by C. G. Cooper
Years later, with his father’s money, and at his urging, Hunter’s father, Vincent Jr., ran for political office as soon as he received his law degree from Yale. Aided by Vincent, Sr., Vincent Jr. rose quickly through the ranks of the New York State Legislature and then in the United States House of Representatives. If it weren’t for his untimely death at the age of 40, Dr. Price had no doubt his father would still be in office.
Despite following in his family’s footsteps when it came to college, Hunter wanted to go into the military like his grandfather. Vincent Sr. tried to dissuade his grandson from serving, pushing him to use his biology degree to become a doctor. Hunter finally relented, but only after accepting a Navy commission and a full scholarship to the Uniformed Services University of Heath Sciences, a medical school dedicated to the training of military officers.
Due to his exceptional talent and high physical ability, Lt. Price’s first duty station was with the SEALs in Damn Neck, VA. He’d been accepted by the elite warriors, and at one point considered putting in a request to go to Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL Training (BUD/S). But a mission to Asia changed all that.
It was during that particularly scorching summer that three SEALs assigned to train Filipino Marines contracted an unknown illness. They’d medevaced the men with Lt. Price as their escort, landing in San Diego moments after Price had performed CPR on one of his patients, saving the man’s life.
He’d seen firsthand the work of the dedicated scientists from the CDC who’d helped triage the men and luckily diagnosed and cured them.
The incident opened Price’s eyes to a new world. While he loved his work with the SEALs, he knew his role would always be that of doctor, not operator. If he could somehow use his talents to eradicate deadly disease, he could help countless thousands if not millions.
With the blessing of his superiors, and a grudging nod from his grandfather, Hunter Price began his training with various branches of the CDC, with the intent of developing cures for some of the world’s deadliest killers. He’d taken to the work with zeal; sometimes not going home for days so entranced was he by the power of tiny organisms that could wipe out an entire civilization if given the chance. Soon he had his own lab and a staff of three.
It was on an exploratory mission to South America where his life changed forever. It was there, with a reclusive tribe not known for its hospitality, that Price found a piece of the puzzle. So simple and yet able to help millions.
Dr. Price thought back to that moment as he lay down on the double bed that smelled like mildew, staring up at the water stained ceiling, the fan thumping softly. His life was so different now. His grandfather was dead. His own career was gone, and he was on the run. If only he could figure out a way…
He’d been over it time and time again. It was impossible to contact any of his former colleagues. He didn’t know who he could trust. There was one person he knew he had to stay as far away from as possible: his old boss Col. Gormon Cromwell.
Chapter 6
Lombardi Cancer Center
Georgetown University Medical Center
Washington, D.C.
5:07pm, April 4th
The halls bustled with activity, doctors and nurses shuffling from room to room. It was the smell in the place that bothered him, reminding him of his wife’s death nearly a decade before. She’d been in a similar facility, dying right before his eyes. He’d made a silent promise never to step foot in another hospital, but that wasn’t to be. He couldn’t control everything, although he tried.
Senator Mac Thompson walked with a purpose, smiling at the hospital employees who glanced at the tall politician from Wyoming, giving him a wide birth. With auburn hair parted at the side and just now starting to gray, Mac Thompson looked like what a senator should be, strong and imposing. A former baseball star, Sen. Thompson clobbered opponents just as he’d hammered baseballs into the outfield.
He’d learned to temper his aggression, toning down his rhetoric and schmoozing with the best of Washington. Elected in a close battle with an incumbent Democrat, the Republican swept into the senate full of exuberance and hope. While he had made his share of dents in the hide of the government beast, he’d also become accustomed to the lifestyle. Back when his wife was alive, they’d traveled constantly, eating at extravagant restaurants and staying in swanky hotels, all on someone else’s dime.
Comfortable in his new role, the death of his wife had saddened him to the point of deep depression. Unlike so many other politicians in town, Mac Thompson had loved his wife as much as he had that first bright spring day in high school. They’d been together for close to thirty years when she passed. It had almost killed him.
