Defiance

by Don Brown

  "Good! Then it's a date!" The president smiled. "Let's go take some photos and then grab some chow."

  CHAPTER 41

  Claxton campaign San Diego County headquarters

  Hotel del Coronado

  1500 Orange Avenue

  Coronado, California

  Friday, 11:00 a.m. (PST)

  Jackson had just gotten off the telephone with the director of the California Democratic Party when his cell phone chirped. It was Eleanor.

  "Yes, Senator."

  "Jackson, I need you in the conference room. We've gotta talk. Now!" She hung up the phone. Oh Lord, there's no other explanation. I've been discovered.

  He would have removed the blasted bug by now, but the timing had never been right. Either Eleanor or Mary-Latham or someone else was already around. He couldn't risk running his hand under the wooden table and pulling out the quarter-sized microphone without raising a question. His stomach dropped into his intestines as he entered the staff elevator. This was it. He knew it.

  Could he talk to someone? Was there still a chance to survive? Maybe he could call Professor Gansky. But could he trust the professor?

  Dear God, help me. The elevator reached the fifth floor. He'd done it again. He'd prayed to a God whom Yale claimed was nonexistent. What was making him do this? Or who was making him do it? It was as if a yearning within him was urging him to pray.

  A moment later the elevator doors slid open. He flashed his identification badge to the Secret Ser vice agents manning the entryway, then marched into the conference room.

  They were all there. Eleanor, Ray Everton, Mary-Latham, and half a dozen others. Their angry eyes bore into him.

  "What's up, guys?" were the only words he could blurt out.

  "This is what's up," Eleanor snapped, shoving a paper across the table to a spot in front of the only unoccupied chair.

  A detective's report showing fingerprints on the plastic, suction-cupped microphone. His fingerprints. And there was nothing his Yale degree could do about it.

  "It's already all over the Internet," Eleanor roared. "Look at it." Dear God, don't let me become a public spectacle. "Pick it up!" the senator ordered.

  And there was nowhere to run. Nothing to say. He had to face this like a man. Oh, that sounded so sexist!

  He picked up the paper.

  "Turn it over and look," Eleanor ordered.

  He did, and the photograph deflated his fear like a pin stuck in a beach ball. Thank God. He gazed at the photograph off Yahoo News showing Zack Brewer, Shannon McGillvery, and the president of the United States smiling and shaking hands in the Rose Garden.

  Under the photo, a byline with today's date chronicled the event.

  Washington -- (AP) President Williams met with Navy JAG officer LCDR Zack Brewer and NCIS Special Agent Shannon McGillvery this afternoon in the Oval Office. The president, who hand-selected Brewer to prosecute the two most famous courts-martial in U.S. military history, the cases of U.S. v. Quasay and U.S. v. Olajuwon, got to know Brewer during those cases and has remained friends with the JAG officer since. While speculation swirled that Brewer spoke with the president about the highly publicized ongoing court-martial against gay naval officer Ensign Wofford Eckberg, the White House declined to discuss the subject of the brief meeting, describing the topic as "private" and "personal."

  "A meeting today," Eleanor snorted. "And these pictures are already spread all over the Internet. How dare he!"

  "His pollsters ain't stupid, Eleanor," Ray Everton quipped. "They read the same polls I read." A tone of admiration crept into his voice. "And they're good." He paused. A slight smile crept across his face. "Dadgum good. If I were them, I'd do the exact same thing."

  "And tomorrow morning," Eleanor fumed, "these pictures will be on the front page of every newspaper in the South!"

  "Yep," Ray said. "That sums it up. I'm telling you, Eleanor, if we don't keep Brewer out of the headlines, he's gonna cost us on Super Tuesday." He swigged his coffee. "Big time."

  Eleanor stood, stomped across the floor, crossed her arms, then stomped back to the head of the table.

  "I won't lose the presidency because of some punk, right-wing, egocentric naval officer. It just is not going to happen." She slammed her fist on the table. She stood there, her eyes blazing, almost as if they were aflame. Then she lowered her voice, speaking with an eerie raspiness. "Mary-Latham, prep a statement that it is inappropriate for the president of the United States to discuss an ongoing military court-martial with the prosecutor. Just don't use Brewer's name. Point out that this highly inappropriate meeting underscores this president's determination to perpetuate discrimination in the military, and that when I am elected, I will put a stop to it."

