by Don Brown
Shannon held a PhD in criminal justice, spoke Italian and Spanish, and was literate in computer programming. Unlike Harry Kilnap, the venerable "old guard" NCIS agent from Norfolk who first cracked open and then almost lost the Olajuwon case, Shannon was a "new breed" professional agent who did things by the book, even if it meant losing a case for the prosecution.
As a result, she was popular with navy prosecutors as well as defense attorneys. Zack trusted her completely. If Shannon McGillvery spoke, you could trust her completely.
He had asked that she be assigned to the team, and that request was immediately granted.
After a one-hour layover at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware for refueling, the team flew to Sigonella, Sicily, where they picked up an NCIS advance team from the Harry S. Truman for the final leg of the C- 17's flight to the Island of Cyprus. Zack was impressed with the advance team's in-flight briefings on the events leading up to the morning of the attack. Zack wrote furiously on his legal pad, while Wendy and Shannon took notes on their laptops.
Shannon at first seemed most intrigued by the strange radio communication from the Spanish boat. As the plane approached Cyprus, her Scotch-Irish temper erupted when the advance team admitted that no one had bothered to find the captain of the Spanish boat.
"There's a connection here. I can sense it," she snapped. "Nobody goes out in the middle of the ocean and starts transmitting 'Oscar India Golf,' for no reason. And the fact that no one has followed up on this is absolutely inexcusable!"
When the C-17 touched down at Cyprus, the prosecution team immediately transferred to two navy SR-60B Seahawk helicopters and, within ten minutes of landing, were airborne again, this time headed east at a low altitude over the blue waters of the Mediterranean toward the Truman.
Forty-eight hours later, the Truman had steamed to within four miles off the Israeli port of Haifa, and the prosecution team again boarded the Seahawks and took off toward the coastline. The choppers flew west over Haifa, then went into a steep bank before touching down in the Israeli desert, presumably the Negev. Blinding sunlight assaulted Zack's eyes as he stepped from the chopper and was directed to one of six Hummers waiting to transport them to Jerusalem.
Still in short-sleeve working khakis, Zack donned a pair of sunglasses to fight the glare. Under the brown-tinted shades, he saw that they had flown to a cryptic rendezvous point, out of public view. A squadron of well-armed United States Marines in battle fatigues stood by with several armored vehicles to accompany the convoy. A squadron of Israeli Army infantrymen, also heavily armed, was on hand too.
Zack stepped to the second Hummer in the convoy, accepted a salute from a marine sergeant, then slid into the back. Lieutenant Commander Poole, in her working khaki shirt and skirt, was escorted around to the other side; she also was saluted before slipping into the seat beside Zack.
The Hummer's engine was already running, the air conditioning working at full blast, much to Zack's relief. Commander Awe and Captain Rudy were led to the first vehicle in the convoy, and Shannon McGillvery and part of her NCIS team piled into the Hummer just behind Zack and Wendy. Zack figured that LN1s Peterson and Benedict were bringing up the rear.
Two hours later, the convoy approached Jerusalem's historic King David Hotel. Members of the international press were gathered around the roped-off perimeter of the magnificent old building. In addition to the prominent presence of the American networks, Zack saw the BBC, French and Russian television trucks, an Australian crew, and Al Jazeer, the prominent Arab television network known for its propensity to beam gruesome execution pictures directly into homes as a tactic for flaming angry Muslim furor against the West.
"It was supposed to be a secret that you were staying here, sir," the marine driver said. "Looks like somebody leaked to the press."
"Somebody always leaks. They're like bloodhounds, Sergeant; trust me," Zack said as the convoy pulled to a temporary stop just in front of the hotel. "Far more concerned with ratings than the truth or the good of the country."
"Yes, sir." The driver nodded. "Remember that time Dan Rather ran that story about President Bush's national guard service vice using fake documents?"
"You just proved my point," Zack said.
"You know, sir," the sergeant said, "we've heard rumors that the Reverend Barbour may be staying here for the court-martial."
