by C. G. Cooper
It reminded him of being a second stringer on his high school baseball team, a bench-warmer. Never in the know. Never the one calling the shots. Luckily, the summer after his freshman year Mac Thompson hit his growth spurt. Three inches taller, twenty pounds heavier, and his skills honed from hours in the gym and at the batting cage, sophomore first-baseman Mac Thompson throttled the returning senior for the starting job. He’d never looked back.
Now he felt like that scrawny freshman again, limited, powerless, in the dark.
He tried texting Cromwell once more, but there was no response. Maybe the soldier was just doing what he’d been told, lying low, being careful. Thompson wasn’t worried about Cromwell being found, but he was worried about Merrifield’s research and the implications should it get tied back to him. He couldn’t let that happen.
The phone buzzed in his hand and he almost dropped it in surprise. It was Cromwell.
“Where have you been?” asked Thompson.
“Doing what you told me.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure I trust you anymore, Senator,” came the slow reply.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve had time to think.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I find it convenient that you just happened to know about the authorities coming after me.”
Thompson shook his head, trying to make sense of Cromwell’s accusation. “I’m the one that called you!”
“Again, very convenient.”
“What are you getting at, Colonel?” It was said in a tone that usually would have put the junior man in his place. It did not.
“I think it’s time to say goodbye now, senator.”
“Wait. What are you—”
“Say goodbye to your father, Michael,” Thompson heard Cromwell say. He froze.
“Dad?” came Michael’s voice over the phone.
Thompson wanted to scream. “Son, are you—”
“Your son’s fine…for now,” said Cromwell, once again back on the line. “Now here’s what I want. You will—”
“You let my son go, you son of a bitch!”
“Now, now, Senator. I’d suggest you listen up if you want to have a chance of getting young Michael home safe and sound.”
Thompson’s heart felt like it was going to give out. He stumbled and only kept from falling to his knees by holding on to the end of his desk. He couldn’t lose his son again. It was the only thing he had left that he gave a damn about. This time when he spoke it was as a broken man, resigned to his fate. “What do you want me to do?”
“Two things. First, I want you to call off the hounds. I don’t care how you do it, just get it done.”
“But I—”
“Second, you will meet me at a place of my choosing. Get yourself to the nearest helicopter pad and rent one for the night. I’ll let you know where you can pick your son up, if you get the Feds off my back.”
Thompson closed his eyes. “Is that all?”
“One more thing, and this is just an FYI. Our vision, our dream, is about to become a reality.”
The line went dead and Thompson stared out the window into the darkening sky, an omen. He didn’t know what he could do to call off the investigation. He didn’t have that kind of clout. Nobody did.
But he had to try. He had to save Michael.
As he reached for the phone on his desk, his hand paused. Another option reluctantly crept into his mind. Gradually the idea took hold even as he tried to keep it at bay. He now had two options. Which to choose?
He picked up the phone and dialed the senate operator.
Chapter 31
Fredericksburg, Virginia
7:04pm, April 10th
The FBI and Neil had both drawn up blanks. Dr. Merrifield’s cell phone had either been discarded or destroyed. Neil’s attempts at tracking it through the service provider came up with zilch. No pings.
Every other method they had at their disposal, including the combined databases of the CIA, Homeland Security and NSA, hadn’t turned up a thing they could use.
Cromwell and Merrifield had disappeared and took all the data with them. Neil confirmed the system scrub at the research facility. Everything of consequence was gone. They had the original copy, but without the final piece they had nothing.
“What else do we have?” Cal asked his team of operators. They’d been at it for what seemed like hours.
“What about Merrifield’s family?” asked Gaucho. “Is there a way we can use them?”
“I already checked,” answered Neil. “His parents died years ago. No living relatives of any consequence, and the distant ones live overseas.”
“What about Cromwell’s superiors at the NIH?” asked Daniel.
“Travis said they were all clueless. Apparently the good colonel was something of an anomaly, given the ability to work autonomously without their approval,” said Cal.
“And the CDC?” asked Daniel.
“Same thing. This guy’s a fixer. You have a problem, you called Cromwell. Trav says he’s got quite the reputation.”
Cal looked to MSgt Trent. “What about you, Top?”
Trent shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’m stumped on this one. I know it’s a long shot, but what about the mute. What’s his name, Magic—”
“Malik Vespers,” offered Dr. Price, whose eyes hadn’t left the computer screen containing the files they’d copied from Merrifield’s server. “Even if you get anything on the guy, I don’t think it matters. He’s a guard dog. All he cares about is what Cromwell says. Even if he had a wife and you threatened her life, Vespers probably wouldn’t care.”
That didn’t leave anyone else. Once again Cal couldn’t imagine how Cromwell had done it all by himself. How was that possible?
His thoughts were interrupted by his cell phone. It was Travis.
“What’s up, Trav?”
Everyone waited as Cal listened to his cousin, his eyes narrowing. Trent and Gaucho looked at each other, concern clearly etched on their faces.
