Treason

by Don Brown

  An eerie silence followed as the jet outran its sound. A sonic boom shook the truck, quickly followed by a blinding flash. Before Darryl or his son could speak, a fireball of flames and smoke shot from the jet. Wings flew like boomerangs in opposite directions as the plane’s fuselage plunged into the lake like a burning meteor. A split-second later, another boom shook the truck, the explosion’s echo from across the lake.

  Darryl floored it. Ninety seconds later, the truck and trailer rolled into the parking area of the isolated boat landing. No other cars, boats, or trailers were in sight. The flaming mass looked to be about a half mile out on the lake.

  He circled the truck, boat trailer still attached, around the gravel parking lot. Then, with his heart racing like a machine gun and his palms sweating, he began backing the dusty trailer down the ramp into the water.

  “Adam, stay on the ramp!” Darryl stepped into the boat, primed the pump, and pulled the cord on the old 45-horsepower Mercury outboard motor. Nothing.

  Lord, help me get this motor started. Another yank. Still nothing. Another explosion and more flames. Help me, Lord. He jerked the cord with a third powerful heave.

  The motor coughed, sputtered, then caught hold and spat a cloud of white marine gas in a puff. Darryl worked the throttle, brought the boat around in a circle away from the dock, aimed the bow directly at the smoking wreckage, and threw the throttle wide open.

  The bow skimmed across the light swells, bouncing slightly as the smoke and glow of flames drew nearer. Two minutes later, the boat closed in on the crash site, and Darryl felt the heat of burning fuel. He squinted through the flames, looking for survivors. A large circle of jet fuel burned around some floating wreckage.

  Another explosion sprayed water into the boat. Too close for comfort. He backed the craft a few yards away and turned into another circle. He slowed to almost a standstill, peering through the smoke, coughing as the acrid fumes filled his lungs.

  He brought the boat still closer to the floating firewall, so close the heat stung his eyes. The stench of his own hair singeing filled his nostrils. The flame licked up. His eyes watered, and he couldn’t see. Then the smoke cleared for a second.

  He blinked, then moved the boat closer. A body in a green flight suit floated near the firewall. He was facedown in the water, a white crash helmet covering his head, his arms and legs outstretched.

  A rocking explosion sent the boat in one direction and Darryl overboard. Gagging on a mouthful of water as his head popped above the surface, he saw the stern of his boat speeding away from him, pushed away by the still-running motor. Turning to the left, he looked for the tree line and the dock half a mile in the distance. Nothing was visible but water, smoke, and flames.

  He was a decent swimmer, but not a great one. In the rush to get the boat in the lake, he had neglected his life preserver. Lord, help me. His boots were flooding, making them feel like bricks strapped to his feet. He struggled to tread water. He gasped for air, then ducked under the surface and fingered the laces he had double-knotted. No luck.

  Jesus, let me see my family again.

  With his arms aching and the top of his head bobbing just under the surface, his nose was filling with cool lake water. He was sinking deeper when he heard a thwhock-thwhock-thwhock-thwhock-thwhock-thwhock chopping through the water from above. He tilted his face to the surface and saw ripples lit by the sun. Mustering what little strength remained, he kicked to the surface and opened his eyes.

  Hovering overhead was a large orange helicopter. “United States Coast Guard,” a voice boomed. “Hold on! We’re gonna get you out!”

  With a supernatural strength that could only be from God, he kicked his boots against the water. As muscle cramps knotted the back of his calves, two rubber-suited divers with oxygen tanks plunged in the water, one to his left, the other to his right. They reached him a heartbeat later with a donut-shaped flotation device.

  “Hold on to this.” The first diver to reach him slid a white life ring over Darryl’s neck and helped him lift his arms through.

  The second diver instantly inflated a rubber raft and swam with it to Darryl’s side. “We’re gonna get you in, then hoist you into the chopper.”

  “There’s a man . . . a pilot, I think . . . a man in the water.” Darryl gasped out the words.

  “Where?” The first diver treaded water. “Point.”

  “Over there. Behind . . . the flames.”

