Chapter Text
The JAG office at the San Diego Naval Base was unassuming. White cinderblock walls made it seem just like any other building on the base, built with utilitarian purpose in mind. It could house offices or classrooms or conference halls. No one would ever know unless they stepped inside. On that Monday morning, though, it was just another source of mental exhaustion from a barely restful weekend.
You’d always hated Mondays. It always meant another pile of cases on your desk of issues from the weekend that you needed to clean up. Such were the woes of being in the Judge Advocate General’s Corps, or JAG as everyone else called it after that tv show became popular in the 90s. You walked through the office, hot cup of joe in your mug that you brought from home, one of the few personal items that made the space look like it hadn’t been abandoned in the 70s like the chipped green paint on the walls suggested. You could already see the stack waiting for you on your desk, covering up the chips and scratches in the staining. Your hard desk chair sat behind the old wood desk, taunting you with the thought that your ass would go numb before you even got halfway through the cases.
“Would it kill people to not break the law for 72 hours?” you huffed, dropping your briefcase on your chair. It wobbled uncertainly under the sudden weight.
You flipped through the cases. One was for an AWOL officer that left to get married in Vegas before he got shipped off. Another was for a petty officer with disorderly conduct for punching a guard at the gate when he lost his identification and the guard wouldn’t let him on base. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. You could try those cases in your sleep. You took a sip of your coffee, letting the office motor oil chug through your veins. No amount of cream or sugar would cut through the bitterness.
Three swift knocks on the door to your office pulled your attention away. Your Commander stood in the doorway, a thick file in his hand. “Lieutenant, I’m going to need you to make this case your priority.” Commander Terson plopped the file on your desk for your perusal.
“A plane crash, Sir?” You flipped through the pictures and the coroners report from the deceased wingman.
“Captain Perninsky is to be court-martialed.”
“Of course, Sir. With this much damage, negligence is clearly-”
“You are to defend the Captain, Lieutenant.”
Your mouth snapped shut. You blinked, buying time to form your response first. “Sir, with all due respect, this seems fairly open and shut. The pilot broke the flight deck and crashed, killing his wingman.”
“And Captain Perninsky has asked for the lawyer that he is entitled to. That’s you. Give your other cases to Smith. You’re going to need all your focus on this.”
Your hand tightened around the handle of your mug. “When do we go to trial?”
“The investigation’s still open. I’d say two months, and that’s being generous.”
“They need two months to determine negligence?” Your brow raised involuntarily.
“Careful, Lieutenant, your judgement is showing. Need I remind you that you’re defending the Captain?” Commander Terson raised a challenging brow at you. The old man exuded exasperation. A man who’d tried anything and everything and let nothing surprise him anymore. He simply needed people to follow the rules and order. There was a reason Commander Terson believed that military justice ran swifter than civilian justice. There was a procedure to follow, and everyone had their part to play.
“A job that I take very seriously and will do to the best of my ability,” you replied.
He nodded. “Your helicopter leaves in ten.”
Your palms began to sweat. “Helicopter, Sir?”
“You’re going to meet with an expert.”
You swallowed. “I won’t be ready in ten, Sir. I have to brief Smith on my cases.”
He shook his head. “Then you’re getting there on your own, Lieutenant. They’re expecting you in an hour. Make sure you’re there.” And with that, he turned on his heel and went back to his office.
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you pulled out your phone. If you left now, you’d just make it if traffic wasn’t killer.
It was just under an hour later when you pulled into Naval Base Coronado, immediately heading towards North Island. You’d heard stories from your fellow JAG Corps members, but nothing did it justice. It never failed to amaze you how different Naval Bases could be, regardless of their proximity to another. Wide swaths of land spread out in front of you for planes to land. It was a lot less cramped than your base, and you could tell the focus was shifted from ships to aircraft.
You grabbed your briefcase and made your way into the hangar in front of you, expecting to meet your contact there. The click of your heels echoed against the cement floor. The hangar was empty. You frowned and checked your watch. You weren’t late, and you hated to be stuck waiting when you were specifically told that they would be expecting you. There was a door in the corner, presumably leading into the building. If your contact thought you would wait patiently, they were incredibly wrong. You checked the name on the slip of paper your boss had left you.
