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Naval Fleet Hospital

Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base

Day 1

CAPTAIN MICHAEL JAMES McLowery, Medical Service Corps, CO, Fleet Hospital Training Command, reluctantly locked up his desk. Time to leave the lovely air-conditioning and make the trek to his car and its air-conditioning. He hated the heat. Always had, especially since Hawaii, but he could function in it. For the command’s sake, Michael hoped this class—officer nurses and doctors, enlisted corpsmen and support personnel—wasn’t as slow in the broiling temperatures as the previous group had been. Class wasn’t over until every job was finished.

For today, Michael was off the hook. He’d already planned to take the afternoon off to attend the funeral of one of his stepmother’s old friends. In long hot polyester dress whites, no less, which were even hotter than the cotton cammies he now wore. How did Sunshine manage to talk him into this one? He spent his whole life trying to stay cool. Damn sun. Damn California. Damn dress whites. The camouflage clothing he wore was hot enough. He could name a hundred guys stationed in the East, from Long Island to Groton to Newport, who would trade snow and ice for the hell of this relentless San Diego sun in a second.

Would the Navy give him a berth home in Boston? Or anywhere on the chilly East Coast? No. God knows why. At least Sunshine’s departed friend had the sense to belong to an air-conditioned church. He finished with his computer program, encrypted it with his lockdown password, then shut down.

“I’m out of here, YN3.”

The little Yeoman Third Class with the pixie haircut and baby face nodded. Mia Gibson was one of many who’d joined the military to escape a life mapped out for them by family. He’d heard that as soon as her brothers had finished high school, they’d jumped right onto the tractors at the family farm—a job they’d been doing since the age of ten. Farming was a noble profession to be sure, but not for Mia. She received her high-school diploma and joined the Navy as soon as she’d turned seventeen three years earlier. She hadn’t been astride a tractor since.

Michael momentarily turned back to her desk. “My pager’s on if you need me. B or B only.”

“Blood or bodies—got it, Captain. Shall I reschedule your interview with that reporter from Associated Press?”

“Jo Marche.” He surprised himself by remembering her name. Ordinarily he didn’t bother with civilian reporters admitted to Navy exercises. But in this case… “Please do. I just haven’t had time for it. Maybe tomorrow during my lunch.”

“You want to eat lunch with her, sir?”

“Affirmative.” He didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, especially his Yeoman. “Eleven hundred will be fine.”

“Will do, Captain. Oh, the staff sent flowers to the funeral home. Tell your mother I’m sorry about her friend.”

“I will.” His smile was warm. “The staff” meant the Chief, but the Yeoman would be the one to pick out the arrangement. She had a pleasant voice and a calm disposition, which made his office a more cheerful place to work than previous duty stations. “Thanks.”

Ten seconds later he was as hot and sweaty as the Chief, who met him outside the Admin building. Michael’s administrative department head and computer systems coordinator, Chief Valmore Bouchard carried a metal clipboard in one hand, his other swinging freely at his side. Naval salutes weren’t required in hospitals or inside buildings except on formal occasions, and the Fleet compound was no exception.

“Leaving, sir?”

“Just about, Chief.” Michael took the proffered clipboard, checked the afternoon schedule and passed it back to the smaller man. “How’s the class shaping up?”

The question covered three areas: physical (would they pass out?), mental (were they stupid?) and morale (did they take the training seriously?).

“The good news, Captain, is most of them are from Jax or Pensacola.”

Michael nodded. That was good news indeed. The two Florida units wouldn’t bitch about the heat, or eat dirt fainting. They knew to keep themselves hydrated. In fact, he’d seen one Jacksonville enlisted with his fatigue jacket on. Some of them actually suffered in air conditioning, something Michael could never understand.

“Not too many boneheaded questions in the classrooms, either, sir, other than the usual computer-clueless.” The Chief snorted, then carefully smoothed his Navy-regulation mustache.

