“You said you wanted more space,” the fifty-something, overly spray-tanned Realtor reminded her as she opened the door to a foreclosure condo that supposedly boasted a view of the ocean. “Although I haven’t been to this one personally, the listing reports a wide-open floor plan.”
She undid the lockbox and they both walked in.
Julianne had thought she’d seen everything. Obviously she’d been wrong.
“That’s because the previous owner appears to have removed all the supporting walls,” she murmured. Along with the carpeting, kitchen appliances, and every light fixture in the place.
“It does need some TLC,” the dogged saleswoman admitted. Then she deftly switched gears. “But the positive thing is that now you can fix it up exactly the way you want.”
Thinking that the best thing that she could do for this place would be to call in some B-52s for a carpet bombing, Julianne walked across the empty space to the windows. Other than a rusting balcony that didn’t look safe to step out onto, the only view she saw was of a strip-mall parking lot.
“What happened to the ocean view? Did they take that with them, too?”
“It’s right there.” The Realtor pointed a French-manicured finger in the general direction of the asphalt lot.
Julianne squinted. And spotted a faint glint that might, if you had a fighter pilot’s eyesight and great imagination, possibly be sunlight on water.
“Oh, yeah. That narrow bit between the Costco and the A.C. Moore.”
“At least you’d be close to shopping.” The Realtor tried yet again to put a positive spin on what could only charitably be called a dump. “My sister buys all her art supplies at that A.C. Moore.”
“Maybe I can hire her to paint me a picture of the beach I can tape over the window.” Which, now that she noticed it, was not only filthy, but cracked. Julianne shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult—”
“Oh, you’re not at all,” the woman responded, right on cue. “You’re merely selective. Which is good, because buying a home is one of the most important decisions you’ll ever make. I mean, it’s not exactly like buying a pair of shoes, then getting home and finding out you have nothing to wear with them.
“Neither of us would want you to take on a thirty-year mortgage on a home you didn’t absolutely love. One that didn’t speak to you in some elemental way.”
Thirty years. When she’d begun this quest, Julianne had convinced herself that she wasn’t truly signing on to a three-decade commitment. After all, people sold houses all the time. She’d never heard of anyone who’d actually paid off a mortgage.
The problem was that if she bought a home, then decided to move later, she’d have to start a new search. And worse yet, she’d have to find someone to buy her house.
This entire experiment in domesticity was becoming way too complicated.
As for speaking to her, while none of the properties she’d looked at so far had cooed, “Take me, I’m yours,” this wreck of a condo was shouting out, “Run! Very fast and very far!”
She was about to suggest that perhaps they just call it a day, when her phone started playing the theme song from
JAG
, which, while she might not be in the service anymore, Julianne still thought was the coolest TV theme song ever.
The ID was blocked, but she’d recognize that voice anywhere.
“Lieutenant Decatur,” her former superior officer, who’d been recruited to help establish THOR, said without bothering with any polite preliminaries. “You’re to report for duty at the Coronado naval station tomorrow morning at zero-seven-thirty. Bring a bag and your passport.”
“Yes, sir.” She refrained, just barely, from saluting. She was also jazzed to learn that after nearly two months being stuck in an office reviewing intel reports from other agents, she was finally going to get to go out into the field.
Since the Realtor was overtly eavesdropping, Julianne didn’t waste time asking for details. Besides, she’d find what her assignment was soon enough.
Meanwhile, after she’d flipped the phone closed, she realized that the call got her out of house-shopping duty.
Which just went to show that sometimes, timing really was everything.
8
“So, what’s up?” Dallas asked as he entered Zach’s office.
“There was a death of a naval aviator aboard a carrier. While it was first thought to be a suicide, apparently there’s also been a claim of murder.”
“Sounds like a job for NCIS,” Dallas said.
“That was my first response. But from what little the guy from THOR told me, there’s also some indication that it could be terrorist related.”
