Treason

by Don Brown

  Hutchinson started to speak, but the president held up his hand and turned to his chief of staff. “Wally, we’ve gotta wrap this real soon. But first I want to get your thoughts on all this.”

  Walsh was known by the Washington Post and the New York Times as the Republican Kingmaker for successfully orchestrating the political campaigns of four U.S. Senate candidates, including that of Mack Williams. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. “Mr. President, I’m not a lawyer, so I’m not in a position to comment on which lawyers are better qualified to prosecute this. Both the attorney general and the secretary of defense make outstanding arguments supporting their respective positions.” He paused, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “But we seem to have overlooked the political ramifications.” He put his glasses back on.

  “Out with it.” The president reached for his mug and took a swig of coffee.

  “Michigan, sir.”

  “Michigan?” Mack raised his eyebrow.

  “A swing state in next year’s election. And a state with the highest concentration of Muslim-Americans.”

  “So? If you think this shouldn’t be prosecuted because the defendants are Muslim, that’s not going to happen.”

  “I’m not suggesting that at all, sir. But my concern is that if the Justice Department prosecutes it, instead of the military, it may come across as looking like the Administration is singling out Muslims and the Muslim faith. That’s all. If the military handles it internally, that would be the expected, routine response.”

  Mack felt the hair standing up on the back of his neck. “Wally, you know I don’t give a rat’s derriere about political consequences, not in a case like this.” His eyes fell on The Buck Stops Here, and he thought of Truman. What would “Give ’Em Hell” Harry do? “But your point is well taken, Wally.”

  Mack turned to Lopez. “Erwin, what was the name of that Navy captain you said was responsible for helping break open this case?”

  Lopez thumbed through his notes. “Guy, sir. Captain David Guy.”

  “Good. I want him in my office within forty-eight hours.”

  “We are adjourned.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Navy-Marine Corps Trial Judiciary

  Building 1

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego

  When Captain Reeves ordered a recess to consider the issue of Diane’s proposed witnesses, Zack expected a quick decision. The rape-shield law was clear. Mr. Willie Garrett and company would be on the next plane back to Louisiana. After all, the rules are the rules.

  Forty-five minutes later, Reeves announced an overnight recess to “further study the question.”

  This was not a good sign.

  Zack’s jaw worked overtime; his blood pressure rose. He stacked his files on the table, refusing to look across at Diane and catch her smile of triumph. He only hoped the Honorable Captain Richard Reeves would develop some backbone overnight and put a stop to Diane’s sleazy defense tactics.

  Not likely.

  Zack needed a break from the circus. He pushed his way through the throng of reporters, answered their questions about Mr. Garrett and company with a generic “No comment,” climbed into his Mercedes, and drove off base.

  An hour later, he was at the Grossmont Center in La Mesa, where he parked the car and got out. Still in his summer whites, he quickstepped across the parking lot, darted into his favorite Barnes & Noble, retrieved a copy of The King of Defense by Wellington Levinson, and flipped it open to chapter 14, “The Element of Surprise.”

  The first few paragraphs confirmed his suspicions about the surprise witness tactic. An hour later, he plunked down twenty-five dollars for the best seller, making it the latest addition to his burgeoning personal library, and left the store.

  The alarm clock beeped at 0500 the next morning. He rolled out of bed, showered, shaved, and sprayed a shot of Geoffrey Beene under his chin. Then he threw on a fresh summer white uniform, donned the officer’s cap, and bolted out the door.

  As the Mercedes merged onto California Highway 94, the twelve-mile freeway that spilled out just in front of the 32nd Street Naval Station, he turned the radio on; the AM was tuned to his favorite station, KSDO.

  “The court-martial of a Navy SEAL accused of raping a woman naval officer who happens to be the niece of a prominent United States senator is gaining national attention.

  “The military judge, Captain Richard Reeves, recessed the court overnight to consider the matter of three former Navy SEALs added to the defense witness list yesterday, who claim they dated Ensign Landrieu when she was in Louisiana. A decision is expected from Reeves this morning on whether they can testify. Both JAG officers declined comment as they left the courtroom yesterday.

