Treason

by Don Brown

  “Forward march!”

  Six white-uniformed petty officers, all members of VFA-115, quietly marched in two columns of three on each side of the casket covered by the American flag. They lifted the casket, positioned it on their shoulders, and carried it, in perfect step, to the steel retractable platform over the grave, where they reverently placed it.

  “Present arms!”

  Captain Guy and the other uniformed servicemen at the grave snapped a last sharp salute at the casket and held it as three rifle shots from the Navy honor guard, fired at five-second intervals, echoed off the marble grave sites. A trumpeter, standing at the head of the fallen officer’s grave, began to play taps.

  With the military now in control of the waning moments of Mark Latcher’s funeral, David glanced into the tear-streaked face of the widow. A young lieutenant, a naval aviator type, knelt on one knee just in front of her.

  “Ma’am, the president of the United States presents this to you on behalf of a grateful nation.”

  In Mary Latcher’s lap, the officer placed the American flag that had draped Mark’s coffin.

  “Captain?” David felt a tap on his right shoulder board from behind. He turned. It was Harry Kilnap, the NCIS agent, standing behind him. “Beautiful service,” Kilnap said.

  “It was, considering,” David said. “I didn’t expect you here.”

  “Sometimes murderers show up at the grave. Just wanted to check things out. You know. See if any suspicious characters are lingering about.”

  “Do you see anything suspicious?”

  Kilnap turned his head, surveying the receiving line, the casket, and the family members, who were mostly still seated. “Not really. Looks pretty normal.”

  “Hope it wasn’t a wasted trip.”

  “Captain Guy, we need to talk.”

  “Now?”

  “Soon. Today. How about dinner?”

  “I’d planned to grill a steak out in my backyard.”

  “Skipper, this is real important. I’ve reviewed the manifest list from VFA-115. I may be on to something here. I need your help, though. Fast. Tell you what, there’s a great pub over on Massachusetts Avenue in Georgetown. Good Ole Days, I think it’s called. You show; I’ll buy.”

  David sighed as visions of his steak disappeared. “Okay, Harry. See you then.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Navy-Marine Corps Trial Judiciary

  Building 1

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego

  Captain Richard Reeves, JAGC, USN, was alone inside the senior judge’s chambers on the first floor of the building. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, and Reeves was feeling relaxed, having just changed from his summer white uniform into his more comfortable and informal working khakis. Reeves checked the wall clock.

  Fifteen hundred hours.

  The judge was done with court for the day, and in one hour, he had a tee time at the North Island Naval Golf Course against a four-striper who had taken fifty bucks off him last week when Reeves bogied on the eighteenth.

  No bogies today, Reeves thought. He grabbed a putter from the golf bag propped in the corner of the office, dropped three white balls on the putting mat behind his desk, then tapped the first ball into a plastic cup five feet away.

  The telephone buzzed as the putter made contact with the second ball, breaking Reeves’s concentration and causing it to rim around the outside of the cup before resting on the green carpet.

  I knew I should have bolted out of here, Reeves thought as the voice of his command master chief announced that the judge advocate general of the Navy was on the phone from Washington.

  “I’ll take it.” Reeves dropped the putter back in the bag, then picked up the phone and punched line one. “This is Captain Reeves.”

  “Admiral Stumbaugh here. I know it’s almost tee time out there, but we’ve got a high-profile case I need you to handle.”

  “Yes, sir.” Reeves checked his watch and sat down.

  “This case requires special sensitivity. This is a rape, and the victim is an officer. Not just any officer,” he continued. “Her uncle is U.S. Senator Roberson Fowler.”

  Reeves exhaled. “Pinkie Fowler. Armed Services Committee.”

