Defiance

by Don Brown

  "What kind of a problem, Senator?"

  "A real problem."

  "A Karen Jacoby - like problem?"

  "Let's put it this way: if Brewer stays in the limelight, it could cost me the election. That can't happen."

  "Let me ask again, Senator. Is this a Karen Jacoby - like problem?"

  "Think about it, Mohammed!" Her angry voice pounded Jackson's eardrum. "He could cost me the presidency! Read between the lines!"

  "Okay! Okay, Eleanor! I'm two steps ahead of you. I've already started surveillance on the guy. The navy was hiding him over at North Island -- at least until they flew him to Washington -- and NCIS has been hauling him around in a white panel truck. I'm going to --"

  "I don't want to hear details. Okay?"

  "Okay. Sorry."

  "I just want to make sure that we're on the same page."

  "We're on the same page, Eleanor."

  "Good. Then get out of here and get to work."

  Jackson's lungs pumped out of control. Dear God, what is going on? He felt as though hand grenades were exploding inside his chest and as though bullets were ricocheting in his throat. He jumped up from the bed, tripped, and fell. He scrambled to his feet, tossed the underwear back on top of the recording device, zipped the suitcase closed, and put it back in the closet.

  He needed a cold shower. Fast. Even if he was late for his speech.

  He saw a Bible, published by the Gideons, on the table beside his bed. In three days, he hadn't noticed it. Maybe the maid had put it there. Something pushed his hands toward it. The book fell open to a passage in Exodus.

  "Thou shalt not kill."

  His eyes were drawn to a passage a few verses above that.

  "Thou shalt have no other gods before me... For I the LORD thy God am a jealous God."

  Why were these words striking his soul at this very moment? Why did they feel almost like medicine in the midst of turmoil?

  Of course killing was wrong. Everyone knew that. But it seemed to him that the Bible was speaking to him about the circumstances that were tearing him apart right now. But there was no God. His professors had ridiculed the ignorant, emotional Christian right.

  But if there was no God, then why was he here? Why was this information being revealed to him? Could it be coincidence?

  His professors were wrong. There was a true God. His god had been politics. His god had led him to this moment, to the one true God above all, who had placed him here for a purpose.

  And if there was a true God, then he --Jackson Kennedy Gallopoulous -- had put the god of politics before the one true God.

  "God, if you are there, reveal yourself. Help me! Somehow, some way. Help me do what's right!"

  Gobi Desert

  Southeast of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

  The hunger demanded that she just read it.

  She could always retract it later.

  Plus, if she read it, maybe someone would see it and know that she was still alive.

  Maybe her country would come rescue her. Certainly Zack would come if he saw her on television. Wouldn't he?

  Maybe reading it was her only hope of survival. No one would actually believe she meant it. It was understood that hostages are forced to do such things under tortuous conditions. She looked at the script once more, and then the officer's oath that she had taken so many years ago flooded her mind.

  "I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic."

  "You no want to eat?" The startling sound of chinking steel reverberated through the tent. The man had cocked his rifle and pointed it straight at her head. "Read!" The gunner nodded at the cameraman, and a red light on the camera flashed on. "Or I blow your head off!"

  Her body shook. She could not stop it. She prayed silently. Someone took charge of her lips.

  "Man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God."

  "Read, foolish woman!"

  Her body calmed. The shaking stopped. The words that had rolled off her lips had calmed her. She felt supernatural boldness. "Rather than betray my country, I will eat your bullets!"

  The rifle butt swung around like a baseball bat, crashing into her jaw. She saw stars, then blackness.

  CHAPTER 44

  U.S. Navy C-9

  Final approach to Naval Air Station North Island

  Friday, 5:00 p.m. (PST)

  The U.S. Navy C-9 carrying Zack and Shannon crossed Mount McGill and then, descending to fifteen hundred feet, passed over the buildings of downtown San Diego, their magnificent glass reflecting the orange glow of the sun making its downward trek toward the Pacific.

