Lethal Misconduct

by C. G. Cooper

  “Fuck!” he heard the pilot scream.

  The bird flipped around again, somehow avoiding the incoming projectiles, but once again throwing Cal and his men like rag dolls back the other way. As his face rested against a window on the opposite side, he caught a flash, and then watched as the second helicopter caught another missile in its side and exploded.

  “Shit.”

  They’d flown right into Cromwell’s trap.

  +++

  Cromwell patted the younger Dukes on the back as he fired. The kid was well trained. While the first helicopter had gotten lucky and was now putting as much space between it and the boat, the second hadn’t. Two missiles blew the thing out of the sky, making the third aircraft juke and follow its remaining companion.

  “Bring the boat around and see if they want to try again,” Cromwell ordered.

  Dukes did as he was told, and turned the wheel, crashing them through their own wake.

  Cromwell moved to join his companions and prepare for a possible boarding when he heard a strange sound from behind. He turned back and watched as the lifeless, and partially headless, body of the captain’s son crumpled to the deck. In the next second multiple rounds hit the soviet era anti-aircraft mount Dukes said he’d kept as payment after a deal gone wrong.

  Realizing the danger just in time, Cromwell dove behind a short wall as the missile mount exploded, taking a good chunk of the boat’s hull with it.

  He’d been lucky. Vespers crawled over to see if he was okay.

  “I’m fine,” Cromwell said. “Get ready for company.”

  +++

  Cal wished he hadn’t brought the senator along, but got some satisfaction that the asshole was puking all over himself. Fuck him.

  “Tell the other bird to stay away. We’ll take it from here,” he told the pilot.

  “You still want to go in? Why don’t we blow that fucker out the water?” asked the pilot.

  “We need to get on the boat.”

  The pilot shook his head but didn’t argue.

  Cal turned back to his team. “Everyone ready for round two?”

  Chapter 34

  Atlantic Ocean

  9:36pm, April 10th

  After making a wide turn, the Black Hawk came in just above the waves, the pilot hoping the low flight might muddle any radar on the boat. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

  “One minute,” came the call.

  It felt like everyone was holding their collective breath. Cal willed himself to take in slow lungfuls of air. That last pass had been a bitch. Luckily, Daniel said he was sure he’d taken out whatever jury-rigged anti aircraft mount on the side of the boat. He’d seen the thing explode.

  “Thirty seconds!”

  The helicopter flared up, trying to entice another round of missiles, but none came. Daniel was giving a thumbs-up from the doorway. Cal couldn’t see a thing from where he was standing, but he trusted his friends. They were lined and ready, coming down to where they’d fast-rope in.

  As they made their descent, Cal heard a muffled sound just as Daniel threw himself away from the doorway. A moment later flames licked in through the opening as a shock wave knocked the helicopter sideways, the aircraft yawing left harder than the last time, heading toward the waves.

  +++

  Cromwell was led down the chrome-lined passageway by a porter wearing a ridiculous white sailor’s outfit with crimson tassels and a matching bow tie that reminded the soldier of something he’d seen in a cartoon. They’d secured the senator’s son, and Gillespie Dukes was hitting the rest of the bottle of Johnny Walker in memory of his son in one of the spacious cabins.

  Entering the bridge, Cromwell marveled at the submarine’s state of the art control room. He’d read about the Phoenix 1000, but he’d never set foot in one. With an overall length of around 213 feet, its beam 26-feet wide, the luxury submarine was built for the rich with lavish appointments custom crafted for whatever billionaire chose to build one. There were said to be less than a handful in existence.

  Cromwell pushed past his guide and approached the man whose vessel had just saved them from imminent capture. It hadn’t been how they’d planned it, but the timing worked out. With a little bit of luck, whoever had chased them down in their Black Hawks was now calling in the divers to find their bodies. All they’d find was the sunken vessel.

  His host swiveled the oversized chair around, not without effort. His morbidly obese body practically oozed through the gaps between the chair rail and cascaded over the top.

  “So good of you to join us, Colonel,” said Waldo Erickson, CEO of Hampstead Healthcare, the owner of the underwater yacht.

  “Thank you for helping with our getaway, Mr. Erickson,” answered Cromwell with a smile.

  The two were unlikely allies to the casual observer, but one need only look to the heart of the men to find their true motives.

  “I hope that explosion didn’t harm any part of my baby’s hull. I’d hate to have to bill you for the damage.” Erickson always sounded like he had food in his mouth. Probably because most times he did.

  “I’m sure my benefactor would be happy to pay.”

  The two men smiled at each other and laughed. While at first they’d started out as bitter rivals, a little digging by Cromwell had found out a key piece of Erickson’s past that few people knew.

  On October 23, 1983, Erickson’s brother, Marine Major Carl Erickson, was killed in the Beirut bombing by the Islamic Jihad. That alone was enough to make a man hate the Middle East.

  To make matters worse, not a decade later, Erickson’s other brother, James Erickson, had been murdered on August 3, 1990 during Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait. The elder Erickson had been CEO of a Kuwaiti-based oil company.

