Hostage Page 5

  If he followed through with this, he would become a traitor to many and a hero to others, depending on whether this al-Akhma really was Allah's prophet.

  Quasay believed him to be, but he wasn't certain.

  He took another long draw on the freshly lit Camel as the sun's afterglow faded and a canopy of stars appeared in the clear sky.

  In the end, his heart was not with the setting sun to the west. It was with the rising crescent moon to the east. His struggle now was determining whether the crescent moon really was calling him to unload deadly ordinance on the target in question.

  Perhaps he had been called to this mission for a purpose beyond human understanding. He'd always wanted to fly fighter jets, even as a boy. Then out of the blue, Allah's providence had provided him the best flight training in the world.

  Fate was with him. Every dime of his education at the University of Michigan had been paid for by the Muslim Academic Foundation, a New York - based entity that provided scholarships for young members of the Great Faith who attended college to pursue careers in the United States military.

  The stated purpose of the foundation was to give more Muslim Americans the opportunity to serve their country in the armed forces. Extra money was available for students who committed to enrolling in the Naval Reserve Officers Training Corps -- NROTC -- during college. Even more money was thrown to NROTC students following the aviation track.

  The foundation not only paid every dime of tuition, books, boarding, and meals for his education at Michigan, but also paid him a living allowance of $1,500 a month.

  Someone, somewhere, wanted more Muslim pilots in the United States Navy.

  Later, he learned that the foundation, though based locally in New York, received most of its funding from Muslim and Arab brothers overseas, with the greatest percentage coming from an organization known as the Council of Ishmael.

  He also learned that he had been scrutinized by the foundation before the scholarship was offered and was selected because he and his family were determined to be true guardians of the Great Faith by meeting the following criteria: First, his parents were less than one generation removed from immigrating to America, his grandparents having grown up in Iran.

  Second, Quasay and his two sisters were educated in a private, conservative Muslim academy, The School of the Holy Prophet, located on the outskirts of Dearborn, Michigan. There, strict adherence to the Great Faith was taught. Quasay was personally recommended by the Islamic headmaster and the school's three staff imams as a young man who would adhere to the Faith above all else.

  Finally, Quasay was fluent in Arabic, as were all other scholarship recipients, he later learned.

  Yes, fate was surely with him.

  "Excellent landing, Commander."

  He recognized the voice of Lieutenant Hosni Alhad, the only other Arab-American fighter pilot on the aircraft carrier. He turned and saw the red glow of a cigarette lighting the silhouette of a man.

  "Hosni, come." Quasay motioned to the pilot, then patted him on the shoulder as he stepped forward. Like Quasay, Alhad also was still in his olive-drab aviator's flight suit. "How was your landing, my brother?"

  "Not quite as smooth, sir." Hosni Alhad took a long draw, then flicked the ashes into the sea breeze. "My tail hook caught the second wire." Alhad uttered an obscenity and took another draw.

  "Second wire?" Quasay paused. "Not too bad. At least you did not have to make another pass." He coughed. "And at least you're not in the drink. Besides, the winds and seas picked up considerably between the time of our launch and our landing."

  A brief pause. Then Alhad spoke. "With all respect, sir, the increased winds and seas did not prevent you from nailing your landing. Your skills are amazing, Mohammed."

  Quasay let that pass for a few seconds. "I was lucky, Hosni. I've been lucky all these years."

  "Your modesty, sir, deprives Allah of the glory due him from having bestowed such superb abilities on you." Alhad switched to Arabic, lowering his voice. "Surely our presence here, together, in the same squadron, is divinely ordained, a sign that we are to carry out Allah's mission."

  Quasay looked around to make sure nobody was in earshot. He didn't like speaking in Arabic with Hosni in front of other navy personnel. On the other hand, better to use Arabic than to divulge information that would get them both court martialed.

  Under the carrier's deck lights, he could make out the presence of a couple of ATs -- aviation technicians -- working on a jet about thirty yards away. The increasing sea breeze would serve as an effective sound barrier.

  "No email messages, I take it, Hosni?"

