Defiance

by Don Brown

  "Enter," Hussein al-Akhma said from the large chair behind his desk. The leader of the Council of Ishmael was dressed in white Arabic garb and spoke in his native tongue.

  "Un hum del Allah" -- Praise be to God -- Rahman said as he stepped into al-Akhma's office.

  "Un hum del Allah," Hussein al-Akhma responded without looking up. "What is it, Abdur?"

  "A report on our camp in Mongolia, Leader. Jeanette L'Enfant is now in our possession, just as you ordered, sir."

  That brought a smile and a scratch of al-Akhma's scruffy goatee. "Praise be to Allah. What was the fellow's name responsible...?"

  "Fadil, sir."

  "Yes, well, give him some sort of prize. And how is Colcernian?"

  "Three days until execution of Plan 547, if that is still what you want, Leader."

  Al-Akhma took a drag from his Camel cigarette. "Of course that is what I want."

  "Do you want us to arrange for publicity before or after the execution?"

  "Here is what I have decided. We will shoot both Colcernian and L'Enfant by firing squad at midnight on day 547. The next day we will decapitate them. We will videotape the decapitation of their dead bodies and give the videotape and the photos of their heads on a platter to Al Jazeer!" Al-Akhma rolled back and folded his hands over his stomach. "And then we will mail their heads to Mack Williams at the White House!"

  Abdur laughed and nodded, mimicking his leader.

  "That should get us maximum publicity. Don't you think so, Abdur?"

  "But of course, Leader."

  "But I have decided that before that, you and I deserve a treat, Abdur."

  "I do not understand."

  "My friend, you and I are going to Mongolia to witness the festivities. But before we shoot these pagan maidens, perhaps you and I shall take turns with them in their tents." His laughter was coarse and loud.

  Again, Abdur mimicked his leader's laugh.

  "How does that sound, Abdur?"

  "Like paradise on earth, before we even reach paradise, Leader. You are a genius!"

  "I thought you would see it that way. Now come, we must begin our journey!"

  CHAPTER 51

  Buyant Ukha International Airport

  Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

  Three days before execution of Plan 547

  Shannon stepped into the baggage area, where two men waited for her. One was an average-built American-looking fellow in his midforties. The other was an average-built Mongolian who could have been almost any age between twenty and fifty. She recognized the American from the picture she had seen in her briefings.

  "You must be Willie."

  "I'm Willie, and this is Jagtai."

  Shannon shook both of their hands. "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

  "You too," Willie said.

  "So did you get a package from the embassy?" She was referring to the homing devices, which had been delivered to the embassy under the cover of diplomatic immunity. Flying them in commercially would have created problems at various customs checkpoints.

  "We've got 'em. They're in the car."

  "Okay, what's the plan?"

  Willie spoke up. "We've chartered a private plane to fly us south to Sainted. The plane is owned by a local believer from our church."

  "When?"

  "As soon as you get your bags."

  "Let's rock 'n' roll."

  Thirty minutes later, Shannon was airborne again, looking down on a landscape that could have passed for the surface of the moon.

  Stateroom of the Commanding Officer

  USS Ronald Reagan

  Course 001 degrees

  45 degrees N latitude, 150 degrees E longitude

  Near the entrance to the Kuril Islands

  North Pacific Ocean

  Three days before execution of Plan 547

  On board a U.S. Naval warship, a personal invitation to dinner with the commanding officer in his stateroom is accepted with a degree of formality, especially on a large ship like the Ronald Reagan, the navy's newest and last-to-be built Nimitz class supercarrier. In keeping with the customs and traditions of the naval ser vice, Zack had changed from his khakis into his ser vice dress blue uniform for his rendezvous with Captain Steven Long, USN, CO of the Ronald Reagan.

  Zack knocked on the door of his new Skipper's wardroom. A mess steward, in a white jacket and black dinner pants, opened the hatch leading to the captain's personal living quarters aboard the ship.

  "Ah, Commander Brewer." The steward gave him a friendly smile. "Captain Long is ready for you, sir."

