Navy Orders

You’re starting a new chapter today. Be nice.

“I didn’t realize you live off-island.” She referred to the fact that he was driving toward Whidbey.

“I don’t.”

No other explanations. She squirmed. What he did in his personal time was his business.

“Don’t worry, I’m not courting anyone else, Roanna.” He shot her a quick grin, an attempt at a return to their normal banter, while he waited for the car in front of him to inch forward. “I had to get up early to deliver a dog to a rescue group in Anacortes. It was the only time the volunteer could take delivery and get her out to Spokane today.”

“You work with a dog rescue?” Chagrin struck her as soon as she said the words. She’d heard he’d lost his working dog in the war.

“When I can.”

Miles swung off the right side of the highway and pulled into the small parking lot that heralded the start of Deception Pass Park. She didn’t miss how easily he maneuvered the big truck among the smaller, more practical cars. Apparently EOD training included massive vehicle handling.

Her gaze went from his hands on the wheel to his legs. Clad in workout pants his prosthetic leg wasn’t visible. But she’d seen him running in shorts on the naval air station jogging path, and working out in the gym. He had a titanium prosthetic for running and a more conventional one for his uniform.

“Looks like you’re going to work out, too.”

“Yup, every morning before I report to the wing. If I don’t keep my muscles in shape I’ll lose them.” His left hand rested on the top of the steering wheel while he leaned on his right arm, which was way too close to her on the center divider of the cab. She could even make out the fine blond-tinged hairs that covered parts of his hand and fingers.

“Hmm.” She wanted to tell him that his obvious strength of character impressed the hell out of her, but that might make him think she cared. Or that she’d reconsidered his previous invitations to go out for a meal or cup of coffee together.

Not happening.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Sure.”

She swallowed. “No, I mean it. You didn’t have to stop, didn’t have to give a damn. But you did. And I don’t have to be such a pain in the ass to you all the time.”

Now she had his attention. Bright sparks danced in his blue irises.

“So now, after almost a year, after I’ve made a fool of myself, you’re willing to be nice to me?”

“I’m sorry for the times I was rude, Miles. Truly.”

Before he made more out of this than necessary she pushed open the door, slid down from the high seat and got out of the truck. She was careful to appear casual as she shut the door and headed for her car. She noted that he waited until she was safely inside her car before he pulled out of the parking lot.

The drive into the base wasn’t going to be long enough to get his brilliant blue eyes and shy smile out of her mind.

Miles’s confident demeanor had pricked her bubble of I-don’t-need-a-man denial since the moment she’d met him the better part of a year ago. They’d first come face-to-face when her mother’s cat had decided to run up a tree. Miles had expertly scaled the tree and saved the cat. Unwittingly he’d also saved Roanna from her mother’s emotional fallout. It would have been pure hell if Henry the Eighth, Mom’s cat, had perished.

A week later he’d walked into the wing staff meeting as the new weapons officer and she’d been forced to acknowledge that he had an above-average physique. When she’d discovered he was an amputee she’d been in even more awe of his physical prowess, given the fact that he’d climbed such a huge tree.

But when he’d asked her out on a date she’d reeled in her drawbridge. No man was going to cross the moat she’d built around herself, especially not a man she found so attractive. Casually dating nonthreatening men was her modus operandi.

You played it safe with Dick and look where it got you.

Miles hadn’t given up on her right away, but at least now he appeared to accept that they were work colleagues, period. Another point in his favor, damn it. He was a nice guy.

* * *

RO WATCHED AS her best friend, Gwen, carried two cups of coffee from the on-base fast-food restaurant’s front counter. They had a standing appointment to meet each Friday morning, time permitting, to connect and see if they were going to do anything together over the weekend.

“Ah, heaven. Fresh hot coffee and it’s Friday!” Gwen smiled at Ro and placed the paper cups with steaming liquid on the table. Ro reflexively smiled back.

They’d met at the academy on the sailing team and had been good friends ever since. Gwen was a few years older, ahead of her in college, and her senior in naval year groups. They’d both been happy when Ro’s orders had come through for Whidbey—they hadn’t been in the same area for the past ten years. Ro, especially, had benefitted from having Gwen available to listen to her vent in person instead of on Skype as she came to terms with her new life without Dick.

