by Don Brown
She missed that. Her father had brought her up to think for herself, to enjoy stretching her mind with the classics, with art and music, to debate politics and world affairs. His dream, especially after her mother died, was for Diane to go to college, to continue to stretch her mind. To practice law.
But in a fit of rebellion, she’d announced that she planned to follow her dream—no matter what he said. She was going to New York. Her words had broken his heart. She hadn’t cared.
Now Diane looked up at Monica, who frowned as she gestured for Diane to join her on the runway. With a sigh, she took her place beside the artistic coach and struck a ten-point model’s pose, pasting on the traditional hollow-cheeked, bored expression. Oh yes, she was almost there. She had almost reached her dream.
Why did she feel so empty?
The music throbbed as she slithered down the runway. Seven liquid steps, then snap to a turn. Seven more, turn again . . .
The studio door burst open, and the office manager, Janice Jeffers, a plain but pleasant woman, stepped into the studio. Her heels clicked and echoed like tap-dancing shoes against the polished hardwood floors as she crossed the room.
“Diane, telephone call!” Janice almost shouted to be heard above the runway music.
Diane halted midstep; Monica signaled the engineer to turn off the strobes and music. “Can’t it wait?” She shot Diane a glare, then looked back to Janice. “As you can see, we’re just beginning the exercise.”
“Sorry, Monica,” Janice said. “It’s an emergency.”
“It better be,” Monica snapped, then frowned at Diane. “Make it quick, honey.”
Diane hurried down the runway steps and jogged to the door, where Janice put her arm around her. “You can take the call in my office.” She led Diane down the long hall.
“Who is it?”
“Your father’s aide. He said it was urgent.” Janice opened the glass door to her office and gestured toward the telephone on her desk.
Diane lifted the receiver to her ear. “Hello?”
“Diane, this is Lieutenant Commander Wilson.”
“What’s going on, Mitch?”
He hesitated a moment—though it seemed like an eternity—before answering. “Your father’s in the hospital. I think you should catch the next flight down here.”
Her heart pounded. “What happened?”
“Maybe you should wait until you can talk to his doctor.”
“I’m not waiting. Tell me now, Mitch!”
Another hesitation. “Diane . . . the admiral has had a stroke. It’s serious . . . I’m sorry.”
This isn’t happening. This is a bad dream.
“Diane?”
“Is he going to make it?” She blinked back the sting of tears.
“The doctor thinks so, but it’ll be touch and go for the next few days.”
“Where is he?” She sank into the swivel chair by the desk.
“Portsmouth Naval Hospital. He’s getting the very best treatment the Navy can provide. Listen, I’ve arranged for your plane to fly into Oceana Naval Air Station. I’ll meet you there in two hours.”
They said their good-byes, then Diane dropped her head into her hands.
“Diane?”
She felt Janice’s arm ease across her shoulder.
“I’m sorry . . . Your father’s aide didn’t want me to tell you. He called us thirty minutes ago to discuss transportation arrangements so you didn’t have to worry with them yourself. Mr. Rochembeau is in Paris, but I called him on his cell phone. The company jet will fly you to Virginia Beach.”
Two hours later, the Femme du Monde Lear jet touched down at the Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia Beach. Diane put on dark sunglasses to conceal her red-rimmed eyes, long since washed free of makeup by her tears. She stepped from the jet into a sunny Tidewater afternoon.
Her father’s aide waited, his expression lined with concern. When she reached him, he took her by the arm and guided her to the admiral’s staff car. He returned to the plane for her luggage, placed it in the trunk, and slid into the driver’s seat.
Before he turned the key in the ignition, she touched his arm. “How bad is it, Mitch?”
The aide hesitated and then let his hand drop to his lap. “He’s paralyzed on the left side of his body. He drifts in and out of consciousness. Both times he regained consciousness, he whispered your mother’s name.” He met her gaze. “And yours.”
“My mother was a wonderful woman. I wish you had known her.”
“The admiral has often said you’re just like her. Strong, smart, resolute.”
