An Unlawful Order (The Chase Anderson Series) (15 page)

“Good morning, Chase,” he said, and walked from behind his desk. “At ease.” Her first name?

Chase shifted her body into the more casual position.

“Let’s sit over here,” he said, motioning toward a sitting area that included a leather sofa, end tables with brass lamps, a coffee table neatly displaying military magazines, and two upholstered chairs. In a year, he had not offered her this sitting option. Chase followed him across the office and waited for him to make his choice of seating. He chose a chair and motioned for Chase to take the sofa.

“How are things in Public Affairs these days?” he asked as she settled onto the sofa, placing her purse by her feet and the notebook on her lap. He was toying with her, of course. The small talk was a buildup to something she most likely didn’t want to hear. Nervousness was percolating through her body. She felt uncomfortably warm, even sweaty, beneath her shirt. She would have preferred one of the upholstered chairs to the leather sofa, which was now warming like a hot plate beneath her.

“Things are going well, sir.” She smiled.

“Everybody on your staff current with their PFTs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You? How are you doing since your wreck?”

“Other than being a little stiff from the whiplash, I’m fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“Your daughter okay?”

Damn him,
she thought.
Why wouldn’t he just get to it? What was all this about?
“Yes, sir. She’s quite well, thank you.”

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee?”

“No, sir. I’m fine.” Coffee was the last thing she needed.

“Chase—” There was her first name again. “We have a problem.”

She opened her notebook. “Yes, sir?”

He glanced down at her notebook and said, “Oh, you can put that away.” She closed the notebook and set it on the coffee table that separated the two of them. She kept the pen in her hand, a habit, something to keep her nervous hands steady.

“Here’s the problem,” he said. “I got a call yesterday from headquarters Marine Corps. Paul Shapiro with the
Current
is asking a lot of questions about our aircraft, in particular the 81.”

Chase could feel heat prickling from her chest to her neck and then up to her cheeks. Had Figueredo been talking to Hickman? “Running interference,” he’d call it. Or had Hickman discovered she’d met Shapiro at The Hungry Fisherman? Even Figueredo didn’t know about that. Innocent as it all was, she knew the general’s fondness for guilt by association. Her face was growing moist. When the general’s gaze diverted to the window, she seized the moment to swipe away the dampness on her forehead, folding her hands to her lap, ladylike, by the time he looked back.

He continued, glancing first at the pen in her hands and then to her face. “Shapiro wants the safety stats on the 81.” He paused. “For the entire fleet … can you believe that?”

“What reason did he give for the request, sir?”

“He’s causing us lots of problems, Chase.” Again with the first name, not to mention the dodge of her question. Was the latter because he assumed she knew the answer?

“What can
I
do, sir?”

Hickman shrugged his shoulders and leaned forward in the chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin resting on folded hands. She had never seen this contemplative version of him. She resisted the urge to lean inward. People did that, you know, mimicking each other’s moves in a conversation.

Hickman settled back in his chair, his forearms resting on the arms of the chair. “I suppose they’ll have to honor his request, within reason. But this isn’t our biggest problem.”

She waited. Hickman leaned forward again. This time, she couldn’t resist the accommodation. It would have been unwise to do so a second time.

“He’s poking around, asking about the new contracts for the 81’s minesweeper. He wants to know why we would honor any contracts from a manufacturer that refuses to correct existing problems.” His voice escalated. She wondered if the aide could hear, or if he’d trained himself to know which of Hickman’s pronouncements to respond to.

Hickman’s thick salty eyebrows had narrowed into an angry scribble across his forehead. “This punk reporter’s asking why we haven’t grounded the entire fleet of 81s.” He leaned backward again, as if this time settling in for her reaction. She felt him study her face. His eyes glanced down her body so quickly and back to her face she wondered if she had imagined the movement.

“I’ll call headquarters’ PAO, sir, and notify them that Shapiro is on some sort of rogue investigation.”

He shook his head. “No, no. Don’t do that, Captain Anderson.” So it was back to
Captain Anderson
. “No point elevating someone like Shapiro to a higher level of significance. But I want him persona non grata on this base. Is that clear?”

