by Don Brown
"Of course I remember who you are," she said to the recording. "Do you think I just hand out my personal number like popcorn or something?" She punched the redial button. The line rang. Please answer.
"Lieutenant Commander Brewer."
"Zack, this is Gale Staff."
"Hi, Gale!"
"You really didn't know if I'd remember you?"
"I figured the president's appointments secretary would have a photographic memory. But I didn't want to assume."
"It didn't take a photographic memory in your case, Zack."
"A scarecrow is that memorable, eh?"
"You're funny." She laughed. "I see you've been making the evening news again."
"That's on TV back in Washington?"
"The boss joked about it today. He's upset about the shootings and Claxton's involvement, but he thinks you should keep up the good work."
"Great, Gale. Just what I want. More publicity."
"You're great in front of the cameras. Anyway, to what do I owe this surprise?"
"Sorry for calling so late, but this is a potential emergency."
"What's going on?"
He went on to explain everything -- the message from Father Robert, the hostages list, the reference to Plan 547, the Quasay interview, and the ticking clock.
"Anyway," Zack continued, "I know this is a huge favor to ask, and if it weren't potentially a matter of life and death, I wouldn't. But, Gale, can you help me get this information to the president?"
"Do you want to meet with the president, Zack?"
"I want to save Diane's life, if she's still alive, and if that's possible. If that means meeting with the president, then yes. If there's some other way of getting action short of meeting with him, then I don't want to bother him."
"You want me to call him tonight?"
"Tonight?"
"I will if you want me to."
There was a pause on the line.
"Zack, are you still there?"
"Still here, Gale. I don't know what to say. I just told someone that I'd jump off a bridge to save Diane's life. But asking you to wake up the president..."
"He's probably awake. The man goes to bed at midnight and gets up at four thirty. It's like he needs no sleep. I've never seen anything like it."
A moment passed. "You know," Zack said, "I don't know what to say. You know him much better than I do. Just do what you think is best. I'll leave that up to you."
"Okay, Zack, I'll see what I can do."
"God bless you, Gale."
"Zack, you know if I pull this off, you owe me lunch."
"Breakfast, lunch, dinner -- you name it, you got it."
"I'll hold you to that."
The line went dead. Gale felt herself smiling. She picked up her phone and dialed the private line of the president of the United States.
CHAPTER 34
20 kilometers east of Ganyushkino, Kazakhstan
Wednesday, 9:00 a.m. (local time)
Traveling fifty miles from the Russian border to the small Kazakh town of Ganyushkino, near the northern shore of the Caspian Sea, had taken more than twelve hours. The delay had been caused by engine trouble, and Sergey had gone to find tools on two separate occasions. Both times, they had managed to get the olive-drab panel truck going again after leaving it on the road for a four-hour stretch. After the first breakdown, they had moved the prisoner to an abandoned barn, several hundred meters off the road, where they gave her water, allowed her to relieve herself, and then sedated her. After the second breakdown, they weren't so lucky.
A local police official, curious about the truck sitting on the side of the road, had stopped to ask questions. Vitaly, who waited behind while Sergey went to look for a wrench that he needed, had engaged the officer in Russian. Two hundred U.S. dollars later, the officer disappeared for good, having asked no questions and having not looked in the back of the truck where the woman was sedated on a cot.
They found the remote airstrip twenty miles east of Ganyushkino just off the main road at about 4:00 a.m. It was in the back of a field, not visible from the sparsely traveled main road.
The twin-engine Russian passenger plane sat silently on the airstrip. No one was anywhere in sight.
Sergey made a few calls and learned that the pilot, who lived in Atryau, about 140 miles to the east, had come during the day but had gotten disgusted and left when no one showed up.
"He will be back by nine in morning," Sergey said.
"He had better." Fadil stepped into the cool, dark pre-morning air and lit a cigarette. Sergey and Vitaly joined him, sipping vodka with their cigarettes.
By 8:30 a.m. a white Volga automobile was making its way up the road leading to the airstrip. Two men got out of the car. They walked toward the panel truck. Sergey and Vitaly walked toward them, meeting them about fifteen feet from the front of the truck. Fadil heard them speaking in animated Russian.
A moment later Sergey walked over to Fadil. "He mad because no one show. Say will cost more because he could have flown load yesterday."
"How much?"
Sergey turned to Vitaly and the other two men. "Skoika?" There was a response in Russian. "He say depend on where you want go."
"Can he cross the border over into Mongolia?"
Sergey turned and yelled the question in Russian. This time, the man who was speaking started walking toward Fadil and Sergey. He was gesticulating with his hands and chattering in Russian. The man bored his black eyes into Fadil as Sergey translated.
"He say yes but dangerous mission. Must fly low over mountains to avoid Russian and Chinese radar, which he say not good. Also must stop several times for fuel."
If he can fly us across into Mongolia...
"Can he cross the country and fly into Eastern Mongolia?"
Sergey translated the question.
"Dah, dah, dah," came the answer from the man's nodding head. "No ochen doraguyah."
"What's that mean?"
"He can fly, though very expensive and dangerous. Must fly low whole way to where you want go. Must stop for fuel many time."
