by Don Brown
"Sorry for my big mouth."
"Don't worry about it, son. That big mouth of yours has helped put terrorists behind bars and made you a folk hero. But now I need you to use it for a little political damage control."
"Anything you say, Skipper."
"SECNAV wants you to hold a brief press conference and read a statement of clarification. We'll set you up for tomorrow afternoon at 1200 hours at COMNAVBASE. NCIS wanted it done inside, but public affairs and SECNAV's office wanted it scheduled outside, again for political reasons that I don't understand. PAO" -- he was referring to the local navy public affairs office -- "will prep a statement for you. All you have to do is read."
Zack looked out the windows of his commanding officer's office. The sleek gray hull of a guided missile frigate, the USS Rentz, bearing hull number 46, was cutting through the aqua waters of San Diego Bay from left to right. It was approaching the winding, looping edifice that was the Coronado Bay Bridge.
That was the real navy. Men breathing salt air, sailing to ports unknown, to missions that could arise unexpectedly. He felt an urging for the sea. To sail west, to find whatever he might find on the other side of the Pacific...
"Yes, sir. Understood. Whatever the needs of the navy require of me, sir."
"Very well, Commander," the captain said, "you are dismissed."
"Aye, sir."
"And, Zack?" Rudy's eyes projected sympathy and concern.
"Yes, sir?"
"Be careful out there, okay?"
"Aye, aye, Captain."
"Now get out of here."
"Yes, sir."
NCIS regional headquarters
A Street and Sixth Avenue
San Diego, California
Tuesday, 10:30 a.m. (PST)
Shannon sat at her desk, reviewing her notes on the Quasay case. Official records showed that Lieutenant Commander Diane Colcernian had been captured in Wilmington, North Carolina, in the spring almost eighteen months ago. She had last been seen alive attending the funeral of Maggie Jefferies, a University of North Carolina coed who was shot while exiting a UNC basketball game against Duke University.
FBI and NCIS reports concluded that Jefferies's death was the result of mistaken identity, and the bullet was intended for Diane, who had gone to the game with Zack Brewer.
Colcernian was last spotted standing in a Wilmington cemetery in the midst of a driving thunderstorm while Maggie Jefferies was being buried.
Shannon rechecked the date and recalculated the math.
Two weeks from today. That's all we have to work with, assuming that (a) Colcernian is still alive and under the control of the Council of Ishmael and (b) Plan 547 is still in effect.
"Dear Lord, please help me somehow. If she's alive, help me save her," she prayed aloud as she closed the file and headed down the hall toward Barry's office.
A choking cloud of smoke greeted her, as usual, as she walked in and sat down. With a wave of his hand, Barry acknowledged her presence but did not make eye contact. He was poring over some papers on his desk.
"Okay." Barry looked across the desk at Shannon. "I've got everything forwarded up the chain of command. Transcripts of Quasay's comments, our report, everything. I'm awaiting the director's call at any time."
"Barry, I checked my file. We've got two weeks. Two weeks! That's when day 547 falls. Two weeks before they kill her."
"We've done everything we can do, Shannon. If this doesn't light a fire under the chain of command, I don't know what will. By the way, I've just received word that Zack's making a statement to the press tomorrow afternoon at COMNAVBASE." He looked at her and took a drag from his fat stogie. "Outside."
"Those idiots!" Shannon said. "They want us to protect him, but they parade him out in broad daylight."
"We argued our position. Public affairs thinks it scores more feel-good points in natural light." He grunted. "Politicians."
The phone rang.
"Mr. MacGregor, the director of NCIS is on the line for your conference call."
"Put him through."
"Hi, Barry." The voice of the NCIS director, Dr. Graham Jones, came over the line.
"Mr. Director," Barry said.
"Shannon, are you there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, let's get started then. It sounds like you guys have been pretty darn busy over the last twenty-four hours."
"Yes, sir," Barry said.
"We got your reports. This is impressive work. It's clear that Quasay was withholding some very important information."
Yes."Yes, sir," Barry said.
"This gives me more to work with."
Thank you.
"Mr. Director," Shannon said, "I've run the math under this Plan 547. Dating back to Colcernian's capture in Wilmington, North Carolina, day 547 falls two weeks from today."
"I hadn't run the math," the director said, "but I figured it had to be pretty quick."
"So if we're going to have any chance to save her --"
"That's the problem I'm running into."
"Sir?"
"Well, first off, your report does lend credibility to the papers Father Robert brought to you. That gives me the ammunition to go in and talk with SECNAV, and the reports are now in the hands of the secretary of defense, the chairman of the National Security Council, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. This is good detective work by NCIS, and I'm pleased to stand behind this work."
"Thank you, sir."I think.
"Here's the feedback I'm getting. While this evidence is being viewed by the powers above me as credible, there still is no proof here that Colcernian is alive. They keep pointing out, and they're right, that Quasay was captured before we found that collapsed cave with Colcernian's hair strand in it."
"But, sir, we did not find a body. This evidence has led me to rethink our position. She was on their hostages list, for heaven's sake."