Gwen’s frank gaze made Ro want to squirm.

“What? What is it you’re dying to tell me?”

“You could do a lot worse than Miles Mikowski, Ro. I know you didn’t want to go out with him, or anyone, when you first broke up with Dick and started this tour. But it’s been a long time. You finally threw away your past today, even if you couldn’t have chosen a stupider way to do it.” Gwen’s crooked smirk couldn’t erase her classic beauty. A tall, wispy blonde, she’d been the envy of the other female mids when they were in school. She’d done everything they did and still managed to look like a porcelain doll no matter how sweaty or dirty she got.

“You could have just told me you needed a girls’ night or weekend and we could have gone to Whistler for a spa weekend. There are plenty of high mountains to throw a ring off there, with no threat of being tackled by an EOD dude.” Gwen stirred two packets of sugar into her coffee. “You’re damned lucky the trooper didn’t haul you off for a psych evaluation.”

“Yeah, well, Miles could say the same. As for going on a trip, I had to do it on my own. You know that.”

“I do.” Gwen regarded her steadily with pine-green eyes. “This was better, wasn’t it? Being in a hotel in Whistler with your best friend wouldn’t have gotten you tackled by Miles.”

Gwen leaned forward.

“Be honest—was it hot?”

Ro took a good gulp of her cappuccino to hide her smile. Gwen made her laugh but she didn’t want to laugh about Miles. Not when every inch of her ached from the way he’d “saved” her this morning.

“How are you and Drew adjusting to the command tour?” She wasn’t going to admit her feelings even to Gwen.

Gwen puckered her lips and raised her eyebrows.

“We’re doing as well as we can, considering he’s still upset I took the command tour orders. No, let me change that. We’re doing horribly, and I don’t know why we’re still together. How’s that for a depressing take on marriage?”

“And you want me to date Miles.”

“Dating and getting married are vastly different. Miles is perfect for you. If you think about it, it’s pretty romantic that he pounced on you when he thought you were going to leap off the bridge.”

“He was acting on instinct—he said it himself. He’s been on too many battlefields, seen too many people in the throes of their PTSD. He did the right thing, I guess. Except that he should’ve taken a minute to ask me first before he assumed I was suicidal.”

“Don’t be so hard on him, Ro. Or on yourself. You said you want to let go of your past, open up your mind. Have you ever considered a more permanent change? Have you thought about getting out of the navy?”

No, but she knew this was the next area of her life that had to be addressed. At more than nine years in, she was nearing the halfway mark to retirement.

“I’m only willing to handle one life change per day, Gwen. You’re the last person I’d expect to ask me about whether or not I’m making the navy a career. Where is this coming from?”

Gwen’s glance strayed to the view of the runway the window they sat next to provided. She shrugged and looked back at Ro.

“With all the stress my new tour has put on my marriage, I’m wondering if I should have gotten out sooner, taken a job with the airlines. Drew’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve having to worry about me flying war missions all over the globe.”

“B.S.! You’re one of the most talented, proficient pilots in the whole navy! Drew needs to chill. After this tour you can get out if you want to, or take a shore tour and think about it.”

Gwen shook her head.

“I just want you to consider that you have many, many options. You’re an academy grad, you’ve served in wartime and you have a background in computer systems. You’re eminently employable. But what about your knitting? There’s more to your interests, lots of things I don’t think you’ve even considered yet. This is your shore tour to do that.”

“Gee, thanks, Mom.”

“Cut it out.” Gwen looked at her watch. “Gotta go. You’ve got an AOM today, too, don’t you?”

Ro nodded.

“Suggestion—say ‘yes’ to Miles when you see him.” Gwen smiled and gave her shoulder a squeeze before she walked out of the fast-food place.

Indeed.

CHAPTER TWO

TWO HOURS LATER Roanna straightened her khaki uniform skirt and put on her favorite tinted lip moisturizer before she left her desk to walk to the wing conference room. It was only a quarter to nine but she’d lived a lifetime since she’d left her house for her run on Deception Pass this morning.

