The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan)

by Paul Sekulich

  “Good at chess and good at combat too,” the familiar voice behind him said.

  “Colonel Chernac, I presume,” Frank said.

  “A good ear for voices and a good eye for targets,” Chernac said. “Even under threat of automatic fire.”

  “You know, the best gunfighters in history never discounted the value of a single, well-placed shot over a scattering of many,” Frank said.

  Without waiting for permission, Frank wheeled around and faced the colonel.

  “FBI catch you spying on them, Chernac?” Frank asked and lowered his hands.

  “Not yet, detective, not yet,” Chernac said and patted down his black mustache with his free hand.

  “Playing chess is a hell of a lot more fun than this killing-dying thing.”

  “Let’s go up to the house and have a talk,” Chernac said and waved his automatic toward the front door of the barn.

  Both men walked outside with Frank in the lead. A breeze kicked up, stirring the scrub palms and cooling the air a degree or two. When they reached the farmhouse, Chernac stopped and touched Frank’s shoulder. Frank turned to face him.

  “It’s nice outside. We can talk on the porch. I like it warm and balmy, don’t you?” Chernac said as he took the porch steps two at a time and sat on a rustic, mission-style bench.

  “It beats living in Quebec.”

  “Too cold there for your taste?”

  “I don’t like the French.”

  “Come sit here, detective,” Chernac gestured with a latex-gloved hand.

  Chernac’s high-cheekboned face was pale but covered in perspiration that dripped down his forehead, around his dark brows, and into his black eyes, causing him to blink. When Frank hesitated, Chernac managed a brief smile, moved over on the wide bench allowing ample space for Frank. He patted the empty seat like he was summoning a trusty hunting dog.

  “If this is about any goofy bomb shit, I’m kinda tapped out,” Frank said as he stepped up and lowered himself onto the far side of the bench.

  “When I examined the papers in the Omega file folder,” Chernac said, keeping his pistol trained on Frank. “I couldn’t help but think a page or two was missing.”

  “And you think I have these imaginary pages?”

  Chernac wiped his face with a handkerchief from his pants pocket.

  “You’re my best choice. I watched as my people scanned them, so I’m skeptical that we have all there is. I compared what we have to the files of the other agencies and found our pages to be identical to theirs. Which leaves yours.”

  “And suppose my documents are the same as yours?”

  “Then one might conclude that you removed some before anyone else saw the complete set.”

  Frank shrugged.

  “Why did your men kidnap Detective Rumbaugh?” Frank asked.

  “Same reason those men are dead. Stupidity. What makes you think they are my men?”

  “You’re their leader aren’t you? And I’m sure you already knew what I looked like.”

  “I hadn’t arrived yet. These men are communists who want the same thing I want. They are in competition with me. So I baited them into coming and used them. I sent them ahead to bring you here under the pretext that they could share in what we discovered about the Omega weapon. They had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right and they failed. But they were going to die one way or the other. I don’t tolerate competition.”

  “So you let me execute them for you,” Frank said.

  “A lot of people do things for me. A good leader delegates and expands his base. I send out a bunch of spaniels and reward the one that comes back with the pheasant.”

  “So what’s the point of this field exercise?”

  “I want you to know I can get to you anytime I wish. One way or another, I’ll get to you. Even in your own police jurisdiction. Even where you live, I can get to you, and all your cops can’t stop me or protect you. I think you’ll find it far easier to give me what I want rather than persist in this stubbornness.”

  “Good to know.”

  “I want those missing pages, detective,” Chernac said.

  “And I want a cure for cancer and a villa in Palm Beach, so where does that leave us?”

  “At an impasse, I’m afraid,” Chernac said and stood with his pistol aimed at Frank. “For now.”

  “You know,” Frank said, “for a guy of means I’d think you could afford better than a 200-buck Makarov.”

  “It’s cheap and untraceable, like those I hire. Personally, I prefer a revolver. Revolvers are more dependable, but, you know, less firepower,” Chernac said and combed his black hair back out of his face with his splayed fingers, then cocked his head skyward.

  The staccato whups of a helicopter could be heard approaching in the distance. Frank’s eyes searched the sky. The sound steadily increased. Chernac rushed to the rail of the porch to find its source, his head scanning the low clouds. Frank stood and could see the ‘copter coming from the east, heading straight for the farmhouse and closing fast.

  “By the way, where is old ‘Rumballs’?” Frank asked.

  “You’ll find him. Sorry I can’t stay, detective, but we’ll renew our revels soon,” Chernac said and vaulted over the porch railing and sprinted for the thick brush.

  Frank scurried to the edge of the porch just as Chernac vanished into the green and brown overgrowth. Amid a whirlwind of dust and weed shrapnel, the helicopter descended onto a parched area near the farmhouse. Four state policemen jumped out with rifles at the ready and headed for Frank.