  “But others are not remaining silent on the issue. The Reverend JamesOn Barbour of SARD, the Society Against Racial Discrimination, held a news conference from their headquarters in Chicago. Here’s what the Reverend Barbour had to say last night . . .”

  “Oh, please,” Zack groaned.

  “‘We are concerned about the Navy’s decision to prosecute a young man, a Navy SEAL, because of who the alleged victim’s uncle is. If the Navy is prosecuting this young man to curry favor with a powerful senator who sits on the Armed Services Committee, that’s influence peddling. And that is unacceptable. We expect to be in San Diego tomorrow to look further into this.’

  “And the prominent religious and civil rights leader, just back from a pro-abortion rally in Washington, arrived at Lindburg Field late last night aboard a private SARD jet. He is expected to hold a news conference sometime today. There has been no comment as of yet from Senator Roberson Fowler’s office.

  “Meanwhile, the court-martial of Petty Officer Antonio Blount, the Navy SEAL, is scheduled to resume this morning at the 32nd Street Naval Station.”

  Zack punched off the radio as the car merged into the slow, base-bound traffic just outside the main gate of the naval station. About two dozen protesters stood on each side of the main entrance, waving large signs.

  Free Petty Officer Blount!

  Navy Justice—An Oxymoron!

  Justice Raped!

  Zack rolled the window down, inching closer to the main gate. The protesters were chanting something in rhythmic syncopation, alternatively raising and lowering their signs.

  “Blount’s not guilty! Human rights for all!

  “Blount’s not guilty! Human rights for all!

  “Blount’s not guil—”

  The crisp salute from the United States Marine at the entrance took Zack’s gaze from the protesters. He drove through the gate, the signs disappearing in his rearview mirror. A minute later, he wheeled into the reserved parking spot outside Building 1. Like buffalo trampling across the prairie, reporters and cameramen rushed at his car in an all-out blitz before he could open the door.

  “Lieutenant—”

  “Lieuten—”

  This time, they blinded his eyes with bright lights pointed toward the inside of his car. He squinted and heard his name called out over the dissonant rumbling of voices as he opened the door and stepped out.

  San Diego’s pseudo Barbara Walters was at it again, no doubt having elbowed her way to the front of the herd. “Lieutenant Brewer, what do you think of the defense surprise witness list yesterday, and what do you expect Judge Reeves to do this morning?”

  “Miss Oberholtz”—he almost slipped and called her Barbara—“we stated our position in court yesterday afternoon. The testimony should be disallowed.”

  “But doesn’t the delay show that the judge is at least thinking about letting these men testify?”

  “I won’t speculate on that.” Zack grabbed his briefcase and started across the parking lot, engulfed by the media mob that moved with him toward the courthouse.

  “Why shouldn’t they testify?” The shout came from an attractive African-American woman with a CBS microphone.

  “Because it’s against the rules of ev
idence.”

  “But doesn’t the public have a right to know if this officer, who claims that she was raped by an enlisted Navy SEAL, may have dated enlisted Navy SEALs in the past?”

  Zack stopped and looked at the CBS reporter and smiled. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Leslie Shields, CBS News.”

  “Ms. Shields, I don’t know about the public’s right to know. I do know about a jury’s right to know. And the rape-shield law was enacted to protect the private lives of victims, to prevent the unfortunate type of public circus under which Ensign Landrieu, regrettably, is now being scrutinized. Rules are rules. I didn’t write them. In this case, you’ll have to take the law up with Congress and the president.”

  “Lieutenant Brewer.” The distinctive voice of CNN’s Bernie Woodson boomed above the others as Zack reached the courthouse steps. “Any comment on the Reverend JamesOn Barbour’s involvement in this case?”

  “It’s a free country, Bernie.” Zack met the reporter’s gaze. “Reverend Barbour can say whatever he wants.”

