Defiance

by Don Brown

  "The boy's got what Reagan had and what your estranged husband has -- God-given charisma in front of the camera."

  "Tell me about it," Eleanor huffed.

  "Anyway, we've gotta find a way to keep that boy out of the limelight, or we're going to be toast. Soon."

  "What do you mean by toast, Ray?"

  "I mean past the point of no return. The man's not even a politician. And he says things subtly. But he talks in a way that charges conservatives and makes moderates fall in love with him. If he keeps popping up on TV, frankly, as the polls are now showing, we've got a lot of trouble. We have to keep pushing this gay rights issue but get Brewer off this case."

  Eleanor's icy stare sent shivers down Jackson's spine. She lit another cigarette. "Perhaps that can be arranged."

  SEAL Team 3 headquarters

  United States Naval Amphibious Base

  Coronado, California

  Thursday, 9:30 a.m. (PST)

  Captain Buck Noble was finishing his review of the morning's muster report when his command master chief, BTMC Matthew Cantor, arrived at the door of his office.

  "Come in, Master Chief."

  "Thank you, sir," the thirty-year navy veteran said. As command master chief, Cantor was the highest-ranking enlisted man in the unit.

  "So what did you want to see me about?"

  "Sir, I understand NCIS has been poking around the command, looking for someone to fess up to breaking Ensign Eckberg's collarbone."

  Noble felt anger flare up in his chest at the thought of it. "All in the interest of political correctness. We've got to sacrifice a good man to keep Eleanor Claxton happy. Thing is, every one of our men would give their lives to protect Claxton's right to run her mouth, and she runs her mouth to her liberal colleagues on Capitol Hill and demands that a good man -- or good men -- sacrifice their careers even after a homosexual assault."

  He looked up. Master Chief Cantor, his salad row showing three Purple Hearts, a Navy Cross, and a host of other ser vice ribbons for bravery, was standing at attention. His eyes were weather worn. His face, tanned with a few wrinkles, was proud. If there was any one man anywhere in the U.S. Navy whom Captain Noble would want covering his back, it was Command Master Chief Matthew Cantor.

  "Have a seat."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Coffee?"

  "No, sir."

  "So what did you want to see me about?"

  "Sir, I want to volunteer."

  "Volunteer? For what? We don't have our deployment orders."

  "I want to volunteer to plead to the assault on Ensign Eckberg."

  Noble adjusted his glasses and looked up. "You?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Noble studied the face of the proud warrior. He was a man who had survived behind enemy lines for months at a time, who had gone into the Middle East and into China undercover, who had been shot out of the torpedo tubes of submarines, then rafted twenty miles through the ocean to hostile shores under the cover of darkness.

  "Master Chief, you've been in the navy a long time. You've been under fire, you've saved shipmates, you've faced adversity far more severe than a homosexual ensign. Now forgive me, Master Chief, but what's the deal?"

  "Sir, I wish to plead to the assault of Ensign Eckberg, sir."

  Noble crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, and rocked a few times. "Look me in the eye, Master Chief." The old sea dog complied. "Now tell me, off the record, man to man, did you ever lay a finger on the ensign?"

  "Sir, I wish to plead to the assault of Ensign Eckberg, sir."

  "You dodged my question. Did you lay a finger on the ensign?"

  "Sir, I wish to plead to the assault of Ensign Eckberg, sir."

  "That's what I thought." Noble stood, walked to his window, and crossed his arms. Another master chief, a Navy SEAL, was down on the beach barking his head off at a newly indoctrinated Hell Week class, screaming and yelling as the potential SEALs, wearing white T-shirts and combat pants, waded in the surf with a log over their shoulders.

  "It's about them, isn't it, Master Chief?" Noble nodded out the window to the new SEAL trainees. "This is about watching your men's backsides. About giving your life, or in this case, your career as a Navy SEAL for your shipmates. For the men you lead." He stared at Cantor, whose eyes were now following the recruits, who had just fallen, collectively, in the surf.

