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.
Her last conversation with the sailor flashed in her mind. Petty Officer Perez had been a friendly, easygoing type, no older than her—probably a couple of years younger, in fact. He’d had the fire in his belly that made her smile. It motivated her when a junior ranking sailor was so dedicated to the navy.
Now he was dead.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” Ross’s voice was gentler than the commodore’s but Ro caught the grim underlying tone.
“I had coffee with him on the hangar deck yesterday afternoon.”
“At the gedunk?” The CSO referred to the snack shack that everyone in the hangar spaces frequented for decent coffee and greasy-spoon fare.
“Yes, sir. He wanted to ask me about switching rates to IS.” Intelligence specialist. “I told him it was pretty much too late in his career as he’s—he was—up for chief on his next exam.” She winced at her word choice. Perez would never be promoted again.
The room was silent. It didn’t matter what Petty Officer Perez wanted from his navy career—it was over. Ro felt a strong sense of sorrow and regret.
“He didn’t work in the weapons office, sir.” Miles broke the tension with his steady professionalism.
“No, but he was in maintenance. You’re on the hangar deck a lot with weapons and no doubt worked with him.” The commodore responded to Miles without any sign of a condescending attitude.
“This is going to hit the press before long, and when it does there’s potential for it to turn into more than it is. At the very least, I expect the media will try to blame this command for not seeing the warning signs of Perez’s PTSD. I need to have you—” he pointed at Miles “—and you—” he waved his hand toward Ro “—on the case. You are hereby appointed to the investigative team for the death of Petty Officer José Perez.”
He turned to Ro. “I’ve picked you because you have experience handling classified information. You know how to put pieces of a puzzle together without added fabrication.” The commodore ran his fingers across the top of his close-shaven head.
“Miles, I’ve picked you because Perez is—was—in maintenance and on the hangar deck, which you’re familiar with. I can’t have the maintenance officer doing this. Plus he’s going to be busy enough handling the JAG, NCIS and possibly a higher-level investigation.”
The commodore paused.
“Hell, Miles, I picked you because you’ve got the most recent wartime experience on the staff. I know you won’t lose it over a dead body. I need your experience and stamina.”
Ro looked at Miles. He was silent, his face solid and not yielding a clue as to his thoughts. A flash of envy hit her as she realized she’d never have that kind of demeanor.
But she’d seen past Miles’s demeanor that morning on the bridge....
“What about NCIS?” Miles finally asked, referring to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. “And the civilian law enforcement authorities?”
“They’re all doing their job, but none of them are required to report back to the commodore. You are,” Ross said. It was obvious he and the commodore had already hashed this out.
So why wasn’t the command staff officer doing this investigation?
Ro