Treason Read online

  Lieutenant Commander Reska said that his hunger for righteousness was a gift from Allah and that the hand of the Almighty was surely upon him. Perhaps the chaplain could see into his soul, could prophesy his future. Great things were in store, Reska had told him. Allah had a special calling for his life.

  Deep down, AMS2 Sulayman al-Aziz knew that Reska was right. After all, how many Muslims were in the position he was in? His was an exhilarating profession: he had the great responsibility of maintaining the most powerful jet fighters in the most powerful navy in the world.

  His struggle recently was theological. The Qur’an and the Hadiths seemed at odds with the political and military mission of his employer, the United States Navy.

  The papers told of the tension in the Middle East, namely the age-old friction between the Islamic nations and their arch-nemesis, the apostate Jewish government in Israel. America was siding with the apostates. This troubled Sulayman.

  He took a swig of juice and perused the headlines of the Virginian Pilot.

  TENSIONS BUILDING IN MIDDLE EAST

  PRESIDENT PLEDGES U.S.

  MILITARY SUPPORT FOR ISRAEL

  Nimitz Battle Group to Sail from Hampton Rhodes

  Norfolk—As military tensions build between the government of Israel and the governments of Syria, Jordan, Iraq and Egypt over Israel’s refusal to dismantle Jewish settlements in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, the supercarrier USS Nimitz and its battle group of ten ships is frantically preparing to set sail from Norfolk next Wednesday.

  The Nimitz is being deployed along with other U.S. Naval forces because of the Syrian and Jordanian troop buildups along those countries’ respective borders with Israel. The international crisis has reached a boiling point and appears headed toward a military showdown.

  Syrian president Ouday Assad has demanded immediate dismantlement of the settlements, claiming that Israel has “stalled long enough,” and military intervention may be the only means of “forcing the issue.”

  “Peace be unto you, Petty Officer al-Aziz.”

  Sulayman looked up. Lieutenant Commander Mohammed Reska, Chaplain Corps, United States Navy, stood by his booth. Reska, with an olive complexion and jet-black hair reflecting his Middle Eastern heritage, wore his working khaki uniform.

  Aziz stood to acknowledge the officer’s presence. “Peace be unto you also, sir.”

  Reska smiled. “May I join you?”

  “Sorry, sir. Please.” Sulayman gestured to the seat across from him.

  “I was distracted.”

  Reska waited to speak until the waitress had taken their orders; then he said, “Allah wants our minds to be sharp. What is it that so distracts my young brother today?”

  Sulayman pushed the newspaper across the table. A minute later, the chaplain’s eyes met his. “This has you so distracted?”

  “This President Assad—he seems so determined,” Sulayman said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve contemplated your teachings about the Jews, sir. The Hadiths teach that the Jews are an apostate people. They have renounced the prophet—Peace be upon him. They control the holy city of Jerusalem, the city from which the prophet—Peace be upon him—ascended to meet Allah, then descended again.”

  Reska smiled. “Allah is pleased at your attentiveness.” He paused as the waitress placed the cantaloupe and oatmeal in front of him. When she was out of earshot, he continued. “What has been written we cannot change. We are privileged, however, to serve as warriors for Allah, in our own way, wherever he has placed us.”

  “I want to be his warrior,” Sulayman said. “Instead, I prepare the weapons of destruction to be used against his people.”

  Reska craned his neck, looking back toward the door and the empty booths around them. “Allah calls us to wage jihad,” he whispered, “wherever and under whatever circumstances he has placed us. If the warplanes you maintain will be used against Allah’s people, then perhaps he calls upon you to choose today for which side you will fight. Do you understand that your time has come?”

  Sulayman had longed to hear these words. Goose flesh shivered across the back of his neck and on his arms. “I understand, sir.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Base Family Housing Offices

  Building 1138

  Outside on the parade grounds

  United States Marine Corps Base

  Camp Pendleton, California

  Staff Sergeant Nasser Saidi, United States Marine Corps, closed the office door behind him, moved to the window, and looked down at the parade grounds.

  Just at the base of the podium, the United States Marine Corps Band was starting the breakup strain of “Semper Fidelis.” Flown in from Washington for this occasion, The President’s Own added pomp and pageantry for the event. With their silver trumpets, trombones, and sousaphones glistening in the morning sun, they were an impressive unit.

  The entire Eleventh and Thirteenth Marine Expeditionary Units, more than four thousand combat marines, stood at parade rest on the lush green parade grounds in the early morning California sunshine. The leathernecks had formed a giant circular mass of humanity around the podium, awaiting their distinguished visitor.

  The Secret Service had enlisted Marine Security to ensure the visitor’s stay at Pendleton would be safe. Nasser’s proficiency with the sniper rifle, along with his clean record and stable psychological profile, had earned him a berth on the armed security detail in the buildings around the parade grounds. His post was the third floor of the administrative office of Building 1138, headquarters of Base Family Housing.

  His job today was to remain vigilant, to report anything at all unusual, and open fire only if necessary to defend the life of the distinguished visitor.

  His was a glorious fate.

