Chain of Command (15 page)

“Travis, what do you think would happen if I stepped over there and decked Mr. Steiner?”

Steiner stopped moving.

“I wouldn’t recommend it, Mr. President,” answered Haden. “Have you ever hit someone in the face?”

Zimmer shook his head.

“Hurts more than you think. Now the gut or the solar plexus are much easier on the knuckles. I wouldn’t want you spraining your wrist before your meeting with the Israelis in the morning.”

Steiner couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The two men looked like they were having an idle conversation in the men’s locker room.

“I don’t have to stand here and listen to this,” said Steiner, grabbing his coat from the arm of the sofa.

“You’re right, Tom. But let me tell you something before you go. You may think that my line about this being a threat to our national security is totally bogus, but you’d be wrong. Now, I’m not sure where you’re getting your information, and I have a feeling that you don’t know either. Frankly, I’ve never been too impressed with your street smarts. Have you stopped to consider that whomever gave you the information might be involved in the attacks on our Marines? Did that possibility ever enter your brain?”

The president laughed. “I can see by the look on your face that you didn’t.” He turned to Rep. Matisse. “Well, you were right, Ezra. I should’ve just handed this to the FBI.”

“You were trying to be fair, Mr. President,” said Matisse, casting Steiner a disgusted look.

“I guess we’re past that now.” Zimmer sighed. “Have a nice trip, Tom. I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.”

Taking his cue to leave, Steiner strode to the door and hesitated as his hand closed around the handle. For the first time since the Marine escapade had started, he wondered if it had been a wise choice to step onto his current path. When he opened the door, his anxiety only grew. Waiting for him were the director of the FBI and a handful of agents. The director spoke before Steiner could unhinge his locked jaw.

“Good evening, Congressman. I’m so looking forward to speaking with you.”

Chapter 27

Pope Army Airfield

9:44pm, December 9
^th

The Gulfstream G650ER with the tail marking TJG911 taxied across the runway to where a World War II-era jeep waited alongside a large white passenger van.

Since the area was on Gaucho’s home turf (the home of 1
^st
Special Forces Operation Detachment-Delta [aka Delta Force] being next door at Ft. Bragg), he exited The Jefferson Group’s private plane first, followed by MSgt Trent, Cal, Daniel and Dr. Higgins.

There was a scruffy looking middle-aged man sitting on the hood of the jeep, smoking a cigarette. The guy didn’t look like a Delta veteran to Cal, but the Marine knew that meant little. Delta boys were known for being invisible. This guy looked like he’d just closed up his pub before coming to meet them. The man hopped off the olive drab relic.

“You’re still as ugly as ever,” the man said to Gaucho.

“And you’re still older than my abuelito.”

Both men grinned. Their resulting handshake turned into a hug.

Gaucho presented his old friend to the others.

“Gentlemen, this is Karl. He and I go back a long ways.”

Cal guessed that Karl was either a command sergeant major or very close to it. Whereas active duty Marines might cringe at introducing themselves without mentioning rank, he knew the other services held no such scruples. It was just another difference in the culture, but for the guys in Delta Force it went much deeper. Anonymity was one of their best assets.

Karl chuckled and appraised the visitors as he took one last inhale from his cigarette and flicked it away. “Let me guess, you boys are Marines. I can always tell by your perfect posture.” He shook Cal’s hand.

It was Cal’s turn to laugh. “And I thought they only let ex-cons with mommy complexes join Delta.”

Karl raised an eyebrow and glanced at Gaucho, who just shrugged as if to say, “I told you so.”

“Looks like you’ve found another family of smart asses, my friend,” Karl said to Gaucho. “Anyway, welcome to North Carolina. If you wouldn’t mind stepping over to the waiting van, we’ll head straight to our next appointment.”

Fifteen minutes later, the vehicles pulled off the road and onto a dirt trail wide enough to accommodate a tank. It reminded Cal of his time in that other North Carolina military retreat, Camp Lejeune. He couldn’t see the tall pine trees bordering the lane, but Cal knew they were there.