"You may be right, Shannon, and I've pointed that out to the secretary of the navy. But as he says, if this camp is in existence, Mongolia is a big, big place. SECNAV is going to suggest stepped-up satellite surveil-lance, but that's still like looking for a needle in a haystack, unless we know where to look. Here's the bottom line. Your report now has more credibility, but without more evidence showing that Colcernian is alive and her location, not much can be done. And even if we did have all that information, I don't know that the president would risk World War III to capture one officer."
Shannon stared at Barry in disbelief. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
"Still there?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Director," Barry said.
"Well then, good work. I'll see that both of you are put in for commendations for this."
The line went dead.
"Barry, this isn't over. I can promise you that."
"Whatever you've got up your sleeve, I don't want to hear about it."
Northbound Interstate 15
One hour north of San Diego
Tuesday, 12:00 p.m.
The drive along Interstate 15, splitting through the canyons of North San Diego County, wit its natural hills, brown rocks, and bright sunshine, always seemed to instill a yearning for classical music. Chris had set the radio to 89.5 AM and was listening to the rippling strains of the climax of a piano concerto by Sergey Vasil'yevich Rachmaninov when the calm, monotone voice of the news director came over the air.
"This just in from the Commander, U.S. Naval Base San Diego.
"Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer, whose comments at a San Diego court-martial yesterday angered various Democrats on Capitol Hill and a number of gay rights groups, will address the media tomorrow at noon to clarify any misunderstandings his comments may have caused, navy officials said.
"Brewer, who is expected to read a statement, will address the media at noon tomorrow outside the headquarters of the mammoth naval base.
"No reaction to the announcement yet from the campaign of U.S. Senator Eleanor Claxton, whose campaign's attorney, Webster
Wallace, is now defending the naval officer being charged with assault by the navy.
"Claxton's polling numbers are up in California this morning, largely due to her support from gay rights groups in San Francisco and Los Angeles. It is unclear how her campaign's involvement with this case will affect her against her principal Democrat opponent for the nomination, Senator Roberson Fowler, or should she defeat Fowler, against President Williams in the fall election.
"Stay tuned to KPBS for the latest updates on this developing story.
"And now, back to the piano music of Sergey Vasil'yevich Rachmaninov."
That's perfect! roared an excited voice inside Chris's head. Another four hours to Vegas! Then another five hours back! Plenty of time for Zack's conference. And then, once Zack changes, maybe we can have lunch with Eleanor. She will be so grateful for how Zack will be changed. I just love Eleanor. She's going to love Zack!
Chris pumped the accelerator of his beloved yellow Volkswagen.
Sixty-five miles per hour... Seventy-five... Eighty-five...
Room 207, Navy Lodge
Rogers Road
Naval Air Station North Island
Coronado, California
Tuesday, 8:00 p.m. (PST)
Night was setting in, and the streetlights along the roads of the massive naval air station cast a glow that blanketed the base with an orange hue. As she pulled her car into the parking lot of the Bachelor Officers' Quarters at Naval Air Station North Island, the sounds of jet aircraft, mostly carrier-based on the USS Eisenhower, could be heard doing "touch and goes" on the asphalt runway less than a half mile away.
Shannon knew Zack was on base, at least according to Mike Wesner, who had told her that he and Raynor had dropped Zack off in front of the BOQ about two hours ago.
So unless Zack had violated the orders of his commanding officer and slipped off base and into downtown San Diego -- which wouldn't surprise her -- or unless he was still in the Officer's Club having dinner, Shannon figured her chances of finding him in his room at this time of the evening were good.
She walked across the wind-swept front yard of the Navy Lodge and stepped through the front doors, then presented her NCIS badge to the desk attendant.
"Agent McGillvery. NCIS. I'm here for Lieutenant Commander Brewer, please."
"Yes, ma'am," the petty officer said. "Room 207. But I don't know if he's up there."
She ascended the steps, turned left down the hallway, and within minutes was standing in front of room 207.
After three raps on the door, it swung open. The man standing in the doorway was about six feet tall with an athletic build and a smidgen of salt in his brown hair. The sight of Zack Brewer in a fitted white turtleneck and blue jeans took her breath away.
"Shannon!" His smile and sparkling hazel eyes nearly finished the job.
"Mind if I come in?"
"I thought you'd forgotten about me!"
"Not hardly, Matlock. But we need to talk."
"Let me guess -- I've been sentenced to this, the most beautiful air station in the naval ser vice, for a period of... one year."
"Zack, it's about Diane."
"Diane?" His countenance changed in an instant. The smile was gone, and concern filled his face. "Please come in."
Shannon sat down in a chair in the corner of the room, while Zack seated himself on the end of the bed. "What about Diane?"
"Zack, this may be a long shot, I know. But I think she may still be alive."
"Don't mess with me about this."
"I'm not. I wouldn't. It's a long shot that we'll find her. And I don't want you to get your hopes up. But as of this moment, I believe that she's alive somewhere in Mongolia."
He slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. He just sat there a moment, then Shannon noticed his chest was shaking. He had covered his face, she realized, so that she wouldn't see him sobbing. She stood up, walked over to him, and perched on the bed beside him.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
She massaged his shoulders. "It's okay, Zack. It's okay. Let me get you a Kleenex." She got up, stepped into the bathroom, and retrieved a cold washcloth and the box of tissue that was on the counter.
