Authors: CG Cooper
“Well, Mike, it sounds like you’ve got your hands full. Please let me know how things turn out,” said Zimmer. The congressman took the hint and moved on to find another ear for his pet project.
The brunch had been a success. It was small compared to others they’d hosted since he’d taken the oath of office, but this one was of his own design. He’d wanted to say thanks to those who’d help craft his administration amidst the ever-shifting sands of the world stage.
At the top of his list was his chief of staff, Travis Haden. He’d almost had to beg to get the former SEAL to agree to come to Washington, but Cal’s cousin had performed like Zimmer knew he would. Precise. Task driven. Firm but fair.
They’d learned a lot from each other and their friendship had grown. Zimmer was happy that he’d been able to thank him in front of career politicians.
There were others, like Rep. Ezra Matisse (D-New Jersey), who’d helped spread the president’s message through the Democratic party in the House. Vice President Milton Southgate, a one-time rival who’d almost derailed Zimmer’s presidency, had probably been the second most helpful, after Travis. It always amazed the president to see what the simple arch of an eyebrow or waggle of a finger from Southgate could do to get the train back on the line.
It had surprised none in his party to find out that fully half of the twenty men and women who’d been invited to the thank-you brunch were from the Republican Party and the military. The two highlights from those camps being Congressman Tony McKnight and General McMillan, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
Zimmer knew that he might face McKnight in the coming presidential election, but the Florida Republican had been honest and fair. He’d helped Zimmer at a particularly hard time earlier that year when it seemed that the entire world was out to torpedo the White House.
The president chuckled when he looked across the room to where Gen. McMillan was telling some story to three Democrats. He could tell they were out of their league, but they listened all the same. Zimmer admired McMillan like one might love a cherished uncle. He was always there with calming, sage advice. No challenge was insurmountable to the Marine general.
Zimmer took a sip of his Mimosa and wished he could’ve invited Cal and the rest of The Jefferson Group. They, above all others, were the reason he was still in the White House, and more importantly, why he was still alive. But the only people in the room that knew a thing about Cal’s covert charter were Travis Haden and Gen. McMillan. Cal and his team didn’t want or necessarily need the public thanks, but it would have been nice anyway.
His reverie was interrupted when Rep. McKnight stepped up next to him and offered his own glass in toast. “To a wonderful way to start the holidays, Mr. President.”
They clinked glasses and each took a drink.
“I meant what I said, Tony. We couldn’t have done what we did this year without your help.”
The handsome Floridian smiled. “You may be wanting to take that back come election time.”
Zimmer laughed. “How about we just agree that if it ends up being the two of us in the general election, we’ll try to keep things above the belt?”
“I’ll drink to that, Mr. President.” McKnight finished his drink and grabbed another from the table. “I was wondering if you had a second for me to bend your ear.”
“Sure. I think I’ve got ten minutes until my entourage drags me out of here kicking and screaming.”
McKnight nodded, his face suddenly grim. “Mr. President, I wanted to know how you’re handling the Marine Corps situation.”
“And which situation would that be, Tony?” Zimmer somehow kept the smile on his face. According to Gen. Winfield, the Marine Corps was doing everything it could to keep a lid on the Assistant Commandant’s death, at least until they could find out more. As for the matter of the bill proposed by that crazy Tom Steiner, Ezra Matisse had informed the president just before the luncheon that he believed the proposal would be laughed out of Congress. There were just too many military veterans serving on both sides of the aisle now. The ongoing wars since 9/11 had seen to that.
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I just got word that the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps, General Ellwood, committed suicide while on vacation with his family,” said McKnight.
Zimmer motioned for McKnight to follow him farther into a corner.
“Where did you get your information, Tony?”
“I have friends in Florida law enforcement. They knew I could be trusted with it.”
The president tried to remain calm, but his insides were boiling. “If this gets out before we know for sure—”
Congressman McKnight put up his hand to interrupt the Commander in Chief. “That’s not why I brought it up, Mr. President. I did only so that you would know that I want to help. This won’t stay secret for long, and if someone like Tom Steiner gets his hands on it—”
“So you heard about that, too?” Could anything be kept under wraps on The Hill?
