Chapter 20 – Uncivil Debate

Leon Vance shifted in his seat, feigning disinterest as two grown men screamed obscenities at each other across the regal U.S. Senate floor. How C-SPAN failed to top the media ratings were beyond him; reality television paled in comparison to the business of racketeering, extortion, and doubletalk known colloquially as "government." Unfortunately for any potentially interested viewers, the cameras were now off, subject to the veil of secrecy that a closed session required.

"I stood by and let two wars get rammed down this nation's throat before! I'll be damned if I do so again!" shouted Senator Peter Elders of North Carolina, a frail-looking, white-haired wisp of a man whose booming voice was incongruent to his small stature.

The target of his frustration, Senator Randall Cardigan of California, turned a splotchy purple as his chiseled, Hollywood-bred face twisted into a look of virulent fury. He sputtered a few syllables that Leon surmised to have been half-formed profanities, but was cut off by the presiding officer's insistent gavel.

"The senator from North Carolina no longer has the floor. Please, gentleman, keep this debate civil."

Cardigan exploded. "THAT RAT-ASS, BACKWOODS, COUNTRY HICK BASTARD WOULD RATHER HAVE TERRORISTS NUKING US TO KINGDOM COME THAN KEEP THIS COUNTRY SAFE!"

"I'm not sending anymore of my citizens off to die on foreign shores on the word of a war hawk, Cardigan! I want proof North Korea's behind the Okinawa bombing, and a hundred word press release ain't it!"

Before the argument could escalate any further, the presiding officer slammed his gavel down and pointed towards Leon.

"The floor recognizes the interim director of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, Leon Vance." He motioned to a solitary podium that stood alone in the center of the cavernous auditorium, facing the semicircle of desks that were now filled by restless politicians. As a pointed aside to the North Carolina senator, the presiding officer added: "Perhaps the agency will have some evidence to report."

Leon slowly made his way to the lone podium and did his best to ignore the hushed whispers echoing around the room. He stared blankly through the glare of the spotlight for a moment, mentally reviewing the evidence Devan Patel had supplied him with earlier that day as a multitude of faces, some angry, many frightened, stared back.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Senate," he started, then paused for the briefest of moments to carefully weigh his next words, "in light of evidence obtained mere hours ago, I do not believe North Korea perpetrated the Okinawa attack."

He was prepared for the murmur of dissent that stirred to life throughout the house, and pressed forward with his remarks. "In spite of the repeated pronouncements from the North Korean foreign office that claim culpability, we have obtained several internal CIA memos from an operative within the highest levels of the North Korean government who states that Kim Jong-Il was himself surprised by the news, and had to be convinced that China would not cut off aid to his country if he did not disavow responsibility."

"Is that it?" called out a voice within the crowd.

"No. An agent within my office traced a payment of over one hundred million dollars to an account in Jakarta, Indonesia, made payable to a front organization affiliated with the Inzurida insurgency. Although we have for years treated them as a mythical, internet-based group, Indonesian intelligence insists they have transitioned into a lethal force over the last two years. The payment was initiated from an American account; North Korea would only make a payment of such a large sum using their own counterfeit superdollars. They would never risk moving real American currency."

Senator Cardigan shot to his feet. "I request the floor."

Despite the senator having forgotten the proper decorum for addressing him, the presiding officer granted his request. Leon stiffened his back and refused to look away from the Californian's probing gaze.

"Interim Director Vance," said Cardigan, stressing his first word with a hint of warning, "pray tell under what authority you came to be in possession of memos belonging to the CIA?"

"I have been vetted for every security clearance in the intelligence community, Senator."

"Indeed? Hmm. Are you aware that one of my—ahem—many committees will review your fitfulness for the position as permanent NCIS director?"

Leon narrowed his eyes and felt his teeth grind. "I am, Senator."

Cardigan bent low over his desk, its higher footing allowing the already taller man to tower over Leon. "I do not appreciate inter-agency meddling."

His career likely in the balance, Leon went with his gut. "I apologize for doing what I feel is best for my country. Senator."