"Oh, please." Zack rolled his eyes.
"Speaking of CBS, look." Wendy pointed across Zack's chest out the back right window.
A CBS television crew shone blinding spotlights through the back window. Zack and Wendy winced. At the same time, a blond with a CBS microphone banged on the same window, motioning for Zack to roll it down. A couple of U.S. Marines stepped in and gently backed her away.
The Hummer inched forward. Just ahead, the vehicle carrying Captain Rudy and Commander Awe stopped in front of the hotel entrance. Double columns of Israeli soldiers, armed and in riot gear, formed a human corridor that stretched from the vehicle to the lobby. Members of the press crowded in like maggots on a dead animal, rudely poking their microphones over the soldiers' shoulders, hoping for a comment, a word, anything from anybody.
A wave of flashbulbs moved slowly from left to right. Zack chuckled. "Captain Rudy and Commander Awe must be on the move."
"You'd think we were at the Academy Awards or something," Wendy said with a laugh.
"Most of them are a bunch of self-serving liberals who want to cede American sovereignty to the United Nations," Zack commented as the Hummer inched forward. "Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas once called them a 'high-tech lynch mob.' I think he was right." A pause. "Enough preaching," Zack said, catching himself. "Sorry about my attitude."
"Don't worry about it." Wendy patted his hand. "You've had practice dealing with them."
"Okay, Commander," the driver said as the Hummer stopped in front of the Israeli human shield, "in addition to these Israeli Defense Forces guys, each of you will be escorted by two U.S. Marines into the buildings. These marines will be assigned to you as part of your security detail during the course of the court-martial."
Two marine gunnery sergeants opened Wendy's door, and two others opened Zack's.
"Let's go," Zack said to the marines. Then he and Wendy hurried down the line of blinding flashbulbs, flanked by the four bulldog-looking marine gunnies.
"What do you think of Reverend Barbour's comments that this case should be tried by the International Criminal Court?" screamed a male reporter above the pack of yelping dogs.
"We've heard rumors that Lieutenant Colcernian will be executed if you prosecute this case, Commander Brewer. Is that true?"
That question stopped Zack flat in his tracks, just in front of the revolving door of the hotel. He turned, glaring into the sea of bright lights, searching for the idiot who had tossed that question for the world to hear. The blackmail note and the photograph had intentionally not been provided to the press for fear that going public would back the terrorists into a corner.
If the animals who had kidnapped Diane decided to go public with this, that was one thing. But so far, thank God, they had not. What was the press trying to do, get her killed for the sake of boosting television ratings? The question instantly microwaved his blood to the boiling point. He wanted to fly across the row of Israeli soldiers and strangle the irresponsible fool who had thrown out the question.
"Let's go, Zack."
Wendy's cool, velvet voice and her gentle hand, now in the middle of his back, nudged him through the front doors of the hotel.
There was work to be done.
CHAPTER 49
Room 204
King David Hotel
Jerusalem
Eight hours later
Sitting on the sofa beside his bed in a T-shirt and khaki pants, his black-socked feet kicked up on a coffee table, Zack checked his watch: 8:00 p.m.
Approximately twelve hours before show time.
Tomorrow morning, the court-martial would convene under
the watchful eye of Captain Thomas Norgaard, the senior military judge in the Navy-Marine Corps Trial Judiciary, Transatlantic Region, covering all courts-martial convening in Europe, Africa, and the Middle East.
Before Norgaard's transfer from San Diego to Naples, Zack had appeared in court before him about a dozen times. Zack had never lost a case under the snippety and snappy judge, but the mercurial Norgaard did have a reputation for ruling with the defense.
This fact had Zack slightly concerned, and when he thought about Diane, slightly hopeful.
Remember what the president said, Zack. You're a naval officer.We're in war.
The intense afternoon of preparation had gone well. Tomorrow most likely would involve defending against a motion to dismiss, and part of the problem here was shooting in the dark. No motions were filed, and as a consequence, neither he nor Wendy knew what they would be up against in the morning. But based on la Trec's show at the UN, Zack expected to hear more about the International Criminal Court.