He must have read her rising protest. “I don’t care what falls out of the sky over here, Captain Anderson. Paul Shapiro won’t be authorized clearance on this piece of government property. Not as long as I’m commanding general.”

“Aye-aye, sir.” She went to shift her weight on the sofa, to uncross and recross her legs, and discovered the back of a leg stuck to the leather. Rather than risk the awful sucking noise that would surely result from the pull-away, she resisted.

By the way his eyebrows soared upward, Hickman appeared to misinterpret her hesitation. “What—you don’t approve?”

“It’s not for me to approve or disapprove, sir.” When his face relaxed and the corners of his mouth lifted, she had to suppress a sigh of relief. The rest of what she had to say would require finesse. He needed to know what trap he was setting for himself with this action against Paul Shapiro. Her job was to offer him counsel, whether he wanted to hear it or not. “It’s just that the persona non grata status concerns me.”

His hands slowly folded into fists, taking on the shape of knobby lumps of coal. His body stiffened, and every pore seemed to ooze with indignation. However, to his credit, he answered with a remarkably restrained, “How so?”

“I’m afraid this will only fuel Paul Shapiro’s curiosity,” she said. “He’s the
Current
’s military beat reporter. If we deny him coverage of a major news event, it will …
might
… signal to the editor and publisher that we’re not being entirely forthcoming about everything.” She stopped and waited for the explosion. Instead, Hickman glanced out the window. She let her eyes follow his this time. Outside, two Marines were standing and talking in the parking lot. The windward breeze was apparently picking up, for both Marines simultaneously grabbed at their headgear. The American flag that a few moments earlier had been unfurled for the morning colors, ballooned, and then calmed into undulating folds. In the distance beyond the two Marines and the flagpole was the flight line. Quiet, for now.

Still staring out the window, Hickman said, “Maybe you’re right. I’m impressed. You’ve studied Sun Tzu’s
The Art of War
.”

Guessing what he meant, she said, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?” He looked back at her, and they locked stares. When she read the hint of admiration in his expression, a swell of excitement began churning deep within her, and she hated herself for the effect he wielded on her. Was she that uncertain of herself, after all, that she needed, even craved, his approval?

“Okay,” he said, “let’s handle Shapiro on a case-by-case basis.”

“Aye-aye, sir.” She sensed the dismissal and reached for her notepad.

“I want to be kept informed,” he said. Hickman’s eyebrows narrowed. Whatever admiration she’d read was gone so quickly she had to wonder if she imagined it. “Any time you talk with Paul Shapiro, I want to know about it.”

Yeah,
she thought,
you and everybody else
. She had to start a list. “Yes, sir.”

“He so much as calls for the correct spelling of a last name, I want to know about it.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

He stood. She collected her purse and waited for the dismissal. Hickman crossed the office, stepped behind his desk, and turned his back to her to stare out the window.

“You’re dismissed, Captain Anderson.”

She quickly navigated through the plush carpet on the balls of her feet, lest her high heels dig in and cause her to trip.

CHAPTER 10

T
he next morning, a Saturday and exactly one week since Major White’s helicopter crash, Chase was standing on her back patio with a cup of steaming Kona coffee. She inhaled the aroma and gazed out past her backyard and down the steep, rocky cliff toward the Pacific. When a chilly breeze swept up the canyon, bringing with it the marshy smell of ocean life, she thought about rummaging through plastic totes at the back of Molly’s closet for sweaters.

Another breeze, and Chase cinched her robe a bit tighter. She considered returning inside for a heavier robe, but decided the coffee would eventually warm her. She wanted to enjoy the little quiet time she had left before Molly awoke. There was never enough alone time anymore, unless she was running.

Not that she was complaining … well, maybe just a little. But what right had she to complain after leaving Molly for a year and after the child had lost her father? Did anyone really know yet the significance of the separation and loss on Molly’s psyche? Only time would tell. What Chase knew for certain was that she never wanted to be separated from Molly again, even if it meant an early resignation from the Corps. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that. So far, aside from the year in Iraq they’d been lucky. But who could complain after the events of September 11? They were Marines, for crying out loud, living their lives on the altar of sacrifice. With the exception of that year and a few short training deployments, they had managed to stay together. She could thank the career planners at headquarters in DC for that.

