by Don Brown
Great. She knows.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, who her uncle is has nothing to do with her getting raped.”
“You know darn well what I’m talking about, Zack. Testimony in a general court-martial that the niece of Senator Roberson Fowler was parading around—drunk—in the middle of the night, with an enlisted SEAL . . . well, you get the picture. Won’t look too good for the Navy, will it? And with Fowler on the Armed Services Committee?” She paused. “Are you sure the convening authority wants to go through with this? Tell them six months, BCD, and a plea to assault. Then we talk.”
“Diane, think about this—”
“No, you think about it, Lieutenant. I’m late. I’ve gotta run. Ciao.”
The phone went dead. He’d just put the receiver down when Amy buzzed. With an impatient sigh, he lifted it again. “Yes?”
“Sir, Ensign Landrieu is here.”
“Bring her down, please, Amy.”
“Aye, sir.”
A few minutes later, LN1 Amy DeBenedetto stood at the door with Ensign Marianne Landrieu, both in summer whites. Zack rose from his chair as Amy stepped back to let Marianne enter the room.
“Would you like me to stay, sir?”
“No thanks, Amy. I’ll call you in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” She closed the door quietly behind her.
Still standing, Zack inclined his head to Ensign Landrieu. “Good to see you, Marianne. Would you like to have a seat?”
“Thank you.” She gave him a tremulous smile and sat down on the edge of her chair, ankles crossed.
He settled into his chair, steepling his fingers as he leaned back. “Marianne, I was just on the phone with Lieutenant Colcernian, counsel for the defense. She and I have had some preliminary discussions about your case.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What kind of discussions?”
“Plea discussions. The convening authority for the court-martial, Admiral Ayers, ordered me to find out if Petty Officer Blount might be willing to plead guilty for a capped sentence.”
“I don’t understand.”
“COMNAVBASE will recommend a cap of five years’ confinement if Blount pleads guilty. That would save the government the expense—and you the trauma—of going through with a trial.”
A glint appeared in her eyes. “You mean I won’t have to testify?”
“Only if they accept the deal.”
“Will they?”
“Are you willing to cap this animal’s confinement at five years? After what he did to you?”
She hesitated for a moment, and her face flushed. “Zack, I—really, I just want to get on with my life.” Her eyes moistened. “I want to return to my duty station. I miss my work.” She met his gaze, her chin trembling, and then she looked away quickly as if embarrassed. “I’ve been attending my counseling sessions and I’m taking prescribed medication for post-traumatic stress disorder.” She blinked rapidly as if trying to control tears.
Zack nodded.
“It’s like I’m in a fishbowl.” Her gaze was on something distant, over his shoulder, through the window to the bay beyond. Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I feel like a lab rat. So yes, I’d trade getting my life back for five years’ confinement for this rapist.”
Zack passed her a box of tissues and watched her carefully as she dabbed the corners of her eyes, then returned the box to his desk. She gave him a shy smile. “I want that for you too, Marianne. I’d like to personally cut this guy’s heart out. Unfortunately, it looks like we are not going to be able to strike a deal.”
“He won’t plead?”
“Not unless we reduce the cap to six months and let him plead to assault. The convening authority won’t buy off on that. Neither will Special Warfare Command. The SEALs want a rape conviction and a multiyear confinement pinned on this guy.”
Her eyes, still watery, met his. “So what does all this mean?”
He moved his gaze to the window behind his desk, out to the sparkling waters of San Diego Bay. He knew what he had to say would hurt, possibly even cause great psychological and emotional damage. He wished there was some way to avoid telling her. He turned back to her. “It means they are claiming a consent defense.”
“Consent defense?” She frowned. “Can you explain?”
With a heavy sigh, Zack stood, crossed his arms, and stood next to the window, facing her. “The law says a person is not guilty of rape if the victim consented to relations. They are going to say you were drunk and consented to relations with this petty officer.”
