Defiance

by Don Brown

  "Yes, Fadil," the voice replied.

  "Let's go! Now!" Fadil's driver responded to the order. The Renault's tires squealed.

  The Renault sped past Parc de la Turlure, swinging to the right on rue Ramey. "We are in pursuit."

  Fadil felt under his seat for the submachine gun as the Renault peeled right on rue de Clignancourt. The car accelerated to sixty kilometers per hour.

  "I see the Peugeot," the driver said.

  "Tag number?"

  "8947747."

  "Good." Fadil removed his hand from the submachine gun and leaned forward. "Keep the car in sight, but don't get too close." The Peugeot was in traffic, weaving between lanes about two car lengths ahead. A black Mercedes, now flashing its left signal light, separated the two cars. Finding the right opportunity to kill her -- or better yet, to capture her -- would be a delicate matter.

  CHAPTER 9

  Courtroom 1, Building 1

  Navy-Marine Corp Trial Judiciary

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  Court-martial of United States v. Ensign Wofford Eckberg, USN

  Day 1

  Zack stood as Captain Reeves stepped back onto the bench. The military judge was returning from a ten-minute recess in chambers, where Zack surmised he visited the head and made a call to finalize his afternoon golf plans for the North Island Naval Golf Course.

  "Evidence for the government, Commander?" Judge Reeves asked.

  "The government calls Petty Officer Marvin Williams."

  "Petty Officer Williams, please step forward," Judge Reeves said.

  A muscular African-American petty officer, wearing a white Cracker Jack uniform, walked down the center aisle from the back of the courtroom. He stepped into the witness box, raised his right hand, and was sworn.

  "Commander Brewer, your witness."

  "Thank you, Your Honor." Zack stepped to the wooden podium separating the prosecution and defense tables. "State your name, rate, and duty station, please."

  "Williams, Marvin. BT3, SEAL. SEAL Team 3, Naval Amphibious Base, Coronado. Sir!"

  "Petty Officer Williams, do you know the defendant in this case, Ensign Ekberg?" Zack pointed to the defendant, keeping his eyes on the witness.

  "Sir, yes, sir!"

  Zack took a sip of water. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, Petty Officer, but just try to relax, okay?"

  "Sir, yes, sir!"

  Zack turned around. Shannon's right eyebrow was raised. Her eyes sparkled. She mimed the word SEALs, then rolled her blue eyes to the heavens.

  Zack pivoted back to the witness. "How is it that you know Lieutenant Eckberg?"

  "Lieutenant Eckberg was our assistant platoon leader! Sir!"

  "I call your attention to the evening of January eighth."

  "Sir, yes, sir!"

  "And where were you that evening?"

  "Sir, our platoon was stationed aboard the submarine USS Bremerton. We had been on surveillance patrol in the Yellow Sea, off the coast of North Korea."

  "What time did you hit the rack that evening?"

  "Sir, approximately 2200 hours, sir."

  "And where was your platoon berthing that night?"

  "The forward torpedo room. My rack was over a Mark-48 torpedo. Torp number two. Sir!"

  "Okay, Petty Officer. And did you see the defendant, Ensign Eckberg?"

  "Objection!" Lieutenant Karen Jacoby brushed back a strand of blonde hair from her forehead and rose to her feet.

  Judge Reeves peered at her over his black reading glasses. "And what are the grounds of your objection, Lieutenant Jacoby?"

  "Relevance," Jacoby snapped.

  "Relevance?" Judge Reeves's tone signaled that Jacoby should withdraw the objection. "Should Commander Brewer respond before I rule?"

  Like so many young JAG officers fresh from justice school, Jacoby had interposed the wrong objection at the wrong time. Plus, she'd blurted out the objection in front of the jury. This was her opportunity to save face.

  "Why, yes, Your Honor! If it's relevant, the prosecutor should show why!" She crossed her arms, as if crossing her arms would somehow give legal validity to her objection.

  "Commander Brewer." Reeves looked over at Zack, adjusted his glasses, and cleared his throat. "Your response to that?"