  "You sure you want to do that, Eleanor?" Everton asked. "You might draw more attention to the photographs."

  "Yes, I'm sure," she said, fuming. "Confine the releases to the press in California, Massachusetts, New York, and New Hampshire. But send the first press releases to the San Francisco Chronicle and the Los Angeles Times."

  "I advise against it, Eleanor. You can't contain a press release like that. The national media will be all over it. But that's your call," Everton said.

  "One other thing, Mary-Latham."

  "Yes, Senator?"

  "Call Mohammed. Tell him I want to see him in my suite in thirty minutes."

  Dear God, no. She's going to put a contract out on somebody. Either me or Brewer."Sure, Eleanor."

  "This meeting is adjourned."

  Gobi Desert

  Southeast of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

  The rusty blade ripped through the upper walls of her stomach. Four ice picks were jabbed through her abdomen. The excruciating flashpoints compounded the broad swath of deep, dull pain radiating from cuts made by the rusty knife.

  She twisted and turned and twisted again, and finally twisted herself awake.

  Her elbows pushed her shriveling body into an upright position. She squinted, and like radar, her eyes swept back and forth, searching the dim images inside the dark tent that had been her prison all these months.

  Sleeplessness brought about by the pain was, in an oxymoronic sense, a relief of sorts. Returning to her conscious state proved that Jeffrey Dahmer was not literally carving her stomach out. Nor was Jack the Ripper stabbing her with ice picks.

  Eighteen days had passed since they brought the tasteless, floury gruel that clung to the inner walls of her stomach for an hour at best. The gruel never arrested the acute hunger pangs that worsened each day. She'd eaten nothing since.

  She wiped the cold sweat from her forehead. Her body shook from the cold.

  Quick death, she had decided, was preferable to torture from starvation and freezing temperatures. She had prayed for a fast, merciful death, but to no avail. Barring a miracle from God, she was resigned to the probability that her death would come slowly.

  CHAPTER 42

  Gobi Desert

  Near the village of Choyr, Mongolia

  Approximately 100 miles southeast of Ulaanbaatar

  Saturday, 8:00 a.m.

  As the snowfall thickened from a few scattered flakes to a blinding flurry, Willie tapped the brakes of the jeep provided by the International Mission Board. The vehicle slid, then regained traction. Even with a four-wheel-drive vehicle, travel through Mongolia's Gobi Desert was treacherous.

  Thank the Lord, Pam hadn't come along. In their short ministry of three months here, several members of their congregation had ventured into the Gobi, never to come back.

  Aside from the great Trans-Mongolian Railroad, which connected Ulaanbaatar with Jining, China, only a single, sparsely traveled, two-lane road snaked three hundred miles southeast to the Chinese border.

  The first leg of the trip stretched from Ulaanbaatar about a hundred miles through the nomadic village of Choyr. Beyond Choyr, it was another 110 miles to the village of Sainted, and from there, about another hundred miles to the Chinese border.

  When Willie M
angum was asked by his interviewers at the Southern Baptist International Mission Board if he would serve in a foreign land in a desert, he had readily accepted. Ser vice to the Lord in a hot, sand-swept land, probably the Sahara, probably to nomadic peoples, would be an honor. Pam, too, had agreed in the interview that this was a sacrifice they were willing to make. And there was one bonus that the Lord appeared ready to provide in return. They both hated cold weather. At least they wouldn't need to bring extra sleeping bags.

  Then they learned of a place on earth -- of a desert -- that did not fit the sun-parched Arabian stereotype. The great rocky desert of Asia, the Gobi, which stretched across Southern Mongolia, was indeed home to sparsely populated nomadic tribes and fierce sandstorms, but that is where any similarity to the Sahara ended.

  Rocks, boulders, steppes, freezing temperatures, and snowstorms. All of these climatic conditions dominated the barren landscape of the Gobi. Camels and gers were the only evidence of civilization out here.