  "Not yet, sir. And we aren't yet within radio contact of Gibraltar."

  "You are excited about this, my younger brother? You realize we may both die."

  "Martyrdom would be my privilege, sir."

  His pupils adjusting to the nighttime conditions on the flight deck, Quasay looked into Alhad's jet-black eyes. "Are you sure this is what you want? You know, it isn't too late to back out. If the call comes, what we are being asked to do will never be understood even by many Muslims. No one will say anything if you back out."

  "Commander," Alhad said, still whispering in Arabic, "they paid for my education as they did yours. There is no coincidence that Allah has placed me in this squadron, at this time, at this place, for a reason. I am convinced al-Akhma is Allah's prophet. I am ready to give my life for a greater cause. I am with you in life, and in death, sir."

  Quasay smiled. "I'm glad you are sure, brother." Even if I am not. Then he switched to English and patted Hosni on the back again. "Get some rest. You'll need it."

  CHAPTER 6

  Main plaza entrance

  United States Supreme Court Building

  Maryland Avenue Washington, D.C.

  The car carrying Lieutenant Commander Wendy Poole and Captain Will MacDonald pulled to a halt along Maryland Avenue between the U.S. Capitol and the Supreme Court Building. Wendy grabbed her briefcase and stepped out onto the sun-bathed plaza.

  The white marble Greek-revival building loomed above the plaza, its massive columns towering upward like powerful pillars of wisdom reaching to the heavens. Resting atop the columns, chiseled in massive granite for all to see, were the words Equal Justice Under Law.

  Her gaze was fixed on the proclamation of justice, broken only by the flight of pigeons alighting from their berth under the great sign and fluttering to the plaza just a few feet in front of her. As the pigeons pecked at some peanuts being tossed by two little girls and their mother, Wendy realized her heart was in a sudden flurry. Until now, the idea of arguing before the Supreme Court of the United States was an esoteric concept to be dealt with in the future.

  But being here, stepping onto the plaza, witnessing the majestic building and the hundreds of spectators and media gathered on the plaza and the marble-columned portico steps -- reality hit her like a cold, wet washrag in the face.

  Please, Lord, give me strength.

  "Captain MacDonald? Commander Poole?" Two middle-aged police officers in navy blue uniforms were standing by the car. "We'll be escorting you into the building and into the courtroom. If you'll follow me, please?"

  "Lead the way, Sergeant," Captain MacDonald said.

  The policemen led the two JAG officers straight down the middle of an open, roped-off passageway toward the steps leading into the building. Several hundred people crowded along the ropes, standing behind a dozen armed, uniformed police officers who guarded the inside of the cordoned-off passageway. Wendy noticed several signs and placards carried by some in the crowd.

  Navy Justice: An Oxymoron

  Free the Chaplains!

  Capital Punishment = State-Sanctioned Murder!

  Kill the Chaplains!

  The Real Problem? Judeo-Christian-Yankee-Zionism!

  "Who are these people?" Wendy mumbled under her breath.

  "Professional court watchers," one of the officers volunteered. The foursome strode down the plaz
a toward the most famous courthouse in the world. "There are always a few newbies for each new case," the officer added as they neared the base of the steps. "Other than that, it's the same nuts holding different signs. I think they're on retainer by interest groups trying to influence the court."

  When they reached the bottom step, the sergeant halted, then mumbled something into his hand held radio.

  Wendy looked up at the blue sky, again taking in the towering columns that reached to the heavens. The sergeant was still on his walkie-talkie, talking about the security check.

  "Are you here on the Olajuwon case?" a woman shouted, standing behind the rope just to the right of the steps in an area designated for the press. "Priscilla McNally, Washington Post," the woman shouted again. Wendy recognized the name. "Are you Commander Poole?"

  Wendy glanced at Captain MacDonald. "It's okay to identify yourself," he whispered. "They'll see you in the courtroom anyway. But no comments about the case."

  "Aren't you Commander Poole?"

  "Yes, I am," Wendy said. Hurry up, Sergeant.

