Defiance

by Don Brown

  "Dah. Pravda," Sergey replied.

  "Harashoa!"

  "Padazhdeetsyeh admu minuto."

  "What's going on?" Fadil demanded.

  Sergey looked at Fadil. "Five hundred U.S. dollars gets us across the border."

  "That's it?" Fadil took a cautious drag from his American cigarette.

  "If you want no problems and no questions, that's it."

  Fadil reached into his wallet and handed Sergey five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Sergey folded the bills into a tight wad and passed them to the chisel-chinned guard, whose smile widened. The guard motioned for two other guards to come over, and when he held up the bills, their stone faces melted too. Fadil heard the words banya, vodka, and zhunski.

  "What are they saying?"

  "Tonight they buy banya, vodka, and women."

  "Godless communists," Fadil said in Arabic as he waved and smiled at the guards.

  "Da bro pazhalawitz v. Kazakhstan!" The first guard motioned the truck across the international border. Sergey increased the vehicle's speed, and within a matter of minutes they were speeding down the straight two-lane highway at one hundred kilometers per hour, headed for the airstrip near Ganyushkino.

  Claxton campaign San Diego County headquarters

  Hotel del Coronado

  1500 Orange Avenue

  Coronado, California

  Tuesday, 8:45 a.m. (PST)

  Eleanor hadn't taken Jackson's call this morning. Why? It had happened a few times during the course of the campaign, but he was her campaign manager, for heaven's sake. Certainly she would want to chat with him prior to a meeting on poll numbers, wouldn't she?

  Had she found out about the bug? Or maybe she had found out about the Internet search he had run last night.

  He waited outside the front entrance of the Del for Raymond Ever-ton, the campaign's pollster, who had flown in early this morning from LA. According to Everton's analysis, preliminary numbers looked good; that should make Eleanor happy, at least if she wasn't already planning to kill him.

  A black Lincoln continental pulled up in front of the main entrance to the Del. The bellman opened the back door for a bald, potbellied, suspender-wearing, cigar-chewing man about six feet two inches tall.

  Ray Everton was a whale of a fellow, a rotund man whose reputation as a slob was exceeded only by his reputation as a political genius for the Democratic Party. He had never been a campaign manager for a major campaign, though it wasn't because he hadn't been given the opportunity.

  Everton had turned down senators, congresspersons, and even the two major presidential candidates in this case, Senator Roberson Fowler and Eleanor. His reasoning -- running a campaign required too much "bull," in his opinion, and would take time from his idolatrous obsession -- polling.

  Everton had a reputation for being the most brilliant pollster in modern political history. He could read the mind of the public on an issue months before the issue became newsworthy.

  There had been a battle for Everton's ser vices when this presidential election season started. Because he was a Southerner -- he had grown up in Valdosta, Georgia, and was a Georgia Bulldog through and through -- the media speculated he might wind up working with the campaign of fellow Southerner Roberson Fowler of Louisiana.

  Jackson knew the inside scoop on Everton. He liked Fowler. Privately, Everton had once confessed to Jackson over beer that he didn't care for Eleanor, whom he regarded to be a brash, harsh-talking, power-hungry Yankee.

  But Everton was also hunting buddies with the former vice president, "Fast" Freddie Claxton, the Mississippian, and that relationship, plus Everton's desire to be a part of history by putting a woman in the White House, where the challenges to his professional expertise as a pollster would be greatest, had swung him over to Claxton.

  Thus, politics had again made strange bedfellows, and the Claxton campaign had won a major tactical victory by securing Ray Everton's ser vices. If Eleanor lost, Everton and everyone else knew that he would jump right over to Fowler for the fall campaign against President Williams and then, by sheer force of talent and reputation, become chief pollster for that campaign.

  "Jumpin' Jackson Gallopoulous!" Everton bellowed through a wide grin. "The boss ready for some great results?"

  "That good, Raymond?"

  "We're gonna win California, Jackson."

  "Great." Forty-eight hours ago, Jackson would have meant that.

  "That's the good news." Ray slapped Jackson's back so hard he nearly knocked him over as they walked through the lobby of the Del.

