Treason Read online

  “Attention on deck!”

  Eight senior aviation officers, the senior JAG officer, and Kilnap snapped to their feet.

  “At ease, gentlemen. Take your seats.” Rear Admiral Dan Gibson walked swiftly into the room with a file in his hand, his personal aide, a lieutenant commander F-14 pilot, in tow. “Sorry to rouse you sleeping beauties at this hour”—obligatory chuckles rippled around the conference table—“but my JAG officer, Captain Guy, says we have an urgent matter needing our immediate attention.” The admiral turned to him. “Captain Guy?”

  “Gentlemen,” he said as his eyes swept the room. “We have a serious matter on our hands.” He paused. “It looks like the F/A-18 that went down over Lake Phelps in North Carolina was sabotaged.”

  There were murmurs around the table as the officers exchanged glances.

  “How sure are we of this?” the chief of staff asked.

  “That’s a forensics question, Captain Mattox,” he said. “Gentlemen, some of you know Special Agent Harry Kilnap. I’m going to let him respond. Harry?”

  “Thank you, Captain Guy.” Kilnap paused to take a sip of coffee as if pleased to prolong the drama. “This investigation, that is, the examination into possible criminal activity, is in its preliminary stages.” Kilnap took another swallow from his mug. “But here’s what we know so far. Within two hours of the explosion, a joint emergency task force, consisting of engineers from NAVAIRSYSCOM—Naval Air Systems Command of Pax River, Maryland—the Navy Safety Center, and the Federal Aviation Administration, was on site.

  “Fortunately, because Lake Phelps is calm, debris still floated on the surface. There is a large commercial farming operation run by Tyson Farms just about four miles from the crash site.”

  The staff intelligence officer leaned forward at the end of the table. “Isn’t that where the Swain fellow was when he first spotted the jet?”

  “Exactly, Commander,” Kilnap said. “Swain was driving by the large Tyson grain elevators when the Hornet streaked over. That was the last time anybody saw the jet intact. The joint task force set up a staging area there, and the Navy and Coast Guard choppers have spent all day fishing floating material out of the lake and hauling it to the staging area. Right off the bat, the NAVAIRSYSCOM people noticed an unusual-looking residue on the inside of scrap metal from the plane’s avionics bay.

  “Light metal parts were flown here for testing. The results showed positive residue for plastic explosives. This, in our opinion, was sabotage.”

  “Navy personnel planted a bomb on the plane? Is that what you’re suggesting?” The staff intelligence officer leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.

  “That’s not clear. But we don’t think the explosive used was a U.S. military–grade product.”

  “Explain,” the admiral ordered.

  “Yes, sir. The principle chemical composition we use in the military is a substance called RDX. Commercial plastic explosives use a similar substance called PETN, which is just as explosive but not as stable as RDX. PETN residue has been found in several commercial airliners believed to have been brought down by terrorist explosions. TWA Flight 800, the plane that blew up after taking off for Paris from New York, had traces of PETN found near the seats in one of the rows from the midsection of the aircraft. Likewise, with the Hornet, we have found traces of PETN, not RDX.”

  “So you think it might have been a civilian who planted the bomb?” the public affairs officer asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Kilnap said. “Could’ve been anyone. Maybe a military member who either did not have access to C-4 military plastic explosives, or didn’t want to raise suspicions by snooping around in the Marines’ ammunition depot. We’re not ruling out anything at this point.”

  “Thank you, Agent Kilnap,” Admiral Gibson said. “Gentlemen, this information clearly changes how we approach this situation. Any comments or questions before we proceed?”

  David Guy leaned forward. “It seems, if this information is correct, we have what may amount to an attack on the United States Military. The question is by whom.”

  “Go on, Captain.” The admiral raised his eyebrow.

  “Yes, sir. If we have an attack that ultimately proves to have been state-sponsored, we may be dealing with an act of war against the United States.”

  His remark brought several seconds of dead silence.

