Code 13 Read online

  CIRCLING THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT

  The breeze had cooled down a bit, and the circle of American flags flapping in the breeze gave a sudden boost of patriotic adrenaline.

  The monument marked the halfway point of the run, P.J. had told her. From here they would run the loop around the monument, then run back down the Mall, past the World War II Memorial, past the Lincoln Memorial, back across the Memorial Bridge, then skirt the edge of Arlington Cemetery and head back to the Pentagon.

  This was her first run on the Mall, and she didn’t want to look like a tourist. But still, something about the size and grandeur of that great obelisk, the Washington Monument, compelled her to stare upward.

  “You’re going to get dizzy if you keep looking up,” P.J. said.

  “I know. I feel like a stupid tourist.”

  “Don’t feel bad.” He showed no sign of being winded. “I did the same thing for the first week.”

  They circled around the back side of the monument, the U.S. Capitol side, then approached the Lincoln Memorial side.

  “Hey, wanna kick up the tempo a little bit?” she said.

  “Let’s do it.”

  He jumped out ahead of her a little, looking fabulous in navy blue running shorts and a white T-shirt. She took in the view for a second, then responded with an extra burst of speed and caught up with him, now on the down stretch toward the reflecting pool.

  “Trying to make me look bad, are you, big boy?”

  “You’re the one who wanted to pick up the pace.”

  “I figured you needed to get back to do some finishing work on your big brief.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” He sounded less than enthusiastic.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.”

  “No worries. I’ll just be glad to get it over with. The whole thing is a stupid idea, if you ask me.”

  They approached a young couple holding hands, coming down the gravel walkway in the opposite direction. Caroline split right. P.J. split left. A second later, past the couple, they reconverged, running shoulder to shoulder, and jogged across 17th Street, now almost at the beginning of the World War II Memorial.

  “Hey, you know what?” P.J. said.

  “What?”

  “We should slow down a little bit when we circle the World War II Memorial out of respect. This is the most hallowed ground in DC, if you ask me. I don’t want to be a distraction to people trying to get in here.”

  “Agree.”

  They slowed their tempo to almost a jog as they took a semicircle path to the right around the World War II Memorial.

  Caroline looked to her left at the large, oval-shaped monument. It was surrounded by fifty-six granite pillars and a huge fountain out in the middle. P.J. was right. People milled within the monument, moving slowly, with a solemn respect for the sacrifice of four hundred thousand Americans who gave their lives for the liberation of Europe and the Pacific. She felt the same goose bumps she had felt when they jogged past Arlington Cemetery.

  They said not a word until they had cleared to the west of the Memorial, with the beginning of the reflecting pool now in front of them.

  “You mind if I change the subject?” she asked.

  “Please do. Anything other than my writing assignment.”

  “Sooo . . .” She hesitated. “What’s going on with Victoria?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the first time she laid eyes on me, she shot me the look of a cobra ready to strike.”

  “You think she looked like a cobra?”

  “Okay, more like a jealous paramour determined to protect her property.”

  “So what are you getting at?”

  “You know what I’m getting at.”

  “Are you asking if there’s anything between me and Victoria?”

  “Like I said. You know what I’m getting at.”

  The sound of an airliner roared overhead. P.J. responded, “Okay, so we went out once. No big deal.”

  “I didn’t hear an answer to my question, Counselor.”

  “Do you care?”

  “Don’t know about care.” She picked up the pace, moving about a half step ahead of him. “But I can be curious, can’t I? I mean, we were almost engaged.”

  “You know what they say about curiosity, don’t you?”

  “Yes, curiosity killed the cat. But you still didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’ll put it this way. There might be something there from her perspective. But for me? I’ll be honest. I’m glad you got orders to Code 13.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Race you back to the Pentagon,” she said.

  “You’re on.”

  She picked up the pace again, pulling now a full step ahead of him, taking in the glorious sight of the Lincoln Memorial ahead and the sparkling waters of the reflecting pool just to their left.