She settled into a lawn chair and took a long sip of her coffee that had cooled too quickly. But she was already warming up against the windward breeze. The weather forecast for the day called for temps to reach the low eighties despite a chilly start. October in Hawaii.
This
was paradise. The hibiscus blossoms, like an assembly of giant, orange trumpets, looped around the chain link fence that divided her lawn from both neighbors. Same for the rainbow shower tree with its explosion of orange, red, and yellow flowers that her yard shared with Paige’s. Paige and her husband had a daughter, Sara, who was Molly’s age. The two girls had become close friends who ran in and out of each other’s homes. In fact, Molly was due for a sleepover that evening. Their friend, Erin, Samantha’s daughter, lived on the other side, and was joining the sleepover. Chase would have the entire evening to herself. What would she do with all that time? She considered renting a movie, or, better yet, going to a movie by herself. She used to do this before Molly was born whenever Stone had duty, but Stone thought it a little weird that someone would choose to go to a movie theater alone, and he’d expressed concern about her safety in a dark parking lot. Regardless, she preferred going it alone, though she would never tell him so. No one there to chatter in her ear for the missed line of dialogue that caused her to miss the next two or three. No one to rustle for popcorn at the most inopportune time of plot. Or, she could skip the movie and go for Chinese take-out, and after egg rolls on the patio, soak in a bubble bath with a glass of wine. There was the half-finished Toni Morrison novel on her nightstand.

She pondered all the possibilities, but it was much too early in the day to make a decision. Too many choices could be as exasperating as none. She had all day to think about how she would spend her evening. She took another sip of coffee. The breeze was picking up. She had come to associate the rustling of palm fronds with the wonderfully slow, gentle island way of life. Two years from now, she would most likely be reassigned somewhere stateside. She stared at her ocean view, suddenly compelled to imprint everything about the blue placidity, the vibrancy of tall jungle palms swaying against the backdrop of blue sky and ocean.
Nothing lasts forever,
she told herself and thought about Kitty White, wondering how the widow was managing on her own with two children. She let her mind drift back to Stone. When she closed her eyes, she pictured the last time Stone had made love to her. It had been in the morning, just hours before his flight to Afghanistan. The lovemaking had been slow and passionate, almost desperate, she’d call it now, looking back. “Look at me, Chase,” he’d whispered, and when she’d opened her eyes, tears spilled over and into her hair. It had been the most present moment of lovemaking she’d ever experienced with Stone. Poor Kitty White could make love to whomever she wanted to from now on, Chase thought, but she would never open her eyes to find Tony looking back.

Tiny flashes of color to her left captured her attention. The previous base housing occupants where Samantha lived had installed a hummingbird feeder halfway between the patio and the kitchen. This morning, hummingbirds were darting in and out at all possible angles so quickly they were dazzling, dizzying blurs.

She heard a tap on the glass behind her. Molly, disheveled and still sleepy-eyed, peered through the glass. In her arms, her favorite pink teddy bear, given to her by Stone before his departure.

“Come on out, sweetheart.”

Molly used both hands to push open the sliding glass door. She was barefoot, her long brown hair a bird’s nest of fuzz. Chase set her coffee on the table and patted her lap.

“I’m cold, Mommy,” the little girl said as she climbed onto Chase’s lap. Chase unwrapped her robe and drew it around Molly’s tiny frame.

“Better?”

Molly nodded.

“It may be too chilly for a grass skirt on Halloween.”

Molly sat upright and shook her head. “Tights,” she said, and laid her head back against her mother’s chest. She was her father’s daughter, all right. She had an answer for everything.

After a pancake brunch at The Seahorse Café that overlooked the Kamehameha Highway and Kaneohe Bay, she and Molly set out to find a grass skirt. Luck was with them. In downtown Kaneohe, they located one at their first stop, which was a tiny Hawaiian-owned tourist shop. The woman who owned the shop was a large, beautiful Polynesian with a wide, bright smile, dressed in a blue and white floral muumuu, with a pink Hibiscus flower behind her left ear.