouraged her to get out, to get her mind off P.J., to turn her heart to a place of new beginnings. “Caroline, you're crazy,” her best friend in San Diego and fellow JAG officer, Lieutenant Ginger Cepeda, had told her last night at dinner at the North Island Officers' Club. “Captain Kriete is a hunk. If you're not going to have a drink with him, put in a good word for me,” she said, half teasing and half serious.

“I'd be an accessory to fraternization, Ginger,” Caroline had told her younger comrade with a smile. “Your ranks are too far apart. You'll have to wait till he retires as a captain and you're promoted to at least lieutenant commander. And if he makes admiral, and he probably will, then it's hopeless for the two of you.”

“Technicalities, technicalities.” Ginger smiled, sipping a glass of pinot noir that was nearly as red as her hair. “Okay, I'll have to put in for deep selection to close the gap within two ranks. But seriously, Caroline, I support you no matter what.”

Caroline smiled at the thought of Ginger's words. At thirty-one, Caroline was three years older than Ginger, but Ginger had been her best friend ever since she had been in the Navy. The thought of leaving Ginger was nearly as painful as the memory of P.J. getting ordered to Washington.

Ginger meant well. She almost talked her into accepting the captain's invitation. But of course, even if she did accept the invitation, he, too, would be gone within several days, commanding his powerful cruiser on a voyage to the far side of the world.

What was the point?

The Navy was a jealous mistress—but strangely, in a way she could not understand, a jealous mistress she had grown to love.

Anyway, nothing cleared her head more than a run along the naval station waterfront.

Caroline leveled out her run, picking up the pace for the final stretch of two hundred yards, straight up Penn Street. With the sparkling waters of the San Diego waterfront to her left, she jogged north toward downtown San Diego, toward the northwest corner of the naval station. As the cool, refreshing breeze swept in from the bay, she fixed her eyes on the USS
Cowpens
, an Aegis cruiser identical to the
Cape St. George
, which was moored at Pier 1.

Just across the street from Pier 1 and the
Cowpens
, two flagpoles, one bearing the American flag, the other the blue-and-gold flag of the United States Navy, stood in front of the one-story, yellow stucco building known as Building 73, housing the Navy's Regional Legal Service Office.

The wind whipped into the flags, bringing them from gentle fluttering to full-fledged flapping. The sight of the flags energized her, igniting her quick-paced run into a full-on sprint.

Caroline kept her eyes on the flagpoles and pushed harder. Faster.

When she broke past the imaginary finish line she had drawn in her mind from the American flag on the right side of the street to the bow of the
Cowpens
moored at Pier 1 to her left, she decelerated from a furious sprint to a galloping stride, then to a slower jog, and finally to a stop, prompting her to bend over and grab her knees.

All the decelerating, from her furious sprint to now gasping for air, had taken place over a few seconds. She should have taken it easier, slowed more, jogged a couple of minutes after the sprint.

But she was running short on time. She needed to be across the bay by 1330 to meet with a group of sailors on the USS
Ronald Reagan
, the supercarrier that would soon be deploying to the Indian Ocean, leading the battle group with the
Cape St. George
.

She needed to get into the building quick, take a shower, then drive across Coronado Bridge, all within the next forty-five minutes.

Too much work.

Not enough time.

The life of a naval officer preparing the fleet for deployment.

“Commander McCormick.”

Caroline looked up toward Building 73. Legalman Master Chief
Richard Cisco was walking across the grass toward her. “What's up, Master Chief?”

Cisco was the command master chief and the highest-ranking enlisted person at the RLSO, which, as a practical matter, made him the third-most-respected member of the command, behind the captain and the executive officer. “Skipper wants to see you, ma'am.”

She looked up, her hands still grabbing her knees, and squinted at the tall, graying officer.

Great.

Another sidetrack before heading to North Island for her meeting.

“Great. What time?”

“Now, ma'am.”

“Now?” She stood up, allowing her pulse to slow a bit. “I'm not even in uniform.”

“Skipper knows you're p-teeing, ma'am.”
P-teeing
was military jargon for physical training. “But he says he wants you to report immediately. Says it can't wait.”

What could this be about?

Whatever, it couldn't be good.

“Okay, Master Chief. Tell the skipper I'm on my way.”