  “Stay here with him. I’ll go.” The diver farthest from the raft disappeared under the water, while the other helped Darryl into the life raft.

  The orange Coast Guard chopper moved directly over the flames. Two more divers dropped out of the chopper. From the northeast came the throbbing thwhock-thwhock-thwhock sounds of additional helicopters on the move across the lake.

  Seconds later, two massive helicopters, gray with “NAVY” painted in black on the tail sections, came to a hovering standstill over the water. The three choppers now stood watch in a triangle, each hovering about fifty feet in the air over the crash site. The Coast Guard chopper rotated, dropped its nose, and moved back into position directly over Darryl.

  The wind from the chopper’s blades was ferocious. Darryl looked up as a basket slowly moved from the helicopter toward the raft. The diver nearest him reached up to steady the metal, stretcher-like basket. “Just roll over into it, sir.”

  Darryl had never received a better invitation.

  As the winch hoisted him up, he looked back at the wreckage. The entire fuselage of the plane, broken into several parts, was visible. Two divers swam near an inflated rubber raft just like the one that had saved Darryl’s life. The pilot was stretched out inside, his arms hanging limp.

  The Navy chopper moved over the downed jet, about three hundred feet east of the Coast Guard chopper, and lowered a basket. Now almost to the cargo bay door, Darryl had an unobstructed view of the U.S. Navy helicopter hoisting its downed flier into the Carolina sky.

  For a brief moment, both the USN and USCG helicopters hovered side by side, each dangling a basket holding a man. Then the basket holding Darryl reached the orange chopper, and he was pulled into the cargo bay by a Coast Guard petty officer.

  “Are you all right, sir?” The petty officer studied Darryl.

  He remembered Adam, and his heart caught. “My boy . . .” He couldn’t keep the panic from his hoarse voice. “I left him on the dock!”

  “He’s okay, sir. The sheriff has him. They’ll meet us at the hospital.”

  “The pilot?” He asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “Your actions were heroic, but I’m afraid the pilot didn’t survive.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Near Jimmy Durante Boulevard

  Del Mar, California

  Diane adjusted her black Bollé sunglasses and glanced at her watch as she jogged south down the white sands of Del Mar Beach. She wore orange running shorts, a white T-shirt with “Virginia Cavaliers” stenciled across the front, and orange running shoes. The bright sun all but made the colors she wore glow. She figured her red hair picked up a flame-colored glint in the sunlight. She grinned at the spectacle she was likely creating as she streaked down the packed sand toward the 15th Street cut-through, which she would take back over to Camino Del Mar for the final leg home. She purposely didn’t look to see if heads were turning as she ran. Her craving for that kind of attention had stopped the minute she left the superficial life of modeling and enrolled in law school.

  As she jogged, her thoughts turned to the arrogant, shoot-it-from-the-hip hotshot named Lieutenant Zack Brewer. And her determination to beat him in the Blount-Landrieu case.

  Sure, she had been the valedictorian at the Navy Justice School. But that honor was spoiled by then-Lieutenant (jg) Zachary M. Brewer. Their feud went back to the final round of the Justice School’s trial advocacy competition, sponsored by the New York City Bar Association.

  It was the most prestigious award in the JAG Corps, and she’d wanted it. Sh
e couldn’t even remember the name of the case now. But it was a mock trial for murder. She was assigned the role of prosecutor.

  Brewer was the defense counsel.

  It was a case tailor-made for a conviction, and thus for a victory by the prosecution. All she had to do was show the mock jury a series of bloody photographs from the murder scene on an imaginary aircraft carrier. She had a right to show those pictures to the jury. They were highly relevant to her case. Get the photos to the jury, and the trophy was hers.

  But Brewer pulled some last-minute shenanigans with the military judge to keep the pictures away from the jury. Brewer offered a written stipulation to the court just as she was about to offer the photos into evidence. And he never gave Diane the courtesy of an advanced copy. Slimy.

  The military judge—a female Marine officer who seemed to swoon over his silver tongue and the cute dimple in his chin—let him get away with it. There was no time to research any cases in opposition because Justice School graduation was the next day, and Brewer knew it.

