Defiance

by Don Brown

  Of course, this was primarily a political stunt designed to push Eleanor Claxton over the top in the California primary. Everybody in the campaign knew this. If Web Wallace could somehow get Wofford Eckberg off the hook, so much the better. If not, poor Wofford would still get a book contract; at least, that was Eleanor's prediction. After a few years in a navy brig.

  He swigged his Scotch and smiled.

  The risk in all this was Brewer. The naval officer had become a national hero, especially among conservatives.

  Two years ago, the powerful Southern Democrat senator Roberson "Pinkie" Fowler of Louisiana tried coaxing Brewer out of the navy to run for a congressional seat in Louisiana, his election "guaranteed" by Fowler. And Fowler, Eleanor's rival and a candidate for the presidency himself, was powerful enough to have pulled it off. The only hitch -- Brewer would've had to switch to the Democratic Party to take the seat.

  Inside-the-beltway rumors had Brewer seriously considering the proposition before turning it down.

  What worried Jackson about this stunt wasn't California but rather the red states that had been Republican in the last few presidential elections. Would Brewer's presence harm Eleanor in these states, some of which she needed to win? That he would consider switching to the Democratic Party suggested he might not say anything that would hurt Eleanor.

  All in all, the plan to commandeer this court-martial was a good one, Jackson thought. Well worth the risk.

  "Bartender, another Scotch, please."

  "Yes, sir."

  It was Eleanor's reaction to Karen Jacoby's murder that wasn't sitting so well with Jackson.

  "Your drink, sir," the bartender said.

  "Thanks." Jackson handed him a ten-dollar bill. "Keep a running tab."

  "Yes, sir."

  She seemed so... so nonchalant. Anyway, maybe that was just his excuse for inviting Mary-Latham down to join him. He took another nip of his drink. Maybe he was having a little problem keeping his relationship with Mary-Latham professional.

  Another swig followed that thought.

  She was smart, attractive, witty, earthy. But she spent so much time with Eleanor. Jackson checked his watch.

  Of course, everybody in her inner circle wants to spend time with Eleanor. Maybe it's just political ambition. Heck. I, Jackson Kennedy Gallopoulous, am more guilty of political ambition than anybody on Eleanor's staff save Eleanor herself.

  Jackson trimmed a Dominican-brand Macanudo cigar, then lit it.

  "Mind if I smoke too?" He felt a soft hand on his shoulder and swung around on the bar stool.

  Mary-Latham Modlin wore a black turtleneck, designer blue jeans, and black boots. Her brunette hair wasn't quite so frizzy tonight and had a certain luster about it, its wavy curls resting nicely on her shoulders.

  "Anybody ever tell you that you look fabulous in jeans?"

  She smiled. "Drinking already?"

  "Yes, but I'm quite coherent." He laid the cigar in an ashtray and stood. "Please, have a seat."

  "Ever the gentlemen," she said.

  He helped her onto the bar stool. "What's this? A feminist relishing chivalry?"

  "Quiet. You'll ruin my reputation." She sat down. "Corona, please."

  "Yes, ma'am," the bartender said.

  "So" -- Jackson snuffed out the cigar -- "where's the boss tonight?"

  The bartender slid Mary-Latham's beer across the counter. She turned to Jackson. "Up in the suite with Web. They're planning the big splash at the court-martial tomorrow."

  "Hmm." Jackson stirred his drink.

  "So do you have the press ready?"

  "Stoked and ready to go," he said. "We've got a surprise at the naval station gate in the morning. I hope tomorrow's a good day for us in the polls."

  "Anything to put Eleanor in a better mood." Mary-Latham sipped her long-necked Corona.

  "Speaking of Eleanor, did anything about her bother you today?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Jackson hesitated. Maybe he shouldn't mention it. Another sip of Scotch soothed his hesitation. "What I mean is Karen Jacoby."

  "That's a shame." "Precisely."

  "And your point?"

  "My point is, did you find Eleanor's reaction -- or lack thereof -- rather odd?"

  Mary-Latham did not respond.