“I don’t feel so strong and resolute right now.” She pulled out a tissue and dabbed her eyes, praying for a dose of the same strength she remembered in her mother. Most of all, she prayed for her father. And tried not to think of her regrets.
U.S. Naval Medical Center
620 John Paul Jones Circle
Portsmouth, Virginia
As the car approached the main gate outside the huge Portsmouth Naval Hospital, Diane still fought to control her tears. A few minutes later, her father’s aide steered the car into the flag officers’ parking spaces near the front entrance of the hospital.
He came around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Your father is the strongest man I know,” he said as Diane swung her legs out of the car. “The sound of your voice will give him strength.”
Diane and Mitch got off the elevator at the sixth deck. A slim officer in a khaki uniform, wearing the silver eagle of a Navy captain pinned to one collar and the gold oak leaf and silver acorn of the Navy Medical Corps on the other, stepped forward and greeted them. “I’m Captain Ornsbee. Lead physician in charge of your father’s treatment.”
“Is he going to be okay, Doctor?”
“It’s still early. These next few hours will be crucial. We’re worried about the possibility of an aneurysm. We’re giving him blood thinners and watching him constantly.”
“May I see him?”
“Yes. I’ll take you. But be prepared. He’s had a massive stroke. The left part of his body is paralyzed. He may not recognize you.”
“I want to see him.”
He gave her a solemn nod and then led her down the corridor, past the nurses’ station, to a hospital room on the other side.
She halted midstep, stunned. The proud body that was once Vice Admiral Stephen Colcernian lay in a helpless form attached to wires and tubes. “Oh, Daddy.” She swallowed the tears at the back of her throat, willing herself not to cry.
The doctor’s voice was low. “Your father may be able to hear you. I know it’s hard, but try to stay strong.”
“Okay.” She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and moved closer to take her father’s hand. “I love you, Daddy. You’d better not leave me. Not now. Please. You’re so strong. You’re going to be fine.” Please, God. Let him hear me. “I came as soon as I found out. Bob has been great. You’d be so proud of him. He arranged to have a plane take me from New York to Oceana. He’s a great admiral’s aide, Daddy.”
Nothing.
Please, God . . .
“Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, Daddy.”
Was it her imagination?
“Daddy, can you squeeze it again?”
It was faint, but this time, definite.
Thank you, Lord.
“Daddy, I’m leaving New York, coming home to be close to you. And when we get you up and on your feet, I’ll go to UVA so I can come see you on the weekends.”
She drew in a shaky breath and cleared her throat. “I know how much it means to you to have someone in the family uphold our Navy legacy. I want it too, Daddy, not just for you, but for me. And I was thinking on the plane coming down here. I’m going to go to UVA, and then I’m going to apply for law school. And then I’ll apply for a direct commission in the Navy JAG Corps. And I’m going to be the best JAG officer the Navy’s ever seen.”
This time, it was different. The squeeze was still faint,
but twice as strong as the others.
“I won’t let you down, Daddy. I promise.”
CHAPTER 1
Headquarters
Commander, U.S. Naval Base
San Diego, California
Seven years later
Lieutenant Zack Brewer, JAGC, USNR, checked his watch. The slow-crawling traffic on Harbor Drive, a six-mile route along San Diego Bay connecting the 32nd Street Naval Station to COMNAVBASE headquarters downtown, was not cooperating with Vice Admiral John F. Ayers’s penchant for punctuality.
Brewer checked his watch again. Twelve minutes.
When the brake lights on an old rusty Toyota flashed red just inches in front of his Mercedes, Brewer’s foot hit the antilock brakes. The sudden jolt thrust him forward, tightening the shoulder harness across his chest, which tempted him to utter a phrase not customarily used in most Sunday school classes. He refrained.
He hit his horn. The shrill blare prompted the Toyota driver, in denim work clothes, to turn around and glare through the window. Zack chuckled and managed a grin as he gave the man a half-wave of apology.
A few minutes later, he wheeled his Mercedes into the parking lot at the corner of Broadway and Harbor Drive. Brewer snatched his leather briefcase off the backseat, slammed the car door, and briskly walked toward the entrance of the building.