  "Very well," Zack said. The steward led him into the captain's private dining room. The table had been set with a linen tablecloth and silverware.

  "Zack, thanks for coming," the tall, lanky captain said.

  "Thanks for the invitation, sir. It's an honor."

  "Care for a drink?"

  "Water is fine."

  Long chuckled. "I'd heard that the navy's most famous JAG officer stayed away from the spirits. And I won't try to tempt you otherwise."

  "Thank you, Skipper."

  "Anyway, have a seat." He motioned for Zack to sit down opposite him at the table, then turned to the steward. "George, water for the commander and a cabernet for me."

  "Aye, sir."

  "You know, Zack," said the salt-and-pepper haired captain, looking across the table, "I'm sorry it's taken a couple of days for me to invite you up. I like to have a new staff member up the first day he's aboard."

  "Think nothing of it, sir."

  "But the Reagan is about to be called into action." Their eyes met.

  "I'd heard some rumblings to that effect," Zack said.

  "There will be a briefing of my staff in the morning, Zack. But I wanted to talk to you first, because I understand you may have a personal interest in what we're about to attempt."

  That could mean only one thing. It had to. Zack felt his heart jump. "If I may be so bold as to guess, Captain, could this have something to do with the nation of Mongolia?"

  A broad smile stretched across the skipper's face. "Zack, let me tell you about something the navy is calling Operation Genghis Kahn."

  Flight deck, USSRonald Reagan

  Course 001 degrees

  47 degrees 30 minutes N latitude

  147 degrees 30 minutes E longitude

  400 miles northeast of Sapporo, Japan

  Sea of Okhotsk

  Two days before execution of Plan 547

  USS Ronald Reagan, the flagship of Carrier Strike Group Seven, was ordinarily accompanied by a small flotilla of warships, including cruisers, destroyers, and submarines, all of which carried out a single purpose -- to protect the carrier from enemy attack.

  The immediate battle group included three guided missile destroyers, a guided missile frigate, the heavy guided missile cruiser USS Champlain, the replenishment ship USS Ranier, and the nuclear submarine USS Tucson.

  All of these ships would provide a formidable defensive perimeter around the Reagan should she ever come under attack from the air or from submarines underwater. With the exception of the submarine, every surface ship in the battle group had turned and sailed east just as the Reagan slipped through the Kuril Islands.

  While all this made the carrier less likely to be spotted, it also left her far more vulnerable.

  Zack had been ordered down to the flight deck by Captain Long to serve as a welcoming committee for the five helicopters that were now visible on the southeastern horizon.

  As the choppers closed in on the great ship's fantail, flight deck personnel scurried about on the runway. The first chopper, painted black without any insignia, hovered over the aft section of the ship. Its powerful rotors blew a gust of wind across the deck, and the sound of its engines echoed off the steel runway. Deck personnel in yellow jerseys and yellow helmets directed the chopper as it nosed forward and feathered down on the front section of the runway, near the bow. The other four choppers followed, landing one behind the other.

  T
he lead chopper cut its engines, and Zack followed close behind the flight deck personnel as they rushed to the MH - 53E and opened its side door. They shot salutes to the emerging navy captain wearing the dark blue "Gestapo" uniform with silver eagles on each collar and the insignia of a Navy SEAL on his chest.

  Zack met the captain's eyes and shot him a smart salute. "Welcome aboard, Captain Noble."

  "Zack!" Captain Buck Noble saluted back and then gave Zack a bear hug. "We miss you already on the Eckberg case!"

  "Sir, there's another job I'd like to volunteer for."

  "Zack, you know our command master chief, Master Chief Cantor?" "Sir," the master chief said with a salute.

  "Master Chief." Zack returned the salute, then looked back at Captain Noble. "As I was saying, sir, there's another job I'd like to volunteer for."

  "Forget it, Zack. I know what you're thinking. You're way too valuable to the navy for me to risk that sort of thing."

  "But, sir --"

  "Zack," Captain Noble interrupted, "if she's there, we'll bring her out." He slapped Zack on the back. "You bailed this command out a bunch of times when we needed you. And I owe you one. I know how you feel about her."

