Hostage

by Don Brown

  "Israel wants to prosecute them over there; the U.S. wants to prosecute them over here. So it looks like the president and the prime minister have reached a compromise." Rudy paused. "You are that compromise."

  "What do you mean?" Zack's eyes widened. "They want me to prosecute these guys?"

  "Yes, Zack. In Israel."

  "Israel?"

  "They're still hammering out the details, but an Article 32 investigating officer is already on the way."

  "Unbelievable." How can I do this when Diane may be in danger?

  "Zack, the stakes here are even higher than last year's prosecution of the chaplains. This is an explosive international situation. War could break out, depending on how this is handled. You're the only diplomatic solution to prevent an international standoff. I know you've got the ability for this, but I need to make sure your head's in the game. Shoot it straight, Zack. Are you up to this, even, for example" -- his eyes met Zack's -- "if bad news comes in about Diane?"

  "I need to make sure your head's in the game . . ."

  "You're the only diplomatic solution to prevent an international standoff . . ."

  "War could break out, depending on how this is handled . . ."

  "I need to make sure your head's in the game . . ."

  "Zack? You okay?"

  "Yes, sir, Captain. I'm okay. And yes, sir. My head's in the game."

  But if that's true, then why do I want to jump on a jet and search every corner of the world until I find her? Why do I want to kill somebody?

  "You can pass the word up to the president and the prime minister that if the charges are referred, I'll get them their conviction."

  CHAPTER 36

  Council of Ishmael headquarters

  Rub al-Khali Desert

  From the day he first met Hussein al-Akhma at an outdoor cafe near the Limmat River in Zurich, Abdur Rahman had never wavered in his belief that Hussein was the greatest Muslim Allah had placed on the earth since the prophet Mohammed himself -- Peace be upon him.

  Al-Akhma gave birth to the vision of placing Islamic operatives within the United States military. It was al-Akhma who advocated blending into the woodwork of the American power structure, where Council of Ishmael operatives, deeply committed to Islamic domination of the world, would be Western educated, multilingual, and impossible to pick out on the streets of American cities and within the American military.

  By blending in with Westerners, at least in appearance, operatives could deliver devastating strikes against the West not only from the outside, but also from within, and with the constant pounding of Western targets, including infidel women and children, Islam could, over time, wear down the Western will to resist. This would, according to the leader's vision, eventually cause America, and her Zionist puppet, Israel, to collapse. With America and Israel severely debilitated, the world would become ripe for a true Islamic revolution.

  From this vision was born Operation Islamic Glory, a bold and radical plan whereby operatives -- American fighter pilots within the U.S. Navy -- would attack and destroy one of the holiest sites of Islam, the Dome of the Rock in Israeli-occupied Palestine.

  In the flesh, it seemed like a huge gamble, but al-Akhma said that the vision was from Allah, that it would drive an irreparable wedge between the Arab States and America, and that the sacrifice of the Dome would be a painful but necessary sacrifice to forever advance the great spread of Islam around the globe.

  Even Abdur himself was secretly, albeit not openly, apprehensive of Islamic Glory. Sacrificing the Dome seemed an unfathomable gamble. What if it did not work?

  But the furor against America pouring out in the streets of Arab capitals was overwhelming beyond anything Abdur Rahman had ever seen.

  Hussein al-Akhma had been bold beyond measure, and he had been right.

  But al-Akhma, like all great leaders in history, including the prophet himself -- Peace be upon him -- despite having almost superhuman visionary abilities, could at the same time reflect an almost superhuman anger.

  Like the prophet -- Peace be upon him -- had been, al-Akhma himself was ruthless, many times, in dealing with those who opposed his vision. Khalid Mohammed el-Shiek, a member of the Council of Twenty, had received a literal dagger in his throat for questioning Islamic Glory, which was tantamount to questioning al-Akhma. And there were others.

  Abdur Rahman, second only to al-Akhma in the Council of Ishmael and rumored to be al-Akhma's successor, was also the one on whose shoulders fell the responsibility of delivering bad news to al-Akhma.

