Defiance Read online

  Books by Don Brown

  The Navy Justice Series

  Treason

  Hostage

  Defiance

  BOOK THREE

  Don Brown

  DEFIANCE

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  ZONDERVAN

  Defiance

  Copyright (c) 2007 by Don Brown

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  EPub Edition (c) June 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-85832-4

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Brown, Don, 1960 -

  Defiance / Don Brown.

  p. cm. - (Navy justice series ; bk. 3)

  ISBN-10: 0-310-27213-0

  ISBN-13: 978-0-310-27213-7

  1. Brewer, Zack (Ficticious character) 2. United States. Navy-Fiction.

  3. Courts-martial and courts of inquiry - Fiction. 4. Terrorism - Fiction.

  5. Kidnapping victims - Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.R6947D44 2006

  813'.6 - dc22

  2006034921

  * * *

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version(r). NIV(r). Copyright (c) 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers printed in this book are offered as a resource to you. These are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of Zondervan, nor do we vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  06 07 08 09 10 11 12 * 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This novel is lovingly dedicated to

  Judy and Mark Angel of Charlotte, North Carolina,and

  Crystal

  and

  Jeff Lettow of San Diego, California

  "There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother."

  Proverbs 18:24

  From the mission statement of the

  Naval Criminal Investigative Ser vice (NCIS):

  The Combating Terrorism Directorate directs NCIS support

  for efforts aimed at detecting, deterring, and disrupting terrorism

  against Department of Navy personnel and assets worldwide.

  Contents

  COVER

  BOOKS BY DON BROWN

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS

  PROLOGUE

  Gobi Desert

  Southeast of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

  The light.

  Her eyes followed the light.

  If the sun still rose, if it traced its way across the sky, if it forced a small ray through the pinhole in the wall of a tent, across a cold, barren floor in the middle of nowhere, then surely God was still in control.

  Wasn't he?

  The light, even such a small ray, proved it was so.

  She remembered places of bright sunlight -- the ports where she once served her country.

  Pearl Harbor.

  Key West.

  San Diego.

  Were these great ports of call still in existence?

  Did the gray warships of the American fleet still sail from these navy towns? Did cool, salty breezes still roll off the oceans, breathing life into Old Glory?

  Did naval officers and enlisted men and women, dressed smartly in white, still stop in their tracks every morning under sun-spangled palm trees to salute as the national anthem echoed all over the bases of the U.S. Navy? Did they stop again at sunset, coming to attention as the flag came down?

  Lying in a fetal position on the floor in the corner of the tent, she felt tears slide from her eyes. She was surprised she had any tears left to cry, but here they were, turning into a silent, sob-wracked torrent. Still curled on her side, she swiped at her wet face with her fingers; her tears dripped from her cheek and chin to the floor, just shy of a small patch of sunlight.

  She opened her eyes.

  The sunbeam inched closer to the far corner of the tent. When the beam reached the corner of the tent, he would come.

  He always came.

  Moisture gathered in her palms. Sweat beaded on her forehead. For months she prayed that he would forget her, that he would leave her alone. Why had God ignored her prayers?

  She knew what came next. Her heart jackhammered inside her chest.

  She shut her eyes again, squeezed them tight.

  Sweet memories of home danced in her mind, memories of the Bible on the coffee table when she was a girl.

  Thanks to her mother, she memorized a few verses. Those verses lived somewhere in the shadows of her memory.

  She spoke silently.

  Perhaps God still listened. Perhaps not. But just in case...

  "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..."

  The sound of his footsteps cut through the walls of the te
nt.

  "For thou art with me...""Prepare yourself, my infidel," he called in broken English.

  "Thy rod and thy staff...""I come for you."

  "They comfort me."

  Hyperventilation gripped her body. Her breathing constricted. Her chest thumped violently. Brief, disconnected thoughts whirled through her brain.

  The door of the tent flew open. It was him.

  "Jesus, help me!"

  CHAPTER 1

  L'office de droit de Jean-Claude la Trec

  56, rue Charles de Gaulle

  Paris

  10:00 p.m.

  The door exploded in a shower of glass.

  Three black-masked bandits rushed in from the night.

