This is probably one of two emails you'll be getting from me today. The first announced that Disavowed is now LIVE on Amazon, thanks to you guys. Just wanted say that again: Thanks to you guys.
The hard work and support you've shown truly floors me. The only downside? It left me with zero time to do a new chapter for Chain of Command. Don't worry, in between sick kid duty and pickups/drop-offs, I did some plotting. This weekend may be a perfect time to knock out a couple more chapters, worst case Monday. Either way you can kick back with the finished copy of OUR novel, Disavowed, and see how we did :) COULD YOU DO ME A FAVOR?: I took your advice and priced Disavowed at only 99-cents for a couple days. Buy it now right HERE, before the price goes up. I'm hoping we can crack the Amazon Top 100 for the first time. Last, if you wouldn't mind, since you've already read it, could you leave a review and tell the world what you thought of it? Like I always say, every review helps. Thanks in advance, and have a great weekend! Semper, CGC
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NOTES: The more I write, and read what you guys are saying, the more I think this is going to grow into an epic. There's so much to put on paper, so many issues to tackle. I want it to be such a tangled web that none of us have a clue how to get out. Fun times for us all. Today you get to see an old character again, one of my favorites. Enjoy... (CAUTION: The following contains unedited material that may be unsuitable for the grammatically inclined. Keep in mind that I don’t review what I write until after the first draft of the whole novel is done.) Chapter 6 Washington, D.C. 2:25pm, December 5th Congressman Antonio “Tony” McKnight (R-Florida) didn’t come from money. His father had been a drunk and died serving a life sentence in some backwater Florida prison. His mother…who knew. He’d lost track of the woman years ago. McKnight was a survivor. He’d ascended the political ranking system despite the dead weight of his lost family. A quick learner, McKnight had stepped into the bureaucratic arena like he was slipping into a pair of well-worn house slippers. It just fit. He was young, good-looking and single. He surfed the web and scoops up social media followers with ease. There were weeks when a new model clung to his arm daily, and there were others when his relentless work schedule imposed a celibate break for the dashing up-and-comer. The Washington Post had recently named him America’s Number Two most eligible bachelor, one step behind President Brandon Zimmer. Nicknamed ‘The Miami Matador’, a nod to his Hispanic heritage, his electorate base and his dead serious talents., McKnight was becoming known for facing down the onslaught of stalwart old-timers of both parties, much like a matador in the bull’s ring. McKnight had at first laughed at the moniker, but the name and its deeper meaning grew on the social media savvy politician. He’d taken to re-tweeting photo-shopped pictures of his face on some matador’s body, usually shirtless. His favorites were the amateur cartoons that cropped up every other week, depicting him in one or another scene where he (as the matador) was taking on some stodgy bill or lumbering curmudgeon in the nation’s capital. Tony McKnight had never been to a bull fight, but his publicist was working on it. It would be a perfect photo op, another notch in his belt. As the Hispanic community swelled in America, so did the need for fresh-faced newcomers on the political scene. McKnight was the right’s coming Hall of Famers. He’d made it to the Majors but he hadn’t cracked into the All-Star game. It was just a matter of time. In the beginning McKnight sought out benefactors, men, and occasionally a woman, who had their own needs. Most were wealthy investors or business owners. In exchange for his ear and a chance on The Hill, they lavished him with trips and donations. There were legal ways of turning these thinly-veiled bribes into legitimate income. Again, his chameleon-like ability to blend in ensured that there would alway be a fresh supply of cash. Instead of going to them, donors were coming to him. It was always satisfying to the man who’d once stood ashamed behind his mother as she handed over food stamps for milk and cereal. He liked his life. Men of lesser talent and middling ambition might let things ride. That wasn’t McKnight’s way. He looked around at his colleagues as they convened for another four hour session. McKnight didn’t see competition, he wasn’t even in awe of a single one of them. No, what he saw as plain as if it were, in fact, the case, was a herd of cattle, the odd bull mixed in, milling about like cow on the plains. It would soon be time for The Matador to tame them, one by one if he had to. He was smart enough to know that it wouldn’t happen overnight. Overt frontal attacks would rarely be the way. There were plenty of ways to break a man, to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. He smiled, relishing the moment, his hopes for the future. If they were anything like the dreams of his past, he had no doubt that his vision would become a reality. Not for the first time, McKnight silently addressed his father, who he could only assume now rested in Hell, I’ll be President of the United States in spite of you. +++ Rep. Tom Steiner sat down with a smug grin. He’d played second fiddle to fellow New Jerseyean, Ezra Matisse, since his first day in Congress. He replayed the look of shock on Matisse’s face after the comment of the Marine Corps’s defunding. “Mind if I scoot by?" Steiner looked up to see the face of the handsome Floridian, Tony McKnight. He didn’t know the man, but he sure knew the upward trajectory of the