“I have, and it’s ridiculous. Trust me, I’ll do everything I can to get it thrown out. Steiner will look like an idiot.”
Zimmer didn’t know how to respond, and that fact bothered him. He was a career politician, used to wheeling and dealing with every side. Here was another example of a situation that not only slammed into him after a successful powwow, but had the potential to make one of the country’s finest assets, the United States Marine Corps, look bad in the eyes of the country.
“Thanks for the heads-up, Tony. I’ll let you know what we find out.”
“I would appreciate that, sir. I’d hate to see anything bad happen to the Corps.”
Zimmer nodded, suddenly tired. He had to find Travis and tell him the news. His chief of staff might know what to do. They should probably tell Gen. McMillan, who could relay it to Gen. Winfield. Zimmer’s mind spun as he started stacking up the to-do list in his head. One thing that crisis after crisis did was condition a brain to compartmentalize and look at things from an objective angle.
But there would be much to do, on top of everything they were trying to accomplish with the federal budget. To make matters worse, there was one thing he dreaded doing most: putting in the call to his friend, Cal Stokes.
Chapter 13
The Jefferson Group Headquarters
Charlottesville, Virginia
12:13pm, December 6
th
The Jefferson Group leadership (minus Cal and Daniel), sat around the conference room table in the secure War Room. They’d just ended their phone call with Cal, who’d given them the latest on the situation in Florida and the conversation he’d had with the president concerning Congressman McKnight’s untimely revelations.
“What can we do to get ahead of this thing?” asked Jonas Layton, CEO of The Jefferson Group (TJG). He’d made billions in the tech world but now served as the face of TJG. He was the newest arrival. The rest of the group had worked together for years. It hadn’t taken him long to fit in, since being a near genius with the talent for foreseeing future events lent itself well to what they did.
“I’ve got my bots trolling, but other than the little that’s been reported in the news, they’ve found zilch so far,” said Neil Patel, twirling a mini-screwdriver in his hand that he’d just been using to tinker with a pile of metal pieces sitting in front of him. Neil was a genius and had made millions for Stokes Security International with his inventions. There wasn’t a week that went by that he didn’t hand a new toy to one of his friends to play with.
“I say me and Top jump in the jet and give Cal and Snake Eyes some backup,” said Gaucho, a stocky Hispanic whose braided beard nearly hung down to the table. “He’s gonna need every shooter we’ve got.”
The Jefferson Group had anywhere between fifteen and twenty operators on-hand at any one time. They were a seasoned team of elite warriors, tested in battle and loyal to their team and their country.
“I know you can’t wait to jump in our shiny new plane again, but why don’t we wait and see what Cal needs,” suggested Master Sergeant Willy Trent, USMC, his near seven foot dark frame towering over his best friend. “Something tells me we’re gonna be useful up here before long.”
Gaucho’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t disagree. The former Delta soldier huffed in frustration.
“Doctor Higgins, what do we know about this Steiner guy?” asked Jonas, jotting something down in his ever-present journal.
The Jefferson Group’s resident shrink, and former CIA head interrogator, shifted in his seat. “Representative Thomas Steiner. Second ranking Democrat from New Jersey. Unremarkable life other than his time in Congress. Has had a run-in or two with the law, nothing serious. Both charges dropped. Lives alone. Works most days.”
“Do you think it would be useful to put him under surveillance?” Jonas asked, still taking notes.
“I would think that the question might be better answered by one of my colleagues here with experience in the field, but since you’re asking, I would suggest starting with something passive, say using Neil’s talents?”
Higgins was alluding to Neil’s uncanny ability to hack into anything with an electronic pulse. No one in the room could remember a time when the Indian born computer geek had been stumped.
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” replied Neil, adjusting his new grey and black speckled Cartier eyeglasses. “Anyone else you want me to snoop on?”
