Presidential Shift Page 4

  Two minutes later, Gaucho joined the small group. He’d put on an oversized black field jacket.

  “Whadya say, boss? Stayin’ outta trouble?”

  Cal shrugged and shook Gaucho’s hand, which turned into a brotherly hug. “As much as I can. You got a minute to talk?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  Cal gave Gaucho the same report he’d given Trent earlier.

  “So what’s the plan?” Gaucho asked.

  “Neil should have enough to release to the media soon. We’ll see how that goes. As far as the other stuff, I want to make sure you and your boys are ready to jump if I need you.”

  “You know us, boss. Always ready.”

  Chapter 7

  FBI Local Office, Birmingham, Alabama

  12:16pm, December 16th

  Special Agent Steve Stricklin stepped out of the stuffy interrogation room and cracked his neck. The day was only half over and he was already tired of talking to the tight-lipped agents of the Birmingham office. He knew they were hiding something. It was in the way they looked at him with their smug eyes. It never crossed Stricklin’s mind that maybe they just hated the fact that he was an Internal Affairs officer and a prick to boot.

  Stricklin came from a modest upbringing and an above average high school education in Virginia. After college, he’d joined the Marines to see the world and get one step closer to his goal of running for public office. Along the way, he’d become an infantry officer and, in his mind, served honorably and faithfully. Former Marine First Lieutenant Steve Stricklin didn’t stay in touch with any of the Marines he’d served with. He’d had a lofty vision of what an infantry Marine looked like: tall, muscular, square jawed and ready for war. It was what he saw when he looked in the mirror.

  What he’d found had left him sickened not only for his country, but more importantly, for his own career. How was he supposed to become a top platoon commander if the Marine Corps gave him dumb farm boys from Arkansas and swamp people from Louisiana?

  Two months after reporting to his battalion, Second Lieutenant Stricklin pleaded with his company commander to allow him to pick new men from incoming School of Infantry classes. The captain, a former enlisted Mustang who Stricklin had come to loathe, practically laughed him out of the office.

  As was his right, 2nd Lt. Stricklin requested mast with the battalion commander for the way his own company commander, a man who was charged by the Marine Corps to mentor 2nd Lt. Stricklin, had treated him. Steve also wanted to ‘suggest’ to the battalion commander that maybe he be allowed to be re-assigned to another company.

  The meeting had not gone as planned. With his company commander and battalion Sergeant Major looking on, the battalion commander had at first politely listened to 2nd Lt. Stricklin’s tale, but had then narrowed his eyes and spoken with utter disdain.

  “Who do you think you are, Lieutenant? What gives you the right to come in here and charge Captain Nanko?”

  “Sir, I believe it’s my right under the Uniform Code of Military Justice to—.”

  “That’s the only reason I sat and listened to your load of crap, Lieutenant.” The word lieutenant came out of the battalion commander’s mouth as if he’d vomited out the vilest piece of food. “Here’s what you’re going to do, Lieutenant. You will officially drop these ridiculous charges of harassment, for which you have no merit, I might add, and get your candy ass back to work.”

  “But, sir,” protested Stricklin.

  “I’m not finished,” growled the battalion commander. “I’m willing to keep this quiet as long as you shut your mouth and get back to what you were sent to this battalion for, getting your Marines ready for war. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but we might be going over to the sandbox soon and you sure as shit better have your act together. I’ll tell you something else. I regularly talk to each of my company commanders about their troops. I also talk to my Marines, private on up. I know more than you think. I’ve heard about you, Lieutenant. I know you like to take credit for what your Marines do. I know that you like to place blame on others.”

  “Sir, if you would tell me who told you these lies—.”

  “I told you to shut your mouth, Lieutenant. And no, I will not tell you who told me. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just say that once the Lance Corporal rumor mill starts up, there isn’t much that can stop it. I’m willing to give you another chance, and so is Captain Nanko, as long as you start learning what it means to be a Marine officer. Despite what you might think, Lieutenant, leading Marines is a privilege, not a right.”

  Stricklin stood at attention in absolute shock. How could the battalion commander be so blind? Couldn’t he see that he was being bullied and thrown under the bus?

  “So what’s it gonna be, Lieutenant?”

  Stricklin hesitated, and then squared his jaw and looked straight ahead. “Sir, I’d like to respectfully request mast with the Commanding General.”

  The battalion commander let out a sigh and looked to Capt. Nanko, who nodded sadly.

  “That’s your right, Lieutenant. Sergeant Major, please provide Lieutenant Stricklin with the proper paperwork and get the general on the line for me.”

  The same thing had happened with the Commanding General. Stricklin still didn’t understand. They’d all been against him. In the end, he’d landed in the battalion’s S-3 (operations) shop where his daily routine was consumed with inspections of the battalion armory, barracks and offices. Surprisingly, he’d enjoyed the duty and took each and every detailed inspection seriously. He’d busted no fewer than fifteen Marines who were secretly drinking under age in the barracks. Over the strong objections of the Marines’ platoon commanders, his own naïve peers, the battalion commander had reluctantly disciplined the minors. Instead of being praised for his hard work in the successful raid, 2nd Lt. Stricklin was reassigned to the armory, permanently.

