Navy Justice. Geri Krotow

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СКАЧАТЬ to the aircraft. The timing of the blast was too close to the overflight.

       You could be wrong.

      Joy stood in her sunroom and ignored her internal prosecutor as easily as she denied the pain from the hot coffee that spilled on her hands. She placed her cup on the mosaic-tiled café table she’d brought back from Italy and grabbed her binoculars, a gift from her parents when she’d resigned her commission. She dialed the area into focus with the familiarity born of long watches on board a Navy ship. From her sunroom she was more accustomed to looking for whale pods or bald eagles.

      She saw ominously dark smoke and snakes of bright flame reaching toward it. She adjusted the focus. Was she sure that had been a small vessel? It’d had a low profile; probably wasn’t anything bigger than a fishing boat. The cargo ship was still there, but too far away to make out many details.

      What had made that little boat explode? She rested the binoculars on her chest as she scanned the horizon, even though she knew it by heart. Her home sat on a West Beach cliff, and the only land nearer to the explosion was farther north, toward the base, where the land curved westward into the strait.

      This hadn’t been some kind of base exercise gone wrong. The Navy didn’t drop weapons in Puget Sound.

       Calm down and think.

      What had she seen?

      It was always the Navy’s fear that a terrorist would procure a rogue weapon like a surface-to-air missile, a SAM, and take out a plane. It was a threat for anyone who flew after 9-11.

      Had she just witnessed that fear come true?

      She shook her head. No. If one of the aircraft had been shot out of the sky, the explosion would have been greater, the impact louder and more tangible. Plus, the explosion had occurred well after the aircraft flew by.

      She’d never served downrange, never had a Patriot missile fly over her head on its way to attack an enemy missile, never had to worry about getting into bio-chem gear. Her entire Navy career had taken place in courtrooms Stateside and overseas, with one carrier tour at sea and one trip to Guantanamo Bay to serve as defense lawyer for a suspected terrorist.

      Where she’d worked with an enlisted SEAL, a man she’d never forget.

      She squeezed her eyes shut against the intrusive memory.

      She wouldn’t think about him today. She’d spent enough time obsessing over the man who’d rattled her scrupulous professional demeanor.

      The last trial of her Norfolk tour that resulted from the brief time in Guantanamo Bay had almost done her in. It had convinced her that her Afghani defendant was innocent, however, and she took the case to trial in Norfolk.

      That took six grueling months, but with the help of an honest SEAL and other operatives who gave their testimony, she’d been able to free an Afghan man who’d been wrongly apprehended, a true victim of circumstance. He was safely in the Witness Security Program, his life under the protection of US Marshals.

      She’d also been able to help the same SEAL keep his name free of any accusation of wrongdoing. The case had changed her in an elemental way and reminded her why the fight for justice was paramount.

      The SEAL had affected her more than any other man in her life...

      She opened her eyes.

      Her phone lay on the kitchen counter where she’d left it. She should call the base, the police or at least her new boss and tell someone what she’d witnessed.

      Her hands jerkily grabbed the pink-cased phone. Immense vibrations shook the porch screens as the wap wap wap of SH-60 helicopters burst through the air. Any sailor who’d spent time around a Navy base, air station or on board a ship knew the sound meant help was on the way.

      She wasn’t the only one who’d seen that explosion. That was the sound of the Naval Air Station’s Search and Rescue team. For ejected aircrew, floating in the ocean awaiting their ride back to the aircraft carrier or nearest land, it was a lifeline. In this case, she wasn’t sure who could have survived an explosion that made an entire boat disappear in a matter of seconds.

      An ugly premonition raised goose bumps on her arms. She was afraid that people had been lost in the fiery blast. This far away, her binoculars too weak, she couldn’t tell.

      She looked for the return of the P-8 or P-3. They were reconnaissance platforms; it was in their mission description to find mishap clues.

      Today was the start of her life as a civilian. Yet one terrible act, and she was back in uniform mode, even if she wore a fancy suit and dress shoes that made her feel feminine.

      She cradled the phone. The emergency and NAS operators would be inundated with calls. Would the details of what she’d seen make a meaningful difference to any aircrew at this point? SAR was on the scene. She could wait and phone in her observations after she’d finished getting ready for work...

      Then she changed her mind and quickly dialed 9-1-1.

      With one blast, she might be in the middle of an international terrorist event. And late for her first day of work.

      * * *

      FBI AGENT BRAD IVERSON didn’t stop swearing the entire time he raced along the rocky shore of Whidbey’s West Beach. The inflatable powerboat he’d driven back, landing within yards of the shore, was safely destroyed and lay at the bottom of Puget Sound. His clothes were wet and cold, but that wasn’t anything he hadn’t experienced before.

      But he’d never had to take out an enemy, not since he’d left the Navy and become a civilian agent.

      Getting the hell out of sight and—he hoped—to his vehicle, where he could securely call his boss, was priority one. Because the remaining three suspects in the domestic terrorist cell he’d infiltrated during his current undercover op couldn’t be allowed to find him. As soon as they suspected he’d neutralized their fourth man, they’d be after him. If they captured him, they’d throw him in a pit and keep him there, until either their deadly mission was complete or he died—preferably both.

      Brad thanked God for his Navy SEAL background and, currently, his FBI training. It had saved his life. Now he had to prevent anyone else from becoming a target.

      A sharp rock punched through the bottom of his running shoes and his ankle twisted too far to the right. Brad ignored the jolt of pain that flashed up the side of his leg.

      He had minutes. As he took in the beach’s length he could see flashing lights.

      Damn it. Getting to his car wasn’t happening, not now.

      He couldn’t afford the time it would take to explain himself to local law enforcement. He didn’t even have his badge on him; it was safely locked in his desk drawer at the Bureau in Seattle, standard procedure when you were undercover.

      He had to avoid being seen. The terrorists couldn’t figure out he was still alive, not yet. An unintended camera shot of his face on the local news could prove disastrous to the Bureau’s entire operation.

      Past missions had seared the thin line between life and death into his soul. He’d hauled shipmates, alive and dead, off the battlefield. Brad knew death, and he knew СКАЧАТЬ