Treason

by Don Brown

  “Sir?”

  “This could be messy, Lieutenant. The perpetrator, a Petty Officer Antonio Blount, is claiming consent.”

  Zack frowned. “An officer and an enlisted SEAL.”

  “It gets messier, Zack. This one is interracial.”

  “How so?”

  “Caucasian victim, Filipino-American perpetrator.”

  “It’s not as hard to believe as the officer-enlisted thing,” Zack mused. “But an ensign fresh out of the Academy risking captain’s mast by romantically fraternizing with an enlisted man? Unbelievable, even if the enlisted man is a SEAL.”

  “Good point, Lieutenant,” Morrison said.

  “But there is one positive thing about a consent defense, gentlemen.” Zack had their attention. “If the accused claims consent as a defense, that means he must testify. If he testifies, I get to cross-examine him.” He paused, looking directly at Captain Noble. “That, Skipper, is where I will cut his heart out for you. And with all due respect, sir, you’d better believe I will.”

  “Somehow,” Ayers said, “I think he means it.”

  “I like your killer instinct, Brewer.” A half grin eased across Noble’s features. “Ever think about a cross-designation transfer into the SEALs?”

  “The SEALs are the finest special warfare unit in the world, Captain.”

  “I hate to pour water on this mutual admiration society,” Captain Morrison said, “but there’s one other thing I think you need to know, Lieutenant. Defense counsel has been appointed.” Captain Morrison pursed his lips. “Lieutenant Colcernian is representing the accused.” Zack’s smile faded, and a grunt escaped his lips.

  Captain Noble eyed him. “You have a problem with that, Lieutenant?”

  “My apologies, sir. It’s just that Lieutenant Diane Colcernian and I are—how should I say this diplomatically?”

  “Out with it, son,” Ayers ordered.

  “Professional rivals.” He weighed his words. “We go way back. We’re in for a real war here, gentlemen.”

  “I hope you’re still convinced we can win.”

  “Captain Noble, I’ve beaten Colcernian before. I know her game. We will win. It’ll be a battle, sir, but at the end of the day, I’ll give you your man with a big fat conviction stamped across his head. It doesn’t really matter who the defense counsel is, sir.”

  “Well then,” Admiral Ayers said, “on that note, it seems we’ve covered all relevant information for now, Lieutenant. Unless Captain Mor-rison has anything else?”

  “No, sir.” Morrison leaned back. “Lieutenant, I’ll have the Blount file couriered to your office at 32nd Street this afternoon.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Very well then,” the admiral said. “That will be all, Lieutenant.”

  So dismissed, Zack rose from his chair and stood at attention. “By your leave, sir.”

  “Permission granted, Lieutenant. You are dismissed.”

  As Zack turned and marched out of the admiral’s office, his mind was consumed with the image of fiery, angry green eyes. Diane Colcernian was a beauty. One who’d accused him of stabbing her in the back when he’d beaten her in the final round of the Naval Justice School trial advocacy competition.

  Her words still rang in his memory: “I don’t know when or how, Lieutenant, but I’ll get you for this. And when I do, the stakes will be even higher. If I were you, I’d watch my back.”

  That was two years ago. And though both were stationed in San Diego, and though he was the best prosecutor and she was the best defense counsel in San Diego, they had yet to go head-to-head in court.

  Until now.

  Now they’d face each other in a high-stakes court-martial that would be scrutinized by the Navy’s top brass because of the victim’s uncle.

  The elevator opened on the first deck of COMNAVBASE headquarters, and Zack stepped out, past the chief who was manning the reception desk and into the warm, arid Southern California sunshine.

  Not that he was the least bit intimidated by Diane Colcernian, Zack thought as he returned the simultaneous salutes of the two shore patrolmen guarding the entrance of the building, but this trial was going to be a bloodbath.

  A monumental bloodbath.

  CHAPTER 2

  Base chapel

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego

  Saturday afternoon, two weeks later

  Anthony Neptune preferred to be called al-Ahmad Neptune, son of Muhammad, devout follower of Islam. It didn’t matter that the Navy knew him as Anthony Neptune, a gunner’s mate third class, or that his home was Queens, New York, where he’d grown up. He’d found his new identity. Praise be to Allah!