  He served out his time with relative ease, despite having to go off to war with the battalion.

  The entire episode had shown Steve Stricklin that he was the only person who could and would determine his fate. With a glowing recommendation from a supply major he’d met in Saudi Arabia, Stricklin applied and was accepted to the FBI Academy. At the time, the FBI was looking for as many service members with practical experience as it could find. Although he didn’t get assigned to a field office as an investigating agent as he’d originally wanted, his appointment to Internal Affairs came with certain perks. He was allowed to make his own day for the most part, and whenever he visited a field office, he was given a wide berth. Steve liked the feeling of power that it gave him.

  After grabbing a soda from the staff lounge, he headed to his temporary office, a small but tidy corner office that gave him the privacy he liked. Logging in to his email, he scanned the various compartmental messages. An email from his supervisor sat waiting. Steve clicked on it.

  The message contained one of his department’s weekly updates that kept the entire IA team informed about ongoing investigations. Nothing peaked his interest until the update labeled FLOTUS ORANGE BEACH, ALABAMA. FLOTUS was the acronym used to describe the first lady of the United States. Just like the rest of Americans, Steve had heard about the attack on the first lady and the death of the vice president. The memo outlined the first lady’s itinerary in Orange Beach and then asked for two volunteers to augment the investigators doing local checks prior to the first lady’s appearance starting the next day. Orange Beach wasn’t far from Birmingham.

  Steve was surprised that the first lady was already coming out in public. Curious, he clicked on the link that took him to a secure web page where he could see if anyone had volunteered yet. There was one name. He didn’t recognize the agent. His interviews in Birmingham could be finished the same day if Stricklin kept the Birmingham staff at the office until he was done, which would probably be well past midnight. They couldn’t complain. It was his call to make. Even the special agent in charge of the division had to listen.

  Smiling, Steve ente
red his name to volunteer for the temporary duty in Orange Beach. He could be there by morning.

  +++

  “Is everything in place?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want any mistakes this time.”

  “There won’t be.”

  “Good. Call me when you get to Orange Beach.”

  Chapter 8

  En Route to Pensacola, Florida

  9:05am, December 17th

  Cal tried to stretch his legs but cuffed his shin on the seat in front him.

  “Remind me why I don’t book first class again.”

  Daniel Briggs chuckled, not looking up from the Bible he was reading. “You always say you don’t want special treatment.”

  Cal gave Daniel an annoyed scowl and rubbed his leg. “How is it that you’re not uncomfortable? You’re bigger than me.”

  “Must be the sniper in me that got me used to squeezing and staying in the tiniest hides. This is roomy.”

  “You squirrely bastard.”

  They’d only been on the plane for a little over an hour. Daniel knew Cal’s unease wasn’t just about the limited legroom. His boss didn’t like going into an operation blind. They were all feeling the after-effects of the deadly mission in Wyoming months before, Cal most of all. Despite the perceived recklessness of their recent assassinations where they eliminated high value targets, every mission had been meticulously planned and prepped.

  The loss of his men still weighed on Cal, and Daniel knew it would take time for the feeling to diminish. It would never fully go away. Leading men into battle was dangerous. Cal was no coward, but he was human. Daniel had lost men in battle, including his best friend. He knew post-traumatic stress differed from person to person. Internally, Cal had decided that the best way to tackle his demons was to stay busy. Daniel knew it couldn’t last. Everyone had a breaking point. Daniel said a silent prayer for his dead comrades and the heir of SSI. Cal needed all the help he could get and the sniper was determined to be there every step of the way.

  “Any word from Neil?” Daniel asked.

  “Let me check.” Cal clicked on his tablet and logged into his encrypted SSI account. There was a message waiting. Cal nudged Daniel and pointed to the screen. The sniper looked down and read along with Cal.

  First two stories set to break at noon EST. One donkey and one elephant as requested. Happy travels and bring me back some shrimp. NP

  Cal glanced at his watch. They’d be on the ground by the time the stories broke. Cal had insisted on remaining completely neutral, ignoring political lines. The simplest way he could figure was to release two at a time, always choosing a member of each party. It wouldn’t be hard to do, as Neil’s list already had twenty names on it. It was pretty evenly distributed between Democrats and Republicans. Bombshells would soon be dropped all over the country.

  Cal wished he’d thought of it before. It might be painful for the nation but, in Cal’s mind, necessary to restore some sense of honor within the halls of Washington. Maybe in the future politicians would think twice about selling their souls. The thought of some invisible guard dog watching their every move might do the trick.

  Hell, why should they be any different? The government was already spying on Americans and would soon deploy drones around the country. Shouldn’t some accountability be thrown back in their faces?

  +++

  Minutes before Cal and Daniel’s flight landed, two men, one tall and balding, the other of average height and build, hailed a taxi outside the Pensacola airport terminal.

  “Super Six Inn on Plantation,” said the larger man as he squeezed into the backseat, keeping the carry-on in his lap.

  The taxi driver nodded and pulled out into the slow airport traffic.