“Aye-aye, ma'am.” Cisco saluted, then did an about-face and walked back into the building.

Caroline checked her watch.

12:30 p.m.

This would be a tight squeeze. But if she were late getting to the
Reagan
, she would just have to be late. The orders of her own commanding officer took precedence.

She gathered herself for a second, then walked across the luscious green grass to the shell-and-concrete walkway leading to the quarterdeck of the RLSO.

Just as she stepped onto the first step leading to the outside entrance, a swishing sound arose from all over the front lawn. The lawn sprinkler system sprayed her ankles and calves with a round of cool water drops.

Fantastic. Now I'm sweating and dripping from the knees down.

She ascended the four concrete steps, opened the front double doors, and stepped into the command quarterdeck, past the U.S. flag on the left and the U.S. Navy flag on the right.

“Afternoon, Commander,” the duty officer said from behind his desk just to her left.

“Good afternoon, Ensign.”

Leaving a trail of water drops along the deck, she turned left and walked down the passageway toward the command offices.

A moment later, she entered the suite with a sign reading Commanding Officer.

The captain's secretary, Becky Carney, a sweet, gray-haired San Diego native, looked up and smiled. “Good afternoon, Commander McCormick.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Carney,” Caroline said. “Sorry for my appearance, but the master chief said the skipper wanted to see me now.”

“Yes, they're waiting for you now, Commander. The captain said for you to go on in.”

“Thank you.” Caroline stepped to the doorway of the captain's office and knocked three times.

“Come in.”

She stepped in and came to attention. After seven years in the Navy, this marked the first time she had ever come to attention in running shorts and a T-shirt.

“Lieutenant Commander McCormick reporting as ordered, sir.”

Captain Rudy, wearing a service khaki uniform, rocked back in his large chair behind his desk. Commander Al Reynolds, who was the XO, and Cisco stood behind him.

Rudy, a stocky, ruddy-faced officer from Texas, looked at her, put his hands behind his head, and smiled. “Glad to see you could make it, Commander.”

“My apologies, Captain. Just got in from a run before I have to head over to the
Reagan
to do some will preparation.”

“Don't worry about it. And stand at ease.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Master Chief, the commander looks like she could use a towel.”

“Already got it taken care of, Skipper.”

Cisco handed her a white towel, which she hadn't noticed he was holding until now. She took it, wiped her face, and draped it around her neck.

“Like some water?”

Why this constant grin from the captain?

“Thank you, sir.”

“Master Chief?”

“Aye, Skipper.”

Cisco poured ice water from a pitcher sitting on the captain's desk and handed it to her.

“Thanks, Master Chief.”

The cool water provided instant relief as the captain uncrossed his arms. “So I guess you're wondering what's so important that I pulled you in here before you could take a shower.”

“My only thought is service to my country, service to the Navy, and service to my command, Captain.”

Rudy's belly laugh broke the tension. He poured himself a cup of water. “You know the reason I have you in command services doing wills and powers of attorney and not in court, Commander?”

“I'm afraid to ask, sir.” She allowed herself a smile.

“It's because you're a terrible liar.”

She tried to suppress her giggling but ended up bursting into loud laughter. “Sorry, Captain. You're right.”

“Anyway, if you want to know the real reason I hauled you in off your run, look over your shoulder.”

She turned around and felt her heart leap. “Gunner!”

The slender naval officer with the three gold stripes of a Navy commander on the sleeves of his service dress blue jacket smiled and opened his arms in a give-me-a-hug gesture.

“How's my favorite cousin?” he asked.

Caroline started to hug him. “Wait. I'm sweaty. I'll mess up your dress blues.”

“Who cares?” He pulled her to him in a big, affectionate bear hug, and she noticed he wore the same cologne P.J. used to wear.

She smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” She turned back around. “Captain, this is my cousin, Commander Gunner McCormick.”

“Yes, I know who Commander McCormick is,” Rudy said. “Everybody knows Commander McCormick. Not everybody makes international headlines for hauling prisoners out of North Korea. There is a method to the Navy's madness, you know.”

“Yes, of course.” She looked back at her favorite cousin. “What are you doing here, Gunner?”

“Skipper asked me to drop by.” Gunner nodded at Captain Rudy. “He thought you might need a little extra help with some things.”