charismatic newcomer. He hadn’t been in Congress a month before he was gracing magazine covers nationwide. Steiner didn’t have anything again McKnight, but he wouldn’t have minded a sliver of the recognition the Miami native got on a weekly basis. “Sure,” responded Steiner, moving his legs to the side so McKnight could walk by. “Thanks.” McKnight moved by then turned around like he’d forgotten something. “Hey, are you going to the U2 concert tomorrow? I heard you were a fan.” Steiner perked up. The question surprised him. He’d probably never said more than a few words to the younger statesman. But Steiner had been a fan of U2 since their debut record, Boy, hit the airwaves in the States in the eighties. He wasn’t about to tell McKnight that though, and he was always wary of favors. “No. I couldn't get tickets,” he replied. McKnight flashed his world-famous smile. “I'll let you know if I hear of any extra tickets.” Steiner nodded as McKnight went on his way. The New Jersey rep watched McKnight go, wondering what it was like to live a day in the life of political superstar. +++ McKnight waved to friends and enemies alike as he made his way to his seat. He’d never officially met Tom Steiner before, but he knew his type. Steiner was a fringer, always on the outskirts of the big time. If McKnight was the soon-to-be All Star of the team, Steiner was the sometime reliever that was sent in during throwaway games. His reputation was nonexistent. He could disappear and few would notice. Every reelection Steiner faced was hard-fought and always contentious. He didn’t have the bag of money like McKnight. But Congressman McKnight had seen the flicker of jealousy in the man’s eyes, followed by the “just wait and see” grin. Tony McKnight knew all about Steiner’s proposal. Steiner was looking for the big payoff. High risk, high reward. Steiner didn’t have a clue. He wasn’t even the architect. McKnight knew the man behind the plan. He was intimately familiar with every word in soon to be public file. How did he know? Because he, a Republican, a staunch conservative, the youthful face of his party and a likely contender for the next Presidential election, was the man behind the idea, the conductor making the music, the plan that would see him ushered straight to the White House. Comments? Questions? Concerns? Tell me in the COMMENTS section below.
NOTES: In case you didn't follow along in the comments section last night, we have a dilemma. Here's where I need help. To those of us who've served in the Marine Corps, a world without the Corps is beyond crazy. But as we've found, that scenario is not impossible. You guys know I like to present relevant and realistic answers to problems in my writing. That's what we did with the ISIS mess and more. Well, now we need to craft a solution to the "Why should the Marine Corps never go away?" question. Beyond tradition and beyond our history, it's important that the Marine Corps continues to proves its relevance for the foreseeable future. Let's put on our "other side" glasses and look at the Marine Corps's mission through the other side's eyes. Thanks for all your thoughts. I love my evenings because I get to read through what you guys think. Other than writing, it's my favorite time of day. Back to the story... (CAUTION: The following contains unedited material that may be unsuitable for the grammatically inclined. Keep in mind that I don’t review what I write until after the first draft of the whole novel is done.) Chapter 5 Washington, D.C. 12:49pm, December 5th “What the hell is this, Tom?” Congressman Ezra Matisse (D - New Jersey) was in no mood for games. The Christmas break loomed and the House was still deadlocked on a plethora of items that the stringent Minority leader had planned on putting to rest before they left for the holidays. His phone buzzed for the umpteenth time as he tried to burn holes in the eyes of his fellow Jersey Democrat, Thomas Steiner. “I think it’s a good proposal, Ezra. Just have your staff give it a once-over and let me know what you think,” replied Steiner, unperturbed by his peer’s outburst. “I don’t have time for this. The President wants the farm bill and the relief fund shored up by this time next week. If we don’t get this —“ “Just look at it, okay?” “Fine. Just give me the broad brush.” Rep. Tom Steiner shrugged as if it were the most routine of requests. “It’s a proposal to defund the United State Marine Corps.” +++ The intern watched his boss talking to Rep. Matisse. Just like Steiner had predicted, Matisse threw his hands up, almost tossing the file in the process, and stormed off without a word. Nothing else was needed. The staffer knew what to do. The cell phone already in his hand, he clicked send and a Twitter status update from a fictitious alias floated out into social media. +++ Gregory Garbett was a junior at William and Mary. He’d taken the semester off to intern on Capital Hill. Like most of his peers, he shared a tiny apartment with five other guys. Not only was it impossible to bring a female friend home, it was also impossible to get the rank smell of that many male bodies out of the stuffy air. He was the only one at home, a rarity. Usually he’d be at work or in a cafe networking with potential employers, but he’d answered an ad the day before on Craigslist. It was a simple job and paid well. $100 for sitting around wasn’t bad. He didn’t even make $100 for a whole day of running around and kissing old politician ass. The cell phone that had arrived on his doorstep an hour earlier pinged. He looked at the screen and saw the Twitter status update. Boring, he thought. As he picked up the phone that had only one number programmed in it’s favorites, Gregory wondered if he could get in any