  “Look, Dickie. I know that with retirement around the corner you’ve been assigning a lot of your contested general courts-martial to some of the other judges, and that’s fine. Those guys are competing for captain. But in this case, I don’t want you to assign this one to a commander. I want you to keep this case yourself.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “You’re my best, most experienced judge, Captain. Roberson Fowler’s money means billions of dollars to the Navy. The secretary of the Navy wants this handled right.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then it’s settled. The case should be referred over from Trial Command soon.” The admiral paused. “You understand its priority?”

  “Yes, sir.” The judge checked his watch again. So much for his golf game.

  Trial counsel offices

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego

  Friday, August 1, trial day

  Zack Brewer had been in his office at the Navy Trial Command working all morning on last-minute preparations for trial. Amy DeBenedetto had been working with him since sunrise, helping him organize exhibits and paperwork. Zack, sitting behind his desk, leaned back in his chair and looked at his watch. Thirty minutes until jury selection.

  “Okay, Amy, let’s hit the checklist again.” He glanced at the scribbled list on the white legal pad.

  “Yes, sir.” Her response was cool, detached.

  He glanced up, giving her a quizzical look, but she didn’t meet his gaze. “Members’ questionnaires?”

  “In the first folder, sir.”

  “Chain-of-custody documentation?”

  “Documentation for crime-scene evidence taken is in folder two. Docs for evidence taken at Balboa Naval Hospital, including rape kit results, in folder three. DNA test results are in folder four.”

  “Excellent.” He marked blue checks in the left column on the white paper. “Is NCIS on standby?”

  “Yes, sir. I confirmed this morning. They will meet us just before 1400 hours in front of Courtroom 1. They’ve got the physical evidence and photos of Ensign Landrieu taken at the scene. Also, I spoke to the NCIS crime lab. Doctor Purcell is on standby when we need him. He says he’ll need about thirty minutes’ advance notice.”

  “Ensign Landrieu on standby?” There was no point in bringing Marianne Landrieu into the courthouse until she was ready to testify, which would probably be tomorrow.

  “Yes, sir.” Amy let her gaze drift to the window behind his desk. She seemed troubled.

  “What is it?”

  “Permission to speak freely?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s Ensign Landrieu, sir.”

  He wasn’t surprised. Amy had voiced her concerns before. “Okay. What about her?”

  “I’ve already told you my doubts about the rape, that the ensign doesn’t act like any of the other rape victims we’ve seen.” Silence followed. When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “You don’t seem concerned.”

  “She’s an officer. None of our other victims were officers, let alone Academy grads who happened to be related to powerful members of the U.S. Senate.”

  She turned, piercing him with those honest blue eyes. The gold cross she always wore caught the light. “Yes, sir. But you know that’s not what I mean.”

  The uneasiness that had nagged at him for days crept into his consciousness again. Just as quickly, he needed to banish it. He had his orders. The evidence was clear. He didn’t want to think about a false accusation. Not now. He had to believe Marianne was telling the truth. No matter her personal problems, she had been assaulted. And he planned to see that the perpetrator paid.

  He looked at his watch. “We’re getting short on time. If there’s something about Ensign
Landrieu I need to know, you’ve got tell me now,” he said in a calm but firm voice. She seemed reluctant to continue, so he adopted a more encouraging tone. “Look, you’ve hinted at all this before. What else are you thinking?”

  “Her reaction seems so different from the other victims. All the others cried and shook every time they came in our offices, right up to the date of trial. I know Ensign Landrieu has shown some emotion about it all. She cried some the first time you asked her about it. But half the time when she arrives here, she seems, well, somehow . . . eager.”

  He met her troubled gaze. “Have you forgotten about the torn clothing? And the way she was crying when shore patrol found her?”

  “I’ve thought about that. But is it possible things started one way and just got out of hand?” Her cheeks flushed.

  “You think she led him on?”

  Her tone became bolder. “Just because the military prohibits officer-enlisted relationships, that doesn’t always stop the attraction. Maybe she felt an attraction for him and then changed her mind after.”