  And so, when news reached the Council that the Israelis had beaten the rescue team in capturing the two Islamic pilots who had carried out Islamic Glory, someone had to break the news to al-Akhma.

  As usual, Abdur Rahman got the dreaded job.

  He pulled the report off the computer and headed to Hussein alAkhma's office. A knock on the door brought an uncharacteristically buoyant "Enter" from the leader of the Council of Ishmael. "Ah, Abdur," al-Akhma said, rising to his feet, smiling and then kissing Abdur once on each cheek. "What is our update on Islamic Glory?"

  "Leader, overall, the results continue to be greater than we could have expected. The government of Sudan, it is our understanding, is about to introduce a resolution on the floor of the Security Council condemning America for the attack. Although we expect America to veto, it is our understanding that France and Russia may support it."

  That brought a broad smile from al-Akhma, who sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "Yes, the French have been moving our way ever since the second American invasion of Iraq when they refused to support the Americans and Bush the Second. What is it they say? Vive la France?"

  "And there is even better news, Leader . . ."

  "And does this 'better news' call for the eating of grapes and the sipping of champagne?" Hussein kicked his feet up on his desk.

  "I think eventually it very well could."

  "Out with it, Abdur. I cannot stand the anticipation." Hussein snapped his fingers, and one of the black berets brought him a silver tray full of fruit, including several clusters of purple grapes. Hussein tilted his head back, opened his mouth wide, and dropped in two grapes, seeming to savor each in triumphant succulence before he swallowed.

  Abdur waited until his leader had swallowed the second. "This is still preliminary, but our COI operatives in America are convinced that we have Lieutenant Colcernian and that she is somewhere in Mexico in our custody."

  Hussein's eyes widened like the full moon. "Alive?"

  "Yes, Leader, we believe so."

  "Ah, the beautiful Lieutenant Colcernian. The infidel maiden who has found herself no longer in control." Hussein's black eyes sparkled. "Soon to be in my hands." Another half-moon smile. More grapes popped into his mouth. "As soon as we have verified her whereabouts, I want her brought here. No, no, no." He wagged his finger as he reconsidered. "Take her to a secure location. I can go to her if I need a conjugal visit." A long stream of sinister laughter. "Ah, the world condemning the Americans, the French moving to our side, and now we may have Colcernian? How much better can it get for this week?"

  Now is the time to break it. "Leader, I regret to say that all has not gone as smoothly as we would have liked this week."

  "Oh? You are not about to burst my festive mood, are you, Abdur?"

  "Leader, it is about the two pilots who carried out the attack."

  "What about them?" Hussein's feet came off his desk. His sparkling eyes turned piercing.

  "I regret to say that before our operatives were able to pick them up in Syria, an Israeli Special Forces unit captured them."

  "What did you say?"

  "Factors came into play that we did not anticipate. We did not believe, for example, that Israel would penetrate deep into Syrian airspace. But we underestimated them . . ."

  "I underestimate no one!" Hussein slapped the silver tray off his desk. Grapes flew across the room as the tray clanged to the floor.

  "You are corre
ct, Leader. You underestimated no one. Islamic Glory is your vision. The day-to-day operations fall on the shoulders of others. The loss of the pilots to the Israelis was the responsibility of others."

  "Yes, and I will deal with those responsible." Al-Akhma lifted a crystal stem glass, downed the water, then threw it almost in the direction of Abdur's head, causing Abdur to jerk back as the glass hit the far wall and shattered into hundreds of pieces.

  "Of course, Leader."

  "But first we must deal with the problem of the pilots. They possess information that could be fatal to our network in America." Hussein stood, folded his arms, and stared into space. "Maybe the Israelis will kill them before the Americans can interrogate them."

  "Actually, the Americans and the Israelis are arguing over who will prosecute them."

  "Hmm." That statement seemed to alleviate at least part of the contortion in al-Akhma's face. And then a sudden look of calm and peace came over him. It was the same radical mood swing that Abdur had witnessed in his brilliant but mercurial leader over the years. Unrestrained fury one moment followed by angelic peace an instant later. Perhaps Abdur had dodged the bullet -- literally -- once more. Praise be to Allah.

