Hostage Page 8

  It was just as he had ordered. About thirty yards away stood a small podium. To its left, six members of the white-turbaned security force stood at attention, armed with fully loaded, Russian-manufactured AK47s. To the right of the podium, a temporary spectator's gallery had been set up, consisting of sixty folding chairs, each occupied by Council of Ishmael members and other high staff officials who would learn an important lesson this day.

  The accused, twenty yards in front of the firing squad, was bound to a wooden post with heavy ropes. A black blindfold covered his eyes, a stark contrast to his white robe. Already he dripped sweat, and his chest heaved for oxygen.

  Council members rose as Hussein stepped to the podium and spoke into the microphone. His voice, amplified by powerful speakers, boomed across the desert floor.

  "What Allah has ordained, let no man put asunder. You may read the charges." He nodded to Abdur, who stepped to the podium and pulled from his pocket the formal indictment. The paper flapped in the wind as Abdur pressed it against the podium.

  "Having publicly called into question the leadership of the servant of Allah, Hussein al-Akhma, ordained leader of Allah on earth, Khalid Mohammed el-Shiek, a member of the Council of Ishmael, hath called into question the judgment of Allah himself, and therefore hath committed the crime of blasphemy, for which there is but one punishment satisfactory to Allah." A pause as the hot wind blew across the desert sand. "Death."

  Another pause as the white robes and turbans of the witnesses fluttered in the hot desert wind.

  "No," the accused wailed. "Please, Leader." He twisted against the thick ropes that bound him to the post. "Mercy, I beg of you, Leader."

  Hussein stepped back to the podium. "Do you repent of your sins against me, Khalid Mohammed?"

  "I repent, Leader." The man's voice cracked. "You alone are Allah's messenger on earth."

  "And you will never again publicly question my judgment?"

  "Never, Leader." More sobbing. "In the name of Allah. You have my word."

  "This man has asked for mercy." Hussein looked to the members of the Council. "What shall I do?"

  They stared back at him but did not answer.

  "Shall I offer clemency at this late hour?" Still no response. "Will no one answer?"

  The wind whipped; the traitor wailed. There was no other sound.

  "Remove his blindfold," Hussein ordered.

  The execution squad leader stepped forward and pulled off the blindfold. Hussein studied Khalid Mohammed's face. Sweat trailed down his forehead. His bloodshot eyes pleaded for leniency.

  "Because you have asked for mercy, I shall grant it."

  "Thank you, Leader!" Khalid sobbed. "Praise be to Allah!" Khalid's voice cracked.

  "Praise be to Allah, indeed." Hussein motioned for the firing squad captain to approach. "Bring me a knife so that I may personally cut the ropes."

  "I shall always serve you, Leader," the man cried.

  The squad captain handed Hussein a glistening bayonet that had been affixed to his AK-47. Then Hussein slowly walked the short distance from the podium to the accused.

  "Because you have asked for mercy, I shall grant it," Hussein whispered.

  "Thank you, my leader." Uncontrollable sobbing from the formerly condemned man, now reprieved. "I shall follow you always."

  "Shhh." Hussein brought his left index finger over his lips, as if lulling a baby to sleep. With his right hand, he held the bayonet high over his head, and as the chrome blade reflected the brilliant midday sun, he plunged it into Khalid's esophagus, but not deep enough to kill. Blood spurted as Khalid gasped for air and writhed.

  "Die, traitorous swine!" Hussein twisted the knife, then forced it deeper until the tip of the blade jutted through the back of Khalid's neck. The man's head dropped, and blood flowed from his mouth.

  The hot wind swept a wave of sand over his feet in the direction of the seated council members. He turned to them. "Will anyone else publicly question me?"

  More sand whipped across the desert floor as he studied their terror-filled faces. "Is there no one else who wishes to question Operation Islamic Glory?"

  They sat silently, looking straight head, as if afraid to make eye contact.

