Defiance

by Don Brown

  "Thanks, Mike."

  She stepped to the front door and knocked. The door opened. A dim incandescent glow from two living room lamps flowed onto the porch. Looking weary but otherwise quite fit in a light blue North Carolina Tar Heels T-shirt and navy blue shorts, Zack rubbed his eyes. "Care for some company tonight?" she asked.

  She saw his eyes lock on to the Uzi and widen. "Do I have a choice?"

  "Not to be pushy, but no, you don't."

  "How could I say no to a woman with a machine gun?" he joked. "Okay. Come on in. The coffee's on."

  She stepped into the living room, and Zack closed the door.

  CHAPTER 26

  Inside a wooden coffin

  Time and location unknown

  It was dark inside the coffin. Her stomach was queasy from the way they were slinging it about.

  The motion made her want to throw up, but the tight gag in her mouth would send the vomit sliding back into her stomach and perhaps her lungs as well. The coffin tilted, and she bumped her head against the wooden interior.

  Jeanette felt the descent now.

  This was it.

  They were lowering her down, down into her grave. Was this the price she would pay for neglecting God all of her life?

  To be buried alive?

  A moist warmth enveloped the interior of the coffin. Perhaps from the coals of hell smoldering nearby.

  Why had she believed such idiots as Freud, Neitzsche, and Sartre -- all self-avowed atheists who claimed there was no God?

  Had she ingested their rubbish because it was the chic thing to do? To sip wine with her young friends and embrace a speculative and unproven philosophy? To take pride in being a self-proclaimed atheist?

  Oh, how intellectually superior she had felt, with her legal training, immersed in the grand philosophy of humanism, to hold on to the notion that God is dead, and indeed to propagate such a philosophy to others.

  And now this.

  What a fool Freud had been. What a fool she had been!

  Now this was her lot for denouncing the living God. To be buried alive, descending into the pits of hell!

  M'aider Dieu! God, help me!

  Russian freighter Alexander Popovich

  Seaport of Sochi, Russia

  Eastern coast of the Black Sea

  8:00 a.m. (GMT); 12:00 p.m. (local time)

  From the bridge of the Alexander Popovich, Captain Batsakov watched as the port crane swung the wooden crate out over the dock. It dangled in the air, swaying to and fro in the Black Sea breeze. Then the sound of clanking chains commenced, and the crate started its descent toward the soil of the great Motherland.

  Russian stevedores, wearing white T-shirts and black caps and working under the midday sun, scurried under the crate and guided it down, down to the concrete dock.

  "So, my friend" -- the captain drew a puff from his Cuban cigar -- "I trust that your star passenger can survive in that wooden box down there?"

  "She is well drugged, Capitan," Fadil said. "There are holes in the crate for ventilation."

  "Holes in the crate?" The captain chuckled. "I saw no such holes during my inspection."

  "Before she awakens, we will be three hundred kilometers east of here. Past the border of Kazakhstan. She can hold her breath until then." Fadil cackled. "Besides, wood is naturally porous, Capitan. The stevedores handling the crate are well aware of the situation and, more importantly, well compensated."

  "I am sure" -- Batsakov took another puff -- "they are most eager to be cooperative."

  "Indeed," Fadil said. "I have come to the conclusion that you Russians like the American dollar far more than the Americans do."

  "Communist philosophy," Batsakov sneered, drawing a final satisfying drag from the stogie. "Equality for the masses. Dollars for the elite!"

  "Your Karl Marx couldn't have said it better, comrade!" Fadil snickered.

  "It has been a pleasure doing business with you, my friend. Please call on us should you be in need of our ser vices in the future."

  "With pleasure, Capitan. But now I must ask your permission to go ashore. My duties are calling. And a certain wooden box may need a few holes drilled in it for the long journey ahead of us."

  "Permission granted." Batsakov slapped the Arab on the back. "And good luck to you, whatever you are up to."

  "Thank you, Capitan," Fadil said, then walked off the bridge.

  LCDR Zack Brewer's residence

  4935 Mills Street

  La Mesa, California

  Monday, 6:00 a.m. (PST)

  The small motorcade formed at Zack's house.