Once the drivers had put their vehicles in park, the men stepped out into the brisk December air. They’d parked just outside what looked to be a bunker, complete with an illuminated mailbox on which someone had written
HOME
in flowing white lettering.

They followed Karl into the bunker where two men, both sporting matching beards and Arabic robes, sat playing cards.

“Whatcha say, Karl?” one of the men asked. Cal noticed the automatic weapons propped against each man’s leg, and a pistol each on the card table.

“The asshole give you any problems?” asked Karl.

“He wouldn’t shut up for a while, but he finally got the point.”

Cal wondered if the point had been a kick or a punch.

Karl led the way down a dimly lit concrete corridor. It looked like some ammo dumps Cal had visited as a kid. They’d mostly been filled in or shut off over the years.

They came to a door that looked like it belonged in a horror movie instead of on a military installation. It even had spiked iron bars that served to keep hands from sticking through the small window.

Karl slid the rusted latch aside and pulled open the door. A flick of a switch later and the small sandbagged room was bathed in fluorescent light. There was a man on the floor, mouth duct taped closed, and his arms and legs hog-tied with parachord.

“Well, Bobby, I brought you some new friends,” said Karl, stepping over and ripping the duct tape off the man’s mouth, taking a fair chunk of his growing mustache with it.

“You, motherfucker! Wait until I get out of here, I’m gonna—”

The rest of the sentence disappeared along with the air in Bobby’s lungs resulting from the kick from Karl’s boot.

“Listen up, shit head. If you know what’s good for you, tell them everything you know.”

“Fuck you,” Bobby managed to wheeze out. This guy was probably what the world thought a Delta operator should look like. Tall, muscular and accustomed to pain. He even had the look that made recruiting posters.

As Karl went to kick the man again, Cal stopped him with an outstretched arm.

“You mind if we have a go?” he asked.

“You talking about working him over, because I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Karl, taking a step to the side.

“It just so happens that my friend back there,” Cal pointed to Dr. Higgins, “is a master at getting guys like this to talk.”

Karl looked at Higgins and then back to Cal. Cal knew what he was thinking. The guy on the ground was undoubtedly trained to evade questioning for as long as he could. Karl was probably thinking that the chubby guy with glasses was the last guy to make Bobby talk. With an amused shrug, Karl said, “Be my guest.”

Dr. Higgins stepped into the room with his well-worn leather doctor’s bag. “Do you have a place we can lie him flat on his back, on a gurney perhaps?” asked Higgins, who was completely at ease despite being the only non-warrior in the group.

“I’m sure we can rig something up.”

Not long after, Cal’s team had managed to strap Bobby by his wrists and ankles with a set of orange truck cables provided by Karl. He was laying on top of a pile of plywood the size of a door and stacked waist high.

It took their collective strength, and a heavy dose of a MSgt Trent headlock, to get the man secured. Once they did, he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Dr. Higgins was lining up his tools on the card table provided by the two guards who were now watching the show with unabashed curiosity.

“Okay, gentlemen, may I get started?” asked Dr. Higgins, rubbing his latex gloved hands together.

Cal nodded and Higgins approached his subject.

“Now, before we begin, what may I call you,” Higgins asked the man.

“Fuck you,” Bobby spat.

“I’m not sure I can call you that. How about Robert? That is your given name?”

Bobby nodded with more than a little reluctance.

“Very well, Robert, what I am about to administer will not be painful. In fact, what my subjects have told me is that the less you struggle, the easier it is.”

Higgins showed Bobby the two syringes in his hand. The motion produced a new round of writhing, which elicited a sharp elbow jab in Bobby’s abdomen from MSgt Trent. Bobby’s struggle stopped as he gasped for air.

“As I said, this won’t hurt…”

“What the hell is going on here?” came a booming voice from just outside the room. A slightly older and heavier version of Gaucho stomped into the room. The man had a shaggy white beard and his blazing eyes zeroed in on Karl, then down to Bobby, and back to Karl.

“I was going to tell you…” started Karl.

“And who are these guys?” the man asked, pointing to Cal and his team.

