Chain of Command (13 page)

Her heart ached for their loss, for the pain now stabbing the hearts of their loved ones back home. She knew what Doug would do if he were alive: ask for a Marine division so he could find whoever was responsible and kill them.

Cassidy wouldn’t have disagreed. She was just as much a Marine as her husband even though she’d never raised her right hand and said the oath. But she’d spent her life among them, caring for them, loving them.

As she wandered the small library that now served as her sanctuary (her family knew not to disturb her when she closed the doors), Cassidy Ellwood touched the countless books lining the shelves. They were all Doug’s. She’d never realized how much he’d read, how hard he’d tried to be a good Marine officer. There was everything from U.S. Grant’s autobiography to the writings of Sun Tzu. He even had books on the lives of Adolf Hitler and Che Guevara.

Doug had always said that in order to be an effective combat leader, he had to know the mind of the enemy. She was finally coming to grips with how much he’d studied his chosen field. Where she’d only experienced the time apart, the long hours at the office, Doug had been doing what he knew best, being a Marine.

Cassidy had to admit, he was a damn good Marine. There’d been a lot of talk about him becoming Commandant one day. While she knew what that meant, she’d been too consumed with maintaining appearances and trying to keep her sons and their families close to enjoy the prospect. Truth be told, she secretly would have hated him for taking the top post. There’d been too much buried for so long.

The trip to Orlando was supposed to be the fix. It sure had felt like it. They’d become friends again, lovers even. She felt the passion she’d first encountered when the athletic 2
^nd
Lt Doug Ellwood marched into her life. She cried as she remembered his embrace, his sweet words, his smile. The smell in the library reminded her of him, like old leather, military canvas bags and pencil shavings. She missed him, wanted to hold him and never let go.

As her hand grazed over the middle row of books, her finger slipped over a red tassel. She stopped. It was a bookmark. Now she remembered that she’d given it to Doug years before, on one of their many moves cross-country. She pulled the book out. It was an old planner, the corners bent and the cover faded.

It had the emblem of the United States Naval Academy in the center with the year 1975 in calligraphy underneath. It was from Doug’s first year at the Academy.

She flipped it open to the first page that had his unmistakable chicken scratch handwriting.

Sworn in today. Got thrashed. Pretty good food at the chow hall.

Cassidy smiled. That sounded like Doug as an eighteen year old Plebe. He loved to eat and had somehow maintained his weight despite his proclivity for huge meals.

She flipped to another page.

Football practice was tough (two guys puked) but a lot easier than class. I’m not sure I’m going to get through English.

Cassidy knew that it had taken Doug some time to warm up to academics. He’d told her that his high school had only cared about what he did on the football field and covered for him with his grades. He’d essentially gone to the Academy with a middle school education.

She turned the page to where the bookmark was waiting. It was a laminated picture of the California coast somewhere north of Camp Pendleton. She set it aside, and read that day’s entry.

Coach made me go to a tutor. His name is Gower. I could tell he didn’t like me, but he knows his stuff. Hopefully this helps.

Cassidy knew Joe Gower well and was surprised that she didn’t know the story of how he and Doug had met. They always said they’d become friends at the Academy, like that was explanation enough. Even more curious was the fact that Doug had circled the name
Gower
with a red pen.

She flipped to the next page and it was the same thing. A couple more pages forward and he’d written,

Joe Gower introduced me to his roommate D. Mason. Seems like a knucklehead, but a nice enough guy. Going to take them with me on libo this weekend.

This time both Gower and Mason were circled in red. Cassidy Ellwood quickly scanned through the rest of the calendar diary. Every mention of Gower or Mason elicited a red circle around their names. Her breath caught as she turned to the last page.

They made me do it. I love you. - Doug

Cassidy’s stomach clenched. Did this mean what she thought? Who should she call? What should she do?

Then the memory from Orlando came to her. Those Marines who’d come for Scotty Winfield.
Stokes
.

He’d given her broken heart a glimmer of hope when he’d said that maybe there’d been a reason for Doug’s death. That conversation replayed in her head as she pulled out her cell phone and looked for his number. There it was.

She clicked on the number and the phone began to ring. Her heart was racing, mind flailing as it tried to comprehend.

“Stokes,” came the answer.

“Mr. Stokes, this is Cassidy Ellwood.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch, but things—”

“I’ve found something you should see.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Is there any way this could wait until—”

“No. You have to come now.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Can I get your address?”

She gave it to him.

“You’re in luck. We’re right down the road in Arlington. Can we stop by in ten minutes?”

“The sooner the better.”

“Okay. We’ll see you soon, Mrs. Ellwood.”

Cassidy Ellwood placed the phone on Doug’s desk and hugged the old diary to her chest. Maybe she would finally have her answer.

Chapter 24

Washington, D.C.

3:16pm, December 9
^th

Congressman Tony McKnight flipped from one social media account to the next as he perused the day’s news. Not only had his office phone been ringing off the hook, his constituents were clogging every online profile he had. Conservatives smelled blood and they wanted it yesterday.

There was talk of a march being planned for the following weekend to rally support for the beleaguered Marines. Marine recruiters were turning away prospects in droves, but the biggest uproar came from Marines who’d left active duty. There were pictures of long lines of young and old wanting back in to avenge the deaths of their brothers.

Tom Steiner had been on every major news network, calling for the ouster of General Winfield and his cohorts. McKnight would have chuckled if he hadn’t been walking into another emergency session with President Zimmer. The Florida Republican had been one of the first politicians called in after news of the attacks surfaced. McKnight had a front row seat among the president’s crisis response team.