Two shore patrol sailors, each flanking the front door of the building and dressed in crisply starched white uniforms with pixie cup hats, came to attention, then flashed sharp salutes.
Zack shot back an equally sharp salute, then passed through the entrance of the building, under a large navy blue and white sign that read “COMNAVBASE SAN DIEGO.”
The chief petty officer manning the security station in the main lobby rose to his feet. “May I help you, Lieutenant?”
“Lieutenant Brewer for a meeting with Admiral Ayers and Captain Morrison at ten hundred hours.”
“Identification, please, sir.”
Brewer handed the chief his armed services identification card, then checked his watch as the chief picked up the telephone. “Lieutenant Brewer for Admiral Ayers.”
The chief hung up and glanced at Zack. “They’ll be ready in five minutes. You know the drill, Lieutenant. Sixth deck. First door on your right.”
Brewer stepped into the elevator and punched the number. A moment later the aluminum doors parted, and he stepped out into a large, antiseptic-smelling hallway. He checked his watch again. Just enough time to stop by the head for a last-minute uniform check. The admiral was a stickler for detail—more than once, officers had been dismissed for the slightest infraction of dress.
He stepped to the mirror and turned for a closer inspection of his short-sleeved summer whites. The black shoulder boards bearing the two full gold stripes and the JAG insignia were in place.
His salad row, the row of ribbons displaying his individual medals and achievements, though not as full as that of a twenty-year sea dog, was impressive for a junior JAG officer. There was a pink and white Meritorious Defense Service Medal, a green and white Navy Commendation Medal, a green and orange Navy Achievement Medal, a multicolored Sea Service Ribbon, and an orange and yellow National Defense Service Medal. The impressive array of colors was pinned perfectly on two rows of bars on the breast of his white shirt just above the pocket.
He checked to see if the right side of his gold belt buckle was aligned with the gig line of his zipper and the line of buttons up the front of his white shirt.
He frowned at his shoes and snatched a paper towel from the dispenser, doused it with water, added a couple of drops of soap, and with one swipe transformed the toe of his right shoe into the same ice-cream white color dominating the rest of his uniform.
Then he stepped back for a final assessment. The U.S. Navy’s summer white uniform, resplendent with black and gold shoulder boards, was the second-best-looking military uniform in the world. Only the Navy’s formal “choker” white uniform—the one worn with ceremonial swords—looked better. He had one of those too, hanging in his closet at home.
Neither Tom Cruise nor Richard Gere had anything on Zack Brewer today. He mentally pronounced himself shipshape, then headed back to the hallway, turned right, and marched into the reception area of Admiral Ayers’s office.
A moment later, a lieutenant in summer whites stepped out of the admiral’s inner sanctum and into the reception area. The aide-de-camp’s uniform was identical to Zack’s except for the gold rope looping around his right shoulder, signifying he was an admiral’s aide. “The admiral is ready for you now, Lieutenant.”
Zack nodded to his brother-in-arms, then walked through the entrance to the admiral’s richly paneled office, came to a halt under the gold chandelier about five feet in front of the officer’s desk, and stood at attention. The admiral was sitting behind his large mahogany desk. In strict compliance with Navy protocol, Zack bored his eyes three feet over the admiral’s head, finding a spot on the back wall. With his peripheral vision, he noticed two other Navy captains in khaki uniforms in the office. He recognized Captain Tom Morrison, who was standing by the window holding a steaming cup of coffee. The other, whom he did not recognize, bore the insignia of a Navy SEAL on his khaki uniform shirt and sat in a large leather chair just to the left of the admiral’s desk.
“Lieutenant Brewer reporting as ordered, sir.”
“At ease, Lieutenant,” Ayers said. “You know my personal JAG officer, Captain Tom Morrison?”
“Yes, sir, quite well.” Zack exchanged a pleasant nod with Morrison, who was sipping his coffee by the window.
“And I’d like you to meet Captain Buck Noble.” The admiral gestured toward the captain seated in the leather chair. “Captain Noble is commanding officer of Navy Special Warfare School in Coronado.”