  Woodson jammed the microphone closer. “Reverend Barbour accuses the Navy of prosecuting this case only because Ensign Landrieu is Senator Fowler’s niece.”

  Zack’s blood boiled. “Bernie, as I said yesterday, we’ve heard nothing from Senator Fowler or anyone associated with him suggesting that this case should be prosecuted. And as far as the Reverend Barbour goes, maybe the real question you should be asking is how SARD keeps its tax-exempt status when its leader, the Reverend Barbour, actively campaigns for ultraliberal candidates all over the country. And if you ask me that question, I’ll say I have no clue.”

  “But, Lieutenant,” Woodson persisted, “Reverend Barbour also says that this prosecution is politically motivated. How do you respond?”

  “Politically motivated?” Zack bit his tongue. “Apparently the Reverend Barbour knows he can raise such reckless allegations that you distinguished members of the media will respond by putting him on television and giving him free publicity, which you have done. His allegations of racism are purely bogus.” He paused pointedly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a case to prosecute.”

  “Atta boy.” Senator Roberson Fowler grinned as the image of Lieutenant Zack Brewer disappearing into the courthouse faded from his television screen. He kicked his feet on his desk, took a puff from his Churchillian cigar, and turned to his chief of staff. “This kid’s good, Ed. And he’s watching my backside again.”

  “Agreed, Senator.” The bespectacled aide nodded to his boss. “And he’s got an obvious flair for the camera.” He chuckled. “I’d say it’s a gift.”

  “I want a full background run on this Lieutenant Brewer. Start with his military file. Then let’s send a couple of investigators down to Carolina. Find out about his college and law school activities. Who his girlfriends are. Religious preferences. If he likes MoonPies, I want to know. If he dips snuff, tell me the brand. Got the picture, Ed?”

  There was a curious glint in Ed’s eyes. As always, this was right down his alley. “Is the senator thinking the same thing I am?”

  “Maybe.” A victorious puff on the cigar. “Just maybe.” Another puff. “But you never know. Anyway, in politics, information is power. Get cracking on it, will you, Ed?”

  “I’m already halfway there.” His aide chuckled again.

  CHAPTER 33

  Council of Ishmael temporary headquarters

  Rub al-Khali Desert

  250 miles southeast of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Abdur Rahman stood outside his leader’s office in the large, ten-thousand-square- foot tent that served as the Council of Ishmael headquarters. He lifted back the doorway flap and peered into the office. A simple message, written in green-stenciled Arabic on white linen, hung behind the leader’s desk: “God the Merciful, God the Compassionate.”

  To the left of the hanging was a large color image of the man for whom the leader was named, the former Iraqi president, Saddam Hussein. To the right, a picture of the man al-Akhma called “the greatest Muslim to walk the earth since the prophet Muhammad himself,” the glorious hero of 9/11, Osama bin Laden.

  Rahman bowed slightly and cleared his throat to announce his presence.

  “Enter.” Hussein al-Akhma, speaking in his native tongue, did not look up from where he worked at his desk. He was dressed in white Arabic garb. Though he took pride in his ability to look and speak like a Westerner, he had decreed that turbans be worn within the secretive Council of Ishmael headquarters, now located in the hot Saudi desert.

  “Un hum del Allah.” Praise be to God. Rahman stepped into alAkhma’s office.

  “Un hum del Allah.” Hussein al-Akhma still concentrated on the papers in front of him.

  “My leader, we have a problem.” As soon as the words were out of Abdur Rahman’s mouth, al-Akhma looked up, his piercing black eyes now fixed on Abdur.

  Abdur had thought often of that summer day in Zurich, seven years ago, when he first met the great Hussein al-Akhma. Hussein had been warm, charismatic. Becoming a part of the chosen Council of Twenty to shake the world for Islam never lost its luster. Abdur’s resolve, and the resolve of his fellow council members, at least those who survived, had strengthened over the years.

