Authors: CG Cooper
“Nice ride,” said Daniel, who must have been thinking the same thing as Cal.
“We just confiscated it from a squid who was running an ecstasy ring out of his barracks,” said Barrett, unfazed by Daniel’s comment. He opened up the trunk with a click of his key fob.
There was an assortment of files neatly arranged in black plastic crates sitting next to a golf bag and a pair of recently used golf shoes. Barrett grabbed a green file and sat back against the rear bumper.
“Here’s what we know so far. No signs of struggle. No recent footprints in the same vicinity. The only prints on the gun were his. The pistol itself was registered to General Ellwood in 1982. We had a brief discussion with Mrs. Ellwood, but she was justifiably upset.”
“What about his sons? We heard they were down here on vacation,” said Cal.
“They were clueless. Said the week was going fine. It came as a shock to all of them.”
“Do you believe them?” asked Daniel.
Barrett shrugged. “I’ve been doing this for a while. I can usually tell if someone’s holding back. They were genuinely in pain. No, I think he hid it well.”
“Helluva place to do it though,” observed Cal.
“Tell me about it,” said Barrett. “Can’t say this’ll be the happiest place on Earth for those kids.”
Cal nodded, trying to piece together Gen. Ellwood’s motives. He and Daniel had talked about it on the way down. They even had The Jefferson Group’s in-house shrink, Dr. Higgins, looking into the general’s history. If anyone could dig up something on a person’s psychological makeup, it was Higgins and his extensive experience as one of the CIA’s top interrogators.
Before leaving for Florida, Gen. Ellwood told the Commandant that he wanted a week with his family before the storm hit. He knew that word of his involvement in the plot against the Marine Corps, no matter how innocent, would hit his family hardest. He’d promised to divulge everything he knew, including suspects, as soon as he returned.
That hadn’t happened and Cal was sure that Gen. Winfield was doubting his own judgment at the moment. The Commandant had enough on his plate. Add to it the guilt of a fallen comrade, in an act that might have been prevented… Cal wouldn’t blame Winfield. He’d done what he thought was best at the time. After all, Gen. Ellwood was a decorated Marine, a commander who’d time and time again proven himself on the battlefield.
Cal hadn’t known the man personally, but like most Marines in the know, he’d heard of the general’s accomplishments.
No, there was more to the suicide than self-pity. Cal wondered how insidious the motive had become in Ellwood’s head in order to force the trigger pull. A Marine of that caliber didn’t act on a whim.
“That’s all we know for now. As long as there’s no foul play involved, we may have our investigation wrapped up in a matter of days,” said Barrett, closing the file and replacing it in its bin.
Cal was glad for the comment. The last thing they needed was the NCIS snooping around as Cal and his team conducted their own investigation. Gen. Winfield had been very clear on one point, that he wanted Cal’s true motive for being in Florida to remain a secret.
Cal agreed. No need to alert anyone until they verified Ellwood’s claim. But now they didn’t have the Assistant Commandant to help them. What did that mean for the investigation? More importantly, what did that mean for the Marine Corps?
Chapter 5
Washington, D.C.
12:49pm, December 5
th
“What the hell is this, Tom?”
Congressman Ezra Matisse (D - New Jersey) was in no mood for games. The Christmas break loomed and the House was still deadlocked on a plethora of items that the stringent Minority leader had planned on putting to rest before they left for the holidays. His phone buzzed for the umpteenth time as he tried to burn holes in the eyes of his fellow Jersey Democrat, Thomas Steiner.
“I think it’s a good proposal, Ezra. Just have your staff give it a once-over and let me know what you think,” replied Steiner, unperturbed by his peer’s outburst.
“I don’t have time for this. The president wants the Farm Bill and the Relief Fund shored up by this time next week. If we don’t get this—”
“Just look at it, okay?”
“Fine. Just give me the broad brush.”
Rep. Tom Steiner shrugged as if it were the most routine of requests.
“It’s a proposal to defund the United State Marine Corps.”