  "You understand our strategic doctrine better than anyone else in the world other than me. Tell me, Abdur, what is it that our doctrine would call for at this moment?"

  "Our doctrine, the strategic doctrine you have brought to us from Allah himself" -- a smile of satisfaction crossed al-Akhma's egomaniacal face -- "calls for us not only to use direct military action, but to attack on all fronts, military, economic, psychological warfare, terrorizing infidel population bases and even co-opting international agencies and legal means to fight the enemy."

  "Precisely." He snapped his fingers, summoning a black beret to bring him a glass of wine. "And given that strategic doctrine you have so aptly laid out" -- he took a sip of wine -- "what specific recommendations would you make to me, your leader, with regard to how we should handle all this?" Al-Akhma downed the glass and snapped for more.

  "Leader, no decision has apparently yet been made as to where the pilots will be prosecuted. That is the first issue of interest to our organization. And it seems to me that it would be better if these pilots are not returned to America."

  "Your reasoning?"

  "Obviously, we exert greater control over events in the Middle East. Our operatives are working in Israel. We can slip agents in and out at will from Jordan, Syria, and Egypt. If we needed, for example, to kill the pilots, an assassination would be far simpler in Israel."

  Al-Akhma scratched his chin. "I see your point. But how do you suggest we accomplish that?"

  "Through the United Nations, Leader."

  "Oh. And am I just supposed to appear before the General Assembly, bang my shoe like Mr. Khrushchev did, and demand that the pilots not be returned to America?" Al-Akhma chuckled at himself. Good.

  "As you know, and as I have said, the Sudanese government is currently preparing a condemnation resolution even as we speak. Why not expand the resolution to include a demand that these 'war criminals' be brought to trial in an Islamic country? Perhaps under some international legal theory that they have essentially committed a crime against Islam?"

  Al-Akhma smiled. "Yes, yes. I like this, Abdur."

  "And better yet," Abdur continued, "why not try to enlist the assistance of our French allies? They may even make the resolution for us. If they don't have the stomach, as they often don't, we can always rely on the Sudanese."

  Al-Akhma was beaming now. "Very well, Abdur. Go to the French. Spend whatever you must. And do it quickly."

  "Yes, Leader."

  CHAPTER 37

  LCDR Zack Brewer's residence

  4935 Mills Street

  La Mesa, California

  Zack's small stucco house on Mills Street in La Mesa, about twelve miles east of the naval station, was perfect for a bachelor. It was only nine hundred square feet, assuming you counted the unheated sunroom that connected the kitchen to the single-car garage. Without that, the small house on the postage stamp - sized lot had about seven hundred fifty feet of living area. Just about enough room for Zack to cook, shower, sleep, watch a little television, and of course, work.

  Oftentimes, when he finished court for the day, but in the middle of a big case, Zack would leave the naval station early, head east up California Highway 94, jump off at the Spring Street exit in La Mesa, and go home. He could get more work done at home without the phone ringing constantly and without the penny-ante interruptions from his well-meaning subordinates and colleagues.

  About the only time Zack spent any significant time preparing for a major case in his office was last year, when he and Diane Colcernian had prepared for the famous court-martial of United States v. Mohammed Olajuwon et al., now known in many circles as the "court-martial of the century." They had barricaded themselves at the naval station through the late hours of the night. It was during those long hours of working together that his feelings for her had begun to grow.

  Before, she was physically attractive to him, and probably to every other red-blooded American male who had gotten half a look at her. Before, he had actually enjoyed baiting her in court. He enjoyed sparring with her, which proved a challenge -- and heightened his attraction to her. She gave him a strange kind of high -- a high only a litigator would understand -- with her adept maneuvers as a courtroom adversary. He was ashamed to admit it now, but before, she was an object of alluring beauty, an intellectual challenge, a combination that he found strangely attractive.