  It consisted of a La Mesa PD squad car, a Taurus driven by Special Agent Raynor, Zack's Mercedes driven by Shannon, and a Crown Victoria driven by Special Agent Wesner.

  They drove straight through town, south along Spring Street toward California Highway 94, where the La Mesa Squad car dropped off. A San Diego County Sheriff's Department squad car, driven by Deputy Barney Oldham, then moved to the front of the motorcade.

  To avoid attention, neither squad car had employed sirens or flashing lights. Unless someone knew that the small caravan was a protective motorcade, it could've passed for four cars blending in with traffic.

  Shannon hadn't dropped this bombshell on Zack yet, but protecting him inside the confines of a military installation would be far better than guarding a residence in a civilian neighborhood, having to involve local police departments, and worrying about snipers behind every palm tree.

  Sometime before this day was over, she would request that Captain Rudy order Zack on base. The captain wasn't obligated to comply, but she would go over his head if he didn't.

  That would chap Zack's ego.

  Too bad.

  He'd never know that she was behind it. And if he found out, that was still too bad. Better to have a chapped Zack than a dead Zack.

  She hadn't told him about Father Robert or the contents of the communique from the Quasay file. Not yet.

  The navy didn't need its star prosecutor dwelling on the possibility that Diane might be alive. Not now. Besides, statistically, Barry was probably right. Diane Colcernian was likely dead. Shannon probably had it right the first time.

  Still, her gut told her otherwise. And so did the hellish nightmare that had scared the living life out of her last night. It was as if Diane Colcernian had risen from the dead out of Karen Jacoby's watery grave. Her face was so real, her voice so desperate.

  A cold chill shivered down her neck and goose bumps prickled her arms as they drove west, past the I-805 Interchange.

  "Are you about ready for this?"

  "We'll see."

  "What do you think Judge Reeves will do?"

  "No clue."

  "Think he might continue the case because of Karen's death?"

  But Zack wasn't listening. He was reading through his notes on the legal pad in his lap, oblivious to her question.

  Zack was a steel machine when it came to trial preparation. This she knew. She'd hoped a little small talk would extinguish the memory of the nightmare. No such luck.

  Naval Station San Diego was just a few miles away now. The car passed under Interstate 5, just a few blocks from the "dry side" of the naval station. They slowed, and shore patrolmen waved them onto the base. Her cell phone rang. It was Deputy Sheriff Barney Oldham in the lead car.

  "Yes, Barney?"

  "Trouble."

  "Talk to me."

  "The main entrance to the wet side on Harbor Drive and 32nd Street. Protestors. Hundreds of them."

  Oldham referred to the portion of the base where most of the ships of the Pacific fleet were moored. This was also where the military courthouse was located. To get to it, they would have to cross Harbor Drive, the north-south public boulevard that split the naval station down the middle.

  "Great," she said as they merged onto the westbound section of 32nd Street that ran through the dry side. "Let me guess. Gay rights?"

  That question brought Zack's eyes off h
is legal pad.

  "You guessed it."

  "What's our security situation crossing Harbor?"

  "SDPD has three black-and-whites at the intersection. They'll stop traffic when we come through. That's six officers on the ground. Should be enough unless somebody's armed."

  "Great."

  The brake lights of Alan Raynor's Taurus flashed just in front of them. Shannon hit the brakes. She saw Mike Wesner's Crown Victoria close the distance in her rearview. They were inching along now, about to cross Harbor Drive. About a half dozen marines, in battle fatigues and carrying M16s, flanked the cars. Shannon reached inside her sweats, pulled out her nine-millimeter Beretta, and laid it on the seat.

  "Zack, you may want to duck down as we cross Harbor Drive."

  "What for?"

  "We're getting ready to cross through protestors." They moved forward six inches, then stopped again. "Some of them could be armed."

  "I'm not ducking." Zack was defiant. "You duck."

  "Look, Zack, it's not me they want. We've already lost one JAG officer this weekend."

  "I'm not ducking."

  They inched forward a few feet.

  "All right, macho man," she said in a more feminine, pleading tone, "if you won't duck, would you at least take your officer's cover off and put on some shades?" A pause. She turned and gazed into his hazel eyes. "For me?"