“Last I heard, NCIS handles terrorism.”
“So it does. But apparently they want you.”
“I’ve never even been on a carrier.”
“Well, this will be a new experience. And guess what—the one you’re assigned to is the USS
O’Halloran
.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“Nope. Supposedly named after some naval hero. Any chance he could be a relative?”
Dallas shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I remember my dad saying something about the O’Hallorans taking that biblical edict about going forth and multiplying literally, which means the clan’s pretty big, so I suppose anything’s possible.
“But, getting back to the so-called murder, it seems like it’d be hard for a terrorist to get on board a carrier. Let alone kill someone and get away with it.”
“I wasn’t given any details, though I tend to agree with you. Except for the getting-away part. If it
was
murder, then it’s going to be your job to find the killer.”
“Me?” Dallas knew the government worked in mysterious ways. But this was
way
beyond his pay grade. “I was a CCT. My job was radios, computers, and shit like that. I’ve never investigated a crime in my life.”
“I know. Maybe it has something to do with computers,” Zach suggested. “You being the emperor king of the propeller heads and all.”
“Maybe.” Dallas rubbed his jaw. Fuck. After having reluctantly agreed to be Phoenix Team’s liaison to the ultrasecretive government agency, he’d begun to think that he’d never get tagged for an assignment. Now that he finally had, he had the uneasy concern he could be over his head.
“If it eases your mind any, you’re not going to be handling this alone. THOR’s assigned you a partner.”
“That’s good to hear.” Probably, Dallas guessed, from military police. “Did your caller happen to say who it is?”
“No.” Zach’s lips pulled into a tight line that wasn’t the least bit encouraging. “But as it happens, McKade and Tremayne still have a lot of ties to the Spec Ops world. And Cait made a couple calls to some people she knows in the FBI.”
Dallas struggled to rein in his natural impatience as Zach paused. “Who is he?”
“
She’s
a former JAG officer.”
Comprehension hit like a cluster bomb.
“No way.”
“Way. Proving that fickle fate does, indeed, have a sense of the ironic, your partner on this possible carrier-terrorist murder investigation is going to be none other than Julianne Decatur.”
The weirdest thing was, Dallas thought, as Zach filled him in on his travel plans, that he couldn’t figure out if this news was good. Or bad.
Whichever, he decided, it definitely wasn’t going to be boring.
And, even though he’d been in enough battles not to take the loss of any life lightly, let alone the loss of a fellow military member, Dallas couldn’t help grinning when it occurred to him that maybe, right now, at this very same minute, the sexy former naval attorney was receiving the same orders.
And learning that she was going to be partnered up with the very same man she’d spent three long days giving the third degree to—Air Force Combat Control Tech Sergeant Dallas O’Halloran.
Oh, yeah. Fate might, indeed, be fickle.
But it could also occasionally, like now, be really, really sweet.
9
It would be impossible to visit Naval Station Pearl Harbor and not think about all those who’d lost their lives during the bombing on what Franklin D. Roosevelt had called a “day of infamy.”
The first family thing they’d done together when Julianne’s father was assigned to Pearl was to visit the USS
Arizona
Memorial. Of course, given that her father was a rising star in the officer ranks, they hadn’t had to bother with standing in any lines with tourists.
When she’d boarded the plane in San Diego, Julianne had expected, upon landing, to be driven to command offices. Rather, after passing through the main Nimitz Gate and having her government ID checked and approved, the driver took her to the submarine base, pulling up in front of a nondescript white barge.
“Commander Walsh is waiting to brief you,” her driver, a sailor in spiffy whites, informed her.
“Here?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Although he didn’t salute, she heard it in his tone, and decided that he had either been informed or guessed that she was former military. A fact that was confirmed as he waited, allowing her, as a former senior officer, to exit the car first.
Julianne was still trying to find her place in this new world she’d reluctantly joined. Not only had she lived in the Navy life all her life, she’d found her years in JAG comforting because the unit ran on a concrete, black-and-white set of rules all written down in the Uniform Code of Military Justice.