“Let’s start there. I’m sure there’ll be more soon,” said Jonas. “Now unless you guys have anything else?”
No one did, and they adjourned to their respective tasks. The men of The Jefferson Group didn’t need handholding. They each had their place and worked like a mechanism specially made for tackling impossible missions. As the tech side went about their duties on the computers in the War Room, MSgt Trent and Gaucho headed to the kitchen.
“What are you making for lunch?” asked Gaucho, his stomach rumbling.
“How’s peanut butter and jelly sound?”
Gaucho rolled his eyes. Trent was a classically trained chef. His mouthwatering meals were another bonus for the men working at TJG. Every Sunday the entire team gathered in the main house for a family style dinner cooked by Trent.
“Okay. You want me to make quesadillas instead?”
Gaucho’s head bobbed eagerly even though Trent had said it as a joke.
Before the huge Marine could whip out another comeback aimed at his friend’s ethnicity, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” said Trent. “You go get the tortillas ready.”
Again Gaucho didn’t catch the joke, and rushed off into the kitchen. Trent shook his head with a rumbling chuckle.
The doorbell rang again. Trent looked through the small peephole and grinned. He opened the door with a flourish, bowing at the waist.
“Good day, milady. To what do we owe this pleasure?”
Diane Mayer’s smile was strained. Trent caught the look on the pretty U.Va fourth year’s face.
“Is everything okay, honey?” he asked.
“I know Cal’s not here, but I thought I might come talk to you guys anyway.”
Diane and Cal had been dating for a few months, something MSgt Trent and the others were more than happy about. Not only was Diane a great gal, able to put up with the constant ribbing between Cal and his friends, but she’d brought peace back into the broken-hearted Marine’s life. After losing his fiancé, they’d worried that Cal might never find true happiness again. Trent was pretty sure Diane was the one.
She wasn’t supposed to know what Cal and his team officially did for a living, but Trent was pretty sure she did. Neil had found out that prior to enrolling at the University of Virginia on an ROTC scholarship, the blonde co-ed had served one enlistment with Naval Intelligence. He’d never voiced his opinion to Cal, but the crusty master sergeant figured it was only a matter of time before they let her in on their little secret.
“Come on in. I was about to fix some lunch. Want some?”
Diane shook her head. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Trent realized that this was the first time she’d been in the house/headquarters. Cal spent most nights at her place when he was in town.
“Sure.”
Trent led her inside and turned into the small parlor that sat just inside the front door. He closed the French doors and they both took a seat.
Diane took a deep breath, and then said, “I know I’m not supposed to know what you guys do around here, and I’m not going to ask. Cal’s probably going to kill me when he finds out I came.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong. I’m sure he won’t mind. If he gets out of line, I’ll smack him around a little.”
Diane looked up and smiled. “Promise?”
Trent drew a cross over his heart and put three fingers in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
“Okay. You know I was in the Navy, but do you know what I really did?”
Trent would’ve preferred she not ask the question, knowing that she would assume that Cal had been spying on her. But it looked like the cat was out of the bag anyway.
“Intel,” he said.
She didn’t look surprised. “I assume you know how I feel about Cal too.”
“You two are pretty close.”
Trent wondered where the line of questioning was going.
“I love him, Willy,” she blurted. “I would do anything to keep him safe. But I know I won’t always be able to do that. He’s his own man. Stubborn and proud, but I love him.” She looked at her hands and went on. “I still have friends in the intelligence business. I won’t tell you where because it doesn’t matter. When Cal came back from his trip overseas, you remember, right after we started dating?”
Trent remembered. Cal had led the hand-picked international coalition that drove the stake into the heart of ISIS. He’d been wounded in the process. Nothing major, but impossible to hide from Diane.
“I do remember.”
“Well, I reached out to two of my old friends and asked them to…I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a stalker…but I asked them to keep an ear out for the name Cal Stokes. Now, before you say anything, there’s not surveillance or anything like that. It’s more like a Google alert. If something came across their desk through various intel gathering networks, they promised to let me know.”