+++
The intern watched his boss talking to Rep. Matisse. Just like Steiner had predicted, Matisse threw his hands up, almost tossing the file in the process, storming off without a word.
Nothing else was needed. The staffer knew what to do. The cell phone already in his hand, he clicked send and a Twitter status update from a fictitious alias floated out into social media.
+++
Gregory Garbett was a junior at William and Mary. He’d taken the semester off to intern on Capitol Hill. Like most of his peers, he shared a tiny apartment with five other guys. Not only was it impossible to bring a female friend home, it was also impossible to get the rank smell of that many male bodies out of the stuffy air.
He was the only one at home, a rarity. Usually he’d be at work or in a cafe networking with potential employers, but he’d answered an ad the day before on Craigslist. It was a simple job and paid well. $100 for sitting around wasn’t bad. He didn’t even make $100 for a whole day of running around kissing an old politician’s ass.
The cell phone that had arrived on his doorstep an hour earlier pinged. He looked at the screen and saw the Twitter status update.
Boring
, he thought.
As he picked up the phone that had only one number programmed in its favorites, Gregory wondered if he could get in any trouble for what he was doing. He didn’t know who he was doing this for, and what it was he was passing on. They’d promised to send the payment to his PayPal account.
In the end, he shrugged off his unease and dialed the number.
“Hello?” someone answered on the other end.
Gregory looked down at the printout in his hand and read the line that corresponded with the correct Twitter update.
“Yes, I was wondering if you had any jars of pickled eggs.”
It sounded ridiculous to Gregory. If this was some spy shit, they needed to get their stuff together. Nobody ever said something that lame in the movies.
The response came a moment later. “I’m sorry. We just sold our last case.”
The line went dead, and a second later, so did the phone.
He’d been instructed to throw the phone in a public waste can. Gregory put on his coat and headed for the door. He already knew the bar where he was going to spend his money.
+++
Ten similar interactions were made over the next thirty minutes. All innocent. All simple. Should the NSA, CIA or any other agency intercept one of the messages, analysts would surely skip over the innocuous conversations, a handful in a haystack of millions they churned through every day.
The final resting places of the messages took the news stoically. They knew their roles. For the rest of the day, final preparations would be made. Boots tied. Systems re-checked. Weapons cleaned.
+++
The White House
1:33pm
“Mr. President, you have Congressman Matisse on line one,” announced the president’s secretary over the intercom.
President Brandon Zimmer looked up from his work.
“Thank you,” he said, picking up the handset and pressing the blinking button. “Good afternoon, Ezra.” Zimmer liked the bookish New Jersey congressman. A lot of the younger generation didn’t. They thought the Jewish politician was too much of a throwback, stoic and diligent, when he should’ve been fiery in his rhetoric.
During his brief stint in the House, President Zimmer had come to not only respect Matisse, but truly admire the man’s legacy. He’d been a member of the House since the early ‘80s. Even the president’s father, the late Senator Richard Zimmer (D-Massachusetts), who leaned conservative more often than not, had said, “If you want to learn how to have a long career in Washington, watch and listen to Ezra Matisse. He’ll still be here long after we’re dead.”
Zimmer had listened to his father, studying the New Jersey Democrat’s legislation from over the years. Despite Matisse’s natural political leanings, Zimmer found that the Jersey son of a rabbi was pragmatic in his approach, and realistic while others merely sought the praise of their constituency or the glow of the media spotlight. Simply put, President Zimmer held Congressman Matisse in high esteem.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. President. I…well, I thought I should bring something to your attention.”
Zimmer couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Matisse so flustered. He waited for his former colleague to continue.
“I wanted you to know before it leaks to the media. Honestly, I don’t have a clue why Steiner would do this.”
It was like Matisse was talking to himself.
“
Tom
Steiner?” Zimmer asked.
The question seemed to snap Matisse out of his haze.
“What? Oh, yes. Tom Steiner. Sorry, Mr. President. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate already.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning, Ezra?”