  "Very well. You have seen the penalty for questioning the vision and divine will of Allah. Islamic Glory, the vision directly from Allah, which this dead swine questioned" -- he waved his hand back toward the limp, bleeding body of Khalid Mohammed el-Shiek -- "shall drive an irreparable wedge between the Great Satan, the United States, and her lackey Zionist puppet, the Israeli occupation force masquerading as a Jewish government in Palestine. America shall lose her influence forever in the Arab world, leading to the birth of the first legitimate Arab superpower, of which you shall form the ruling council, and of which I shall be the leader.

  "Yes, it will require giving up something dear to Islam, but in the end, this will mean sweeping growth for Islam throughout the world."

  He eyed them once more. Were there any other traitors among them? Had he perhaps made more than one mistake in his selection of these, the chosen ones?

  "We are with you, Leader!" one of them shouted.

  "We shall never forsake you. You are Allah's chosen one," shouted another.

  "Cast your eyes upon the bleeding body of the traitor," Hussein said. "From this day forward, let it be known that the vengeful blood of Allah shall be upon those who oppose him and question his prophet."

  He turned and walked to the corpse. Blood still oozed from the throat and mouth. Hussein grabbed the bayonet and pulled the steel blade, dripping with dark red blood, from el-Sheik's throat. Then he walked behind the post and cut the ropes from the traitor's hands and body. El-Sheik dropped to the sand, his body a lifeless heap.

  A sense of exhilaration filled Hussein at this power over life and death. A smile crossed his face.

  "Death to America!" he shouted.

  "And to her Zionist puppet, Israel," his followers responded.

  "Come, my brethren, there is work to be done for Allah's kingdom."

  He kicked sand in the bleeding face of el-Sheik's body, then motioned Abdur Rahman to follow him back into headquarters. It was time to make a decision on Operation Islamic Glory.

  CHAPTER 10

  Officer's Club

  Washington Navy Yard

  Washington, D.C.

  The main dining room inside the Officer's Club at the historic Washington Navy Yard was like most Zack had visited around the world: bright, open windows, simple gold chandeliers hanging from a pristine ceiling, white-clad navy stewards moving about with a uniform dignity.

  Live music was always a part of the O-Club scene. And in this case, a gray-haired black man, whose smile reflected unrestrained joy, provided exquisite light jazz on a baby grand Steinway in the far corner of the room.

  From time to time, a saxophone player joined in. The first notes of "Misty" flowed with velvet sweetness from the sax just as the host announced that Captain MacDonald's table for his party of six was now ready.

  "We're still waiting on two more," MacDonald said. "The judge advocate general, Admiral Stumbaugh, and possibly the secretary of the navy."

  That announcement brought a pop-eyed stare from the host. "Captain, I can assure you that my staff will be on the lookout for the admiral and the secretary, and we will promptly escort them to your table upon their arrival."

  MacDonald wore the regulation uniform of the day in the D.C. area for late winter - early spring: navy dress blues with gold buttons down the jacket and the four gold stripes of a navy captain on his lower sleeves. He glanced at his watch with obvious irritation.

  "Very well," he said, "but please make sure these gentlemen aren't left waiting."

  The host motioned for the present members of the MacDonald party, including Zack, Lieutenant Diane Colcernian, Lieutenant Commander Wendy Poole, and Captain MacDonald, to follow him to their table.

  After having been honored by President Williams in the Rose Gar
den, Zack felt burned out by the limelight and longed to return to being an anonymous JAG officer, away from the camera's blinding glare. Besides, he was looking forward to just being alone with Diane.

  But they had been invited to the O-Club for dinner by the commanding officer of the JAG Appellate Government Division, who, in Zack's opinion, was undoubtedly hoping that the judge advocate general or maybe even the secretary of the navy might join them.

  After all, it was an extraordinary day for the JAG Corps: national television exposure at the White House, then at the Supreme Court. MacDonald could still be tapped for JAG, and it was all about timing, as Zack well knew.

  Lieutenant Commander Wendy Poole, who sat just to his left at the elegant round dining room table, was under MacDonald's command. A good commander could rightfully take credit for the success of his subordinates, and MacDonald had done just that because Wendy Poole worked directly for him. And so when MacDonald glanced repeatedly at his watch when salads were being ordered, he was, Zack surmised, still contemplating the whereabouts of the guest of honor, the judge advocate general of the navy.

