Navy Orders. Geri Krotow
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felt a distinct ripple of unease. She’d never gotten into any kind of trouble as an officer, yet she knew from experience that when a high-ranking superior wanted to see you on such short notice it was usually for something pretty serious. Commodore Sanders was a busy man in a responsible job. He wouldn’t be asking to see her for something he could have had his chief staff officer request from her.
Her apprehension was further piqued when Master Chief Reis handed Miles the same yellow slip of paper, with the same quiet request, right after he sat down in the chair opposite her. His expression remained unreadable as he read the note but when he raised his head and caught her staring, he grinned.
Oh, no. He thought she was looking at him for an entirely different reason.
“I got the same message.” She blurted out the obvious.
Miles raised his brows. He didn’t appear as concerned as she was. Of course, he was the weapons officer and probably got called into the commodore’s office a lot more often than she did. Weapons cost a lot of money, hence they were right behind the costs of aircraft maintenance and fuel as the budget-driving concerns.
Ro rarely spoke to the commodore one-on-one; there was no need to. He received his daily intelligence briefings from her or her staff via a short classified memo, and if he required further explanation he called her in along with his CSO to help explain and ask questions, too. The CSO served as the commodore’s extra eyes and ears in most instances.
Ro thought about asking Miles if he knew what the summons was about when the ops officer barked out, “Attention on deck!” Ro pushed out her chair and stood at straight attention in one fluid movement, as did everyone else. Commodore Sanders strode in.
“At ease, everybody. Take your seats.” He was always quick to put them at ease and get on with the briefings. Ro liked this about Commodore Sanders. He didn’t have time to waste and he didn’t want to waste anyone else’s time, either.
She folded the admin message into fours and placed it in the front pocket of her khaki skirt. She’d worry about whatever the meeting was about later.
The briefings all went as usual with nothing significant to report from most departments. The meteorologist pointed out that the current gale-force gusts were from a Pacific storm that could make landfall on Whidbey over the weekend but would most probably break up before it arrived.
Ro had just finished her first full year here and had never experienced a major storm on the island. She looked around the room. No one else seemed too worked up over that piece of news.
She noted that the commodore was quiet this morning, which boded well for the junior officer who was about to give the intelligence brief.
The JO from Patrol Squadron Eighty-Six started up well and appeared to hold the commodore’s interest throughout his brief spiel. He concluded his presentation with an overview of the current political situation in the Middle East.
“So you’re telling me what I’ve already seen on CNN this morning, Lieutenant?” Commodore Sanders never held back on the intel types. Typical of most aviators, he liked to think that being a pilot was the only career in the navy worth anything.
Ro stifled a frustrated sigh. Sanders had been quiet so far. Why now, why her briefer?
“No, sir. CNN is open-source. What I’m providing is verifiable by multiple classified sources.”
“The new data about the movement of the weapon sites is the salient point here, Commodore.” Ro jumped in before the commodore could twist the skewer he’d lobbed into the junior officer. Let the big guy aim his ire at her, not one of her subordinates.
“I heard him, Ro.”
Ro did her best to keep a grimace off her face.
“Sir, I can look up more information for you, sir.” The red-faced lieutenant junior grade didn’t get it. Ro shot him a look that she hoped conveyed her desire for him to shut up and sit down. The JO didn’t move, caught in the clutches of wanting to make such a high-ranking officer happy.
“Thank you, Mike.” She nodded at the row of seats behind the conference table as she spoke to the lieutenant. He shoved his pointer into the pocket of his uniform pants and sat down. Ro made a mental note to talk to him later, to tell him he’d done a bang-up presentation. It wasn’t his fault that the commodore was in a prickly mood.
She knew his prickly mood could be the result of myriad things—but she hoped it didn’t have anything to do with her meeting with him a few minutes from now.
The rest of the AOM was rocky in parts as the commodore grilled everyone from the admin to the ops officer about the particulars of their presentations. Everyone took it in stride; Commodore Sanders had a lot on his shoulders, and besides, it was the staff’s job to inform and support the commodore, not wonder why he had his knickers in a twist.
After what seemed like hours but was only twenty-three minutes from the start of the AOM, the CSO, also a navy captain and the commodore’s right-hand man, wrapped up the meeting and everyone stood to attention as the commodore got up and left. The CSO paused and turned around.
“Miles and Ro, I need to talk to you.”
Everyone else cleared out.
Ro liked the CSO. Captain Ross Bedford had been on the same aircraft carrier as she was during the war and they’d enjoyed a good working relationship. He was a solid guy who put his family first whenever possible. Ross and his wife, Toni, had Ro over for family barbecues and holidays from time to time. He served as a great counterpart to the commodore’s often-serious demeanor, as Ross was always ready with a joke and liked to keep things positive. Despite the commodore’s sense of humor, which made an occasional appearance, his job frequently required him to play the heavy or to convey an impression of gravitas.
This morning Ross didn’t have any of his usual jovial spark.
“You two know you’re meeting with the commodore now, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Ro and Miles spoke in unison.
“Do you have any idea why?” He studied both of them as if looking for a reaction.
“No, sir,” Miles replied, and Ro shook her head.
Ross sighed.
“Okay, that’s a good thing, at least. Stand by for a major bombshell—” Ross grimaced at Miles ”—sorry, Miles.” His reference to a bomb only made Miles, an explosive ordnance expert, smile.
“No problem, sir.”
Ro inwardly squirmed. Miles’s leg had been blown off by an IED, close enough to a “bomb.” She thought Ross could have been a little more aware of what was coming out of his mouth.
Whatever was going on was major. First, the commodore had been the crankiest she’d seen him yet, and now Ross was showing cracks in his usually professional deportment.
“Let’s go.” Ross turned and held the door open for Ro to go ahead, while he and Miles followed her down the carpeted hall. The commodore’s office spaces were the nicest on all of N.A.S. Whidbey, even classier than the base commanding officer’s rooms. The wing commander was at the helm of all patrol squadron operations on the island. If something happened in or to a P-3 squadron in the wing, Commodore Sanders was responsible and accountable. That included ugly repercussions from mishaps, such as last month when a pilot and his crew left their aircraft before completing all the items on the shut-down checklist. They hadn’t noticed that the chocks under the front wheels weren’t secured. When a gale blew across the island that night, it put the P-3 nose-first through a hangar door. The commanding officer of the squadron took a career hit but it was the commodore who’d had to brief Senate staffers on why his overall wing maintenance budget had increased by two million dollars in one operational cycle.
Ro’s gut told her their impending meeting with the commodore was not going to be positive in nature.
The commodore sat behind his