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
“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
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