  "Do you have anything light?" Zack asked in response to the steward's question about his salad dressing preference.

  "Light ranch, light Italian, and we also have a raspberry vinaigrette, which seems to be a favorite here, sir," the steward said, standing over Zack's shoulder with a pen and pad.

  Zack glanced at Lieutenant Commander Poole, who looked quite buoyant from her Supreme Court appearance. "Any suggestions, ma'am?" He caught her eye. "This is your O-Club."

  Captain MacDonald's cell phone chirped, and before Wendy could respond, the captain stood, bringing Zack and the two female officers to their feet. He excused himself and stepped away from the table. Zack, Wendy, and Diane resumed their seats.

  "First of all, Zack, you can drop the 'ma'am.' " Wendy smiled. " 'Wendy' will be fine. At least in private. I'm not all that senior to you." She glanced at Diane. "That goes for you too, Lieutenant Colcernian. Please, in private call me Wendy."

  "Thank you," Diane said.

  "I understand, sir," Zack overheard Captain MacDonald saying on his cell phone. "Midnight tomorrow."

  "Did you decide on a dressing, sir?" the naval steward persisted.

  Zack glanced at Lieutenant Commander Poole. "You were about to make a recommendation, ma' -- Wendy?"

  "I agree with the steward," she said. "You've got to try the vinaigrette."

  "Raspberry vinaigrette it is," Zack said.

  Captain MacDonald stepped back to the table, and the three stood. "Ladies and gentleman, I've got good news and bad news." MacDonald grinned, motioning them back into their seats. "Which do you prefer first?"

  "Bad news first, please, sir," Wendy said as the senior officer.

  "Admiral Stumbaugh called. The bad news is that neither the JAG nor the secretary of the navy will be joining us for dinner."

  What a shame.

  "The good news is" -- the captain grinned broadly -- "the Supreme Court has ruled." He crossed his arms, smiled, and leaned back in his chair.

  "Already?" Wendy Poole gave him a puzzled look.

  "Split decision. Five to four," MacDonald announced in a flat voice. "The petition for a stay of the execution has been denied."

  "Denied?" Wendy sounded incredulous.

  "Executions at midnight tomorrow." A proud smirk crossed his face.

  As three stewards arrived with trays loaded with salads and beverages, Zack turned away from the table to look out over the Anacosta River. His gaze followed it out to where it met the Potomac. He felt sick. The men he'd prosecuted were going to die. They were traitorous murderers; yet they were still human. And by midnight tomorrow, all hope for their salvation would be gone.

  Forever.

  "And here's the other good news," MacDonald said. "SECDEF wants you two in Leavenworth tomorrow to witness the executions."

  Zack turned back to the table, feeling as though a cinder block had dropped onto his stomach. He and Diane stared at each other for a moment. Without turning away, he said, "Sir, will Lieutenant Colcernian be accompanying us?"

  "That's a negative," MacDonald said. "Security reasons, I think. Sorry, Diane."

  She seemed reluctant to tear her gaze away from Zack's, but finally she looked at MacDonald. "That's okay, sir. This is one I'll gladly pass up."

  "Anyway," MacDonald continued, "I'll be accompanying you two. We catch a C-9 out of Andrews at 2200 hours tonight."

  Tonight?

  "Diane," MacDonald continued, "the Admiral says to remind you that you've still got another week of leave before you're to report back to San Diego. We've had you under pretty tight security here in Washington. We'd like to think that the incident with the sniper is past, but those guys are still out there on the loose.

  "The admiral isn't ordering you to accept marine protection, but he thinks it would be a good idea. And for the record, so do I."

  Diane sipped her water, then met Zack's eyes again. By now, he could read her expressions. And the brief glance she just shot him with those enticing green eyes was one that he had seen many times on her pretty face: a feisty look of subtle defiance. She could be so hardheaded. Which, ironically, was one of the many attributes he found attractive about her.

  "I'll be fine, Captain. They wouldn't have found us last week if some numbskull hadn't shown us on national television. No more Carolina games for me." She raised a brow at Zack. "Besides, I need to relax for a few days. If the admiral's technically not ordering that I accept marine protection . . ."