The only thing that kept him from succumbing to his despair was his son. He was Thompson’s sole heir, a miracle really. Countless doctors had said that Mindy Thompson would never conceive, but she did. It was a complicated birth, but twenty-five years before, Michael Thompson came into the world, screaming and healthy.
Michael represented all that was good in the senator’s life. When fifteen year old Michael had lost his mother, he’d been the one to comfort his father, rarely leaving his side. They’d forged an iron bond since then, not a day going by that they didn’t at least talk on the phone.
Those thoughts raged in his mind as Senator Mac Thompson stepped into the corner room, curtains thrown wide to let in the last rays of daylight. His son lay in bed staring at his cell phone, probably texting his girlfriend, a pretty little thing from South Carolina. Michael looked up when his father entered.
“Hey, Dad. I didn’t think you were stopping by tonight.”
Sen. Thompson leaned down and hugged his son, careful not to disturb the IV line affixed to his son’s arm.
“Are you kidding? There’s no place I’d rather be.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Dad. You know you don’t have to babysit me. Everything’s taken care of.”
Sen. Thompson patted his son on the shoulder, waiting until the lump in his throat passed so he could speak. He looks so much like Mindy. Weeks before, he’d received a call from the Georgetown University clinic. The physician’s assistant had calmly told the senator that Michael, who was in the process of earning his law degree, had passed out at the gym. “He’s doing fine, but we’d like to do some tests,” she’d said.
The initial tests came back negative for anything obvious. Michael had insisted that he’d partied too hard over the weekend and probably hadn’t hydrated properly. No novice to drinking, Sen. Thompson insisted that his son have a thorough examination. A day later the doctor came back with the verdict. It was small cell lung cancer.
“But he’s so young. He doesn’t even smoke!” Sen. Thompson had said to the doctor.
“Sometimes we don’t know what causes it, Senator. I’ll get a treatment plan to you right away.”
The oncologist recommended chemotherapy. Treatment began and Thompson tried to be optimistic, but something in his gut told him it was bad. It was in the way the doctor glanced at him from time to time, as if expecting the powerful senator to rain down hail and brimstone should she fail to cure his son.
The first round of chemo had no effect, and the cancer spread quickly. Michael remained upbeat, but the weight started coming off and his energy levels waned. The senator’s son was dying and there was nothing he could do. Almost.
“You want me to run out and get something from Five Guys? I’ll bet you’re sick of the hospital food by now,” said the senator.
“I’m okay, Dad. It’s not so bad.” Michael yawned, his eyes drooping.
That was just like his son, always positive. Always looking on the bright side of a crappy situation.
“Why don’t you take a little nap, son. I’ll stick around until you wake up. I’ve got some emails to return.”
Michael nodded, already half asleep. Two minutes later, he was snoring lightly. It was another detail he remembered from his wife’s illness, a memory that banged inside his head. A light sleeper since t
hey’d met, as soon as the cancer took hold, Mindy could doze off in the middle of a conversation. The same thing was happening to Michael.
Sen. Thompson held his son’s hand for a moment, making sure he was out. Satisfied, he rose and closed the door, locking it carefully.
He walked over to the IV stand and extracted a syringe from his coat pocket, staring at it for a moment, grim determination making his heart beat faster. Saying a prayer to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in, Sen. Thompson uncapped the needle and plunged it into the IV port.
Once finished, he returned the syringe to its original place and moved around the bed to resume his vigil. Taking his son’s hand in his own, he whispered, “Everything’s going to be okay, son. I promise.”
Chapter 7
Charlottesville, Virginia
5:57am, April 5th
They’d sat into the night downing drinks and brainstorming ideas for the name of their new venture. There were the wacky ones like “Calvin’s Heroes” and “Zimmer’s Zoo.” Through the laughing they were able to come up with some halfway decent ideas. It wasn’t that anyone necessarily cared about the company name, but it was important to have some sort of identity that would help shape their cover.
