Code 13 (13 page)

“But the Secretary of Homeland Security, Bob Bradshaw, wouldn't take no for an answer. So he pressed some of his buddies in the senate to draft language that would require, as a stipulation for funding, that the Navy would fly the drones over this so-called Constitution-Free Zone and secretly share the data with Homeland Security. In fact, there's language in the legislation that will allow for real-time camera feeds and data feeds from the Navy to Homeland Security headquarters when the drones are in flight over U.S. soil.

“So, yes, this project is technically a U.S. Navy command. For drones patrolling the coastline and flying over open waters, the Navy will be running the show without interference from Homeland Security. But for flights over this Constitution-Free Zone, everything gets shared between the Navy and Homeland Security. They're talking about setting up a joint ops center with Navy drone pilot-controllers and intelligence centers, but the intelligence centers would be manned by Homeland Security officers, and they would have authority to direct overland surveillance.”

The wind whipped up again, and Victoria brushed back a strand of auburn hair from her forehead. “I think I get it. They sell the contract politically as a Navy project, with half really for DHS, so it's an easier political sell.”

“Bingo. You've got it. That's why they want the
posse comitatus
opinion. Because these Navy drones are going to be used for domestic police actions. In fact, I think it will primarily become a DHS operation before it's over with. They're going to finish off whatever's left of the Fourth Amendment.”

He stopped and gazed at her, and she did not break eye contact.

“So what are you going to do?” She spoke softly.

“I don't know. That's why my stomach is twisted in knots. I mean, in theory, they're asking me for an independent legal opinion. But billions of dollars are riding on this contract. There's no doubt in my mind they want a rubber-stamp opinion saying all is well from a legal standpoint and there would be no violations of
posse comitatus
. But it's
not just
posse comitatus
I'm worried about. I'm more worried about the Fourth Amendment.”

“Excuse me. Would you all like anything else?”

The waitress was standing over P.J.'s shoulder. Hopefully she hadn't overheard their conversation. Even if she had, she wouldn't understand it. “No thanks, Marilyn. You can bring the check.”

“I have it right here for you, sir.”

“Thank you.”

He glanced at the bill and waited until Marilyn walked back into the bar.

“She's ready to close out,” Victoria said.

“Yes, it's closing time.” He checked his watch, then extracted sixty dollars from his wallet, put the money in the check holder, and slid it to the middle of the table. “So what do you think I should do?”

“Can I ask a question?” A soft smile.

“Sure.”

“Do you remember our oath as officers?”

“Yes.”

“What do you remember about it?”

“That we took an oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”

“Then let your oath be your guiding star. That's my advice for you.”

Her words had a soothing effect, even if his stomach was still knotted. “I like that.” He felt himself smile. He checked his watch again. “It's late. We'd better go. May I walk you to your car?”

“I'd love that.”

He stood and got her chair for her, gently touching her back and guiding her off the patio.

“Thank you, sir.” Marilyn grinned when she looked at her nice-sized tip.

“My pleasure.” He nodded at Marilyn, then led Victoria out onto the sidewalk.

The streetlights revealed the outlines of a few cars still parked
alongside the bar. But since it was a weeknight, the street had mostly cleared.

“Where are you parked?” P.J. asked.

“I'm the blue Volvo. Right across the street, just past the park.”

They turned left, walking on the sidewalk along the street, past the causeway park. The moon was three-quarters full, casting a dim white glow along the sidewalk to supplement the streetlights at the corner of every block down Royal Street.

“Nice car.”

“Thanks.” The Volvo beeped and flashed when she pressed the automatic unlock. “It's brand new. I treated myself when I got my orders here. I figured you've got to drive around Washington in style.”

A cool breeze wafted in from the river. He stepped to the driver's door and opened it for her.

She looked into his face and smiled, her hand on his arm.

Time froze.

A starry magic descended on the moment, intertwined with a strand of awkwardness.

“P.J., I had a great time. Thank you for the evening.”

“It's been my pleasure. Let's do it again.”

“I'd like that.” She started to get into the car, then stopped and turned to him. “Look, I know this is a tough time for you. But I also know you'll make the right decision. And no matter what you decide, I want you to remember one thing.”

“What's that?”

“No matter what, I'm here for you, P.J.”

She pulled his face to hers. When their lips touched, the awkwardness yielded to the magic. She drew herself close to him, and the starry canopy above seemed to surround them in the moment.

At some point, at a moment that came all too soon, their lips separated. She turned and, with a continuous smile crossing her face, got into the driver's seat.

She closed the door, rolled down the window, and started the engine as her headlights lit the street.

“Bye.” She smiled at him, blew him a kiss, and drove away.

He watched the Volvo's taillights disappear out of view as the car hung a left from Royal Street onto King Street. Then he turned and walked back into another gust of cool breeze.

He pulled out his keys to unlock his black Audi, which was parked by the pub.

His phone sounded in his pocket. A text message.

He smiled. She missed him already! He'd give her a hard time tomorrow about texting and driving. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone.

