Don Brown - Defiance

Cafe Pacifica
2414 San Diego Avenue
Old Town
San Diego, California

T he handsome JAG officer was enjoying a mug of black coffee when Shannon approached the table. He looked up at her. His face bore a smile but also a whatcha gonna do about this?

"What's up, Fireball?"

"If I were your mother, you'd be in time-out, Commander Brewer." Shannon pulled off her designer shades.

"Just time-out?" He motioned for her to be seated. "I must say I'm a bit disappointed."

"Oh, really?" She sat down. "I'm glad you're okay."

Just then the waitress arrived with an order of pancakes. "Were these for you, ma'am?"

"Those are for her," Zack confirmed as she set the pancakes and coffee in front of Shannon, who nodded and thanked her.

"Reading the Navy Times?" Shannon poured cream into her coffee. "Read all I need to read."

"Then you saw?"

"Yes, I saw."

She squirted syrup on her pancake. "How do you feel about that?" She looked at him. The dimple. It was that slight dimple in his chin that made him so distracting.

"You mean the posthumous promotion?"

"Yes."

"I think it was appropriate." He downed his coffee as she cut her pancake into small portions. "I wish there was some way she could know."

Shannon chewed a very small bite of pancake, then dabbed the cloth napkin against her cheek. "Zack, have you read this morning's Union-Tribune?"

"Excuse me, waitress. More water, please?"

"Of course." The waitress poured more ice water into his glass.

"I don't read liberal rags," he said.

"Just what's wrong with liberal? You know, my family is from a long line of Democrats. Jimmy Carter is one of the most decent Christian men in the world."

"I didn't say Democrat rag. I said liberal rag."

"Here." She ignored the comment. "You should read this." She slid the San Diego Union-Tribune across the table. "Front page."

Zack picked up the paper.

San Diego -- The Union-Tribune has learned that the navy has begun the general court-martial of a gay naval officer accused of sexual assault on board a Los Angeles class attack submarine. The officer, Ensign Wofford Eckberg, is a Naval Academy graduate and a U.S. Navy SEAL. "What?" Unnamed sources close to the situation say Eckberg may have been the victim of hate crimes, having suffered a broken collarbone solely because he is gay. "That's ridiculous! He was assaulting sailors in their bunks!" "I know that," Shannon said. "And you know that, but --" "Hang on a second." Zack wagged his index finger in the air. But the navy has taken no action against the gay officer's attackers. Moreover, the navy's top prosecutor, Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer, is prosecuting the case. "Oh, that's just great." Brewer's presence in the case is viewed as a symbol of the navy's determination to convict Eckberg, and immediate fire has come from Democratic presidential hopeful, Senator Eleanor Claxton -- "Oh, please." -- who criticized the navy and Lieutenant Commander Brewer for his involvement in the case. "The navy should be ashamed of itself for this homophobic witch hunt," Claxton said. "The American people deserve some answers. Why is the victim of these hate crimes being prosecuted while the perpetrators, thugs who call themselves sailors, are left alone? "Ensign Eckberg is a Navy SEAL. He is an American hero --

"Please. A hero?"

-- and the navy is prosecuting him for one reason alone. He is gay. Commander Brewer, who was viewed as an American hero before all this, is now the chief witch-hunter in this witch hunt. Brewer should be ashamed --"

"That's it," Zack said. "I can't take any more of this garbage." He slid the paper back to Shannon. "And to think this person could become president of the United States."

"That would make her your commander in chief."

"I'm going to vomit."

"Hey, I'm just the messenger."

"So much for my return to anonymity." Zack finished his ice water. "Come on. Let's get out of here before I get recognized." He stood, then walked around the table and pulled out her chair. "I'll buy the rest of your breakfast on base."

"I'm with you, sailor."

Old Town
San Diego, California

C hris felt for the dagger in his pants pocket and stepped onto the main pedestrian walkway in Old Town. The dagger was ready for use if Zack wasn't cooperative. The restaurant was about two hundred yards away. He would have been there already, but he couldn't control his breathing.

Control, Chris. Control.

He inhaled, and then his lungs froze.

Zack! Walking toward me. Dear God, help me.

The woman with the strawberry-blonde hair was with him. He'd seen her before. Was she the woman from a moment ago? The one who had walked past his car?

Yes, and before that too. In the magazine article.

McGillvery.

As he mentally prepared to strike, hot jets of blood shot into the back of his head. He felt in his pocket for the cold handle of the dagger. Like a cat, he sprang forward toward Zack and the woman.

A blur of movement caught Zack's attention. The man rushing at them looked like a safety blitzing a quarterback.

"Get back!" He swung Shannon behind him, shielding her.

A wet mass splattered his face. He glanced at Shannon. Saliva dripped down her hair. He sprinted after the man, who had doubled back toward the restaurant.

"Wait!" Shannon called from behind him.

Ignoring her, he threaded his way through pedestrians, closing the distance.

"He could be dangerous!"

Zack leaped forward, bringing the assailant down in a tackle.

"What's the deal with you, man?" Zack grabbed his collar from each side, pinning him to the ground. The man struggled to reach for his pocket. Zack thrust his knee into the man's stomach.

"Stop!" Shannon's voice grew closer.

"I ought to take your head off!"

"No!" Shannon said, now directly behind him.

"Get up!" Zack yanked the assailant by the collar, jerking him off the ground, and jacked his back into a palm tree. "That was a lady you spit on back there." He cocked his fist into a striking position. "I should smash your head in."

The man cowered. "No hate crimes!" he screeched. "Don't break my collarbone, Zack!"

"You know my name?"

"Forget Pinkie! Support Eleanor!"

"We'll see if your teeth can support my fist!"

The man's eyes bulged with fear.

"It's okay, Zack." Shannon spoke softly, her hands resting on his biceps. "I'll take care of this."

Zack stared at the man, and strangely, the thought of the one who had died for him -- for this wimp in front of him -- brought a wave of unexpected compassion. He released the man's collar, and the assailant tumbled to the ground.

Shannon drew her gun. "All right, show me some identification!"

"Don't shoot!" the man pleaded, his eyes filling with tears. "Please."

"Hands up!" Shannon ordered.

Sobbing, the man complied.

"Stand up!"

He stood, his hands on his head. Onlookers gathered, chatting among themselves or on their ubiquitous cell phones.

"Check his wallet, Zack."

The wallet bulged in the back right pocket of the man's jeans. Zack lifted it out and handed it to Shannon.

"Hmm." Shannon pulled out his driver's license, flicked to the man's face, then to the license, then back again. "Normally go around spitting on people, Mr. Reynolds?"