“Consented to relations? With him?” Two bright spots appeared on her cheeks, and she pressed her lips into a straight, angry line.
Her reaction certainly seemed sincere. She was angry, and he didn’t blame her. “Marianne, nothing personal. It’s a common defense; in fact, it’s the most common defense lawyers raise in these types of cases. They do it all the time. Sometimes they threaten it just to intimidate . . . Marianne?” He stopped speaking as she buried her face in her hands. “It’s going to be okay.” He’d never known what to do when women cried. Not that he’d had much experience with this sort of thing. “I promise. Marianne?”
She wept quietly. “Does this mean she’s going to tell the jury I . . . ?”
She uttered the muffled question into the palms of her hands. “She’s going to ruin me.” “Marianne, look at me.”
After a moment, she lifted her head. He handed her the box of tissues again. “I promise you, no matter what, I won’t let her ruin you. You have my word.”
She dabbed her eyes with a wadded tissue. “Sorry. I just feel . . . well, like a pariah. Ever since this happened, I’ve been an outcast. People have been nice, but it’s all so superficial. I know they’re whispering behind my back. No one wants to get close.” She shuddered, her eyes filling again. “And I’m not certain I want them to. Maybe it’s better to be alone at a time like this.” She shook her head. “And if this defense attorney finds out about my uncle . . . It will be all over the national news. Zack, please promise me you won’t let her find out about my family.”
Maybe he should tell her Colcernian already knew.
Her watery gaze was on him, expectant. “Marianne, may I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”
“I’m planning to spend my Saturday night barricaded in my house with a novel. Reading takes my mind off things.”
“Well, I was wondering . . . You really need a friend right now. If you can break yourself away from your novel for an hour or two—maybe you’d like to have coffee? Just to talk?”
“Really?” For the second time, a light appeared in her blue eyes.
“But only if you feel up to it.”
She pulled another tissue from the box. “This might be just what the doctor ordered.”
He sat back down, suddenly uneasy. What was he thinking? Coffee with a client? Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“In fact . . .” She dabbed her eyes. “The more I think about it, it might do me good to get out for . . . longer. Maybe an evening.” Her wide eyes focused on him. “Maybe dinner?”
He tried to hide his surprise. Didn’t rape victims usually have a difficult time in the company of males, especially in a social setting? He frowned. “Are you sure you’re up to dinner?”
She sipped her bottled water. “I think so. My counselors say I shouldn’t just lie around in my misery. I should start going out again with friends.” She blinked hard. “It’s just that since this . . . this happened, I haven’t had anyone to call a friend.” She swallowed hard. “When you said, ‘You need a friend,’ well . . .” She tilted her face toward his again. “Well . . . spending time with you seems like the right step to take . . . in the journey to healing.”
“Okay.” What had he gotten himself into?
They said their good-byes, and he sat for a moment at his desk, tapping a pen on his legal pad and thinkin
g he should pick up the phone and ask Amy to cancel the engagement.
Then he remembered Marianne’s loneliness, her fear of being made a spectacle of in the media, her reaction to his offer of friendship. He swiveled his chair toward the window and stared out at the bay.
Something nagged at him about Marianne Landrieu, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. Maybe Amy was right and Marianne wasn’t telling the whole truth. Here he sat, about to throw the book at the perpetrator . . .
But what if the man was innocent?
CHAPTER 10
F/A-18 flight line
Oceana Naval Air Station
Virginia Beach, Virginia
0500 hours (EST)
With the cool, early morning breeze from the Atlantic blowing in his face and the deafening roar of fighter jets vibrating his earphones, Petty Officer Sulayman al-Aziz checked his watch.
Five o’clock.
He turned off his flashlight and, purpose in his step, walked out to the flight line, to the parked F/A-18C Super Hornet of Viper squadron. The ground crew was not due at the plane for another hour, but he still needed to hurry.
