Chapter 8
Tactical Operations Center
Naval Air Station Sigonella, Italy
Lieutenant Commander Kathleen Ryan walked into the TOC in a hurry—more of a hurry than usual—only to freeze once she was inside.
It had nothing to do with security measures or indecision.
She simply had to let her eyes adjust; the subdued lights of the cloistered workspace were a stark contrast to the brilliant Sicilian sun.
Once her vision adapted, she scoped out the room and saw the man she was looking for on the far side. Lieutenant John Conza was wearing standard Navy khakis and an uncharacteristic frown.
“I got your message,” she said as she came up behind him.
He looked over his shoulder and the frown flipped to a smile. “Hey, Katie. Yeah, I hope you weren’t busy. Looks like some new orders are coming down the pike for both of us—I’m trying to download ’em now.”
“Any clue what’s up?”
“Not sure, but it’s bound to be a downgrade.
” His easy smile held fast, a smile that belonged on a movie poster.
Conza was a junior officer, but before receiving his commission he’d spent eight years as an enlisted Navy SEAL.
The loss of a leg in combat operations in Syria had forced a career change, but it hadn’t dampened either his enthusiasm for life or his country-boy nature.
Katie and Conza had been working together for months, and Sigonella was the high point, a sweet temporary-duty assignment.
The three-week rotation to sunny Italy was ostensibly to take part in an ONI exercise with the Sixth Fleet—gaming out joint force and surface warfare scenarios across northern Africa and the Med.
Now halfway through the assignment, they had given three PowerPoint presentations, sat through twice as many, and spent hours in the TOC.
But there had also been wine, authentic Sicilian pizza, and journeys to the beachfront corniche in Messina.
Katie was still suffering the aftereffects of the most recent beach visit—she’d gotten an embarrassing red sunburn that JC, as he was known, hadn’t stopped ribbing her about.
Conza said, “I suspect it has to do with that Air Force C-17 out on the ramp.”
Katie had seen the jet on the distant tarmac, a beached gray whale in the sun.
“Here we go,” Conza said as two messages downloaded. The first popped to the screen and they read it in unison. It was a flash notice about the crash of a C-32A in southern Turkey.
“Damn,” he said, “no survivors.”
“Yeah, and an Andrews airplane. Looks like the secretary of commerce was on board.”
“And one Navy officer.”
The second message turned out to be amended orders for them both. Sixth Fleet war-gaming was out, crisis response in.
“There it is,” he said.
“You were right about the C-17. Looks like it’s hauling a team of investigators to the crash site.”
“And now two of ONI’s finest are getting an invite to the party.”
They exchanged a look.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” prompted Conza.
“I’m thinking that a white and blue airplane went down in a dangerous part of the world.”
“Very high-profile. You’d have to at least consider terrorism.”
“True,” Katie said. “But airplanes do crash.”
“Now, there’s a nice thought, given that we’re about to go out and jump on one.”
Katie rolled her eyes.
“Do you think this Navy commander might have been somebody special?” he asked.
“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, it sounds like somebody up the Navy chain is being proactive. If this crash was terrorism-related, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a couple of ONI officers on the scene.”
“I suppose that makes sense. Looks like we’re in the right place at the right time.”
“Or the wrong one.”
He looked at her with mock surprise. “Not used to you being a bucket of negativity, Lieutenant Commander Ryan.”
She didn’t respond, and her expression turned suddenly distant.
“Katie? You okay?”
“Sorry,” she said, shaking it away. “I was thinking about Secretary Moore. He was a close friend of my dad’s.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“Yeah, a couple of times when I was a teenager. I remember a New Year’s party at our house. He seemed like a good guy.”
Conza nodded somberly. “Good ol’ boy like me…I sometimes forget what highfalutin contacts you have.”
“Keep forgetting. We’re two Navy officers and we’ve got a new assignment.”
“Fair enough. Guess it’s time to pack up. That C-17 is fragged to leave in an hour.”
“Let’s hit it.”
“And don’t forget to pack that soothing lotion you bought for your lobster tan.”
She gave him her best peeved look. “Truth is, the way you carry on about the delights of redneck life—I thought I’d give it a try.”
Conza laughed and began shutting down his laptop. “See you outside in twenty.”
Katie headed for the door, and when she passed through the TOC’s entrance the sun did a reverse number on her eyes. She squinted and saw the big transport in the distance. It was a beehive of activity.
As an intel officer, Katie was wired to view world events through a lens of suspicion.
She wondered about the downed airliner. Could it have been targeted?
Or possibly John Moore? If so, what were the ramifications?
Soon, however, all that was pushed aside by a more immediate question.
The one that, after finding herself in so many critical situations in the last year, was far more personal.
What the hell are we getting into now?
—
Thirty minutes later, Katie and Conza presented themselves at the loading ramp of the C-17. They introduced themselves to the loadmaster, a crusty-looking Air Force master sergeant named Burgstahler.
“Colonel’s been looking for you,” said the loadie. He diverted into the cargo bay.
An Air Force full bird in fatigues appeared.
He looked all squared away in his camo OCP uniform.
There were pilot wings on his chest, an eagle on his cap, and a subdued American flag patch was velcroed to one arm.
Sunglasses were perched on an aquiline nose.
His name tag said Carter, and after gauging them both, his eyes settled on Katie.
“Ryan,” he said simply.
Anyone else in the Unites States Navy would have assumed he was reading their name tag.
For Katie it was different. It was no secret, even among the other services, that the daughter of the President of the United States was a Navy intelligence officer.
She guessed there were dozens of other mid-grade officers in the service cursed with the same last name—Ryan was relatively common—and she’d always felt bad about that.
She preferred to carry her own baggage, not burden others with it.
Almost without exception, those who met Katie had preconceived ideas about her.
Most of them were wrong.
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Conza and I have received orders to join your team.”
“So I’ve been told. Any idea why?”
Katie and Conza exchanged a quick glance. “Honestly, I’m not sure. We were just told to pack our bags and haul ass over here. I’m sure it relates to this airplane that’s gone down, but we figured the specifics would come later.”
It was hard to read the colonel’s eyes behind his sunglasses.
“You can ask if you want,” she said.
“Ask what?”
“You know, if I’m—”
“You’re a lieutenant in the United States Navy,” Carter said, cutting her off.
“That’s all I give a shit about. I’ve been told you’ll be accompanying my team to Bodrum.
I figure it’s because there was a Navy officer on board this downed airplane.
Just be advised that this will not be a sightseeing tour.
You are part of my team, and I’m going to put you to work. ”
“Lieutenant Conza and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Carter broke into a grin. “Good answer. As they say in the Navy, welcome aboard.” He held out a hand, and Katie gave him a firm handshake. Conza did the same.
The colonel told them to make themselves at home, then diverted to one of the SUVs and began issuing orders.
Sergeant Burgstahler reappeared and beckoned them up the loading ramp.
He led the way to a short row of airline-type seats at the front of the cargo bay.
They stowed their gear, took a seat, and the loadie unceremoniously dropped a small white box in each of their laps.
“Fine cuisine, courtesy of Naval Air Station Sigonella.”
Conza opened his box and saw pretty much what he expected. One turkey wrap, a shrink-wrapped apple, a woodchipper-inspired energy bar, and a pint-sized water bottle.
“Turkey wrap,” he said. “Get it?”
“Thanksgiving?”
“No, it’s where we’re going.”
Katie tried, but failed, to suppress a smile. She set her box aside and committed to getting some sleep on the flight, a skill she’d fine-tuned at Annapolis.
Because you never knew when the chance would come again.