by Don Brown
With the blunt end of the toothpick, he lifted the first wedge of cream from the cookie base and placed it on the center of his tongue. Oh, so good. A sip of hot green tea, then another wedge of cream. Two more cookies fell victim to the toothpick turned scalpel, each wedge followed by a glorious sip of green tea.
When the last delectable slice had been consumed, Chris carefully folded the six brown cakes into a napkin and dropped them into the wastebasket.
"Come to Daddy." Chris extended his hand, palm down, into the cage. The parakeet hopped onto the back of his hand, then jumped onto his right shoulder. "That's a good boy."
The bird peeped and pecked at his ear as Chris sipped more herbal tea and glanced at the Union-Tribune.
A drop of tea splattered onto his shirt when the headlines jolted his concentration:
NAVY, BREWER PROSECUTE GAY MAN
Claxton Criticizes "Neanderthal" Mentality
By Adrian Branch, Military Affairs Editor
The Union-Tribune has learned the navy has filed court-martial charges against a gay naval officer in San Diego for allegedly "sexually assaulting" sailors aboard a U.S. submarine.
The defendant, Ensign Wofford Eckberg, is a U.S. Navy SEAL, who according to court documents filed by COMNAVBASE allegedly committed the sexual assaults while on board a U.S. Navy submarine.
Eckberg himself has been hospitalized for nearly ninety days, having suffered from a broken arm and collarbone at the hands of other Navy SEALs. No charges have been filed against the SEALs who allegedly assaulted Eckberg, according to the source, who spoke on condition of anonymity.
To add even more drama to this developing story, the Union-Tribune has learned that the navy has assigned its top prosecutor to the case, Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer.
Senator Eleanor Claxton was quick to criticize --
No. This could not be true!
Chris's face flushed. He balled the paper into a wad and slung it across the floor. The Oreo-less ceramic plate flew across the room, crashed into the piano, banged against the keyboard, and shattered into a dozen pieces.
He would have to show Zack what he needed to do. With Zack professing a political conversion, publicly supporting Eleanor, Eleanor would certainly take notice of Chris's political talents to bring even pig-headed conservatives into the fold. Of course, that was it. He would find Zack and straighten all this out.
Cafe Pacifica
2414 San Diego Avenue
Old Town
San Diego, California
Old Town, home of the original Spanish Mission, which later became modern-day San Diego, had been restored as a pristine California State Park. Adjacent to Balboa Park and just a mile or so inland from San Diego Bay, the palm tree - lined oasis in the midst of California's second-largest city brimmed with quaint art shops, museums, and restaurants. It became Zack's favorite weekend off-base hangout when he was first stationed at the 32nd Street Naval Station four years ago.
Then came the case of United States v. BT3 (SEAL) Antonio Blount, followed by United States v. Mohammed Olajuwon et al. and finally by United States v. Mohammed Quasay. Zack had acquired such celebrity status that even a stroll anywhere in the city became a nonstop marathon of autograph seekers, gawkers, well-wishers, and even an occasional heckler or two. As a result, Zack confined his life to either his La Mesa home or inside the barbed-wire fences of the naval station.
But in the last year, with media interest waning, he'd started slipping out in public again, often unnoticed.
With the case of United States v. Ensign Wofford Eckberg now about to settle, Zack decided that a Saturday morning foray to Old Town was just what the doctor ordered. Dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck and wearing dark shades to preserve anonymity, he sat on the outdoor patio at Cafe Pacifica, sipped fresh black coffee, and bathed in the warm morning sunshine.
The waitress, an attractive Hispanic-looking girl who spoke impeccable English, smiled and asked if he was ready to order. Her pretty black eyes showed no sign of recognition.
Good.
"A vegetable omelet with wheat toast," he said.
"Anything else?"
"No, thank you."
The waitress smiled again, nodded, and walked away.
Along the sun-soaked, palm-lined pedestrian street, a dozen or so tourists took in the sights of the old Spanish village. They paid him no attention.
Zack took another sip of coffee, then picked up his copy of the official U.S. Navy newspaper, the Navy Times. Today's edition contained the staff corps promotions list, showing the names of all of the officers promoted in the navy's medical, nursing, medical ser vice, dental, chaplain, and JAG corps. While Zack had been deep-selected for lieutenant commander a year ago --
one year ahead of his Naval Justice School classmates -- he was interested in how his colleagues were doing. He turned to page 44, which contained the names of all those JAG officers across the world who were in his "year group" and thus eligible for promotion at the same time.
PROMOTIONS TO LIEUTENANT COMMANDER
Judge Advocate General's Corps: (2500)
Sarah Jennifer-Abigail Blanzy
Graham Hardison Brown
Kevin Deacon Clark
Martin Somerset Chilton
Diane Jefferson Colcernian (posthumously)
Zack removed his shades, squinted against the bright sunlight, cupped his hand over his eyes, and reread the last name.
Diane Jefferson Colcernian (posthumously)
Dear Lord. How could she still freeze him in his tracks? Every little thing that reminded him of Diane let him know he would never get over her.