Michael kept silent, knowing that his Chief’s “clueless” category included people with doctorate degrees in computer science. He also knew that NCIS—Naval Criminal Investigative Services—regularly visited the Chief to test computer lockout safeguards or ask advice. They generally left his office with muttered comments such as “Good thing that bastard’s on our side.”

“You’ll handle the clueless just fine, Chief. You whipped me into shape, right?” No comment, nor did Michael expect one. “The bad news?”

“We’ve got a few Air Farce prima donnas enrolled.”

Michael overlooked the Chief’s sarcastic use of Farce for Force. “Flight surgeons?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Those paper-pushers having problems with the heat?” If so, it was the Chief’s problem to solve, not his.

“No, sir. They don’t want to pull their fair share.”

“I’ll have someone talk with them,” Michael promised. That was his job. The officers were usually the first to scream foul when ordered to lift litters. Traditionally litter-bearing was enlisted work in the Air Force. But Fleet wasn’t like military shore hospitals. Fleet was to the Navy what MASH was to the Army. They were fairly identical after the start-up. A Fleet Hospital was initially set down on the beach by ship-based amphibcraft or flown in on cargo jets. MASH was brought on by truck and Army helicopters.

One significant difference existed between Fleet facilities and MASH ones. Incoming supply and personnel runs continually supported MASH. But once a Fleet Hospital was set up, that was it. The hospital became totally self-supporting, so personnel was limited, and as in the MASH units, doctors often had to carry litters. Field-trained Army and Navy doctors might grumble sometimes, but they knew the routine and did their fair share. USAF flight surgeons, who were rarely trained anywhere but permanent hospitals, tended to complain when first confronted with manual labor. They bitched to the Chief, who correctly sent them to the CO. The whole purpose of the Fleet exercise was to bring together a bunch of strangers who could put up and run a wartime-casualty hospital. In the best of circumstances, the unit learned enough in two weeks to avoid being sent back for a second or third session. At worst, the students made the Keystone Cops look capable.

“Have one of my officers give them the standard ‘things are different here’ talk, would you?” Michael said. “I won’t have time.”

“Will do, sir. There’s one more thing.”

Michael didn’t like the devilish twitch at the corners of the Chief’s mouth.

“They’re from Alaska.”

Michael’s lips compressed over the foul expletive he was dying to say. He’d give his eyeteeth for an Alaska station, but no, the Navy hadn’t figured out yet that happy people were productive people.

“Alaska, Chief?” He congratulated himself on his bland tone. The Chief would be all over him if he showed any envy, any weakness.

“Aye, sir. Those snow bunnies have no desert training whatsoever. And it’s going to be another bear today, too.”

You mean another bitchin’ hot afternoon. Not that the Chief would ever say so. His manners were polite, his emotions kept in military-correct check at all times.

This led some fools to assume the Chief was harmless or, worse yet, stupid. Michael never made that mistake. Fleet Hospital was supposedly run by Admin. But Admin was, in effect, the Chief. Treat him and his staff—emphasis on staff—with respect, and he was a benevolent genie in the bottle. Screw with his staff, and you screwed yourself. The Chief had a keen sense of justice, a better sense of honor and a rich wife who made any financial need for promotion nonexistent.

The Chief ran the place like a well-oiled ship’s propeller shaft. Which meant Michael could get out of these cammies and take off early without guilt or worry. The Chief always kept his end of Fleet running smoothly. The man was a credit to his uniform. Always would be.

“Make sure our Alaskan students don’t end up face-down when they’re lifting those litters, Chief.”

“Aye, sir. If that’s all, feel free to bug out, sir. Oh, and I took the liberty of having someone put your dress whites in the men’s locker room. I also had your car started. It should be cool by the time you’ve changed.”

“Thanks, Chief.” Unlike when he’d first reported for duty at Fleet, Michael wasn’t surprised by the nicety. “That’ll save me time.” He returned the clipboard. “I’ll be back at 0630 tomorrow.”

