Sigma One

by Hutchison, William

  "So why wait?" A voice inside him asked.

  "Get it over with, Huxley!" The voice said repeatedly.

  "But be smart! Be real smart!" The voice cautioned in a whisper.

  "Make it look like an accident. Insurance doesn't pay for suicides."

  Pat blinked the tears from his eyes and got up. He was talking to himself, agreeing with the voice. He'd be smart. He'd be real smart. He would make it look like an accident. Then he noticed the note Sarah had written, the note saying she and Alice had left, and as it fell from his lap to the floor, he desperately he grabbed for it, but when he reached to get it, he stumbled against the end table. The bourbon bottle he had nearly emptied crashed to the floor soaking the note and causing the ink to run down the page blurring the words.

  Pat reached down and picked up the bourbon-soaked piece of paper and crumpled it in his hand. He ignored the shards of glass which bit into his flesh as he raised his fist and began to wail.

  "I'm sorry, Alice."

  "I'm sorry, Sarah!" He sobbed.

  Tears streamed down his face.

  "I'm truly, truly sorry to both of you!"

  "But I'll make it better."

  "I will!"

  "I promise

  "I'll make it better..."

  "Oh, God, I'll make it better………." he spoke into his fist while the

  blood trickled down his forearm. That's when he left and staggered out into the cold and got into his car to make it all better.

  He didn't hear the phone ring as he pulled his car out onto the icy road.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lieutenant Andrew Banachek rolled over and stretched his muscular arms toward the nightstand as he searched for the screaming alarm clock. He found it and pounded it--not once, but twice. The first hit only wounded it and it continued its dying wail until he pummeled it the second time.

  "Seven fifty?" Banachek moaned as he focused his eyes on the dimly lit numbers on the face of the digital clock.

  "Colonel Banes is gonna kill met He'll have my ass in a sling for sure!" He moaned to himself again and tried to wake up.

  He was already halfway out of the bed when Marla, a blonde perky cocktail waitress he had picked up at the officer's club the night before, poked her head out from under the covers.

  "Come back to bed, honey," Marla squeaked in a poor Betty Boop imitation. "We have time for one more before you go to the base, don't we?"

  Banachek looked over at the clock again and then down at her, now nude from the waist up having let the covers slide down her torso as an added incentive to stay with her.

  Banachek grinned and thought to himself. "Oh hell, I'm late anyway." Besides, he rationalized, the launch wasn't scheduled until twelve thirty and as the launch destruct officer he really didn't have that much to prepare for. In fact, they had rehearsed the sequence seven times before over the last few months and he could perform his duty in his sleep if he had to.

  He looked back at Marla and brushed his black short hair out of his eyes and then removed his jockeys and climbed back into bed.

  "Okay, Honey, " he said as he mounted her. "But it's got to be quick."

  "Um, okay, soldier boy," Marla cooed. "But not too quick I hope," she said as she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

  CHAPTER 10

  Fifty miles north of Banachek's apartment which was located just outside the gate of Vandenberg Air Force Base, Walker and his three men pulled their cars to a halt and took their positions outside the Andrew's house. It was a chilly Morrow Bay day and the flat light from the overcast skies washed out the normally vivid colors of the picturesque coastal landscape giving everything an ashen-bleak cast. It was not the type of day that the local Chamber of Commerce would have any pictures made of their peaceful hamlet, nor the type of day sailors relished. The high clouds meant a storm would soon be pounding the coast.

  Farther down the road at Cal Poly a second team of agents sent by Radcliff was nearing the front of Grayson's dormitory. It was a longshot that either place would produce Kamarov and Grayson. They couldn't be so stupid as to return to Morrow Bay or San Louis Obispo. But Walker had a hunch they might in spite of the potential danger, and usually his hunches paid off. That's what he had told Radcliff anyway. And that's why the senator had authorized two teams. Walker hoped he was right this time. His job depended on it.

  The second team was composed of only two men: Agent Morris Wycoat, and Stearns. Wycoat was chosen for his seniority and his cool head; Stearns, because he had first-hand knowledge of the two fugitives.

  Gunter wasn't invited along this time. The fiasco at the casino where he had caused Kamarov's and Grayson's escape had landed him a permanent desk job in Los Angeles.

  Stearns felt bad about that--but not that bad. Had it not been for that "fat fart Gunter" or so he had put it to Wycoat on their drive up from LA, he might not have had to blow another weekend working.

  Stearns waited for Wycoat to stop the car before he brought out his 357 Magnum, after which he held it up in his right hand and slowly spun the cylinder while he thumbed the hammer back and squeezed the trigger. He heard the metallic click, felt the pressure of the hammer against the meat of his thumb increase and then he gently but deliberately guided it forward until it once again rested in place.

  He repeated the process a second time while he stared down the barrel unconsciously following a (Jar with the gun as it drove past.