In the end, no consensus was reached, the team opting to take what was left of the night to sleep on it.
Luckily, they’d cleaned up the mess they’d made the night before in the unfinished kitchen, because Cal’s head was pounding. He almost tripped over a yellow level and tub of grout as he shuffled around the huge island, opening cupboards, trying to find a glass to get some water. Finally he found one, quickly filling the glass in the sink and downing its contents. One more and the cobwebs were starting to clear.
He was getting too old to be drinking with the boys. As if things couldn’t get any worse, MSgt Trent stepped into the kitchen looking like he’d slept for a day. Refreshed and cheery.
“Good morning, boss. You ready for that run?”
Trent slipped a t-shirt over his head and walked to the fridge. Cal couldn’t believe he’d promised to go for a run.
“Give me a couple minutes and I’ll be ready,” said Cal, trying to sound enthused but feeling the exact opposite. He’d have to remember not to attempt keeping up with Trent when they were drinking.
Trent looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Snake Eyes and Gaucho are out front waiting. Come out when you’re ready.”
Cal stifled a groan and went to his room to slip on his running shoes.
An hour later, the runners returned, Cal finally feeling like himself. The first couple miles weren’t any fun, but he’d managed to sweat out the fumes.
They stretched on the back porch, sipping from bottles of water provided by the ever helpful Daniel Briggs. The sniper didn’t even look like he’d gone for a run, let alone a seven miler. Other than Trent, Daniel was one of the most physically fit individuals Cal had ever met. And that was saying something considering the company he kept.
“Beautiful campus,” noted Gaucho, probably the only other one feeling the effects of the night before. Daniel didn’t drink, so he didn’t count.
“It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with the place,” said Cal. He remembered the first time he’d visited U.Va. Cal was touring colleges for the weekend, staying with a girl who’d been a year ahead of him in high school. They were just friends, but the perks of staying on the girl’s floor had been a treat for the high school senior.
It was an early fall day in October. The leaves were just starting to change all over campus. Thomas Jefferson’s university lived up to its reputation. Everyone was friendly and everyone wanted to be there. It came as a welcome change to Cal. He’d taken to the school instantly and hadn’t seriously considered any others, although he’d applied to a handful.
“I heard you’ve gotta be pretty smart to get in a school like this. Who did the Colonel have to bribe to get you in?” asked Gaucho.
“Believe it or not, despite my foul mouth and poor attitude, I did pretty fucking well in high school,” said Cal, remembering how proud his parents had been when he’d gotten his acceptance letter. His mother couldn’t stop bragging for weeks.
“Do you really think they’ll let us take classes?” asked Daniel.
“I told Jonas to look into it. If anyone can pull some strings it’s him,” said Cal.
The last few years had been a blur of activity for the former SSI men. If there wasn’t an operation underway, there was another in planning stages. That didn’t leave time for much other than family and work, and the four were all bachelors. Cal’s father had always mandated that his employees spend time with their loved ones, a tradition that carried on through Travis and Cal. The Stokes men knew how to take care of their troops, and Cal meant to keep that up for as long as he had them.
“Well, if you’re offering, I may look into getting my master’s. Do they have a culinary department around here?” asked MSgt Trent, who’d managed to get a culinary degree from Johnston and Wales University. The others loved it when it was Top’s turn to cook. He was always trying out some new recipe he’d concocted, and they were never disappointed.
Before Cal could answer, Jonas stepped outside carrying a thin green folder.
“You have a minute, Cal?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
Cal rose from his stretching and moved to follow Jonas inside.
“Hey, Cal. Don’t forget to ask Jonas about the culinary thing,” reminded Trent, just as Cal closed the door.
“What did he want you to ask?” asked Jonas.