  "Commander, it's almost unheard of for the Supreme Court to hear argument on a motion for a stay of execution. Do you think this is a sign that the court may in fact block the execution of the chaplains?"

  "Ready, ma'am? Sir?" The sergeant motioned the JAG officers to follow him up the steps.

  Wendy turned and smiled at Priscilla McNally. "Sorry, I can't comment on that right now."

  "But, Commander . . . Isn't it unusual . . ."

  The reporter's voice faded as a female police officer snapped, "Place your briefcase on the belt, ma'am. Wendy stepped through a metal detector just inside the large doorway.

  "Your arms out, ma'am," the woman said. Wendy assumed a spread-eagle position, doing her best to maintain a sense of dignity. "Sorry, ma'am. We're required to do this even for the attorneys."

  Wendy did not catch that. Her eyes were roaming around the "Great Hall," the palatial, pure marble hallway with Roman columns leading to the door of the courtroom itself. She looked up and saw eight cylindrical gold chandeliers hanging by gold chains from a red-and-gold-checkered ceiling as the female police officer waved an electromagnetic wand under her arms, behind her rear, and down the front of her chest. Then a delayed reaction made her realize that the officer had spoken to her.

  "That's okay, Officer."

  "Good luck, ma'am," the female officer said.

  "This way." The sergeant motioned them across the marble floor. The echo of their clicking steps bounced off the columns and ceiling as the foursome walked toward the courtroom. The sergeant pushed open one of the huge double doors, then stepped back for Wendy to enter.

  Already, a packed gallery sat in hushed reverence on both sides of the aisle. Wendy stopped just inside the chamber, her eyes wide as her gaze swept the regal scene before her.

  Across the room, beyond the packed gallery, nine raised black chairs, still empty, loomed like thrones reserved for exalted princes. And in the very center, the chief justice's chair stood out like the throne of the king.

  Behind the thrones rose four Roman marble columns draped with red velvet curtains. In the center of the gallery over the chief justice's chair, a round white clock hung suspended from the ceiling.

  Down in the center of the well, about four feet below the justices' platform, was the podium from which she would argue. As if to add more pressure, a small spotlight illuminated the counsel's podium.

  "Follow me." The sergeant motioned, breaking Wendy's trance. She fell in line behind the sergeant and Captain MacDonald and strode down the center aisle between the spectators. The sergeant pushed open a mahogany gate separating the gallery from the counsel area and directed Wendy and Captain MacDonald to be seated at the large counsel table just to the right of the spotlighted podium.

  A few seconds later, another Supreme Court policeman escorted two U.S. Marine JAG officers through the same gate and directed them to be seated at the counsel table to the left. Fit, trim, dressed in green tunics with their hair closely cropped, Major Andy Goldstein and Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Rafferty were from the Navy JAG Appellant Defense Division in Washington. Both were familiar to Wendy. She had argued against them many times before the Armed Forces Court of Criminal Review.

  Goldstein looked over at Wendy and nodded, but he did not smile or show any other emotion. Rafferty looked straight ahead and did not make eye contact.

  "All rise!" a deep voice bellowed as nine black-robed justices emerged through the curtains draped behind their thrones. "The Honorable Chief Justice and the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States. Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before the Honorable Supreme Court of the United States are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Court is now sitting. God save the United States and this Honorable Court!"

  Wendy's gaze settled on an older man in a pinstriped suit standing to the far left of the nine chairs. The clerk of the Supreme Court.

  "This Supreme Court for the United States of America is now in session." The clerk's deep voice resonated throughout the palatial courtroom. "Please be seated."

  Wendy's knees weakened as her hand found the chair's armrest. She tentatively pushed the chair back from the counsel table and, with all the dignity she could muster, lowered herself and focused her eyes on the chief justice.

  Thank God they don't let TV cameras in here. The whole country would see me hyperventilating.

  "The clerk will call the first case." The black-haired, double-chinned chief justice drew out the words in the Alabama drawl for which he was known.

  Lord, calm my nerves.

  "Call United States versus Mohammed Olajuwon et al.," the clerk bellowed. He sat down and seemed to disappear in the shadows behind the spotlights illuminating the nine lords of American jurisprudence.