“Maybe we should step outside for a minute, Colonel,” suggested Karl.

He got a curt nod in response as “The Colonel” marched back out of the room. “That fucking needle better not touch Bobby,” he said over his shoulder.

Karl, Cal and Gaucho followed the incensed leader back out into the cold.

“Sir, I can explain,” said Karl.

“Let’s not start with the
sir
crap, Karl. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”

Karl nodded. “Vince, this is my old friend Gaucho and this over here is Cal.”

“I know you, don’t I?” Vince said, pointing at Gaucho.

Gaucho smiled.

“Philippines, right?”

Gaucho nodded. Some of the steam seemed to release from the colonel’s attitude.

“And who’s this kid?” he asked, motioning to Cal.

“Cal Stokes, Colonel.” Cal extended his hand. The Army colonel looked at it for a moment and then shook it.

“Something tells me that you’re the ringleader of this little party, Mr. Stokes. How about you tell me what the fuck is going on before I have you escorted to the stockade.”

Cal nodded and began the story.

Vince listened as Cal told him about the possible connection between the man tied up a few feet away and the death of hundreds of United States Marines. He even went so far as to tell the colonel that The Jefferson Group worked directly for the president. Unlike how most people would’ve reacted, Vince’s demeanor didn’t change at the mention of the Commander in Chief. Cal knew that was because more so than even the recently flashy Navy SEALs, Delta was involved in more black sanctioned covert ops than any other force in the military arsenal. These guys were handpicked not only for their talents, but for the fact they knew how to keep their mouths shut and stay under the radar.

“So you think that the guy in glasses back there can make one of
my
guys talk in less than an hour?” Vince asked, the look on his face more amused than incredulous.

“I know he can,” said Cal.

“And you really think that former Delta guys were involved in the death of your Marines?”

Cal didn’t want to point fingers. He knew what it felt like to hear that some idiot Marine had gone and killed his wife or committed some other horrid act. Placing blame on men who at one time could’ve been under Vince’s command would be inappropriate until they had solid proof.

“We don’t know that yet,” Cal answered truthfully. “All we know is what Karl overheard. If the guy’s full of shit, we’ll be out of your hair before midnight.”

Vince thought it over. “And you’re willing to stick your neck out for this, Karl?”

“I am,” Karl answered without hesitating.

Vince grunted. “Okay then. Let’s go see what this doctor can do.”

“I think you’ll be amazed,” said Cal, remembering the first time he’d seen Higgins at work. The former CIA interrogator was part artist and part mad scientist.

Vince snorted. “We’ll see.” He headed back towards the bunker entrance then turned suddenly. “I need you to promise me something, Mr. Stokes.”

“If I can.”

“If this turns out to be true, if former Delta were involved, or even former soldiers, I want you to do everything you can to convince the president that we want in. I’ll help you take those assholes down.”

Cal grinned. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, Vince.”

Chapter 28

Washington, D.C.

6:58am, December 10
^th

Congressman McKnight sipped his piping hot coffee and settled in for what he privately called “The Steiner Show.” Every day he either watched a live or recorded version of Rep. Tom Steiner’s latest interview. It was sort of a guilty pleasure for the Floridian, watching the New Jersey native spout the very twisted truth that McKnight had concocted. There were even specific lines that he’d penned himself that Steiner had repeated verbatim.

It was too good not to watch. Steiner had been ripe for it. Struggling to make a name even after multiple terms in the House, the poor guy was practically begging for a shot at the big leagues.

Now he had it, and McKnight had to admit, after a couple minor stumbles, the guy was catching on. He’d perfected his message. It didn’t hurt that the media newbie had a powerhouse publicist in his corner, yet another masterful introduction made by McKnight, in a roundabout way, of course. She’d ensured that the congressman never went into a battle he couldn’t win, or at least fight to a stalemate. For the most part that meant taking the interviews with left-leaning news outlets, and also avoiding round table discussions where Steiner might get pushed into a corner. The debates would come soon, but for now it was fine that Steiner was singing from his soapbox.