  Out in the desert somewhere, between thirty to fifty miles east of Sainted, was the alleged camp holding the mysterious redheaded woman. The plan was to drive to Sainted in the jeep, then travel through the barren, jagged terrain by camel.

  With Willie driving the jeep and Jagtai in the passenger's seat, they were approaching the first village of Choyr, about a hundred miles southeast of Ulaanbaatar, when the light snow that had been falling turned treacherous.

  "Watch the speed, Willie," Jagtai said. Willie glanced down and saw that they were traveling at forty-five miles per hour. "This road's turning to a sheet of ice."

  "Got it." Willie eased up on the gas, but the snow only worsened. "How far to Choyr?"

  "Ten miles."

  Willie sent up a prayer, but within seconds blinding snow blanketed the windshield and all the windows. He gripped the wheel and tapped the brakes again. A ferocious wind blew snow and ice from left to right across the road. The jeep slid to the left, and they slammed into a snowdrift.

  Willie hit the gas. The wheels spun on the ice.

  "Try reverse," Jagtai said.

  Willie shifted gears. The spinning tires dug the rear of the jeep deeper in the snow.

  "Hmph," Willie grunted.

  "How's our gas?" Jagtai asked.

  "Quarter of a tank."

  "Well, we can cut the engine and save gas, and run the risk of our battery dying under this ice and snow, or we can run the engine, stay warm, and risk carbon monoxide poisoning," Jagtai said. "Or we can get out and walk."

  "Heavenly Father," Willie prayed, closing his eyes, "please clear these weather conditions soon. Keep us safe, guide us, and direct us. In Jesus' name. Amen."

  He opened his eyes and turned off the engine.

  Gobi Desert

  Southeast of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

  The flash of light and blast of cold air brought her eyes open.

  She stared up, only up, focusing on the drab ceiling of the tent, determined to ignore them.

  "Hungry, my pretty?"

  The delectable aroma of cooked meat wafted from the direction of the voice. She looked over toward them. The outline of two silhouettes blocked the bright daylight from outside.

  She lurched forward, in their direction. Hunger pangs intensified as the warm, juicy smell saturated the tent. Saliva streamed from her mouth.

  "We have fresh roasted lamb," one of the scruffy-faced captors said. "And vegetables, fresh from the market in a nearby town."

  They paraded the feast on a silver platter just by her cot. She fought the urge to leap at the steaming lamb, to cram it in her mouth and swallow before they took it away. Her stomach growled with fury.

  "So," said the captor holding an AK-47 assault rifle, "you never answered my question." His associate, holding the feast on the platter, plastered a cheesy grin on his face.

  "Your question." She eyed them both. "I guess I could eat something."

  The rifle bearer reached down, grabbed his knee, and bellowed out a sinister laugh.

  "Iqbal!" the rifle bearer cackled. "Come."

  A third silhouette crossed the threshold into the ger. He had a portable video camera.

  "Now then, my pretty." The rifle bearer aimed the AK-47 at her head. "I am sure you will agree that anyone must earn his right to eat."

  She sat motionless.

  "Because there is no such thing, as you Americans call it, as a free meal."

  He seemed even more pleased with himself, eliciting laughter from the server and the camera bearer. Still she did not respond.

  "All right. Read this for the camera, and then... lunch is served!" He laughed again.

  He handed her the sheet of paper.

  "I denounce the United States of America, which has engaged in a pro-Zionist policy that embraces the fascist dictatorship of Israel while murdering thousands of innocent Arab and Palestinian women and children. I have seen the true light. The blood of these women and children is on President Williams' hands.

  "I ask forgiveness from the families of the three Islamic chaplains who were murdered by the United States Navy. May Allah have mercy on my soul for my part in this atrocity. May Allah have mercy on us all."

  "So easy. Is it not? Read and you will never be hungry again."

  Her eyes fixed on the lamb. Her stomach shifted gears like the transmission of a stock car jumping into high speed. Excruciating pangs of hunger tore into her stomach.