  Zack swigged ice water from a white Styrofoam cup. When he spoke, he kept his voice calm to show some modicum of respect toward his green but well-meaning opponent. "Your Honor, the government will offer direct testimony from Petty Officer Williams that on the evening in question, Ensign Eckberg, the defendant, sexually assaulted Petty Officer Williams and three other members of the SEAL unit who were sleeping in their bunks over the torpedo tubes."

  "Objection!" Jacoby's arms flailed in the air. Her client, Ensign Ekberg, turned a shade that approached the color of his white uniform. Mumbling rose from members of the military jury.

  "Order!" Judge Reeves whapped his gavel twice. Silence fell in the jury box and over the courtroom. Reeves's eyes bore into Jacoby. "Lieutenant Jacoby, I have not ruled on your first objection, and now you're raising a second one?"

  "Your Honor... ah... ah... This is prejudicial. That's it! Prejudicial."

  "Prejudicial?" A tinge of impatience crept into the judge's voice.

  "Your Honor," Zack interrupted before Jacoby could respond.

  "Commander Brewer?"

  "The government requests a recess."

  "A recess? Commander, we just finished a recess."

  "I'd like to speak with Lieutenant Jacoby outside the presence of the members. Please, sir."

  Karen Jacoby was as helpless as an earthworm in the hot Carolina sunshine. Zack could deliver the knockout punch in round one. He knew it. Judge Reeves knew it. Ordinarily, he would never stop a trial with an opponent about to take a fishhook through the midsection.

  But Karen Jacoby seemed like a nice young officer who was in way over her head. This might provide an opportunity to discuss a plea bargain.

  If Jacoby wanted to be bullheaded after they talked, he would finish her off. If Judge Reeves denied his request for a recess, he would finish her off right now. Problem was, if he didn't shut her up, her greenhorn incompetence would have her stumbling all throughout the weekend, putting the command in the position of dropping charges in order to make their movement.

  "Very well, Commander," Judge Reeves sighed. "You've got fifteen minutes."

  "Thank you, Your Honor."

  "All rise."

  Rear entrance, Building 1

  Navy-Marine Corp Trial Judiciary

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  Holding the crate of bottled water in his arms, Mohammed walked up the concrete steps leading to the rear entrance of the courthouse, where two marines, decked out in camouflage battle fatigues and hoisting M16 rifles over their shoulders, stood erect on each side of the door.

  "State your business," the marine on the left snapped.

  "I'm with Aqua Pacific. Delivering bottled water to the attorneys' lounge," Mohammed said.

  "It's okay, Corporal," said the marine on the right. "These guys come by every week."

  "Very well, sir. You may pass," said the marine on the left.

  "Thank you." Mohammed exhaled and stepped through the back double doors and into the main corridor splitting the first floor of the courthouse.

  Courtroom 1, Building 1

  Navy-Marine Corp Trial Judiciary

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  Shannon stood up, and as Captain Reeves stepped off the bench, she held her wrist to her mouth and spoke into the microphone attached to her watch.

  "Another recess. Stand by for traffic in the hallway. Stay alert. I've got Matlock with me."

  "Alpha team, roger that." Alan Raynor's voice boomed through her earpiece.

  "Charlie team, roger that," Mike Wesner chimed in.

  Zack grabbed a file and started down the ce
nter aisle to exit at the back of the courtroom. "Zack," Shannon barked. He turned, and before he could speak, she said, "Don't get out of my sight, please."

  "Yes, ma'am." He rendered a mock salute.

  "Where to, Zack?"

  An irritated smirk crossed his face. "Up to the second deck to chat with Jacoby in the attorneys' lounge."

  Shannon spoke into her wrist mike again. "Raynor."

  "Raynor here."

  "Belay that last order. Matlock is headed to the second deck to the attorneys' lounge. Cut him off, then meet me here."

  "Attorneys' lounge. Second deck. I see Matlock and Jacoby now. Roger that."

  Shannon felt again for her pistol, then followed him out into the hallway.

  10065 English Ivy Way

  Rancho San Diego

  Spring Valley, California

  The sun was rising above the majestic silhouette of Mount Miguel. Its brilliant rays poured through the back bay window of Chris Reynolds's immaculate townhouse, revealing three thumbprint smudges on the black Formica countertop.