  Erickson’s hatred ran deeper than even Cromwell’s. It was simply a matter of putting hope into the man’s fat hands and letting him do the rest. Whatever Cromwell needed, Erickson provided.

  So while they argued and clashed in front of the others on conference calls, and accused the other of trying to derail the group’s plans, behind the scenes they’d orchestrated the perfect scheme.

  With Erickson’s billions and Merrifield’s formula, they would exact their revenge.

  “Settle in for the ride, Colonel. Pretty soon we’ll be toasting our victory.”

  Chapter 35

  The White House

  8:20am, April 11th

  The president had just returned from his meeting with the director of the FBI. He’d offered his condolences for the men lost, and offered to give any public support needed. The director appreciated the sympathy, and told the president he’d be in touch.

  Cal waited for Zimmer to take off his coat before saying anything. “They’re sending a team down to the wreckage. We should have confirmation by noon.”

  Zimmer looked to his friend. “Tell me the truth, could the deaths of those HRT guys have been prevented?”

  Cal frowned. “I don’t think so. The Black Hawks were the quickest way to get us out there, and the missiles took us by surprise. I wouldn’t even be here right now if it weren’t for our pilot. Hell, he was probably just a split second quicker than the second pilot.”

  Zimmer nodded. “So what now?”

  “Well, Cromwell did a pretty thorough job of destroying all of Dr. Price’s work. Without the good doctor knowing, he’d already found the research and mangled it to the point that it’s useless. Price has to start over.”

  “What does Dr. Price have to say about it?”

  Cal shrugged. “I think he’s just happy to be getting his life back. With Senator Thompson in custody and the Feds off of the Price family’s back, maybe he can go back to living a normal life. I mean, he will have to go back to Colombia and find whatever substance he needs, but I don’t think that bothers him.”

  “Please tell him that I’ll do everything I can to help. Funding, material, you name it. This cure is much bigger than anything we’ve developed in our lifetime. With the senator’s
co-conspirators out of the way, maybe we can get back to actually fixing our healthcare system,” said Zimmer.

  “What did the others say? Why did they go along with Cromwell’s plan?”

  “They tried to clam up at first, throwing their lawyers at us, but we bulled past them. Once they found out what Cromwell was really up to, they haven’t stopped talking. For them it was all about money. A cure for cancer meant no cancer treatments, meds, et cetera. They were going to lose trillions.”

  “I hope you lock those assholes up and throw away the key,” said Cal, the thought of inhumane greed made him want to strangle every one of them. Not wanting people’s lives to be saved all for money…

  “I don’t know how many of them will do time, but they will lose their positions and be publicly humiliated if I have anything to say about it.”

  Now that Cal thought about it, teaching a public lesson was probably better anyway. At least it might deter others from doing the same. He could live with that.

  “What about Thompson? What’s gonna happen to him?” asked Cal.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy had a heart attack. They had to sedate him earlier. Apparently the thought of killing millions couldn’t do it, but the loss of his son sent him reeling. We’ll see what happens.”

  While Cal could on some level understand the motives, killing a whole race with a superbug felt like cheating. He’d rather look into a terrorist’s eyes as he blew his brains out than watch as countless innocents perished.

  The door to the Oval Office opened and Travis stepped in, followed by Neil Patel, who was carrying an open laptop.

  “I’m sorry for barging in, but you need to see this,” said Travis, moving around the couch to give Neil room to set his laptop on the coffee table.

  “What’s going on?” asked Zimmer, trying to make out what was on the computer screen.

  Clacking away like he always did, Neil didn’t look up as he said, “This thing with Cromwell isn’t over.”

  Chapter 36

  Ischia, Italy

  11:38am, April 18th

  Gormon Cromwell, now going by the name Tom Hastings, walked along the cobblestone pathway that led to the villa he’d rented two days before. If all went according to plan, he’d decide to make an offer on the place, the view of the Gulf of Naples soothing his terminally antsy soul. Plus, the location on the side of the rock cliff gave them added security. It was perfect.

  He’d just left the multi-million dollar laboratory Waldo Erickson had built earlier that year, just in case they needed an overseas back up plan. It had been Cromwell’s idea, but Erickson had chosen the spot. He said he loved the thermal spas on the volcanic island and the expansive views from his palatial villa.

  Merrifield was close to having the final product ready for shipment. Erickson had made a deal with a water exporter who would be shipping the contaminated bottles to select cities in the Middle East. To Cromwell’s surprise, the Italian company even shipped to the heart of Satan himself, Tehran, Iran.

  Cromwell felt like a teenager again. Not only were they close to their goal, he was also getting the free time he hadn’t had since he was a kid. There was plenty of time to develop follow-on drugs, but meanwhile, he would enjoy the billions that Erickson was now sharing with him.

  He knew there would soon be much more as the dying world paid any sum for the newly developed (it was already finished) vaccine that would save them from the cancerous superbug sweeping the world.

  Cromwell strolled along happily, thinking that he might have to join Erickson at the fat man’s favorite volcanic bath.

  +++

  Malik Vespers wasn’t used to not working. Now that they’d left the States, there wasn’t much need for his services. He knew he’d always be taken care of, but he worried that he’d soon be bored.