Zack spent most of the afternoon beefing up an anticipated international jurisdictional challenge, while Wendy continued witness interviews. Assuming the motion to dismiss was denied, the rest of the day would be spent on jury selection.
Wendy had returned to her room to freshen up, and Zack decided to take a break before she got back.
Reaching for the remote control, he punched on the television and switched the channel to CNN.
A muted image of the Reverend JamesOn Barbour's saliva-spouting motor mouth was moving on the screen. He was standing at an unidentified podium fielding questions, or so it appeared. Zack was about to kill the power when a closed-caption message scrolled across the bottom of the screen: "Barbour offers to negotiate for Colcernian's release."
Zack pressed the audio button on the remote.
"As you know, since this administration has rejected the very reasonable proposal, I will be going to Israel to ensure that all the proper procedures are followed in this court-martial.
"I have also made myself available to travel, wherever I may need to travel, to negotiate the release of Lieutenant Colcernian. I made the offer to the administration this day."
A female reporter shouted to be heard. "Reverend Barbour, have you gotten any official reaction from the administration to your offer to negotiate Lieutenant Colcernian's release?"
"As I would have expected, this administration was uncooperative, but this will not stop me in my humanitarian efforts on behalf of this officer."
"Reverend," the familiar voice of Bernie Woodson boomed, "exactly where do you plan on going to negotiate for Lieutenant Colcernian, and just who do you plan to negotiate with?"
"Bernie, those whom I shall negotiate with know who they are, and those whom I shall negotiate with know where they are. Even though the administration will not cooperate, I hope this news conference will serve as an olive branch for peace.
"As far as the administration goes, as I have said, and as the late Mr. Johnny Cochrane has said, if the glove don't fit, you must acquit . . ."
Click.
Take that, JamesOn.
The telephone rang.
"Lieutenant Commander Brewer speaking."
"Zack, it's Shannon."
"Hey, Shannon, what's up?"
"There's a witness here to see you."
"Yeah, who?"
"Belarusian Jew named Kweskin. He just immigrated to Israel with his family, Zack. His daughter was killed at the Dome. He's here with a translator. The translator's American."
"Where are they now?"
"In the lobby. Brought over here by Israeli police."
"Would you mind bringing them up so I can avoid dealing with the press camped out down there?"
"Be glad to."
"You're a sweetie, Shannon."
Five minutes later, Zack opened his door to Shannon, who stood by a brunette woman and a bearded man in a black shirt and black pants.
"I'm Kathryn Shadle." The brunette extended her hand and smiled. "I'm with the International Fellowship of Chris Christians and Jews. I've heard a lot about you, Commander."
"Where are you from, Kathryn?" Zack released her hand.
"Covington, Louisiana. Not far from New Orleans."
Zack looked at the Orthodox Jew. "Meen yah zah voot Zachary Brewer. Ochen Pree yet nah, Guspadyeen Kweskin." My name is Zachary Brewer. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kweskin.
That brought a smile from Alexander Kweskin's solemn face.
"You speak Russian, Commander?" Kathryn Shadle asked.
"Just a little. I've studied some on the side. Listened to tapes, that sort of thing. Not enough that I can afford to send you home," he said in English, giving her a wink. "Everyone please come in."
"We were just standing there, Commander, worshiping God at the temple wall. It was the fulfillment of our grandest dreams, the happiest day of our lives." Alexander's eyes moistened. "And then there was the roar of jets, and then a great explosion, and then" -- tears dripped off his cheeks -- "my Anna was lying in the courtyard bleeding. "She was my firstborn, Commander."
Alexander's eyes found Zack's, and Zack felt his heart swell with sorrow for the man's loss. "Now, in the eyes of the state, she is only a number in an Israeli cemetery. Grave marker number 318, Municipal Cemetery Number 8.