“You’re sure?” said Cal. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Ok. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Cal replaced the phone in his pocket and looked up at his friends. “Looks like we may have a break in the case.”
+++
Sen. Thompson didn’t have a choice. It was either this or let Cromwell have his son.
“We’ll be there in five minutes, senator,” announced the helicopter pilot.
Thompson nodded, looking out the window at the last glimmer of tangerine sunlight on the horizon. Not for the first time that night, he said a prayer for Michael’s safe return.
I am now paying for my sins.
+++
Plum Tree Island National Wildlife Refuge
The helicopter touched down, sending a swirl of blasting air through the marshy reeds. Gillespie Dukes covered his eyes with his hand and the bill of his well worn Tidewater Tides baseball cap.
Landing in the spot he’d marked with four chem lights minutes earlier, the helicopter’s doors opened and expelled the last of the passengers. This one was a last minute addition, which meant a larger fee for Dukes. He was already counting the money in his head.
The figure climbed out, bag slung over one shoulder, dimly illuminated by the helicopter’s interior lighting. Dukes could tell it was a man by his stiff gate. He moved out from his hiding spot just as the helicopter powered back up into the sky and clicked his flashlight on two times, getting the man’s attention.
Once they were together, Dukes said, “Follow me. The dingy’s over this way. Stay close, though. The Air Force used to use this place as a bombing and gunnery range. All kinds of unexploded ordinance.”
Dukes had only seen one piece of ordinance in all his years of traipsing through the wildlife refuge, and that had been a .50cal casing when he was a kid. The warn
ing was a thing he liked to tell people to keep them in line. No sense letting his customers wander off without him. Hell, in two days he’d be putting a hefty down payment on another boat, one that his eighteen year old son could pilot and help expand their little empire.
He ran through his purchase options as they faded into the refuge, the sounds of the night escorting them to their transport.
+++
Col. Gormon Cromwell watched the approaching inflatable raft through his night vision goggles. Soon they’d be lifting anchor and heading out to sea. From what he’d seen of the boat’s owner and his son, they knew their business and could probably be trusted to keep their mouths shut. He’d come highly recommended from a weapons merchant Cromwell knew.
They hadn’t said a thing when Vespers threw the senator’s son onboard or when Cromwell requested space for one more. He knew Dukes would gladly take the added payment for a little more time and one more trip to shore.
Dukes’s son threw a line to his father and the rubber raft nestled in next to the larger craft. The captain was the first aboard and helped his final passenger up the ladder.
Cromwell moved to meet him after he’d stepped on the teak deck, an unsure look on his face. The soldier extended his hand in greeting. “Good evening, Dr. Merrifield. Are you ready to change the world?”
Chapter 32
Fredericksburg, Virginia
7:25pm, April 10th
Sen. Thompson felt like he was going to have a panic attack. After calling the president to confess his sins and telling him about Michael’s kidnapping, he’d been whisked away in an FBI helicopter bound for who knew where.
They’d met him in an unused little league baseball field, grass overgrown and now covering the old diamond. Fitting for the former baseball player.
The man who’d met him looked like a kid, a bit older than his son.
“Right this way, Senator,” the boy with the rifle had said. He didn’t bother offering his name and the senator didn’t figure he had to introduce himself. He knew his place.
He was led to the old dugout and told to have a seat. There were more men waiting. They looked at him with barely disguised contempt. In their minds he was the enemy just as much as Cromwell. The men, all former military by their appearance, including one enormous black man, gathered around and took a knee as his escort spoke.
“Thanks to what the senator told the president, we’ve got a location on Cromwell. It looks like he’s headed out to sea, but it doesn’t look like they’re in any hurry.”
Sen. Thompson saw that the rest of the warriors deferred to this good looking young man. He was the leader.
“Do you know if my son’s okay?” Thompson dared to ask.
The young man turned and gave him a leveled glare. “We’re working on getting a drone on station as we speak.” That was all the answer he got.
Instead of addressing him, the youthful leader went back to briefing his men. His tone was precise and his orders exact. No one argued against him.
“Are there any questions?” he asked.
Another man, a short Latino with a double braided beard, raised his hand, “What are our ROEs, boss?”
Thompson listened carefully, knowing that whatever rules of engagement they followed would affect the life of his son.
“We take them into custody if at all possible, but the main goal is to stop that virus from getting out of the country. If there’s nothing else, let’s get rolling.”
They all stood and Thompson followed. Once again the young man escorted him away, accompanied this time by a stern faced man with a blond ponytail, his eyes reminding the senator of the penetrating look of a snake. The man with snake eyes carried a weapon Thompson knew to be a Marine sniper rifle. He couldn’t remember what it was called, but he’d seen it put to good use in a couple of those dog-and-pony shows the Marines sometimes put on for visiting VIPs.
If the man was a Marine, maybe he had a chance.
“Will you save my son?” Thompson asked, his words coming out hoarse.
The young man looked back him and said, “We’ll do our best.”