  Soon they were over the ocean, where the pilot, a navy lieutenant, made a wide, arching loop, bringing the plane back toward the southeast. Shannon felt the plane nose down toward Naval Air Station North Island, located at the tip of the long peninsula that separated San Diego Bay and downtown San Diego from the Pacific Ocean.

  She looked across the aisle and saw the only other passenger in the cabin. She wondered how he could have slept so much on the return flight, after having spent the morning with the president of the United States.

  Oh well. Just another day in the life of Zack Brewer, I suppose. "Zack!" No response. "Zack!" She reached over and shook his shoulder.

  "Yeah?" He yawned and rubbed his eyes.

  "We're landing. Strap in."

  "Thanks." He yawned again and fastened his seat belt.

  A moment later she felt a bump as the plane's tires touched the concrete runway.

  "Commander, Special Agent McGillvery, welcome home," boomed the navy pilot's voice over the loudspeaker. "We'll be taxiing over to the hangar, and the ground crew will bring a boarding ladder over to get you on the ground. Should be a couple more minutes."

  The pilot's voice over the loudspeaker seemed to draw Zack out of his sleepy state. His eyes widened and he sat up a bit. "What time is it?"

  "Little after 1700 hours local," she said.

  "Quick flight."

  "You slept the whole way."

  "Need my beauty sleep."

  A petty officer, a member of the flight crew, opened the door of the plane. Fading daylight and the cool San Diego breeze rushed into the cabin. "Boarding ladder's ready, Commander." His comments were directed to Zack. "Anytime you're ready to deplane."

  Zack stood up and held out his hand, motioning for Shannon to stand. "Ladies first."

  She stood, walked out ahead of him, and then stepped onto the platform at the top of the boarding ladder. Her boss, Barry MacGregor, and Zack's commanding officer, Captain Glen Rudy, were waiting at the base of the ladder. Both stood with their arms crossed and their necks craned up, staring at the exit ladder. Looks of consternation crossed their faces. Perhaps they were angry that she and Zack had jumped the chain of command. And boy, had they ever jumped the chain.

  "Uh-oh." Zack stepped out onto the platform just behind her. "They don't look too happy."

  "No kidding."

  "Well, let's go face the music."

  They stepped down about fifteen steps. Barry spoke first. "Shannon, we need to talk to the two of you."

  "Barry, we had just run out of options --"

  He held his hand up. "Forget that. I understand why you did what you did."

  "You do?"

  "Shannon, Chris Reynolds died about an hour ago."

  The news hit her like a stun gun. Her lips froze. She had known that her job might one day require her to kill. But to come to grips with it... She looked at Zack, who put his arm around her shoulder and lowered his head.

  "Oh dear God, please help me," she could only whisper. Her vocal cords constricted. "What have I done? I've killed a man."

  Zack put his other arm around her and drew her close. "Shannon, what you did is your duty. You're my bodyguard. You saved my life, and who knows how many more."

  Babcock & Story Bar

  Hotel del Coronado

  1500 Oran
ge Avenue

  Coronado, California

  Friday, 9:00 p.m. (PST)

  Sitting alone at the corner of the bar, Jackson sipped on a beer as he waited for Mary-Latham to arrive. There was no way she could be in on this, even if his worst fears were true. Eleanor had always made sure that she was one-on-one with Mohammed, and the tapes made no mention of Mary-Latham. The only remote connection he had observed was that Eleanor always seemed to ask Mary-Latham to make the contact with Mohammed.

  They'd dated on and off at Yale, and at an academic powerhouse where the coed selection was not particularly choice, Mary-Latham was a flower on the frozen tundra. He would never tell her that he thought of her in that manner. She would punch him and call him a sexist.

  That thought brought a smile to his face. He lifted the bottle of Corona to his lips.

  Jackson had to reckon with his feelings. He'd harbored a longstanding soft spot for her, and as his doubts about Eleanor had grown, so had his longing for Mary-Latham.

  No, he was certain, there was no way she was in on it. And the raised eyebrows from earlier today... the question about Eleanor's odd relationship with Mohammed... Perhaps Mary-Latham was having second thoughts too.

