by Don Brown
This solution solves our mutual national security interests by (a) assuring that the trial takes place in the country where the crime was committed, (b) allowing your military to prosecute under American military law, and (c) introducing a prosecutor who is trusted by millions in both of our countries.
Thank you for your consideration of our proposal, Mr. President. We look forward to your response.
Very respectfully,
Daniel Rothstein
Prime Minister
Vice President Surber folded the letter and handed it back to the president.
The president looked at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, then at Cynthia Hewitt. "Other than the fact that the Israelis don't know that Brewer has been promoted to Lieutenant Commander, are there any comments?"
The secretaries of state and defense glanced at one another, as if jockeying for the chance to speak up first.
"Mr. President, you know how much I think of Lieutenant Commander Brewer," Defense Secretary Erwin Lopez said. "You also know that I argued last year to have the navy, rather than the justice department, prosecute their own members." Lopez paused for a sip of water. "I think it was appropriate then, and I think it appropriate now that the navy prosecutes its own."
The president noticed Lopez exchange looks with Cynthia Hewitt. The two were rumored to be an item around Washington. Mack had never asked.
"And while there's no doubt in my mind that Commander Brewer is our best litigator," Lopez continued, "something doesn't sit well about Israel, or any other country, telling us where we can convene a court-martial or who our trial counsel is going to be."
Joint Chiefs Chairman Admiral John Ayers nodded. "Agreed."
The president turned to Vice President Surber. "Mr. Vice President?"
Douglas Surber removed his wire-rim glasses. "I don't have a problem with holding a court-martial in Israel, and I'm also a big fan of Lieutenant Commander Brewer. But the memo doesn't address two issues we need to evaluate in advance before agreeing to such a thing."
"Please elaborate," the president said.
"First, the Israelis want Brewer because they think he can get a conviction. And that's fine. My guess is that he'd be the man the navy would select anyway." The secretary of defense and chairman of the Joint Chiefs nodded in agreement. "But who picks the defense counsel? The Israelis? If so, then we can't accept this. The Israelis must agree that the accused officers are treated like any other officers under the UCMJ, and even have the right to hire civilian counsel, which, if I had my guess, they will probably want to do."
"Good point, Doug."
"But there's one other point, Mr. President."
"Go on."
"What happens if we do get a conviction? Do the Israelis expect the officers to stay in Israel? Or what if there is an acquittal? Will they commit to release the officers?" The vice president slid his wire rims back on his nose. "I just think we need clarification in these areas before we make any decisions."
"Right on target, Doug." The president looked at his national security advisor. "Cyndi?"
"Mr. President," Hewitt said, "I agree with the vice president's concerns and likewise believe that we should seek clarification on these points. If we get the right answers, I say accept the proposal."
"That makes sense to me too," the president said. "We'll send a communique back requesting clarification on these points, and assuming a satisfactory response, we'll send Brewer to Israel."
"Mr. President," Admiral Ayers said, "what if we don't get a satisfactory response?"
"We will, Admiral. We'll keep requesting clarification until we get the answers we want. Look, this is a face-saving proposal for the Israelis. This will work." He paused. "That answer your question?"
"Yes, sir." Ayers nodded his head.
"Now, moving on." The president motioned to a navy steward to refill the coffee carafe, then turned to his secretary of state. "Secretary Mauney, what's this I hear about an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council?"
"Rumor has it, Mr. President, that Sudan and Libya, who, as you know, have just rotated on the Security Council, are working on resolutions to condemn the attacks. The meeting could take place as early as tomorrow. Probably no later than next week."
"Anything from the Russians and the French?"
"Condemnations against 'whoever is responsible' for the attacks."
"Okay, Bobby," the president said, "if and when such a meeting takes place, I want you to personally go up to New York and represent our interests."
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Admiral Ayers, what's our position vis-a-vis the disposition of Arab military forces around Israel right now?"
"Every Islamic military power in the region is on full alert. In Egypt, more than two hundred tanks are being repositioned into the Sinai. In Syria, dozens of tanks and missile batteries are being brought to the border regions near Israel."
"Okay, listen." The president looked at the secretary of state. "I want back-channel communications opened with all these governments, discreetly, diplomatically warning them that hostile overtures against Israel will not be tolerated. Understood?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Director Early, what's the situation on the streets in these Arab capitals?"
"Mr. President," the CIA director said, "it's a powder keg. Especially Damascus. Intelligence tells us that militants could storm our embassy at any time."
"Secretary Mauney, these are your people. Do we need to evacuate?"
"I hate to say it, Sir, but I recommend evacuation of our Syrian embassy. I would hate to have a repeat of Tehran in 1979."
"Secretary Lopez, is the Truman the only carrier in the Med right now?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. President. The Truman relieved the Nimitz, which is on her way back to Norfolk."
"Where's Nimitz now?"
"Eastern Atlantic, Sir. Near the Canary Islands."
"Mr. Secretary, turn Nimitz around. Send her back to the Eastern Med. Move USS Harry Truman off the Syrian coast and evacuate our embassy immediately. Any questions?"
