Treason Page 5

  “Silence! Denounce Christianity! Confess the truth—Islam is supreme.

  Then maybe Allah will spare you all!”

  The captain frowned. “Who’s the pastor? I want to know. Now!”

  “Already got it, sir,” the second dispatcher said. “Jeffrey Carl Spletto. He’s been the senior pastor there for twenty years. Married. Three kids living at home. BA from UCLA. Seminary at Southwestern in Dallas. Goes by ‘Jeff.’”

  “Source?”

  “Church website, sir.”

  “How ’bout the perpetrator?”

  “Nothing yet. Not enough info.”

  Spletto’s voice came back over the loudspeakers. “Sir, I appeal to your sense of humanity. Surely you wish no harm to innocent women and children. Look around you, sir. These are Americans. These are your countrymen.”

  “My loyalty is to Allah. These have laughed at his ways. I heard them with my own ears. All who reject him are infidels.”

  “Sir, this is a loving church. We are here to demonstrate God’s love. And God loves you, just like you are. Tell us what we can do for you and we will.”

  The captain nodded. “Good job, Pastor. Keep him talking.”

  “The only name you need to remember is the name of Allah. And you cannot help me. You can only help yourself—by denouncing Christianity!”

  A police sergeant rushed into the dispatch room, teletype in hand. “Captain, the Navy reports three missing grenades from the weapons magazine of the USS Tarawa.”

  “God help us. What type, Sergeant?”

  “M67s.”

  “Great.” He took the teletype from the sergeant’s hand, anger growing as he read. “Some of the most powerful weapons in the military’s arsenal.” He looked up at the police sergeant. “How’d this happen?”

  “The Navy discovered three fake hand grenades.” The sergeant spoke rapidly. “Someone molded the fake grenades in some sort of ceramic, painted them the right color, and hid the fakes in with the real things.”

  Neptune scoured the sea of faces who had participated in this abomination. His rage made his breathing ragged, but the hand holding the grenade was still. Deadly still. Many of the women were shaking. The cries of the frightened children filled the room like a pack of baby wolves howling at a full moon.

  His gaze met that of the father of the African-American girl in front of him. The little girl’s arms were wrapped around her father’s legs. She looked up at Neptune, her eyes big, sweet, innocent—yet terrified. But like a lioness cub, cute and cuddly at first, she would grow into something dangerous. An infidel. She would become a mother of Christian infidels who opposed and desecrated the name of Allah.

  “Come on, brother. Have some compassion, man!” The girl’s father pled softly, his eyes locked onto Neptune’s. “My little girl ain’t done nothin’ to you. Please, man. I’m beggin’ you. Just let her and my wife walk out the back door. Let all the children walk out. Please . . . I’m—”

  “Shut up!” Neptune stared at Spletto. “Your time is running out. Deny Christianity! You have two minutes.”

  “Please, Jeff, just tell him whatever he wants to hear!” The young woman was sobbing as she cradled an infant in her arms. “God will forgive you. Just tell him what he wants to hear.”

  Another woman spoke, her voice low and trembling. “God understands, Jeff. Just say the words.”

  “Hold your ground, Jeff.” This from the middle-aged man who’d spoken up earlier. “You were born for this very moment. Don’t deny the faith. No matter what.”

  With tears showing his weakness, the man at the podium gazed at the woman cradling the infant. Slowly, deliberately, he moved his gaze to the second woman. Then his eyes met those of the man who just told him to keep the faith. For a moment, he didn’t move.

  Then he looked directly at Neptune. “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot and I will not deny Christianity. To deny Christianity is to deny Christ—the one who died for me. This I cannot do. This I will never do.”

  “Fool!” Neptune’s rage turned white hot. “All of you. Fools! Commander Olajuwon warned me of your hard and wicked hearts. He was right. Only purification will rid the world of your sin against Allah.”

  Neptune opened his right hand. The grenade fell, clanking to the floor, setting off screams and gasps as he pulled the pin on a second and tossed it forward. The first, blinding blast at his feet guaranteed he would not hear the second.

  CHAPTER 6

  Navy brig

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego

  The ten-minute walk across base from her office to the brig under the warm, blue, arid San Diego sky had put Diane Colcernian in a good mood. Even a brief stroll outdoors in the world-class weather—the Mediterranean climate most people in the U.S. never experience—was like a tonic to her soul.

  San Diego was the perfect antidote to losing her father. She’d been told that a change of pace—or, in this case, a change of geography—could help ease the pain caused by the death of a dear family member. There was some truth in the advice.

  Diane was led into the counsel waiting room at the Navy brig by a Filipino petty officer named Enrico Magadia. Diane wasn’t sure why they called this place a waiting room. With plain battleship-gray paint on the floors and walls, and lighting cast from overhead fluorescent bulbs, this place was more like a detention cell set up for the Navy’s defense attorneys to meet their clients.

  Despite the warm greetings from the brig staff, the cold, barren atmosphere of the place made her shudder every time she met a client here.

  “Wait here, ma’am. We’ll bring him out.” Magadia disappeared behind a door with steel bars.

