Victims of Vanity

As the head of La Medicina De Nueva Esperanza, Oscar Hernandez was an important man. The South American pharmaceutical company competed with Asia, Europe, and its neighbors to the north. Hernandez was middle-aged with fading black hair and an athletic build that was quickly degenerating into a state that could be called pudgy. From the helipad high atop company headquarters the CEO looked out over the city of Vera Cruz. The sky was clear, too clear for the murky business that Hernandez was being forced to attend to. However, it was necessary if his company hoped to be competitive on the world stage.

Hernandez’s thoughts were crowded out by the sound of turbines and large rotors digging greedily into the hot air that hovered over the city. He looked in the sound’s direction and spotted a low flying helicopter approaching the helipad. The helicopter was a Mi-17, a Soviet built aircraft. Hernandez knew that some neighboring countries stocked up on Russian hardware due to foreign alliances and a desire to thumb their noses at the United States. The CEO wished that his business associates would buy less provocative aircraft to transport clients. When Hernandez had to fly in the Mi-17 he was constantly afraid that the United States or its allies would mistake it for an enemy aircraft and shoot it down.

After Hernandez had taken cover, the helicopter gently set down. The side door opened, men in unmarked uniforms jumped out, and they guided the executive quickly into the waiting aircraft. After all were on board one of the men slid the door shut and the helicopter quickly lifted off. The men who surrounded Hernandez did not speak. They simply sat and watched him with their faces obscured by their helmets and visors. The only variation on the theme was the pilot. Her delicate chin protruding out from her helmet made a striking contrast. She seemed to be the only member of the crew that did not radiate the unmistakable aura of the hired killer.

The helicopter quickly crossed the city and flew out over the Gulf. It kept flying until a ship came into view. The ship quickly grew larger as they closed the distance between it and themselves. The ship was white, 300 feet long, and looked like a thousand other Chinese-made cargo ships. However, this ship flew no flag and HV-1 was the only marking on its outer hull. This ship was the best kept secret in the fields of scientific research. It was known as Ocean Lab or OL to those in the know. It was a state of the art scientific and medical research facility. The ship had the latest scientific instruments and equipment. It also operated in international waters where any experiment could be performed. Across the globe pharmaceutical companies vied for space aboard HV-1. They eagerly petitioned the shadowy board members that controlled Ocean Lab in hopes of reaping the benefits of unrestricted research.

Hernandez’s company was a client of Ocean Lab and had already sampled the riches that could be gleaned from the ship’s research facilities. Now Hernandez feared that he would be paying the price for yielding to raw ambition. He hugged his briefcase nervously as the helicopter circled, attained permission to land, and then set down on the ship’s helipad with a thunk. Once the rotors stopped spinning the crew jumped to their feet, disembarked, and hustled the visiting CEO out of the aircraft. From there he was taken below and guided through a maze of labs. Hernandez was then forced to climb several flights of stairs and was shoved into an executive office.

The office belonged to Czarina, one of the senior members of the board. The woman was in her late 40’s, wore her hair stylishly, and dressed as an eastern European would when confronted with the heat of summer. Her eyes were big, cold, and her gaze was so sharp that it felt like she was sinking a blade into you by just looking at you. The woman looked at people as if they were something to be taken apart. Hernandez was not certain if the woman’s arctic gaze was a form of compensation for her almost non-existent jaw, but defects were hardly noticed when the rest of the person terrified you.

Seňor Hernandez, I trust that you had a pleasant flight. Please have a seat, she greeted the nervous executive and motioned toward a chair.

Yes, Hernandez nodded nervously after sitting down.

Has your company found the facilities and freedom offered by Ocean Lab to its liking? Czarina quizzed.

Yes.

It is good to know that our services are appreciated. Our relationship must be one of mutual benefit if it is to continue.

Mutual benefit? Hernandez repeated the words and wondered what the board could possibly want.

Yes, as you know Ocean Lab is the dirty little secret that the scientific community keeps to itself. It knows about it, benefits from it, but won’t openly acknowledge it. It is that way by design. However, our non-existence can prove troublesome. That is where our clients come in, Czarina explained.

How so? he pressed.