  The single, popping sound at first seemed like a sharp clap from the traffic along Constitution Avenue over to their right. No, maybe it came from the cherry and elm trees above.

  A moment later, when it seemed like she was running alone, she glanced back over her shoulder.

  He was down, face-first in the gravel walkway beside the pool, and his right hand beat against the ground.

  Blood rushed from a gaping hole in his temple.

  She stopped, turned around, and screamed at the top of her lungs.

  “Help! Somebody help me!”

  She sprinted to him and kneeled, weeping, screaming. “No, please! No! P.J.! Wake up! Please! P.J., please! Not this way! No! Please!”

  OPERATIONAL HEADQUARTERS

  U.S. NAVY DRONE COMMAND

  U.S. NAVAL AIR STATION “PAX RIVER”

  LEXINGTON PARK, MARYLAND

  Paul sat in the coffee mess chatting with Commander John Jefferies, drinking coffee and snacking on a handful of dry-roasted almonds.

  “So, John, level with me. You’ve done some dry runs with these DHS guys. What are your thoughts?”

  Jefferies hesitated. He sipped his coffee. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “That’s why I asked you.”

  “I think this drone project, for purposes of allowing us to patrol coastal waters, gives us an opportunity to enhance national security, sir. But when it comes to domestic surveillance”—he took another sip of coffee—“the chemistry with these Homeland Security controllers is awkward, to say the least.”

  “Exactly my thoughts. Plus, they act like a bunch of voyeurs from what I can see. Like perverts with a new spy toy.” A sip of coffee. “Leave it to the lamebrain politicians to come up with a proposal that is neither practical, nor workable, nor compliant with the Fourth Amendment,” Paul said. “All for the sake of money and power. And my orders are to go help sell it to Congress.”

  “I hear you, Captain. I think everybody on the military side of the house has grave reservations about the civilian use of the drones. And frankly, no one has been impressed by anything we’ve seen from Homeland Security so far. But as far as the military mission goes, we’re big-time vulnerable to maritime terrorism attack. ISIS or some group like that could sail a ship into New York Harbor and set off a nuclear bomb on board, and kaboom. You know as well as I do, sir, that our radars can’t see over the horizon. So we’ve only got about a seven-mile window of alert before they’re on top of us. But with this drone fleet on patrol, we’ve got a chance to see them hundreds of miles out to sea.”

  “I know, Commander. Which is why I’m willing to hold my nose and do all I can to get this passed. Because you’re right. We’re vulnerable to maritime terrorism attack. Anyway—”

  “Excuse me! Captain. Commander.” Paul looked up. Ensign Simpson stood at the door with a look of bewildered excitement on his youthful-looking face.

  “What is it, Ensign?” Jefferies asked.

  “Drone 1 is now over DC, and there’s something I think you might want to see.”

  “Not the
DHS bureaucrats getting excited about spying on a sex party, I hope,” Paul quipped.

  “No, sir,” Simpson said. “Something’s happened on the National Mall, sir. Down off the reflecting pool. Flashing blue lights. Ambulances. Hopefully not a terror attack, but we can’t tell yet.”

  “Let’s check it out,” Paul said.

  “Aye, sir.”

  They stepped out of the coffee mess back into the adjacent control room.

  Five large flat screens mounted on the bulkhead above the civilian controllers showed the same image. The drone circled in an orbit over the western section of the National Mall, its shadow making a wide loop on the ground between the Washington Monument and the World War II Memorial.

  The growing crowd burgeoned along the portion of the Mall from 17th Street to the west, in and around the World War II Memorial and spilling down toward the eastern end of the long, ruler-shaped reflecting pool. Already, police cars were parked along 17th Street in the shadow of the monument, and police could be seen roping off the street as ambulances and fire trucks poured in, their red lights swirling.