  Zack rolled his eyes, shook his head, smirked, and tossed his naval officer's hat into the backseat. Then he slipped on a pair of Oakley sunglasses. "Satisfied?" he asked, still shaking his head.

  "Thank you, Commander."

  "Anything you say."

  The cars rolled a few feet closer to Harbor Drive. Twenty feet in front of them, Shannon saw a flashing blue light.

  A voice blared over a loudspeaker from one of the police squad cars on Harbor Drive just ahead. "Stand back. Please stand back."

  Now they came into view. Hundreds, maybe thousands.

  The angry sea of humanity clogged all of Harbor Drive, blocking the entrances between the wet and dry sides of the naval station. The crowd's attire ranged from bikinis to skin-tight jeans and T-shirts, though some protesters wore the opposite of what gender dictated, with makeup on men, crew cuts on women. Some had donned costumes aimed to offend -- and offend they did as they flaunted body parts and lifestyle. They shook their fists, yelling and screaming, jabbing the air with signs and banners.

  ANCHORS AWAY WITH NEANDERTHAL POLICIES!

  ELEANOR FOR PRESIDENT!

  GAY PRIDE!

  FREE ENSIGN ECKBERG!

  PUNISH HATE CRIMES, NOT HEROES!

  ENSIGN ECKBERG -- A NATIONAL HERO!

  "Oh, please," Zack said. "Can you believe this?"

  "I think I'm going to throw up."

  "Stand back!" a stern voice blared over a police loudspeaker. "Please stand back, or you will be arrested."

  "No! No! We won't go!" A unified chorus arose from the crowd.

  The chorus crescendoed to shrill screams, drowning out police instructions -- "Stand back! You are blocking the entrance to a United States Navy base. Please stand back!"

  Blasts from sirens arose from Barney's sheriff's car and also from several SDPD squad cars along Harbor Drive.

  "Shannon, Barney..." The deputy sheriff was now on the NCIS frequency.

  "Go ahead, Barney."

  "We're gonna roll right through these suckers. If they get run over, that's their problem. Stay close behind Raynor. Okay?"

  "Is that a good idea?" Zack asked.

  "Do you have any other suggestions?" she shot back.

  "Do you copy, Shannon?"

  Shannon picked up the microphone. "Copy that, Barney."

  "Raynor, Wesner. Do you copy?"

  "Copy that," Wesner and Raynor's voices came over the radio.

  "Okay, here we go."

  The sheriff's deputy sounded his siren. The tight motorcade began moving. They entered Harbor Drive. Protestors immediately pressed against the Mercedes, surrounding it, faces pushed against the windows, fists pounding, hands rocking the vehicle.

  "It's Zack!" a voice cried. "Zack Brewer's in there." Men in bikinis crawled up on the hood, sprawling onto the windshield.

  "He's the prosecutor! He's the one prosecuting Wofford Eckberg!"

  "Homophobe!" someone shouted.

  "Let's get him!"

  "Stand back, or you will be fired upon!"

  "We want Brewer! We want Brewer!"

  Shannon reached for her pistol. "Zack, there's an Uzi in the back-seat. Get it."

  "Got it."

  "Give me the Uzi. You take the pistol."

  He complied.

  The protesters crawled up on the trunk, beating the back wind-shield, blocking the light of morning as the car rocked and shook.

  "What's your situation, Shannon?" Wesner shouted through the radio.

  "Bad, Mike. They're all over the car."

  Gunshots rang out. Screams joined the cacophony of shouts and jeers.

  "He's dead!" someone cried.

  "Run!" another shouted.

  The mob scrambled off the Mercedes like rats in the face of a flashlight. They ran in both directions down Harbor Drive.

  "Move!" Barney's voice came back over the radio.

  Shannon punched the accelerator. Within seconds the motorcade was inside. Shannon checked the rearview. U.S. Marines were closing the front gate, barricading it from the outside.

  Claxton campaign San Diego County headquarters

  Hotel del Coronado

  1500 Orange Avenue

  Coronado, California

  Eleanor, you've got to see this!" Jackson Gallopoulous called out to the senator, who was in an adjoining room meeting with Mary-Latham.