"How much?"
"Skoika?"
More Russian from the man.
"He say five thousand dollars."
That is a fair price. "Tell him I want to think about it."
Sergey translated, and the man nodded. Fadil walked around to the back of the truck, opened the door, and told the two Arab commandos, Ghazi Jawad and Salah Abdul-Alim, to be on standby. They nodded, then he walked back to the front of the truck. "Tell him he has a deal!"
Sergey translated, which brought a smile to the man's face. The other man now joined the conversation. Their hands flew in the air. The first man said something to Sergey, who responded in an argumentative tone. This continued for a couple of minutes. Finally, Sergey turned to Fadil.
"They say they reconsider. They want ten thousand dollar."
"Tell them I have to think about it."
As Sergey translated, Fadil turned, walked to the truck, and said, "Now!" in Arabic. He grabbed an Uzi.
Fadil and his two commandos rushed to the front of their truck, their Uzis trained on the Kazakhs. The men's eyeballs widened like full moons.
"Pazhalsta! Pazhalsta!" The men threw their arms up in the air. "Pazhalsta!"
"Tell these gentlemen that where we come from, a deal is a deal. I am prepared to pay five thousand U.S. dollars in advance, right now, as they agreed, or we will mow them down and dump their double-crossing bodies in the Caspian Sea. Then we will commandeer their aircraft and hire someone who will fly this mission for twenty-five hundred U.S. dollars."
Sergey translated. The Kazakhs nodded their heads. "Congyeshna! Sudavolstrien!"
"They say we have deal."
"I thought they would come to their senses," Fadil said.
Twenty minutes later, the twin props of the plane revved, lifting them into the morning sky and taking them across the deep blue waters of the northern Caspian Sea. From there the plane
turned and set a course due east, into the bright rising sun.
CHAPTER 35
Headquarters of the Commander
Naval Base San Diego
937 North Harbor Drive
San Diego, California
11:45 a.m. (PST)
Just inside the two front doors of the COMNAVBASE building, Shannon donned a set of dark shades and looked at Wesner and Raynor. They both wore dark pinstripe suits and had microphones in their ears.
"Let's go," she said. They stepped outside into the bright sunshine onto the makeshift podium that some bureaucrat up the chain of command had concocted.
Ten minutes to twelve. At least four or five hundred people had gathered outside, and the SDPD was cordoning off the crowd. The problem, though, was that the roped-off area came up to the stage. Thus, the edge of the crowd was right on top of the stage, almost like a boxing ring being surrounded close-up by spectators.
Too close for comfort.
"Keep your eyes peeled, guys. Big time. Watch the roped-off area down by the podium."
"Got it."
"Roger that."
Shannon stood on the platform a few steps behind the podium and surveyed the crowd. A small army of reporters was gathered close to the roped-off area; beyond them were several hundred curiosity seekers who had come to catch a glimpse of the world's most famous JAG officer.
She checked her watch. Five minutes. Time to go get Zack.
"Wesner, Raynor. Stay posted at each outside corner of the platform. Keep your eyes peeled. I'm going for Matlock."
"Roger that, Shannon."
"Will do."
She stepped back inside the double doors. Zack was looking trim and tanned in his summer dress white uniform. He was standing with Captain Bob Debardelaben of navy public affairs. Probably the idiot who concocted this lunacy.
Zack flashed a confident smile as she flicked a piece of lint off one of his black-and-gold shoulder boards.
"Captain. Commander. We're ready."
The captain nodded his head.
"Let's do it," Zack said.
Shannon opened the doors, and Captain Debardelaben stepped on stage, followed by Zack and then Shannon.
They were met under deep blue skies with a warm, sustained round of applause.
Chris had just reached the outer edge of the crowd when he heard the applause begin. He looked up and saw two naval officers, both dressed sharply in their summer dress whites, step onto the stage. Oh, a man in uniform! Then he realized that one of the two was Zack! His blood ran so hot with excitement at that moment that he wanted to scream. But then the first officer stepped to the podium.
"Good day, ladies and gentlemen.
"I am Captain Bob Debardelaben, U.S. Navy, and I work for Rear Admiral Simon McClean, who is the chief of information for your United States Navy. The office of the chief of information, or CHINFO, is often referred to as the navy public affairs office. One of our missions is to work with national and international media, and community relations on a national level, to keep the public informed about the missions and operations of your navy."
Hurry up, old geezer! I want Zack!
"In keeping with that mission, today we are pleased to introduce an officer who, no doubt, many of you are already familiar with."
More applause rose from the crowd.
Yes!
"And I can see from your reaction you know who I'm talking about."
The level of applause rose several decibels.
"Yesss!" Chris shouted. "Woo hoo!" Chris wanted to cry. Zack would see the gun and would learn his lesson.
The captain waited for the applause to subside.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you..." Shrill whistles and shouts of "Zack" rang out during the pregnant pause. "Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer, United States Navy!"
More whistles and ear-splitting applause broke out.
It's like being at a rock concert. Shannon surveyed the wild-eyed crowd of admirers, many of them young and female. Unbelievable. No, believable. But she'd never get him off the stage if they didn't shut up.