We have a client that has requested certain raw materials that only we know of. We are more than happy to supply the much-needed materials but do not have the required export paperwork to do so. For that we must turn to one of our trusted clients. She treated the shady transaction as a mere triviality.

Is that why you mailed us that manifest? Hernandez asked after retrieving the print out from his briefcase.

Of course, 3 3-liter bottles of different powdered materials. A small parcel that would mean the world to our new client.

Our chemists are not familiar with the materials listed. We will not run afoul of the authorities, he protested.

Have your people studied the materials?

Yes.

Are they volatile?

No.

Are they illegal?

We can’t say for certain. These agents are not listed in our databases.

Are they lethal?

No.

Then what possible objections could you have?

I don’t know… Hernandez waivered.

A display of support for your fellow scientists would place you on a preferred clients list, Czarina sweetened the pot.

I cannot see the harm if we ship the bottles, Hernandez surrendered.

Very good. You will not regret this decision.

After Hernandez signed the contract that Czarina placed before him, he was escorted out of the room and Czarina was left alone. Being able to sell the agents brought with it a feeling of satisfaction and personal achievement. The components and the recipe that combined them were the creation of Petrov, her comrade, lab partner, and the only man whose affection she ever coveted. Petrov had created the compound and its three base components for the glory of Russia. Russia had not properly appreciated Petrov’s genius and they had taken their secrets with them after the fall of the Soviet empire. Now their work was mostly forgotten by all but a precious few. Soon the glory of Petrov would be reflected by those that benefited from the formula, and she would deliver that glory to Petrov.

Ms. Czarina, a soft voice interrupted the lady scientist’s fantasies.

Czarina found Terra standing in her office. Terra was an attractive girl in her twenties with light colored hair and an attractive face. The girl was trained as a pilot and often acted as Czarina’s spy.

Terra, has Seňor Hernandez taken possession of the package? A replacement pilot will go with you. I am giving you a shore pass. Make sure the package is shipped and then enjoy yourself.

Yes, Ma’am, Terra saluted and left the room.

CHAPTER 1

The troopers at State Police Barracks 12 had been on high alert ever since the Intel Office had reported an uptick in activity among the syndicate’s lower level pushers. They seemed to suspect that Zenith, their underworld master had something in the works and they were being left out in the cold. Zenith was the mysterious head of the syndicate that ruled northern Virginia’s criminal world.

Captain Broaden watched his fellow troopers scramble to put the pieces together only to find that they knew about as much about the new operation as the pushers they were investigating. They knew nothing. Broaden was one of the few people in the world that knew that the cold, calculating, and ruthless Zenith was really meek and mild Howard Omega, the investor. Officially Omega ran an honest brokerage office and made sure that there was no evidence against him, but that did not stop Broaden from secretly continuing his investigation into the consultant and his other persona.

Broaden had a secret ally in his war against the Zenith syndicate, an ally that did things his own way, the Ranger. The two seldom met, but that did not mean that the trooper did not know how to covertly communicate with the vigilante. They had a code and a devilishly simple way to broadcast it.

The State Police Captain had spent his shift fulfilling his duties to the state. After his shift ended, he drove to the offices of the Old Dominion Herald and paid a visit to the classified department. Before leaving the barracks Broaden had changed into civilian clothing and drew no attention to himself as he walked down the hall, entered the classified office, and sat down at the desk of a twenty something intern that had been assigned to the classifieds. The intern regarded his current job as beneath him but managed to greet Broaden in a way that could be considered friendly.

I’d like to place an ad in the hobby section, the Captain explained.

Ok… the intern shoved a form in Broaden’s direction in a way that almost seemed machine like.

Arachnid observers have reported the beginning of a large spider web. Those who enjoy spiders should be on the lookout for the first threads of the web to be visible near the nesting grounds. Broaden wrote out the coded message and then handed it to the intern. The intern glanced at the message, entered it into his computer, and accepted payment from Broaden without giving the ad’s contents a second thought.

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The offices of Howard Omega were many things--honest was not one of them. Howard was secretly the head of the syndicate that controlled racketeering and many other forms of crime in Virginia. Omega posed as a broker and investor, and he truly was. The only problem was that most of his investments were illegal and were managed by men who collected interest with a machine gun. Of course, all of this was hidden behind a synthetic mask of respectability and education. The offices that Howard kept were an example of that. Located in a posh high rise building in Alexandria, the offices radiated a feeling of success and wealth. The thick carpet and mahogany furniture screamed it.