  "What is it, Jackson?"

  "Something's going on at the Naval Station. Come check this out."

  Eleanor walked into the room, followed by Mary-Latham, just as the distinguished-looking, bespectacled image of CNN's venerable Tom Miller appeared on the plasma television screen.

  "This is Tom Miller at CNN Headquarters. Breaking news live from San Diego. A shooting has taken place outside the U.S. Naval Station on 32nd Street, which is the main U.S. Naval facility in San Diego. Someone, local police, U.S. Marines, or someone else, fired into a crowd of protestors who were clogging the entrance of the facility. CNN's Laurie McCaffity is on the scene in San Diego. Laurie?"

  "Tom, I'm standing outside the entrance to the U.S. Naval Station on 32nd Street in San Diego, where chaos still reigns outside the massive naval facility after shots were fired into a crowd that was gathered outside the main gates of the facility. Preliminary reports have at least one death and several injuries as a result of the shooting. The crowd, which according to some estimates had swollen to nearly a thousand, had gathered to protest the navy's prosecution of Ensign Wofford Eckberg, a gay naval officer whom the navy is prosecuting for an alleged charge of homosexual assault aboard a U.S. Navy submarine.

  "We're here with Jamie Bonita, one of the protestors." The camera panned back. The attractive, dark-complexioned reporter stood beside a skinny young man sporting a crew cut and wearing a white ribbed tank top. "Jamie, I understand you were part of the crowd here. What happened, and why was this crowd gathered here?"

  "Yes, Laurie. We're here to protest discrimination. We're here to protest hypocrisy. The navy is prosecuting this wonderful man, Wofford Eckberg, only because he is a gay man. And, Laurie, they're making a real statement here. They've assigned their top prosecutor to the case, Commander Zack Brewer. But what they won't tell you, Laurie Jane, is that Ensign Eckberg was beaten up by a group of thugs in the navy. His collarbone was broken and he was put in the hospital. And what they also won't tell you is that they're prosecuting Eckberg for something he didn't do, but letting these thugs go free."

  "The shooting," McCaffity interrupted. "What did you see?"

  "We were demonstrating peacefully. We were threatening no one. We were outside the naval base. We weren't harming an
yone and we weren't threatening anyone either. And the next thing I know, someone comes over a loudspeaker and says move or we're going to be shot. And before you know it" -- his hands flailed in the air -- "they just start shooting. They just fire into an innocent crowd!"

  "Who shot? Do you know?"

  "The marines. It had to be the marines."

  "Are you sure about that? Did you see the marines fire?"

  "I'm pretty sure."

  "But did you see them shooting?"

  "Not exactly, but the shots came from their direction. No doubt about it."

  "There you have it, Tom. Chaos reigns in the streets of San Diego, where government officials, either local police or U.S. Marines, are accused of firing into an innocent crowd of U.S. citizens, with at least one death reported so far. From San Diego, this is Laurie McCaffity reporting."

  "Laurie Jane, are you still there?" The screen split vertically, showing Tom Miller in Atlanta and Laurie McCaffity fidgeting with her ear-piece. She was standing on a sun-bathed street with paramedics and police officers rushing to and fro in the background.

  "Still here, Tom."

  "Did these protestors have a permit to be on the streets?"

  "Tom, I asked that question to a local San Diego police officer, and as far as we can tell, there's no evidence that these citizens were able to get a permit. Tom, I would point out that there were women and even some children out here as well."

  "Do you know if they had applied for a permit?"

  "We still don't have that information, Tom."

  "Do you have any information on how this rally was organized?" The veteran anchor sported a concerned look on his face. "I mean, you don't just have a thousand people show up spontaneously unless somebody is behind it."

  The question from the veteran CNN anchor brought a scowl to Senator Claxton's face. "Miller used to work for Fox, you know. Rumor has it he's a closet conservative."

  "Tom, there's no real indication that this was something other than a spontaneous rally by concerned citizens, at least not at this point. It's a good question, though, and we will be looking into that question as this story unfolds."