Navy Orders. Geri Krotow
how often do you want to hear from us, and what kind of report are you looking for when we’re done?” Miles’s expression remained unreadable to Ro. Professional, cool.
“We’ll worry about that later. For now, just call me if anything shows up other than what we already know—that Petty Officer Perez killed himself last night.”
Ro suppressed a sigh. Her instinct was to take some time to mourn Petty Officer Perez, to see what she could do to help his surviving family. She needed a chance to go back over the few conversations she’d had with him these past few months.
Nonetheless, a mental list of the action items she had to clear off her desk, ASAP, rolled through her mind.
Her job wasn’t going to involve her usual wing intel officer duties until the investigation was over; she was certain of that much.
Naval investigations often dragged on for months, and she’d seen firsthand while deployed to the Gulf and detached to Afghanistan that there was little chance she’d have any true influence over the outcome. If the civilian law enforcement agencies had already been called in, she and Miles, representing the wing, didn’t even have jurisdiction to investigate. The local LEAs tended to be more cooperative in a close-knit community like Whidbey but she knew that if the feds got involved she and Miles would be out of luck.
“What about the JAG?” Ro referred to their staff lawyer.
“He’s going to provide support to the deceased’s family during this terrible time, and of course, he represents me for any official statements. He’ll work continuously with the public affairs officer. I named a lieutenant commander who was supposed to join the wing in a month as the casualty assistance calls officer.”
Ro was impressed that the commodore had the foresight to appoint someone who’d probably never met Petty Officer Perez as CACO. That made it easier on the CACO to do his job—to ensure the family was provided for and received all benefits due to them as surviving members of the deceased.
The commodore didn’t even mention any concern over how the intel and weapons departments would run with Ro and Miles out of the office for an indeterminate time. There was no need to. They both had staffs that would fill in until their return.
This was an aspect of navy life Ro equally relished and despised. If she did her job right and delegated as much as possible, her subordinates were able to achieve their greatest potential and earn valuable experience. Ro had no doubt that she’d be able take on this unexpected mission and rely on the intel shop to carry on with its basic functions.
Miles stared straight ahead at the commodore. Why on earth did today have to be the day she’d decided to stop being so harsh on herself, to really let go of her past, to forgive herself for clinging to the idea of a fantasy fiancé for so long? Worse, why had she picked today to be more open toward a new man in her life?
This assignment would be so much easier if it were her and Ross, or her and any of the other department heads working together.
But it was Miles—the only man who’d threatened her vow to steer clear of any serious involvement with the opposite sex since Dick had dumped her. Ro harbored no illusions that working closely with Miles would prove to be anything but problematic.
This case was going to be a bitch.
CHAPTER THREE
MILES DIDN’T LIKE the feel of this. He wasn’t a Commodore Sanders fan, per se. Au contraire. He found the senior navy pilot, like most navy aviators he’d met, to be pompous and a bit too free with his good opinion of himself.
The commodore was justified in wanting an officer or two from the wing to keep tabs, as much as possible, on the case. Miles would have done the same.
But Sanders had paired him with Ro.
It was hard enough seeing her almost every day, knowing she didn’t want to go out with him. Didn’t want much to do with him at all. The fact that she was the first woman who’d ever gotten under his skin to this degree didn’t help matters. Nor did it assuage his ego, which she’d flattened last year with her repeated rejections.
Add his freak show of an overreaction this morning on Deception Pass Bridge, and his future with Ro was bleaker than ever.
A pang of longing to work with an operational team downrange hit him. In the fleet there wasn’t time for personality conflicts or egos to get in the way. They had a mission and they accomplished it come hell or high water, often both. Even while clearing mines in a godforsaken field in Afghanistan, when he’d lost his leg along with his dog, he’d completed the mission. The SEAL team he’d been supporting had been able to go forward with no further loss of life or limb and successfully root out a group of Taliban.
“This is such a hard time for our wing, for the entire community. I don’t want anyone who worked with Perez to think for one minute that they could have prevented this or that it’s their fault. This is a horrible and perhaps inevitable outcome of war.”
Commodore Sanders said all the right words but Miles relied on his carefully trained powers of observation. The commodore kept looking down and didn’t make sustained eye contact with any of them. His speech pattern was faster than usual, indicating his excitement or anxiety over the prospect of being cast in the middle of a national news-making case. Miles suspected that guilt was eating at Sanders, no matter what the commodore said about no one needing to feel guilty. It was natural for a leader to feel responsible when one of his own came to injury. Or worse.
The bottom line was that they’d all failed Perez if he’d committed suicide. Miles didn’t believe in anything except the team concept when it came to his shipmates.
“I need you two—” the commodore looked at Miles and Ro again “―to be my eyes and ears on this case. Get to the beach and survey the scene of his suicide. Make sure the local LEA doesn’t turn this into anything overblown or sensationalize it. Sailors commit suicide. It happens. It isn’t always because of PTSD or pressure from the military, but even if it is, no one deserves the disrespect of a magnifying glass on his own death. Not my sailor, not on my watch.”
“Sir, it’s not anyone’s fault that Perez had PTSD, if that’s what it was.” Ro’s emphatic pronouncement gave the old man pause as he stared at his intel officer.
Miles fought to not roll his eyes.
Why did she have to be such a master of the obvious? This was what was wrong with support staff like intel. Ro was going to have to learn to toughen up and only worry about the investigation. How the commodore felt about the loss wasn’t the issue.
The commodore’s glance strayed again, but just for a moment.
“What are you waiting for? Get the hell out of here.” He finished his last sentence in a low growl, Sanders’s way of making a tough order less emotional for all of them.
Ro left first and Miles followed her. She turned around to wait for him in the hallway. For the first time he saw the cracks in her “work” face that revealed her frustrations and her questions about what had happened.
Ro was obviously as thrilled as he was that they’d been paired to do the investigation. He was surprised she hadn’t said so to the commodore, or simply refused to work with him.
Her blue eyes widened in query.
“What—”
“Not here.” He held up his hands and nodded forward. Ro clamped her mouth shut and turned around. It afforded him a wonderful view of her backside as he trailed her down the hall. Judging by the pronounced swing of her hips she was working up to a good fight.
He’d rarely looked twice at the few military women he’d worked with. EOD teams still didn’t have many females, although he’d worked alongside his share of operational and staff officers who were women. He knew he’d been in the midst of intense operational situations during those times and he could blame that for not being distracted by the opposite sex—he’d had