  He finished the beer and ordered a second. Frankly, if he could sweep her off to a tropical island somewhere, he would do it in a heartbeat. Forget the lure of the White House. Forget liberal idealism. He could trust her. He knew he could.

  "How'd your day go?"

  He looked up in the direction of the velvet voice. She had ditched the pantsuit for a black skirt and sleeveless top. Wow.

  "Have a seat." He stood and gently helped her onto a bar stool. "Want a drink?"

  "Margarita." She smiled. He ordered.

  "You look great tonight."

  Her smile melted him. "You don't look half bad yourself, if you know what I mean."

  A server brought her margarita and his beer. "Part of my day went great, to answer your question." She held out her glass, as if inviting him to toast. He clanked his bottle against her glass. "To Roosevelt, Kennedy, Clinton, and Truman," she said.

  "I'll drink to that quartet of Democratic giants."

  They sipped their drinks. "And what part of your day went so great?"

  "I raised a lot of money for your Democratic Party," he said.

  "Hmm." She sipped her drink. "You handsome, money-grubbing devil, you." There was another toast. "And what about the rest of your day?"

  "Mary-Latham." He reached across the table for her hand. She extended her palm and rubbed her thumb gently against his lifelines. "There's something I need to talk to you about, but I need to know that it remains confidential."

  "How confidential?"

  "Absolutely. From everyone. And especially everyone we work with and for."

  "I understand." She gave him another heart-melting smile and sipped her margarita with the hand that was not caressing his. "Jackson, whatever you say stays with me. I don't know if you realize how much you mean to me."

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  And then their lips met.

  Russian twin-engine aircraft

  Altitude 6,000 feet

  Over Sainted, Mongolia

  260 miles southeast of Ulaanbaatar

  Saturday, 2:30 p.m. (local time)

  The plane turned and shook and rocked through the sky.

  "Aaah! Aaah!" the woman shrieked.

  "Shut up!" Fadil grabbed the back of the seat in front of him and yelled at Jeanette L'Enfant, whose sedatives had worn off.

  "Dieu m'aide! Dieu m'aide! Dieu m'aide!" she screamed.

  "Hang on!" Sergey said. "Pilots say heavy cross-winds! We try land again!"

  The engines revved. The plane nosed down, and the rocky horizon was up, then down, then up again.

  "Hang on!" Sergey yelled again.

  "Je veux morir!"

  "You want to die? You may get your chance," Fadil snapped back.

  The ground came up, there was a violent bump, and the plane bounced like a soccer ball. A large gust of wind caught under the wing, and Fadil felt it start to flip. "In the name of Allah!" The pilots pushed on the throttle. The twin engines responded, pulling the plane back into the sky. Now the wings were waving up and down like a seesaw.

  "Pilot say hang on! We try land again. Must land soon! Low on fuel!"

  The plane swung around, trying to line up with the dirt runway. It was dropping like a rock, it seemed. The wings dipped sharply to the left. The nose went up. And they plummeted.

  The left wing dipped into the runway, spraying a cloud of dirt. Then the wheels touched. They lifted off. The plane slammed into the ground, then bounced up. Then down again. Bumping up and down. Up and down. The plane slowed. Finally, they came to a rest.

  On the ground, the howling wind threatened to blow them back into the air.

  Fadil looked out the window. The dirt airstrip was surrounded by rocky terrain. Three Arab men were leading camels toward the plane.

  He turned around and looked back. The woman, whose hands were cuffed, was sitting between Ghazi Jawad and Salah Abdul-Alim. "Looks like you won't get to die yet," he said in French.

  She shot him a silent, angry glare through streaming tears.

  "At least you've stopped your maniacal screaming."

  She squirmed and continued to stare at him.

  He sneered, then turned to Sergey, handing him an envelope. "Give this to your pilot friends. Five thousand for their ser vices, plus the last thousand we owe you and your men. This brings us to the end of our road together. Best wishes finding your way back to Russia."

  "Spaceeba," Sergey said, thanking Fadil in Russian.

