The Zimmer Doctrine (Corps Justice Book 11) (3 page)

Chapter 5

The White House

August 27th, 9:39am

All night, the switchboard had been flooded by calls from ambassadors, prime ministers, presidents, and generals. They all sought the same answer - what did President Zimmer’s speech mean?

“Are you still sending tanks?” the Ukrainian ambassador asked.

“Will we be able to pay our soldiers?” the Afghani president asked.

“Can we still get help with our drilling efforts?” the trade envoy from Kenya asked.

The answer was always the same. “Everything stays the same until we’ve had a chance to do a thorough analysis. We will be in touch.”

The White House staff cast glances at the Oval Office as they walked by, worry stamped on their harried features. What had the president done?

President Zimmer didn’t take one phone call. He delegated that task to his well-trained team. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of  Staff fielded the military calls. The director of the CIA dealt with his fellow intelligence chiefs. Even the vice president chipped in.

Through it all, Zimmer waited. Every hour, Bob Lundgren would enter his office and give him a rundown of the latest information and queries.

“The Saudis want assurances and the Iraqis won’t shut up,” he’d say. Or, “Ghana wants to know if you’re still visiting next month, and South Korea needs to know about the new trade deal.”

Lundgren looked like he’d aged a decade during the last twenty-four hours. His tie was askew and he’d tossed aside his suit coat hours ago. His hair wasn’t much better, and Zimmer had to tell Lundgren that he had the remnants of his breakfast on his lower lip. Without a thought, the press secretary wiped it away with the back of his hand.

“I really wish you’d given me a heads-up on this, Brandon. The media is having a field day. CNN just reported that you might have lost it. Rumor is you’re mentally unstable.”

Zimmer’s smile slipped.

“And why would they say that?” he asked curtly.

Lundgren answered without looking up from his phone, typing away furiously like he always did.

“I don’t know. They said something about losing Haden, that maybe his death triggered…”

Zimmer slammed his palm on his desk, causing Lundgren to drop his phone. His mouth was half open as he tried to remember what he’d just said and then the light bulb went off.

“Look, I’m not saying
I
think that, but they think it’s a little more than strange that you haven’t selected a new Chief of Staff yet, that’s all.”

No one, except Cal’s team and the president’s closest advisors, knew how Travis Haden had actually died. The official story was that he’d been buried in an avalanche out west while skiing.

Zimmer controlled his breathing. It wasn’t Lundgren’s fault; he was just doing his job. Zimmer's speech had caused the world to turn its attention back to the White House. This was his fight.

Even so, his voice came out ice cold. “You make sure you tell anyone who brings up either my mental state or my lack of a Chief of Staff again that I’m more than happy to provide an official statement.”

“You don’t have to…”

“No, Bob, it seems that I do.” His voice warmed. “Now look. Our team is doing great. You’re doing great. Things will settle down in a couple days and when it does we’ll have a much clearer picture of what we’re dealing with.”

Lundgren looked like he wanted to say something. For once, he didn’t talk out of turn but Zimmer gestured for him to speak.

“Maybe if you gave me a hint about your plan and your goals, we could get ahead of the media cycle and spin it to our advantage.”

Zimmer shook his head. That was exactly why Lundgren would never know anything but exactly what Zimmer wanted him to know.

“I’m done spinning, Bob. If you need clarification, go back and re-watch the speech. I meant what I said. I’m done financing allies, who, in turn, stab us in the back. I’m tired of it, and the American people are tired of it.”

Lundgren looked like he was going to roll his eyes but thought better of it.

“I’m not saying you’re not right, but come on. It’s
always
been this way. We pay someone to get what we want. Sure there’s some corruption behind the scenes but how the hell can we stop that?”

“Just like I said, Bob. Now, unless you have anything else...”

Lundgren shook his head and picked the phone up from the floor.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he said, already heading for the door.

“Thanks, Bob. I meant what I said. The team is doing great.”

