Defiance

by Don Brown

  "Don't lie to me." She rested her hand on his shoulder. "I see that faraway look in those eyes."

  He looked away. "I'm not ready for a relationship." He met her eyes. "Not yet."

  "Zack, it's been almost eighteen months." She combed her fingers through his wet hair. "I know you keep hoping. We all do. But they found her DNA in that cave in Afghanistan. It was her hair. There was mortar fire. Nobody could have survived that avalanche."

  "But there was no body."

  "I know."

  He gazed west over the expanse of water. Somewhere beyond the horizon was Hawaii, then the Philippines, then Indonesia, and beyond that, the Indian subcontinent, then Pakistan, then Afghanistan. And maybe...

  His cell phone chirped.

  "Do you have to answer that?"

  "Depends." He reached into the gym bag and saw the name Captain Glen Rudy on the digital screen of his cellular. "Sorry. It's the skipper."

  "You promised we'd sail out of range."

  "I tried." He gave her a wink, which brought a smile from her.

  "Yes, sir, Skipper."

  "Zack, sorry to interrupt your Saturday sail," said Captain Glen Rudy, JAGC, USN, the commanding officer of Navy Trial Command San Diego.

  "We're coming in anyway, sir."

  "Liar." Wendy patted his knee.

  "Two things, Zack. First, the SEALs have a speedy trial problem I need you to take care of."

  "You're kidding, sir," Zack said. "America's finest special-warfare warriors neglecting the rules and regulations of the military justice system?"

  "Who'd have thunk it?" Rudy chuckled.

  "How bad?"

  "They've had an ensign in confinement for eighty-five days. You know the drill, Zack. Another five days in the brig and he walks."

  "Roger, Skipper," Zack said. "And any navy prosecutor who loses a speedy trial case gets treated like a captain who runs an aircraft carrier into a sandbar -- a court-martial sandwich for lunch."

  "Sorry, Zack," Rudy said, "but you're the only trial counsel I've got who can pull this off. Admiral's on my can."

  "Yes, sir. In other words, sail into port on a Saturday, get the file, read the file, find the witnesses, subpoena the witnesses, then go to trial by Monday and hand the SEALs their conviction on a silver platter."

  "The SEALs have supreme confidence in you. Besides, this is a cup-cake compared to Olajuwon and Quasay. Not a single reporter should show up. I guarantee that."

  "That's a relief," Zack sighed. "So did our boy do it, Skipper?"

  "Can't talk about it now. Let's just say the SEALs aren't too happy with this guy."

  Zack rolled his eyes. "I'm surprised the SEALs didn't kill him."

  "They almost did. That's why we have a speedy trial problem. He's been at Balboa Naval Hospital recovering from a broken arm and collarbone."

  Zack snickered. "Why am I not surprised?"

  "Anyway," Rudy continued, "Captain Noble called saying they want to prosecute this guy and he's been in solitary confinement at Balboa for eighty-some-odd days."

  "Our old friend Captain Buck Noble from the Blount court- martial?" Zack was referring to the court-martial of United States v. BT3 (SEAL) Antonio Blount, a high-profile case Zack had prosecuted involving a Navy SEAL who was accused of raping a young naval officer who happened to be the niece of a powerful United States senator.

  "That's him. Now the skipper of SEAL Team 3," Rudy said. The Sun-fish dipped in a rolling swell. "He wants you to handle this case."

  "And the admiral said yes, of course." Zack smirked at Wendy.

  "What can I say? You're a victim of your own popularity, Zack."

  "Okay, Skipper. We're getting a little too far out in the ocean for a Sunfish anyway. Wendy can talk me into some crazy things, sir." That comment brought an alluring smile and another splash of cool salt water from Wendy. "Anyway, I'm turning this baby east right now." He wedged his cell phone under his chin. "Raising the jib as we speak, Skipper."

  "Forget the jib, Zack. Your ride should be coming in at about ninety degrees right about now. Can you see North Island from where you are?"

  Zack looked to the southeast, across a mile of rolling Pacific water and to the right.

  Two dragonflies danced in the distance over the middle of the entrance of San Diego Bay. But dragonflies don't spew black smoke from their tails, nor do they emit the cacophonous staccato of rotor blades.