“Oh, nothing. He was just wondering if U.Va has a master’s program for the culinary arts. I’m pretty sure they don’t. Speaking of which, did you get any more information for the guys on taking classes?”
“I did. They’ll have a couple different options depending on our schedule. I’ve talked to the president of the university, and she’s more than happy to accommodate us.”
“Just tell me how much it’s gonna be and I’ll take care of it.” Cal had plenty of money from his ownership share of SSI. He could afford to pay.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s taken care of.”
“You don’t have to do that,” said Cal.
“I want to. My treat. There is a catch, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Some of the deans, particularly the guy that runs the international affairs department, want to know if you guys would be interested in sharing some of your stories, give the kids some perspective.”
“Really?” Cal didn’t like telling war stories to strangers, but something about getting a chance to teach at his alma mater… Well, it was worth considering.
“It’s not a requirement, but I’m sure the undergrads could learn a lot from you.”
“Let me think about it. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“You’re probably gonna think I’m crazy, but I ran across a string of interesting articles. Since we’re still trying to figure out what our mission is, I thought you might want to take a look.”
By that time they’d entered the War Room and Jonas was sitting in front of one of the many computers.
“What’s the gist?”
“There have been reports of people miraculously being cured of cancer.”
Cal resisted the urge to roll his eyes, wanting to give the newest member of the team a chance to take the lead.
“And this is important because…?”
“In every case I’ve tracked, the patient was terminal. Now, they weren’t on their deathbed yet, but they had all been given diagnoses signing their death warrant. These people were going to die and then poof, the cancer was gone.”
Cal cocked his head. “Are you telling me there’s a pattern? How come nobody else is tracking this?”
“Hey, I’m good at what I do.” Jonas smiled. “Now, I’ve plotted the ten cases I’ve found so far. Tell me if you notice a pattern.”
Cal stared at the screen, analyzing the U.S. map
clearly marked with ten red dots. Atlanta, Georgia. Columbus, Ohio. Williamsburg, Virginia. There wasn’t a pattern that Cal could see.
“What am I missing here?” asked Cal.
“When I first analyzed it, taking the hospitals into account, nothing really jumped out as far as similarities. Different sizes. Different affiliations. Pretty random, actually. It wasn’t until I went old school and just submitted all the cities into a generic web search that I got my answer. The first link Google showed me was to U.S. News and World Report’s annual college rankings. Every city has a public university listed as one of the top twenty colleges in the country.”
“Wait. Are you saying you think the colleges are in on it?”
“Not really. I think, rather than doing it randomly, someone is using that list to administer the cure.”
Cal shook his head. “I’m still not sure I’m tracking. Is this some conspiracy theory thing, because I don’t have a clue what you want us to do about it.”
“I haven’t told you the best part yet. According to my analysis, and you know that I’m pretty fucking good at this kinda thing, I think the next cure will be at the number three public university in the country.”
The hair on the back of Cal’s stood. “And the number three school is…”
Jonas grinned. “The University of Virginia.”
Chapter 8
Bourbon Steak Restaurant
Georgetown
11:34am, April 5th
Senator Mac Thompson liked to take lunch early. The added bonus was missing the mad rush to get a table, and he hated being crowded. He loved Bourbon Steak, which was conveniently located on the ground floor of the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown, where he’d kept a room since Michael moved to the area. The head chef was a friend and liked to surprise the popular senator with delectable tastings that he generously hand-delivered to Thompson’s room upstairs.
He’d called ahead, and they had his grilled hangar steak sitting in front of him not two minutes after he’d taken his seat. Situated in a nook farthest away from the popular lounge bar, Senator Thompson savored his first bite of perfectly medium rare steak, the hint of spicy peanut dressing adding to his enjoyment. There weren’t many days that passed where he didn’t eat some kind of red meat. He considered that fact as he gazed around the empty dining room, almost every decoration patterned in varying shades of brown, matching the steak on his plate.