Lundgren nodded absently as he went on his way.

The president turned back to his computer and scrolled through more of the day’s headlines.

Zimmer Throws Down The Gauntlet

“No More Soup For You!” says Zimmer

Zimmer: The Isolationist?

He shook his head with a mix of frustration and despair.  He closed the web browser. He had learned early on during his presidency that in order to get things done he had to look past the constant news stream. However, with social media an ever-present source of information, it was hard to look away.

It was also quite impossible to ignore the 700-point dip on Wall Street and the riots in Greece. The world economy felt like it was teetering on the verge of collapse. He had just thrown more into the mix. Time would tell which way it would tip. It was possible the system would self-correct instead of crumbling like a demolished building. Time would tell.

More than the headlines, Zimmer thought about what he
wasn’t
hearing. Sure there were the complaints and the concerns. However, there were certain parties who hadn’t reached out to the White House. The Russians were obviously digesting the new information and most likely plotting or maneuvering a way to take advantage of the situation. Zimmer wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Iran was doubling down in the West Bank in the coming days. Of greater concern was that some of their closest allies hadn’t reached out either in solidarity or to voice their dissention.

He made a note to ask the CIA and the NSA about these concerns. He’d felt it coming, like a tsunami building over the horizon. The speech at the U.N. had been something he and Travis had talked about for months. For some reason, he’d felt compelled to pull that trigger. Maybe it would help and maybe it would hurt. However, it was too soon to know.

But, deep in his gut something told Zimmer that the speech might bring about something else entirely and that the most important outcome was it just might predict the oncoming storm.

Chapter 6

The Jefferson Group Headquarters

Charlottesville, Virginia

August 27th, 11:30am

The steady hum of computer fans and spinning drives whirred around Neil Patel like an orchestra. As the maestro of the song, Neil controlled the impressive array of monitors and the infinite processes with a detached ease. This was his home, his domain.

Today was his catch-up day. As the man behind every piece of technology utilized by The Jefferson Group, it was Neil's job to ensure everything was functioning properly. This was no small task, and a tedious bore that would normally rest on the shoulders of a team of IT specialists. However, the periodic checks were essential for the proper running of the company’s consultancy tasks.

There were, of course, the clients to keep track of and the projects requiring completion. But, it was the other side of The Jefferson Group that provided the majority of the horsepower from Neil’s ever-evolving collection of tech toys and computer advancements.

On paper, The Jefferson Group advertised itself to the public as a private consultancy firm offering services to diverse industries like security and education. Their clients included large corporations like Boeing and institutions like the University of Virginia, on whose grounds The Jefferson Group’s headquarters now resided. The company’s CEO was Jonas Layton, a young self-made billionaire, known as “The Fortuneteller” by most of the who’s-who of the corporate elite. Jonas was The Jefferson Group's public face, and he was also responsible for running the day-to-day operations of the company.

Hidden far from the eyes of the public lay the real guts of The Jefferson Group. The covert team answered only to one man - President Brandon Zimmer. In short, the men of The Jefferson Group were an elite direct action force residing within the president’s back pocket, ready to deploy at any given moment.

But for the past few months they’d lain idle waiting for their leader to return. Cal Stokes was such a man that men like Neil Patel, Dr. Alvin Higgins (former CIA lead interrogator), and a select group of operators had left their former home (Stokes Security International (SSI)) for him. Now Cal was MIA, and the president hadn’t called upon their services. The men of The Jefferson Group (TJG) spoke of it often, wondering whether Cal would return as their fearless leader. They also pondered if President Zimmer had lost his nerve after Travis Haden’s death.

Because, beneath the intrigue and the training, behind the professionalism and the bloodshed, these men were friends. They were brothers, and each one felt the same kinship for their president. He had sacrificed for them as they’d fought missions for him.