“Aye, sir. My regrets on your loss, sir.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

No further conversation was required.

SHE WAS WAITING for him by the car, Lieutenant Junior Grade Mellow, Supply Officer for Fleet. Sleek sophisticated Selena Mellow, Michael’s cousin. Technically she was his stepcousin once removed, possessing the same blond beauty as her much older first cousin, Sunshine. Michael hadn’t grown up with her, but eight years after he’d lost his mother and sister and left for college, Selena had moved into the house of her aunt Sunshine. She hadn’t wanted to leave her birthplace when her elderly parents moved to Arizona and retirement.

Michael called her his cousin. He would never call Selena his sister, for Anna alone held that place, but Selena was the closest thing to a sibling he had, and he loved her like family. He didn’t see much of her while he was in college, but she made it a point to see him. A “mistake,” an only child who’d never been happy about either fact, she treated him as her big brother. Inspired by Michael, she’d even joined the Navy and requested that she be stationed with him.

Loyal and honest, Selena made him laugh. Just the sight of her waiting by his car put a smile on his face. Although she was lower ranking, she didn’t bother with military protocol when they were alone, nor did he insist on it.

“Something about a man in uniform,” Selena sighed, holding a clipboard with paperwork for him to sign. “God, you look good. If only we weren’t related.”

He glanced up, amused. “Not as good as you,” he said, continuing the banter. “You must drive your fiancé insane with desire.” Although he grinned, he meant every word, despite her moulaged face and leg, the camouflaged fatigues with the ripped pant leg, under which he could see a simulated battle wound.

“Who says we’ve been waiting for the honeymoon?”

Michael held up his hands in mock horror. “Please, loose lips sink ships.”

“I can trust you,” Selena replied. “Now get in the car before you start smelling like the rest of us sailors. I wish I was going.”

He checked his watch. “It’s not too late to make the funeral. Sunshine would rather have us both. Paul will be there, too, I understand.”

Selena beamed at the name of her soon-to-be husband, then the smile faded. “Yeah, I know, but we couldn’t round up enough safe ‘volunteers’ from the brig or stabilized mental patients for ‘wounded.’ Even those detached waiting to be shipped out have been—” she lifted her palms “—well, shipped out. So I’m a volunteer.”

“They can use other staff.”

“It’s not up to me. Besides, I got out of the watch last week when Sunshine wanted me to go to her latest gallery opening, so today is payback. I have to be on my litter near the ambulance in fifteen minutes.”

“Then, cuz, you’d better hit the Porta Potties now. Going by the looks of that leg wound, you’ll be bed-panning it for the next forty-eight hours.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“Who’d you tick off in Moulage to get the bum leg?”

“No one. I moulaged myself when I relieved the regular artist for lunch. I made up my own injury from the empty slot on his roster.”

“Well, I’m sorry you can’t come. Sunshine will be disappointed.”

“That’s the last time I ask my CO to mess with the watch bill,” she said. “It’s my own fault, but getting last weekend off was worth it. Make my apologies to everyone, would you? Tell Paul I’ll call him later if I can.”

“Will do. I’ll swing back here after the funeral and look in on you. Maybe I can find a last-minute replacement.”

Selena’s grateful smile made him feel like a million dollars. “No, don’t do that. No reason we should both suffer. I have a fiancé to torture now, instead of you. Time to pass the torch-ure,” she quipped, winking at her weak pun. The wink looked ludicrous through the made-up bloody face.

“You should be court-martialed for that one,” he replied, grinning nonetheless. “I’d better warn Paul about your plans—not to mention your fondness for bad puns.”

Her laugh rang out over the compound. “He knows what he’s getting into. Here.” She shoved the clipboard his way. “Sign this and go.”

He scanned it.

“It’s just a couple of supply reqs. Oh, and don’t forget, the wedding rehearsal is two weeks from next Saturday. You’re best man, so make sure you don’t schedule any more classes!”