  His spiritual transformation began when he saw a flyer posted on the 32nd Street Naval Station for a Muslim religious service held at the base chapel on Saturday afternoons. He attended, mainly out of curiosity. There he met Lieutenant Commander Mohammed Olajuwon, Chaplain Corps, United States Navy. The man changed his life.

  Saturdays, while on leave from the USS Tarawa, became a time of pilgrimage to rekindled faith, to a hope that he would become something larger than life. Like his father before him, and with Commander Olajuwon’s encouragement, he was now, in the eyes of Allah, al-Ahmad Neptune, son of Muhammad, devout follower of Islam above all.

  The chaplain suggested Neptune use his new Muslim name only in the presence of fellow Muslims. Other sailors might misinterpret his intentions, the commander advised. When the time was right, Allah would reveal his plan for al-Ahmad Neptune. And his true Muslim name would be revealed to the sailors in the fleet and to people of the world.

  When Olajuwon spoke, Neptune buried the words deep in his soul, knowing the words were true.

  “Islam’s enemies are Allah’s enemies,” Olajuwon preached one Saturday. “We must sacrifice all for Islam, if necessary.” He held up a newspaper article from the San Diego Union. “This, brothers, is a living example of what the prophet means when he speaks of the enemies of Allah. This so-called Bible study.”

  The Navy chaplain thumped the paper on the pine pulpit. “Listen to the headlines in the religion section of our own San Diego Union: ‘Local Church Catering to Sailors, Studying Cults.’”

  He ripped open the paper, scanned the article, and then looked out at the faithful brothers again. “This so-called church, which takes money from Navy personnel, lies about the Great Faith. It defames the prophet Muhammad, declaring the great prophet of Allah to be a child molester!” His voice was low and raw. His dark eyes met Neptune’s, as if speaking directly to him. “It declares the great religion of Islam to be a cult!

  “Blasphemy! I declare this blasphemy against Allah!” This time the Navy chaplain pounded the pulpit with his fist. “How can Allah rest as such venom is spewed forth?” He paused, his swarthy face flushed, blood vessels rising at his temples. “I declare to you, Allah will raise up warriors to vindicate his name!”

  Neptune was enraged. Such lies about Islam were an affront, an insult to the memory of his father—to the very blood flowing in his veins.

  When the Navy chaplain called them to prayer, Neptune’s heart still pounded. They rolled out their prayer mats and bowed toward Mecca as the chaplain raised his hands. “May the name of Allah be vindicated. May the honor of the holy prophet be defended!”

  The holy music began, piped in electronically. One by one, his brothers joined the chant that had been recorded in Mecca. It soothed Neptune. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t understand Arabic—few in the small congregation did—but he could wail, moan, and hum along.

  His anger subsided, but his determination to defend Islam grew. When Commander Olajuwon proclaimed the service complete, Neptune rolled up his mat and walked swiftly out to the small used Volkswagen he’d bought just after boot camp. He swung by the Navy Exchange before heading back to Pier 6, where the Tarawa was moored.

  Two copies of today’s newspaper remained in the metal dispenser in front of the Exchange. He dropped in a quart
er and took them both.

  Back in the Volkswagen, he cranked the windows down and—still sitting in the sunbaked asphalt Navy Exchange parking lot—flipped through the San Diego Union to the religion section.

  CHURCH ATTRACTS SAILORS TO COURSE ON “CULTS”

  By June Moorefield, Faith and Values Editor

  Lemon Grove—A San Diego–area church has been attracting a large number of Navy personnel to its services with a twelve-week course it has been teaching on cults.

  The controversial course, taught at the ten o’clock Sunday school hour immediately preceding the eleven o’clock worship service, compares and contrasts evangelical Christianity with other religions such as Islam, Buddhism, Mormonism, and the New Age teachings of L. Ron Hubbard, Hare Krishna, Sun Yun Moon, and others. The course teaches that all such religions and beliefs other than evangelical Christianity are “cults,” masterminded by the devil to ultimately lead souls into the fires of hell.

