Chain of Command (2 page)

              At first Cal blamed the booze. The two generals had been at the sauce for hours. But as they outlined the situation, and asked for his assistance, he couldn’t help but believe them.

The Marine Corps had faced disbanding in the past, most recently in the early 20
^th
century. But World War II and the raising of the flag on Mount Suribachi had changed that. In fact, it was James Forrestal, the Secretary of the Navy, who’d said in 1945,
“The raising of that flag on Suribachi means a Marine Corps for the next five hundred years.”

Apparently not.

It had been the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps himself who’d brought the danger to Winfield’s attention. Incredibly, Gen. Ellwood confessed to being an unwitting participant in the plot to slash the Marine Corps out of existence.

Now on loan to the Commandant with the blessing of the president, Cal had pressed for an in-depth investigation. Gen. Winfield preferred a more cautious approach, saying, “If General Ellwood was part of this, he will be held accountable. I don’t want to ruin his career if we don’t have to.”

Cal almost lost his patience at that point, replying, “With respect, sir, the general has already admitted his guilt. Whether he knew what he was doing or not doesn’t change a thing. You brought me in to help, to take action. I recommend you let me and my team do what we do best.”

Now their key witness was dead. Cal didn’t have to tell the Commandant how much time they’d lost. Gen. Winfield knew.

“I never asked, sir, was General Ellwood a friend?”

“We knew each other, of course, but I wouldn’t say we were friends. My God, how could he do that with his family being so close, at Disney World for Christ’s sake!”

Cal had his opinions, but he kept them to himself. Now wasn’t the time to besmirch the name of a Marine general.

After taking a few moments to gather his thoughts, Winfield said, “I know we talked about you putting on the uniform again, but I think we missed that window. Can you and your team do what’s needed without joining the ranks?”

Cal hadn’t thought much of the Commandant’s idea of him and his other former Marines going back in the Corps for the sake of the investigation. The Corps was too small. They knew too many people. They would be recognized. If there was a silver lining to Gen. Ellwood’s death it was that Cal wouldn’t have to pin on fake major’s bars.

“We can do it, sir.”

“Good. Now, how quickly can you get to Florida?”

Chapter 3

M&T Bank Stadium

Baltimore, Maryland

4:02pm, December 4
^th

The score was tied seven to seven at the half. It looked liked the Army was fighting hard to settle the score from the shellacking the Navy Mids had put on them the year before. As it stood, the Navy had twelve consecutive wins in the always popular Army-Navy Game.

Exuberant fans cheered as their teams headed to the locker rooms. Maybe it would be a close game for a change.

The two men watched the changeover on the field, each remembering their time at the Naval Academy. They’d been roommates as plebes. Now, almost thirty-five years later, they sat and watched the new generation of officers.

“You going to the funeral?” asked Rear Admiral Joseph Gower, USN, adjusting the bill of his Class of 1979 ball cap.

Major General Duane Mason, USA, snorted.

“Do I have a choice?”

Gower sipped his non-alcoholic beer, frowning.

“We owe it to Doug.”

Another snort from Mason.

“It was your idea to use him, and now you want to go to his funeral?” Mason took a long drink from his own beer. He let out a burp. “Then again, I wouldn’t mind seeing Cassy again. She’s still a looker after all these years.”

Gower turned to face his friend. “Don’t be an idiot. We need to keep up appearances. If you don’t come to Quantico with me….”

Mason put up his hands. “Okay, okay. I was just kidding around. I won’t even make a pass at Cassy.” He chuckled and returned his gaze to the row of female midshipmen below.

Adm. Gower stared at his friend. Even after all those years, sometimes he still couldn’t decide whether Duane was pulling his leg. Hell, he hadn’t believed Mason when he’d told him that rather than getting his commission in the Navy, he was going to raise his right hand as an Army officer. It happened occasionally, but it still rankled the career Navy officer that he hadn’t seen it coming. Duane had never gotten his sea legs, but Gower thought for sure he’d make it work.

Instead of speeding off to the fleet together, Duane Mason entered the Army pipeline, first as an infantry officer, Ranger tabbed, and then on to special operations, even a stint with Delta Forces.