  Pushing himself out the heated pool, the cool breeze followed him as he picked up his towel. He wrapped it around himself then turned to head back into the villa. Shit, he thought. He’d already forgotten his weapon. One week and he was going soft.

  When he swiveled back to the chair where he’d left his Berretta, he was surprised to find a towering black man sitting there, casually twirling the pistol on the pinky finger of his left hand, another pistol in his right aimed at Vespers.

  “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” asked the man.

  Vespers growled.

  “Oops. I forgot, you don’t have a tongue, do you?”

  The large man rose from his chair, still twirling, still aiming.

  “The way I see it, you’ve got two options. One, you try to run and I shoot you. I say that because I will do it, and the cops around here, the Carabinieri, they won’t care. They especially won’t care when they find out what you’re doing here. Your other option is to put on the handcuffs I give you, and head out to my car. I know you can’t talk, but I’ve got a friend who has all kinds of ways that’ll make you write down everything you know. And guess what, the doc’s drugs are so good that you’ll want to do it. Now how about that?”

  Vespers didn’t move. He wasn’t planning on going anywhere with the black giant. While he hadn’t heard of any drug that could make a man talk, let alone write a confession, something about the big man’s demeanor told him that he was being told the truth.

  Malik Vespers was a loyal employee. He had been while in the Secret Service, and now even more so under Cromwell. He owed the man his life. Vespers made his decision.

  Pivoting on his right foot, he took off toward the far end of the infinity pool. He heard the shot and stumbled when the round hit him in the back. He could feel his legs starting to give, but he somehow kept them pumping. Move. Move. Another shot hit him in the in the shoulder but still he ran.

  With a final leap, over the cliff he went, flying for the first time. Few thoughts crossed his mind as he fell toward the rocks below, some ten stories down. Flying. Then darkness.

  Marine Master Sergeant Willy Trent looked over the ledge. The crushed form below wasn’t moving. No way it would. Dude was deader than dead.

  “Well, I guess that’s option three,” Trent said to the wind.

  He pocketed Vespers’s pistol and stuck his own in his back waist band. Gaucho was waiting out front in the tiny rented Fiat that he had a helluva time getting in and out of.

  +++

  Waldo Erickson lounged in the steaming water of his thermal bath. He’d paid a hefty sum to rent the private spa, telling the owner that he wanted 24-hour use of the place, and to be waited on hand and foot.

  The owner had gladly taken the fat man’s money. It would probably support his business for a year.

  Beside Erickson lay an assortment of local delicacies. He ignored most, focusing on the delectable slices of grilled pizza, Neapolitan style. He preferred them simple with a light coat of olive oil and tomato sauce and a healthy heaping of buffalo mozzarella.

  As he started in on his third pie, the oils from the sauce running down his chin as he shoved the whole piece in his mouth, he felt a tapping on his head.

  He struggled to turn around as he chomped twice then swallowed the pizza whole. It better not be the owner’s daughter, he thought. She knew better than to disturb him without calling out first.

  It wasn’t the owner’s daughter. It was someone he’d never seen before. A younger guy. Brown hair. Good looking. Fit. He was wearing board shorts and a shirt like an American.

  “Hey, look. I found Waldo,” said the uninvited guest.

  Erickson froze. He hadn’t used his real name since they’d left the U.S.

  “Who are you?”

  The young man walked around the small bath and touched the rock walls like he was sightseeing.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am, Waldo. I’ve got a message for you.”

  Erickson could feel his bowels loosening. He didn’t want to shit in the water. What did this guy want?

  “Give me the message and then get the hell out of here,” Erickson ordered, trying to regain a mea
sure of dignity. He was used to control. Not this.

  “I have a message from the president.”

  “What president?”

  “The only one that matters, Waldo.”

  The young man walked back to stand behind Erickson.

  “You tell Zimmer that if he tries to threaten me…”

  “You mind if I have a piece of this pizza, Waldo?”

  Erickson didn’t know what to say. Who was this guy?

  The guy shrugged, bent down, and picked up the remaining three quarters of the pizza. He folded it like you would a New York style pie, and took a big bite. His eyes closed as he savored Erickson’s lunch.

  “Wow. That’s some good pizza,” the man said through his mouthful of food.

  “Would you mind getting to the point?”

  The man swallowed and looked down at him.

  “Here’s the message. You crossed the line, Waldo. It’s not okay to try to murder a whole race and then think you’re gonna get away with it.”

  Erickson face paled despite the heat. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Cut the crap, Waldo. You and Cromwell planned on killing every Arab on the planet. I get it that you’re pissed about your brothers dying. Trust me, I’m a Marine. But this wasn’t the way to do it.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Instead of answering, the young man pounced, bowling Erickson over in the water. He felt his face go under and tried to push the man off. He couldn’t. Then, through it all, he felt the man shoving something into his mouth. He tried to clamp down but a finger did something to his jaw and his mouth opened involuntarily. Along with the bitter water he tasted the dough and the sauce of the pizza.

  As Erickson began to lose consciousness, he wondered how they’d found him. He thought he’d been careful. And then his breath finally left him, and the murky blackness consumed him.