Chain of Command (5 page)

Rep. Wade Yates (R-Virginia) blew his nose into another tissue and added it to the growing pile in the waste basket sitting next to him.

“Gentlemen and ladies, we’ve been at it for most of the night, and I’m sure you’d like to get home. May I suggest we adjourn until tomorrow?”

There were no disagreements from the other nineteen members of the subcommittee that provided oversight for Navy and Marine Corps procurement and research and development. Some yawned as they gathered their belongings and said farewell to their peers.

Congressman Yates couldn’t remember another December that had been so plagued by budget squabbles and deadlock. Despite President Zimmer’s attempts to bring the two sides together, it was the same old story in Washington. Left versus Right with no end in sight.

Yates shook his head as he stuffed the last file into his brief case. There was still much to discuss, but at least the bulk of what they were finalizing was actually cemented in the budget. The F-35 Joint Strike Fighter program had been a particular bear, but they’d gotten through it. With cost increases and delays from the manufacturer, the U.S. government was increasingly in the hole on the expensive program.

Various news outlets had done their best to paint the program as another example of government waste, but Rep. Yates and his colleagues believed in the program. They didn’t disagree on revamping the process and holding the manufacturer accountable, but they were steadfast in their insistence that the F-35 was a must-have for the future of the American armed forces. He’d said as much two days before in an interview on
60 Minutes
. They hadn’t aired it yet, but he was hoping they’d include the meat of what he’d put forth.

He was the last out the door when his cell phone rang. He debated not answering the call, but saw that it was one of his assistants. Yates answered.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep by now? We’ve got another long day tomorrow.”

“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you.”

The tone of his staffer’s voice wiped the grin off Yates’s face.

“It’s okay. I was just leaving the subcommittee meeting.” He wondered what could be so urgent at this hour. “What’s the matter?”

“Sir, I just got a call from the FBI.”

Yates stopped walking. “What did they want?” He scoured his mind for any ongoing investigation that he should’ve remembered. His brain was foggy from the cold, or maybe it was the flu.

“They just raided the Marine’s F-35 liaison offices in Dulles, and they’ve taken Colonel Pearce into custody.”

Chapter 9

Lake Buena Vista, Florida

6:02am, December 6
^th

Special Agent Robbie Barrett had a pounding headache and it had nothing to do with overindulging the night before. Although he lived well and liked to enjoy the finer things life had to offer, he maintained certain peculiarities with his work. One of his steadfast rules was that he never touched alcohol while on a high-profile case.

The death of the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps was a tragedy, but it was also an opportunity for Robbie Barrett.

He’d spent the evening before with a young woman his mother had introduced him to at a family event at the Barrett home in Orlando. She was cute enough and plenty smart, but his mind couldn’t focus on the conversation.

He could tell she thought he was off cue for not even taking a sip of the eighty-dollar bottle of wine he’d ordered, but she didn’t say anything. He’d deposited her back at her brand new apartment, and barely gave her a peck on cheek before he was speeding away back to his home office.

And there he’d stayed until well past three in the morning. The case was as plain as any he’d seen. A guy has a shitty day, or maybe even a shitty life, and he decides to end it all. Nothing new in Barrett’s world. He’d investigated possible murders and countless suicides in military barracks, run-down motels and even the one time he’d had to pick through a pile of stinking red snapper to get to the body covered underneath.

As he walked another loop around the scene of Gen. Ellwood’s ultimate demise, Barrett wondered if he was looking because there was actually something there or because he wanted something to be there.

If there was another angle, some conspiracy that the Marine general had wriggled his way into, that could mean lots of media exposure. That could thrust him into the spotlight, a proposition that made him more than a little excited. Maybe if his mother and father finally saw that he was doing something important, something that could garner the attention of the public, then maybe, just maybe, they’d stop pestering him about using his law degree for something useful.