  "We'll hear from counsel for the appellant." Chief Justice Rayford Moore twitched his dark, bushy eyebrows. "If I'm not mistaken, that would be Major Goldstein?" He nodded toward the marines.

  Andy Goldstein stood and flattened his green marine jacket against his already very flat waist. With a row of colorful service ribbons on his chest and a single legal pad in his hand, he stepped to the spotlighted podium between counsel tables.

  "Mr. Chief Justice, associate justices, may it please the court." Goldstein's hands clutched both sides of the podium. His voice sounded firm, commanding, but his knuckles looked white. "I am Major Andrew Goldstein, United States Marine Corps, with Navy JAG Appellate Defense, and along with Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Rafferty, I represent the petitioner-appellants in this case."

  Goldstein's gaze dropped to his legal pad. "Briefly, the facts of this case are as follows -- "

  "We know the facts, Major!" the chief justice snapped. "Tell us why we should stop the execution of these three chaplain officers, all of whom have been convicted by a court-martial of their peers."

  The interruption seemed to jar Goldstein's concentration. Wendy saw his eyes rise from the legal pad, saw him lock stares with the chief justice. A stunning moment of silence followed as Goldstein appeared to gather his thoughts.

  The chief justice intimidates even the marines.

  "Because, Mr. Chief Justice . . . because of governmental misconduct." Goldstein lifted his right hand from the podium. "The government's whole case started with a navy investigator who broke into a witness's car -- without probable cause -- and began gathering evidence on which the government got its conviction. We submit that this was tainted evidence" -- he chopped the air with his right hand -- "and this court should block the execution based on that reason alone -- "

  "But, Major!" Associate Justice Edna Rouse Winstead, the court's newest member and a former congresswoman from Wilson, North Carolina, removed her reading glasses. "This navy investigator you're referring to is Special Agent Kilnap, correct?"

  "Yes, ma'am, Justice Winstead," the marine said.

  "Isn't it true," the attractive fifty-year-old said, "tha
t even if some of Kilnap's activities were improper, this evidence against the Muslim chaplains would have been discovered anyway?" Winstead raised her eyebrows, flashed an owlish look at Goldstein, then put her glasses back on.

  Goldstein took a sip of water. "That's the government's argument, Madam Justice. Obviously we disagree with that argument." Goldstein glanced at Wendy, who looked at her watch.

  Twenty minutes until I argue. Lord, make my knees stop shaking.

  CHAPTER 7

  River entrance

  The Pentagon

  Arlington, Virginia

  Diane stepped out the massive front doors of the Pentagon's river entrance, the side of the great limestone building overlooking the Potomac River. She gazed across the river, soaking in the view of the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and in the distance, the dome of the U.S. Capitol. Even in late winter, with spring threatening to burst forth in the form of cherry blossoms, Washington was one of the world's most breathtaking cities.

  "We're gonna be late." Zack glanced at his watch as he followed her out the door a moment later.

  "Attention on deck!"

  Diane snapped to attention, ignoring Zack's comment, then rendered a sharp salute. Zack also snapped to attention and saluted as the judge advocate general of the navy, Rear Admiral Joseph Stumbaugh, accompanied by his personal aide, Lieutenant Commander Kirk Foster, exited through the river entrance doors.

  Stumbaugh returned the salutes. "At ease, Lieutenants."

  Two government staff cars, the first a white Crown Victoria, the second a white Taurus, had been dispatched by the navy to carry the JAG contingent on the short drive from the Pentagon to the White House. They were flanked by two squad cars, one from the Arlington Police Department and a second from the Virginia State Police.

  Admiral Stumbaugh and Commander Foster rode in the backseat of the Crown Victoria. Directly behind the Crown Vic, Zack and Diane sat in the backseat of the Taurus.

  They were told that Virginia State Troopers and City of Arlington Police would provide an escort from "the Building" -- the name military insiders called the Pentagon -- across Memorial Bridge to the base of the Lincoln Memorial, where D.C. police would take over.