  “Aren’t we jumping the gun a bit, Captain Guy?” The chief of staff was playing his customary role of devil’s advocate. “Special Agent Kil-nap just said, if I understood him correctly, that he has no idea who did this. Shouldn’t we let the investigation run its course before we jump to such extreme conclusions?”

  “The chief of staff makes a good point, Captain Guy,” Admiral Gibson said. “Aren’t you jumping the gun a bit with premature speculation? I mean, all we know right now is plastic explosives residue was found on some of the airplane parts.”

  “Admiral, I agree with the chief of staff in one respect,” David said.

  “We are speculating on the identity of the perpetrator, if that’s what we have. It could have been a lone wolf. But this much we do know—a Navy warplane was sabotaged. We also know this: civilians, acting alone, don’t often hit military targets. This issue is whether this should remain primarily an AIRLANT-run investigation at this point.

  “One of our jets has been attacked, which means someone is intent on striking at our military on the eve of a major battle-group deployment to the Mediterranean, a deployment, I might add, where the possibility of hostility is high. I recommend, Admiral, that we run a flash message to Washington, tonight. If we are wrong, and if we sit on this, our national interests could be compromised. Suppose this is part of something larger that may require a larger, coordinated response?”

  “So what you’re saying, Captain,” the admiral said, “is that we treat this with an elevated level of scrutiny, above and beyond a routine aviation mishap?”

  “Yes, sir. I think we have to.”

  “Gentlemen?” Gibson glanced around the table.

  “Admiral, Captain Guy does make a good point,” the chief of staff said. “Probably better to run it up the chain out of an abundance of precaution.”

  “Very well,” Gibson said. “We are in consensus. We will reconvene tomorrow morning at 0800 hours.”

  “Attention on deck!” someone shouted. The staff rose as the admiral headed into his office, trailed by his staff JAG officer, his aide-decamp, and the command master chief.

  CHAPTER 17

  La Vue de la Mer

  restaurant

  Village of La Jolla

  San Diego

  2200 hours (PST)

  I trust this evening has been as lovely for you as it has been for me,” Pierre said.

  Under the dim lighting from the brass chandeliers, with melodic strains of the violinist at the opposite side of the room, they were alone in their own corner of the world. Only the distant clangs of silverware touching porcelain plates reminded her that others were around.

  It had been a nice evening. With the exception of their run-in with Zack Brewer and his client, an almost perfect evening, come to think of it. The memory of the look on his face when she caught him on a date with his client brought a grin.

  “Something funny?”

  She reached across the table and patted his hand. “Oh no. The evening was marvelous, Pierre. And the company, especially the company, was superb.” She smiled. “It’s all been lovely. Thank you.”

  He smiled at her response, then raised his glass. “To a lovely evening.”

  “To a lovely evening, Pierre.”

  Their glasses met over the table. “Diane, I’ve been thinking,” he said, reaching across the table, taking her hand, “about our future.”

  “About our future?” Her voice came out in a squeak.

  He pressed a small velvet box into her palm and gently closed her fingers over it. This he did without his eyes leaving hers. She swallowed hard and looked down.


  “Open it,” he urged.

  “Pierre . . . I . . . I can’t.” She shook her head, then met his hopeful gaze and melted. She gave him a gentle smile, then flipped open the lid . . . and gaped. Sparkling in the candlelight was the largest diamond she had ever seen. It had to be the size of a quarter, she thought at first glance. She blinked and gazed at it. More realistically, it was the size of a dime. Her heart thudded, which surprised her.

  “I had it designed especially for you by my personal jeweler in New York.” He took her hand and looked into her eyes. “I have been looking forward to this night for years, Diane.”

  She was speechless. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Ah, but that is easy,” he said. “Say only that you will marry me, that you are ready to become Mrs. Pierre Rochembeau.”

  Her mind raced, searching for the right words. She liked Pierre. She enjoyed his company. But was this enough of a reason to spend the rest of her life with him? “Pierre, this is happening too fast.”

  “Too fast?” His light laughter brimmed with affection. “I have loved you since the day I first saw you. Now tell me what I must do to persuade you to slip the diamond onto your lovely finger.”