“Lieutenant.” Noble stood and extended his hand to Brewer.
Two seconds later, Zack almost grimaced as he withdrew his hand from Captain Noble’s vicelike grip.
“Please sit. No need to be overly formal here, Counselor.” The admiral waved Zack to a chair in front of his desk.
Ayers nodded to Captain Morrison. “Captain, care to brief the lieutenant on what we have here?”
“Certainly, Admiral.” Morrison took a sip of coffee. “There’s been a rape over at the amphibious base.” He paused.
“Yes, sir?”
“We’d like you to prosecute.”
It sounded routine. So why call him down here to meet with the admiral and Captain “Grip”?
“I’ve explained to the admiral and the captain that, in my opinion, you’re the best man for this. You were awarded the Navy Commendation Medal for the great job you did in that Jones-O’Leary rape prosecution involving the dental technician down at the naval station.”
“Just doing my job, sir.”
“In this case, Lieutenant, your job is complicated by the victim.”
“I don’t follow you, Captain.”
Captains Morrison and Noble exchanged
Captains Morrison and Noble exchanged glances as Admiral Ayers rocked back in his chair, folded his arms, and stared at Zack.
“Your victim, Lieutenant, is an officer,” Admiral Ayers said. “An Annapolis graduate. Deputy Public Affairs Officer for the Naval Air Station at North Island. The matter is complicated most by her uncle.”
“Her uncle?”
“Ensign Marianne Landrieu’s uncle is United States Senator Rober-son Fowler.”
Zack gulped, then inhaled slowly. “Democrat? Louisiana? Ranking Minority Member? Senate Armed Services Committee? Roberson Fowler?”
“One and the same.” The admiral looked at Captain Noble. “Captain, you want to take it from here?”
Noble gave the admiral a brisk nod, then turned to Zack. “The animal that did this is one of ours. A Navy SEAL.” His voice reflected his disgust. “We want this maggot nailed, Lieutenant. We want his heart cut out. His head served up on a platter. Understand?”
“Loud and clear, sir.”
If he didn’t deliver, it would be his head on the platter in place of the maggot’s. “With respect, Captain Noble, the Uniform Code of Military Justice allows imposition of the death penalty for a rape conviction.”
“Really?” Noble’s eyebrows rose.
“Yes, sir. Article 120 of the UCMJ technically provides for death or life imprisonment for a convicted rapist. The convening authority would have to request it, and we’d have to notify the defense in advance. I’ve been waiting for the right case to come along.”
A slight smile crept onto the tough SEAL commander’s battle-hardened lips. “I think we’ll get along just fine, Lieutenant.”
“Now hang on a minute.” Captain Morrison leaned forward. “Lieutenant Brewer’s aggressive reputation precedes him. He’s right. The death penalty is technically an option for a rape conviction under military law. But then again, that’s true for convictions for murder, mutiny, desertion, and treason. With respect, Admiral, you would be the first Navy convening authority to seek the death penalty for rape since World War II. It may look like political pandering to a powerful senator if we do. Besides, Roberson Fowler opposes capital punishment.”
Admiral Ayers lifted his hand, calling for a moment of silence. “I agree with Captain Morrison. I’m not going to be the first Navy convening authority since the war to go capital on a rape charge. But it is good to see the Navy JAG Corps is well represented by both the aggressive young tiger and the seasoned gray owl.”
When the obligatory chuckles subsided, Zack nodded. “May I ask about the status of the Article 32 Investigation, Admiral?”
“By all means, son. That’s why you’re here. I want our game plan in place before you head back down to 32nd Street,” Ayers said, referring to the 32nd Street Naval Station, the largest of all the military installations around San Diego. He gestured to Morrison. “Why don’t you take this one, Tom?”
“Yes, sir, Admiral.” Morrison turned to Zack. “The Article 32 has been completed, Lieutenant. The investigating officer found probable cause to proceed with a charge of felony rape.” He paused. “And I might add, he had his hands full with this investigation.”