"No, Sir."
"Where's our next nearest carrier?"
"Ronald Reagan is in the Indian Ocean."
"Okay, bring the Gipper up the Red Sea and through the Suez. I want enough naval firepower concentrated around Israel to make the Arabs think twice before they try anything foolish."
"I will send out the orders, Mr. President," Lopez said.
"Admiral Ayers, pass the word down through the chain to Commander Brewer that I want him to prosecute these pilots. He is to begin his preparation immediately and be prepared to fly to Israel on a moment's notice."
"Aye, aye, Mr. President."
CHAPTER 34
Near Villa de Cos
Central Mexico
The rattling and shaking brought her eyes wide open, and from her position on her back, she saw the ceiling and unlit dome light of the minivan. Daylight flooded in through the windows.
Potholes.
Every part of her body ached when they hit one, which was all too often. And every two minutes or so, this vehicle drove through what felt like a lunar crater, shooting knifelike pains through the back of her head. Wherever they were, wherever they were going, not much attention was paid to road upkeep.
Her stomach muscles, strong from hundreds of weekly sit-ups and abdominal crunches, helped her bring her head up, just a little, to catch a glimpse of the man behind the wheel.
The next lunar crater brought her abruptly back into a supine position.
Should she talk or not? She had read somewhere that victims who develop at least some sort of emotional bond with their captors have the best chance of survival.
If she was going to die anyway, what difference would it make? She wasn't going to get out of here unless she tried something. If he turned around and shot her, at least that would put her out of her misery.
God, please give me wisdom.
"What's your name?"
> No answer. Three more bumps.
"I said, what's your name?"
Still no answer, but she saw his black eyes glance up at her in the mirror.
"What's the matter? Your mother didn't care enough about you to name you?"
"Shut up!"
"Oh. So we do speak English, do we?"
"I said, shut up!"
Count to twenty. Then try again . . . seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.
"Look, I'm sorry if I made you mad. I just asked your name. What's the harm in that?"
He glared at her.
"I am a murderous Arab terrorist. That is all you need to know."
Let that sit for a moment.
"So where are we going?"
"None of your business."
Okay. Next question after the eighth bump in the road . . . six, seven, eight. Ouch.
"Excuse me."
No answer.
"Hello. Mr. Terrorist."
"What!"
"I've got to go to the bathroom again."
That brought another glance in the rearview.
"You know, Mr. Terrorist, women do have to do this sort of thing." A few seconds passed. Using her abdominal muscles, she again pulled herself up and looked out at a sunbaked desert. In the distance she saw cacti and mountains. A single sign passed by the van.
Villa de Cos -- 8
Acapulco -- 255
Mexico.
We must be a couple of hundred miles south of the border. Jesus, please help me. If I can just get out of this car . . .
"If you're going to kidnap a girl, you really need to be prepared for potty breaks," she said in a sweet voice.
"Okay. Okay. Can you wait just a few more minutes?"
Was that a snippet of compassion? Maybe a chink in the armor?
"Sure, I can try, Mr. Terrorist. But I'm in a lot of pain."
"Okay."
She felt the van slow down, then the slight centrifugal force indicating a right-hand turn. The road grew rougher, and a minute or so later, the van stopped.
Either he's going to kill me, or I'm going to kill him.
"Okay. You have to go to the bathroom? Here we are."
She pulled herself up and looked around again. They were in some sort of desolate area strewn with large boulders, some nearly as big as the van.
"Where?"
"Over there." He motioned to the right with his gun. "Behind that cactus."
He moved the barrel so it pointed at her heart. "I will unlock your handcuffs. But if you try anything, I will deal with you like I dealt with your friend Maggie Jefferies."
He holstered the gun, then took her wrists in his and worked the key into the handcuffs. They dropped to the ground just behind her feet.
"Now take ten steps forward, and don't look around until I tell you." She stepped forward. "Okay, turn around." She did. "Go behind the cactus."
A few minutes later, she walked across the desert floor back toward the van. The man was standing by the hood. The gun was still in the holster. He lit a cigarette, his eyes still trained on her. Maybe he was testing her. Maybe this routine had made him overconfident. Maybe he thought that because of her ankle chains, he could draw the gun and shoot her before she could reach him. Maybe he just thought she wouldn't try anything.
Whatever his deranged thought process might be, she had to try.
"Into the van, lady. We have places to go."
"I'm moving as fast as I can."
Be nonchalant. Pretend you haven't noticed the gun. Slowly she walked to the van. Gently she put her right foot up on the floorboard.
Lord, help me.
Now!
She sprang to her left, diving at his feet like a linebacker blitzing a quarterback in the Super Bowl. He fell with a thud, screaming in Arabic. She pushed herself on top of him, scratching his face with her fingernails. He pushed her face back with the heel of his hand. She reached for the holster. His hand gripped her right forearm. They rolled over and over in the dust. She screamed.