The smile on his face vanished when he read the text.

Hey, you! It's me! I'll be at the Pentagon Wednesday visiting with ADM Brewer and getting ready for my new duty station. Wanna go for a run? Like the good ole days? 1300?
I can swing by Code 13, then we can go down to the Pentagon gym, change, and you can show me all the sights in Washington.

Can't wait!

XO, Caroline

Great. He did not immediately respond. Now what?

He got into the Audi, cranked the engine, and drove off into the night.

WEST SPRINGFIELD APARTMENTS

BURLING WOOD DRIVE

WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA

LIEUTENANT VICTORIA FLADAGER'S APARTMENT

With a smile helplessly plastered on her face, Victoria walked up the concrete stairway to the second deck, inserted the master key, and turned it clockwise.

Even with the BAH allowance, the extra pay she got for housing
based on the high cost of living in the Washington area wasn't enough for a junior officer to purchase real estate. Military housing, which was scarce, got snapped up so quickly that most naval officers resigned themselves to living in local housing.

So she had rented a modest but functionally adequate apartment in West Springfield, some thirteen miles from the Pentagon, and had tightened her budget to adjust to Washington living.

The lack of affordable housing was one reason she decided to treat herself to the new Volvo. Just because her apartment wasn't five-star didn't mean she couldn't splurge a bit on a car.

At the moment, however, financial budgeting was the last thing on Victoria's mind.

He had pulled her against his muscular, six-foot body, and as she ran her hand through his short brown hair, he'd closed his blue eyes, and she closed hers.

His cologne. His kiss.

Wow.

Perhaps she'd been a bit aggressive by initiating the kiss. But still . . . wow.

Regardless of who initiated it, he certainly cooperated. Oh, did he ever cooperate!

Victoria locked the door behind her and plopped down on the brown leather sofa in the living room, a smile still plastered on her face, her heart bubbling like a quart of festive champagne.

There was only one problem.

She had already heard the rumors. The Navy JAG Corps was a small community, and officers in the JAG Corps talked. It was odd that he had never mentioned her. Even tonight, with his mind on the drone project, she thought he might have mentioned her. But no, it was like she was the taboo subject, the elephant in the room.

Of course, from what Victoria had heard, Lieutenant Commander Caroline McCormick was anything but an elephant. More like a sleek tigress—fit, trim, and beautiful.

According to the rumor mill, they had been serious, to the point of
marriage, even—or so the gossips said. In this case, Victoria's Justice School classmate Lieutenant Christie Perry, who was stationed in San Diego, had been her principal source of intelligence.

Victoria had done her homework by putting in several calls to Christie after she'd gotten to Code 13 and noticed the solid, muscular eye-candy minding his own business sitting over in the Legislation and FOIA section, serving as a guaranteed distraction to any woman's eyes that might wander in his direction.

“Oh my gosh!” Christie had said. “Vickie, I should have warned you when you got your orders to Code 13 from Norfolk. Like, every single female JAG officer was in love with this guy. I mean, P.J. MacDonald could pass for a young Cary Grant. But he and Caroline McCormick were such a hot item that nobody had a chance. Then when they broke up, everybody lined up.”

“Do you know why they broke up?” Victoria had asked.

“Who knows? He must have done it. No woman in her right mind would drop that guy. I heard it was because he got orders back east and they didn't want a long-distance relationship.”

Great.

They broke up because they didn't think they could maintain a long-distance relationship. And now, in a matter of days, they would be in the same city again.

How blissfully convenient.

Of course, what could she say? She had used the same “long-distance relationship” line when she broke up with Mark a month ago. She'd felt guilty about it. After all, was Norfolk to Washington really that long a distance? Come on. The 195 miles that separated her from Mark hardly mirrored a cross-continent move, like the real long-distance relationship between P.J. and Lieutenant Commander Lover Girl, which unfortunately was about to be long distance no longer.

The three-and-a-half-hour drive separating Norfolk and Washington wouldn't have doused the sizzle between them if there had been a sizzle to begin with.

Mark could figure out that her “long-distance relationship” excuse was bogus. He was a smart guy. But even though the split-up was hard, he never argued about her excuse. He was too much of a gentleman.

If Mark was guilty of anything, it was being too polite, clean, handsome, and considerate. It was sort of nice to have someone get the door for her, to send her flowers, to remember not only her birthday but also her parents' birthdays. In fact, Mark Romanov was the kind of guy who would be on every mother's approved list. That was part of the problem. He had no flaws.

Plus, he worked as a CPA for a “Big Eight” accounting firm in Virginia Beach before joining the Naval Criminal Investigative Service as an investigator with a focus on fraud.

That, too, was part of the problem.

She wanted another naval officer. Not an auditor. Not even an auditor who worked as an investigator for NCIS. The TV show
NCIS
had never matched the excitement of the
JAG
television series. And like so many millions of young women, she had secretly fallen in love with Commander Harmon Rabb.