Vice Admiral Beau “Cyclone” Simpson, Air boss. He’d graduated top of his class at Top Gun. His reputation for a hard ass, however, proceeded him. You hoped that would make him easy to work with. After all, how could an Air Boss justify a negligent pilot?
You paused in the hall to admire the photos of previous fly boys. Your eyes narrowed at the class of 1990. In the back were the bright eyes of your older brother. All he wanted was to fly. You could see the crash like it was yesterday. Smoke in the sky trailing a bright blazing plane like a shooting star falling from the sky. Your mother hadn’t left her room for days. When you’d enlisted in the military, she made you promise to never become a pilot. It was an easy promise to make and keep. You weren’t fond of heights, and had harbored a fear of flying ever since. Now, almost thirty years later, you were just as ill-equipped to handle flying as ever.
You read the names on the doors as you walked down the hall. They were mostly classrooms and conference rooms.
“Are you lost, Miss?” You turned to find an older looking gentleman with a kind smile.
“I’m looking for the Air Boss,” you admitted.
“Cyclone should be back soon. He flew in the chopper to the Naval Base in San Diego to pick up a JAG.”
You blushed. “Actually... the JAG drove herself here.”
His eyes widened slightly in amusement. “I see. Well, you’re more than welcome to wait in his office.”
“Thank you-” your eyes flicked over his name and call sign “Rear Admiral Bates.”
He waved you off. “Call me Warlock. Everyone else does.”
You nodded, following him down the hall.
The chair you waited in was uncomfortable. Zero padding. Clearly meant to intimidate whatever pilot found himself on this side of the desk. Leafing through the case file, you struggled to find your angle. You weren’t quite sure how you would defend the pilot in question. There were facts that you couldn’t dispute. A plane had been destroyed. A man had died. No amount of fancy wording would change the fact that your defendant had been the one flying the plane, and therefore was the one responsible for bringing the plane home safely.
“Bates, I flew all the way there as a gesture of cooperation and the JAG didn’t even fly back with me,” a voice grumbled from outside. “I would’ve been back sooner, but I got tied up with the command over at San Diego. Which I would’ve been able to get out of had my passenger shown up.”
“SIr.” That was Warlock.
You heard a sigh. “The JAG’s in my office.”
“Mhm.”
You stood, feeling embarrassed, but not so embarrassed that you’d forget to treat your contact with the respect his rank deserved. He walked into the room and it felt as though the air had been sucked out. In front of you was one of the most handsome men you’d ever met, and you couldn’t help but follow his path through the room with your eyes until he stopped behind his desk. And then he opened his mouth.
“Care to explain, Lieutenant?” He raised a brow at you.
“I apologize, Vice Admiral. I was unaware that you were personally escorting me. I had no idea you were taking such a personal interest in this case.”
“Of course I have a personal interest in this. Captain Perninsky is a damn good pilot and I don’t want this to mar his record.”
You sputtered. “Mar his record? A man is dead, Vice Admiral. I’d wager that justice is more important that a man’s reputation.”
His hands tightened on the back of his chair. “Reputation is all you have in the Navy, Lieutenant. And justice for who, exactly? Because the briefing that I received led me to believe that you were to get justice for Captain Perninsky.”
“Right, because justice for a reckless fly boy is more important than justice for the dead.”
“Reckless fly boy?” His hands were on his hips as he shook his head. “Pilots are more than-”
“With all due respect, Sir, your own call sign is a reckless storm.” You crossed your arms over your chest.
His eyes narrowed, his chest rose and fell in angry bursts. “Lieutenant, I’d like to remind you that you are here as a guest on my base. Perhaps you should remember that before throwing stones at your host. Dismissed.”
Your eyebrows shot up into your hairline. “Dismissed?”
“Go home. Get your attitude in check. Come back tomorrow. I’ll arrange for you to walk the crash scene. I’m sure the pictures don’t do it justice.” He sat down at his desk, barely looking at you as he settled into his papers.
You folded your case file and shoved it back into your briefcase, not even bothering to secure the second latch. Your feet couldn’t carry you out of there quick enough.
On the drive home, you replayed the interaction with Cyclone over in your head. You could’ve handled it better, and you clearly struck a nerve. Going back tomorrow was going to suck.