  “We stand by our teaching,” said the Rev. Jeff Spletto, pastor of Community Bible Church of Lemon Grove. “We wanted our members to be savvy to the tactics of our enemy, the devil. Our message is simple. There is but one way to heaven—through the spilled blood of Jesus Christ. All other religions and teachings are ‘cults’—which sometimes have a pretty package on the outside, but seek to distract their followers from the powerful truth of the life-giving blood of Christ.”

  Dozens of sailors and marines from San Diego’s nearby military installations have been in attendance.

  “We are a medium-sized church, with just a handful of military personnel who regularly attend,” Spletto said. “So we are very grateful for the attendance of the sailors.”

  Spletto said that many were interested in learning about Islam because of the military tension in the Middle East. Others, he said, had been bombarded with “New Age peddlers” and wanted to understand the principles behind such ideas.

  The course will last seven more weeks, according to Spletto. It is being taught in the church’s fellowship hall.

  Neptune threw the paper onto the floorboard of his car. His blood boiled like a witch’s brew in a hot cauldron. He checked his watch. Time to get back to the ship. But soon . . .

  He would pay a visit to this Sunday school class.

  CHAPTER 3

  Lieutenant Zack Brewer’s office

  Naval Trial Command

  Building 73

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego

  Zack Brewer’s office window offered a view across the small canal separating the northern perimeter of the 32nd Street Naval Station from NASSCO, the National Steel and Shipbuilding Company.

  Yesterday, an Aegis class cruiser, the USS Valley Forge, was moored across the way, getting minor repair work done. But today the repair dry dock was empty, giving Zack an unimpeded view of the Coronado Bay Bridge spanning the spectacular waters of San Diego Bay, just a mile or so to the north. The inspirational view helped him think.

  At the short, shrill buzz of his telephone intercom, Zack rotated his government-issued, black vinyl chair 180 degrees.

  “Lieutenant Brewer?” The voice on the telephone loudspeaker was Legalman First Class Amy DeBenedetto, a young petty officer from St. Louis. She served as military paralegal for Zack; his boss, Commander Bob Awe; and three other prosecutors.

  “Yes, Amy?”

  “Ensign Landrieu is here, sir.”

  By now he was familiar with the Landrieu file. Captain Morrison, COMNAVBASE’s JAG, delivered it two days ago as promised. Zack studied the Naval Criminal Investigative Service’s report as soon as it arrived. Now, as he waited for Landrieu, he reviewed the dossier.

  Ensign Marianne Landrieu had stopped by the Naval Air Station Officers’ Club the evening in question for a cocktail with a girlfriend from the Academy, Ensign Laura Rogerson, an aviator. When Rogerson met a male classmate from flight school in Pensacola, Landrieu decided to leave—alone. It was late, just an hour before midnight. So she excused herself, paid her bill, and headed to her car.

  Per the NCIS report, she wore her summer white uniform, complete with white skirt, natural hose, and white shoes. Although her Lexus convertible was parked in the periphery of the lot, she thought she’d be safe. She’d parked under a streetlight.

  But when she arrived at her car just before midnight, the streetlight was out. The corner of the parking lot sat in the dark crevices of long shadows—shadows that would blanket even her white uniform from visibility.

  The assailant hid behind a hedge. He rushed her from the dark, grabbed her from behind, and squeezed her mouth shut. Then he pulled her behind the hedgerow where he assaulted her. Two shore patrol members walked by and heard a “suspicious rustling” from the bushes.

  When their high-beam flashlights pointed in the direction of the sound, the assailant panicked, got up, and ran across the parking lot, wearing only a T-shirt, white boxers, black socks, and shoes. The shore patrolmen gave chase, but the suspect, a well built and muscular SEAL, was too fast for his pursuers. He was unable, however, to evade two U.S. Marine Corps second lieutenants who had just exited their car. Angling from forty-five degrees, they pounced on him.

  One lieutenant dove at the suspect’s legs as the other corralled him around the neck. Petty Officer Antonio Blount, the Navy SEAL who had just assaulted a female ensign in the United States Navy, was going nowhere.