“Already taken care of.” He initialed two spots, then signed. “Later, Slick,” he said, using his special nickname for her. With no one around, he leaned forward to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t! You’ll ruin your uniform.” She gave him a little push in the direction of his car. “Go, already. You’ll be late.”

He returned her wave and hurried toward the waiting car, anticipating its cool comfort.

THE CHURCH IN Solana Beach was a good thirty miles down I-5 south. First Presbyterian catered to the affluent crowd in town and in nearby Del Mar, the horsey set who lived where “the surf meets the turf.” The church was made of real granite and marble rather than the usual spray stucco and pressed cheap tile. The cars in the lot were sleek and expensive, as were the people who owned them.

Sunshine, Michael’s stepmother, wasn’t a member of the horsey set. But the high-quality Raku pottery she’d been throwing ever since her go-go-boot days made more money annually than a Del Mar favorite during the Futurity Classic. Her Raku was refined and expensive, just like Solana Beach residents. It was also of outstanding artistry and in hot demand by locals, galleries, L.A. movie moguls and top dealers in Tokyo. Sunshine Mellow McLowery happily lived up to her name. She threw her pots every morning and surfed every afternoon with her board purchased years ago in Hawaii. The rest of the day she tended her flowers, fussed over her retired arthritic husband and doled out both love and food to her stepson, Michael, and her younger cousin, Selena.

Those occasions no longer came as often as Sunshine wished. Before he got involved with FHOTC, Michael’s last duty station had been in New Orleans, and even though he was now stationed close to home, he preferred to live at the furnished Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Selena lived at the McLowerys’, but she spent her free weekends with her fiancé. They usually met at a hotel halfway between her place and his. Since Selena had become engaged, Michael made an effort to stay over a few nights a month because he knew Sunshine missed Selena more than she’d admit. Sunshine wasn’t looking forward to the end of Michael’s tour at Camp Pendleton. He’d already served more than two-thirds of the usual three-year duty, while Selena would soon resign from the Navy and move north to Silicon Valley, where Paul worked. To all appearances, however, Sunshine gracefully accepted the loss of her “children,” and waited for the day she could indulge her grandchildren.

No brothers or sisters came along after the marriage of Lt. Commander Patrick Andrew McLowery to the much younger, sadly infertile, Sunshine Mellow. He’d retired as a Commander, never making Captain due to hard drinking after the deaths of his wife and daughter. He didn’t seem to care. Patrick’s days of fast cars and hard liquor ended soon after his marriage to Sunshine. He finished his time in the Navy teaching others to fly jets, retired as early as possible and now spent his days running Sunshine’s business and nursing his arthritis. He seemed to accept his change of status with, if not wild passion, contentment in his good fortune.

“Trust a damned Irishman to count his wife’s pennies,” Sunshine often said without rancor.

“Trust a damned hippie not to pay her taxes,” was her husband’s standard comeback.

Michael smiled to himself as he kicked up the A/C in his Acura to high, slid in a rhythm-and-blues CD and gently maneuvered the car through the daily quagmire of traffic that was Southern California’s signature. Sunshine Mellow and the retired jet jockey. What a combination. And whenever he saw them, the scene was always the same.

The two would gently squabble, while Patrick— “Paddy” to Sunshine—made himself busy with paperwork and phone calls and arranging deliveries while she molded her clay. Sunshine never seemed to mind his frequent presence. She was generous with her workshop, her time and, to Patrick, her still-slim body. For that, Michael admired her greatly. Maybe that was why he was so fond of Selena. Both cousins shared their own happiness.

Michael, like all the other men who knew Sunshine, was almost in love with her himself. She’d been half mother, half dream date in his younger years. The adult Michael knew that Sunshine was the only reason Patrick hadn’t drunk himself to death, and the only reason Patrick’s son was still sane. Sunshine and Patrick were a good combination. Sunshine had hoped Michael and Selena—not actual blood relations—would someday pair off, but had accepted that disappointment with her usual grace.