She freed her left hand. Scratched at his eyeballs with her left hand. A scratch under his eye socket drew blood. He loosened his grip and yelped. Her right hand touched the gun. She wrapped her fingers around the handle. She wrestled it from the holster.
His hand grabbed hers again. Struggling, wrestling, her finger felt for the trigger.
More screaming. More shrill Arabic.
She squeezed the trigger. A loud bang!
A cloud of dust rose from the floor.
Another squeeze. Another bang.
They wrestled and rolled on top of one another. Now he was on top of her. He pinned her hand with the gun against the dirt. Still she clung to the pistol and yanked his hair with her free hand. He cursed, this time in English. Salty sweat dripped from his forehead into her mouth.
He leaned over, forcing all his weight on her arm. Her hand was going numb. He pushed his knee into her stomach. Her strength was ebbing. She could no longer feel the gun in her hand.
He grabbed the gun and smashed her across the head with the butt.
She looked up at him. His face was in a whirlpool. Swirling, swirling, swirling . . .
Just before darkness closed in, the image of Zack Brewer, handsome, trim, and tanned in his summer whites, drifted into her mind.
Then all went black.
CHAPTER 35
Office of the Commanding Officer
Navy Trial Service Office
Building 73
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego, California
Sit down, Zack." Captain Glen Rudy motioned Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer to one of the two big leather chairs in front of the commanding officer's desk. The other chair was already occupied by Senior Trial Counsel Commander Bob Awe, who seemed uncharacteristically serious.
"Coffee?" Captain Rudy raised his eyebrows at Zack.
"No thank you, sir."
Rudy sipped his coffee. "So how are you doing, Zack?"
"I'm fine, sir." Don't lie to your commanding officer.
"Zack, I think you sometimes forget Commander Awe and I used to be litigators before the navy kicked us upstairs and turned us into bureaucrats. Now, we might not have been hotshot, nationally famous JAG officers like you've become" -- Rudy shot an affectionate wink in Awe's direction -- "but we've both been around long enough to recognize a lying witness when we see one." He leaned back and folded his arms over his stomach. "Now, let me see if I can rephrase the question." He leaned back. "So how are you doing, Zack?"
"I think if I'm going to answer that truthfully, I'd better reconsider your offer of coffee."
"It's the fuel that makes the navy run." Rudy poured the steaming black brew from a thermos sitting on his desk into a mug, then gently pushed the mug across his desk.
Zack took a sip, closed his eyes, and felt a psychological jolt if nothing else. The much-needed actual jolt of caffeine wouldn't be far behind. "I'm not doing too well, Captain," he said, opening his eyes.
"It's Diane, isn't it, son?"
"Yes, sir." Another sip. "It is."
"You haven't looked yourself, Zack. You've seemed depressed. Now, I know your courtroom performance hasn't dipped, but Commander Awe and I are worried about you."
"I feel responsible for this, Captain. I should have insisted that she take an escort. I should have called you. I should have done something."
"Zack, Diane was on leave. Don't take this on yourself. You know, that's the very thing that may have gotten Diane in trouble. She was taking the blame for Maggie Jefferies' death -- something that was by no means her fault -- and it affected her thinking and her decision making. And Diane's disappearance is not your fault."
"You know, Zack," Commander Awe added, "I can give you the names of a couple of excellent navy doctors over at Balboa. There's no shame in using medication to battle depression. No one would think any less of you if you decided to do that."
Zack considered his offer for a moment. "Thanks, Commander. I don'
t think it's necessary yet, but I'll keep it in mind."
"We're all worried sick about Diane, Zack," Rudy said. "And we know how close the two of you have become." Zack looked out the CO's office window, across the waters of San Diego Bay toward the low-lying buildings on Coronado Island. "But I want you to put a very important concept in the forefront of your mind." That brought Zack's eyes back to Rudy's. "Son, we're at war. Not with a traditional enemy, but with an invisible enemy. It's an enemy that rears its head and kills people and then disappears.
"This enemy can strike anywhere at any time without notice. It's like a vapor that knows no boundaries. And you and Diane, by the fine job you did last year, have been at the forefront of that war just as much as a Navy SEAL out on the front lines dodging bullets.
"Zack, sometimes in war we lose our buddies. Sometimes they become missing in action. And I know that you and Diane are more than buddies. But we are at war, Zack. And just like in places like Normandy, San Juan Hill, Gettysburg, Midway, Coral Sea, and all other battles in history, we lose our comrades in battle, and we cry, and we pick up the pieces, and we keep fighting."
Zack wanted to slam his fist on the captain's desk, but instead he said, "I understand."
"Do you?"
"Sir, I've got some leave accumulated. Maybe if I took some time off, maybe I could help find her." He exhaled. "Sir, it's worth a try."
"Sorry, Commander. Not possible. The navy has a new job for you."
"A new job?" A hole opened in Zack's stomach.
"A direct request from the prime minister of Israel and a direct order from the president of the United States."
"I don't understand, Captain."
"Heard about those pilots that blew up the Dome of the Rock?"
"Yes, sir, of course."