The next hour was a blur of shouting, gavel-swinging, and a hurried, brusque exit from the U.S. Capitol building into an unmarked limousine that practically dumped Leon back at NCIS headquarters. He was working in his office of only a week, packing up his few personal items he had bothered to unpack, when the phone rang at his desk.

"Leon," he answered belatedly, rubbing his aching forehead.

"Director Vance, this is Peter Elders."

"Senator," said Leon, aware of the surprise in his voice. "I must apologize for—"

"Nonsense! A great man once told me apologies were a sign of weakness. Best advice I've ever gotten in my line of work."

Leon felt a smile break across his face. "You've met Agent Gibbs, I see."

"It's like meeting Elvis, back when Elvis was a nobody but you knew he was gonna be somebody one day."

Leon laughed. "I can honestly say I've never heard of a comparison like that."

"He is a good man, Leon. And if the Lord above wants to keep good men around, they need good men behind them. You were that man today."

"Well, I'm an unemployed man now, Senator." Leon sunk into his seat and propped his feet on his desk. "Not too much I can do for him now."

"You callin' me a liar, Director?" bristled the voice on the line.

"Uh—no, sir," Leon started backpedaling, but the voice broke into a fit of laughter before turning serious again.

"OK, here's the deal. Cardigan has filed a motion to order SecNav to terminate you. To screw with that overheated windbag, and because I feel you're the best man for this job, I am filibustering his asinine motion. On the other hand, the Okinawa bombing has been delegated to the CIA. I did what I could but enough heads feel that the agency has the best chops for that mess. I'm telling you, these cronies don't appreciate the fine work NCIS does."

Leon nodded slowly to no one in particular. "I see. At least tell me I can still try to find my predecessor and my best team."

"Right now, Leon, I am personally charging you with that mission. Forget Okinawa; we need Gibbs."

Leon chuckled. "I couldn't agree more, Senator."

* * *

Devan Patel looked around the orange walls of the NCIS squadroom and imagined what it would be like to run headfirst into one of them at top speed. With any luck, the impact would kill him and release him from the slow death of information overload; sleep was no respite, as thousands of lines of code would scroll through his dreams, every single one demanding his unconscious attention and burning through his brain cells like fuses. Salvation from a grisly death appeared before him in the form of Jimmy Palmer, still clad in medical scrubs but bearing two cups of coffee.

"Hey man, it's almost time for lunch. My treat today."

Devan greedily snatched one of the coffee cups and downed it. He barely registered the sensation of his throat scalding in protest as desperate as he was for a much-needed caffeine jolt. Jimmy looked on in stunned silence, and pulled his cup away from Devan's outstretched grasp. "Whoa! If you want another one, get it yourself!"

"Sorry," wheezed Devan. "I've just been bashing my head against the same problem all morning, and right now seppuku looks like an appealing option."

"I'd say lunch is more appealing. C'mon, get away from it for a few minutes, and when you come back you'll have a fresh perspective."

Devan pulled himself to his feet and started to stretch, but thought better of it when his back gave him a warning twitch. "Oof! You're right. Lead the way."

Devan started for the exit, but Jimmy stopped in front of the plasma screen, his curiosity piqued by a flashing red object overlayed on a map of the Pacific hemisphere. "What's this?"

"That? The origin of an IP address I've been tracking. It's stuck in the middle of the ocean."

Palmer turned towards him excitedly. "What if there's something out there? Like a ship, or an island?"

Devan shrugged. "I've tapped into the live satellite feeds. There's nothing bigger than ten feet across within a hundred miles of that location." He felt his stomach twist when Palmer's face fell. "Oh."

Devan stepped into the elevator with Jimmy, who looked visibly disappointed. Devan tried to put his mind off his friend's sour mood and glanced lazily around the elevator. His gaze centered on the long-defunct video camera that peered down at both of them. Why the agency ever bothered having a camera that didn't work was. . .

Devan felt a nudge at his side. "Hey! We're at our floor! Why are you staring at the camera?"

"Oh, crap," said Devan.