  But as the Council’s master plan unfolded during the seven years of planting cells of dedicated Muslims within the United States Navy, alAkhma’s explosiveness grew. Two original Council members received bullets in their brains, courtesy of al-Akhma’s Beretta. Their crime? Daring to question their leader in front of the Council. No one knew who would be next.

  No established hierarchy existed among the Council, but Abdur Rah-man had emerged as the clear first lieutenant to al-Akhma. As such, he shouldered the potentially dangerous responsibility of delivering bad news.

  “What is it, my brother?”

  “It is the Americans.”

  “The heathen Americans are always a problem.” Al-Akhma switched to English with a hint of impatience in his voice. “What about them?”

  Abdur took his cue and also spoke in English. “I am sorry to bring unpleasant news, my leader, but they have arrested three of the imams we planted in their Navy.”

  “What?” Hussein stood, staring angrily into his subordinate’s eyes.

  “What do you mean, arrested? What has happened?”

  “The Navy’s criminal investigators have arrested Commanders Ola-juwon, Reska, and Abdul-Sehen. They are being held in connection with several operations against the Americans.”

  “Which operations?”

  “The shooting of the Zionist dog, Barak. That was AbdulSehen’s recruit. One of Olajuwon’s recruits attacked a Christian meeting when the leader blasphemed Islam. Reska’s recruit bombed the American fighter jet bound for use against our Muslim brothers in Syria.”

  “And how was this discovered?” Hussein switched back to Arabic. “We ordered all recruits enter martyrdom, did we not? I thought our operatives had experienced martyrdom.”

  “That is the root of our problem, my leader.” Abdur kept his voice calm.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems one did not.”

  “Details. I want details! Now!”

  “The Navy petty officer who planted the bomb in the fighter plane did not enter martyrdom. Not at first.”

  “Explain!” Hussein al-Akhma’s voice rose in volume.

  “Our chaplain believed the recruit would enter martyrdom as instructed. When the recruit hesitated, the chaplain pressed the matter. The recruit still hesitated, and the chaplain took care of the problem. The recruit’s body is on the bottom of the ocean. But the Americans intercepted some information about the bombing before Commander Reska acted. Perhaps it was through a recording device. Their agents arrested the three chaplains all at the same time.”

  Standing behind his desk, his veins bulging at his temples, al-Akhma closed his eyes, then slowly opened them. A swift, furious movement of his right hand sent a
stack of papers flying to the floor. “How could this happen, Abdur?”

  Abdur winced from the shrill pitch of Hussein’s voice.

  “You said our operations were protected by martyrdom!” His hand flew to his white tunic. When it reappeared, it held the familiar, black 9mm Beretta.

  Abdur thought about running, but a sudden move might excite Hus-sein’s trigger finger.

  “Please, my leader.” Abdur shook as Hussein worked the firing pin on the pistol, chambering a live round. He prayed he would not wet himself.

  “Why should I not kill the one who is responsible!” Hussein waved the pistol toward the roof of the tent.

  Because those responsible for this are in America, Abdur wanted to say. But he held his tongue, searching for the words to calm his leader rather than incite him to further rage. “Because you, Leader, brilliantly planned this in advance and have already created an organization to deal with this very problem.”

  “And what does this mean?”

  “Remember when you first called the Council together?” Abdur lowered his voice to a whisper. This was a technique he had successfully used before to calm Hussein. But never when the man waved a loaded gun toward him. “You shared the vision Allah laid upon your heart—to infiltrate the American military—to then order commencement of Operation Islamic Glory. And the day is coming. The day of glory draws near.”

  The pistol was now pointed to the floor.

  “And you proclaimed, Leader, that we will exploit their corrupt system, using it against them.” He attempted a smile. “We will use their own laws to achieve Allah’s purposes.”

  “Yes, I did say those things.” The pitch of his voice dropped.

  “And even before you called the Council together, you established the Muslim Legal Foundation, and you used the foundation to force the Navy to admit our imams into their Chaplain Corps.”