He wondered what they’d think if they knew he was behind it all. Rep. Steiner crowed from the rooftops because of the study Tony McKnight had funded. It was easy to keep his name out of it. Hell, the Navy and Army had done most of the work for him. Despite what they were saying on television, there were plenty of officers in both services who would secretly celebrate the Marine Corps’s undoing. They’d been trying to do it for over a century, and now might just be the time. McKnight knew they were waiting to see how the political tussle would pan out.

Then there was the money behind the entire operation, willingly supplied by Glen Whitworth. The smug military supplier didn’t know of McKnight’s involvement either. They were acquainted, and had mingled at fundraisers and junkets, but McKnight knew much more about Whitworth’s ambition than the billionaire knew about him. Thanks to a tipsy conversation they’d shared two years before, McKnight understood the rich man’s hatred of the Corps. He’d merely planted the seed through others and watched it grow. Intermediaries, minor politicians yearning for power, and military officers looking for advancement were easy to manipulate. They’d done the heavy lifting. Once the greased machine started moving, there was no stopping it.

So while he listened and nodded as Gen. McMillan briefed the president on the latest efforts to retrieve the Marine dead, McKnight marveled at the breadth of his scheme. Maybe he’d have to write a book some day. He could call it
How to Get Anything You Want on Capitol Hill
, or maybe
Tony McKnight: Master of Manipulation
. Nah. Better to keep it to himself. After all, how many clever politicians could Washington hold?

+++

Cal, Daniel, Gaucho and MSgt Trent climbed in the car. No one said a word as Gaucho backed out of the driveway and headed back to their hotel. Cal had Gen. Ellwood’s diary in his lap. Mrs. Ellwood had told them the story of how she’d found her husband’s journal and who the two men were whose names had been circled time after time.

“Joe Gower is a two star in the Navy. Submariner and an academic. Cerebral. Last we heard from him he was at the Pentagon on his twilight tour. The same for Duane Mason. He’s a major general in the Army, came up through Special Forces. Again, I’m not exactly sure what he does now, but Duane always pushed my patience.”

“How so?” Cal had asked.

“Duane has always had a wandering eye. His ex-wife and I were friends for a time. You wouldn’t believe the stories. I didn’t at the time, but as he moved up the ranks his demeanor changed. He was more dirty old man than casual flirt.”

She’d made Cal promise to stay in touch and keep her apprised of the situation.

“Hey, boss, that name Mason rang a bell,” said Gaucho, not taking his eyes off the road as he pulled into traffic.

“Yeah?”

“There was a Colonel Mason when I was with Delta. Never served under him, but I thought you should know.”

“Could you reach out to some of your old friends and see what they know?”

“No problem.”

A Marine general, a Navy admiral and an Army general. Cal wondered how it had all started. He’d thought about staying at the Ellwood’s to search the place for more clues, but they just didn’t have the time or the manpower. The thought gave him an idea. Maybe it was time to enlist some more help.

He pulled out his phone and tapped on Special Agent Robbie Barrett’s phone number.

“Special Agent Barrett.”

“Barrett, it’s Cal Stokes.”

“Oh. Hey.”

“Look, something’s come up. I was wondering if you had anyone to spare.”

“Are you kidding? We’re sending every agent we can overseas to investigate the Marine thing.”

Cal should’ve known. Maybe he could throw Barrett a bone.

“What if I told you that this might have something to do with that?”

Barrett was silent for a long moment, and then answered, “You have my attention.”

“We just found something that could connect General Ellwood’s death to the attacks.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but Barrett didn’t need to know that.

“Okay. What do you need from me?”

“Could you have someone in the D.C. area do a thorough search of the Ellwood residence?”

“Sure.”

The answer came too quick.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m in Alexandria.”

That surprised Cal.

“What are you doing up here?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Cagey bastard
, thought Cal.

“Do you have anyone with you?”

“I’ve got another agent.”

“Okay. How quickly can you get there?”

“I can finish what I’m doing and be there in about an hour.”

“I’ll let Mrs. Ellwood know. Here’s the address.” Cal rattled it off and thanked Barrett for the help. He figured it was only a matter of time before the NCIS knew the whole story. Might as well use some of their expertise to unravel the mystery. Barrett was probably salivating at the chance to be the hero.

“You sure that was a good idea?” asked MSgt Trent from the front passenger seat.

“Not really, but it’ll free us up to find out about Gower and Mason.”

Trent nodded but didn’t look convinced.

Gaucho honked the horn as a Toyota Tacoma cut them off turning through a congested intersection. Cal went to say something when the front windshield splintered and Gaucho grunted. His foot must have been on the pedal because as he slumped forward, they shot into the intersection, swerving wildly and heading into the wrong lane. Barreling toward them was a semi, its horn already blaring.

Chapter 25

Falls Church, Virginia

3:57pm, December 9
^th

His timing was perfect. The shot dead on.

The sniper watched the scene unfold through his scope, time slowing as the SUV careened toward the semi.
This is more like it
, he thought, congratulating himself on a successful stalk. His employer would be happy.

He was about to crawl back out of his position, happy that his task was nearly complete. It wasn’t necessary that Cal Stokes and his men die. If they did, so much the better. No, his boss had been clear. “Put them out of commission,” he’d said.

A head-on collision with a semi would do just that. He smiled.

But fate was a funny thing. Miraculously, as the very last nano second, the SUV veered out of the way and plowed through two cars and thumped over a curb into the green space bordering an apartment complex.

The sniper’s finger settled on the trigger, anxious to take another shot, but it never came. Stokes’s SUV plunged out of sight.

They’d paid a lot of cash to that truck driver, an ex-con who was happy to take the money in exchange for his role in the “accident.” Now the sniper had another loose end to tie up.

He slid the view hole in the back of the dated Pontiac closed and backed into the second row.

“Where to?” asked the driver, a man sent by his employer to help the sniper in any way needed. He didn’t mention the shot or whether the sniper had made the hit. He knew his place.