"But, Commander, I'm telling you," he said, now through sobs, "she was no number. Here. This is her picture. See? This picture is for you, Commander, to remind you that she was real and beautiful. If you have children one day, you will understand. Please don't let her death be in vain."
Zack choked back tears. He exchanged looks with Kathryn Shadle, who dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Shannon and Wendy, who had joined the group, looked down at the floor.
"Moi droog." My friend. Zack laid his hand on the man's back and looked into his black eyes. "I promise you. Your daughter will not have died in vain. Those responsible for this will be prosecuted and dealt with severely."
CHAPTER 50
Israeli District Court
Courtroom 3
West Bank Division
Courtroom 3, District Court of the West Bank, was packed to capacity with perhaps five hundred spectators when Zack led Wendy through the back double doors and up the center aisle. They laid their briefcases on the prosecution's table, which was on the right side of the courtroom.
Because Israeli courts typically do not have trials by jury, a makeshift jury box had been erected, obviously by a carpentry crew in a hurry. It did not match the otherwise ornate motif of the grand courtroom.
The high-rising judge's bench, still empty, sported a small nameplate front and center:
Captain T. D. Norgaard, JAGC, USNMilitary Judge
Behind the empty bench, on the left and the right, the flags of the United States of America and the United States Navy stood guard like red, white, blue, and gold sentinels.
Other than the hastily constructed jury box, the room could have passed for an American military courtroom.
The two defendants were already at the defense table, also in service dress blues with gold aviator wings on their chests, having not yet been joined by their attorneys. A small army of armed shore patrolmen sat in the row behind them.
Zack looked around to the first row behind the prosecution table at the NCIS team. The one empty seat caught his eye.
"Where's Shannon?" he whispered to Wendy.
"Out in the field, working on some things. She promised to brief us tonight."
Zack heard a rumbling from the visitors' gallery behind him. He turned as a distinguished silver-haired gentleman in a blue suit entered, trailed by a younger, attractive blond woman. Behind them, three other well-dressed young men carried a variety of boxes and briefcases on portable rollers.
The silver-haired man strolled down the aisle with panache, exuding charisma without speaking a word. He stepped through the wooden swing gate, into the counsel area, and met Zack's eyes.
"A pleasure, Commander," Jean-Claude la Trec said, extendi
ng his hand. "I look forward to a hard-fought, honorable contest."
"Enchantez de faire votre connasiance aussi, Monsieur la Trec."Pleased to meet you also, Mr. la Trec. Zack spoke in semifluent French, which brought a look of surprise to la Trec's face.
"Estceque jepeux vous prezentez Lieutenant Commander Wendy Poole?" May I introduce Lieutenant Commander Wendy Poole? Zack gestured to Wendy, and la Trec bent to kiss her hand.
"And may I introduce my associate who will be assisting me at trial, Jeanette L'Enfant?"
"Enchantez, mademoiselle." Zack took the hand of the elegant-looking blond.
"The pleasure is mine, Commander," she said, her eyes lingering on Zack's face before she exchanged pleasantries and a handshake with Wendy.
"I must say," la Trec whispered to Zack, "I am pleasantly surprised at your fluency in French, Commander."
Zack smiled. "As I am pleasantly surprised at yours in English, monsieur. But since American courts-martial are conducted in English, perhaps we should stick to that, at least until the guilty verdicts are announced."
Zack felt his adrenaline starting to flow. Litigation, even off-the-record verbal sparring with opposing counsel, especially against a courtroom giant with the reputation of a Jean-Claude la Trec, produced within him a sort of euphoria. For the moment, anyway, this "litigator's high" was taking his worry off Diane, the perfect antidote to depression.
"Guilty verdicts?" La Trec shot him a very French Cheshire grin. "That confident, are we?"
Zack folded his arms. "Vous-avez les problemmes avec traduction?"You're having problems with translation? He switched to English. "I can ask the court to provide a translator for you. I'm sure we can find someone who could drive down from our embassy in Beirut."
"All rise!"
Round one to the good guys.