  "That must mean there's bad news."

  "Relax, my boy." Ray Everton chuckled and slapped Jackson's back again. "We've got plenty of time before the general election. You'll see the problem in my briefing."

  Jackson swiped the card for the secure floor where Eleanor's suite was located, and a minute later, he and Everton were walking past Secret Ser vice agents and into the conference room where this morning's briefing was to be held.

  Mary-Latham and Web Wallace had already arrived and were sitting at the table drinking coffee, waiting for Eleanor. Both wore pleasant expressions. If they knew anything, they weren't telegraphing it. Of course, there was no way Mary-Latham could know. Or was there? Eleanor had been careful to keep Mary-Latham out of her meeting with Mohammed.

  She wasn't going to share certain information, even with her closest advisors.

  The door swung open at the hand of a Secret Ser vice agent. With a lit Virginia Slim in one hand, a steaming cup of black coffee in the other, Eleanor strode in with a smile.

  "Good morning, everybody." She set the coffee on the table and reached for Everton's hand. "Ray, thanks so much for coming down. I'm looking forward to your report."

  The end of her cigarette glowed. Her red lips formed a perfect O through which smoke drifted to the ceiling.

  "Sorry I didn't get a chance to chat with you this morning, Jackson. My husband, the former vice president" -- she rolled her eyes to the ceiling -- "seems to have long-winded opinions on everything."

  She seated herself, then said, "Let's get started. How are we looking, Ray?"

  "How 'bout a cigarette, Eleanor?"

  "Virginia Slim okay?"

  "I ain't picky, Senator."

  An irritated look crossed Eleanor's face. She slid the packet across the table, along with a lighter. "Somebody get Ray an ashtray." A Secret Ser vice agent complied. "All right," she said as Ray Everton lit up, "let's have the good news."

  The corpulent pollster took a drag. "Well, thanks to you, Senator, and to Mr. Wallace over here" -- the pollster nodded to the silver-haired lawyer -- "we've got a real good shot at winning the California primary."

  That brought another puff of smoke and a wide grin from Eleanor. "Talk to me."

  "You've pulled ten points ahead of Congressman Warren in San Francisco, and the trend is still up. The news is even better in LA, where you have a fifteen-point lead over Warren."

  "And this is related to the Eckberg court-martial?" Eleanor asked.

  "Yes, and the very strong stand you've taken on gays in the military. My polls show we've touched a raw nerve with gay voters concentrated in heavy numbers in San Francisco. Here's the difference, Senator." The Southern-talking political aficionado took a draw from the cigarette, then blurted a curse word. "This cigarette is awful."

  "Bring your own next time," Eleanor snapped. "The difference, you were saying, Ray?"

  "The difference, Senator, is this. Before this trial, these voters viewed you in the mold of that husband of yours. A lot of liberal talk, but too moderate when it came to action. Now, our polls show that these voters see you as a politician willing to risk your neck for them. They love the Neanderthal comment, and they love the fact that you're lending your personal attorney to this case. Also, because you beat Williams to the punch yesterday after that mob shooting, they now see you as a leader who can make the right decisions in the spur of the moment."

  A devious grin crossed
Eleanor's face.

  "Question, Ray," Mary-Latham spoke up.

  "Sure, honey."

  Anger flashed in Mary-Latham's eyes, but her voice remained calm. "Aren't these numbers premature?" she asked.

  "Yeah, they're premature in one sense, but we've polled the intensity level of these numbers, and unless we screw up, we've touched on a hot button that can carry this state for us."

  "All right," Eleanor said. "Three weeks to go until the primary. What do we need to avoid screwing up?"

  "Just what we're doing. Drag this thing out. We should introduce a bill in the Congress on the hate crimes in the military thing. Eleanor, you should stay here in San Diego through this trial. Maybe shuttle to and from San Francisco some. Do that, and we take California in three weeks."

  "Jackson, work out the details." Good. If I'm working out details, maybe she thinks I'll be alive for a few more weeks.

  "We've got another problem to watch, Senator." Everton stamped out the cigarette he had complained about.

  "I don't see any problems if we win California," Eleanor said. "What problem are you talking about?"

