by Don Brown
“Then I will go to the front of the boat.”
“You are a devout member of our faith, my son.”
Al-Aziz crouched and stepped down into the forward section, then, bending down, he stepped into the head, closing the fiberglass hatch behind him.
Reska reached under his shirt and retrieved the black, 9mm Beretta from the midsection of his back. He worked the action on the pistol, chambering a hollow-point bullet into the firing position, and flipped the safety off. Then, as a flushing sound came from the cabin, he stuck the Beretta back under his shirt.
“I am ready to fish, Commander.” Al-Aziz smiled as he emerged from the cabin. It was the first time in weeks that Reska had seen the young man show any joy.
“Come, let us bait our hooks.” The chaplain motioned the petty officer to the back of the boat, then handed him a rod. “You know how to use one of these?”
“It has been awhile, but you never forget.”
“Good. I will help you get baited.” Reska reached into the well, grabbed a small live bluefish with his left hand, and then with his right hand, pushed a large fishing hook through the bluefish’s spine. The fish flapped rapidly as the hook penetrated its dorsal.
“If we get him into the water now, he should live for an hour or so. A perfect target for king mackerel if we are lucky. Why don’t you cast off the port, and I will bait up and try the stern.”
“Aye, sir.” Al-Aziz complied, casting the bait over the side.
May Allah have mercy on your soul, my friend.
In a swift motion, Reska brought the gun to the back of Sulayman’s skull and squeezed the trigger. The Beretta jumped, instantly splattering blood all over the port gunwale. The echo of the shot was strangely absent, absorbed by the vastness of the ocean and the whipping wind. Al-Aziz’s body fell forward against the port gunwale, facing away from the gunman, but the back of his head, at least what was left of it, resembled a bursted watermelon dropped on concrete.
The young man’s heart kept pumping geysers of dark red blood out the entry wound left by the hollow-point, streaming down his neck onto the deck of the River Rat.
Reska, a warrior for Allah, wasn’t prepared for the sight now before him. He turned away, leaned over the starboard gunwale, and vomited into the Atlantic. When his upchucking turned to dry heaves, he pushed away from the gunwale, knees shaking.
He made two trips into the forward cabin, each time hauling back a cement block. On the third trip he carried a gym bag, which contained several Craftsman locks and chains he had purchased from Kmart on the way to the marina.
Reska chained the blocks tightly around al-Aziz’s chest, secured the chain with two steel combination locks, and then pushed the body overboard.
His eyes followed it for a moment, as the remains of Sulayman alAziz slipped under the buoyant, murky saltwater of the Atlantic.
Reska stood up, looked at the sky, and screamed out his agony. “Why me, Allah? Why me? Are we not a religion of peace?”
There was no answer.
Nothing but wind and a twenty-seven-foot cruiser rolling gently on the swells of the open sea.
CHAPTER 28
Navy-Marine Corps Trial Judiciary
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego
Tuesday, August 5, 0900 hours (PST)
When Zack’s Mercedes wheeled around the last corner just outside Building 1, a sight he had never witnessed outside the military courthouse greeted him.
Television trucks.
With satellite uplinks.
And smartly dressed, attractive reporters wearing thick makeup standing in front of cameras held by sloppily dressed, blue jean–clad cameramen.
At least a half dozen news vehicles were parked around the building. A large white van, with a multicolored peacock and the call sign KNSD on the side, was in front. Next to it was another sporting the CBS “eye” and the call sign KCBS. Off to one side was a truck bearing the CNN logo.
“Great,” Zack muttered to Amy. He wheeled the car into the parking space reserved for JAG officers and cut the engine. “Just walk fast. Make a beeline to the front door. We should be safe inside the courtroom.”
Zack opened the car door and stepped out.
“Over there,” someone shouted.
“There he is,” shouted another.
“Hurry up!” Several newscasters and cameramen stampeded across the asphalt, shouting and holding microphones, booms, and cameras.
Like a pack of charging wolves, they converged on Zack and Amy before they were two steps from his car. A battery of television microphones were thrust in front of Zack’s face.