  "God bless you, Captain. But don't think I won't spend the next thirty-six hours trying to change your mind." He paused, then added, "Sir."

  "I wouldn't think you'd do anything other than pester the heck out of me about that, Zack."

  "Your seabag, sir." An enlisted SEAL handed Noble his bag. "Thanks, Petty Officer," Noble said. "Sure is cold out here. This is colder than Japan was."

  "Come with me, sir," Zack said. "I'll take you to Captain Long's stateroom. He's got fresh coffee."

  "Great idea," Noble said. "Lead the way, sailor."

  CHAPTER 52

  Gobi Desert

  Southeast of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

  Sometime at night

  At least they were providing heat in the place now, Diane thought, as the bearded Arab brought more wood in and dumped a log in the stove in the middle of the tent. And the starvation techniques, at least since they had struck her with the butt of the rifle, had subsided. Now she was getting thin gruel once a day in the morning. They had to keep her alive so they could keep playing mind games with her, she supposed.

  The flame in the stove responded to the fresh wood. The interior of the ger warmed.

  She lay back on her cot, closed her eyes, and began to drift.

  His face. The image of it. The dimple in his chin. His smile and wit. The way he fit so nicely in his white uniform. Lord, please... One day... Somehow, some way...

  "Non! Non! S'il vous plait! S'il vous plait!"

  What? Diane sat up.

  "Arretez-vous! Laissez-moi la paix!"

  The sound of a woman's voice! Screaming in French! They had taken another prisoner. Her instincts took over. She got up and charged out of the ger and into the cold.

  The commotion came from a ger across the way. She ran outside. Several men converged on her position.

  An Arab man came out of the tent. He was dressed in a white shirt and white pants. As he opened the flap, the sounds of screaming and sobbing permeated the cold, moonlit Mongolian sky.

  "Ah, Lieutenant Commander Colcernian!" The man spoke in perfect English as three others restrained her. "Did you know that your navy has promoted you?"

  "Who are you?"

  "Posthumously, I might add?" He leered at her. "You did not know you had company, did you?"

  "Whoever it is, leave her alone, you animal."

  "We have had her here several days. She is under medication."

  "Leave her alone," she growled and raised her hand to strike him. The men with him restrained her.

  "Tell me," he said, lighting a Camel cigarette, "do powerful men turn you on, Commander?"

  She did not dignify the question with an answer.

  "I am Hussein al-Akhma, the most powerful Arab man in the world."

  "Here's what I think of you, Mr. al-Akhma." She spit in his face.

  A hard punch sent her reeling. Before she could recover, al-Akhma bent over her, grabbed her in an ironlike grasp, and tried to kiss her.

  "No!" She kicked him in the groin.

  He doubled over, cursing. "How dare you strike the great Hussein al-Akhma!" One of his assistants hit her with the back of his hand. She fell to the ground.

  Al-Akhma said, "Send her back to her ger. She will get hers soon enough."

  Thirty minutes later, the woman was shoved through the flap of Diane's ger. Her head thumped against the wooden floor. She balled into a human clump. She heaved, as if hyperventilating, punctuating her desperate gasps for air with moaning sobs.

  Diane looked at the flap. The captors were gone. For now. Or so it appeared.

  She jumped to the floor and put her arms around the woman.

  "It will be okay. Be strong. I'm here."

  The woman buried her head in Diane's shoulder. "Here," Diane said, "drink this." She brought the half cup of water she had saved from that morning to the woman's lips.

  The woman responded, bringing the cup to her lips. The staccato-like heaving slowed ever so slightly. It was then that Diane noticed the color of the woman's hair. It was auburn, very similar to her own. How odd, Diane thought, that she and the woman bore a striking resemblance in age, facial features, hair color, and body shape.

  The woman finished the cup of water. Diane wiped a stray tendril of hair off her forehead. "Are you okay?"

  "I think." The woman trembled and held on to Diane.

  "Did they touch you?"