  "For that matter," Jackson continued, "Web wasn't fazed by it either."

  "Look, Jackson." Mary-Latham touched his hand. "Eleanor... Web... We've all got a campaign to run. Eleanor ordered me to prep a sympathy statement for release tomorrow. Remember?"

  "That's standard stuff. I'm sure the White House will issue a sympathy statement."

  "Maybe," she said, "but we'll beat that moron Williams to the punch. Besides, it wasn't as if Eleanor and Karen Jacoby were personal friends. She barely knew her. And with the unfortunate rash of deaths that Eleanor and Freddie have endured, it's no wonder she'd suppress her emotions. Eh?"

  She flashed him a stunning smile. But not stunning enough to shake her last statement from his mind. With the unfortunate rash of deaths that Eleanor and Freddie have endured...

  Something still wasn't quite right. But as Mary-Latham said, for now, they had a campaign to run. Whatever was wrong, Jackson would worry about it later.

  "Hey," he said, downing the last of his Scotch, "wanna take an evening stroll on the beach?"

  Her smile washed away all worries of Eleanor and Karen Jacoby. "I thought you'd never ask."

  She took his hand, and they walked out of the hotel toward the surf.

  Room 301, Hilton Hotel

  880 Harbor Island Drive

  San Diego, California

  9:00 p.m. (PST)

  From the hotel suite that had indeed been registered to the Reverend Robert Moore of Paris, France, Shannon gazed at the magnificent panorama of lights reflecting vibrantly on the black waters of San Diego Bay. Straight in front of her, maybe two miles by the flight of the gull, downtown San Diego's skyline rose over the bay and into the California night.

  Just across the bay to her right, much closer to Harbor Island, the lights of Naval Air Station North Island provided a sparkling backdrop to the nuclear-powered aircraft carrier USS Dwight D. Eisenhower. Ike's hull number, 69, painted on the tower above the flight deck, was grandly illuminated by powerful spotlights.

  Three knocks on the hotel room door interrupted the conversation between Father Robert and the two NCIS agents. Shannon went to the door and checked the peephole. A ruddy-faced man stood in the hallway, his potbelly protruding over his khakis.

  She opened the door. "About time you got here."

  "What's all the hoopla about?" asked Barry MacGregor, the NCIS SAC.

  Before she showed him the folder, Shannon made the introductions, then waited impatiently as a few pleasantries were exchanged.

  "What the hoopla is about is this." Shannon pointed to a legal-sized folder on a round coffee table in the corner of the room. "You've gotta see it."

  MacGregor seated himself at the table, then picked up the file. "French?"

  "Look at tab B. There's an English translation. Jeanette L'Enfant had the file translated before she brought it to Father Robert."

  "You're talking about the missing French attorney who helped defend those pilots? That Jeanette L'Enfant?"

  "One and the same," Robert said.

  "The file," Shannon said, "contains sensitive information about Council of Ishmael operations, Barry. It includes names, locations, and secret bank accounts for al-Akhma and all his top lieutenants. And get this -- we've got proof, finally, that the attack on the Dome of the Rock was a coordinated conspiracy, planned and executed by the Council of Ishmael, carried out by Islamic U.S. Navy pilots, all as part of a plan to do two things. One, incite the Islamic world against the U.S., and two, divide the U.S. and Israel --"

  "Okay, okay." Barry cut her off. "How do we know this is legitimate? And no offense to you, Father," he said, turning to Robert, "but how do I know who you are?"

  "Barry," S
hannon said, "I've already made contacts through the Catholic Diocese of San Diego. I shot his picture with my cell phone and sent it over by email. They've been on the phone with Sacre Coeur in Paris. Father Robert is who he says he is. Besides, I've threatened to kill him if he's a fake."

  That comment brought an impish smile from Robert, who looked down at his feet.

  "Let me see that file." Barry flipped to tab B. "Operation Islamic Glory. Plan was to attack Israel's Dome of the Rock, then fly northeast and bail out over Syria. Pilots to be rescued by Council of Ishmael operatives and flown to Saudi Arabia."