  "Master Chief, forget the fact that I'm your commanding officer. Talk to me man to man, SEAL to SEAL." Cantor's black eyes shifted to him. "I'm right, aren't I?"

  There was a moment of silence. "Captain, I'm retirement-eligible. I've given everything I have to the navy. I've given it all for my country, and I'd willingly die for it. I've had a rich career, and I've gone places and done things that are so classified, not even an international spy novelist could dream them up."

  He looked outside again at the trainees.

  "But these young men under my command -- they've only just begun. There was more than one of them, Captain; there were about three of them."

  Noble's eyes locked on Cantor's. "Out with it, Master Chief. Which three?"

  Cantor looked away. "The three who were victimized by Eckberg, sir."

  "Does that include Petty Officer Williams?"

  Cantor hesitated. "Yes, sir, it does."

  "Hmph. Go on, Master Chief."

  "Yes, sir. They worked over Eckberg all right. But after I walked into the spaces and ordered them to lay off, they did. But, Skipper, honestly, after what the ensign did to them, he's lucky to be alive. I mean, we just can't have that sort of thing going on in a submarine."

  He looked again at Noble. "Captain, I love these men. I love my country. I may have another year to serve if I'm lucky, and that's it. And this country is better off parting ways with an old geezer like me than ruining the promising careers of these brave young men. Me and the men have already talked about it. Sir, let me take the rap for this. The way I figure it, maybe I get a nonjudicial punishment and get busted down to chief or maybe petty officer first class. But under these circumstances to punish these young men? I can't see the justice there."

  Noble eyed his command master chief. The epitome of America's finest was standing before him at this very moment.

  "Master Chief, I admire your honor. That's what makes you the man that you are. But your request is denied."

  "But, sir --"

  Noble raised his hand. "The fact that the attackers were the ones assaulted changes the facts in my judgment. Granted, vigilantism is never justified. But these men were victims first. They were violated under circumstances that are inexcusable -- while serving this country on duty on board a United States Navy submarine. I'm going to call the admiral and inform him of my intention to take these men to captain's mast -- after a verdict is rendered in the Eckberg prosecution. I will mete out a punishment that is appropriate to the offense." Their eyes met. "Trust me on this." Noble walked over and put his hand on Cantor's shoulder. "You're a good man, Master Chief. The best man I've ever known."

  CHAPTER 39

  Eastern Kazakhstan

  Over the Altay Mountains

  Near the Kazakhstan-Russian border

  Thursday, 11:50 p.m. (local time)

  Flying in the moonlight, between the shadows of large mountain peaks, the twin-engine Russian plane was bouncing like a soccer ball. Fadil was about to vomit. He looked back and saw that the prisoner was heaving convulsively.

  "Get a towel for her," he instructed one of his men. He moved forward and stuck his head between the Kazakh pilots. "Why all the bouncing?"

  Sergey translated for him. One of the pilots responded in Russian, then Sergey explained to Fadil, "We near Russian border. Must fly low through mountains to hide from radar. Russians not trust Chinese. Chinese not trust Russians. If spotted, Russians think we Chinese aircraft. Send MiG fighter plane to shoot down. Many winds make flight bumpy. Must hold on."

  "How much longer to Mongolia?"

  "We fly over corner of Russia through
mountains, and then Mongolia. Flight maybe another hour to border."

  "Advise me when we've crossed into Russian airspace, and then Mongolian airspace."

  "We tell you."

  CHAPTER 40

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  Friday, 11:30 a.m. (EST)

  Shannon was in awe as they were motioned through the side gate of the White House lawn, just off 17th Street. If only her teammates from the Boston College field hockey team could see her now.

  "Your identification cards, please?" A dashing marine captain stood at the gate. Zack and Shannon complied. "And now if you would follow me."

  The marine led Zack and Shannon to a small, high-tech security booth on the perimeter of the South Lawn. After they walked through an X-ray booth, two uniformed Secret Ser vice agents nodded their heads. The marine motioned for them to step out of the security shack and back onto the lawn.