  More deep, rapid breathing. "They did not rape me, if that is what you mean. They threatened. That leader, al-Akhma. He exposed himself -- his assistant too. They tried to kiss me. I fought and scratched their eyes. At first they laughed. Then they got mad and left me alone."

  "Thank God," Diane said quietly. "Here. Take my bed." She pointed to her cot. "Try to get some rest. I'll be here. They'll have to get to me to get to you, and I won't let them."

  "You are sweet."

  Diane helped her guest onto the only cot in the primitive tent. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders and adjusted her head on the small lumpy pillow.

  The woman had been curled under the blanket, shaking, her eyes closed, for the better part of two hours. Diane was sitting on the floor near the woodstove when the woman's eyes came wide open, reflecting the flicker of the solitary candle burning beside the stove. The woman looked over at Diane and forced a half smile onto her face.

  "What is your name?"

  "My name is Jeanette." She spoke through glistening tears. "I am from France."

  "It's nice to meet you. Jeanette. My name is --"

  "You are Diane."

  "Yes." The interruption stunned her. "How did you know that?" "You are the world's most famous missing person. How could I not know?"

  "People still remember?"

  "Yes, of course people remember. Especially a person named Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer."

  Diane felt like hyperventilating. The sound of his name alone was enough.

  "You still love him, do you not?"

  "Do you know Zack?"

  "I am a lawyer. I tried a case against him. It was a case of great international importance. But you would have no reason to know about it. It was tried after your disappearance."

  "I'm stunned."

  "Zack's performance in court was stunning. He soundly defeated me and my partner, Jean-Claude la Trec, who was the greatest avocat in all of Europe."

  That comment brought a surge of pride to Diane.

  "As you feel for Zack, I felt for Jean-Claude."

  "Felt?"

  "These Islamic radicals. This Council of Ishmael. They murdered him and kidnapped me."

  "I am sorry."

  "But I am happy to see that you are alive, even if I am the only person in the Western world besides Zack who believes it."

  He believes! Praise God. He hasn't given up.

  Diane
lightly caressed Jeanette's shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. "Jeanette, before today, I had lost all hope. But I promise you this. I will do everything in my power to protect you. And with God's help, somehow, someday, we will get out of here. I don't know how it will happen. But now I feel it. It will happen.

  "Before today, there was only faith. But now faith has been joined by hope."

  They embraced, and Diane's eyes flooded with tears.

  Bridge, USSRonald Reagan

  Course 001 degrees

  57 degrees 30 minutes N latitude

  140 degrees 30 minutes E longitude

  80 miles west of Ayan, Russia

  Sea of Okhotsk

  Day 547, 1800 hours

  It had been dark for three hours by the time the Ronald Reagan moved into launch position. Captain Long had invited Zack to the bridge to watch the launch of SEAL Team 3. All five helicopters were on deck, and the SEALs could be seen stowing their gear and weapons.

  The excited voice of the combat information control officer suddenly boomed over the loudspeaker.

  "Bridge! CIC! We've got two inbound bogies! Bearing zero-one-five degrees. Range three hundred miles. Look like Russian MiGs, Skipper. They're headed our direction."

  Captain Long cursed under his breath. "Probably out of Vladivostok." He looked over at Captain Bill Cameron, the air wing commander who was on the bridge with him.

  "Flight deck, Bridge. Belay launch of choppers. I repeat, belay launch of choppers! Launch F-18s for intercept of Russian MiGs. I repeat, Launch F-18s for intercept of Russian MiGs. All hands to general quarters!"

  "General quarters! General quarters! General quarters!" Loudspeakers blared. Bells rang all over the ship. "General quarters! General quarters! General quarters!"

  Even though the Reagan had launched no planes since she had been in the Sea of Okhotsk, two F/A-18E Super Hornets had remained in launch position on the catapults, ready to be shot into the air at a moment's notice.

  "CIC, Bridge. Position of those bogies?"

  "Bearing zero-one-five degrees. Range 250 miles, Skipper." "Launch Super Hornets."