by Don Brown
"But now they are gone, Mohammed. Every one of them.
"Those who are still around showed unfailing loyalty. And the ones who are..." She walked to the wet bar and poured herself a Scotch, then turned and glared into his black eyes. "Those who are still around will do absolutely anything I ask them to do."
She sat down in a rocking chair across the room from him. "They will do what I've asked you to do -- and more."
His contrived smile vanished. His eyebrows furrowed. His lips and cheeks contorted.
"Ever read for pleasure, Mohammed?"
"I used to read the Koran. Since I abandoned the faith, I don't read it anymore. Now sometimes I read magazines about politics and other things."
"Ever heard of Machiavelli?"
"Who?"
"That's what I thought. Go find him and read him. When you do, you'll know who you're dealing with."
"Yes, of course, Eleanor."
"From now on, you clear everything with me, understand?"
"Yes."
She sighed. "Mohammed, look. I don't mean to be hard on you. This little talk we've had -- you're not the first I've had to give it to. Some listened. Some didn't. Look. You've got a chance to go a long way in our organization. The first Muslim of significance to denounce a faith oppressive to women and children and to embrace gay rights. You, my friend, are that man.
"But you must do three simple things. One, keep your mouth shut. Two, stay loyal to me above all. And three, do whatever I tell you without any deviation. Do these things and you'll go places. Fail to do them, and you'll become a forgotten footnote on the ash heap of history.
"Have I made myself clear, Mohammed?"
"Perfectly clear, Senator."
"So are we now of one accord?"
"We are. You have my loyalty, my obedience, and my unfailing dedication."
"Good. Now get out of my sight."
Somewhere near the Colorado-Kansas border
United Flight 882
Altitude 32,000 feet
As they flew east, away from the setting sun, the wind whipping across the endless carpet of wheat below gave the plains the look of an orange ocean. It had been this way since they passed over the snow-capped Rockies a half hour ago.
When the pilot announced they had crossed over the Kansas border and would soon begin their descent for Kansas City, Shannon's mind turned to Zack. She'd been with him enough to know that he watched no television except college basketball. And next to his beloved Tar Heels, the Kansas Jayhawks were his second favorite team.
Shannon hated basketball.
She'd grown up as a hockey fan and had nearly married the guy who was the trainer for the Boston Bruins. They broke up when she joined the NCIS. But of course she'd never told Zack about her weight- training, hockey-playing ex-boyfriend or her dislike for basketball.
She'd watched a dozen games with Zack at his home in the last year. When Carolina played, he always crowed about Jordan, Worthy, Perkins, Ford, Felton, May, and McCants. And when they watched Kansas, he talked about players named Chamberlain, Manning, Hinrich, and Collison.
Frankly, the only player she'd ever heard of was Michael Jordan. Although the name Wilt Chamberlain sounded familiar.
Something about watching all those games with him had made her jealous.
It was the picture.
The eight-by-ten color photo of Diane Colcernian, wearing the summer white uniform of a female U.S. Naval officer, was hauntingly beautiful sitting atop his television set.
Sometimes when Zack stood up to yell at the television set and pump his fist in the air because some Tar Heel player air-dunked the ball, Shannon locked eyes with Diane's picture.
Maybe deep down she should have known it even then, by the way Diane's eyes seemed to follow her across the room, that she had been wrong. Despite all the evidence that Diane was dead, despite all the mathematical odds against her survival, and despite all of Director Jones's political bull, Shannon knew. Deep down, she knew.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. In a few minutes, we will begin our final approach for Kansas City. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. Weather on the ground in Kansas City is partly cloudy, a little windy, and a nippy forty-five degrees. We should be on the ground in about twelve minutes. We do hope your trip from San Diego has been an enjoyable one. Thank you for flying United."
Shannon looked over at Barry, slouched in the middle seat just beside her. His eyes were closed and his mouth agape, and a sporadic snore rattled from his big nose. She reached over and strapped his seat belt across his belly, then strapped herself in.