Currently, they were without not only their leader, but also they did not have any missions to conduct. That didn’t mean they didn’t stay busy. The warriors among them trained at Camp Cavalier, the SSI campus just down the road from UVA. Neil stayed occupied as he hacked and sifted through the endless chatter online. Jonas secured more clients, while Dr. Higgins gave talks up and down the east coast. This way they kept their skills sharpened and their minds focused during this rare operational sabbatical. They felt the itch to do something more, yet they had the patience to wait it out to provide Cal time to heal.

With weekly updates from Daniel, at least they knew Cal was okay. Each of them, save Jonas, had been to war and had experienced loss. More importantly, they’d all known and respected Travis. They felt his absence keenly, and his name often came up in toasts.

As the steel-reinforced door swung open, an alert pinged on Neil's computer screen. Master Sergeant Willy Trent, a nearly seven-foot tall, ebony-skinned Marine strolled into the room, closely followed by Gaucho, a short stocky Hispanic operator almost half Trent's height.

“I said I believed you,” Trent was saying, “I’m sure your grandmother’s enchiladas are better than mine.”

“You better believe it, Top,” Gaucho said, shaking his head causing his dual-braided beard to swing back and forth against his chest. “Man, just thinking about Abuelita’s enchiladas makes my mouth water.”

He made an exaggerated smacking sound with his lips causing Trent to laugh.

Willy Trent was a classically-trained chef in addition to his elite Marine Corps experience. The chiseled former Marine felt as comfortable tossing a 300-pound thug over his shoulder as he did making Crème Brûlée.

Neil clicked the flashing dialogue box as he asked, “What are you two fighting about now?”

Trent and Gaucho were forever giving each other a hard time. It probably had something to do with the fact that they were inseparable and best friends. That led to many memorable conversations where they became the center of attention. The mismatched pair verbally sparred while the rest of The Jefferson Group howled in laughter from the fringe.

“I said something to Jonas about making enchiladas and Gaucho said that I could never make them like his grandmother,” Trent answered.

“Ain’t no way,” Gaucho said, his head bobbing in earnest.

“Look, I already told you…”

Neil, in an attempt to get their attention, snapped his fingers. He was intently looking at his computer screen, eyes wide.

“What is it?” Trent asked, moving closer.

Neil put a finger in the air, asking his friends to wait. Finally he said, “Holy crap.”

“What is it?” Trent asked again.

Neil shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.

“I need to get this to Daniel,” Neil said.

Trent and Gaucho had kept their distance, always leery about getting into Neil’s personal tech space.

“What is it?” Trent asked, for a third time.

Neil pointed at the monitor and motioned for the two squabbling men to step closer. Both sets of eyes went wide.

“Holy crap,” Trent and Gaucho said in unison.

“Yeah, like I said, I need to get this to Daniel.”

+++

Wild Dunes

Isle of Palms, South Carolina

The round of golf hadn’t helped. Even though the balls flew straight and the putts rarely veered, Cal barely made it through seven holes. It took a foursome of old-timers to get him moving as he’d sat in his golf cart and gazed into nothingness.

Next, he’d gone for a long walk, one of many he’d taken over the past five months. He walked around the northern point of the Isle of Palms until he reached the point where Cedar Creek fed the inlet. Then he headed back south and grabbed a cup of fruit and a bottle of water at the Wild Dunes Grand Pavilion. One especially sauced
divorcée
couldn’t help herself and insisted on buying him a drink. Her friends saw the vacant look in his eyes and dragged her away as quickly as they could.

After tossing half the fruit cup in the trash, he continued walking past the vacation homes where families were enjoying the tail end of summer. He turned around at the pier next to Isle of Palms County Park and headed home.

When he got there, an unexpected guest was waiting on the steps.

Daniel Briggs rose and gave Cal a nod.

“Hey,” Cal said. He knew Daniel had been around; he'd developed a sixth sense regarding the sniper's presence.

“I’m sorry to surprise you like this,” Daniel said.

Cal shrugged like it didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered to him anymore.