She glanced at Zack, who was sheepishly staring at his feet.
"Zack!" She tried to get his attention. They needed to get this show on the road so she could get him back across the bay to North Island. But her efforts were drowned out when the crowd began shouting, "We want Zack! We want Zack! We want Zack!"
At least that prompted him to get his eyes off his shoes. He gave her a quick wink and then stepped to the podium.
"Thank you. Thank you." He waited as the crowd quieted. Finally, he said, "I have a brief statement I would like to read.
"Regrettably, some confusion has ensued as a result of comments I made to various members of the media earlier this week at a general court-martial here in San Diego.
"Let me say first that the United States Navy recognizes the concept of civilian control over the military, and that I personally recognize the authority of the president of the United States and the United States Congress in their joint exercise of control over the United States military.
"The comments that I made Monday, concerning those in public ser vice joining the United States Marine Corps, were directed at no one in particular and cast no aspersions on any member of the United States Congress. To those members of Congress who have served in the other outstanding branches of the armed ser vices, including the navy, army, coast guard, and air force, I salute you. And to those members of the Congress whose paths to public ser vice were taken through the civilian sector, I salute you and offer my greatest measure of respect to you.
"I trust that my comments have cast no aspersions on the United States Congress, the United States Navy, or the United States of America.
"To the extent that my comments may have been construed in any other way, I offer to you my apologies.
"Thank you very much, and may God bless America."
The applause erupted again. "Let's go, Zack," Shannon said. But he stood there, waving and thanking those who had come. "Come on, Commander."
"Zack!" A scream sounded above the roar. Everything shifted to slow motion.
A gun flashed in the sunlight. In the middle of the crowd. Shannon reached for her nine-millimeter. The air cracked with the noise of gunfire.
Wesner and Raynor dove at Zack. Shannon aimed at the gunman and squeezed off three rounds.
Pandemonium broke out among the crowd.
"Call an ambulance!"
CHAPTER 36
Kharakhorum, Mongolia
On the northern edge of the Gobi Desert
Willie Mangum opened his eyes when the ferocious arctic blast rippled the felt walls of the Mongolian tent -- or ger, as the Mongolians called it -- that had become his home. The faint glow from the wood-burning stove revealed that Pam had rolled away from him, her body in a snuggly cocoon of covers. Her breathing was slow and rhythmic, pulsating the three quilts on top of her.
At least somebody can sleep around here.
The forty-year-old Baptist missionary smiled at the sight of his sleeping wife, checked his watch -- 5:00 a.m. -- and then pushed up on his elbows and squinted at the portable black stove in the middle of the ger.
It was still burning.
Barely.
Willie pondered the situation. The stove could use a little more wood. And he did need to answer the call of nature. He swung his long-john sheathed legs out from under the quilts and dropped his feet onto the makeshift wooden floor of the one-room ger. He stood and crossed the creaking two-by-fours to the center of the tent. The chill permeated his slippers and seeped into the balls of his feet, making the need to answer the call of nature even more urgent.
Squinting, he reached down for one of the dry split logs on the floor just beside the stove and tossed it in. The log blazed from the hot embers left from last night's fire, slightly brightening the otherwise dim glow in the ger. Willie tossed in a second small log, and another burst of flame leaped in the stove.
He closed the door.
A second arctic blast flapped the ger, assaulting the exterior with salvos of ice pellets that sounded like machine-gun fire.
The blast persuaded him that it was too early, too cold, and too dark to venture out into the freezing snowstorm. Nature could wait until the sun came up.
He hoped.
He slipped back under the sheets, pulled up the quilts, and wrapped his arms around Pam, scrunching up beside her like the perfect-fitting piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The crackling of the fire and the natural body heat trapped beneath the covers lulled his mind back into the shadow lands.
"Willie!"
Dreams sometimes sound so real."Willie!"
The squeaky-sounding Mongolian brought Willie back up on his elbows.
"Willie!"
"Okay! Hold on!" he called out in a forced whisper, speaking Mongolian, hoping not to wake Pam. He threw on a robe and trudged across the floor, past the stove, to the door flap. He reached down for the zipper that sealed the inner flap door, then unzipped the inner flap from bottom to top. When he repeated the procedure for the outer flap, cold air rushed in like a freezing wind tunnel.
"Jagtai, it's 6:00 a.m.," Willie protested, waving the short, thirty-year-old Mongolian man into the ger, then zipping both flaps tight.
"Willie, what's going on?" Pam rubbed her eyes, squinting in the direction of her husband and the visitor.
"Nothing, sweetie. Go back to sleep." Willie looked at Jagtai, one of the deacons in the small local fellowship of believers that Willie had started since his arrival two months ago in this forgotten country in the middle of nowhere. Something was definitely wrong. Perhaps one of the believers in their fellowship had been arrested or, even worse, killed. He ushered Jagtai Tsedenbal to the two small chairs opposite the tent from his wife, motioned him into one of the chairs, and asked in whispered Mongol, "Is everything okay?"
"There's a white woman," Jagtai said, gasping for breath, as if he had been running.