She closed her eyes and did something that she had not done a lot of lately.
She prayed.
What irony, she thought, that she could pray for something like this. Where was such ability coming from?
Wherever, or from whomever, it didn't matter. She turned her face toward the window, looked down at the great plains of Kansas, and prayed some more.
CHAPTER 29
Jackson Gallopoulous's suite
Claxton campaign San Diego County headquarters
Hotel del Coronado
1500 Orange Avenue
Coronado, California
Fear. Confusion. Disgust.
The three emotions twisted and choked Jackson Gallopoulous's very soul as he sat alone on the sofa in his hotel suite. Sweat soaked his forehead. His hands shook.
He had to regain his composure, and fast. But for the moment, there was nothing he could do to slow the physical reaction. What to do? Call Eleanor and tell her he couldn't come to work because he was sick? She'd seen him less than an hour ago. Would she fall for that? Even so, how would he know he would be able to recover from this?
He sipped a glass of ice water, hoping it would soothe his stomach, and thought about his college days as a political science major at Yale. It was the most idealistic and noble calling, they had told him, those former high-ranking officials from Democratic administrations who had taken professorships at one of the two most academically prestigious institutions in America.
"Only in politics do you have a chance to stamp out poverty," one professor had told him.
"In politics, you can right the criminal injustices imposed on the masses by the satanic greed of evil corporations," another had said.
And then there were the words of his mentor, former Democrat secretary of state turned Yale professor Edmund Gansky, who closed each and every class with the same statement: "Since the days of Nixon, the Republicans have always been known for their dirty tricks. By contrast, the Democratic Party has been the conscience of America. Remain true to the polar star of virtue, young people, and it shall carry you far."
These words were the idealistic gospel to which young Jackson Gallopoulous had dedicated his life. He fumbled for his wallet, found the business card, and looked at the words he had scribbled on the back of it.
Remain true to the polar star of virtue, and it shall carry you far.
He read the words again, then went into the bathroom and vomited.
Headquarters of the Commander
Naval Base San Diego
937 North Harbor Drive
San Diego, California
Zack had been waiting only a minute or so in the receptionist's area when Lieutenant Kurt Kenkel, wearing the gold cord of an admiral's aide looped under his arm and attached just under the shoulder board of his summer white uniform, opened the door.
"Commander Brewer, the admiral will see you now, sir."
"Thanks, Kurt." Zack stepped smartly into the office of Rear Admiral Charles F. Scott Jr. and came to attention. "Lieutenant Commander Brewer reporting, sir." He focused his eyes over the admiral's head, on a plaque that had commemorated Admiral Scott's stint as captain of the aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln.
From the corner of his eye, however, he could see various other officers waiting in the room. These included Commander Bob Awe, the senior trial counsel and Z
ack's immediate boss; Captain Bill Foster, the admiral's personal JAG officer; and Zack's old friend Captain Buck Noble, Commander of Seal Team 3.
Zack's commanding officer, Captain Glen Rudy, JAGC, USN, was not present. All of the officers except Zack were in their working khaki uniforms, with their respective ranks pinned to their collars.
"Zack, Zack, at ease and sit the heck down." The admiral deflated the formal deference that would otherwise be due him.
"Thanks, Admiral." Zack loosened up, then shook hands with a smiling Captain Noble and a widely grinning Captain Foster. When he saw the admiral leaning back in his chair, also smiling, he muttered, "Did I miss out on the joke?"
"Sit, Zack," Admiral Scott ordered again.
Zack complied.
"So is it true?" the admiral asked.
"Sir?"
"We just heard on the radio that you think Eleanor Claxton ought to join the marines and go through boot camp."
"Sir..."
Captain Foster, a tall, lanky officer who had played point guard at Carson-Newman College in Tennessee before joining the navy, doubled over laughing. "Zack, you know you're going to catch the devil for that comment. But that's the funniest thing I've heard in a long time."
