Defiance

by Don Brown

  "From this map, the Gobi Desert appears to stretch along the Chinese border for hundreds of miles. There has to be a way to pin this down!"

  Her cell phone broke her concentration. The number was restricted.

  "McGillvery."

  "Special Agent McGillvery?"

  "Yes?"

  "This is Jackson Gallopoulous."

  "Who?"

  "From the Claxton campaign."

  "Oh, yeah." Is this a hoax? "How'd you get my number?"

  "When you work for the senator, you have access to information."

  A pause. "What can I do for you, Mr. Gallopoulous?"

  "I need to talk to you."

  "About what?"

  "Commander Brewer."

  "What about him?"

  "Look, I can't go into it over the phone. Can you meet me?"

  "When?"

  "Now."

  "Now?"

  "It's urgent."

  "Where?"

  "Cabrillo National Monument. Point Loma."

  "It's nearly midnight. Cabrillo's closed."

  "That's why I want to meet you there. You can go under the gate. We need total privacy."

  "How do I know you're who you say you are?"

  "I can't prove that before we meet. Trust your instincts. Let me put it this way: I don't think Karen Jacoby was killed by Chris Reynolds."

  That stopped her cold. "I'll see you in thirty minutes."

  "I'll be there."

  Cabrillo National Monument

  Point Loma

  San Diego, California

  Saturday, 12:15 a.m. (PST)

  The midnight moon flooded the tombstones as Shannon's car crept along Cabrillo Memorial Drive, right through the middle of Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery. The entrance to the monument area was about two hundred yards ahead, so she cut her lights, edging forward at no more than five miles per hour.

  She stopped in front of the steel gate that swung across the entrance to the monument area. She cut the engine, then picked up her nine-millimeter. No other cars were around. She worked the bolt action and turned off the safety, then got out of the car.

  Gripping the gun, she walked around the steel gate and down the solitary road toward the monument, which was probably a quarter mile ahead and not yet visible.

  There were no signs of life, and as she rounded the small bend in the deserted road, she saw the statue of Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo standing sentry several hundred feet over the entrance to San Diego Bay.

  She followed the brick pathway leading to the statue, which was located on a large circular brick patio on the cliff at the point above the great waterways of the city. The Pacific was off to the right, carpeted with the rich glow of the three-quarter moon. Straight ahead, across the entrance of the bay and down at sea level, Naval Air Station North Island jutted out at the end of the Coronado Peninsula. Off to the left, the lights of downtown San Diego and the 32nd Street Naval Station sparkled in the most vibrant naval city in the world.

  "Agent McGillvery."

  She whirled and pointed her gun in the direction of the voice. She could see the silhouette of a man in the shadows.

  "It's me, Jackson Gallopoulous."

  "Forgive me for my caution, Mr. Gallopoulous, but please raise your hands and approach slowly, and stop when I tell you."

  "By all means." The figure raised his hands over his head and took one step. Then another. Three steps later, he was close enough.

  "Stop right there."

  The figure complied.

  She pulled a flashlight from her jeans with her left hand and spotted his face. The subject squinted. As his eyes adjusted to the light, she recognized the face of the man she had seen on television. She killed the flashlight.

  "Okay. I recognize you, Mr. Gallopoulous. Come on over."

  "Can I put my hands down?"

  "Sure."

  He approached slowly. His boyish face was now visible in the moonlight.

  "There's something I want to show you."

  "About Brewer?"

  "Indirectly. I think so."

  "Okay."

  He pulled a manila envelope from under his shirt. "Take a look at this."

  She opened the envelope, shined the flashlight on the documents inside, and quickly read through them.

  "These are websites suggesting the former vice president and your boss may be involved in the deaths of their subordinates?"

  "Yes, I know."

  "This is bizarre, Mr. Gallopoulous. Why show me this?"

  "I think Zack Brewer may be in danger."

  "What? You think your boss is going to bump off Zack or something?" No answer.

  "These rumors have swirled in the public domain for several years now. Weren't you aware of them?"

  "I never gave them credence," he said.

  "And now you do?"

  Still no answer.

  "If you believe any of this, then why work for her?"

  "Look, I don't know if we have a lot of time here or not. All of this is happening so fast. Let's say I've come across some information that has me deeply concerned."

  She studied his face in the moonlight. Why would a man of his stature be telling her this? Unless... maybe...

  "Look, Mr. Gallopoulous, we're already protecting Zack. In case you haven't heard, I killed a man this week who tried to shoot him."

  "Yes, I heard."

  "So what do you want me to do?"

  Their eyes met. "Get Zack Brewer out of town, out of the country, to a place where Eleanor Claxton or anybody who works for her can't get to him."

  "Like where?"

  "I can't say."

  "Mr. Gallopoulous, I appreciate all this, but you haven't given me much. With all due respect, I'd heard these rumors, and I could have done that Internet search myself."

  "I understand. You'll have a package delivered to your house first thing in the morning."

  "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

  "Get Zack out of here."

  "It's been interesting, Mr. Gallopoulous."

  "Hear me. I'm pleading with you. Get him out of here."