  "And they almost pulled it off, Barry," Shannon said. "Except the Israelis crossed the border and plucked them out of Syria before the Arabs could."

  "Interesting."

  "Yes. Interesting indeed. Do you see the significance of this, Barry?"

  He stared a bit longer at the file. "A wonderful public relations opportunity for the United States."

  "Precisely," Shannon said. "This is a smoking gun disproving those crazy theories that the U.S. attacked the Dome in retaliation for 9/11." She thought for a moment. "Maybe the president goes before the United Nations or something with evidence pointing the blame at radical Islam for the destruction of their own so-called holy site. And exposes the real culprit -- the Council of Ishmael -- the terrorist organization that's responsible."

  "If anybody believes it," Barry said.

  "It's up to the administration to figure that out. Take a look at the last document at the end of this section." She leaned over her boss's shoulder as he flipped through the file. "One more page over," she said as Barry reached the file.

  To: Lieutenant Commander Mohammed Quasay, USN

  From: Abdur Rahman

  Subj: Reassignment Following Extrication

  Upon your extrication from Syria, you will be transported to COI headquarters in Saudi Arabia, where you will brief the council on the success of your mission. You will then be assigned as the leader's liaison to Gobi Desert Detainee Camp Mongolia.

  As such, you will assume operation command of camp and shall be responsible for its security.

  Our leader, Hussein al-Akhma, has expressed supreme confidence in you for this invaluable assignment to the cause of Islam not only because of your impeccable knowledge of English and your leadership skills, but also because of your intimate knowledge of the U.S. military. This knowledge will become relevant because detainee targets are high-profile members of the U.S. military.

  Attached hereto as Exhibit A is a partial list of U.S. military personnel the council is targeting for capture and transportation to Gobi Desert Detainee Camp. As discussed, Plan 547 will be in effect.

  On behalf of our great leader, Hussein al-Akhma, the great servant of Allah and his prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, thank you for your ser vice to the Council of Ishmael and to the great cause of Islam.

  In the name of Allah the Merciful,

  Abdur Rahman

  "Now flip over to the next page," Shannon said.

  EXHIBIT A

  U.S. Military Officers Targeted for Extrication

  Anderson, Joseph, MAJGEN, USMC

  Allen, Arthur R., BGEN, USA

  Bailey, William, LTGEN, USA

  Brewer, Zachary, LCDR, USN

  Brown, Graham, RADM, USN

  Carrington, James, GEN, USAF

  Casey, Jeannette, RADM, USN

  Colcernian, Diane, LT, USN

  DeAngelo, David, COL, USMC

  At least fifty other names were on the list. But before Barry could finish reading, Shannon interrupted him. "Seen enough?"

  "Yeah," Barry wheeled around and made eye contact with her. "I've seen enough to know that if this is legitimate, we've got at least fifty officers, including your friend Brewer, who are going to need round-the-clock protection." He paused for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. "Meaning Congress will have to increase its funding for NCIS and the Army's CID if we're going to provide the protection for these officers."

  Shannon walked over to the small refrigerator and, feeling the eyes of the four men in the room on her, bent to extract a bottled water. She opened it and took a sip, then turned toward the men. "If my hunch is right, money for bodyguard duty won't be the only extra congressional expenditure required here."

  "I don't follow you," Barry said.

  "What I'm talking about" -- she took another gulp of the cold water -- "rather, who I'm talking about -- is Colcernian."

  "Lieutenant Colcernian is dead," one of the NCIS agents said. "She's the one that won't need protection."

  "Is she?" Shannon asked.

  "Is she what?" Barry said.

  "Is she dead?" Shannon set the bottle down, then walked across the room and pulled up a chair beside Barry at the round coffee table. "I mean, who's seen her body?"

  "I need a beer." Barry rubbed his eyes as if hoping the question wasn't leading where he thought it was. "You sound like one of those conspiracy theorists who believed Hitler escaped to Argentina just because his body wasn't found. Besides, Shannon, if I recall, the navy declared Colcernian killed in action based on your assessment of the evidence and based on your recommendation. If memory serves me, you were the one who took it upon yourself to convince Brewer the love of his life was dead. Now the navy has promoted her to lieutenant commander -- posthumously, I might add -- based on your recommendation."