Aziz squatted under the fuselage, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the pliable substance he had hidden there earlier. He balled the C-4 plastic explosive into a small cylinder.
He stripped more C-4 off his body and molded the cylinder into a larger, football-sized lump. He held it up, assessing his handiwork. It would provide more than enough firepower to accomplish Allah’s mission.
He reached into his left pocket for the other necessary ingredient. The detonator was small and simple. Black and plastic with an electronic diode, it resembled a digital stopwatch. He set the timer for 0815 hours, Lima time, buried the wires deep, and clicked the small switch. The plastic bomb was armed and ticking silently.
Switching on his flashlight, he pointed it back toward the tail of the plane. Moving closer, he carefully positioned the bomb deep into the avionics bay, pushing it into an inconspicuous space behind the data bus. He knew from experience that the avionics bay would not be inspected during preflight. Even if the chief took a quick look, the bomb would be difficult to spot.
He flipped off the flashlight, tucked in his shirttail, and walked back to the hangar. Soon he would be off duty. It was almost time for Shoney’s.
Lieutenant Diane Colcernian’s townhouse
Near Jimmy Durante Boulevard
Del Mar, California
0240 hours (PST)
Diane flipped on her bedside lamp, jerked off the covers, and felt her feet hit the carpet. She took the large manila envelope from Baton Rouge off her nightstand and headed to the kitchen. Within a few minutes, the appealing scent of a vanilla coffee from Starbucks floated through the air. The gourmet coffee warmed her throat and brought her senses to life. Sitting at her kitchen table, she pulled the private detective’s report from the envelope.
She had read it through when it arrived the day before, but the information was so astounding that she had tossed and turned from ten o’clock on, unable to get it off her mind.
She took another sip of coffee as she flipped past the cover letter to the first page. Her breath caught as she read the third paragraph. Then she chuckled. This was dynamite.
Getting it into evidence would be a war.
She took another sip, thinking about Zack. She could almost see his face when she introduced this new evidence.
He would object. Vehemently. Vigorously. Passionately. Dramatically.
But this could win her case.
She grinned, took another sip, then put her mug down. She went to the refrigerator, found a cup of blueberry yogurt, and swirled her spoon to bring the fruit to the top.
Surprise was the key. She couldn’t give Zack much reaction time. If she disclosed this up front, he would slap her with a rape-shield brief.
And what about the political ramifications? Did she really want to take on the niece of a powerful United States senator, divulging this kind of damaging information?
She swirled the yogurt with her spoon.
Of course the media would have a field day with this one. The information would damage Marianne Landrieu’s reputation. It was the kind of thing that would haunt her for the rest of her life. But if the woman had lied about the rape—and Diane was now more convinced than ever that she had—an innocent man’s life would be ruined. His career, his family life, his reputation . . .
She popped a blueberry-laden spoonful into her mouth.
And what about her own career? Granted, it would be tough for the Navy to ruin her, at least overtly, once the press caught wind of this. Covertly was another matter. The senator was a powerful man. The Navy might find a way to destroy everything she had worked for.
When it came down to it, though, it wasn’t her career that mattered. It was the innocence of a man falsely accused. His life hung in the balance, and she was the only one who could tip the scales of justice—she hoped—in the right direction.
She drained the last drops of Starbucks, flipped to another page of the report, then looked up again, lost in thought. It wasn’t about winning or losing for the sake of combat. It was about saving the life of an innocent man.
But it wouldn’t hurt to beat Zack while she was at it. She grinned as she tossed the empty yogurt container in the trashcan. Two points.
CHAPTER 11
F/A-18 flight line
Oceana Naval Air Station
Virginia Beach, Virginia
0730 hours (EST)
In his green flight suit and jump boots, Commander Mark Latcher peered through the Hornet’s window at the F-14D Tomcat feathering down at the end of the runway. He glanced at the photo of his wife and three children, just as he always did right before takeoff, then slipped it back into his flight-suit pocket.