  Smudges were so unacceptable. Chris reached in a drawer for a neatly folded rag. Grasping the bottle of 409 under the sink, he sprayed the smudges with a vengeance.

  There. That was better.

  A gold-plated cage hung from a stand just to the left of his gleaming black Yamaha baby grand. Already the sun's rays were bringing the cage's occupant to life.

  Chris opened the cage and stuck his finger inside.

  "Alvin! Alvin!"

  The blue parakeet chirped at the sound of his master's voice. The bird's little three-pronged feet wrapped around Chris's right index finger.

  "That's a good Alvin!" Chris said, carefully removing the chirping bird from his cage. Chris brought his right forefinger to his right shoulder. Alvin, his wings clipped, hopped onto his master's shoulder.

  A sterling-silver eight-by-ten-inch frame sat atop the baby grand. In it, the cover of Time magazine displayed the breathtaking visage of the junior senator from Vermont, the powerful woman who would become the first female president of the United States.

  With Alvin still perched on his shoulder, Chris scooted the black leather piano bench from under the baby grand and sat down.

  He raised both of his hands in the air, as if surrendering to an armed robber. Stretching his fingers apart as if he were about to make a handprint at Hollywood and Vine, he closed his eyes, inhaled, and then attacked the keyboard with furious passion. Every corner of the town-house rung with the grand sounds of Ernesto Lecuona's "Malaguena."

  Attorneys' lounge

  Floor 2, Building 1

  Navy-Marine Corp Trial Judiciary

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  Mohammed had entered the building and, based on directions from the driver who had been paid a handsome sum to take the day off, headed up the stairs to the second floor of the military courthouse.

  The third door on the left was marked Attorneys' Lounge, just as he had been told. Three knocks on the door. "Water delivery!" Two more knocks. No response.

  He turned the doorknob. A clicking sound followed, and the door opened. The room, a spartan-looking rectangular office with a wooden table in the middle, was empty. He stepped in and began stacking crates of bottled water on the counter just above the refrigerator. One by one, he removed the bottles and lined them in the back of the refrigerator.

  If his intelligence reports were correct, the court-martial judge would take recesses about every hour and a half. If he could linger here long enough and remain in the building undetected, he would meet his target.

  Patience.

  He squatted down by the refrigerator. A click at the door brought him up to his feet.

  The door opened. A petite light-haired woman wearing a blue business suit stepped in. She looked to be in her midtwenties. Her attractive green eyes locked in on him like laser beams.

  "Is there something I can help you with?" she snapped with an air of authority.

  "I work with Aqua Pacific," Mohammed said.

  A man in a blue business suit with a squiggly wire running to a small earpiece stepped into the room just behind the woman.

  "I am delivering bottled water."

  "I'm Special Agent McGillvery. NCIS. This is Special Agent Raynor. You'll have to leave."

  "But --"

  "Sorry. Leave your water on the counter. We'll take care of it." The woman reached inside her suit, withdrew a pistol, and held it down at her side.

  In the name of Allah the munificent! This woman was no-nonsense.

  "Any questions?" she asked.

  "No, Agent McGillvery."

  "Raynor, escort this gentleman to the stairway," the woman ordered.

  "Roger, Shannon." The well-chiseled man in the blue suit, who also was holding a gun at his side now, shot him a let's go out in the hallway nod. Mohammed complied, and as he stepped through the doorway, two naval officers, a man and a woman, both in summer dress white uniforms, walked toward him. They were engaged in animated conversation.

  The woman's shoulder boards bore the one and a half stripes of a lieutenant junior grade, and the man's bore the two and a half stripes of a lieutenant commander.

  Mohammed caught the commander's eyes as they passed in the hall.

  Brewer! It was him. Mohammed recognized his face from the media coverage.

  "Move on," the NCIS agent ordered. Mohammed turned around. What to do? The agent's gun was drawn from the body holster, and he was pointing it at the floor. That could change in an instant. And the light-haired woman inside the room had a gun as well.