“Bonnie Benson. KNBC-TV Los Angeles. You’re the prosecutor in the Landrieu case?”
“That’s correct,” Zack said, pushing his way through the herd.
“Jan Oberholtz, KNSD San Diego. I understand you represent Ensign Landrieu in this trial?”
Zack stopped, bit his lip, and chuckled inwardly. He recognized the lovely Miss Oberholtz, a San Diego television legend.
“Two NBC affiliates covering the same event?” he asked rhetorically with a slight smile. “No, Miss Oberholtz. I do not represent Ensign Lan-drieu. I represent the United States government in the trial. Ensign Landrieu is one of several witnesses testifying.”
“Lieuten—”
“Lieuten—”
“But isn’t this case really about Ensign Landrieu?” Jan Oberholtz’s velvet-smooth voice rose above the cacophony of the other media vultures surrounding their prey. No wonder she was known as the Barbara Walters of San Diego.
“It is true, Miss Oberholtz, that Ensign Landrieu is a key government witness here.”
“But, Lieutenant—”
“Lieuten—”
“Lieutenant Brewer. Bernie Woodson, CNN. Have you been in touch with Senator Fowler?”
“Morning, Bernie,” Zack nodded to the well-known CNN legal-affairs correspondent as if he personally knew the distinguished AfricanAmerican. “By Senator Fowler, I take it you mean United States Senator Roberson Fowler of Louisiana?”
“That is correct, Lieutenant,” Woodson said back.
“No, Bernie. The only thing I know of Senator Fowler is what I’ve learned from the media. I’ve never met him nor spoken with him. And there’s no reason that I would speak to him under these circumstances. He’s one of many relatives of the victim, but other than that, he has no knowledge of the facts surrounding this case. And to my knowledge, the Navy has not been in contact with him about this case.”
“But, Lieutenant Brewer, how do you respond to charges that the Navy is prosecuting this case only because of who the alleged victim’s uncle is?” This was an unidentified female voice shouting from the crowd. The reporters pushed their microphones a bit closer to Zack’s face.
Zack felt his anger rising, took a breath to regain his composure, and then with a cool demeanor, spoke into the cameras. “My grandmother, who grew up poor on a dirt farm in eastern North Carolina, and who earned a few pennies for Christmas by shelling peanuts, priming tobacco, and slopping waste in the family hog pen, would have a vernacular phrase to describe such a suggestion.”
He gave the cameras a tight smile. “Since we are in the presence of mixed company, I won’t repeat that phrase. But I will say this. Ensign Landrieu is the victim of a crime that was perpetrated on a United States naval installation. Rape is a serious crime under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. The Navy treats these matters with an even and fair hand. We protect victims. We punish perpetrators. And whether this victim’s uncle is a senator or a pauper in no way affects our decision to prosecute this case or the way it will be prosecuted.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen”—Zack looked at his watch—“I’m due in front of Judge Reeves in five minutes.”
“But, Lieutenant—”
“Lieuten—”
With Amy at his side, Zack pushed through the small media mob and into the front door of Building 1.
<
br /> Dirksen Senate Office Building
Capitol Hill
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, August 5, 1205 hours (EST)
Senator Roberson Fowler turned to his Washington office chief of staff. “Turn it off now, Ed.” From inside the politician’s office on Capitol Hill, they had been watching the CNN live feed from San Diego.
“Seems to be a sharp young man,” Ed Brinkley replied, punching the remote control. The big-screen television in the corner of the senator’s office went black. “A real feel for the camera. I couldn’t have personally scripted that response any better.”
“Yes,” the senator said. He stood, sauntered over to a walnut and brass coat tree, and grabbed his seersucker jacket. Ed hurried over to hold it as Fowler pushed his arms through the sleeves. “And the thing that impressed me is how the boy watched my backside in the interview.”
His young aide narrowed his eyes in thought. “True, Senator. Not the slightest hint of preferential treatment for your niece by the Navy.” His smile was sly. “Just as instructed.”