  She considered him. Pierre was always there for her. How could she say no?

  “Still thinking it over, are you?” Pierre sighed. “Very well, then I see I must employ phase two of my strategy.” He stood, smiling.

  “What are you doing?”

  Without answering, he walked over to her side of the table, dropped to his knees, and took her hand.

  “Pierre, you don’t have to do this,” she whispered.

  “What kind of Frenchman would I be if I proposed from any position other than my knees?”

  “But, Pierre . . .”

  “And now, Lieutenant Diane Elizabeth Jefferson Colcernian, United States Navy, I, Pierre Rochembeau, of Paris, France, and New York, New York, come to you on my knees, with the utmost humility in every fiber of my being, and do this night ask you the question of questions.” He paused, longing in his gaze. “Will you, Diane, become Mrs. Diane Colcernian Rochembeau? Will you marry me?”

  She held her breath, and for a moment it seemed everyone in the room held theirs with her. Then the entire restaurant broke into applause in response to Pierre’s impassioned plea.

  “You go, girl!” called a woman’s voice from a few tables over.

  “I’ll take him if you don’t,” said a younger-sounding woman.

  “You gotta say yes after that!” This was a man’s voice in the midst of the applause.

  Then silence fell. Diane couldn’t see the other patrons, but she felt their stares. It was like being the lone woman left on some reality show. If only she could cut to a commercial and run off. But she couldn’t. She had to give some sort of answer. She drew in a deep breath.

  Pierre was still kneeling before her, his face so full of affection and expectancy, it nearly broke her heart. How could she say no in front of all these people?

  She leaned toward him, so close their foreheads almost touched. “Pierre, I need time . . . please?” She thought she might cry.

  With an almost imperceptible nod, he took her hand and squeezed it. Then standing, he looked out at the patrons, barely visible in the dim light. “She said yes!” There was more applause, and the violinist started playing the “Wedding March.”

  He lowered himself into his chair, smiling at her. “Forgive me, darling. It was the only way to settle them down.”

  It was so like him to save them both from embarrassment. She reached for his hand, a wave of affection sweeping over her. “But you’re still willing to give me time?”

  “I will wait forever.” He squeezed her fingers.

  She had the prickly sense that someone was watching her. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of two figures in a doorway. She turned her head. Zack stood there, at the entrance to the dining room, his client at his side. Zack’s gaze met Diane’s; then he turned away, shepherding Marianne Landrieu to the restaurant’s front door.

  Coronado Bay Bridge

  Coronado, California

  2215 hours (PST)

  Speeding southbound along Interstate 5, with the lights of the residential and business areas just north of downtown San Diego whizzing by to his right, Zack tapped his brakes and clicked his right signal light at the Coronado Bridge exit. A moment later, they reached the base of the huge, curving bridge spanning San Diego Bay.

  Along with the summits of Mount Helix and Mount Soledad, and the Cabrillo National Monument, the crest of the Coronado Bay Bridge at night was one of the most spectacular places to take in a panoramic view of San Diego. The reflection of light from the waterfront high-rises glistened against the black waters of the bay.

  Unlike Helix, Soledad, and Cabrillo, the glimpse from up here at night was brief. Then it was gone. He always felt cheated. There was never a night that he crossed the bridge and wasn’t left wanting more.

  Tonight was no exception.

  This late at night on a weekend, the traffic was about as light as it would ever get on the bridge. Zack pulled the Mercedes into the far right lane as the car crossed onto the bridge from the San Diego side headed across. When he pulled his foot off the accelerator, he watched the speedometer drop: 55 mph . . . 45 . . . 35 . . . 25. He hit cruise control, then his flasher lights. He hoped he wouldn’t get ticketed or rammed from behind.

  “Trying to prolong the evening?” Marianne asked as the car slowed and started heading up the slope spanning the bay.

  It was the last thing he expected her to say. He glanced across at her. She smiled and gave him a dreamy look while she toyed with a strand of her blond hair draped on her tan shoulder. Her intent was clear.