  Inside the command center, every naval officer, every enlisted man, and every civilian stood with eyes glued to the scene on the ground.

  “Are we video-recording all this?” Paul asked.

  “Yes, sir, Captain,” the lead civilian controller responded.

  Unlike the cackling from a few minutes ago at the spectacle in Balboa Park, every man now seemed stunned, soberly watching the real-time drama unfolding on the ground.

  “Look, Captain. They’re carrying somebody out on a stretcher.”

  “Where?”

  “There.”

  “I see it,” Paul said.

  Four paramedics surrounded a stretcher with a man on it in the area near the end of the reflecting pool. One paramedic applied chest compressions. When they lifted the stretcher, they began moving, first at a brisk walk, and then almost at a jog, toward an ambulance waiting by the World War II Memorial. Six DC policemen circled the paramedics, clearing the crowd out of the way as the paramedics moved toward the ambulance.

  “Can you get a close-up on that?” Paul said.

  “Yes, sir,” the lead DHS controller replied.

  The screen flashed to a closer view, then flashed to a still-closer view.

  The man on the stretcher was motionless. His mouth hung open, with tubes going in, and the pillow behind his head was bloody. His eyes were closed, and his skin looked white as a ghost.

  One paramedic continued chest compressions on the man, even as they all rushed toward the ambulance.

  “That guy on the stretcher looks familiar,” Paul said.

  “Yes, he does,” Jefferies said.

  “Is he Navy?”

  “Not sure, sir, but he does look familiar.”

  “I don’t like the looks of it,” Paul said.

  “Me neither, sir. If that guy makes it, it’ll be a miracle.”

  “Gentlemen,” Paul said, “if you are into prayer, I think now is the time to pray for that guy.”

  The paramedics arrived at the back of the ambulance. As they prepared to slide the stretcher inside, a slim woman wearing jogging shorts and a T-shirt could be seen running toward them from the direction of the reflecting pool.

  Three policemen stepped in to stop her, but she pushed against them, trying to force herself past the cops and toward the back of the ambulance.

  “Look at the woman,” one of the drone controllers said.

  “What’s she doing?” said another.

  “She looks like she’s screaming,” another said.

  “She must know the guy,” still another said.

  “Can we get a closer shot of the woman?” Paul asked. “Maybe a still frame?”

  “Sure, Captain,” the DHS controller said. “Let me see what I can do.”

  The screens went black.

  A second later, the word recalibrating appeared in white lettering in the middle of the black screen, and then the screen reappeared with an even-closer view of the scene.

  The woman appeared in the middle of the screen, and she was still being restrained by police. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her arms reached out desperately toward the ambulance as it began pulling away.

  Who was this woman? It was hard to tell from images, even live images, showing mostly the top of her head. But still.

  Then, in her flailing, she glanced up for a split second and then back down again. The screen shot of her was so fast that he couldn’t really tell, but long enough to accelerate his heart. Could it be?

  “Can we do a playback and do a freeze on that woman when she looks up?”

  “If the computer decides to cooperate, I think we can, Captain.”

  “Do it, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Again, a black screen. A second later, the word recalibrating appeared in white lettering. And then she appeared.

  Paul froze. His heart fell into his stomach.

  “Oh dear God, please no.”

  “You know her, Skipper?”

  “She’s Navy. Navy JAG. Stationed at the Pentagon. And I have a feeling the guy they just put into the ambulance might be JAG too.”

  “Doesn’t look good for the guy,” Commander Jefferies said.

  “John, do we have any choppers on the flight line available for transport?”

  “I think the squadron has three Sea Stallions on standby at the moment, sir.”

  “Call the squadron commander. Tell him I need a lift to the Pentagon. Now.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  EMERGENCY ROOM

  WALTER REED NATIONAL MILITARY MEDICAL CENTER

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  The second hand of the clock on the wall swept past twelve again, and Caroline could do nothing except pace back and forth and watch it sweep another loop around the numbers of the dial.