  He rocked back in his chair. “Suppose, for the sake of argument, you’re correct. What if there was an attraction there? But suppose she changed her mind—said no. But suppose he did not change his mind. That would still be rape, wouldn’t it? The law is clear: a woman has the right to say no.”

  She nodded.

  “Look, Amy. Here’s what we know. We’ve got a victim who claims she was raped. Okay, so maybe her demeanor is a little different from the others. But consider this: soldiers in combat have often experienced delayed post-traumatic stress disorder. Years, even, after the fact. The same could be true of a rape victim. Maybe Ensign Landrieu hasn’t felt the full effects of PTSD yet.

  “All I know is that we’ve got a job to do. We’ll put on our case, let Lieutenant Colcernian do her best to raise a defense, and then let the chips fall where they may. Who knows? Maybe Diane the Doberman will finally beat me.” He chuckled aloud at the thought. “Anyway, our job is to do our duty and place this in the hands of the members.”

  “Diane the Doberman?” Amy laughed, then gave a quick fisted jab in the air. “Ready for battle.”

  Zack stood up and tucked the file folder and legal pad under his arm.

  She scooted back her chair and stood with him. “Thank you for the convincing argument about the legalities.”

  But as they walked through the door, Zack couldn’t get away from one annoying thought: If it’s such a good argument, why am I not convinced?

  CHAPTER 20

  Good Ole Days Tavern

  Massachusetts Avenue

  Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

  Not much had changed about Georgetown in the last fifteen years. Captain David Guy piloted the Crown Victoria from Arlington across the Francis Scott Key Bridge, only to be slowed by crawling, bumper-to-bumper traffic as the bridge funneled into M Street on the D.C. side of the Potomac.

  Rush hour in Washington in the summer. A huge parking lot of horn-honking automobiles and exhaust fumes rising off hot asphalt. David glanced at his watch. Whatever Kilnap had for him had better be worth it.

  Thirty minutes later, he arrived at Good Ole Days. It was a dark, smoky, narrow tavern with booths on both sides, separated by a narrow aisle heading to the back. The bar sported a 1950s and 1960s motif, with Elvis Presley’s “Love me Tender” playing in the background.

  A young hostess in a “Georgetown Hoyas” T-shirt and white shorts met him at the door. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I’m meeting a Mr. Kilnap. He may already be here,” David said.

  She nodded. “Last booth on your right.”

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, David found Kilnap, sitting at a wooden booth at the far end of the bar.

  “Why in the world did you pick this place?” David sat down opposite the veteran NCIS agent.

  “Helps me think. Fifties nostalgia and all that. Plus it’s one of the few bars in the district where fine cigar smoking is still allowed.”

  David saw a freshly lit Macanudo, at least seven inches long, occupying the ashtray in front of Kilnap.

  “Beer?”

  “No thanks.”

  “How about a Macanudo? I’ve got some fifteen-dollar sticks in my briefcase.” Kilnap lifted the giant stogie and inhaled, causing the lit end to glow like Rudolph’s nose on Christmas Eve.

  “Thanks, Harry, but I quit smoking years ago,” David said, coughing.

  “Captain Guy, surely you can indulge in some decadent pleasure with a worn-out, nearly retired NCIS agent.” Kilnap chuckled and then took another puff.

  “Okay, you got me, Harry. You can order a cheeseburger and pick up the parking tab for a worn-out, almost-retired Navy JAG officer.”

  Kilnap smirked. “You’ve got a deal on the cheeseburger anyway.” Then he motioned to a waitress.

  When she left, David frowned at Kilnap. “So what is it NCIS has that’s so important I’m in a smoke-filled tavern on a Friday afternoon instead of grilling a filet mignon on my back deck?”

  Kilnap retrieved a three-page stapled document from his briefcase and slid it across the table. “Take a look at this, Captain.”

  “Looks like a list of names of all personnel assigned to Latcher’s squadron.”

  “Precisely.” Kilnap took another draw from the cigar. “So take a look at the list and tell me if anything, or anyone, jumps out.”