Never.
"Sir, your omelet is ready."
They had promoted her posthumously. It was an honor reserved for dead officers.
"Sir."
He looked up. The smiling waitress held a tray with his veggie omelet. He folded the Navy Times and laid it on the table.
"Excuse me, but you look familiar. Do I know you?" An inquisitive look crossed her face.
He slipped his shades back on. "No, I don't think we've had the pleasure."
His cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and saw the name Shannon McGillvery.
He smiled and nodded at the waitress, who took his cue and walked away; then he popped open the chirping cell phone.
"Hi, Shannon."
"Zack, what's the matter?"
"What do you mean, what's the matter? Nothing is the matter."
"Zack, you don't sound right."
"I'm fine."
There was a pause. Shannon spoke again. "You know, Zack, you weren't supposed to leave your house until we got there. You know what Washington said, and you know Captain Rudy's directives."
Zack rolled his eyes. "What are they gonna do? Kick me out of the navy?" He sipped his coffee, waiting for her answer.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
"Good." This time he switched from the black coffee to the ice water. "Maybe it's a male ego thing. You know. The concept of being protected by a five-foot-five redhead."
"I thought you liked redheads."
Zack didn't respond.
"Sorry," she said. "That was insensitive."
Zack forked the omelet. "No problem."
"What did you do, head down to Old Town?"
"Yep. Cafe Pacifica."
"I had a feeling that's where you'd go."
"Yeah. You had a feeling and you had that magnetic GPS transmitter you stuck under the hood of my car." Zack snickered.
"How do you know such things?"
"Maybe I should apply for a job with NCIS."
"I'm almost there, Commander."
"Want me to order for you?"
"Sure. How about coffee and pancakes?"
"Got it." Zack hung up and motioned for the waitress. Though he hated the idea of having a bodyguard, he looked forward to seeing Shannon.
Chris parked his yellow Volkswagen Beetle in the lot just off Juan Street, behind the Alvar
ado House, one of the better-known landmarks in Old Town. He opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine. A relentless twisting grabbed hold of his stomach.
He sat back down in the car and pulled the dagger from his pocket. Senator Claxton was right. Zack had to be persuaded not to endorse hate crimes against gays. He must get out of the national spotlight and not interfere with Eleanor's destiny. This was a family matter. And Eleanor was family. This was for her honor. This was for her historic election.
Two SDPD officers walked across the parking lot, toward the car. Chris shoved the dagger under the bucket seat and held his breath.
They strolled past the car, about twenty feet parallel to the driver's side. Chris watched in the rearview as they disappeared around the Alvarado House and into the park. He blew a sigh of relief.
Shannon swung the white U.S. government Ford Taurus a little too quickly into the parking lot behind the Alvarado House. Her briefcase flew across the backseat, into the passenger's door.
Her job, she had decided, had made her a reckless driver. Guarding Zack Brewer should qualify her for hazardous-duty pay. That he would venture out alone, despite NCIS warnings, made her want to slap him. If he were anyone else, she would complain to his commanding officer. And she might do that yet for his own protection if he didn't get with the program. She was a professional assigned to protect him, yet she felt like a schoolgirl in a stupid, stupid game of he loves me, he loves me not.
She hit the brakes, parked the car, balled her fist, and pounded it against the steering wheel.
Ouch.
She slipped her gun in the holster under her warm-up suit, got out of the car, slammed the door, and started a fast walk -- almost a jog -- toward the park.
She barely noticed the yellow Volkswagen bug as she walked past it.
The woman who'd just stepped past his car looked familiar, Chris thought. Where had he seen her? Hmm. Maybe it was just his imagination.
He reached under the seat and grabbed the dagger.
The stainless-steel blade glistened in the sunlight streaming through the sunroof. Yes, this would be the perfect object lesson, he thought.
He opened the door, stepped out of the car, and scanned the area for any police officers.
All clear.
He locked the door and headed toward the park.
CHAPTER 14
English Channel
25 miles northwest of Dieppe, France
Course 290 degrees
Allah, in all his providence, had supplied the crew of this godforsaken rubber boat with additional syringes and sedatives, which had kept Fadil's prize heavily sedated through the night. Now it was daylight, and the hours crept by while Ghazi and Salah vomited and heaved -- fourteen times, Fadil had counted, between the two of them -- and Fadil had been sick for the last hour. If only Allah had provided Dramamine for the incessant rocking out in the middle of nowhere.
"There it is," one of them cried.
Fadil rose up from the bottom of the boat.
The ship was off to the left, lying low in the sea. Except for the hideous boxy superstructure that rose from the aft, it was a sleek craft, long and black. An ensign with white, blue, and red horizontal stripes fluttered in the wind off the stern.
The flag of the Russian Republic.
"Are you sure?" another crewman asked. "We cannot afford any unwanted rescues."
"Everyone arm weapons," the coxswain of the boat ordered. All of the crew members except the coxswain, who was navigating the craft, grabbed their guns. "No firing unless on my order."