  "Commander, if you and Agent McGillvery would follow me, please." The marine captain, resplendent in dress blues, was trim and buff. His voice sounded almost robotic.

  "By all means, Captain," Zack said. They walked across the corner of the green lawn and into an inconspicuous-looking small door near the hedgerows on the west side of the White House. There they were met by a tall, slim navy captain with an abundance of heavy gold cording hanging over his shoulder.

  "Sir!" Zack shot a salute of warm recognition. "You're still here." "Good to see you again, Zack." The pleasant-looking captain wore a name tag identifying him as Hancock. "When the president wants you to stay, you stay."

  "Sir, I'd like you to meet Special Agent Shannon McGillvery, NCIS."

  "I'm Captain Jay Hancock, naval attache to the president."

  "A pleasure, Captain."

  "I'll take it from here, Captain," Hancock said, dismissing the marine.

  "Aye, sir." The marine captain clicked his heels, pivoted 180 degrees, and marched away.

  "What's our itinerary, Captain?" Zack asked.

  "If you'll follow me, I'll explain as we walk to the Oval Office."

  The Oval Office.

  "After you, sir," Zack said.

  The naval attache motioned, and Shannon and Zack followed him through an interior corridor, then along a covered walkway adjacent to the West Wing.

  "As usual," the attache began as they walked down the passageway, "the president is running a tight schedule. But he wants to see both of you. The secretary of defense is in the Oval Office also. I believe you met him when you were here before." A couple of more paces.

  "Right on time." Hancock checked his watch as the trio approached a reception area. A well-dressed blonde woman in her forties sat behind a desk. Four well-sculpted men with shifting eyes and icy looks stood, hands clasped, in a row behind her. The men wore dark business suits, sported closely cropped haircuts, and had small earpieces in their right ears with wires dangling into their suits. Two of the men stood guard to the left of an ornate door just behind the woman. The other two stood to the right.

  "Hello, Zack." The woman's eyes twinkled. "It's good to see you!" She rose from behind her desk and gave Zack a broad smile. "I'm so glad the president was able to work this out!"

  "I appreciate this more than you know -- and I haven't forgotten that lunch."

  "You'd better not."

  Shannon cleared her throat.

  "Excuse me," Zack said. "Gale, meet Special Agent Shannon McGill-very of the NCIS."

  "I've heard such good things about you." She extended her hand for a friendly shake. "I'm Gale Staff, the president's appointments secretary."

  Gale turned back to Zack. "I see you've been on television again. Everything okay?"

  "Pretty scary day yesterday. We're fine now. Thanks, Gale."

  "Anyway, you're right on time, and if you'll wait a moment, I'll see if he's ready."

  Gale Staff picked up her telephone. "Sir, Commander Brewer and Special Agent McGillvery are here." A brief pause. "Yes, sir." She looked at the attache. "Captain, the president is ready."

  Shannon's heart jumped. I'm not really here.

  "Follow me, please." Hancock stepped to the ornate white door with a large gold doorknob, opened it, and announced, "Mr. President, I present Lieutenant Commander Brewer and Special Agent McGillvery."

  Shannon followed Zack into the Oval Office as the tanned, silver-haired man she had seen on television a thousand times rose from behind his magnificent mahogany desk.

  "Please come in." A smiling President Mack Williams, wearing a dark pinstripe suit and a red tie, walked across the room to meet them just inside the doorway.

  As the president shook Zack's hand, Shannon noticed two more men, also dressed in dark suits, hands clasped, flanking the inside door of the office.

  "And you must be Special Agent McGillvery," the president said, smiling.

  "Yes, Mr. President." His handshake was firm, yet incredible warmth radiated from the man.

  "Let me thank you for the work that you did on the Quasay case. Your country owes a debt of gratitude to you. Thank you for coming."

  "It's an honor, Mr. President."

  "Zack, you remember Secretary of Defense Erwin Lopez." The president gestured to a medium-built, middle-aged Hispanic man standing a few feet to his left. "Mr. Secretary." Zack nodded.