“One-one-five Alpha. Oceana Tower. You are clear for takeoff on runway one-four.”
“Oceana Tower. One-one-five Alpha,” he answered. “Acknowledge. Clear for takeoff.”
“Clear for takeoff.”
Latcher steered the jet to the edge of the runway, then pushed down the throttles. The speed, power, and vibration of the Hornet’s twin turbofans shot adrenaline through his body as the warplane accelerated down the long concrete runway.
He pulled back on the stick and the plane climbed sharply, the g-forces pressing him deep into his seat.
He banked into an eastern climb and saw the sun, now a bright ball just over the Atlantic horizon. The jet streaked out over the ocean, away from commercial traffic in the area. After receiving more instructions from air traffic control, he banked the Hornet again, this time to the southwest on a vector toward the bombing range. When he crossed the northeastern end of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, just over Duck in Currituck County, the altimeter read five thousand feet.
Descending rapidly for the strafing run, he leveled at one thousand feet over the Albemarle Sound and glanced over his left shoulder. A white obelisk rose over the sand dunes at Kitty Hawk. Latcher shot a quick salute to the Wright Memorial. It was a ritual he followed every time he made this run, his way of saying thank you to Wilbur and Orville.
He switched to channel 113, the bombing range’s radio frequency. “Dare County Tower. Navy Victor Foxtrot one-one-five Alpha requests clearance on approach for live fire exercise for target five. Request clearance to proceed.”
“One-one-five Alpha. We’ve got you inbound on scope. Be advised clearance granted, repeat granted, for target five. Turn course one-five-four and go to two hundred feet on approach. Fire at your discretion.”
“Roger, Dare County. One-one-five Alpha. Course one-five-four. Going to two hundred feet. Proceeding now.”
Latcher pushed down on the stick, pointing the Hornet’s nose toward the sound at five hundred knots. With the shoreline and a canopy of pine trees racing by in a blur just two hundred feet below, he spotted the red and white military observation tower. He gave the stick a slight flick to the left. The Hornet shot over the
tower, then over an open field.
The three-paneled strafing target rose from the ground. His reaction was almost automatic.
Arm switch.
Fire.
Shaking the nose of the jet, the M61A1 Vulcan twenty-millimeter cannon sprayed a wall of lead, ripping a cloud of dust in a straight line across the ground directly to the target.
Bull’s-eye!
“Nice shootin’ there, Commander.” It was the tower superintendent, speaking in a deadpan North Carolina accent. “Nothin’ wrong with that gun.”
“Just had her rebuilt.” Latcher breathed a sigh of relief.
“Want to bring her around for another round?”
“Dare Tower. One-one-five Alpha. I’d love to stick around, but I’d better boogie. Got a carrier to catch.”
“Roger, Commander. See you in six months. Happy hunting.”
“Thanks for the hospitality, gentlemen.”
Latcher put the war bird into a climb and turned west, where he would loop over Tyrell and Washington counties before turning north for the short trip back to Oceana.
Two miles from Lake Phelps
Eastern Washington County, North Carolina
0814 hours (EST)
The twin silos of the Tyson Farms grain elevators rose 150 feet into clear blue sky above the waving cornfields on either side of the road. Darryl Swain slowed his truck, carefully executing a right turn. His son looked back at the boat trailer they were pulling behind.
“You’re good to go, Dad.” The twelve-year-old shot him a grin as he settled back in his seat.
The twin elevators marked the gravel road leading down the last two-mile stretch to the boat landing at Lake Phelps. As the truck straightened, Darryl glanced at the digital clock in the console of the pickup. 8:14. Right on time for an 8:30 launch. He’d spend a few hours on the lake with the boy, maybe catch a few brim, then head home to get ready for the weekend and try not to think about work. His shift at the mill started Sunday at midnight.
The twin-engine jet streaking in over the grain elevators pulled his attention from the dashboard. “Adam, look at the jet!”