trouble for what he was doing. He didn’t know who he was doing this for, and what it was he was passing on. They’d promised to send the payment to his PayPal account. In the end he shrugged of his unease, and dialed the number. “Hello?” someone answered on the other end. Gregory looked down at the printout in his hand and read the line that corresponded with the correct Twitter update. “Yes, I was wondering if you had any jars of pickled eggs.” It sounded ridiculous to Gregory. If this was some spy shit, they needed to get their stuff together. Nobody ever said something that lame in the movies. The response came a moment later. “I’m sorry, we just sold out last case.” The line went dead, and a second later, so did the phone. He’d been instructed to throw the phone in a public waste can. Gregory put on his coat and headed for the door. He already knew the bar he was going to spend his money at. +++ Ten more similar interactions were made over the next thirty minutes. All innocent. All simple. Should the NSA, CIA or any other agency intercept one of the messages, analysts would surely skip over the innocuous conversations, a handful in a haystack of millions they churned through every day. The final resting places of the messages took the news stoically. They knew their roles. For the rest of the day, final preparations would be made. Boots tied. Systems re-checked. +++ The White House 1:33pm “Mr. President, you have Congressman Matisse on Line One,” announced the president’s secretary over the intercom. President Brandon Zimmer looked up from his work. “Thank you,” he said, picking up the handset and pressing the blinking button. “Good afternoon, Ezra.” Zimmer liked the bookish New Jersey congressman. A lot of the younger generation didn’t. They thought the Jewish politician was too much of a throwback, stoic and diligent when he should’ve been fiery in his rhetoric. During his brief stint in the House, President Zimmer had come to not only respect Matisse, but truly admire the man’s legacy. He’d been a member of the House since the early eighties. Even his father, the late Senator Richard Zimmer (D-Massachusettes), who leaned conservative more often than not, had said, “If you want to learn how to have a long career in Washington, watch and listen to Ezra Matisse. He’ll still be here long after we’re dead I’ll bet.” Zimmer had listened to his father, studying the New Jersey Democrats legislation from over the years. Despite Matisse’s natural political leanings, Zimmer found that the Jersey son of a rabbi was pragmatic in his approach, realistic while others merely sought the praise of their constituency of the glare of the media spotlight. Simply put, President Zimmer held Congressman Matisse in high esteem. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. President. I…well, I thought I should bring something to your attention.” Zimmer couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Matisse so flustered. He waited for his former colleague to continue. “I wanted you to know before it leaks to the media. Honestly I don’t have a clue why Tom would do this.” It was like Matisse was talking to himself. “Tom Steiner?” Zimmer asked. The question seemed to snap Matisse out of his haze. “What? Oh, yes. Tom Steiner. Sorry, Mr. President. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate already.” “Why don’t you start at the beginning, Ezra.” Zimmer heard the congressman grunt and then say, “Mr. President, Congressman Steiner has introduced a bill to disband the United States Marine Corps.” The blunt recital shocked the president. He’d come to know the Marines on a very personal level. General McMillan, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, was one of his closest advisors. He’d personally pinned on the new Marine Commandant’s insignia at 8th & I. One of his best friends, no, most of his new best friends, men who had risked their own lives to save his, were Marines. Cal Stokes. Daniel Briggs. The massive black former Master Sergeant Willy Trent. What would they think of Steiner’s proposal? He knew what Cal would do if he could; march over to Steiner’s office and cold-cock him. Daniel would be more subtle, the sniper always in the shadows with his boundless strength and courage. Trent, hell, who knew what Top would do. “And you’re sure he’s serious,” asked Zimmer, suddenly remembering that he’d recommended Cal to the Commandant at his change of command, something about an internal investigation. The president didn’t know the details. “I’m having my people read through it now, Mr. President. It looks like whoever helped Tom put this together was very thorough.” “Please keep me apprised, and let me know if you need me to step in.” “I hope that won’t be necessary, Mr. President, but thank you.” President Zimmer replaced the phone in it’s cradle and sat back in his chair. Surely there was no merit to Congressman Steiner’s jab. Who knew what would happen when the Marines found out. The street of Washington would be clogged with veterans demanding that Congress be torn down for incompetence. Until he heard more from Matisse, Zimmer decided that he didn’t want to concern Cal. His short-tempered friend would flip his lid and probably hop on the first flight to D.C. Luckily he had someone who could help and he was a only a few feet away. Earlier that year he’d made one of the smartest moves of his political career. He’d recruited a former Navy SEAL, and former CEO of Stokes Security International (SSI) to be his chief of staff. If anyone knew how to deal with the Steiner situation, it was Travis Haden, Cal Stokes’s cousin. Comments? Questions? Concerns? Tell me in the COMMENTS section below.
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