Chain of Command (12 page)

The Marine Corps had been a thorn in his company’s side for years. He didn’t know where or when it started, but since he could remember, his father had bristled at the stubborn Marine’s consistent decision to avoid OrionTech’s innovations. The latest, and possibly most costly, had been the F-35 program. Despite the deep Whitworth ties to the Army, Air Force and Navy, the Marine Commandant at the time had somehow swayed the rest. The program had gone to OrionTech’s top competitor and had cost the Whitworth family untold billions.

Every time Glen Whitworth heard another report of misspending on the F-35 program, he wanted to gnash his teeth, imagining how he would’ve squeezed the government for every penny he could, without causing the rash of firestorms resulting from his competition’s inability to control the situation. They were relative newcomers to the game, whereas the Whitworths had generations of experience dealing with the federal government. His grandfather used to tell young Glen stories when he’d had too much to drink. Glen’s favorite was the one where his grandfather had, through a series of deliberate delays and supply fixing, sold the Army tens of thousands of mess kits, available at any surplus store for five dollars, at a whopping sum of twenty dollars a piece. He howled with glee every time he told that one.

The family skills had been passed down to Glen. He was a master at outmaneuvering his foe except when it came to the Marines. Repeated attempts over the years had been met with icy glares and an escort to the door. Ah, but he had them on the ropes now. It was amazing what money could do. A well-placed bribe here and a little pressure exerted there. What was a few million when it meant billions, or even trillions in return?

Someone pounding at the front door shook him from his giggling. He was only wearing a pair of boxers, his growing belly hanging over like it was bragging, but he refused to put on any more clothes in his own posh suite. He padded to the door and looked through the peep hole. It was Gower.

Whitworth rolled his eyes, but opened the door.

“What have you done?” Gower hissed. His hair wasn’t combed and he’d missed one of the buttons on his shirt. Whitworth could tell in a second that the man had been drinking.

“Come on in, Admiral. It looks like you could use a drink.”

Gower stomped in behind him and Whitworth made himself a new drink. “Are you sure you won’t have one?”

Gower looked like he was going to refuse, but gave Whitworth a quick nod.

Once Gower had taken a healthy swallow of his whiskey, the billionaire asked.

“So what’s on your mind, Admiral?”

“You know goddamn well what’s on my mind, Glen. Those Marines are dead. I’ve been trying to call you all morning. My phone hasn’t stopped. They’re putting everyone on lockdown.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” Whitworth said innocently, plucking a grape from the display on the table and popping it in his mouth.

“If I find out that you had anything to do with the murder of those Marines—”

Whitworth whirled around.

“You’ll what? What will you do if I did?” He pressed his finger in Gower’s chest, pushing him back a step. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do if you know what’s good for you. You are going to keep your mouth shut. You work for me remember?”

“I never signed up for—”

“You knew exactly what you signed up for, Joe. So now it’s okay to have one of your best friends killed, but it’s not okay to do it to a bunch of faceless Marines?”

Gower’s eyes were wide with shock. Whitworth surmised that Gower had guessed about his involvement, but hadn’t really believed it to be true. Well now he knew.

“But how…why did you think this was necessary? Why wasn’t I told?” asked Gower, holding his drink with both hands as if it provided some necessary life force.

Whitworth swept his hand toward the laptops and their endless stream of video and data. “This is what I do. This is what the Whitworths have done for almost one hundred years. There are so many moving pieces that even if I tried to explain them all you wouldn’t get past step three. Let’s get one thing clear, right now. Knowing what you know now, you’re either in or you’re out. Make no mistake about what that means. You may be CEO of OrionTech, but I am the head. I make the decisions. I make the hard calls. Your job is to pick up the pieces and keep the machine running smoothly.”

“And if I don’t agree, what will you do, kill me?”

He’d said it in jest, but Whitworth’s frown relayed the answer to the cocky admiral who had yet to realize his place. Gower’s face went white, his hands shaking.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re not the right fit.”