  Please don't say it's your campaign manager.

  "The problem, Eleanor, is if you win California but get creamed in the general election."

  "Go on."

  "The problem, right now, is Brewer."

  "Brewer. How is he a problem?"

  "He's a catch-22 for you right now, Eleanor. Because he's loved by the conservatives, he's hated by your natural constituency out here on the left coast."

  "Watch your mouth," Eleanor snapped. "You sound like a right-wing radio-talk-show fascist."

  Ray Everton laughed. "Your natural constituency hates him out here because they think he's a young, successful, good-looking conservative."

  "He's not bad-looking," Mary-Latham agreed.

  That brought a glare from Eleanor and ignited a flash of jealousy in Jackson.

  "So..." Ray continued, "your numbers are shooting up here because your constituency is pleased that you are taking on this young, conservative naval officer. Or so that's how they see it. Another cigarette?"

  "Just take the pack." Eleanor slid the pack across the table.

  "In places like Texas, Florida, Georgia, and the Carolinas, and even the rustbelt -- Michigan, Ohio, and Pennsylvania -- states you must win to become the first lady president, Brewer's presence in the case may very well backfire. At least that's what our numbers are beginning to show."

  "Talk to me, Ray," Eleanor said.

  "A lot of people remember Brewer quite well from those big ol' courts-martial he tried against the Muslim chaplains and the Muslim pilots. Remember, your ol' buddy Roberson Fowler tried recruiting him to run for Congress in Louisiana. Roberson's pollsters picked up on what we've picked up on. The kid's got flash, wit, and charisma. Now there's something I want you to check out."

  Everton lit another cigarette, exhaled a cloud of smoke, then opened his briefcase and laid out several national newspapers on the table.

  "These, ladies and gentlemen, are a sampling of newspapers from this morning in states we have to win. We have the Dallas Morning News, the Atlanta Constitution, the Tallahassee Democrat, the Charlotte Observer, and the Chicago Sun-Times, just to name a few. Now check out some of these headlines."

  He started reading from the different papers.

  "Brewer to Congress: Join the Marine Corps!"

  "Brewer Blisters Claxton. Democrats in Arms."

  "Brewer Suggests Democrats Are Undermining Military Discipline."

  "Who does that guy think he is?" Eleanor snorted. "He should be court-martialed for making comments like that about a U.S. senator."

  "That's the last thing you want to say in public, Senator," Everton said. "Besides, Brewer didn't say all that. He sort of said that. You're just reading the press twist on his comments."

  "Okay, so how much of a problem do you think this is, Ray?"

  "Potentially huge. Our polls in Texas, Florida, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, and Illinois are showing a five-point drop for you as of this morning, and we're tracking that to the media's coverage of Brewer's comments last night. The key for us here is to manage this as a gay rights issue with our campaign out front, but we've got to keep Brewer out of the limelight, at least outside of California. His presence could wind up finishing us off in some of these red states that we're hoping to turn blue."

  "How do you suggest keeping him out of the limelight?" Mary-Latham asked.

  "The continuance was a good move, Web." Everton and Web Wallace exchanged nods. "We can do daily press conferences over the next week, reporting on the progress of the trial and our proposed hate crimes legislation.

  "Brewer's camera shy, from what we know. Oh, he's devastating when he gets on stage and his hand is forced, but there's no reason to believe he's gonna go seeking out any press conferences. At least not over the next week."

  "Okay," Eleanor said. "Anything else?"

  "No. Just keep on this strategy, and keep an eye on Brewer."

  Eleanor shot a look at Jackson, a cold glare that made a shiver of fear travel down his spine. And then, with a more pleasant smile adorning her face, she looked around at the group. "Popeye the Sailor Man won't keep me from becoming president of the United States."

  10065 English Ivy Way

  Rancho San Diego

  Spring Valley, California

  Tuesday, 9:30 a.m. (PST)

  Chris Reynolds sat at his small breakfast nook, carving the cream filling of an Oreo into eight pie-shaped slices with a toothpick. He placed one of the miniature sweet wedges on his tongue and glared at the front page of the San Diego Union-Tribune.