She sat back down beside him and handed him the washcloth.
"I feel like such an idiot." He took the washcloth and wiped his face. "Grown men aren't supposed to cry."
"If a man isn't sensitive enough to cry once in a while, he isn't much of a man." She took his hand. "Besides, I know how much it hurts to want to be with someone and you can't."
He stood up, walked across the room, and looked out the window. "So why do you think she's alive? And what do I have to do to go get her?"
She explained everything that had happened: Father Robert, the reports showing the hostages list, the strange reference to Plan 547, the trip to Kansas, Quasay's confirmation of Plan 547, the two weeks remaining until the plan would be implemented.
"The problem, Zack, is that I can't get anyone to take any action."
"Unbelievable." He crossed his arms and paced the floor. "Unbelievable."
"I know you're busy with this trial. I wasn't going to bother you with this, Zack."
"Bother me?" He threw his arms in the air. "Bother me?" A pause. "She was..."
"I understand, Zack." She went over to him and gently caressed his shoulders. "I do understand."
"How am I going to handle all this?"
"We'll get through it. Listen, Zack," she said as he looked into her eyes, "I need your help."
"You've got me pinned up on this base. How am I supposed to do anything?" he snapped. Then he sighed and said, "Sorry, Shannon. What did you have in mind?"
"Zack, we need contacts in Washington."
He nodded. "Let me grab my wallet." He reached over to the drawer beside his bed, pulled out his wallet, and started thumbing through some business cards. "Got it!"
"What is it?"
"I know it's been a year and a half, but when Diane and I were invited to the White House to meet President Williams, I seemed to hit it off pretty well with his appointments secretary. Her name is Gale Staff. She gave me her card. Even gave me her personal cell phone number."
"Ever used the number?"
"Nah. I figured she was just being nice."
"Think she could get us in to see the president?"
"Who knows? The president said to call if I ever needed him. And he liked Diane. We might have been just another photo op. Besides, talk's cheap. Plus, the president didn't give me his number. His appointments secretary gave me hers. And even if we got in, talk about the flack I'd get for jumping over the chain of command." He stared up. Helplessness froze on his face.
"Zack," she snapped. "Are you willing to jump the chain of command for Diane?"
That question brought a flush of color to his cheeks and fire to his eyes. "Shannon, I'd jump off the Coronado Bay Bridge for Diane, or any other bridge or building or mountain."
"Good," she said, touching his shoulder. "Then call Gale Staff. Now." He looked at his watch.
"I know what you're thinking. It's after eleven back east. Jump off the bridge, Zack. Do it now. For Diane."
He flipped open his cell phone, then dialed the number. A moment later he rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Voice mail."
Another second or two passed. "Hi, Gale. This is Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer with the navy. I saw the president about eighteen months ago. Maybe you remember me as Lieutenant Brewer, because I was a lieutenant back then. I was there with Lieutenant Diane Colcernian, and the president had invited us up to meet with him right after a court-martial that we prosecuted in San Diego.
"Anyway, I'm sure you don't remember this, but you gave me your card with your number and said it was all right to call. Sorry for calling so late, but we have an emergency situation here. If you could call me back at your earliest convenience, I would appreciate it. My number is 619-555-3320. Thanks, Gale. Good-bye."
Zack exhaled.
"Okay, you did th
e right thing. Okay?"
"Okay."
"If you don't hear from her by lunchtime tomorrow, I want you to try again. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Now listen, about tomorrow, have you gotten your statement from PAO yet?"
"Got it right here."
"How long is it?"
"Maybe five minutes max."
"Listen, Zack, there's been a struggle between NCIS and the navy PAO over this security policy. It's asinine of them to make you read this thing out in public, so I'm pleading with you. Read it as fast as you can, then get the heck off stage, okay? We'll have the panel truck ready to take you back to North Island."
"Yeah, yeah." Irritation crossed his face.
"And, Zack, please." She looked into his eyes. "No matter what they ask, don't answer. Okay?"
"Don't worry."
"See you in the morning." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and left the room.
6817 English Ivy Court
Springfield, Virginia
Tuesday, 11:15 p.m. (EST)
One of the things Gale Staff loved most about being appointments secretary to the president of the United States was that she got to work around the most powerful people in the world. Then in the evenings, she could stop by the Ukrop's grocery store on Old Keene Mill Road in the D.C. suburb of Springfield, Virginia, shop for whatever she wanted for her evening meal, then cross the road to her townhouse and at least try to relax until the next day.
Just before eleven o'clock in the evening, she had stepped out of the shower, sprinkled herself with baby powder, and slipped under the satin sheets. She had just turned off the lamp and put her arm around the pillow next to her head when her cell phone rang.
Only a handful of people had her personal cell number, including the president of the United States and the White House chief of staff. The incoming calls caller ID showed a message received from someone with a 619 area code.
"Who could that be?" she murmured aloud. "A wrong number?" When she punched in the code to check the voice mail, her heart nearly stopped.