  "Skipper, I've got two inbound Seahawks in sight." He was referring to the SR-60B Seahawk helicopters. "They wouldn't be headed this way, would they?"

  "Commander, you have a way of running up an expensive cab fare for the government. Get ready to swing through the air on a line at a hundred feet over the ocean."

  Great. Zack gulped. The press had described him as a model naval officer and as a fearless, swashbuckling trial lawyer. But when it came to heights, Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer, JAGC, USN, was anything but swashbuckling. Dangling from a narrow rope over the ocean from the belly of a helicopter? Not what the recruiter promised he'd be doing as a JAG officer.

  The dragonflies in the sky became dragonflies in his stomach. The sonorous blips grew into gray-hued navy helicopters, their approaching rotor noise drowning out Rudy's voice.

  "We'll be home in a few minutes, Skipper," Zack yelled over the sound of the twin engines now hovering over the boat.

  Zack craned his neck back. A rope was being lowered from one of the helicopters, dangling like a long, squirming snake in the Pacific wind.

  "Ladies first," he said.

  "This is so much fun!" Wendy grinned. The strands of her blonde hair blew back as if she were a model standing in front of a fan.

  She started to strap herself into the harness, but stopped when a voice boomed from the hovering helicopter. "Hang on, ma'am. We're coming to help you."

  Three rubber-suited frogmen leaped from the helicopter. They dropped feet-first into the ocean on each side of the boat. A moment later they swarmed the Sunfish, barking instructions to Wendy about tightening her harness. Three minutes later, she dangled in the air, giggling and waving, as the chopper hoisted her up and away.

  When they pulled her into the chopper, a second rope and harness slinked down through the wind.

  "You okay, sir?" One of the frogmen hung on to the gunnels of the Sunfish.

  "Great, Petty Officer." Is it that obvious?

  "Okay, sir," the frogman said. "Just slip your arms through the harness and pull the cord."

  "Like that?"

  "Looks good, sir. Ready?"

  "Ready."

  The frogman looked up, gave a big thumbs-up. And then... Wooaahhh... Zack dangled like a spider from its web over the Pacific. He looked down. The Sunfish and the frogmen were specs in the water, vacillating from left to right.

  "Just look up, Commander," one of them yelled. A gust of cool air blew him to the left -- "Whoa, Nellie" -- and then to the right.

  When they had pulled him halfway between the ocean surface and the hovering Seahawk, the winch stopped.

  "What's the deal?" he yelled.

  "Hang on, Commander." A voice blasted from the Seahawk's loudspeakers. "Little problem here."

  "Great."

  A minute passed. Then two. Not good.

  "Commander! The winch is stuck. Hang on, sir!"

  Zack swung like a pendulum.

  "Gonna fly you over to North Island and set you down real easy, sir. You'll be fine."

  The nose of the chopper dipped. Zack careened wildly underneath. The pilot turned toward Point Loma. Zack bobbed and weaved in the wind on the rope about fifty feet below the helicopter.

  The rolling waves of the Pacific, bathed in the orange glow of the setting western sun, blurred under his feet. He wanted to vomit, but the cool wind whipping across his face prevented it.

  The chopper rushed toward the large, jutting, mountainous land mass that was Point Loma.

  The pilot looped to the right. Zack slalomed in the air in a wide loop behind, following
the chopper over the magnificent white cross at the tip of Point Loma. A dozen visitors at the observation platform under the cross pointed up. Zack was a bird... a plane...

  Above the entrance to San Diego Bay, over the bottleneck separating Point Loma from Coronado, he saw a Ticonderoga class cruiser split the bay wide open, headed to sea. Sailors on the fantail pointed upward.

  He was Superman.

  His stomach leaped into his throat as the pilot descended. A moment later he dangled over the helicopter pad, inching down to the concrete.

  Then his bare feet touched the warm concrete.

  The things I do for God and country.

  Three enlisted men, aviation types, rushed to him, unleashing him from his harness. One gave a thumbs-up, and the chopper, with Wendy still aboard, ascended and then flew across the base, disappearing from sight.