  He turned and disappeared into the dark.

  Special Agent Shannon McGillvery's residence

  5800 Urban Drive

  La Mesa, California

  Saturday, 8:30 a.m. (PST)

  She had been up since seven o'clock, going through the Colcernian file, and now, after setting it aside for a moment, she studied the dossier of alleged deaths that Jackson Gallopoulous had provided her.

  Zack was a potential political liability to the Claxton campaign. Especially if he wound up beating Web Wallace in court -- which he likely would do. Maybe Gallopoulous had been sent by the senator as a ploy to get Zack off the case so that Wallace could get Eckberg off the hook. But how did that explain the websites?

  Her front doorbell rang. She opened the door. "Package for a Miss McGillvery," the UPS man said.

  "That's me."

  "Sign here."

  The package contained two cassette tapes. There was no return address. She walked into the kitchen and popped the first cassette into a tape player.

  "You think radical Islam is dirty? You haven't seen anything. What goes on out of the public's eye makes 9/11 look like a picnic in the park. Get my drift? This was a dirty business before you came along, and if there are any more surprises, you are gone."

  "Why, Senator, if I didn't know better, I would think you are threatening me."

  "Let me put it this way, Mohammed. You aren't the first individual to work for me or my husband and carry out the duties that you do. Now, some of those people are still around. Some aren't. The ones who aren't deviated from the script. Some decided to take inside information from our campaigns and use it for political or monetary gain. Some tried blackmailing by threatening to go to the authorities or the press.

  "But now they are gone, Mohammed. Every one of them.

  Shannon finished listening to the first cassette, then popped
in the second.

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

  Shannon put the tapes in her briefcase, grabbed her keys, and rushed out the door. What to do? If these tapes were authentic, no wonder Jackson Gallopoulous reacted the way he did. But were they authentic? The female voice sure sounded like Eleanor Claxton.

  She had to get to Naval Air Station North Island. She had to check on Zack.

  She raced down Urban Avenue and in a matter of minutes was on westbound Interstate 8. Something told her to punch on the radio.

  "This just in from Coronado. In a stunning development, Jackson Gallopoulous, the campaign manager for the campaign of U.S. Senator Eleanor Claxton, is dead. Gallopoulous's body was spotted floating in San Diego Bay this morning next to the Star of India. Police retrieved the body from the water and discovered a gunshot wound to the head.

  "An autopsy is scheduled to be performed later today, but according to preliminary reports, police speculate that Gallopoulous's death was a suicide.

  "According to sources close to the campaign, Gallopoulous had become very depressed and was seeking treatment for the depression.

  "Senator Claxton released a statement through a spokesperson describing Jackson Gallopoulous as a personal friend and a patriotic American whose passionate desire was to serve his country. According to the senator, he will be sorely missed.

  "Stay tuned to KSDO for more information on this breaking story." Chills shot down her spine. What sort of a powder keg was she sitting on? The radio report convinced her that she would need to make an extra stop before going to Zack's. She picked up her cell phone and scrolled down the list of stored numbers. She punched the talk button, and a moment later the commanding officer of the Navy Trial Command was on the line.

  "Captain Rudy? Shannon McGillvery here. Sorry to disturb you on a Saturday, but I need to see you immediately... Your home at Coronado?... Yes, sir. I'll be there in about thirty minutes, sir."

  8 East Fourth Avenue

  Coronado Island

  Coronado, California

  Saturday, 9:30 a.m. (PST)

  The morning sun was already glistening off the palm trees towering over the white stucco cottage on San Diego County's posh Coronado Island when Shannon pulled up. She opened the door and stepped out. The warm morning breeze from the Pacific caressed her face. She grabbed the envelope and her briefcase and walked past the black Ford Expedition with the blue-and-white eagle sticker on the windshield, signifying that an officer holding the rank of O-6 in the U.S. military was the driver of the car.

  She rang the doorbell, and Captain Glen Rudy, in a gold-and-blue U.S. Navy sweatshirt and blue jeans, opened the door.

  "Sorry to bother you this morning, Captain."

  "It's okay, Shannon. Come in."

  He directed her to a sofa in his living room. "Have you heard the news this morning about Jackson Gallopoulous?"

  "Claxton's campaign manager?" Rudy nodded his head. "Yeah, I heard. Don't agree with his politics, but that's a shame."

  "Well, sir, I may have been one of the last people to see him alive."

  "What?" A puzzled look crossed his face.

  "He called me at home last night before midnight. Wanted me to meet him at Cabrillo National Monument at Point Loma. He said Zack's life was in danger and wanted me to get Zack out of town. He gave me this."

  She handed him the Internet reports. He studied them. "Yeah, I've heard rumors about this stuff. I suppose Gallopoulous's suicide will add to all this."

  "If that's what it was."

  He looked at her over his reading glasses.

  "If it was a suicide, sir."

  "What are you saying?"

  "The last thing Gallopoulous told me was that I'd be getting a package this morning." She looked at him. "I did get a package, sir. Two audio tapes. I'd like you to listen."

  Rudy nodded his head. Shannon popped the tapes in.