  "Diane," Zack snapped. "Don't be foolish." He shot her a stern glare, as if that would do any good. "You can't travel back to San Diego in anonymity. Your face is too well known around the country." He took her hand. "I insist that you accept marine protection."

  "Insist?" she said with a laugh. Then she touched his arm, serious again. "Really, Zack. Don't worry about me." An all-confident smile lit her face. "I'll be fine."

  "Well, then." Captain MacDonald checked his watch. "We'd better be going. Anyway" -- he handed Diane a business card -- "we have to get rolling. I'll arrange for our command master chief, Master Chief Gimler, to pick you up in just a few minutes. He'll take you anywhere in the city you'd like. The master chief will be instructed to stay with you while you're in Washington and provide support for you here. You need to rent a car, he'll take care of it. Or if you want a ride to the airport, or the mall, or whatever you need, Master Chief Gimler will be your shadow in the nation's capital." He glanced at the card in her hand. "You've got my number and also the number of the JAG's aide, Lieutenant Commander Foster. Call either of us if you change your mind about an escort back to the West Coast."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  Captain MacDonald inclined his head toward Zack and Wendy. "Commander, Lieutenant, we need to get going. There are a couple of things I need to brief you on." He glanced at Diane. "Take care of yourself, Lieutenant."

  The idea of leaving Diane here, by herself, made Zack sick. After all this time . . . after fighting like mortal enemies, then coming together to prosecute the most publicized court-martial in history, after all that had happened between them in the aftermath. He turned down a congressional seat in part because of her. They'd traveled the country together, escaped an assassination attempt, been honored by the president of the United States. Together.

  And now to be separated suddenly? By the chirp of the captain's cellular phone? This wasn't how it was supposed to end. Was it? But as Captain MacDonald said, duty called. Duty always called. And Zack was first and foremost a naval officer.

  "Lieutenant Brewer. Are you coming?" MacDonald and Wendy had already taken a few steps away from the table.

  "Captain?"

  MacDonald turned. "Yes, Zack?"

  "With the captain's permission, may I have a word with Lieutenant Colcernian for just a few minutes?"

  "Sure, Lieutenant." He glanced at his watch again. "Five minutes, okay?"

  "Thank you,
sir."

  "Meet us outside." Captain MacDonald turned and escorted Wendy through the door.

  "So. This is it?" She managed a smile. He opened his arms, and she stepped into his embrace. "You know, the navy has rules against public display of affection."

  "Who cares?" He hugged her tightly. "Wait here."

  "Where are you going?"

  "I'll be right back." He stepped to the piano, pulled a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, and then whispered into the ear of the saxophonist. Two long-stemmed roses were in a vase on the baby grand. Zack took one and walked back over to Diane. "For you."

  "Zack." She smelled the rose and grinned up at him, her green eyes bright.

  "You know, once in a while we get a special request." The saxophonist's deep voice boomed over his microphone. "To lay down the saxophone and to sing." He flashed a broad, gleaming smile in their direction. "And I am pleased to report I have just received such a request." A dramatic pause. "From Lieutenant Brewer to Lieutenant Colcernian."

  A stunned gaze crossed her face.

  "And Lieutenant Colcernian, Lieutenant Brewer asks you for the honor of this dance."

  His voice, like the sound of his saxophone, was smooth velvet. He was Satchmo, back from the grave, bellowing golden tones from the great love song from West Side Story.

  "There's a place for us.

  "Somewhere a place for us."

  Zack took Diane's hand and led her to the parquet dance floor.

  She fell into his arms. They danced, slowly. A few others joined them on the floor.

  "There's a time for us. Someday a time for us. Time together with time to spare. Time to look. Time to spare. Someday . . . Somewhere . . ."

  The applause from the onlookers told him that the song was over. It was time to go. He couldn't speak; there were no words to express all he felt for this woman, this feisty, stubborn, beautiful, compassionate woman.

  He kissed her on the lips, prayed silently for her safety, then turned and headed toward the exit.