  A squawk from the government-issued walkie-talkie dangling from his belt broke his concentration. A burst of shrill static followed, then the voice of the special agent in charge of security came through loud and clear. “All units—civilian and military. Protectees arriving. Stay alert.”

  A small motorcade was approaching on Vandergrift Boulevard. Two black luxury sedans crept along, each with flags snapping at the front corners of the hoods. The first car flew the Israeli flag, and the other flew the two-star banner of a major general. They were flanked by half a dozen California Highway Patrol motorcycles. The sedans slowed and then turned from Vandergrift onto the parade grounds, inching across the grass lawn through a cleared pathway between regiments of Marines.

  When the cars halted at the base of the platform, a full-bird Marine colonel walked briskly up the stairs and stepped to the podium.

  “Attention on deck!” The simple command echoed over the loudspeakers. Four thousand marines snapped to attention. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Commanding General of Camp Pendleton, and His Excellency, the Ambassador of the State of Israel to the United States of America.”

  As the trumpet section from The President’s Own broke the morning air with “Ruffles and Flourishes,” followed by a prolonged drumroll from a row of snare drummers, two Marine corporals in dress blue uniforms opened the back door of each car. Crisp salutes from the corporals followed.

  The commanding general and the ambassador stepped up the wooden stairway onto the platform. Another salute followed, this time from the full-bird colonel. End of drumroll.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen”—the full-bird was back at the microphone, flanked by the ambassador to his left and the general on the right—“in accordance with diplomatic custom and military courtesy, please remain at attention for the playing of the national anthems of the State of Israel and of the United States of America.”

  Another drumroll rumbled, followed by the national anthem of the Jewish state.

  The four thousand marines snapped salutes, as ordered, at the Star of David flag on the platform. Diplomatic courtesy or not, the sight of Marines saluting the Jewish rag was repulsive to Nasser. The first note of “The Star Spangled Banner” rang out. The na
usea lessened; the anger did not.

  “Fellow Marines, may I present the Commanding General of Camp Pendleton, Major General Trent Lee Cox.”

  “At ease, Marines,” General Cox thundered at his Marines. “As you know, it’s no secret that the State of Israel is an important strategic ally of the United States. Nor is it a secret that tensions in the Med and the Gulf region are at an all-time high. Because you may be deployed at a moment’s notice to fight in this region, the president feels it is important that you know more about our ally Israel to better understand why you might be fighting.

  “Ambassador Daniel Barak is a warrior’s warrior. A former colonel in the Israeli Defense Force, the ambassador has seen combat—real combat—in the war on terrorism and has been involved in commanding troops as part of his military career.”

  Ordering troops to spray bullets at Allah’s people. A real warrior indeed. Nasser worked the bolt action on the rifle, chambering a live round.

  “Please join me in presenting a robust Marine welcome to His Excellency, the honorable Daniel Barak, Israeli ambassador to the United States.”

  The applause gave way to a cascade of “ooh rahs” and then the refrain “Ah root! Ah root! Ah root!”

  “What is the barking I hear?” the smiling ambassador called out to his audience. Massive laughter from the Marines followed. “I can’t tell if it’s a bunch of hound dogs barking, or a family of seals squawking out on a rock in San Diego Bay!”

  More laughter followed. Then silence.

  “I see that Marines really do obey orders without question. General Cox calls for a robust Marine welcome, and I am not disappointed. Ooh raaah!”

  Cheers erupted from the leathernecks.

  “Seriously, the widely recognized sound of a United States Marine barking—or whatever you call it—is to Israel a welcome sound. It is the sound of security. It is the sound of freedom. And to you all we say, Semper Fidelis!”

  More applause. More Marines cheering.

  Zionist propaganda.

  “Today I come in friendship, as ours is a great friendship between two great nations—the United States, the most powerful nation in the world, and the State of Israel, a small but stable democracy. We are also your most loyal ally in the most volatile region of the world, the Middle East.

  “Our region, the Middle East, as you know, has become the cradle of murderous terrorism in the world today. We in Israel have known this for generations.

  “The enemies of freedom hate us because of who we are. They hate us because we are a democracy. They despise us because our religion is different from theirs. They detest us because we believe in equal rights under the law.”

  May Allah bless me and give me strength for the task at hand.

  “Unfortunately, my brave friends, these enemies of freedom hate America for the same reasons they hate Israel. They hate you also because you are a freedom-loving democracy, committed to equal justice under the law.”

  Zionist liar.

  “This became evident on September 11, 2001, the infamous day they murdered thousands of American citizens on American soil. They attack like cowards, out of the night, preying on innocent civilians who are incapable of defending themselves.”

  Cowards? Hardly.

  “They justify murders on the false claim that we illegally possess occupied territories. This claim is false propaganda. It is revisionist history.”

  Barak paused, surveying the Marines.

  “When our nation was reborn in 1948, there was no such country as Palestine. It was a mandate controlled by the British dating back to World War I. Before that, the land had been controlled by Turkey.

  “Then in 1917, Britain declared, through a document known as the Balfour Declaration, that this land should be set aside for Jewish people, who were scattered throughout the world since the year AD 70. The British had legal authority over the land at that time, and this was their declaration.