  He pressed the accelerator. The car was about halfway up the bridge. “Look over there,” he said, hoping to distract her. He nodded toward the downtown lights as the car crested the top of the span.

  She moved closer, gazing up at him. “It is beautiful,” she said without looking at the view. “There’s nothing in Louisiana like this. I could stay in San Diego forever.”

  “I’ve gotta get you home,” he said, pressing the accelerator closer to the floor.

  Five minutes later, he parked the car on the street beside the curb in front of her house in Coronado. She was still gazing at him.

  Zack took a breath. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “I thought you’d never offer.” She moved to the passenger-side door to wait for him. Zack opened her door and with his hand gently guided her through the gate, which seemed almost florescent under the glow of the full moon. The sound of the gentle swells from the Pacific lapping the beach just down the street, combined with the cool breeze coming off the ocean, made him want to go find a hammock somewhere. Alone.

  As they stepped onto the brick walkway, he felt her arm slip around his waist, her body nudge close to his. Her steps toward the house slowed.

  She turned, facing him as they approached the front steps, slipping both her hands behind his waist. “Want to come in? I won’t tell if you don’t,” she said, her eyes glowing in the moonlight.

  He inhaled deeply, reached for her hands, and gently backed away. “You need a friend right now. Nothing more.”

  She stared at him, eyes narrowed as if angry at the rebuff. “Okay, I get it,” she finally said, nodding slowly. “I’ve had a great time. Thank you.”

  “Good night, Marianne,” he said.

  As Zack drove away, it wasn’t Marianne who occupied his thoughts. It was the image of Pierre Rochembeau declaring to the world that Diane had said yes to his proposal of marriage.

  CHAPTER 18

  Arlington National Cemetery

  Arlington, Virginia

  It was a long walk, maybe a quarter of a mile up the hill, along the cart way to the grave site. Captain David Guy stayed a few yards behind the family. In front of the family, six horses drew the caisson bearing the flag-draped casket toward the empty grave.
There was little noise except for the clop-clop of the hooves on the pavement. When they reached the site, just up the hill from the tomb of President John F. Kennedy, a cool breeze rolled from the river, providing a nice respite from the summer heat.

  This would be a short ceremony, David knew, as most of the goodbyes and the eulogies had been spoken in Norfolk’s Grace Episcopal Church yesterday. Still, it was an important ceremony, a privilege afforded Commander Latcher and his family.

  “Attention on deck!” The executive officer, now the acting commanding officer of Strike Fighter Squadron 115, called the command from the grassy knoll.

  From the direction of the honor guard, David saw the national colors and the Navy flag flapping in the increasing breeze as the family filed into the two rows of aluminum folding chairs and seated themselves.

  The Navy chaplain, a lieutenant commander dressed in summer whites, took his place near the casket. “To Mary, Mary Blake, Beth, and Wesley,” he said, his gaze on the family. “To the family members and friends of Commander Mark Latcher who are here today, to the members of Strike Fighter Squadron 115 . . .” He paused. “. . . we come here now, in this beautiful setting, on this the most hallowed ground of our great nation, to say good-bye to a husband, to a father, to a leader, to a friend.

  “But to those who loved Commander Latcher, to those who served under him, to those who long to see him again, take to heart this irrefutable truth. Mark Latcher not only served his country, but even more importantly, he served his Lord. He made Jesus Christ, the risen, living Son of God, the Lord and Savior of his life.

  “Jesus said to the thief on the cross, ‘Today you will be with me in paradise.’ In addition, the Bible says that when we who know him depart from the body, we are immediately in the presence of the Lord. And we know, based on his assurances, that today Mark Latcher is in the glorious presence of our living Lord.

  “And so, in these last few moments on this gorgeous hillside, the resting place of presidents, and supreme court justices, and ambassadors, and thousands of men and women who, like Commander Mark Latcher, have sacrificed their lives for freedom, we take hold of the promises of our Savior. In his promises, there is hope. In his promises, there is truth. For he is the way, and the truth, and the life. Amen.”