Seated behind a glass-top steel desk that had been designed by an internationally renowned steel sculptor, Howard Omega sat ready to embark on his next adventure. He was a tall, thin man dressed in a pricey Italian suit. Omega was in his 40s with a head full of wavy brown hair and eyes that were able to hide a soul that was as dark as midnight. Howard had just finished proof reading the contract on his next great business venture and had paused to reflect upon it when one of his minions entered the room carrying a cardboard box.

Your package came, the man grunted as he walked toward Omega.

Excellent. Place the box on my desk, Howard instructed.

Howard quickly stood up and eagerly opened the box. After fishing around in the Styrofoam peanuts, he gently lifted out an antique radio microphone and placed it on his desk. He then reached back into the box and lifted out an antique Philco home tabletop radio and placed it next to the microphone. After pausing to remove any peanuts that had clung to the radio, Omega sat back down and took the time to admire his newest toys. A childlike smile crossed his face as he picked up the microphone and examined it.

Omega’s smile faded when one of his underlings nervously entered the room.

What is it? he snapped.

The import man is here. He’s in conference room ‘B’, the newcomer reported timidly.

Very well, Omega began. Take the box away. Dispose of it, he continued after thrusting the now empty shipping carton into his underling’s hands.

Omega then quietly exited his office through a back door, traveled to a private elevator, and pressed the button marked 2. When the doors opened on the second floor, Omega exited and entered into an office that was listed only as Private on the building directory. Once inside that office he opened a door along the back wall of the waiting room and entered a room that had been set up as living quarters. His features hardened as he slipped out of his perfectly tailored suit coat and put on another.

With practiced precision Omega selected another suit coat from the closet. This coat was of a matching cloth to the suit that he was currently wearing, but it had been tailored to round his shoulders and padding made it appear that he had a hunched back. Once this was done he drew back a curtain that revealed a steel reinforced door. Omega opened the door, stepped through, and entered conference room B as Zenith, the cold, calculating, and brilliant head of the syndicate.

Gane, the syndicate’s import export specialist, watched in reverent silence as Zenith entered the room with some type of microphone in hand, placed it on a pedestal, and then turned to face him.

What’s the matter, Mr. Gane? Zenith inquired after a momentary study of his slight underling.

Those things make me nervous. Gane motioned toward the microphone.

This mic went off the air years ago. Gane, what news do you have for me? Zenith replied.

Zenith, we just got word in the port that the stuff arrived. Petrov shipped us three crates, Gane reported.

Excellent. Gane, be sure to arrange for packaging and delivery. Also, I want a full report on the setup, Zenith instructed.

<>

Across the street from the high-rise building that housed Omega’s office was a car dealer. This dealer specialized in exotic sports cars and catered to an exclusive list of customers. The lot had the latest and greatest European super cars, all of which could be custom tailored to suit the whims and tastes of their buyers. However, they all paled in comparison to a gray car that sat parked in the back of the lot. This car had headlights that were located on the bottom of its aerodynamic nose. On each side of the rear fenders massive air intakes fed an engine that put all others to shame.

Inside the car, hidden by blacked out windows, the Ranger sat listening to Howard Omega, the Zenith. The Ranger had bugged Omega’s antique microphone and it now broadcast every word that was spoken. The Ranger knew that Omega had brokered a deal on some type of old Russian surplus. Zenith had little interest in consumer goods, so the vigilante assumed that the products in question were either weapons or drugs. When the bug’s broadcast indicated that Zenith had left the meeting, the Ranger left too. One way or another he would learn the syndicate’s secret.

<>

Ziggy and Eddie were ruthless men who unquestioningly did the syndicate’s bidding. They were no strangers to violence or graft. However, the Syndicate’s latest venture seemed tame and anticlimactic compared to what the men were used to. The Syndicate had purchased a shop in a Reston industrial park under the guise of the NuShoe Concepts corporation. The two strongarm men watched in wonder as bulk quantities of corn starch, corn syrup, sugar, artificial flavor, ingredients for a powdered health supplement, large pill bottles, and candy making equipment were delivered and set up in the shop.