He remembered the nights they’d stayed up watching the news at the Academy, the reports of Soviet incursions and subsequent expansion. They’d gnashed their teeth at the weakling, President Carter, and then rolled their eyes at the actor turned politician who promised to take the fight to the Soviets.

It wasn’t the first time they’d been wrong. In fact, Reagan was a personal hero to both men, although for different reasons. Gower appreciated Reagan’s resolve backed up by his never-ending cold calculation. Mason admired the man for his moxie, for giving the Russkies the middle finger and then backing it up with force.

Reagan’s actions would help define the careers of both officers. While Mason ran around in jungles and jumped from the clouds, Gower endured months-long patrols under the Arctic and every ocean on earth.

They’d kept in touch, always making it back for the Army-Navy game when deployments allowed. Mason would wear his
Go Army
shirt and Gower his
Go Navy
. The winner got to keep both. Gower was racking them up.

Between duty stations, they vacationed with their families, and when nearly concurrent divorces happened, they vacationed as roommates. Sometimes there’d been a third. Another classmate from the Academy days.

Douglas Ellwood had played tailback for the Mids. They’d met when the Navy football coach assigned his star running back to the studious Gower to help raise his flagging grades.

Gower had at first thought that Ellwood was a simple-minded meathead. All he knew was football. But as their sessions progressed, Gower was surprised to find that Doug Ellwood was no moron; he’d just never learned how to learn.

Ellwood had returned the favor by introducing the socially handicapped Gower to his near-constant entourage of college co-eds. Their friendship grew and soon Mason was added to the trio. Whenever they had a free weekend, the three bolted from campus and conquered the surrounding colleges.

For four years they studied and partied. Despite the rigors and rules of the military academy, they made the best of their time together.

For a moment Gower thought back to those times, to when they’d nearly been equals. As much as he hated to admit it, he’d always been jealous of Doug, even when he walked in that first day with that stupid grin on his face.
The trusting fool.

Time had not lessened Gower’s resentment. He remembered when the letter had come from the Marine Corps (Ellwood had listed Gower as his next of kin), informing him of 1
^st
Lt. Douglas Ellwood’s wounding in Grenada. There had been genuine concern for his friend in that moment. Months later Doug would receive the Silver Star for his exploits on the small island.

So as Gower moved from submarines to shore duty and back again, always choosing and receiving the best career-advancing posts, Doug Ellwood played Marine and kept falling into mounds of rose petals. Dumb luck it would seem.

Gower never let his covetous yearnings show, always congratulating his friend on his accomplishments, even when Ellwood had been selected to be the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps, one step away from the throne itself. That had been the last straw.

It hadn’t taken much to enlist Mason. He hated the Marines and their incessant swagger. To him the Army was more than equipped to fill in whatever puny void the Marines left behind.

Together they made a good team. Gower had the contacts and Mason owned the muscle. Gower hadn’t known how much they’d need the muscle until now.

He sipped his beer, wishing it was of the alcoholic variety. Maybe after this was all finished. Just a nip.

“Everything’s set on your end?” he asked.

Mason answered without taking his eyes off the cheerleaders.

“Of course.”

Gower nodded and slunk back into this chair. Things were finally coming together. He could almost taste victory. It was no longer the consolation prize for not picking up a third star. This was it, his new path.

He knew his days in the Navy were numbered, and he’d come to terms with that. Now he looked to the future. It seemed much brighter than it had a year before, thanks to the recently deceased Gen. Ellwood. He almost chuckled as he remembered the look on Doug’s face when he’d realized how much he’d hurt his own service. The fool was still the same blubbering jock from 1976.

As he watched the opposing team retake the field, his aspirations took their customary hold in his subconscious. After all, what better way to start your new career than to be known as the architect behind the Marine Corps’ undoing?

Chapter 4

Lake Buena Vista, Florida

10:32am, December 5
^th

Cal Stokes and Daniel Briggs looked like an unlikely pair. Cal was a couple inches shorter than six feet with brown hair that he kept just longer than his regulation cut in the Marine Corps. Daniel had long blonde hair that he liked to keep in a ponytail and walked with the calm stride of a Buddhist monk.