  “He ran into the brush,” Frank shouted and pointed where Chernac had fled. “He’s armed.”

  The four officers charged to where Frank indicated, spread out, and disappeared into the heavy foliage.

  Frank strode to the front door of the farmhouse and yanked it open. Musty smells attacked Frank’s nose. Inside was Carl Rumbaugh gagged, blindfolded, and strapped with duct tape to a rickety kitchen chair.

  “It’s time for a diet, Carl,” Frank said. “You’ve practically destroyed this nice Shaker chair.”

  Carl tried to say something, but the tape only allowed him muffled grunts. Frank yanked off Rumbaugh’s adhesive blindfold and ripped the tape from his mouth.

  “Damn, Frank,” Rumbaugh howled with tears in his eyes. “I think my eyebrows are on that tape.”

  “The state police are here to take you to the hospital. You lucky dog. You get to go in the helicopter.”

  Rumbaugh’s face went from ruddy to ashen.

  “Take me in your car, Frank. You know how I feel about flying.”

  “I would, but you ratted me out, Rumby, and you know how I feel about stoolies,” Frank said as two state troopers entered the farmhouse.

  “Frank, for God’s sake, take me in the car,” Rumbaugh yelled and squirmed violently in the chair, which collapsed and discharged his corpulent frame onto the filthy floor.

  Frank hefted Rumbaugh to his feet and looked him over.

  “You look okay,” Frank said.

  “My mouth hurts.”

  “You shouldn’t use it so much,” Frank said and hurried out the door to retrieve his Browning from the barn.

  * * * * *

  Two police investigators intercepted Frank at his cruiser and began their questions concerning the kidnapping incident, especially the shooting of the two dead perpetrators. The two big men looked like a wrestling tag team. They grilled Frank for almost an hour and had him walk them through the entire scenario step by step. They took Frank’s firearm and told him to report to Sheriff Brand.

  “How long will I be on administrative leave?” Frank asked.

  “That will depend on the findings of this investigation and the judgment of the DA,” the lead officer said.

  “It was self defense,” Frank said.

  “Could be. But when two men armed with automatic weapons are found dead from single shots from a lone man with nothing but a pistol. It raises questions.”

  “Shit,
” Frank said and pounded on the trunk of the cruiser.

  “Just doing our job, detective,” the second investigator said. “Nothing personal.”

  “I’m getting screwed for doing my job.” Frank said.

  “It’s policy, Dugan,” the lead investigator said. “And this isn’t your first experience with this procedure.”

  Frank knew they were right, but he didn’t have to like it. He puzzled over how an NSA agent like this Chernac character could get away with masterminding a kidnapping.

  Did the NSA have that kind of power?

  Maybe, but Frank doubted it.

  Chapter 34

  “You made that fat tub go in the chopper?” Roland said, laughed and tilted his desk chair back until his cowboy boots came off the floor. “Woo, Jesus, we’ll be able to bury Rumbaugh in a Tic Tac box with all that crap scared out of him.”

  “He’ll survive,” Frank said.

  “Speaking of survive, what the hell were you thinking going in on those bastards without waiting for backup?”

  “Seemed like the best way to handle it.”

  “Horseshit. You’re always charging into snake pits before you pull on your boots. You follow protocol from now on. Who do you think you are? Bruce Willis?”

  “I have more hair.”

  “Go screw yourself and your hair. We’ve got two dead men out there to deal with. You’re off active duty until the DA makes his report on your self-defense statement.”

  “I’ll be on administrative leave for God knows how long and I’ve got to settle a few things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I want to find out more about this Chernac bastard.”

  “Let NSA handle him. Better yet, why don’t I call your FBI buddies to nail him?”

  “Let me deal with him. If you call in the FBI he’ll bust ass for overseas. Then we’ll never get him.”

  “You’re a knucklehead.”

  “He came down here to get at me and almost pulled it off,” Frank said. “He may not even be going back to the NSA. I think he’s gone rogue, playing the field, independent. Maybe working for foreign money.”

  “You making any progress with this Omega stuff?”

  “NASA in Houston refused to give me any information on a photo I found of William and another guy dressed in NASA uniforms. So I looked up a man named Vernon Ritter. He attended my grandfather’s funeral. The army found him for me in Omaha. A retired lieutenant general, no less.”

  “He was still alive?”

  “Barely. But he was able to tell me a lot. He commanded training for part of the 6th Bomber Group based in Nebraska during the war. To be more specific, he trained men to fly the Silverplate B-29 superfortresses that dropped the atomic bombs on Japan. He worked with William on the Omega project and named a third man. An ordnance expert named Simon Hapburg. Same fella worked with William at NASA.”

  “The mystery man in the photo.”

  “Bingo.”

  “What does that do for you?”

  “Simon Hapburg has relatives. I looked up a furniture store owned by a couple of them in Pennsylvania. That got me another one living in Michigan. A grandson of Simon’s. Name’s David. I need to talk to him.”