  A white staff car drove onto the tarmac and stopped just in front of where he stood. Its driver emerged. She smiled, scooted up onto the hood, and crossed her arms. "Your suntan seems to have faded a bit, Zack," Shannon McGillvery teased.

  "Shannon! Now I get it. This winch thing was a planned event, right?"

  "I'll never tell." She laughed, then hopped off the hood, reached in the car and grabbed a towel, and flipped it to him.

  Four more white cars drove out onto the tarmac. Eight hulks, with close-cropped hair and wearing dark blue blazers and reflective sunglasses, emerged. They drew their sidearms and surrounded Zack and Shannon.

  "What? I'm being arrested?" Zach wrapped the towel around his waist.

  "You're being protected, Zack." Shannon handed him a T-shirt from the backseat of the car. "We're not letting you out of sight until this Jeanette L'Enfant thing gets sorted out."

  "What Jeanette L'Enfant thing?"

  She explained.

  "Come on, Shannon. That's France. We're in America."

  "Zack." Her voice hardened. "NCIS thinks that this could be related to the Council of Ishmael and that you and Wendy could be in danger." She paused, meeting his eyes. "Remember, they came to America and grabbed Diane. They could be operating in San Diego."

  The reminder of Diane's kidnapping hurt. But Shannon was right. "So that explains the chopper ride?"

  "You got it, hotshot. We wanted to pluck you out of the water before some terrorist in a speedboat got to you. Besides," she continued, "you and I have this speedy trial case to work on for Captain Noble."

  "Why do I ever doubt you, Shannon?" "Need a ride, Commander?"

  "I thought you'd never ask."

  Gobi Desert

  Southeast of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

  The light was gone.

  The darkness had returned.

  Her tormentor had left. For now.

  He would be back. Perhaps with one of his fellow terrorists.

  She closed her eyes and prayed.

  About the only semblance of humanity they'd shown her, besides her daily rations of rice, beans, and carrots, was clothing and warm blankets. One of them -- the short, fat one -- brought the clothing and blankets. When the fat one slipped up and announced in broken English that the clothing had been purchased in Ulaanbaatar, she suspected that they had taken her to Mongolia, probably the Gobi Desert. Of course, that slipup may have been intentional to throw her off. Maybe they were in the Australian outback or something.

  "Ahh!" The screaming jolted her senses. The flap flew open. The silhouettes of three monsters stood against the moonlight.

  "Out! Out! Out! You infidel dog! Aahhh!"

  They rushed into the ger, slinging her to the wooden floor. Pain shot through her knees and jaw. One of them gagged her mouth. The other bound her hands behind her back with coarse rope.

  "Up! Up! Up!"

  They yanked her hair, jerking her up to her knees. One grabbed the back of her shirt and pulled her to her feet.

  "Move, infidel dog! Tonight may be the night!" they yelled in broken English, pushing her out of the tent. She stumbled as her feet hit the ground. One of them snatched her hair again, pulling her back to her feet.

  They pushed her across a rocky courtyard of sorts, then forced her to her knees. One of them pushed her face to a cold stump.

  "Pray that tonight isn't your night, my beautiful infidel!"

  She felt the heavy blade of the cold ax rubbing against her neck. Her heart hammered in her chest. Please, God. No!

  "Perhaps your phantom God will save you!"

  "No, please!"

  "Executioner, prepare to decapitate!"

  The figure raised the ax high over his head. She caught a glimpse of its blade glistening in the moonlight.

  "Now!"

  "Nooo!"

  CHAPTER 5

  Rue Foyatier and plaza Saint-Pierre

  Base of Montmartre

  Paris

  The starry black canopy in the eastern sky disappeared as the morning fog rolled in, leaving an eerie backdrop behind the Basilique du Sacre Coeur. Jeanette gazed through the chilly mist at the great Catholic cathedral standing on the grand hill overlooking Paris's best-known chic artist community, Montmartre.

  Her short black dress was rumpled and dirty from hiding all night in the catacombs. She brushed at it absently as she looked over her shoulder at the base of the steps.

  Nothing unusual.

  Exhausted from the night of sleeplessness, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small bag of almonds for a quick energy boost as the first hunger pang seared her stomach.