+++
They were right on time. Cromwell had been in communication with their next transport that was loitering along the continental shelf far out into the Atlantic. There had been some traffic as they’d left the confines of the Chesapeake Bay, but it had thinned as they moved further out to sea.
Luckily the ocean was relatively calm and Gillespie Dukes knew how to make a comfortable run.
He’d discussed the revised plan with Vespers and Dr. Merrifield. The most important thing was to get out of U.S. waters undetected. In a smaller boat that was possible. There was always the likelihood of being tracked from afar, but the boat they were on was one of thousands along the coast. If they were stopped, Dukes had all the paperwork to say they were on a deep sea fishing trip. They’d even gone so far as to change into civilian attire, floppy hats and all.
Cromwell had yet to hear from Sen. Thompson, but he didn’t really care. He’d wanted to give the senator a shred of hope, but he knew what a long shot it was for the Thompson to actually stop the behemoth that was a federal investigation.
More than likely they would figure out that the senator was involved. And if they didn’t on their own, Cromwell had some juicy evidence that would surely send Thompson’s supporters scurrying and the Federal agencies slathering.
For the first time in days, Cromwell allowed himself to relax, sipping on a glass of Johnny Walker Blue that Dukes had offered as a thank you gift. Cromwell smiled as he wondered if Dukes had any clue what he was shuttling. No. Never in a thousand years would the smuggler think that he had the deaths of millions of people on his boat.
+++
Cal wondered if the senator was going to puke. Thanks to the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team (HRT), who’d also provided a squad of their maritime specialists, they’d boarded three Sikorsky UH-60M Black Hawks. One held Cal’s strike team. The second carried the HRT guys. The third flew with Neil, Dr. Price and some of the FBI’s field geeks.
It was understood that Cal’s team would go in first. The plan was to fast rope in and take down the vessel. There were a hundred things that could go wrong, but Cal had faith in his men. They were all experienced in this kind of thing.
In contrast to the pale senator, his men were ready. Steel eyed and all business. There was a time to joke and there was a time to strike. This was the latter.
As they closed in on their prey, Cal wished they’d gotten those drones he’d asked for.
Chapter 33
Atlantic Ocean
9:10pm, April 10th
“Sir, you better get up here,” Dukes called over the boat’s intercom.
Cromwell stood from the leather swivel chair he’d been napping in, and headed above deck.
He found Dukes in the pilothouse talking with his son.
“What is it?” asked Cromwell.
Dukes pointed at one of three radars on his dash. This one, Cromwell knew, had the capability to track aircraft. Not a typical upgrade on a fishing boat, but a huge asset for a smuggler like Dukes.
“We’ve got three aircraft coming in behind us.”
Cromwell came closer so he could see. Sure enough, there were three green dots closing the gap.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Dukes.
Cromwell didn’t think it was mere coincidence that three aircraft, likely helicopters if he had to guess, could be making a beeline straight to them. But he didn’t want to alarm his host.
“Just keep going. If they’re coming after us, we’ll deal with it in time.”
“But we’re still a ways from our rendezvous,” said Dukes.
Cromwell stared at the man for a moment. “I said I’ll take care of it.”
Without waiting for Dukes’s response, Cromwell left the wheelhouse and went to find Vespers. As usual, he wasn’t far.
“We’ve got three aircraft, probably helos, headed our way. Get re
ady.”
Vespers nodded and moved off.
Cromwell stepped to the side of the boat, ocean spray grazing his face as he looked back the way they’d been. He couldn’t see them yet and that meant they had time. As was his way, Cromwell would be ready.
+++
“Two minutes,” announced one of the Black Hawk crew members.
The fast ropes were ready to be thrown and his team waited in the order they’d decided to go in. Daniel, while usually the first to go, stood near the door with his trusty M40 sniper rifle. While he wished he could have his friend at his side, Cal knew the value of expert overwatch. If Daniel saw it, he could shoot it.
Cal tried to steady his breathing, but his heart still thumped in a steady rhythm. Anyone who said they weren’t afraid before going into combat was an idiot. The trick was having the balls to do it.
This would be a first for Cal. He’d never done a takedown at sea. For that reason, Gaucho would be the first one out since he had the most experience while being part of the Delta teams. MSgt Trent would go next (the two had become inseparable), then Cal, then the rest of the guys.
“One minute.”
Cal patted Trent on the back and threw a nod at Daniel, who was easing his rifle barrel out as one of the crew slipped open the door, blasting them with cold sea air. Sen. Thompson shielded his face and looked on, his eyes wide.
“Thirty seconds!”
Suddenly, alarms started going off through the helicopter. Cal’s stomach clenched both as the helicopter banked left and he realized what had caused the sound. Anti-aircraft missiles.
The pitch of the aircraft threw the team against the bulkhead, jarring Cal in the process as his elbow smashed painfully against a fire extinguisher. Through the corner of his eye he saw something streak by the open door. It only took him a split second to figure it out. It was a missile that had narrowly missed them.