  He liked the feel of the non-issue weapon in his hand. It had weight to it--like it was meant for killing. It wasn't feather light like the thirty-eights other agents carried.

  It made him feel strong--superior to them, and the fact that he was going to get to use it almost compensated for having to work the weekend.

  Stearns hadn't worked a weekend in years; not since he was working for his father in Bakersfield pumping diesel at the family truck stop. He had to work weekends then. His father relied on him. Hell, if there were any other choices, he wouldn't have. But after a four year stint in Nam, he didn't have many choices—at least not in Bakersfield.

  Finally, when he could take no more, he had to quit to save what little sanity he had left so he packed up his things and drove up the Grapevine to LA where he took the civil service exam. As expected, he passed the test and shortly thereafter got assigned to the bureau field office there. With his military record, a bronze star and two purple hearts, it was a cinch to get in.

  Stearns thumbed the hammer one more time.

  Click. Click.

  God it felt great being allowed, or rather, ordered to kill again! Morris Wycoat, his thin be speckled partner who had watched Stearns go through his ritual with his weapon, finally spoke as Stearns held the gun up and pointed it again. This time Stearns was aiming at a thin Chinese girl who was walking across the road in front of them.

  "Put that damn thing down, Stearns! God you make me nervous when you do that!" Wycoat ordered harshly.

  It amused Stearns that such a weasel of a man was giving him orders. He smiled, but kept pointing the gun at the Chinese girl's head as she rounded in front of the car's bumper.

  Wycoat, seeing he was being ignored, grabbed Stearns' arm at the wrist and forced the gun down. As he did, the girl, who could have passed for Vietnamese, turned her head toward them.

  Wycoat quickly shot his eyes down to avoid her stare.

  Stearns laughed.

  "You fool, Wycoat! She can't see us. The window's too tinted for that!"

  Wycoat looked up foolishly but regained his composure and snapped

  back. "I don't give a damn, Stearns! Put it away! NOW! Stearns obeyed and brought the gun down below the dash but not all the way to his lap. Before it got there, he pointed it at Wycoat; sniveling little Wycoat, the worm that was in charge of the operation. He was smiling when he did.

  "Where would you like it, Morrrrris?" Stearns asked emphasizing Wycoat's first name. "In the gut?" Stearns moved the barrel and pointed it to his midsection.

&n
bsp; Wycoat blinked, but didn't flinch.

  Stearns jerked the gun up until it was pointed between Wycoat's eyes.

  "In the head?"

  Wycoat blinked again. A smile crept over his face.

  Stearns brought the hammer back.

  Click.

  Wycoat didn't move.

  "All right, Stearns. You've had your fun. Put it away!" Wycoat's voice was cool and steady. He knew Stearns wouldn't shoot him. Stearns was a good agent with a clean record and Wycoat respected him for that in spite of the fact every now and then Stearns acted as if he had a screw loose. He guessed Stearns' actions were related to post Vietnam stress syndrome and didn't fault him for something he couldn't be held responsible for. Still, staring down the barrel of a 357 magnum was not his idea of fun and he could care less what caused Stearns to flip out at that particular instant. For besides being dangerous, his partner's conduct was causing him to lose sight of their original objective: to capture and then kill Grayson and Kamarov.

  He had to put a stop to it.

  He refocused on the muzzled only inches away from his nose and mentally gauged the distance to it. He had to teach this young pup a lesson. When he had it marked, he struck like a viper with his right hand quickly jerking the barrel up and then down to his right away from himself.

  Stearns grip was strong but no match for Wycoat's speed and as he felt the gun snapped free from his hand, Stearns felt a singing feeling in his index finger and thumb as they closed on open air.

  Wycoat spoke while putting the gun down in his lap. "Lesson number one, Stearns. Never let down your guard. And if you point a gun at someone, be prepared to use it! Now let's cut the crap and get back to our job.

  No sooner had he finished his last statement than the Arrowstar Burt had rented appeared in his rear view mirror. Debbie was driving and Burt and Kamarov were huddled in back out of sight.

  Neither Wycoat nor Stearns noticed the van at first; each too busy staring down the other, but when it pulled alongside, Stearns caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, looked up and spotted Debbie at the wheel.

  "Pay dirt," he yelled and then pointed. "It's the Andrews girl!"

  Wycoat snapped his head around but was too late to see into the window because of the glare.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Positive!"

  "Then let's get ready," Wycoat replied. "Remember, we're not to harm her and if Kamarov and Grayson are with her, we're supposed to get them away from here before we take them down. We can't afford any..-and I mean any publicity. We've got to do it real quiet."

  Stearns understood the reason for caution given him by his weaker counterpart, and under other circumstances he might have ignored him, but Wycoat had made his point earlier who was in charge. He was right about no publicity, too. If the press ever found out that both the U.S. and the Soviets had people that they didn't control who were capable of launching either side's missiles just by thinking about it, there would be chaos.