“How’ve you been?” Cal asked. It was nice to see his friend again. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed him until Daniel spoke.

“Good. I’ve got something for you.”

“Wanna come inside?”

“Sure.”

Cal led the way, locking the door after Daniel entered. Neither man said a word as they climbed the stairs to the third floor. Someone had left a pile of fruit on the counter, probably the maid.

“You want anything to drink?” Cal asked.

“No, thanks.”

Cal went to the pantry, grabbed a bottle of water and chugged it. It was then he noticed Daniel was holding a single folded sheet of paper.

“What’s that?” Cal asked.

“Neil found it when he was doing some clean-up work for SSI. He says none of their staff found it because SSI isn’t doing much operational work anymore.”

Cal was confused. He knew Neil still did a fair share of work for SSI, and he still held the role of Chief Technology Officer, but he had no idea what Daniel was talking about.

“It’s a Last Letter,” Daniel said, addressing the unspoken question.

The dim bulb in the back of Cal’s head switched on. SSI had a small digital database that housed letters written by operators to their loved ones prior to deploying. They called them “Last Letters” and they were typically notes to wives, girlfriends or their children. The letters were never seen unless the operator was killed in action. That hadn’t happened in some time since before Cal’s departure from his father’s company.

“I don’t understand,” Cal said. “Who’s it from?”

There was something in Daniel’s eyes, something that engaged Cal's fight-or-flight response. He wanted to run.

“It’s from Travis.”

A gunshot to his sternum couldn’t have had the same impact as those words. Cal’s chest seized and his knees threatened to buckle. Somehow, though his breath wouldn’t come. He reached for the paper and unfolded it. It was a digital scan of a handwritten note and he recognized Travis’s handwriting immediately. He took a breath.

Cal,

I haven’t written one of these in a while. Feels strange, but why not?

I know we don’t like to talk about stuff like this a lot, but I wanted to tell you something. I'm proud of you, Cal. You may be a dumb grunt, but you’re the best man I’ve ever known. No shit. There’s a reason guys like Daniel and Top run after you without thinking. Hell, I’m about to do the same thing, run to your bugle call.

You’ve got something man, something I admit I don’t even have. You get it. You just get it. You inspire confidence and you lead like few men I’ve ever known. Your dad would be proud, Cal, really proud.

But there’s one thing, and this is a tough one. Maybe I’ll tell you if this letter isn’t necessary, and then again maybe I won’t.

I know how personally you take things. It’s one of the things that makes you a phenomenal leader. It’s only natural. You’re passionate, you’re driven, and you care. You love your men more than you love yourself.

But, I’ve got a secret to tell you, Cal. Your men know what they’re getting into. They know the risks; we all do. Sometimes shit happens. Sometimes people die and we wonder why. Don’t. Don’t wonder why. It just is.

Do me a favor, Cuz. If I go before you do, throw me the biggest fucking party you can. Get drunk, propose to that pretty girl of yours and remember what a bad-ass I was.

(I was pretty amazing).

We’re about to land and I’ll see you in a minute, so it’s time to wrap this up. Hopefully this note will find its way to the trash bin when we get done, but if it doesn’t, know that I love you, that I’m proud of you, and that I’ll see you again, but hopefully not too soon.

Semper Fi, Jarhead, and Hooyah, Cuz,

Trav

Cal looked up from the letter, his eyes stinging from the tears. Daniel waited, wearing the same patient look he always had whether before entering harm's way or while they were talking over dinner.

Cal sniffed and wiped his eyes on his arm.

“How did you get through it?” Cal asked. He didn’t have to explain what he was talking about. Daniel knew his friend was talking about the pain of loss.

“One step at a time…and a lot of Jack Daniels.”

Cal chuckled and wiped his eyes again.

“Can you do me a favor?” he asked.

Daniel nodded.

Cal smiled and said through a cracking voice, “Call the boys and tell them to get down here. I’ve got a big fucking party to throw.”