"But, sir, I --"
"That's why we made him an honorary SEAL." The stocky, muscular Captain Noble chuckled. "With his tongue and our laser-guided weapons, we can take out any enemy in the world -- military or political."
"But the press --"
"Save it, Zack," the admiral said. "It doesn't matter how they twisted it. You'll be hearing from plenty of friends in Washington by this time tomorrow."
Great.
At this point, Commander Awe, the only officer not smiling, spoke up. "That's why Captain Rudy isn't here. JAG's already heard about this. We're prepping for damage control before the morning. Admiral LeGrand" -- he was referring to Rear Admiral W. T. "Biff" LeGrand, the judge advocate general of the navy and top lawyer in all the naval ser vice -- "will insist that you make some sort of public statement at a press conference clarifying what you said. Captain Rudy says to remind you that whether we like it or not, Senator Claxton just might be our next commander in chief."
"The day that happens is the day I submit my resignation," Captain Noble said defiantly.
"I'm following you out the door," Captain Foster added.
"I knew I should have kept my mouth shut," Zack said.
Admiral Scott leaned forward slightly. "Don't worry about it, Zack. I admire your guts. If they kick you out of the navy, you can get a job in a private law firm making more than all of us here combined." When he spoke again, his demeanor had changed, and his tone was serious. "It's been a rough weekend for the navy, and we've gotta somehow deal with that dadgum court-marital mess going on down there."
"Agreed, Admiral."
"What's the deal with this defense continuance?" The admiral took a sip of coffee. "I thought they were all up in a wad because Captain Foster's boys over here roughed the ensign up and were threatening a speedy trial violation if we didn't get him prosecuted."
"Want my honest opinion, sir?"
"That's why I've got you here, son. Ain't no reporters within earshot of anything you say right now. Shoot 'er straight with me."
"Could I have a cup of coffee, please, sir?"
"Kurt," the admiral boomed, calling for his aide-de-camp, "rustle up some fresh black coffee for my star prosecutor here. And while you're at it, warm up mine and these other gentlemen's."
"Aye, aye, Admiral," the aide said.
"Now you were saying, Commander?"
"The continuance is a stall tactic."
"A stall tactic?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go on."
"A resignation, a plea, or a trial would be over quickly. All of those options make this go away quickly. But a continuance -- well, that keeps the issue in the limelight that much longer. Claxton and her cronies -- and that includes this Web Wallace -- can call press conferences, express shock and dismay, and keep this in the public eye longer. My guess -- and I'm no politician -- is that this is a play for San Francisco, where she's neck and neck with that Warren guy. Carry San Francisco and you win California. Win California, and only my ol' pal Senator Roberson Fowler stands in Eleanor's way of the Democratic nomination."
"You still seeing his niece -- Ensign... What was her name?"
"She was Ensign Marianne Landrieu. She's now Lieutenant Landrieu, and no, sir, I'm not seeing her and never did. She's like Senator Fowler's only daughter. He wanted us to hook up and move to Washington and live happily ever after. It was tempting at the time, but I've decided I want no part of Washington, D.C."
"After what you said this morning, you don't have to be worried about being invited to Washington anytime soon," Noble joked.
"Gentlemen, let's get back on point," the admiral said. "Okay, what about the unlawful command influence thing. What's that all about?"
"I think it's a bunch of horse manure, Admiral."
"So is it something I need to be worried about or not?"
"They'll bring the motion, and I imagine they'll do it on the theory that no one was disciplined for breaking Eckberg's collarbone."
"What's that got to do with unlawful command influence?" the admiral demanded. "I didn't have anything to do with that."
"Understood, sir. The unlawful command influence motion could be directed either at you, sir -- that is, at COMNAVBASE, the convening authority for the general court-marital -- or at Captain Noble here." Zack looked over at Captain Noble, whose left fist was balled in his right hand, an action that flexed his well-defined biceps. "But to answer your question, Admiral, in my judgment, the decision to prosecute or not prosecute anyone else is a red herring. The motion should be dismissed by Judge Reeves. It's just that we have a public relations embarrassment on our hands."