Both gangsters knew that the business they were overseeing was listed as NuTrition, a division of NuShoe Concepts; but they did not honestly expect to produce anything. They had been surprised when the syndicate had sent reinforcements in the form of trained candy makers and a specialist named Marvin. Marvin had taken charge of assembling a production line while Ziggy and Eddie provided protection.

We gonna produce candy? Eddie asked after watching one of the machines produce a set of molds for the hot mixture to be poured into. Both men had watched as the machine created the molds by pressing shapes into a tray of corn starch.

You got me, but Zenith has not steered us wrong so far, Ziggy replied.

Good news! IT has arrived, Marvin proclaimed happily.

Ziggy and Eddie turned and found Marvin removing bottles from a box. When he tossed the cardboard box in the trash, three three-liter bottles sat on the counter. The bottles were plastic, semi-transparent, and a powder could be seen inside of them. The bottles featured labels written in Russian except for the letters HIVE and chemical names.

HIVE, what’s that? Ziggy inquired. We selling snow? he added.

Nothing so crude! This is both unimagined by the law and untouchable. Heck! It’s even legal, Marvin answered.

Will this stuff bring in cash? Eddie verbalized the question that was on both gangsters’ minds.

When this takes hold people will want franchises, Marvin stated and then turned his attention toward the bottles.

CHAPTER 2

Stifling a yawn, Stewart descended the stairs and continued toward his office. He had breakfasted in his study and had spent the rest of the morning reading the newspapers that he subscribed to. He read the Hawksbill Chronicle and the Herald. The Chronicle was local, but the Herald was from Northern Virginia. It was through the classifieds that Broaden communicated with the Ranger through coded messages in the classified section. He had been making a close study of the paper ever since Broaden’s last message was published. On his way to the office he passed through Caite Roane’s office. Caite sat behind her desk looking over expense reports. As always, Caite was dressed smartly, and as always she gave him a cross look when he straggled into the office three hours late. Trent would have believed she was truly mad at him if a look of concern did not override her look of vexation.

Good morning, Stewart greeted her with a smile. Caite glanced down at her watch and did a countdown using her fingers.

Good afternoon, she replied. Seconds later the grandfather clock struck noon, adding its own commentary on the current situation.

Anything pressing? he inquired.

No, sir.

Very good.

Mr. Stewart, do you mind if I ask a question? Caite ventured.

Fire away.

To my knowledge you are not one for partying. You have no family in the house. And to top it off, the office is in your own home. How can you possibly be late?

Banner Wars, Stewart replied.

Banner Wars? Caite turned in Trent’s direction and studied him with a look of bewilderment.

You know, the classic war game type board game. I play a guy through online correspondence. He’s very good, he explained.

Oh.

Mail call! George announced as he entered Caite’s office.

With George present the morning staff meeting would take place after the mail was sorted. The junk mail went into one pile and the keepers were placed in another. Among the keepers were two letters that stood out from the rest. Trent placed them on his blotter, opened them, read them, examined a photo that was included with one of the letters, and then turned his attention to Caite and George. George was representing all of the household staff because Mrs. Moore had the day off.

I have received a letter that most men dream of. It’s from last year’s Miss October, Pamela Higgs. GJ Magazine wants to do a photo shoot and wants pictures of her posing with Screwy, Trent announced. She included a signed photo, he added.

Oh! Can I see? George inquired.

Sure, I’ll even let you see the letter too. Stewart handed George the letter and photo.

The letter’s perfumed and she sent you a swimsuit photo! Boss, you are truly living the dream! George proclaimed.

Caite rotated her chair slightly and found that George was ogling a photograph of a sultry curvaceous brunette clad in a bikini that may or may not have been a size too small.

Ugh! she wrinkled her nose. Turning the estate into a playground for barely dressed nymphs, no thanks, she added.

Nonsense, GJ is for the cultured gentleman, George countered.

The yogurt I am having with my lunch has more culture, she replied.

Trent could not help but be amused by Caite and George’s banter. He found Caite’s observations amusing because she was an attractive woman herself.

"In all honesty, I have no interest in getting involved with this photo shoot. That is not the image I want for this farm, so I