  Fadil turned back to the woman. "Look on the bright side, my beautiful. At least you will have an infidel friend to keep you company soon." That thought brought a laugh from Ghazi Jawad. "And her hair is even the same color as yours!" More laughing from the Islamic trio.

  The door to the plane opened. A cold blast of air rushed in. "My brother!" A smiling, scruffy-faced Arab-looking man stuck his face inside the plane. "Welcome to Mongolia. We are ready for you now!"

  "Let's go!" Fadil ordered.

  Ghazi and Salah shoved the woman up, then out the door. Fadil followed them out into the cold.

  This was it.

  The last leg of his journey to glory.

  Gobi Desert

  Near the village of Choyr, Mongolia

  Approximately 100 miles southeast of Ulaanbaatar

  Saturday, 3:00 p.m. (local time)

  The snow had stopped over four hours ago, yielding way to the Mongolian sunshine. Even still, the heavy snowbank had made their escape impossible. So far, anyway. They had started the engine every hour, running it for fifteen minutes to keep heat in the cabin. They would need to find gasoline if and when they made it as far as Choyr.

  "It's a funny thing," Jagtai said. "Where we are headed, one hundred miles south of here, it is probably dry and warm."

  Willie shivered under one of the quilts they had brought along. "Yeah, right. You native Mongolians think thirty-two degrees is warm."

  Jagtai laughed. "Looks like it's melted some more. Want to try again?"

  "What have we got to lose?" Willie quipped. "Just let fifty-below-zero air temperature in here when we open the door. That's all."

  "Okay. I'll push. You crank the engine."

  Willie turned the key and prayed. The starter whined, then whined some more. "Please, Lord, make it start." More whining, and then contact. "Thank you, Lord."

  Jagtai got out and tromped around to the back of the jeep. "Ready?"

  "Here goes!" Willie pressed on the gas. There was traction, and the jeep crawled out of the snowbank and back onto the road. "Thank you, Lord!" Willie yelled. "And thank you, Jagtai!"

  Jagtai climbed back into the jeep, and they high-fived each other. Warm air now blew from the heater. Willie put his icy fingers in front of one of the vents.

  "Let's go find a terrorist camp!"
Jagtai was rubbing the palms of his hands together.

  "I'm with you, brother!" Willie kicked the jeep back in gear, and they rolled out to the southeast.

  CHAPTER 45

  Special Agent Shannon McGillvery's residence

  5800 Urban Drive

  La Mesa, California

  Friday, 11:30 p.m. (PST)

  After making sure that Zack was tucked safely away in his quarters in the Navy Lodge, Shannon had arrived at the home she was renting in La Mesa. She had been home about thirty minutes when she sat down in her den and booted up her computer. The Quasay file had long since been closed. Now she created a related file: "In the matter of LCDR Diane J. Colcernian." Her investigation was now officially reopened.

  She tried hard to focus on the file. But Diane was not the woman whose image kept appearing in her head. Surely Chris Reynolds had a mother. Somewhere. What was she feeling right now?

  The idea that Reynolds, no matter how sick or deranged he was, would never see the light of day again haunted her. Surely there were good, decent things he did in life. Innocent walks in the park? Maybe a simple cup of coffee? Not even the simple things of life would ever be enjoyed by him again. All because of her.

  The events of the last forty-eight hours had left her unable to sleep. Yet she still sipped on black coffee, perhaps out of nervousness more than anything. To shoot a man in the course of duty, then to fly to Washington for a meeting with the president, then to have lunch with the president and the first lady, and then to fly home and discover that the man she had shot was dead -- all of it was a churning, surrealistic blur.

  She was in love with Zack, and Zack was in love with Diane. And now if she could deliver her to him, what sort of ironic gift would that be? Maybe, maybe in some way it could assuage the wrong she had committed by killing a man.

  Focus, Shannon. Focus on your job.

  She studied the map in the file.

  Where?

  Where could they be hiding her? There was less than one week until execution of Plan 547. That is, assuming she was counting correctly. There could be less time than that.