  Now, however, he had grown to care for her in a deeper, more substantial way. She was the brightest and most attractive woman he had ever met -- her intellect and looks made him catch his breath -- but it was the beauty of her character that had captured his heart.

  And so, with this new challenge before him, with war and peace hanging in the balance, Zack decided that working long hours in his office might be too painful without Diane at his side.

  He arrived home about 1700 hours, tossed the file on the ottoman in the small living room, stripped off his working khakis, and replaced the uniform with a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants.

  When the first hunger pang struck his stomach, he thought about Red Lobster at Grossmont Mall. But then when he saw the mound of paperwork on his coffee table, he decided it would be quicker to walk to his favorite Mexican restaurant, Por Favor, only a couple of blocks from his house.

  Captain Rudy's words from yesterday afternoon again echoed in his mind: You're the only diplomatic solution to prevent an international standoff . . . War could break out, depending on how this is handled . . .I need to make sure your head's in the game.

  He scrapped Por Favor for a microwavable bag of popcorn and a caffeine-free Diet Coke.

  With the steaming-hot bag in one hand and a cold Coke in the other, Zack settled into his large, comfortable club chair and kicked his bare feet up on the ottoman in the space between the stacks of reports about the attack.

  He picked up the military service record for Lieutenant Commander Mohammed Quasay, USN.

  Hmm. Excellent academic credentials. BS from Michigan. Honors graduate. NROTC. Dedicated Muslim.

  What makes this guy tick? Why would a dedicated Muslim attack a Muslim holy site . . . intentionally?

  Whoever winds up defending these guys, these are exactly the questions they will raise. I can see it now. The "dedicated Muslim" defense.As in, "No dedicated Muslim would ever do such a thing."

  He tossed the file back onto the ottoman and picked up the remote control. The opening of CNN's Nightwatch was almost like the view from the bridge of the Starship Enterprise at warp speed. The computer- animated introduction featured dozens of stars flying through the galaxy, accompanied by the music of trumpets and tympanis, as a deep, resonant voice announced from out of the blue, "This is Nightside at 6 with Tom Miller."

  In an instant, the image of Tom Miller, in a blue pinstripe suit and wire-rim glasses, t
he trusted dean of American newscasters, appeared. The sound of the trumpets and tympanis softened as Miller began his rundown of tonight's headlines:

  "Good evening. I'm Tom Miller, reporting from Washington . . ."

  The sound of the tympanis and trumpets crescendoed, then gave way to a silent, black screen, the result of Zack hitting the off button on his remote control.

  His eyes caught hers: the eight-by-ten color photograph of Diane Colcernian in her summer white uniform atop his small TV. He smiled at the picture, and it was almost as if he heard her say, "Stop worrying about me and get to work. You're a naval officer. You've got a job to do. Focus."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said. He reached for a manila file with "LT Hosni Alhad, USN" written in black felt-tip on the front, and he was about to open the file when he heard the front doorbell ring.

  Zack peered through the mini-blinds in the living room. A blue rental car was parked in the small driveway, behind his Mercedes.

  CHAPTER 38

  L'office de droit de Jean-Claude la Trec

  56, rue Charles de Gaulle

  Paris

  The dark-suited lawyer rose from behind his ornate desk and walked across a luxurious Persian rug to bestow an affectionate greeting. And it should be affectionate, Abdur thought, especially after one hundred thousand nonrefundable U.S. dollars had been funneled through the Muslim Legal Foundation and transferred to la Trec's account just for the privilege of this meeting.

  "Bonsoir, Monsieur Rahman. Bienvenue a Paris." France's most famous lawyer, or avocat, extended his hand for a firm handshake with Abdur Rahman.

  "It is good to be here again," Abdur replied in French.

  "Please be seated," la Trec said, exuding charisma and pointing to one of two French provincial chairs side by side in front of the elaborate desk. "And to what do we owe this pleasure this evening?"

  "Monsieur la Trec, I am here tonight on behalf of the Muslim Legal Foundation. We provide funding for -- "