  Shannon walked back over to the window and again looked out into the night, her gaze taking in the dazzling San Diego skyline. "Guilty on all charges," she said. "Based on the evidence we had before us at the time -- the collapsed cave, the hair strands, the DNA match with Colcernian's -- I stand by the call I made at the time." She turned back to Barry. "But this," she said, picking up the file, "this brings a new dynamic into the equation."

  "A new dynamic?" Barry folded his arms. "Here's my read -- again assuming this is legit: Colcernian was on a list with fifty other officers, and she was on that list because she helped prosecute the Muslim chaplains. She was killed before she was captured."

  "Think about what you just said, Barry." Shannon held her index finger in the air. "We don't know that she was killed. But here's what we do know. We know that she was captured. And we know that was part of the plan as set forth in this mem --"

  "Come on, Shannon," Barry interrupted. "Colcernian's last known whereabouts was Afghanistan. How far is that, anyway? That's got to be at least a thousand miles from Mongolia. And remember, we know there was a whole ton of mortar rounds shot at the cave where we found the hair strand. What you have here is still wildly speculative."

  "What we have here is a stated plan to capture American officers, a missing officer whose name is on that list, no body, and a location."

  "A location? The Gobi Desert in Mongolia? That's like looking for a needle in a haystack."

  "At least maybe we've got the right haystack."

  His eyes drilled her. "Maybe. Maybe not."

  "That's it? Maybe? Maybe not?"

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "I want to go look for her, Barry."

  "You can't just go look for her, Shannon. I mean, come on."

  "I don't just mean me. This country has to do something." Shannon felt her Irish temper flaring. "Some sort of coordinated intelligence effort to check this out."

  "Okay, okay." He scratched his chin. "You know, Quasay was supposed to cooperate with the government in return for our not seeking the death penalty. Has he ever mentioned this?"

  "No," Shannon said. "He's given us names of Council of Ishmael operatives, but that's about it."

  "Just enough to save his lousy hide from the firing squad."

  "You said it."

  "We'll run this up the chain. But the call will have to be made at the highest levels." His eyes softened. "I'll see what I can do."

  "Thanks, Barry." She gave him a hug.

  "Look," he said, "we need to check this out with Quasay. But first, we know Brewer is on the list. We know we've got a dead JAG officer
, and we know we've got Brewer in court in the morning. So let's do everything we can to reinforce our protection of him."

  "With pleasure," Shannon said. "I'm headed back to La Mesa right now."

  LCDR Zack Brewer's residence

  4935 Mills Street

  La Mesa, California

  Forty-five minutes later

  The glow of the waxing moon cast a ghastly canopy over the small stucco house. The images of two apparitions, Special Agents Wesner and Raynor, roved about on foot patrol in Zack's driveway, guarding the front entrance to the house. Shannon stepped out of the car.

  "Status?" she asked.

  "All quiet," boomed Mike Wesner's voice through the night. "La Mesa PD has been by a couple of times, giving us some backup. Matlock's inside prepping for trial."

  "Anybody with him?"

  "That's a negative, Shannon."

  "I'm going inside. Don't look for me until the morning."

  The orange glow from Alan Raynor's cigarette revealed a raised eyebrow.

  "Don't look at me that way, Raynor! We've lost one JAG officer today. Whoever killed her is still on the loose. We'll lose another one over my cold, dead body."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Besides, if it's any of your business, I'll be on the sofa."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "You're to notify me if even one unauthorized mosquito flies within one mile of this house."

  "I don't think we have mosquitoes in Southern California," Raynor said.

  "Is there any ambiguity about my instructions?" Shannon snapped.

  "None."

  "Good. Agent Wesner? Bring me an Uzi, please."

  "You bet." Wesner popped open the trunk of one of the NCIS staff cars parked out front and brought Shannon a compact black submachine gun. "Safety's on," he said. "Be careful."