They hadn’t understood his decision to leave his father’s firm and enlist with NCIS. That’s what they’d called it: “enlisting,” as if either of them had the faintest idea what military service meant. He hadn’t known much when he’d started, but he learned quickly, busted his ass to prove he belonged amidst the ranks of former-military.

So while his parents schmoozed their friends and whispered their hopes that someday Robbie would “get over his service and come back to the family,” he spent his days doing what he could to rise through the ranks at NCIS.

He knew that the other NCIS agents called him names behind his back,
Pretty Boy, College Boy, Trust Fund
…but he ignored them. The Barrett family’s fuel was success, and Robbie Barrett had stuffed handfuls of it in his pockets as his colleagues watched, mouths watering. They could say whatever they wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that he was fast becoming the face of the NCIS in Florida.

Only half paying attention to his surroundings, he backpedaled to get a better look at the crime scene. His heel caught on a something hard and Barrett felt his momentum propelling him back, arms already moving to stop the fall. Before he hit the ground, something grabbed him, arresting the wipeout.

“Gotcha,” came a voice.

Much less gracefully than he would’ve liked, Barrett regained his footing and whipped around, his hand searching for his firearm.

He stopped when he recognized the man standing before him, blond hair pulled tight in a ponytail. If he was amused, he didn’t show it. Daniel Briggs stood with a look that bordered somewhere between curiosity and determination. Barrett could feel the man’s eyes taking him in, as if he were assessing the NCIS agent’s worth.

“What are you doing here?” Barrett asked, a bit of a quiver in his voice that he tried to cover with a cough.

“I thought I’d take a look around,” said Briggs, bending down to examine something on the ground.

“Where’s Stokes?”

If Barrett was being honest with himself, he would have admitted that the two Marines unnerved him. It wasn’t the fact that they’d been sent by the Commandant, or even that they were treading on his turf (he dealt with Washington outsiders on an all-too-frequent basis). It was the way they carried themselves, especially this Briggs character. He had the look of a man who’d seen things, done things. Like a poet who’d finally found his harmony with the world, Daniel Briggs exuded something that Barrett wished for daily: tranquility.

“Cal’s seeing what he can do to help Mrs. Ellwood and the family,” said Daniel, not looking up as he moved to another spot a few feet away.

“You know we’ve been over the area a hundred times,” said Barrett, seeking to regain the upper hand.

“I know. Not trying to step on any toes. Just thought I’d soak it in without anyone being here.”

At that moment Barrett realized that the Marine had probably been there much longer than he had. What had he seen? What was he looking for? But rather than snap a reply, Barrett’s mind wondered if his hunch had been right, if there was something more to the case than a run-of-the-mill suicide.

“You have much experience with this?” he asked, following Briggs’s path.

“You mean crime scenes?”

“Suicide.”

Briggs looked up. “Yeah.”

“Personally or professionally?”

“Both.”

There was something in the comment and the tone that subtly told Barrett to back off.

“You don’t say much, do you?”

Briggs shrugged and continued his inspection of the area.

“How far out did your teams look?” Briggs asked.

“A couple hundred yards. Figured there wasn’t much need considering the circumstances.”

Briggs nodded.

“Hey, if there’s something I need to know, it sure as hell would be helpful to have it before I file my initial report,” said Barrett, matching Briggs’s pace as he moved farther into the brush.

“I want to show you something.”

Open space turned to tangle, and then back again. While Barrett swatted away branches, Briggs seemed to melt in and out of the landscape. His footsteps were light, his gaze moving like a predator’s.

They reached a small rise and climbed it, the pine needles under their feet still wet from the morning dew. Briggs turned around when they reached the top.

“Look,” he said, pointing back the way they’d come.

Barrett did as he was told, squinting, and then taking off his suddenly fogged sunglasses to see what Briggs was pointing at. It took him a moment, but then his eyes went wide. They were probably half a mile away, but there, clear as day, was the yellow taped crime scene, his Escalade parked just where he’d left it.