  The middle-aged judge, whose eyes always seemed to brighten when she watched Brewer, let him read his stipulation to the jury—the victim had been cut and there was blood on the floor—rather than just showing them the color photographs.

  The jury was fooled by it all, just as Brewer planned, and came back with a not guilty verdict. Brewer had stolen her award. She had to admit it was a slick ploy. Dirty, but slick.

  But this time she would be the one springing the surprise on the good lieutenant. We’ll see how quick the good lieutenant can think on his feet, won’t we? She almost laughed as she turned north on Camino Del Mar for the final leg of her run.

  Thirty minutes later, after she had showered and donned a two-piece bathing suit, she grabbed a Diet Coke, her cell phone, and the Blount file and settled into a lounge chair beside the swimming pool at her townhouse complex. She opened the file to look for the private detective’s telephone number from Louisiana.

  She powered up her cellular and pressed the number into the key pad.

  A voice answered after two rings. “Simon Stone.”

  “Sir, this is Lieutenant Diane Colcernian. I’m a lawyer in the Navy. You recently prepared a surveillance report for a case I’m working on.”

  “Oh yeah.” Diane heard a note of enthusiasm in the voice. He should be enthusiastic, considering she’d fronted his thousand-dollar fee out of her own paycheck. “Landrieu case, right?”

  “That would be the one,” she said.

  “Thanks for the check, Lieutenant.” His voice remained giddy. “Boy, that’s gonna be something if the information ever gets out.”

  Diane sipped her Diet Coke before answering. “Yes, well, that’s the reason for my call, Mr. Stone. I wanted to follow up with you, since this case is about to be called to trial.”

  “Fire away, mama.”

  “How sure are you about the accuracy of the information?”

  “Dead sure.” The voice had gone from gruff, to giddy, and now to cocky. “I’ve got ten witnesses at least. Five she was with personally.”

  “Any photos?”

  “Still working on it.”

  “Anyone willing to testify?”

  “Don’t know. She’s the niece of a powerful senator, but we’re still working on it.”

  Diane noticed the phrase “still working on it.” She knew what that meant.

  “Mr. Stone, how’s our retainer situation right now?”

  “We put a pretty good hurtin’ on it with the first report. We could use another thousand or so.”

  Diane rolled her eyes. “Mr. Stone, with another thousand dollars, you think you could round up some live witnesses who can come to California and testify?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And I hate to be hitting you up for money, but this stuff takes a lot of time.”

  I’ll bet. “Okay. Based on that assurance, I’m going to get the money together and call you back tomorrow.”

  “Pleasure talking to you, ma’am.”

  “You too, Mr. Stone.”

  The line went dead, and Diane finished her Diet Coke. How would she pay for these private detective expenses? She earned a good paycheck as a Navy lawyer, but she was by no means wealthy. She’d go to the brig later today and tell Blount some of these expenses were his. A third-class petty officer should have at least a thousand lying around. If he didn’t have the money, she could always put it on her credit card. Annihilating Zack Brewer in court would be worth it.

  The phone signaled an incoming call. She checked the caller ID and, with a smile, flipped open the top. “Bonjour,” she said to Pierre.

  “Bonjour, macher.” She could hear the delight in his voice, which raised her spirits.

  Pierre always cheered her when she was down, provided a listening ear when she needed a friend, a solid comfort when her world was troubled. Since the day he’d spotted her on campus and recruited her for Femme du Monde, he’d watched over her like a surrogate big brother. He teased her about falling so hard for her that she’d ruined his love life forever. He’d asked her to marry him more times than she could count, but it was all in good fun.

  In truth, they were friends. Pierre was the best friend she’d ever had . . . especially since her father died.

  “I know we saw each other last weekend, but I’ve just flown into town on unexpected business and was wondering if you would honor me with the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight?”