  “Then the United Nations, in 1948, decreed we should have all the land they now claim, including the West Bank and Jerusalem. This angered the terrorists, and in 1948, a massive Arab army attacked us and stole part of the land from us, land the UN said was ours. By God’s grace, we stopped them before they drove us into the sea. Then in 1967, when they attacked again, by God’s grace, we recaptured land the UN mandated was ours to begin with.”

  Yes, and you Jews murdered innocent Palestinians who lived peacefully in their homes, didn’t you? You ran women and children into the streets and built settlements where their homes had been. You murderous swine. You gunned down my great-grandfather in cold blood, didn’t you? May the blood of Anwar Nasser be avenged this day by his great-grandson.

  “The whole conflict, therefore, has been about an effort to steal, I regret to say.”

  Easy . . . bring the crosshair down off the head. Easy on the trigger.

  “Beginning in 1948, they have sought to thumb their noses at international law. They have sought, at all costs, to take, to manipulate, to kill . . .”

  There. On the sternum. Praise be to Allah!

  The reverberation from the rifle sounded like a grenade exploding in his ears. Nasser chambered another shell.

  Squeeze!

  “Shots fired! Ambassador down.” The walkie-talkies squawked like a flock of chickens being chased by a fox.

  Another shot.

  “Where’s that coming from?” A strident, panic-stricken voice from the walkie-talkie. “Call in medevac. Now!”

  Nasser rechambered a third round. Then squeezed the trigger again.

  The smell of fresh gunpowder drifted up his nostrils.

  Another squawk from the walkie-talkie. “Shots reported from Base Housing! All units secure that building. Move it!”

  He had been discovered. Now it was a matter of time. There was no escape.

  Praise be to Allah. Soon I will be in paradise.

  Nasser chambered another round as tear-gas canisters crashed through the windows.

  His eyes watering profusely from the gas filling the room, he put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 9

  Navy Trial Services Office

  Building 73

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego

  When the phone buzzed on his desk, Lieutenant Zack Brewer was scanning the shocking headlines of the Union-Tribune.

  “Lieutenant Brewer?”

  “Yes, Amy?”

  “Sir, Lieutenant Colcernian returning your call on one.”

  “Thanks, Amy. I’ll take it.” He punched line one. “Diane.” He spoke in a friendly tone, as if greeting a long-lost friend.

  “Zack. What’s up?” Her voice was cool. The bad blood from Justice School still drippeth.

  “Just reading the headlines about the Marine shooting the ambassador at Pendleton—”

  “You mean allegedly shooting the ambassador?”

  “Come on, Diane.” Zack drummed his fingers on his desk. “They’ve traced the trajectory of the bullet fired from his gun. Nobody else in the area. Case closed.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Her voice was laced with sarcasm. “Other than the minor principle that in this country, citizens, even dead ones, are innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. But you’re probably right.”

  “Do my ears deceive me?” He relished the argumentative banter with his gorgeous, redheaded, green-eyed rival. “The best defense counsel in the Navy, conceding a point?”

  “Forget the flattery, Lieutenant. Won’t work. Besides, as long as I don’t have to concede a point concerning one of my cases, it’s sort of harmless error, eh?”

  “I was afraid you’d say that, Diane.” He chuckled. “And I’ll bet you didn’t call just to discuss the Muslim Marine with the sniper rifle?”

  “Cut to the chase, Lieutenant. I’ve got a date tonight.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  She ignored the question. “What’s the real reason for your call?”

 
He sighed. What did he care who she was seeing?

  “Okay. Here’s the deal. Blount pleads to rape; the convening authority recommends five years. And, of course, a dishonorable discharge.”

  He heard papers rustling at the other end of the line. “Fifty-five minutes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Now I’ve got just fifty-five minutes to get to the airport to pick up my date, and here I am, wasting my time listening to your ridiculous proposals. Traffic on Harbor Drive is bad this time of day.”

  “That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “What do you want me to say? I should sell my client up the river for five years in Leavenworth without a fight?” More papers rustled on her end.

  “It’s a lot better than life in prison.”

  “Hah.” Sarcasm dripped. “You know as well as I do that rarely happens in a general court-martial. Tell the convening authority six months, a bad conduct discharge—and a plea to simple assault, and I will consider, let me repeat, consider, recommending Petty Officer Blount take the deal. Otherwise, we go to trial.”

  “Diane, I know you’re competitive, and I know you’re good.” Not good enough to beat me, but still good. “But we’re talking about the rape of an officer here. By a SEAL. And I know you’ve not forgotten that two-thirds of the members sitting on the jury will be officers. If we get a conviction in this case, the sentencing phase could get ugly. Your client will wish he’d taken the five years.”

  “If you get the conviction. First, you’ve got to convince the officers on that jury that it’s okay for one of their fellow officers to run around at midnight—sloppy drunk—fraternizing with enlisted guys in the parking lot.”

  A smile crossed Zack’s face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re not seriously going to try the old ‘she wanted it’ defense with a Naval Academy grad.”

  “An Academy grad whose uncle just happens to be one of the most powerful men in Washington?”