  Slinging their Uzis across his desk, they jammed steel gun barrels into his cheek, grinding his lips into his teeth. Jets of pain shot through his jaw. Violent shaking took possession of his body. Liquid soaked his pants -- perhaps spilled pinot noir dripping from the desktop -- or a bladder rendered useless by fear. He could not tell.

  Jean-Claude la Trec, the great avocat of France, the man whose golden voice enraptured the media and earned him the title "the most magnificent lawyer in all of Europe," cried out in a pitiful, helpless whine.

  "M'aider Dieu." God, help me.

  "What is this?" A jarring punch bloodied his lip. "The great Jean-Claude la Trec, a self-avowed atheist, cries to God for help? Allah has nothing to do with this." A sharp backhand bashed into his cheek. "We had a deal!"

  "Who are you?"

  "Does thirty million dollars say who we are?"

  "But --"

  "You demanded thirty million U.S. dollars to defend these pilots. You promised victoire, and one of them cuts a deal with the U.S. Navy!"

  "That was not my idea --"

  "Shut up!" A gun stock smashed his jaw. Sharp pain pounded the back of his skull.

  "What information was compromised?"

  "None. I assure you."

  "Liar!" The accents blended. French and Arabic.

  "S'il vous plait." A slight burst of energy. "Nothing was compromised. S'il vous plait. "Fighting for his life, his great advocacy skills flickered, then flamed. "They murdered one pilot before the trial ended. The other did not receive the death penalty." His voice gained strength. "S'il vous plait."

  "You promised victory!" a third voice cried.

  "We did everything!"

  "Victoire!"

  "But the great Wells Levinson lost to Brewer. You never busted into his office with machine guns."

  "Silence!" A fist from the dark crushed his lower front teeth. Blood gushed. The overhead chandelier whirled, and he crashed to the floor. "We paid Levinson half what we paid you..."

  A high-pitched band saw hummed in his ears. Voices faded in and out. He reached in his pants pocket, feeling for the number trois on his cell phone. The phone slipped out of his pocket and dropped onto the floor.

  "...and at least Levinson's clients were executed." He referred to a U.S. Navy court-martial that had taken place in San Diego, involving the trial of three navy chaplains for treason. The three had been prosecuted by LCDR Zack Brewer, the famous Navy JAG officer, and defended by Wells Levinson, regarded as America's preeminent defense attorney. All three were convicted and executed by the U.S. military.

  Jeanette stood just outside the front of the old stone office building on rue Charles de Gaulle, hailing a taxi, when an electronically synthesized rendition of "La Marseilles" chirped from inside her purse.

  Jean-Claude's final overture for the evening.

  She smiled at the thought, then waved off a slowing cab and reached for her cellular. The caller ID flashed a picture of her handsome, silver-haired employer.

  "Bonsoir," she said in a soft voice.

  "Of course they were executed!" An angry voice boomed through her cell phone. "Levinson's clients can no longer talk. But your client is in the hands of the Americans. Ready to betray our organization."

  Jeanette looked over her shoulder at the light coming from the second-floor office window. From this angle on the street, she could see no one.

  "This was not my idea." Jean-Claude's voice trembled. "I urged him not to talk. He was your recruit. Perhaps you should have been more selective when you recruited him."

  "Shut up!" The sound of shattering glass pierced her eardrums. "Produce the file, and tell us where we can find the witch lawyer."

  Mon Dieu.

  "Please!" The thud of a punch and more shattering glass. "Lower left drawer... The file..."

  "Pierre!"

  "Bien sur!"

  The sound of rustling papers.

  "Where's the witch, L'Enfant?"

  "Who?"

  A sharp thud was followed by a tortuous grunt. "Where is the traitor to Islam and to France who orchestrated this so-called plea bargain?"

  Run, her mind commanded. But her legs froze.

  "S'il vous plait. She is not here. She is not in France."

  "Liar!" She heard a thud, fist against flesh. This was followed by a moan, then heavy, desperate breathing. "We saw her enter the building."

  "She's gone." Jean-Claude wheezed heavily as if short of air. "Please."

  "The file, Ramon! I have it!"

  "You have the file. Please," Jean-Claude pleaded.