  Diane set her briefcase on the steel table, unfastened the latches, and opened it. Inside were an assortment of pens, a calculator, a legal pad, today’s San Diego Union, and a file for the case of United States v.BT3 (SEAL) Antonio Blount.

  This would be her first meeting with her new client, Boiler Technician Third Class Antonio Blount, the Navy SEAL accused of raping an officer. He was probably guilty. Most of her clients were. She shuddered at the thought of defending a rapist. Easing her breath out, she tried to put aside her prejudice. Blount was her client, innocent until proven guilty, and she would defend him to the best of her abilities.

  As she waited for the master-at-arms to return with Blount, Diane sat down in one of two metal folding chairs and took the San Diego Union from her briefcase. She went immediately to the front-page story that had the entire Navy base abuzz.

  DERANGED SAILOR TURNS TERRORIST ASSAILANT, EIGHT OTHERS KILLED, 25 INJURED IN HAND GRENADE ATTACK AT LOCAL CHURCH

  Lemon Grove—A deranged Navy petty officer stole three powerful hand grenades from the weapons magazine of a U.S. Navy warship Sunday morning, then later detonated two of the three in a packed seminar at a local church, leaving eight people dead and twenty-five others seriously injured from shrapnel wounds.

  According to witnesses . . .

  Magadia, standing at the steel-barred door to the corridor that connected the waiting room to the cell blocks, interrupted her reading. “Lieutenant, we have your client.”

  She put down the newspaper.

  “Send him in.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  Magadia pushed open the door, and BT3 (SEAL) Antonio Blount, in ankle chains and handcuffs, followed him in. He wore the same uniform his jailor sported. A second master-at-arms, a third-class petty officer, followed the prisoner into the room.

  Blount, a well-chiseled physical specimen, came to attention and stared at the opposite wall.

  “Well, well, the wayward SEAL.” Diane made her tone more sympathetic than sarcastic.

  “Ma’am,” Blount said, still not making eye contact.

  “I’ve got him now.” She nodded to Magadia. “You can unchain him.”

  “Ma’am?” Magadia hesitated, as if unchaining the prisoner would invite the rape of yet another female naval officer.

  “You heard me
, Magadia. Unchain the prisoner. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Magadia inserted his master key first into the ankle chains, and then, with the clanking of chains dropping onto the cement floor, he unlocked the handcuffs.

  “That will be all, Magadia. I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

  “We’ll be here if you need us, ma’am.”

  Diane waited until Magadia and the other master-at-arms were out of hearing range. “I want you to relax and have a seat, please, Petty Officer Blount.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Blount pulled out the metal chair opposite her and made eye contact for the first time.

  She studied him. “I’m Lieutenant Colcernian, your detailed defense counsel. Have you ever had an attorney before?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. I assume that means, except for the reason you’re here now, you’ve remained pretty much out of trouble.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you know what the ‘attorney-client privilege’ is, Petty Officer Blount?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I think so.”

  “All right. Why don’t you tell me what you think it is?”

  “From what I’ve heard from the guys here in the brig, they say whatever I tell you stays a secret.”

  “You’ve got the right idea. Whatever you tell me here is in the strictest confidence. I cannot repeat anything you tell me to anyone without your express permission. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “There’s one other thing. Just because I’ve been detailed as defense counsel to your case, it doesn’t mean you’re stuck with me. You have the right, should you choose, to request any officer in the Navy JAG Corps to defend you, provided that officer is not currently detailed as a prosecutor. That’s called an IMC request.” He frowned, so she continued. “IMC means Individual Military Counsel. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Blount’s gaze drifted away from her.

  “You also have the right to hire a civilian defense counsel, at your own expense. If you choose to go that route, I would still be available to assist on your case. Or, if you and your civilian counsel request, I could be relieved. Understand?”

  Diane waited for his response.

  He cut his eyes back. “I’ve heard from the guys in the brig that you’re pretty good, ma’am. Can you get me off?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t talked about your case yet.”

  Blount paused again. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to stick with you for now and see how things go.”

  “Fine.” At least he was decisive. “But before we move on, do you have any other questions about your right to counsel or the attorney-client privilege?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. Then let’s get down to business.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you know why you’re here, Petty Officer Blount?”

  “They say I raped the ensign.”

  Diane poured ice water into a paper cup from a pitcher sitting on the table. “Right.”

  “But it’s not like that!”

  “It’s not?” She took a sip of water.

  “No, ma’am. I never raped anybody!” It sounded like he meant it.

  “Want some water?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Diane poured Blount a cup and slid it across the table. “Okay, Petty Officer Blount. Here’s how I want to approach this. Have you read the Naval Criminal Investigative Service’s report about the incident?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Okay, I’ve got a copy right here. Why don’t you read it over, then I’ll ask you some questions, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She handed him the four-page report and watched as his gaze swept the document.

  Barely a minute into the reading, he frowned. “It ain’t right.”

  “What’s not right?”

  “Ma’am, I never pulled the ensign back behind the hedgerow. This is a lie!”

  She braced herself. “The NCIS report isn’t right?”

  “No, ma’am, it is not!” His dark eyes glinted with rage.