Whitworth grabbed the TV remote and changed the channel to a reggae music video channel and turned the volume up to its max. When he was halfway there another figure emerged from the door connecting Whitworth’s unit to the adjoining luxury cottage. Gen. Duane Mason, Gower’s old friend and roommate from the Naval Academy stepped in.

Admiral Gower’s face scrunched in confusion, but then his body relaxed as Mason came closer.

“What are you doing here?” Gower asked over the thumping music.

“Same thing you are,” said Mason, sipping from a bottle of Red Stripe beer.

“What?”

“I’m here for a job interview.”

As Gower’s eyes narrowed, Mason’s right hand rose, a silenced pistol extended. The smooth trigger pull elicited the proper response, and the .22 caliber round spat out the end of the cylindrically extended barrel and entered Admiral Joseph Gower’s head right between the eyes.

Gower’s body flopped to the ground as Whitworth turned down the TV volume. Mason unscrewed the silencer and placed it and the pistol in his pocket.

“So? Do I have the job?”

Whitworth smiled at the man who’d not only manhandled nearly three companies of battle-hardened Marines, but had just shot his best friend, all in search of the mighty dollar, and a bit of power, of course.
This
was a man he could work with.

“You’re hired.”

Chapter 22

Headquarters Marine Corps

Arlington, Virginia

1:19pm, December 9
^th

He’d been waiting for close to an hour. Not that he minded, but Headquarters Marine Corps was a zoo. Generals on down rushed to and fro while armed sentries guarded every door into the place. Cal sat in the hallway with Daniel Briggs and MSgt Willy Trent. Part of him felt like he was a lance corporal again, waiting to see the company gunny.

“Mr. Stokes,” called a harried Marine major in desert cammies, his head poking out of one of the many doors.

“Right here,” called Cal, rising with the others.

The major gave him a once over, obviously unsure of the man standing in front of him.

“I’m sorry, sir, I was told that it would only be you,” said the major. Cal pegged him for an adjutant.

“They’re with me,” said Cal, motioning to his friends.

The major went to object, but a voice sounded from the office he stood protecting.

“Let them in, Major.”

The major straightened up and waved them in.

The Commandant was talking to a group of generals and colonels. It reminded Cal of the time he’d been in the division CP before the invasion of Iraq. The Commandant’s men all had the same looks. Hard. Focused. Rage simmering just under the surface, like fighters about to go into the boxing ring.

Gen. Winfield pointed to Cal and then his office. The Jefferson Group team headed that way, skirting around the huddle of men.

Two minutes later, the Commandant stepped in and closed the door behind him. His face deflated from the confident visage he’d shown moments earlier. Cal knew that look of loss, despair threatening to overcome the stubborn Marine’s hard-charging persona.

“I’m sorry about Major Adams. He’s taking his new gatekeeper role a little too seriously,” said the Commandant, making a note on a pad on his desk.

“Not a problem, sir,” said Cal.

“Have you heard the latest?”

“Only what we’ve seen on the news.”

The Commandant shook his head. Pain in his eyes.

“Four hundred and ninety two dead,” the Commandant muttered.

“And that’s confirmed, sir?”

Winfield nodded. The number was twice what the media had initially reported.

“They want my head. Never could I have imagined something like this. Hitting us from the sidelines is one thing. But to kill our Marines—”

“With all due respect, sir,” interrupted MSgt Trent, “those boys were murdered.”

Again the pained nod from the Commandant.

They’d not only heard the updated reports of the rising death toll on their ride north, they’d also listened as a growing voice spread across the airwaves. There were calls for the Commandant to resign, for his general officer corps to be purged. If things could be worse, Cal couldn’t imagine how. Winfield was right. Fighting a battle on Capitol Hill was one thing. Waking up to a slaughter was, well, unthinkable.

But Cal knew this wasn’t the time to mourn. He’d lost men in the past and would probably lose more in the future. It was always the calm determination and support of men like Daniel Briggs, MSgt Trent and Gaucho that propelled him forward. He wondered if the new Commandant had anyone on his staff who had the balls to prod their boss. The top spot was a lonely post. Luckily for him, Cal wasn’t about to keep his mouth shut.