  "Pierre." An Arab-accented voice spoke in French. "Please express the official gratitude of the French government and the Council of Ishmael for Monsieur la Trec's performance in the Quasay court-martial."

  "Avec plaisir, monsieur."

  The burst of machine-gun fire rattled her eardrums. She yanked the phone away.

  Dear Jesus. This was her first prayer in years. Her heart hammered. She craned her neck, gazing up at the window. She brought the phone back to her ear. Cars whizzed by just a few meters away.

  "Check him!"

  "He's dead."

  Non. S'il vous plait.

  "Take the file. Find L'Enfant!"

  "Abdur."

  "What is it?"

  "His cell phone!"

  The connection dropped.

  "Look! Down on the street. It is her!"

  Jeannette quickly slipped off her high heels and sprinted down the sidewalk alongside rue Charles De Gaulle, toward the Arc de Triomphe. She ducked into the first dark alleyway and kept running.

  CHAPTER 2

  B. Dalton Bookseller

  Level 4, Horton Plaza

  Just outside Gaslamp Quarter

  San Diego, California

  1:30 p.m. (PST)

  Chris Reynolds sat alone at a table in the refreshments section of the B. Dalton Bookseller in downtown San Diego's chic Horton Plaza. His latte had faded to lukewarm more than thirty minutes ago, but he abandoned his position in the refill line when his gaze caught the magazine rack beside the condiments table.

  People magazine featured the smiling photo of the naval officer in summer whites. The headline above it asked "Where Is He Now?" with a subtitle that instructed the reader to turn to page 38. He stepped to the magazine rack, snatched a copy, and returned to the table.

  He quickly flipped to the page.

  More than a year has passed since Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer, USN, prosecuted Lieutenant Commander Mohammed Quasay, the Islamic U.S. Navy aviator accused of launching a rogue missile attack that destroyed Jerusalem's Dome of the Rock. The court-martial, the third prosecuted by Brewer that garnered international attention, followed the disappearance of Brewer's alleged girlfriend, Lieutenant Diane Colcernian, a Navy JAG officer kidnapped by Islamic extremists. Colcernian is believed to be dead.

  The picture of the smiling redheaded woman in her service dress blue uniform was under Brewer's. He swigged cold coffee.

  Brewer, who, during the course of his incredible winning streak, surprised many pundits by besting two of the world's best-known defense attorneys, American Wellington Levinson and Frenchman Jean-Claude la Trec, has by all accounts returned to life as a normal naval officer.

  Despite his brilliance b
efore the international media, Brewer prefers anonymity. The JAG officer declined an opportunity to resign from the navy and run for a congressional seat in Louisiana. Brewer was the hand-picked candidate of U.S. Senator Roberson Fowler and the strong front runner had he entered the race. Afterward, he refused millions from book contracts, opting to stay in the navy.

  After refusing Fowler, Brewer returned to San Diego to finish his tour of duty. The man lauded by the president of the United States and called "America's most eligible bachelor" has refused all press inquiries since the Quasay court-martial.

  Since Colcernian's disappearance, romantic speculation has linked Brewer to two women. The JAG officer has been spotted at dinner with Shannon McGillvery, the NCIS agent credited with cracking the Quasay court-martial. But oddsmakers speculate his new interest may be the lovely Wendy Poole, the blonde JAG officer who represented the navy before the Supreme Court. Poole argued for the execution of the three chaplains Brewer and Colcernian prosecuted for treason.

  Chris slammed the magazine closed and stood, leaving it on the table. What a spineless ideological nomad! Brewer had a chance to run for Congress. What an idiot! Control yourself, Chris. He got back in the refill line and watched the clerk pour a stream of steaming black replenishment into his cup. More hot caffeine. The latte oozed down his throat. Better.

  A deep breath.

  Then another.

  He reopened the magazine.

  Later, after Colcernian's disappearance, Poole teamed with Brewer in the Quasay prosecution against la Trec. When a navy jury convicted Quasay of murder for launching the missile attack against the Dome, the government sought the death penalty. But in a strange course of events, Quasay announced to the military judge his desire to fire la Trec and hire his associate attorney, Jeanette L'Enfant. The motion was granted, and L'Enfant negotiated a life imprisonment term with Brewer, presumably in exchange for information.