Code 13 by Don Brown

stopped and turned around. “I almost forgot to mention something.” A raised eyebrow. “Did you serve in San Diego with an officer named Lieutenant Commander Caroline McCormick?”
    P.J.’s heart shifted into overdrive at the mention of her name. What kind of psychological torture were these people playing?
    â€œYes, sir. Commander McCormick and I served together in San Diego.”
    â€œWell, guess what?”
    â€œWhat, sir?” He opened another bottle of water from his desk drawer and took a sip.
    â€œWe just got the word. Lieutenant Commander McCormick has received orders to Code 13.”
    P.J. almost choked. He set the Aquafina bottle on his desk. “Commander McCormick’s coming here?”
    â€œYep. Admiral Brewer made the selection based on a handful of recommendations he asked for. He’s getting more involved in handpicking selectees for Code 13. Apparently she made quite the impression during a project she directed aboard USS Cape St. George. Word filtered up the chain, and somebody from SURFPAC called Vice Admiral Brewer to compliment her, and one thing led to another.”
    â€œWow.” P.J. fought speechlessness. “What division?”
    â€œDon’t worry.” Prohaska chuckled, as if he already knew about P.J.’s yearlong relationship with Caroline. Of course he knew. The JAG Corps was a small community. Everybody knew. He was sure even Victoria knew, for that matter, although she had never said anything about it. At least not yet.
    Prohaska continued, “She’s going to be assigned to personnel, section 131, doing legal opinion letters for SECNAV on officer personnel matters.”
    â€œOkay. Uh . . .” He struggled for words. “When’s she reporting aboard?”
    â€œThey’re fast-tracking it. She’s replacing Lieutenant Commander Rummel, who is being fast-tracked to Pearl Harbor to become XO of the trial command out there.”
    â€œThis week, huh?”
    â€œMaybe even in a couple of days.” Prohaska grinned again. “Just thought you’d want to know.”
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    â€œMy pleasure.” Still grinning, Prohaska nodded, turned, and walked away.
    P.J. turned his chair around and stared at his computer, waiting for his mind to unfreeze.

CHAPTER 4

    AIRFLITE CORP
    U.S. DOMESTIC HEADQUARTERS
    OVERLOOKING THE SAVANNAH RIVER
    SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
    MONDAY AFTERNOON
    Richardson Wellington DeKlerk, resting his slender six-foot-one-inch frame in the plush red-leather chair behind his huge mahogany desk, sipped brandy and looked over the slow-rolling, blue-green waters of the Savannah River.
    He got up, checked the mirror to make sure his salt-and-pepper hair was properly in place, and decided that his suntan would need a bit more work by next week. He sipped another spot of brandy and then stepped out of the air-conditioned confines of his office onto the balcony, enjoying the sound of a couple of seagulls’ high-pitched cries and the fresh, warm, southern breeze blowing off the river that caressed his face.
    He liked it out there, because down to his left the colonial-style buildings of Savannah’s historic waterfront came into view, hosting a buzz of modern activity and swarming with tourists, including lovers and honeymooners. He took another sip of his brandy, set his glass on a small outdoor table, picked up his binoculars, and commenced people-watching.
    Through his binoculars, sometimes he would discover delectable creatures of the opposite sex milling about down on the waterfront, their hair and blouses flapping in the inland Georgia sea breeze, which sometimes had the effect of halting his horizontal sweep of the area.
    On rare occasions, if his visual target appeared unaccompanied, loitering about with no gentleman companion, absorbing the ambience of the waterfront in a way that signified she didn’t appear to be in a hurry, Richardson had been known to take his