Fowler stepped in front of the ornate mirror just beside his desk and straightened his tie, then brushed imaginary lint from his seersucker slacks.
As if reading his mind, Ed walked over to Fowler’s humidor, retrieved a Monte Cristo, clipped the small end, and handed it to the senator.
As he offered him a light, Fowler chuckled.
Ed half smiled and shot him a knowing look. The no-smoking rules in federal buildings, imposed by the General Services Administration, did not apply to powerful senators who controlled the GSA’s purse strings.
“And you can bet the barn, Ed”—Fowler drew on the cigar, then blew smoke into the room—“Republicans would be on my case right now if the boy hadn’t handled that interview just as he did. I really liked the thing about the hog pen.” Fowler chuckled again and took another puff. “The boy has some political talent. I can see why my niece raves about him. We’ll have to check his party affiliation.”
“I already have. He’s a Republican.”
Fowler grunted and blew a perfect halo of white smoke. It drifted above the mahogany desk, slowly engulfing the gold chandelier hanging from the ornate ceiling.
“We can always persuade him to change his political affiliation”— Ed’s voice was a perfect monotone—“should it suit your purposes. You just give me the word.”
“And my purposes would be . . . ?” Fowler sat back, smoke drifting above his head, as he watched the wheels turning in his go-getter aide’s head.
Ed laughed and shrugged. “Maybe I should say if he—this Zack Brewer—suits your purposes.” His smile was wily.
Fowler blew another circle of smoke. “For now, his purpose is to keep the meat out of the sharks’ mouths—just as he did in the interview this morning.” He leaned back in his chair. “Maybe that’s enough.”
Another half smile from Ed. “For now.”
“Let’s keep close tabs on this one. And if Marianne calls again, tell her Uncle Pinkie will have to wait till this trial is over before he can talk to her.”
“Yes, Senator.”
“Time to go. I’ve got a vote in ten minutes.” He gently tapped the end of the Monte Cristo and slid it into his sterling cigar saver. He headed to the door, then stopped and turned back to his aide, who was three steps behind him.
“I like the way you think, son.” He grinned. “You and me—we think alike.” He chuckled. “Devious as all get-out.” He slapped the young man on the back as they exited his suite of offices. “Devious as all get-out,” he repeated, his laughter booming down the hallway.
CHAPTER 29
The Gulf Stream
Twenty-five nautical miles southeast of Norfolk, Virginia
Tuesday, August 5, 1500 hours (EST)
The cleanup took longer than Reska anticipated. On his knees, scrubbing the aft section of the River Rat’s deck, the chaplain became nauseated from the combination of the slow, rolling waves and the strong fumes of the ammonia floating into his nostrils. Every fifteen minutes or so throughout the four hours, he raised his head to gulp for air, hoping the fresh Atlantic breeze would make him feel better.
Instead, his seasickness worsened. Hanging over the railing, he tried to vomit into the Atlantic. His only accomplishment: dry heaves. Dozens of times.
Still, it was important, for the cause of Allah and the organization, to eliminate all evidence of Sulayman al-Aziz before returning to port. And so Reska, feeling such motion sickness that he more than once thought of using the Beretta on himself to end his misery, kept scrubbing, washing, and tossing waste into the ocean.
By 1500 hours, Reska saw no more evidence that Aviation Structural Mechanic Second Class Sulayman al-Aziz had ever been on board the River Rat. The body was dumped far enough out that the Gulf Stream would wash it into the North Atlantic, if the sharks did not first make mincemeat of it. The bloody rags were already in the belly of some hammerhead, and the brain matter would dissolve in the salt water. It had been a tough job, but Reska would perform tough assignments for Allah. He surveyed the clean deck and felt a strange satisfaction now that it was over.
The chaplain smiled when the twin outboards jumped and caught. He checked the GPS and set a course of 275 degrees north-northwest toward Hampton Roads.
Two hours later, he steered the twenty-seven-footer into the no-wake zone in the channel leading into Little Creek Marina.