  “All right.” Diane spoke softly, in contrast to his tone. “Why don’t you just relax and tell me how you think the report is wrong.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “Petty Officer Blount,” she said, her voice firm, “I haven’t heard your side of the story yet. Besides, if you decide to testify, it’s not whether I believe you that matters. It’s whether the jury believes you. I’m here to help you. Tell me what happened, and if it doesn’t sound believable, I’ll level with you and shoot it straight. Now, how about shooting it straight with me?”

  Blount waited about ten seconds, his black-eyed gaze hard as he started talking. “I was out taking a walk. It was about midnight. I was heading through the parking lot next to the Officers’ Club. I could hear the music coming from the club. It was loud, but I was at the far end of the parking lot when the ensign came walking toward her car. When she walked past me, I saluted, like I always do. She sort of saluted back and smiled.”

  “What do you mean, she sort of saluted back?”

  “She gave me one of those backhanded, British salutes. I could tell she’d been drinking.”

  “How?”

  “Just the way she was laughing and giggling. She was acting real silly—not the way an officer would act unless she’d been drinking.”

  “What about you, Petty Officer Blount. Did you have anything to drink that night?”

  “I had two beers at the Enlisted Club earlier that night.”

  “Go on.”

  “I said something like, ‘Good evening, ma’am,’ and then she started talking.”

  “Saying what?”

  “The first thing she said was, ‘Hold on a minute, sailor.’ So I stopped. When an officer tells you to stop, you stop. Then she asked me where I was from. I told her Mississippi. Actually, I told her Pascagoula, Mississippi. She said she was from New Orleans.”

  Diane scribbled a note on her legal pad. Check NASNI E-Club for witnesses. Call manager. Speak to bartender on duty.

  “Did she tell you her name?”

  “She said it was Ensign . . .” Blount stopped, rolled his eyes to the ceiling as if he were trying to recall the name. “Landry, I think.”

  Landry . . . Landrieu. Close enough. She scribbled Name on her yellow legal pad. “Did she give you a first name?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Of course not. “Okay. What happened next?”

  “It was like she wanted to talk. She said she’d been to Pascagoula and she liked it. Then she asked if I’d been to New Orleans. I told her I used to hang out there on the weekends. She asked me what my rank was, and I told her I’d been a boiler technician on the USS Vincennes, but now I’ve got my SEAL designation. That got her attention.”

  “Got her attention? In what way?”

  “She said she admired SEALs more than any group in the military.

  She said we’re in better shape and stronger than even the Marines. She’s right about that. Then she put her hand on my bicep and said she used to date some SEALs back in New Orleans and at the Naval Academy. Next thing I know, we were standing real close and she was looking in my face.”

  “Where were your hands?”

  “Around the back of her waist.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we started kissing.”

  “She was voluntarily participating?”

  “Oh yeah.” He stopped, looking down. “Excuse me. I mean, yes, ma’am.”

  “Then what?”

  “She said we’d better get out of the parking lot or we might get caught by the shore patrol. So she took my hand and led me back behind the hedgerows. We got down on the grass just on the other side of the shrubs. It was dark. We didn’t think anybody from the parking lot would see us. One thing led to another. Next thing I know, there was a flashlight shining through the b
ushes. I figured it was the shore patrol. I panicked.

  So I ran.”

  Diane sat back for a moment in the metal folding chair, thumping her gold Cross pen on her legal pad. “Why did you run?”

  “’Cause I knew it wouldn’t look good. Plus I knew I could outrun the shore patrol. I just didn’t count on the Marines showing up.”

  “At any time, did the ensign ever tell you to stop?”

  “Never. She was the one being aggressive.”

  “So that’s your story? The ensign consented to what you did?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He paused, his expression troubled. “I’d say it was her idea.”

  “Thank you, Petty Officer. I’m going to check into this and get back with you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Diane gathered her briefcase, settled her cover on her head, and walked out the front door of the brig into the warm San Diego sunshine. The soothing dose of the sun’s rays was a stark contrast to the cold cell block from which she had emerged. This was the feel of freedom, a simple pleasure that, unless she did her job to the best of her ability, Petty Officer Blount might not enjoy for many years.

  Her instincts told her Blount was telling the truth. Her hunch—Blount was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But zealously defending him would mean attacking the veracity and reputation of the niece of one of the most powerful men in the United States Senate. Even if Diane won, her career as a naval officer might be over. But it would mean beating Zack Brewer . . .

  Maybe it was worth the tradeoff.

  She plotted a course due west, about three blocks, to The Main Brace. It was almost lunchtime, she was thirsty, and she had some thinking to do.

  CHAPTER 7

  Shoney’s restaurant

  Four blocks from the main gate

  Oceana Naval Air Station

  Virginia Beach, Virginia

  Aviation Structural Mechanic Second Class Sulayman al-Aziz sat alone in a corner booth in the smoking section of his favorite Shoney’s. The smoke brought fond memories of his visits to Saudi Arabia with his grandparents, where smoking was everywhere—even on Islamic airliners. This section of the restaurant also gave him more privacy.