  The sharp, piercing sensation on the back of her neck triggered an instinctive scream. She pivoted, her heart pounding like a jackhammer as the pigeon darted off, looking for some other tourist willing to share peanuts.

  Jeanette caught her breath and scanned the scene at the base of Montmartre. Satisfied that she had not been followed, she scampered as quickly as her worn-down heels would allow up the sea of steps toward the base of the basilica. Stopping again to catch her breath, she looked back over the vista of the city down below, then turned left and into the still-empty cobblestone streets where dozens of artists would soon be peddling their paintings and sketches to hundreds of tourists hoping to come across an original work by the next Toulouse-Lautrec, whose studio remained in Montmartre to this day.

  A handful of eccentric-looking artists stirred already under the ghastly glow of predawn. She slowed her pace to a casual walk. A few had lights shining on their canvases, like torches in their little booths. Touching up portraits and impressionist Parisian landscapes, the artists seemed not to notice her as she walked down the center of the streets.

  She squinted at the small dark booth at the corner of rue d'Orchampt and rue Giardon.

  "Louis!" she called.

  No answer.

  "Louis!"

  A pale incandescent light switched on in the booth. "Do my ears deceive me?" A thin dark-haired man in his thirties, wearing a button-down white shirt and black slacks, rushed out of the booth and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her on both cheeks, then stepped back and looked at her.

  "Oh, you just look like hell," he said. "What have you been doing, ma jolie?"

  "Louis, I need your help."

  "What is it, darling? Come sit in my booth." He pointed toward the wood and canvas tent-looking structure. "I'll make cafe noir, and we can chat."

  "Non," she said, grabbing his arm, "this is no good. They're trying to kill me."

  "Kill you?" A look of astonishment crossed Louis Boulanger's very pale face. "Who?"

  "We need privacy." Jeannette thought for a moment. "Perhaps le cimetiere."

  "Le cimetiere? S'il vous plait. The dead give me the shivers. Come with me." He took her hand and led her back into the cobblestone streets. "Venez avec moi."

  "Where are we going?"

  "To a safe place. You'll see."

  Council of Ishmael western headquarters

  Sahara Desert

  Near Zag, Kingdom of Morocco

  Three hours later

  Hussein al-Akhma donned a p
air of designer sunglasses and looked down at the bright, blinding sands of the Moroccan desert. His private multimillion-dollar Citation jet looped low over the deserted airstrip in the desert.

  The plane banked again, this time turning Hussein's window at the azure morning sky. One of the two Egyptian fighter jets that had flown cover for this hastily executed flight wagged its wings, then shot off into the east.

  Minutes later, the pilot announced in Arabic that the jet was on final approach for landing. Hussein strapped in, adjusted his turban, and sat back. His security detail did the same. Then he closed his eyes.

  Hussein felt a sudden drag on the jet's forward thrust, then an elevated whining from its engines. The landing gear had deployed, causing the sudden deceleration in the plane's descent that always made him feel as though the plane were about to drop from the sky. If that ever happened, Allah would take the plane in the palm of his hand and set it down or, even better, bring Hussein into the presence of a thousand beautiful maidens.

  Of course, within just a few days, he would have for himself one of the most exotic heathen maidens he had ever laid eyes on. The redhead. Unless, of course, his men had already eliminated her. For this reason alone, he prayed Allah would keep his plane in the sky. The thought of the redheaded JAG officer made him smile.

  It was not merely the assassination of Jean-Claude la Trec that had prompted Hussein al-Akhma to emerge from the bowels of his clandestine headquarters in the Saudi desert, board his private jet in Saudi Arabia, then fly east at near supersonic speeds and at low altitudes across the scorching deserts of Egypt, Libya, and Tunisia and finally into Morocco.

  La Trec was a capitalist dog who took $30 million of the council's money but failed to gain an acquittal for Lieutenant Commander Mohammed Quasay, a devout Muslim and an American naval fighter pilot who launched an attack on the Dome of the Rock. Quasay was a secret Council operative who was carrying out Operation Islamic Glory. The orchestrated attack was Hussein's secret plan to divide America from the Arab-Islamic world by making it appear that the United States had launched a missile attack on one of Islam's holiest sights in retaliation for 9/11.