  CHAPTER 43

  Claxton campaign

  Sheerwater Restaurant

  Hotel del Coronado

  1500 Orange Avenue

  Coronado, California

  Thursday, 1:30 p.m. (PST)

  They sat on the veranda outside the Del's oceanfront restaurant, where Jackson stirred his salad with his fork. The croutons needed rearranging, then rearranging again.

  "You've not eaten anything," chided Mary-Latham, who had joined him for lunch.

  Jackson checked his watch. "Watching my figure."

  "Jackson, you're skinny as a rail."

  "Okay. Trying to stay skinny as a rail."

  Mary-Latham smiled, sipping a spoonful of clam chowder. "So what's your schedule this afternoon?"

  Jackson checked his watch. "In one hour I'm due across the Coronado Bay Bridge for a fundraising speech to the San Diego County Democratic Party. And after that, an interview with the local NBC affiliate, KNSD-TV. Then I make the rounds at KFMB and KGTV, the local CBS and ABC affiliates." He abandoned his salad and grabbed his glass of water. "How about you?"

  "Same old stuff." She sipped her coffee. "Press releases. More pieces ripping the navy for allowing hate crimes against Eckberg. Prepping statements for Web Wallace to read about Ekberg's broken collarbone at a presser we've scheduled for this afternoon. And then that thing about congratulating the NCIS and SDPD for apprehending Jacoby's shooter was a bit of a challenge to get just right."

  Their eyes met, and her left eyebrow rose. "Jackson, did you find that a bit odd?"

  Of course I found it odd. Especially since that police detective told me that Reynolds bought the gun in Vegas after Jacoby was shot. Should I talk to Mary-Latham about this? Can I trust her?

  "You never know. Politics is a strange game."

  "I've gotten a few inquiries about Chris Reynolds being Jacoby's killer, but most of the press seems to be buying off on it."

  "Mindless sheep," Jackson grunted.

  "And fortunately for us, liberal mindless sheep ready to be manipulated to suit our campaign's agenda."

  "No kidding," he said. "So where's Eleanor?"

  "With Mohammed. Took me awhile to track him down. They were supposed to meet at one o'clock."

  "So where was he?" Jackson downed the glass of water and motioned for the waiteress to bring the check.

  "Who knows with him?"

  "Right."

  "Don't you find their relationship a bit odd?" A curious look crossed Mary-Latham's face. Maybe he could open up with her. They'd been together off and on for more than ten years,
since their time at Yale.

  "Maybe a bit." He paused. "He's different. He seems to have the senator's ear."

  "Yeah. All alone when nobody else is around. I wonder what they're talking about."

  Tell her. You've gotta tell her.

  "Who knows?" He checked his watch. "Anyway, I've got to get rolling."

  "Yeah, me too."

  Jackson checked the bill. He handed the waitress two twenties. "Keep the change."

  "Oh, thank you, sir," the blonde waitress gushed.

  He looked at Mary-Latham. "I'm going up to my room, then across the bridge."

  "Raise a lot of money for the party." She winked and walked him to the elevator.

  Five minutes later, he was in his personal suite. He looked around to make sure that no one else was there, then walked to the closet in his bedroom. The receiver and recording device were hidden in a suitcase under some underwear. He threw the suitcase on the bed and tossed the underwear out of the suitcase.

  The blinking light meant that somebody in Eleanor Claxton's suite had said something in the last hour, which, according to Mary-Latham, would have been the time the senator was with Mohammad.

  Shrill, Mickey-Mouse-like squeaking pierced the air as he rewound the tape. He punched the play button.

  "Mary-Latham said you wanted to see me?"

  "I just wanted to tell you that this is your lucky day."

  "How's that, Senator?"

  "The press seems to think that that lunatic stalker, Chris Reynolds, knocked off Jacoby. Seems like he was intent on killing all the military lawyers involved in the Eckberg court-martial."

  "Hmm. Maybe they're onto something."

  "Yeah, maybe."

  "So is that why you called me up here? To tell me that the press has solved the mystery of the Jacoby murder?"

  "Listen, Mohammed. We've got a real problem with Zack Brewer."

  Silence occurred at this point. Fifteen seconds later, Mohammed's voice resurfaced on the tape.