  No, in spite of the fact he wanted to blow Grayson and Kamarov away right then and there, he'd be forced to wait. They'd have to take them from the dorm and then later, make it look like an accident when they did dispose of them.

  The Andrew's girl, on the other hand, would be allowed to live based on Radcliff's orders, but only after they chemically deprogrammed her to ensure she'd have no memory of ever having known anything about the entire affair. She would also be given the same story they planned to tell Burt's parent's, that their son died in a car crash with her at the wheel which would easily explain the amnesia their chemical deprogramming would induce.

  Stearns looked up at Wycoat and held out his hand for his weapon.

  "Yeah, we'll have to be real quiet. I got it Morris!" There was

  jagged sarcasm in his voice.

  Wycoat paused, but reluctantly slapped the gun , barrel-first, into Stearns' hand ignoring the ridicule.

  Both agents then focused their attention on the Arrowstar as it pulled to a stop some fifty feet in front of them at the entrance to the dorm and watched to see if Grayson and Kamarov were indeed with the Andrew's girl. While they waited, they scanned the area around the van for potential witnesses. They were in luck. Aside from two students some three hundred yard away walking with their backs turned toward the playing fields across the street, no one else was in sight. It was the weekend and most of the Cal Poly students had gone home.

  While the agents waited for some sign of movement from the van, Burt and Andre were readying themselves to leave and trying to calm Debbie down.

  "I told you I thought this was a bad idea from the start," Debbie protested again as she tugged on Burt's arm to keep him from leaving.

  "We should just leave here now!"

  "We can't! You know that!" Burt answered.

  "I don't know that! What if they're already here. Then what?"

  "They won't be. Besides, you know we have to get the video tape I made of my experiment." Then Burt added, "and my notes."

  "Why? Why can't we just leave them?" She pleaded with him turning around to face him. Concern was chiseled on her face. She was scared not only for him, but also for her own safety. She wished he weren't so bullheaded.

  Burt reached forward and extended his hand for her to grab.

  She wouldn't do it, though. Instead she sat there frozen in fear as if protesting would make him change his mind.

  He reached out again this time forcing her hand into his and held on tightly.

  "We'll be out in a minute. No one's around. It'll only take a minute. I promise." Then he mouthed the words, 'I love you' and put his finger to her lips.

  His hand was clammy, but it felt so good to hold him. Debbie turned around and Burt pulled her into the back seat with him and cradled her head in the hollow space between his neck and shoulder while he moved his free hand up and caressed the back of her head through her long blonde hair. As they held each other, each shared their fears without speaking. Their clinging bespoke their concern for each other's safety.

  Meanwhile, Kamarov tried his best to ignore the couple and turned his back to them while he looked for any sign that they might have been followed. It was the right thing to do. Yet as he listened to the muffled sucking sounds they made while they kissed, he found it hard to concentrate and instead, closed his eyes and tried to imagine what life after he and Burt finished their mission would be like. He thought of his dead parents and these thought combined with the couple's sounds of passion caused a sharp pang of loneliness to engulf him. He felt as if he were free falling into a dark bottomless hole from which there was no escape.

  When he could stand no more, he turned and put his hand on Burt's shoulder and spoke. "We must go, my friend. Mere will be time enough for that later." His voice was distant, yet reassuring at the same time.

  Burt started to pull away from Debbie, but she refused to let go. She forced her lips against his, snaking her tongue deep into his mouth while she crushed her soft breasts against his chest, wanting desperately, needing desperately to feel him close.

  He felt her erect nipples though his tee-shirt and it excited him making him want to finish what they had started. His heart raced and the blood in his gut surged into his loins. He responded to her and hugged her even tighter, but the moment was shattered when Andre spoke again.

  "Burt, we must go!" Andre said again in a voice which was now dispassionate, his patience having grown thin.

  Burt's response was fire and ice. Anger burned in him at Andre's callousness for interrupting. Yet he knew the Soviet was right. It was too dangerous to spend any more time at the campus than was absolutely necessary to get his notes to ensure they wouldn't fall into anyone's hands. His passion cooled by logic, he disengaged himself from Debbie and stared back into her flushed face.

  "A minute," he whispered. "We'll only be gone a minute. I promise," he said as he moved away.

  Reluctantly Debbie let him go and he stepped out into the crisp midday air. Once outside, he squ
inted from the glare and looked toward his dorm. The high overcast and the flat light which resulted gave everything a dull silvery sheen which washed out the brilliant red of the bougainvillea planters next to the building's brick sides giving them a pinkish hue which matched Debbie's face and made him have second thoughts about leaving.

  Momentarily, Andre followed but not before casting a reassuring glance to Debbie as a token of an unspoken apology.