Each week the wing staff, along with various squadron representatives, briefed the wing commander, also referred to as the wing commodore, on the status of all wing patrol squadron forces in the world that were under his command. A complete intelligence brief was part of the package, as was a weather brief, operations brief and maintenance brief.

Ro was responsible for the intelligence brief, but whenever possible it was presented by a squadron intelligence officer or one of her intelligence specialists. She’d had enough face time to last her an entire career. She believed in giving less experienced intel types a chance to improve their skills.

Ro entered the roomy air-conditioned space and glanced at the dozen or so seats around the huge wood conference table and the seats lined up at the sides of the room. Miles wasn’t there yet and she let out her breath. At least she had a few more minutes during which she didn’t have to worry about him looking at her.

Go ahead, tell yourself that. You’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t show up.

She was giving Miles way too much rental space in her head. She pulled out a chair three down from the head of the table, where the commodore would sit. He’d be flanked by his chief staff officer and the operations officer, followed by maintenance and intelligence. All rank-related.

Right after she sat down, the senior enlisted sailor came into the room and handed her a piece of paper.

“Good morning, Commander.” The rank of lieutenant commander was often shortened to “Commander” in regular conversation.

“Hey, Master Chief Reis, how are you doing?”

“Fine, ma’am. The commodore wants to meet with you after the AOM.” Master Chief Petty Officer Lydia Reis referred to the all officers meeting, AOM, as Ro took the small yellow slip of paper.

“Did his secretary say what for?”

“No, and it wasn’t his secretary who told me—it was Commodore Sanders.”

“Okay, thanks.” She did her best to maintain an air of unconcern. Captain Leo Sanders, Wing Commodore, never made direct calls to any of his staff. They jokingly referred to him as the “CEO.” He made sure everyone knew he was the boss, no questions, but was also more friendly and personable than the average high roller. Ro had worked for Commodore Sanders since she’d reported to N.A.S. Whidbey fourteen months ago. He’d been more than fair on her fitness reports so she didn’t have a personal beef with him. But she’d also seen him slice and dice her colleagues for transgressions in front of the entire staff. He regularly broke the “reprimand in private, praise in public” rule of thumb. It was the epitome of how a leader shouldn’t behave. But he was in charge and it wasn’t her call how he acted. He gave her enough room to do her job as the wing intelligence officer without micromanaging her.

Besides, he had a great sense of humor that was most welcome when the staff was under the gun for an inspection or unplanned mission.

Why does he need to talk to me?

Ro ran her fingers along the edge of the polished maple conference table. She hadn’t screwed up on anything that she was aware of. She also hadn’t done anything that merited a surprise award or commendation, either.

She felt a distinct ripple of unease. She’d never gotten into any kind of trouble as an officer, yet she knew from experience that when a high-ranking superior wanted to see you on such short notice it was usually for something pretty serious. Commodore Sanders was a busy man in a responsible job. He wouldn’t be asking to see her for something he could have had his chief staff officer request from her.

Her apprehension was further piqued when Master Chief Reis handed Miles the same yellow slip of paper, with the same quiet request, right after he sat down in the chair opposite her. His expression remained unreadable as he read the note but when he raised his head and caught her staring, he grinned.

Oh, no. He thought she was looking at him for an entirely different reason.

“I got the same message.” She blurted out the obvious.

Miles raised his brows. He didn’t appear as concerned as she was. Of course, he was the weapons officer and probably got called into the commodore’s office a lot more often than she did. Weapons cost a lot of money, hence they were right behind the costs of aircraft maintenance and fuel as the budget-driving concerns.

Ro rarely spoke to the commodore one-on-one; there was no need to. He received his daily intelligence briefings from her or her staff via a short classified memo, and if he required further explanation he called her in along with his CSO to help explain and ask questions, too. The CSO served as the commodore’s extra eyes and ears in most instances.

Ro thought about asking Miles if he knew what the summons was about when the ops officer barked out, “Attention on deck!” Ro pushed out her chair and stood at straight attention in one fluid movement, as did everyone else. Commodore Sanders strode in.