  Two nurses and several orderlies had crisscrossed in the spaces behind the admitting area, behind the corpsman chief who manned the desk. Several other visitors milled about in the waiting area, as if trying to avoid stepping on a bridge to nowhere.

  What was taking them so long?

  P.J. had been in emergency surgery now for almost thirty minutes. Still nothing.

  “Dear Jesus, please save him,” she whispered, then realized that no one even knew where they were. She needed to call Captain Guy. But she didn’t have a cell phone. What to do? Without her cell phone, she didn’t even have the Pentagon number for Code 13.

  “Commander McCormick?”

  She turned around. The rear admiral, standing there in summer whites, wore a burnished cross on his right collar, signifying that he was a Christian chaplain in the U.S. Navy. His name tag pinned to his shirt said “Lettow.”

  “Sir . . . I . . .”

  “I’m Rear Admiral Lettow. Chief of Navy Chaplains.”

  “Sir, how did you know?”

  “We got a call from a Captain Paul Kriete. Somehow he knew.”

  “Paul? I mean, Captain . . .”

  “It’s all right. Captain Kriete saw some photographs of the scene and alerted JAG. Some members of your command should be here anytime. Admiral Brewer, who is a longtime friend of mine, called me immediately. I was here at the hospital visiting a senior officer who just had surgery. When I found out, I wanted to come down here and wait with you, and pray, if that’s okay.”

  “Thank you, sir. That would mean a lot.”

  He looked around and then motioned to a couple of chairs over in the corner. “Why don’t we go over there and wait. Might be a little more private.”

  “Good idea, sir.”

  They walked over and sat in two corner chairs separated only by a small coffee table with a vase of flowers. Her stomach was torn, her eyes watering. But something about the chaplain’s presence brought her comfort.

  “Looks like you could use this.” He handed her a handkerchief.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You�
��re welcome. You know, it’s kind of chilly in here. They jacked up the air-conditioning. Want me to find you a blanket or something to cover you up?”

  She nodded, wiping her eyes. “That would be nice, sir. Thank you.”

  “Let’s see what I can do.” Lettow got up and walked over to the desk, prompting the senior chief who was sitting behind it to rise. They talked for a moment, then the senior chief stepped away from the desk.

  Caroline needed to get herself together. She was a naval officer. People were looking. People were watching. Thank goodness she wasn’t in uniform at the moment. Maybe the nurses and corpsmen and other military personnel milling about wouldn’t know. But Admiral Lettow knew. And if anyone from Code 13 showed up, as the admiral hinted, the last thing she needed was to make a lasting first impression of a crybaby. P.J. would agree.

  She bit her lower lip, and the admiral returned.

  “Look what the chief scrounged up.” He handed her a gray sweatshirt.

  “Thank you, sir.” She took the sweatshirt and pulled it over her body. A baggy fit, but the fleece trapped the heat in her body and felt good against the cold air-conditioning in the waiting area.

  “What’s your connection to him?”

  “To P.J.?”

  “Right.”

  “We had a relationship in San Diego. We talked about getting married. Almost got engaged. Seemed like it would happen. Then . . .” She looked down, then up at him. She tried fighting her emotions, but the tears flowed again. “Thank you for this.” She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief he had given her. “I wish I didn’t need it.”

  “I understand.” His voice filled with compassion.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “you know how it is in the Navy, sir. He got his orders here. It looked like I was going to be sent to Europe or Japan. Anyway, we were a world apart. We never got engaged.”

  “But I take it the feelings never died?”

  “No, sir. At least not from my standpoint. I mean, others were interesting, but I never could fully shake P.J. And then . . .” She dabbed her eyes again, but at least her voice remained under control, thank God. “And then I got these orders to Code 13 here at the Pentagon, the very same duty station where P.J. was stationed. And to be honest with you, sir, I’m thinking, ‘Is this the hand of God?’ And now this. I may never know.”