  The ensign was found lying on the grass. Her injuries were assessed before she was rushed to Balboa Naval Hospital. An examination confirmed sexual assault. Subsequent DNA tests proved Blount was the assailant.

  At a knock on Zack’s office door, he folded the dossier and placed it in his desk drawer. “Come in.”

  The door opened.

  “Lieutenant Brewer, this is Ensign Landrieu,” Amy said.

  The female officer stepped into his office and came to attention. “Ensign Marianne Landrieu reporting as ordered, sir.”

  “Stand at ease, Ensign Landrieu. And please, have a seat. I want your time here to be as relaxing as possible.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She settled into one of the two chairs across the desk from him, her smile shaky but grateful.

  “You too, Petty Officer DeBenedetto.” Zack gestured to Amy, who sat down next to Ensign Landrieu.

  Landrieu seemed nervous. Her gaze darted around his office, lingering briefly on the wall that displayed his diplomas, commission, and bar licenses. “You went to Carolina, sir?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “A Tar Heel born and a Tar Heel bred.” Hoping to lighten her spirits, he half-mimicked the famous words of the University of North Carolina’s fight song. It seemed to work.

  “Carolina was my first choice when I graduated from prep school.” She sat back, crossed her ankles, and angled her legs to one side of the chair in a modest fashion. She was wearing her summer uniform, and it struck Zack that her uniform was the same one she’d worn the night of the rape. When her watery blue eyes met his, he tried to keep his simmering rage toward her perpetrator from showing.

  The woman seemed to have the classic signs of trauma: nervousness in the presence of another male, an expression that said she was fighting to keep from crying. Her hands trembled as she smoothed her skirt.

  “But you chose the Naval Academy?” He hoped to put her at ease.

  She drew in a deep, trembling breath. “The Academy is a great school. My going there was the dream of my father and my uncle. My father was a naval officer. My uncle, shall we say, has a bit of political pull.” Her voice was stronger now, but she nibbled on her bottom lip as she waited for his response.

  “You’re talking about your Uncle Roberson?”

  She brightened somewhat. “Yes, sir. I call him Uncle Pinkie. That’s the family name his mother gave him when he was a boy.” A trembling smile seemed about to appear. “He and I are close. He doesn’t have any daughters. He says I’m his adopted girl. He pushed me to go to the Naval Academy. He nominated me. I guess it doe
sn’t hurt if your uncle is on the Senate Armed Services Committee. But I really wanted to go to Carolina.” She glanced at Amy, smiled, and then looked back to Zack.

  “You never considered LSU?”

  She let her gaze drift to the floor, but did not comment. He wondered if she was going to cry.

  “There’s one important thing you need to know about us Tar Heels.”

  He gentled his voice.

  “What would that be, sir?” Her blue eyes were on his again.

  “We’re not quite as formal as they are up at the Naval Academy.”

  “Not too many places are.” Finally, another small smile.

  “Right. So that means you can drop the ‘sir’ and start using ‘Zack,’ at least when we’re not in public.”

  She twisted a strand of her blond hair and tucked it behind her ear.

  “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  “Marianne, I hate to change the subject, but you know why we’re meeting today.”

  She let her gaze drift from his face to some distant place beyond his shoulder. Her mouth was set in a hard, thin line. For a moment she simply stared, then she looked back to him, and her eyes filled. “I’ve been dreading this part.”

  “We don’t have to go into details today. Those can come later. I have a copy of the NCIS report concerning the incident. You need to read it over and tell me if you agree.”

  Marianne hesitated. “I’ve been through a lot of therapy. I think I can handle it. I’d like to try.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes, s—Zack.”

  “Good.” He handed her the report.

  She took it, held it in her lap, and drew in a shaky breath.

  “Marianne, are you up to this?”

  He gave Amy a beseeching look, and she reached for Marianne’s hand. “We can do this later, if you’d rather.”

  Marianne looked grateful, sighed, and seemed to compose herself before she pulled her hand back and reached for a tissue. “I’ve got to face it sometime. I must be strong.” She lifted the report from her lap and pulled back the first page.