If she’d become a civilian, like her sister, she would probably be moving on. Learning new rules and new coping skills.
But THOR was turning out to be a hybrid of both, and she had a feeling that others, such as this sailor, were possibly as confused by the blurring of the lines as she herself was.
As she climbed out of the white staff car, she paused as she saw a seaman standing on a nearby submarine about to execute the evening colors.
A moment later, a bugler playing retreat came over the loudspeaker, and as she saluted the lowering flag, Julianne found comfort in the idea that all over the base, sailors were doing the same thing. And even those in cars were immediately pulling over until the music ended.
She’d always understood that the military ran on rules, that if people were all allowed to make up their own, there’d be chaos. But they also offered her continuity growing up; although various bases would play reveille at different, often ungodly early hours, the family’s day always began with that energetic bugle call. Then her favorite part of the day had always been retreat, which was played five minutes before sunset.
The music drifted away on air scented with a blend of diesel fuel and plumeria. She continued down the wooden dock to the door of the barge, the sailor again giving her former rank privilege, right on her heels.
Given its boxy exterior, the inside was a surprise. It was actually bright and airy and appeared to have three offices. A young man whose uniform bore the single stripe of an ensign led them into what Julianne guessed was the largest.
The metal desk was decidedly DoD, as was the industrial carpeting and the framed pictures of the President of the United States hanging on the wall on one side of Old Glory, the Secretaries of Defense and the Navy hanging on the other.
The two men in the office stood up as she entered.
The man behind the desk was wearing two and a half service stripes on his khaki officer’s uniform, revealing him to be a lieutenant commander. The male on the visitor’s side was wearing similar khakis, but without any service ribbons or stripes, depicting civilian status. He was also the last male on the planet Julianne had expected—or wanted—to see.
“Commander,” she greeted the officer behind the desk.
Then, because it would have been a breach of etiquette not to, she reluctantly gave the former CCT a glance. “O’Halloran. This is a surprise.”
“Life’s full of surprises,” he said in that sexy Texas drawl that had always strummed chords Julianne didn’t want strummed. At least not by Tech Sergeant Dallas O’Halloran.
She turned back to the commander. “I got here as soon as possible. I hope I haven’t missed any of your briefing.”
Even more galling than being assigned to work with O’Halloran was the idea of the former Air Force sergeant getting a head start on the case.
“No,” he assured her. “The commander and I were just passing time telling war stories.”
Julianne wondered if any of those war stories included that debacle in the Kush. Which, in turn, would have brought up her part in that tale.
Stupid. Of course, since it appeared he’d be the one briefing them on their mission, the lieutenant commander would have read their service records.
“Could I get you something to drink?” He gestured toward a minirefrigerator against the wall.
“No, thank you, sir,” she said. “I’d just as soon hear the reason I’ve been sent here to Pearl.”
“Fine.” He gestured toward the second of the chairs on the visitor’s side of the Navy-issue desk. “Have a seat and we’ll get right to it.” He picked up a manila folder. “How much have you been told?”
“Only that there was a suspicious death aboard a carrier. I was assured I’d be filled in on the details once I arrived here.”
“Those details remain sketchy,” he said. He tapped the manila folder with the eraser end of a yellow pencil. “A female pilot is reported to have had problems with her final landing.”
“Problems?”
“She was waved off twice. There appear to be contradictory points of view as to whether the wave-offs were valid, or sexual intimidation on the part of the LSO. That’s landing signal officer,” he explained to O’Halloran, who, having been in the Air Force, had probably never been on a carrier and might have been unfamiliar with the terminology.
He went on to briefly explain the landing procedure.
“There was reportedly a brief confrontation. After the pilot’s body was discovered, an anonymous note was sent to command suggesting that she may have angered some of the more radical members of a group of Muslims on board.”