  She grinned. “I’d love to.” And she meant it. Pierre always provided a good sounding board for issues she struggled with. He probably knew as much about her cases as she did. He knew her history with Zack, the sleazy tactic he’d used to rob her of the award at Justice School. She’d gotten special permission for Pierre to sit in on the trial that day. He’d seen firsthand what the lieutenant had done to her.

  That night, Pierre had held her as she cried.

  “There’s a new French restaurant in La Jolla,” he was saying, “overlooking the Pacific. I will pick you up at six. Is this okay?”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “Good-bye, my love,” he said, and they both laughed. His declaration of love was a long-standing joke.

  CHAPTER 13

  Office of the Commander

  U.S. Naval Air Forces

  Atlantic Fleet

  Norfolk, Virginia

  But that’s impossible!” Rear Admiral Daniel Gibson slammed his fist on his desk. Only one month ago, he had fleeted up to assume the role of commander of all U.S. Naval Air Forces in the Atlantic. This was the first major mishap on his watch in his new job, and he wanted answers. Now.

  “Gentlemen, our job—no, my job—is to make these planes combat-ready for the Sixth Fleet. We’ve got seventy squadrons and over fourteen hundred aircraft on six aircraft carriers. We’re the shepherd watching over our flock. When one goes down, we all suffer.”

  Gibson glared at the members of his personal staff, one by one. “I’ve logged over twenty-five hundred jet hours, made nine hundred carrier landings. Mostly in the F/A-18. And I don’t buy that a twenty-million-dollar jet fighter just ‘blew up’ in the sky over some lake in North Carolina.

  “We will get to the bottom of this. Even if we have to fly down there and pick through every screw and interview every man, woman, dog, maggot, or fly that came within five inches of the plane before it took off. We owe it to the widow and to this officer’s children. And we owe it to the Navy.” Gibson paused and swept his gaze across his staff again. “Do I make myself clear?”

  A mixed chorus of “Aye, aye, sir” filled the room.

  The admiral turned to his lawyer. “Captain David Guy, give us a brief overview of legal issues and procedures we need to consider.”

  The staff judge advocate sat up in his chair, pulled a briefcase into his lap, opened it, and extricated a folder. “Admiral, I’ve prepared a bullet-point memo for you and the staff on basic legal issues. Obviously, we proceed under the JAGMAN—JAG Manual—which governs procedu
res for determining legal liability by any service members. One of our JAG officers is an ex–F-14 pilot, and I’m requesting that he be appointed as lead investigator for the JAGMAN investigation.” Guy stopped and sipped his coffee. “And I have an additional recommendation, Admiral.”

  Gibson raised his eyebrow at his JAG officer. “Let’s hear it, Captain.”

  “Sir, I have a hunch your suspicions about foul play may have merit. No evidence, but I agree something’s not right. I recommend we request a criminal investigation by the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.” “I agree, Captain. Can NCIS handle this sort of thing?”

  “With the initial investigation, conducting interviews and so on, the answer is yes, sir.”

  “Okay, Captain,” Gibson said. “Good advice. This needs to happen yesterday. How do I get NCIS involved?”

  “Sir, give me the word, and NCIS Norfolk starts detailed interviews of everyone within ten miles of the plane before it took off.” Guy sat back, his unblinking gaze on the admiral.

  The admiral nodded. “Captain, make it happen. I want a briefing ASAP on the NCIS interviews with the ground crew. I want to know why the plane went down, and I want to know now.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Captain Guy said.

  “Anything else, gentlemen?”

  The staff officers shook their heads.

  “Very well then. We are adjourned for now.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Ensign Marianne Landrieu’s house

  Isabella Avenue

  Coronado, California

  Zack Brewer drove his silver Mercedes across Coronado Bridge spanning San Diego Bay and wondered how the woman he was about to pick up, an ensign, could afford to live in one of the priciest enclaves in San Diego County. Certainly not on an ensign’s pay, he thought as the Mercedes approached the toll booth on the Coronado side.

  As he waited in line, he looked out across the bay, breathtaking in the early evening sun. One of the reasons he had chosen the maritime service was that it had the world’s best duty stations: Pearl Harbor; Riota, Spain; Sigonella, Sicily.