“At ease, everybody. Take your seats.” He was always quick to put them at ease and get on with the briefings. Ro liked this about Commodore Sanders. He didn’t have time to waste and he didn’t want to waste anyone else’s time, either.

She folded the admin message into fours and placed it in the front pocket of her khaki skirt. She’d worry about whatever the meeting was about later.

The briefings all went as usual with nothing significant to report from most departments. The meteorologist pointed out that the current gale-force gusts were from a Pacific storm that could make landfall on Whidbey over the weekend but would most probably break up before it arrived.

Ro had just finished her first full year here and had never experienced a major storm on the island. She looked around the room. No one else seemed too worked up over that piece of news.

She noted that the commodore was quiet this morning, which boded well for the junior officer who was about to give the intelligence brief.

The JO from Patrol Squadron Eighty-Six started up well and appeared to hold the commodore’s interest throughout his brief spiel. He concluded his presentation with an overview of the current political situation in the Middle East.

“So you’re telling me what I’ve already seen on CNN this morning, Lieutenant?” Commodore Sanders never held back on the intel types. Typical of most aviators, he liked to think that being a pilot was the only career in the navy worth anything.

Ro stifled a frustrated sigh. Sanders had been quiet so far. Why now, why her briefer?

“No, sir. CNN is open-source. What I’m providing is verifiable by multiple classified sources.”

“The new data about the movement of the weapon sites is the salient point here, Commodore.” Ro jumped in before the commodore could twist the skewer he’d lobbed into the junior officer. Let the big guy aim his ire at her, not one of her subordinates.

“I heard him, Ro.”

Ro did her best to keep a grimace off her face.

“Sir, I can look up more information for you, sir.” The red-faced lieutenant junior grade didn’t get it. Ro shot him a look that she hoped conveyed her desire for him to shut up and sit down. The JO didn’t move, caught in the clutches of wanting to make such a high-ranking officer happy.

“Thank you, Mike.” She nodded at the row of seats behind the conference table as she spoke to the lieutenant. He shoved his pointer into the pocket of his uniform pants and sat down. Ro made a mental note to talk to him later, to tell him he’d done a bang-up presentation. It wasn’t his fault that the commodore was in a prickly mood.

She knew his prickly mood could be the result of myriad things—but she hoped it didn’t have anything to do with her meeting with him a few minutes from now.

The rest of the AOM was rocky in parts as the commodore grilled everyone from the admin to the ops officer about the particulars of their presentations. Everyone took it in stride; Commodore Sanders had a lot on his shoulders, and besides, it was the staff’s job to inform and support the commodore, not wonder why he had his knickers in a twist.

After what seemed like hours but was only twenty-three minutes from the start of the AOM, the CSO, also a navy captain and the commodore’s right-hand man, wrapped up the meeting and everyone stood to attention as the commodore got up and left. The CSO paused and turned around.

“Miles and Ro, I need to talk to you.”

Everyone else cleared out.

Ro liked the CSO. Captain Ross Bedford had been on the same aircraft carrier as she was during the war and they’d enjoyed a good working relationship. He was a solid guy who put his family first whenever possible. Ross and his wife, Toni, had Ro over for family barbecues and holidays from time to time. He served as a great counterpart to the commodore’s often-serious demeanor, as Ross was always ready with a joke and liked to keep things positive. Despite the commodore’s sense of humor, which made an occasional appearance, his job frequently required him to play the heavy or to convey an impression of gravitas.

This morning Ross didn’t have any of his usual jovial spark.

“You two know you’re meeting with the commodore now, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Ro and Miles spoke in unison.

“Do you have any idea why?” He studied both of them as if looking for a reaction.

“No, sir,” Miles replied, and Ro shook her head.

Ross sighed.

“Okay, that’s a good thing, at least. Stand by for a major bombshell—” Ross grimaced at Miles ”—sorry, Miles.” His reference to a bomb only made Miles, an explosive ordnance expert, smile.

“No problem, sir.”