The craft swung closer around the rear. Now they saw the writing on the stern, but the rolling swells made it difficult to focus on the ship's name. A few sailors armed with rifles stood along the stern.
"Be ready. We're moving in closer," the coxswain announced. A couple of the sailors on the ship brought their rifles down on the boat, which brought the barrels of the Uzis up toward the ship.
"Ahoy, the boat!" shouted one of the sailors in heavily accented English through a bullhorn. "Halt in the water!"
The coxswain ignored the admonition, inching the boat closer toward the stern. Rifle fire rang from the stern of the ship. Bullets whizzed in a perimeter around the boat.
"Get back, you idiot," Fadil yelled at the coxswain. "You will get us all martyred." He looked back up at the stern and saw the Russian lettering on the back of the ship:.
"That is it!" the coxswain yelled. "The Alexander Popovich!"
"Turn this boat around or I'll shoot." Fadil pointed his Uzi at the coxswain.
"Ahoy, Alexander Popovich," the coxswain, ignoring Fadil, yelled back at the sailors through the boat's megaphone. "Black Sea Express! Hold your fire! Repeat! Black Sea Express!"
The firing stopped.
"Drop your weapon," the coxswain snapped at Fadil. "For your own sake I will ignore your stupid stunt this once. Anything else stupid gets reported to the council. Understand?"
"Ahoy, Black Sea Express!" a sailor on the back of the Alexander Popovich called out through the bullhorn, still in Russian-accented English but in a friendlier tone. "Bring your craft around to port!"
"Coming to port!"
Fadil put down his weapon and stared up at the ship. The Russian freighter Alexander Popovich, its captain and crew available for hire to the highest bidder, would be his ride to glory. Fadil looked to the heavens and mumbled thanks to Allah. He felt like saluting the white, blue, and red flag of the Russian Republic waving from her stern.
Twenty minutes later, he looked up from the rubber boat as an unconscious Jeanette L'Enfant dangled supine in a metal basket halfway between the Atlantic Ocean and the gunwales of the Alexander Popovich. The ship's mechanical cranes were hoisting his bounty up gradually. He envisioned the embrace and kisses he would receive from al-Akhma. A minute or so later, they slung her over the top, out of his view.
The sun was setting now, enveloping them in shadows as another basket was lowered. This one was for him.
"I should leave you out here with the sharks," the coxswain snapped through a lit Camel, then blew a blast of smoke in Fadil's face.
"My apologies," Fadil said. "I reacted too rashly."
"Get off my boat." The coxswain pointed Fadil to the hanging basket.
Fadil stepped in, and as he sat down, the basket lifted him out over the water. Five minutes later, they swung him over the gunwale, onto the deck.
A stocky, gruff-looking man with a black beard, wearing a black jacket and smoking a cigarette, greeted him. "I am Captain Yuri Mikalvich Batsakov." The wind was picking up now, blowing the captain's smoke into Fadil's face. "Welcome to Alexander Popovich."
The captain disappeared below, and Fadil walked to the port gunwale and, with a steady cool breeze blowing in his face, watched the sun sink into the Atlantic.
CHAPTER 15
Gobi Desert
Southeast of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia
The darkness.
At first she had been petrified of it.
She had not known what it might bring.
When he had started coming in the afternoons, she had stayed up all night, certain he would reappear through the walls of the tent. It was the same each time. They would yank her outside, force her onto a chopping block as if to behead her, then stop.
Night after night, she had remained awake, shaking, her eyes wide open with fear, not drifting off until dawn's first light.
She had waited for him to come. But it was the light -- the sunbeam through the pinhole reaching the far corner -- that seemed to trigger their animalistic instincts.
Weeks passed. Then months.
Over time, she became convinced that he would not come in the dark.
The dark became a security blanket of sorts. A blanket of solitude. She sat alone in the corner, absorbing the gentle sound of the wind working the flaps of the tent.
For the moment, there was a peaceful repose. At least another twelve hours would pass before she fought him again.
"Dear Lord, without your intervention, my time is short. They keep talking about my death after a certain number of days. I'm afraid and lonely. And if it be your will, please rescue me from this place. Let me see my family again. Let me see him again.
"In Jesus' name. Amen."
She lay on the floor, her mind drifting. He was so handsome in white. In his chokers, at the end of the aisle with his groomsmen... bearing swords and standing at parade rest.
Claxton campaign California headquarters
Situation room
Hyatt Regency Hotel
Century City
Los Angeles, California
Jackson Gallopoulous sat alone, drinking coffee and perusing the articles in this morning's editions of the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, and the San Diego Union-Tribune.
California's three major newspapers had run the press releases issued by the campaign, giving front-page coverage to the carefully planted story. Each had, at his personal insistence, included the "Neanderthal mentality" quote within the first six paragraphs.
Fabulous.
Campaign polling showed that among likely voters considered most liberal, tough talk against the military would draw favorable responses. The phrase "Neanderthal mentality" was one of several phrases tried out on a sample test group in San Francisco and had scored higher than "stone-age mentality," "discriminatory mind-set," and "stone-age witch hunt."