  Ten minutes later, Shannon asked, "What do you make of it, sir?"

  Rudy scratched his chin. "Disturbing." He seemed to be deep in thought.

  "Captain, we've got to get Zack out of here."

  Rudy walked across the living room and looked out the window. "That could be problematic. He's in the middle of this court-martial, and --"

  "Captain, please. Someone murdered Jacoby. Then I have this bizarre meeting with Gallopoulous last night and this morning he's floating in San Diego Bay with a gunshot wound to his head. Something's going on, Captain. I can't put my finger on it. Yet. But my instinct tells me Zack may be in danger. If there's anything at all, Captain, any connections you have in Washington, I ask you now to pull those strings." She paused, then added, "Sir."

  Their eyes met.

  "Please, Captain Rudy."

  He stood with his arms crossed. "Listen, Shannon, why don't you drive over to the air station and check on Zack. I need to make a couple of phone calls."

  "Yes, sir."

  CHAPTER 46

  Room 207, Navy Lodge

  Rogers Road

  Naval Air Station North Island

  Coronado, California

  Saturday, 10:00 a.m. (PST)

  Shannon banged on the wooden door, then banged some more. "Dear Jesus, let him be okay." Panic set in as she fumbled for her cell phone.The naval air station was more secure than Zack's La Mesa home, and the Navy Lodge was located two miles inside the gate. But still, if somebody wanted to get to him... She hit speed dial.

  "Where are you?"

  "Can't a guy have some breakfast?"

  "You didn't answer my question. Where are you?"

  "At the O-Club having a veggie omelet. Come over and I'll order you something."

  "Don't go anywhere. Please."

  "Okay, okay. What do you want?" "Anything. I don't care. I'll be right there."

  Officer's Club

  L Road

  Naval Air Station North Island

  Coronado, California

  The white linen tablecloth was adorned with a small vase of yellow mums, which, along with the silver water pitcher and the half-eaten veggie omelet, provided an idyllic foreground to the panoramic view of the sandy white beach and rolling blue Pacific. Indeed, the navy controlled some of the most beautiful and most expensive beachfront real estate in the world, which was one of the reasons he'd chosen the sea ser vice over the army.

  "More coffee, Commander?"

  "Thanks, Sam."

  Zack sipped the hot, freshly ground Folgers coffee, then forked his omelet. Somewhere across the Pacific, beyond Hawaii, beyond the Philippines, beyond Japan and Korea and China, was Mongolia. If only she were alive. If only she could sit here with him now, in this safe, beautiful place.

  Lord, somehow... some way...

  "Zack!"

  He turned and saw Shannon, out of breath and wearing a navy warm-up suit, standing over his shoulder. She looked good in warm-ups, but it was a wonder they let her in the O-Club without the proper attire. She probably flashed her NCIS badge and walked on past the host.

  "I've been so worried about you, Zack."

  "Worried about me? You get paid to worry, Shannon. That's why you're so good at what you do. Have a seat. I ordered you an omelet."

  Shannon sat down across from him just as
his phone rang.

  "It's Captain Rudy. I'd better take it." He put the phone to his ear. "Yes, sir. Yes, she's here with me right now. Here she is." He gave the phone to Shannon. "He wants to speak with you."

  "Yes, sir... Yes, sir... Thank you, Captain." She smiled. "He wants to speak to you again." She handed the phone back.

  "Really, sir?... In one hour?... What about the Eckberg case?... I don't have time to pack?... Very well, sir... Aye, aye, sir." Zack closed his cell phone. "Can you believe that? They want me on a PC3 Orion for Kaneohe Bay MCAF in one hour."

  "Hawaii! What's it all about?"

  "He said I'd be briefed on the plane. Probably some mobile JAG trial team where they've got to do a quick court-martial or something."

  Hangar 3

  Naval Air Station North Island

  10:45 a.m. (PST)

  That looks like our bird," Zack said as they drove up into the parking area of Hangar 3. The large PC3 Orion, the navy's only land-based antisubmarine type aircraft, already had its four propeller engines running. On the side was the emblem of the face of an eagle, set within a black circle, along with the words Patrol Squadron 47 painted in gold.

  They exited the car. The warm blast from the Orion's massive propellers blew in their faces.

  A black Ford Expedition drove up with Zack's commanding officer at the wheel. Special Agent Alan Raynor was with him.

  Captain Rudy, a stocky, ruddy-faced Texan, stepped out of the Expedition. He was in his working khaki uniform. Raynor, who had a gym bag draped over his shoulder, walked around the Expedition and joined Rudy.

  Zack saluted his commanding officer. Rudy returned the salute.

  "Just wanted to come out and wish you a safe flight." A smiling Rudy extended his hand.

  "It was nice of you to come out, Skipper, but I hate that whatever they have me doing interrupted your Saturday."

  "No interruption," Rudy said. "I live here on the island, less than a couple of miles away. Anyway, how'd you like some company on the flight?"

  "Love to have you, Skipper."

  "Well, I'd love to go, Zack. After thirty years in the navy, I'm still a sucker for Hawaii. But Agent Raynor has never been there. Mind if he rides along?"