  Oh, great! roared a voice in Chris Reynolds's head. That's all I need. And after we had made so much progress after our last meeting at Old Towne.

  He read more of the article.

  "Oh, Zack. Zack!" Chris spoke aloud now, his brain seething. "How could you say such a thing? Dr. King would too disapprove, Zack! And those remarks you made about Eleanor? I know what you're doing. You're using the press to gain political leverage to help Fowler beat Eleanor. We'll see about that. Come here, Alvin!" The parakeet landed on Chris's finger. "Don't worry, pretty boy," Chris cooed at the bird. "Zack will never be attorney general, and Fowler will never be president. You and I are going to Washington. We'll get a beautiful townhouse in Alexandria, and I'll bring you a treat every day on my way home from the White House." He kissed the bird on the head. It chirped, filling him with delight. "Yes, we will."

  He tossed the paper on the table, picked up his cell phone, and dialed 411.

  "Verizon Wireless Direct Connect. What city and state, please?"

  "Las Vegas, Nevada. Business."

  "For what listing?"

  "Rex's Gun Shop, please."

  "Hold, please, for the number..."

  "Yes, is this Rex's? I'd like to purchase a weapon... Something small and powerful... Yes, a handgun of some type... Okay, how much does that cost?... Do you take cash?... Okay. How late are you open?... And where are you located?... Okay, thank you very much."

  Chris hung up the phone. He kissed Alvin on the head again, put the bird in his cage, grabbed his car keys, and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER 33

  Office of the Commanding Officer

  Building 71, Navy Trial Command

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  Tuesday, 10:00 a.m. (PST)

  About the only thing comfortable about this meeting, Zack decided when Commander Bob Awe told him that the skipper wanted to see him at 9:30 a.m., was his uniform. Working khakis were far more agreeable than either whites or blues. At least Web Wallace's continuance request had allowed him to change into something more comfortable.

  "Come on in, Zack," Captain Glen Rudy said. He was the commanding officer of the Navy Trial Command. Commander Bob Awe, senior trial counsel, was in the office as well.

  "Morning, sir."

  "H
ow'd you sleep last night?"

  "Sir?"

  "At the BOQ?"

  "Oh. Fine, sir. The BOQ at North Island is one of the very first places I stayed when I first moved to San Diego."

  "NCIS treating you right?"

  "They're like white on rice. Carry me all around in my windowless paddy wagon. Can't seem to shake them, sir."

  "Look, Zack. Two things. You know I've got to talk to you about your comments to the press yesterday."

  "Yes, sir. I figured that, sir."

  "But before I do, I want you to know, also, that when this court-martial fires back up, Trial Judiciary Command is ordering it moved to the courthouse over at Naval Air Station North Island. I know it's a little tight over there space-wise, but they just feel better about it from a security standpoint."

  "Fine with me, sir. Doesn't matter where we try it."

  "The other thing, Zack, is that I'm going to assign you to our detachment office over at North Island too. No reason to have you coming over here and exposing you to publicity or whatever else."

  Great. Imprisonment at North Island. "In other words, sir, am I to assume that since my living quarters are now at North Island, my office is now at North Island, and this court-martial is at North Island, the navy wants me confined to North Island for the time being?"

  "With a few exceptions" -- Rudy took a sip of coffee -- "yes. But there is one exception that we need to talk about."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "As you might imagine, a lot of liberals back in Washington are raising Cain about your comments to the press yesterday."

  "So I've heard."

  "Personally, I agree with everything you say -- 150 percent. But we've got some top navy brass, including the secretary of the navy, who are worried that Claxton might win the fall election. Off the record, SECNAV and CNO" -- he was referring to the chief of naval operations -- "and every officer on the Joint Chiefs of Staff are hoping like heck that won't happen. But what if it does?"

  "If it does, sir, then I resign my commission."

  "That's fine, Zack, but you've got all these guys approaching retirement who can't just resign. And if Eleanor comes in as president and the navy hasn't done anything to clear up your comments -- and I know they were misconstrued -- then some heads may roll up top, and SECNAV is worried that his might be one of 'em."