He picked up the microphone, set the radio frequency for the marina, and announced that he would arrive at slip number 17 in ten minutes. Two deckhands would be waiting to take the boat to storage, he was told. Their services were covered as part of the hefty slip fees paid by the Council.
The Muslim chaplain saw the deckhands waiting at the end of the pier as he gently idled the boat against the rubber tires bolted to the dock.
“We’ve got it, Commander,” one said, stepping onto the bow. He threw a line to the other.
Reska cut the engines as the deckhands tied the River Rat to the pier. He hopped over the side of the boat and onto the pier, strolled to the end, and reached into his pants pocket for his car keys.
He halted midstep when he spotted two men standing by his car.
The older of the two, a gray-haired, potbellied man, stepped forward. “Lieutenant Commander Mohammed Reska?”
“Yes?”
“Federal Agent Harry Kilnap.” The words seemed to roll off the man’s tongue. “NCIS. You’re under arrest for murder, conspiracy to commit murder, treason, and rendering aid to the enemy.”
With those words, four more agents appeared from behind a nearby vehicle with weapons drawn. Reska felt the cold steel of handcuffs tighten around his wrists and shuddered.
The plump one spoke again. “Lieutenant Commander Mohammed Reska, United States Navy, it is my duty, under Article 31(b) of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, to inform you that you have the right to remain silent. Should you give up your right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used . . .”
CHAPTER 30
Navy-Marine Corps Trial Judiciary
Building 1
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego
Ensign Laura Rogerson took her place in the witness chair. She sat up, shoulders straight, looking resplendent in her summer whites. Zack waited until she was sworn in; then he stood and walked toward her.
“Ensign,” he said, “you were at the club with Ensign Landrieu the night of the attack?”
“Yes, sir.” Rogerson’s voice was firm and confident.
“At any time, was she ever drunk?”
“Absolutely not, Lieutenant Brewer,”
“Absolutely not, Lieutenant Brewer,” she said in a confident tone. “I would not have allowed her to leave alone if I thought she was intoxicated.”
“And one other question,” Zack asked. “Did Ensign Landrieu ever say anything to you about having some sort of special attraction to Navy SEALs?”
Rogerson stare
d at Zack, then at the members, and with a righteously indignant expression, proclaimed, “Absolutely not, Lieutenant. Marianne said no such thing.”
“No further questions,” Zack said, then watched as Diane approached counsel podium for cross-examination.
“But isn’t it true, Ensign Rogerson,” Diane demanded, “that you had also been drinking yourself, and after two martinis, you don’t remember much about Ensign Landrieu’s level of sobriety?”
“She wasn’t drunk. I remember that.”
“But your infatuation with this handsome pilot distracted you from observing Ensign Landrieu, did it not?”
“I am an aviator, Lieutenant,” Rogerson snapped. “With respect, aviators are paid to pay attention to things.” This brought a smile from the female aviator on the jury. “I saw Ensign Landrieu that night. I was with her long before the Lieutenant arrived. She was not drunk. If she had been drunk, either I or Lieutenant Hawley would have driven her home.”
Next, Zack called Lieutenant (jg) Arthur Hawley, the S-3 pilot and supposed object of Laura Rogerson’s attention, to the stand.
“No, sir, Lieutenant Brewer,” Hawley said. “Ensign Landrieu wasn’t drunk. Her speech wasn’t slurred. Her eyes weren’t glassy. She definitely didn’t stagger when she walked.” Hawley looked a bit embarrassed. “I watched her walk out the front door, if you know what I mean. She was walking smoothly.”
That drew a few snickers from the jury.
“No further questions.”
Next, the first of the two shore patrolmen were called by the prosecution.
“We heard rustling in the leaves behind the hedgerow,” said the first in a Midwestern accent. “And then we shined our flashlights toward the sound. The assailant, a muscular white man in a T-shirt and white boxers, ran across the parking lot.”
“He ran too fast to catch him on foot,” insisted the second man. “But then the Marines came out of nowhere. So we went back over to the hedgerow to check it out.”