Zimmer heard the congressman grunt and then say, “Mr. President, Congressman Steiner has introduced a bill to disband the United States Marine Corps.”
The blunt recital shocked the president. He’d come to know the Marines on a very personal level. General McMillan, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, was one of his closest advisors. He’d personally pinned on the new Marine Commandant’s insignia at 8
th
& I. One of his best friends, no, most of his new best friends, men who had risked their own lives to save his, were Marines. Cal Stokes. Daniel Briggs. The massive black former Marine Master Sergeant Willy Trent. What would they think of Steiner’s proposal?
He knew what Cal would do if he could: march over to Steiner’s office and cold-cock him. Daniel, the strong courageous, shadowy sniper, would be more subtle. Trent, hell, who knew what Top would do?
“And you’re sure he’s serious?” asked Zimmer, suddenly remembering that he’d recommended Cal to the Commandant at his change of command, something about an internal investigation. The president didn’t know the details.
“I’m having my people read through it now, Mr. President. It looks like whoever helped Tom put this together was very thorough.”
“Please keep me apprised, and let me know if you need me to step in.”
“I hope that won’t be necessary, Mr. President, but thank you.”
President Zimmer replaced the phone in its cradle and sat back in his chair. Surely there was no merit to Congressman Steiner’s plan. Who knew what would happen when the Marines found out? The streets of Washington would be clogged with former Marines demanding that Congress be torn down for incompetence.
Until he heard more from Matisse, Zimmer decided he didn’t want to concern Cal. His short-tempered friend would flip his lid and probably hop on the first flight to D.C.
Luckily, he had someone who could help and he was only a few feet away. Earlier that year he’d made one of the smartest moves of his political career. He’d recruited a former Navy SEAL, and former CEO of Stokes Security International (SSI), to be his chief of staff. If anyone knew how to deal with the Steiner situation, it was Travis Haden, Cal Stokes’s cousin.
Chapter 6
Washington, D.C.
2:25pm, December 5
th
Congressman Antonio “Tony” McKnight (R-Florida) didn’t come from money. His father had been a drunk and died serving a life sentence in a backwater Florida prison. His mother…well who knew where she’d ended up. He’d lost track of the woman years ago.
McKnight was a survivor. He’d ascended the political ranking system despite the dead weight of his lost family. A quick learner, McKnight had stepped into the bureaucratic arena like he was slipping into a pair of well-worn house slippers. It was a perfect fit.
He was young, good-looking and single. He surfed the web and scooped up social media followers with ease. There were weeks when a new model clung to his arm daily, and there were others when his relentless work schedule imposed a celibate break for the dashing up-and-comer.
The Washington Post
had recently named him America’s Number Two most eligible bachelor, one step behind President Brandon Zimmer.
Nicknamed “The Miami Matador,” a nod to his Hispanic heritage and his electorate base, McKnight was becoming known for facing down the onslaught of stalwart old-timers of both parties, much like a matador in the bullring. McKnight had at first laughed at the moniker, but the name and its deeper meaning grew on the social media savvy politician.
He’d taken to re-tweeting photoshopped pictures of his face on some matador’s body, usually shirtless. His favorites were the amateur cartoons that cropped up every other week, depicting him in one or another scene where he (as the matador) was taking on some stodgy bill or lumbering curmudgeon in the nation’s capital.
Tony McKnight had never been to a bull fight, but his publicist was working on it. It would be a perfect photo op, another notch in his belt. Pictures were the new platform.
As the Hispanic community swelled in America, so did the need for fresh-faced newcomers on the political scene. McKnight was the Right’s up-and-coming Hall of Famer. He’d made it to the Majors, but he hadn’t cracked into the All-Star game.
It was just a matter of time.
In the beginning, McKnight sought out benefactors, men, and occasionally a woman, who had their own needs. Most were wealthy investors or business owners. In exchange for his ear and a chance on The Hill, they lavished him with trips and donations.