  +++

  As was their routine, Daniel headed for baggage claim and Cal walked to the rental counter. Fifteen minutes later, they met up and hopped in their rented dark blue sedan. The drive to Orange Beach would take a little less than an hour, barring any traffic.

  Cal turned on the radio and waited for the news to break.

  Chapter 9

  The White House

  12:02pm, December 17th

  The President’s staff was alerted to the breaking news almost an hour before by a local NBC affiliate looking for an official comment. There was none.

  The president loosened his tie, sipped on his second cup of coffee for the day and looked around the room. His Chief of Staff and National Security Adviser sat looking like bored kids waiting for a badly made science film to start in junior high, checking an endless stream of emails on their phones. Things had changed from when they’d first entered the White House. Breaking news rarely excited their now numbed nerves unless it was a possible scandal for the administration.

  The president knew this news would wake them up. He’d spoken briefly with Cal prior to the Marine boarding his plane to Florida. He hadn’t expected Cal’s team to put something together so fast. Reminding himself never to underestimate the formidable Marine, he watched as the news unfolded on the large flat screen.

  The face of the distinguished NBC anchor, Pat Landon, appeared.

  Good afternoon. Breaking news from our nation’s capital today. An anonymous informant approached one of our affiliates early this morning with potentially explosive evidence detailing political and corporate corruption. Our staff worked diligently to corroborate the information we received detailing the alleged misconduct by Republican Congressman Joel Erling of Colorado, and Democratic Congressman Peter Quailen of Louisiana. We were unable to obtain comments from either of the congressman’s offices.

  We’d like to warn you that the following video is disturbing and meant for mature audiences.

  The screen changed and a jumpy video began to play.

  “Put him over there, under the light,” came the voice of the man behind the camera.

  “You sure you want to be taping this?” came another voice from off camera.

  “It’ll just be my little souvenir, don’t worry.”

  A wet slapping sound could be heard as the shot focused on a wooden chair set against a far wall. Dim light illuminated the grungy area that was littered with wooden crates and cardboard boxes.

  The slapping sound stopped.

  “Hurry up. I have a lunch to get to,” said the person behind the camera.

  A scraping sound was followed by two figures coming into view. One, a large man in a coat and slacks, dragged another man to the chair against the wall and shoved him into a half seated position. The shot focused on the bloody mess. His long hair and scruffy beard looked spotted where someone had yanked out patches that dripped blood.

  The tortured man tried to speak and got a wet slap in response from the hulking figure standing next to him. Red spattered onto the wall and the guard wiped the back of his hand off on the prisoner’s plaid shirt.

  “That’s enough,” came the voice from behind the camera. “Sit him up so he can listen politely.”

  The gory mess of a man tried to focus on the cameraman, but his head kept lolling and swaying.

  “I thought we’d had this conversation before, Jeremiah,” said the cameraman’s voice. “I’ve been working really hard for you in D.C. The least you could do is make sure you and your associates pay me on time.”

  “But I did…”

  “You came to me, remember? You begged and begged until I finally let my staff schedule a meeting. You told me that once marijuana was legalized on the local level, my payments would triple. Why haven’t I seen that extra money, Jeremiah?”

  “I told you, the feds are all over my ass. They’ve already raided us twice.”

  “That’s not my problem. We had an agreement. I held up my end of the bargain and pleaded your case, not only to my friends here in Colorado, but also to my colleagues on Capital Hill. Do you know how many hours I’ve spent fighting for your cause? Do you know how much I could be getting paid to lobby for someone else?”

  Jeremiah didn’t ans
wer, hanging his head between his legs instead.

  The video bobbed as the cameraman moved closer and handed the camera to his partner. Now the video showed the cameraman, attired in a form-fitting pinstripe suit and looking every bit the retired NFL lineman, approach Jeremiah and deliver a series of quick hooks that sent the victim’s head snapping left and right like some macabre punching doll.

  The beating stopped abruptly, the aggressor’s chest heaving from the exertion, just barely.

  “See what you’ve done? Now I’ll have to go back to my office and get a new suit before my lunch with the Women’s Auxiliary of Denver.”

  The beaten man didn’t respond except to moan softly. His eyes were swollen shut from the assault.

  The first cameraman turned his ruggedly handsome face to his co-conspirator and grabbed for the phone.

  “Dump him back at his place. I’ll meet you at the office and you can drive from there.”

  The TV screen switched back to the news anchor.

  We have confirmed that the man you just witnessed being brutally assaulted is none other than Jeremiah Stevens, CEO of the largest legalized medical marijuana growing operation in Colorado. Our team is currently trying to locate Mr. Stevens for comment.

  The last man you saw on the video appears to be Congressman Joel Erling. Once again, the congressman’s office has repeatedly denied our requests for comment. We hope to have more on this soon.

  The news anchor paused and nodded to someone off camera.

  We know you’d all like to see what the next story is, but I’ve been just told by our producer that we’ll need to take a quick commercial break in order to confirm an additional source’s testimony. We’ll be right back.

  The room sat in silence, staring at the television screen that now showed a commercial for long-term health insurance.