  David examined the list again, then looked back up at Kilnap. “What are you driving at, Harry? I don’t see anything unusual.”

  Kilnap’s grin was pure self-satisfaction. “Okay, here’s the rundown on VFA-115. See anything funny?”

  David glanced at the list again. “Harry, Georgetown isn’t exactly my favorite place in Washington. I know you didn’t bring me all the way over here just to show me a list of names you could have shown me in my office Monday morning.”

  “Captain, you disappoint me. Now I’ll give you a hint.” He played the pause for all it was worth. “This is a list of all squadron members with access to Commander Latcher’s jet between his last successful landing, at 1600 hours on Wednesday, and his last takeoff Friday morning.”

  David waited as the waitress slid two plates of cheeseburgers and piping hot French fries on the table in front of them. “The flight manifest seems like a logical place to start.” He scanned the list. “I count sixteen names here. It’s a start anyway, assuming the device was planted by active-duty personnel.”

  “Correct, Captain. And I’m not playing games, but I want your feedback here. Check the list again and tell me if you see anything that helps narrow down those names.”

  David sipped his sweetened tea as he studied the names. “If I were going to narrow the list, I’d start with the two aviation ordinancemen on the theory that they have the expertise in explosives, and given expertise, they have the best technical capabilities to pull something like this off.”

  “Very good, Captain.” Kilnap crossed his arms over his belly and grinned. “And we will interview both of them. Problem is, I’ve checked their psychological profiles, and I’d be shocked if either were involved.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Stable family men.” A swig of beer. “Wives. Each with three kids. Solid church members. Both were close to Commander Latcher. No axes to grind. Where would you go next?”

  “Okay. Next I would look at the two aviation structural mechanics, again on the theory that they have the greatest knowledge of how to bring the plane down.”

  “Bingo.” Harry chomped a hole from the circumference of the whopping burger. “Anything else jump out?”

  David looked again. “Not really. Something I’m missing?” He took a bite of his cheeseburger.

  “Remember the nut with the grenades out in San Diego a few weeks back?”

  “A boiler tech, wasn’t it? Went crazy with some grenades inside the church.”

  “Actually, it was a gunner’s mate,” Kilnap said, “but yeah, you’ve got the right gu
y.”

  “So what’s that got to do with this?”

  “First, another question,” Kilnap said.

  “Fire.” He grabbed a few fries.

  Kilnap doused the cigar, pulled out another, clipped the end, then ignited his Zippo lighter. “Think about the Marine that shot the Israeli ambassador at Pendleton.” He sat back, narrowed his eyes, and took his first puff from the new stogie.

  “What about him?”

  “First thing is the timing. The Israeli ambassador was shot within a week of the incident in San Diego.”

  “So?”

  “So you have two major incidents of violence, performed by members of the naval service, and both by Muslim service members.”

  “Both of whom, if I recall correctly,” David added, “committed suicide during the acts.”

  “Bingo.” Kilnap leaned back, almost slumping in his chair, then flicked ashes into the ashtray.

  David raised his eyebrow. “Harry, I guess I’m having a slow day.”

  “Look at the names of the mechanics again.”

  He glanced down again. Al-Aziz, Sulayman, El Paso, TX. “So we have someone with a Muslim name on the ground crew. But you’ve just pointed out some drastic differences between the West Coast incidents and the downed jet. Both those guys on the West Coast killed themselves. Jihad, or whatever they call it. No suicide here. At least I presume this al-Aziz guy is still around.”

  “Right,” Kilnap said.

  “Plus both of those incidents, as you pointed out, were on the West Coast. Not to mention that those attacks were on civilians or foreign dignitaries. This attack was against our own military.” David slid the list back across the table.

  “All true, Captain. But remember. No two crimes, even when linked, are ever exactly the same. And here we have two factors that in my judgment override the differences you mentioned.”