“How did you know this was here?” asked Barrett, the possibilities already tumbling around in his head.

“I had a hunch.”

Briggs walked over to a clump of trees, his eyes taking in the area. He went to his knees, and then down to his hands.

Barrett watched as he maneuvered around the small copse that looked more like a nest on the ground, probably big enough to be home to a deer. It dawned on the special agent what he was seeing. This wasn’t a private refuge for animals, it was—

The loud crack of splintering wood overhead made him look up in confusion. He saw the shattered remains of the tree branch not a foot above his head. It took a split second for him to realize what it was. Just as he did, the wind was knocked from his chest as Daniel Briggs tackled him and the pair rolled down the backside of the hillock. Over and over they went, pitching over prickly palmettos and narrowly missing saplings as they rumbled end over end.

They finally came to rest with a splash in a knee high body of water. Briggs had a pistol out. He put his index finger to his lips and motioned for Barrett to follow.

Embarrassed by his slow reactions, Barrett slid his own sopping wet weapon out of its holster and tried to pretend he knew what was going on. He’d never been shot at before. He’d never pulled his service pistol in the line of duty.

“What’s happening?” he whispered, trying to calm his breathing.

Another crack overhead. This time Barrett realized it was a high-caliber round, a rifle most likely. He ducked involuntarily, but Briggs just kept moving. If he was worried, he didn’t show it.

“Who knew you were out here?” asked Briggs, his voice flat.

“What? I…I don’t know. Why?” stuttered Barrett, the edge of panic in his brain crept down his arms.

Briggs shook his head. “Never mind. How well can you swim?”

“What?”

“How well can you swim?”

It was then that Barrett noticed they were up to their chests in the murky water.

“I can take care of myself.”

Briggs nodded and pulled off his shirt with a swift tug. “Strip down if you need to. We’re going that way.” He pointed deeper into the gloom where trees hung over the waterway with their drooping tendrils, roots visible as they formed skeletal cages against the banks.

Barrett debated kicking off his shoes but thought better of it. As he gulped at the thought of gators and whatever else lurked below the surface, he followed Briggs, hoping they’d make it out before a bullet found them and left them for the swamps.

Chapter 10

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina

7:47am, December 6
^th

The Commandant of the Marine Corps waved goodbye to the formation of men outside 3
^rd
Battalion 2
^nd
Marines’s headquarters. They’d invited him for morning PT, and although he was three times the age of some of them, he could still more than hold his own. There was something about being with a Marine infantry battalion that got his blood flowing, reminded him of what it was all about.

He needed that on this day more than ever. The infantry Marine, grunt, knuckle-dragger, ground-pounder, was the core. Every other specialty, from supply to intelligence, supported the infantry. Even Recon Marines and their elite brothers in Force Recon were technically tasked with supporting the lowly grunt. It was the way it had always been.

As an infantry officer in his earlier twenties, Winfield had the privilege of leading Marines from every walk of life. They came in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes they were such a challenge that you wanted to wring their necks, but in the end they were family. You took care of family.

As his driver pulled away from 3/2’s pavilion, Gen. Winfield reflected on his new mission. He was somehow supposed to save the Marine Corps from the worst fate imaginable: extinction. And with what? A handful of trusted advisors and a former staff sergeant.

While he didn’t doubt Stokes’s abilities (he had come recommended from none other than President Zimmer himself), he was beginning to see the tidal wave forming on the horizon.

First came the tremors, the warning from Gen. Ellwood. Then came the rumble, Gen. Ellwood’s death. And just this morning he’d found out about the FBI raid on the Marine offices in Dulles. The head of the liaison section, Col. Pearce, was now in for questioning.

He’d fielded thirteen phone calls from politicians on both sides of the aisle, some wanting answers and some looking for blood. It felt like the enemy was coming from all sides, attacking in the dead of night, and then slinking back into the mist.