  "Move it!"

  "Yes, sir." Mohammed headed down the staircase to the first floor, leaving the NCIS agent on the second. He jogged down the stairs and, checking over his shoulder, discovered that the NCIS agent had not followed him. At least not yet.

  He reached the polished hallway of the first floor. The rear entrance was to his left. If the NCIS agent had followed him back down, he could slip out the doors, past the two marine guards, and try again later. But "later" might never come. The trial could end. A number of problems could arise. This was a narrow window of opportunity to advance the cause of his organization. The future of the nation, he knew, rested on his performance.

  Mohammed turned right and headed down the hallway toward Courtroom 1.

  Two navy petty officers, in white uniforms with black armbands emblazoned with the letters SP, walked past him. The two shore patrolmen looked away. Perhaps the light blue Aqua Pacific shirt that he was wearing, complete with the name Mack embroidered in red thread, helped him blend into the woodwork.

  Two more shore patrolmen, standing with their legs askance and their fists balled behind their backs, guarded each side of a large mahogany door just down the hallway to the left. Officers and enlisted personnel bustled in both directions.

  If his map of the courthouse's layout was correct, this was the entrance to Courtroom 1. Soon Brewer and the female lieutenant would walk back through these doors. Perhaps he should just walk in. But his blue Aqua Pacific shirt wouldn't pass for a navy petty officer's uniform. Of course, loitering was not an option -- especially if the fiery-eyed female NCIS agent showed up.

  He passed the head -- the men's room -- and just as he was about to step in, the door of Courtroom 1 opened. A handsome blond officer stepped out between the shore patrolmen. He wore the same ice-cream white summer uniform that Brewer wore, except that his shoulder boards bore a single gold stripe. Over his left chest, the Neptune pitchfork of a Navy SEAL was pinned to the uniform. Over his right chest, a plastic name tag was marked Eckberg.

  Mohammed caught the defendant's blue eyes. Their gazes lingered. The defendant smiled, and for a moment, time froze. The sound of footsteps coming down the stairway jolted Mohammed. He reached into his shirt pocket and handed a card to Eckberg.

  "Is there anything else we can help you with?" The male NCIS agent from upstairs was rounding the corner of the sta
irs, his spit-polished leather shoes echoing a Nazi-like click, click as he made his way down the hallway toward Mohammed.

  "No, sir. I was just on my way out."

  Attorneys' lounge

  Floor 2, Building 1

  Navy-Marine Corp Trial Judiciary

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  Lieutenant Karen Jacoby kept reminding herself she was not dreaming.

  Like every member of her law school class at the University of Maryland -- like every law student across the nation -- who had prepped for last year's bar examinations, her memory was seared with the images of two separate "trials of the century," both of which happened to be navy courts-martial prosecuted by the very handsome officer who had invited her to the attorneys' lounge.

  In two years, Zack Brewer had made the U.S. Navy JAG Corps the most sought-after job for law school grads. For Karen, Zack had become her hero and had influenced her, as he had many others, to apply for a commission in the corps.

  And now here she was, in the same courtroom, in the same attorneys' lounge... Maybe she was dreaming!

  Focus, Karen. Concentrate. Show no sign of awe or intimidation.

  "Have a seat, Karen." His tone was caring. She sat at the conference table as the NCIS agent -- Special Agent McGillvery -- stood by the door and appeared to be examining the hallway.

  "You wanted to discuss the case, sir?"

  "Care for coffee?" Zack turned to the coffee mess just to the left of the refrigerator.

  "Cream and sugar, please, sir."

  "Cream and sugar it is." She watched as he searched for a white mug, poured what looked to be about three tablespoons of sugar into the bottom, doused that with a squirt of milk, and poured steaming black coffee over it all.

  "Coffee is served," he said. He poured a cup of straight black for himself, then walked around to the other side of the conference table, sipped his coffee, and seated himself in front of her.

  "So you wanted to talk with me?"

  "First, I think you're doing a great job for your client."

  "Thank you."

  "Anyway, although the type of conduct your client engaged in --"

  "Allegedly engaged in."