"Thank you, Kurt," the admiral said as Lieutenant Kurt Kenkel returned to the office carrying a silver tray with a silver pitcher and five cups of steaming black coffee. The admiral was served first, then the other officers were served in descending order of rank. As Zack was being served, the admiral asked, "What recommendations do you have for me, Counselor?"
Zack sipped his coffee, contemplating his answer. The admiral might not like what he had to say. Captain Noble certainly wouldn't. He set his coffee mug down on the table between his chair and the chair occupied by Commander Awe.
"The senator and her legal minions -- the whining Mr. Wallace -- do have a point about one thing."
"Go on." An anxious look crossed the admiral's face.
"It looks bad -- I mean, bad -- that Eckberg's collarbone was broken and nothing was done about it."
"A broken collarbone?" Captain Noble roared from his chair. "He's darn lucky my men didn't nail him upside down to the bulkhead of that submarine and then shoot him out the torpedo tube."
The captain's voice resonated through the room, unmet by a response from any of the other officers.
"Yes, sir, Captain, I know how you feel," Zack said after a moment, sipping his coffee to slow the pace of his comments. "What Eckberg did was inexcusable. And you and I both know that the only reason a plea bargain was put on the table to begin with is because the SEAL team is on classified standby deployment orders. Your men could be called out of here by midnight."
That brought a grunt from the peeved SEAL commander.
"But, Captain, no matter what Eckberg did, who am I to remind you, sir, that there are certain principles and ideals that your men -- the finest fighting men in the world -- are trained to give their lives for. And one of those principles is that in America, we don't resort to vigilante justice, no matter what offense has been committed against us."
That brought another grunt, along with a reluctant, "I suppose you're right."
"Admiral" -- Zack turned to the two-star officer -- "this is an issue that, at least from a public relations standpoint, they've already bloodied their nose with, and if we don't do
something fast, it's going to snowball into an avalanche by the media."
"So what you're saying, Commander," Noble spoke up again, "is that I've got to sacrifice one of my SEAL commandos for the sake of feeding this communist, yellow-bellied politician named Eleanor Claxton."
Zack did not respond.
At this point, Commander Bob Awe spoke up. "Captains, Admiral, Zack and I haven't had a chance to discuss this. We normally have a discussion about things of this nature, but as you know, we've had quite a weekend, and Zack was just whisked down here from the courthouse. But on this point, I happen to agree with him." Zack gave his boss a nod of thanks.
Awe continued, "Unlike the Olajuwon and Quasay cases, this isn't a case involving national security. This is sheer politics. We are in a public relations war with these people. They will harp on this hate crimes thing until someone in Congress forces our hand and makes us prosecute whoever broke Eckberg's collarbone. I know we spend a lot of time, money, and effort training your men, Captain." Awe looked over at Noble. "And I know your men are the cream of the crop, but if Claxton keeps spouting about this, then the handwriting's on the wall. You'll be hearing about this on the talk shows tomorrow morning, the network news tomorrow night, and on and on. Better sooner than later."
Noble squirmed in his seat. His face turned red.
Admiral Scott nodded at his personal JAG officer, Captain Bill Foster. "Bill, you're legal advisor to this command. What do you say?"
"I agree, sir. Zack and Bob are right. Charges should be referred against whoever attacked Eckberg."
"Also," Commander Awe added, "whoever did this may have a defense. So it isn't likely that the defendant would be automatically sacrificed. You could bring it at a special court-martial instead of a general court-martial. If there's a defense, it's possible that your subordinate might not even be discharged."
That comment was followed by yet another moment of silence. The admiral turned to Captain Noble. "Buck, this is your call and yours alone. I can't tell you what to do on this one, or that would be unlawful command influence. Right, gentlemen?"