Ro inwardly squirmed. Miles’s leg had been blown off by an IED, close enough to a “bomb.” She thought Ross could have been a little more aware of what was coming out of his mouth.

Whatever was going on was major. First, the commodore had been the crankiest she’d seen him yet, and now Ross was showing cracks in his usually professional deportment.

“Let’s go.” Ross turned and held the door open for Ro to go ahead, while he and Miles followed her down the carpeted hall. The commodore’s office spaces were the nicest on all of N.A.S. Whidbey, even classier than the base commanding officer’s rooms. The wing commander was at the helm of all patrol squadron operations on the island. If something happened in or to a P-3 squadron in the wing, Commodore Sanders was responsible and accountable. That included ugly repercussions from mishaps, such as last month when a pilot and his crew left their aircraft before completing all the items on the shut-down checklist. They hadn’t noticed that the chocks under the front wheels weren’t secured. When a gale blew across the island that night, it put the P-3 nose-first through a hangar door. The commanding officer of the squadron took a career hit but it was the commodore who’d had to brief Senate staffers on why his overall wing maintenance budget had increased by two million dollars in one operational cycle.

Ro’s gut told her their impending meeting with the commodore was not going to be positive in nature.

The commodore sat behind his massive oak desk perusing his computer screen. He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge them at all on their arrival.

Ro noted how ridiculous the desk still seemed to her. The commodore had insisted on having it moved in here. He’d found it in a government surplus warehouse, he’d said. Ro guessed that the desk had originally been used by a politician from the area. It wasn’t extra-fancy or anything, just massive. Too big for the office space. There weren’t enough seats for them all to sit down so they stood, waiting for the commodore to look up from his screen.

Ro took in the vast number of diplomas and professional awards with which the commodore had basically wallpapered his office. She loathed when navy pilots lived up to stereotypes in any way, shape or form. While the commodore had his “I love me” wall, he never gave off the air of superiority conveyed by his accomplishments.

She supposed he was a good guy, overall. She couldn’t fault him professionally, and who was she to judge? If she stayed the course and took navy orders tour after tour, to different jobs and places around the globe, she might want her own “I love me” wall in her office one day.

The silence stretched and Ro wondered why on earth Ross wasn’t opening his mouth to get the commodore’s attention. Whatever happened to dealing with the live body in front of you instead of an inanimate computer screen?

The commodore blinked before he looked up and studied all three of them. Upon closer inspection Ro saw that the lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes were deeper and more pronounced than usual. A lifelong golfer, the commodore had seen his share of sun and his skin reflected that with its perpetual tan. Today he looked pasty under his bronze.

Her curiosity swelled and she wished she had a cup of coffee to hold, something to cover her anxiety.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” He always ignored the fact that women served in the navy—a fact that Ro didn’t miss but didn’t obsess over, either. She’d experienced worse discrimination over the course of her career to date. He probably thought he was paying her a compliment by considering her one of the guys.

“Morning, sir. I’ve gathered Ro and Miles as you requested. Are you sure you don’t want Master Chief Reis in here, too?” Ross’s tone was more conciliatory than usual.

“No, no, let’s keep it close-hold as long as we can.”

Whatever had them all in here at this moment wasn’t something he wanted his senior enlisted sailor to know about, not yet.

The commodore pursed his lips and fiddled with the fountain pen that sat in a brass holder on his desk.

“We have a big problem, folks, and there’s no easy way to tell you about it.” He steepled his hands in front of his face and took a deep breath.

“One of our young sailors died last night. It’s a clear case of suicide brought on by wartime post-traumatic stress disorder. Miles, I’m sorry to tell you it was a man from your department. Petty Officer José Perez.”

The air left Ro’s lungs.

“AMS1 Perez?” She referred to him by his enlisted rate―aviation structural mechanic―and rank―petty officer first class.

“You knew him?” The commodore’s attention made shivers race up her spine.

“Yes, sir.”

The commodore’s hawkish gaze made her feel like she was the one under investigation. She wriggled her toes in her black patent uniform shoes. She’d be damned if she’d ever let anyone see her squirm, no matter the reason.