Anne Duquette - Fleet Hospital

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.”

Naval Fleet Hospital, Secured Compound, Expectant Area

Day 1, early afternoon

DANIEL PRESTON stared at the dead woman on the cot, the woman identified as the CO’s cousin. Young sailors—kids, really, pretending to be other dying patients—talked and gawked, unsure of what to do. Hell, he didn’t know what to do! He’d prayed over the dead woman, saying the Protestant prayers appropriate to the religious classification on her dog tags.

The only person who seemed to know what actions to take was the photographer in tight jeans—Jo Marche. She’d roped off the area with a length of fresh film, using it like yellow police tape to keep away the shocked and the curious. She’d quickly taken pictures of the scene, the people present and the body itself without moving or touching anything. In the meantime, he sat there like an idiot, trying to decide how to tell the commanding officer that his cousin was dead.

“Who’s in charge here?” Daniel heard Jo Marche ask. “Where’re the MPs? Somebody with rank?”

“That would be me,” Daniel said. “I’ve sent for help. I hope you won’t mind giving up your film. I doubt you’ll be able to keep it.”

“I won’t mind,” she said. To her credit, she spoke in a low hushed voice. “That’s the least of my worries. She doesn’t look much older than I am. How could anyone do this?”

“I can’t answer that. But I will have to tell the CO his cousin is dead.”

“She’s his cousin?” Compassion flooded her face. “That poor man!” Jo bent over and studied the small bullet hole through the vital heart area. “At least you can say she didn’t suffer. It isn’t much consolation, but it’s something.”

To Daniel’s surprise, her hand gently brushed back a lock of hair on Selena’s cheek, then pulled away as a Filipina officer marched into the room, accompanied by a Master-at-Arms, Second Class, and a Master-at-Arms, Third Class. The officer immediately took charge.

“I want everyone out of this room. Witnesses will muster outside the guard shack.” Puripong’s eyes took in the cordoned-off area, the photographer and the chaplain.

“MA2, no one is to enter this room until I say otherwise. Touch nothing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” both MAs chorused as they took their positions, rifles at the ready.

“You two—” she gestured at Daniel and Jo “—follow me. I want your statements and I want them now!”

However, the three weren’t able to leave the Expectant area, for Michael McLowery burst through the open canvas door, then stopped, momentarily frozen at the sight of the armed sailors beside Selena’s body. He started to approach the bed, but Jo and Daniel quickly grabbed his arms.

“She’s…not dead, is she?”

Daniel felt ice-cold prickles descend his spine at the question—the same question he’d heard years earlier from Michael in Hawaii, over Anna’s body. That time, he’d been unable to answer. This time, he couldn’t, either, despite Puripong’s glare that urged him to do his job. She obviously wasn’t about to tell him.

“Yes, she is,” Jo said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

Michael staggered, then stared at her, his eyes wide, shocked, agonized.

“Dear God, what happened?” he asked.

Daniel managed to find his voice. “She was playing the part of a dying patient. I was told to enter the Expectant area, counsel her and keep her company until she…pretended to die. I came in and found her pretty much as you see her now.”

Michael blinked again. “Who? Why?”

“We don’t know, sir,” Puripong answered. “We haven’t gone far with our investigation yet. I’ve provided the guards with real ammunition and ordered an armed lockdown of the hospital compound. The other patients in this area are outside being questioned. And I’ve instructed the press woman here—what’s your name?”

“Jo Marche. With an ‘e,’” Jo answered.

Puripong whipped out her clipboard and located her name on the roster. “Yes. I ordered Ms. Marche here from the Associated Press to act as our medical photographer. The crime scene integrity must be preserved, sir. As I said, all other Expectant patients are outside being questioned by the guards. Once they’re finished interviewing witnesses, I’ve ordered the guards to dust the area for prints. They’ll be here soon, but they told me not to expect anything in this heat. As the deceased is your family, you shouldn’t be in charge of the investigation, sir, but the XO is out of town. Would you like me to head this up in your place?”