Michael switched lanes smoothly. He’d hit the funeral service, try to cheer up Sunshine and then get back to Selena and see if he couldn’t find relief for her. Maybe he could take her and Paul out for a nice dinner. Surf and turf, maybe, in La Jolla, hopefully with no interruptions. Michael was as protective of his cousin as he was the rest of his family. Paul, a computer tech from Silicon Valley, seemed like a nice guy, nice enough that he didn’t mind sharing his soon-to-be wife with the rest of the family. Michael didn’t mind returning the favor. Family ranked right up there with duty. Hell, family was duty. As soon as the funeral was over, he’d make reservations for four, which would include Sunshine. His father rarely dined out, thanks to his arthritis and the addition of two brand-new sports channels.

As for Michael’s twenty-four-hour-a-day responsibility for Fleet Hospital, he wasn’t worried. He’d flip his pager from tone to vibrate before the funeral. The only B or B he’d see today would be Sunshine’s friend in her rich-bitch customized open casket.

FORTY-SEVEN-YEAR-OLD Commander Coral Puripong, Medical Service Corps, looked over her new command while walking through the canvas-over-concrete tented halls. Fleet Hospital Operations and Training Command, FHOTC, was the last bit of training she needed to be eligible for promotion to Captain. To hell with staying in the cozy Admin section of the tent hospital. All her future plans depended on getting promoted. Everything was budgeted down to the last penny. Nothing must go wrong. She would whip these foolish, lazy, full-bellied Navy personnel at Fleet into a glowing team for her glowing record and glowing new promotion.

Puripong’s eyes glittered with anticipation. She had done everything else she’d set out to do in her life. Getting promoted would be the easiest task imaginable.

She glanced up at the sound of booted feet running inside the Fleet Hospital. It was the Black Guard, the pretty woman with the big rifle and carefully pressed starched uniform. Puripong bit back the sharp reprimand on her lips. The guard had that Hard Look in her eyes; the look that meant she knew about bad times and priorities. Especially priorities. If the Black Guard was running with a rifle in her hands, there was an important reason.

“What is it, Sailor?” Puripong snapped out in her best English.

“Ma’am, there’s a problem in the Expectant area.”

Puripong could barely understand the rushed Southern drawl.

“Slow down, MA2, and start again.”

“Yes, ma’am. I just came from the Expectant area. Some photographer there found a body.”

Puripong refused to acknowledge the possibility her superstitious Filipina gut was hinting at. “Of course she found a body. Moulaged bodies are supposed to be there.”

“No, ma’am. I’m talking about a not-breathing, no-heartbeat body, ma’am. There’s fresh blood all over a corpse that’s ready for six feet under, ma’am. The body’s an officer, and the dog tags say Christian. The chaplain’s in there sayin’ last prayers.”

“Last rites,” Puripong automatically corrected. Son of a whore in a sailor’s bed! A dead body right before promotion review boards! If I screw up, Older Sister will wail loud enough to wake Dead Mother in her grave back home!

“Secure the area!” Puripong snapped the order. “Get me the training command’s CO.”

“I already secured the area, ma’am. Captain McLowery’s off the compound.”

“Where is he?”

“In Solana Beach at a funeral. I had him paged, ma’am.”

Damn, damn, damn! He better not shovel goat shit into my hut! “Get me the Executive Officer, then!”

“The XO’s on leave, but I notified the Officer of the Deck. The OOD said the Captain’s on his way. There’s a problem, ma’am.”

“A problem besides a dead body that shouldn’t be dead?” Puripong asked with heavy sarcasm.

“The deceased is the Captain’s cousin, ma’am. And he doesn’t know yet. Someone’s got to tell him.” The guard’s tone said exactly whose responsibility that unpleasant task would be. “Shall I take you to the victim, ma’am?”

Commander Puripong spoke through clenched teeth. “Lead the way.”