Gen. Winfield’s head rose and his hardened gaze met each Marine in turn.

“I want your honest opinion, gentlemen. As Marines. As men of honor. Could this have been prevented?”

Daniel spoke up first. “Sir, don’t let the words of men like Congressman Steiner tarnish your faith in your men, your Marines. This was an act of unspeakable evil. Premeditated and probably planned down to the millisecond.”

“He’s right, sir,” said Cal. “Those were Marine infantry companies, detachments expertly trained for their respective missions. They might not be as cowboy as the SEALs or as fancy as Delta, but there’s no other unit I’d rather have at my back.”

The Commandant digested their words, and then asked, “And do you think I should step down, resign my post?”

“Atten-hut!” barked MSgt Trent. All three Marines jumped to their feet and stood at precise positions of attention. “Sir, this Marine would like to respectfully say that your troops are with you. They believe in you. They know that you will do the right thing. The right thing is not giving the enemy what they want. The right thing is to come out swinging.”

“But how do we do that when every unit we have is on lockdown and politicians and their constituents watch our every move? I’d like nothing more than to pick up a rifle and find whoever did this, but my hands are tied.”

“Then let us do it, sir,” said Cal. “Let us find them.”

“But the risk…”

“Sir, with all due respect, we’re Marines, too. The president has given the go-ahead and says that the final decision is yours. Let us do what we do best.”

“And what’s that, Mr. Stokes?” asked Winfield, life finally returning to his eyes, mingled with more than a hint of renewed interest.

“We find the bad guys and put them in the ground.”

The Commandant’s eyebrows rose. Cal had never told him the breadth of what they did for the president. All Winfield knew was that The Jefferson Group was some sort of problem solving asset in Zimmer’s back pocket.

Gen. Winfield’s eyes narrowed and the grim smile of a veteran commanding general appeared.

“Make it so.”

+++

Gaucho was waiting in the idling black SUV when the three Marines emerged from the headquarters building.

“How did it go?” asked Gaucho.

“He gave us the green light,” said Cal.

“So where do we start?”

Cal shrugged. “It’s time for Neil, Jonas and Doc Higgins to earn their keep.”

“Don’t forget about Diane,” said MSgt Trent.

Cal had almost forgotten about his girlfriend. She’d already reached out to her intelligence contacts, but they hadn’t returned anything in the last two days. What they needed was a break. Other than Congressman Steiner, there were no other obvious targets. The surveillance they’d conducted on the New Jersey Democrat had turned up very little, nothing more than he was already saying on television. The only time he spent at his Alexandria apartment was to sleep. He never made any calls except to his new publicist and his staff. He was never contacted via email other than the rash of hate mail he’d received since announcing his intention to disband the Marine Corps.

Everything they’d seen seemed to indicate that Steiner had concocted and implemented the plan himself. There were still the ‘anonymous’ sources listed in his report to think about, but the increased focus on the congressman precluded The Jefferson Group from taking more overt action against Steiner. Besides, only in extreme cases would they kidnap and interrogate an elected official. Even though none of TJG’s men liked it, so far it looked like Steiner was within his rights as an American. Free speech could be a double-edged sword, cutting into the very men and women who protected that most sacred American blessing even as it was exercised in supposed righteousness.

They had to be careful. But in the meantime, maybe something would go their way.

Chapter 23

Falls Church, Virginia

2:01pm, December 9
^th

Cassidy Ellwood was sick of watching the news. She’d had visitors at her home since returning from Orlando and it was all she could do to tolerate the presence of her well-meaning family. First the death of her husband, and now the senseless slaughter of his Marines.

Any bitterness she felt for the Marine establishment ended when it came to the troops. They had nothing to do with what her life had become. Most were innocent young men and women who had chosen to serve their country. She’d always found the presence of the younger enlisted refreshing. While other officers’s wives avoided such interaction unless under obligation, Mrs. Ellwood loved her time with the junior enlisted and their families.