While Cal’s visage leaned toward stern, or maybe just alert, Daniel walked through the world with a Zen-like quality that bordered on aloof. It wasn’t that he was strange or on the fringe of society. The former Marine sniper just knew his place in the world. After struggling with PTSD, he’d found his salve: God.

As his colleagues ribbed each other like Marines just leaving Parris Island, Daniel took the quiet approach, letting things soak in.

That, coupled with his unique skills, made Daniel Briggs a permanent fixture next to his boss, Cal Stokes. The two men made a formidable team. Whether shooting their way through a throng of terrorists or maneuvering the minefields of D.C. politics, Cal and Daniel belonged side by side.

You could say that Cal was the heart of The Jefferson Group, but Daniel was its soul, a warrior dedicated to leaving the world a little better each day.

The two Marines approached the police tape and flashed their ID badges to the NCIS agent who looked like he’d just turned twenty-one.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked.

“We were told to ask for Special Agent Barrett?” said Cal.

Without taking his eyes off of them, the agent shouted, “Hey, Robbie, you’ve got visitors.”

A trim guy in a golf shirt and matching shorts turned and headed their way.

“You the guys from Quantico?”

Cal nodded. “Cal Stokes and this is Daniel Briggs.”

Barrett’s eyes squinted as if one of their names triggered something in his memory. “Robbie Barrett, gentlemen.” He shook both men’s hands. Now that Cal saw him up close, he thought the guy looked more like a professional golfer than an NCIS agent. “Why don’t we take a walk and I’ll fill you in.”

They followed Special Agent Barrett until they were out of hearing range of the rest of the NCIS investigators.

“So the Commandant sent you.” It sounded more like an accusation than a simple statement.

“He did,” answered Cal.

“Why you and not his staff?”

Cal shrugged. “He wanted an outside opinion.”

Barrett stared at Cal for a moment, and then said, “Just so you know, I understand the needs of the Marine Corps, but I’m not about to hinder this investigation because the Corps wants to save face.”

Cal resisted the urge to clench his teeth. This was Barrett’s backyard, not his.

“We’re just here to see what you’ve found, let you know that we’re available to help, and report anything we think is pertinent to General Winfield.”

Barrett crossed his arms over his chest. “And what makes you qualified to question my team?”

Cal exhaled. “Look, I get it. We’re outsiders. You don’t trust us. That’s fine. But we
are
here on behalf of the Commandant of the Marine Corps. He specifically told us to behave. Me, you might have to look out for, but Snake Eyes here,” Cal pointed at Daniel, “he’s as tame as a kitten.”

“Wait, you’re that Daniel Briggs? The one who was up for the Medal of Honor?” asked Barrett, his face shifting from annoyance to curiosity.

“I didn’t get it, if that’s what you’re asking,” Daniel said simply.

“That’s not what I heard. This guy I know —“

“Leave it alone, Barrett,” said Cal, one of the few people who knew why his friend had turned down the Medal.

Barrett looked like he was going to press, but he didn’t. Cal could tell that as soon as they left, the NCIS agent was going to make some discreet inquiries. Not that it mattered, but Cal couldn’t afford to be highlighted.

“In case you were wondering, our presence here is to remain confidential, by order of the Commandant.”

“I don’t fall under your chain of command, Mr. Stokes.”

Cal grinned. “Okay. Would a call from the president help keep your mouth shut?”

Barrett’s mouth pursed, then opened, then closed again.

“Good,” continued Cal. “Now, like I said, we’ll stay out of your hair. The faster you tell us what’s going on, the faster we go home.”

“How do I know you won’t —“

“I’m a Marine, Mr. Barrett.”

Barrett glared at him but held his tongue. Finally, he said, “Come over to my car and I’ll tell you what I know.”

His car turned out to be a brand new Cadillac Escalade. The paint job was a dull matte black, a theme that continued to the vehicle’s rims. Cal wondered what a thirty-something NCIS agent was doing driving such a souped-up SUV.