  "Commander. Special Agent McGillvery."

  "Everyone, please have a seat." The president pointed the officers to four chairs positioned in a semicircle in front of his desk. The quartet sat down.

  "Listen, Zack, I want you to know that I've been briefed on everything that we've gotten from this Catholic priest. We've checked him out and he's legitimate.

  "And, Shannon?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Not only have I been briefed on it, but I've read every word of your report. This is excellent work. If I'm reelected, you're going to be on my short list for director of NCIS."

  "Really, sir?"

  "Yes, ma'am. It's a two-year appointment, and when Jones's term is up, I'll be putting together a list. Can't promise anything, but your name will be there."

  "Even if I'm a registered Democrat, sir?"

  "Nobody's perfect." The president smiled and winked. "First we'll put you on the White House prayer list." That brought obligatory laughter from everyone in the room. "Besides, a lot of great Republicans used to be Democrats first. Case in point -- Ronald Reagan."

  "Yes, sir. Commander Brewer keeps reminding me of that example."

  "Good work, Commander." The president reached over and slapped Zack on the knee. Then he looked at Shannon again. "Seriously, I don't care about your registration. Not for this job anyway. Keep up the good work, and you'll be on my list."

  "That's an honor, Mr. President."

  "Well, your work has merited it. But let's get down to business. For the record, I'm also of the opinion that Diane may be alive."

  Shannon felt goose bumps crawling up her spine. Vindicated by the commander in chief.

  "Did you know I'm an ex-Navy JAG officer myself?"

  "Yes, sir," Shannon said. "I'm aware of that."

  "I met Diane Colcernian and felt like I knew her. And I'd never leave Diane or any member of our armed ser vices out there, stranded or captured, if I could help it."

  He looked at Zack. "I'd send a carrier task force for her, no matter what the consequences, if I could pinpoint her location."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Now what we've done is this. We've positioned two extra satellites in orbit over the Gobi Desert and have been shooting pictures, but so far, nothing. I know you've heard this before, but this is like looking for a needle in a haystack."

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  "Now if we find this camp -- and we may not because of cloud cover or because they may be moving it or whatever -- but if we do, I'm willing to take action. What action, I don't know. But you have my word on that, Zack."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Now the problem is that Mongolia is landlocked by Ru
ssia and China. Relations have turned hostile with those countries since the attack on the Dome of the Rock. And even if we find Diane, that could get dicey. They've both got nukes, and I can't just send the 82nd Airborne in across Russian or Chinese airspace to physically walk across Mongolia for a sweep by foot. However, I've instructed the secretary of defense here to draft an operational plan to send in a team of Navy SEALs in case we locate this camp."

  The secretary of defense nodded his head.

  "Details of the plan are still in the making," the president continued, "and I can't share those details right now anyway. But I want you to know that we are making concrete plans." The president chopped his hand in the air. "If we can find that camp, and if -- and this is a big if -- we are reasonably assured that Lieutenant Commander Colcernian is there, we'll go get her. Zack, do you understand me?"

  "Yes, sir, I do, Mr. President. Thank you, sir."

  "How about you, Shannon?"

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  "But what I want both of you to understand is that your work has not been in vain. This matter has not been swept under the rug, and it has my attention.

  "Now then. I understand that Captain Hancock would like for us all to step into the Rose Garden for a photo op. And after that, I understand a certain JAG officer has a lunch date with my appointments secretary."

  "Guilty as charged, sir."

  "I've got a better idea," the president said. "Zack, why don't you and Shannon join me and the first lady for lunch upstairs in the presidential dining room. I'll invite Gale up too, and the two of you can catch up. That okay with you guys?"

  "It would be an honor, Mr. President," Zack said.

  "What do you say, Shannon?"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. President."

  Shannon's heart was about to explode. Lunch with the president and first lady. It was almost enough to make her want to switch parties. No wonder this man was the president of the United States.