  Roland rose from his desk chair and stepped over to a picture on the wall opposite his desk. The color photo was of a his younger self dressed like a cowboy and wearing a ten-gallon Stetson. He was perched on a cattle yard rail fence with Florida Cracker cows all around him, a rare breed specially-suited for the tropical climate of the Sunshine State. On the fence in the photo was a sign that read: The Brand Beef Company. Roland delicately straightened the cocked picture.

  “How long you gonna need? All I got in homicide without you is Carl the moron. And now you’ve got him scared to go near an airport.”

  “In drama class, they said if you don’t know what you’re supposed to do on stage, ad lib your part. Get Rumbaugh to ad lib that he’s a detective.”

  “Rumbaugh couldn’t ad lib a fart at a chili cookoff.”

  “Stop worrying. I’ll see if I can get David down here. Providing the department can cough up a few bucks for airfare.”

  “All right, we’ll label it an out-of-state investigation,” Roland said and returned to his desk chair. “Tie it in with this Chernac kidnapping.”

  * * * * *

  David Hapburg sat in his Jeep Cherokee in front of the Martin County Sheriff’s Department and cut the engine. He pressed the window buttons down and took in the warm Stuart air. More than twenty hot minutes passed while he decided whether to go inside or not. He had never been so torn about anything as much as this seemingly simple decision, but there could be consequences, consequences that might end his 32-year life.

  His rimless glasses fogged up in the humid air that drifted into the car from the open windows. He wiped them with a tissue from the dispenser in the armrest between the seats. The long drive from Michigan had started with resolve and positive action, but now that he’d arrived, he felt uncertain. His stomach churned and he could taste a sourness from the orange juice he’d had for breakfast.

  A sheriff’s department SUV pulled into the lot and parked a few yards in front of him in one of the spaces marked for official vehicles. Two men stepped from the truck and headed for the entrance to the building. One of the men was in a police uniform. The taller one, dressed in khakis and a white golf shirt, stopped and stared toward the Jeep. David found himself locking eyes with a man who studied him with interest from twenty feet away.

  David made up his mind and stepped out of his car. The man in plain clothes ambled cautiously toward him.

  “Need some help, sir?” the tall man said.

  “Are you Frank Dugan?” David said.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m David Hapburg. I drove here from Michigan to talk to him.”

  “Come inside,” the tall man said. “I think he’ll want to see you.”

  * * * * *

  David Hapburg passed through the metal detector and was escorted by Frank into the department’s conference room. Frank closed the door and gestured to a chair on the far side of long table. David lowered himself into the seat.

  Frank sat facing David and folded his arms. As was his habit in this room, Frank waited for the guest to speak first. Most of his guests were people you wouldn’t let in your house. He didn’t regard David as a suspect, but old routines in the box died hard.

  “I met your grandfather when I was a kid,” David said. “He came to Detroit to visit my granddad and watch a Tiger’s game. They were playing the Orioles that day. He was a nice man. Gave me a dollar. A silver certificate. I still have it tucked inside the baseball cap I was wearing that day.”

  “William was a generous man,” Frank said. “We didn’t ask you to come all this way to tell me that. Why did you drive? We told you we’d pay for airfare.”

  “I know. The offer was more than generous. Truth is, I hate flying. And I wanted to visit my sister in Pennsylvania on the way back.”

  “In Lancaster? The one with the furniture store?”

  ”Yeah. She said she talked with you. Said you were nice.”

  “I asked you to come here to talk to me about your grandfather,” Frank said. “I thought it was important that we meet. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Yeah. It actually felt good to know someone else knew about this,” David said. “Best I can remember from what my dad told me, was that in the ‘40s, my grandfather worked with your grandfather on several government programs. The Manhattan Project and others. One of the projects was top secret and named the Omega Formula.”

  Frank leaned closer to David and placed his elbows on the table.

  “I don’t know much about it,” David said. “Just what my dad told me. And when he died, he left me a weird letter, and a poem that had some connection to it. My grandfather was an explosives expert on the highest military level.”

  David removed an envelope from his jacket’s insi
de pocket.

  “He left me this,” David said and pushed the envelope across to Frank.

  “How did your dad die?” Frank said, opening the envelope.

  “He was allergic to bee stings. He apparently got stung by one and died of anaphylactic shock.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “In February. He’d just turned 60.”

  Bees sting people in February? In Michigan?

  “Sorry for your loss.”

  Frank read the contents of David’s envelope. The letter from Simon was strikingly similar to the one he’d received from William after Joe died. The attached poem was identical to the one stapled to the photo Frank had. He glanced at the first stanza.

  Men wish to swing in their seventies and fly with eagles,

  like boys who dream of playing on the moon.

  The bottom of the letter showed Hapburg’s Detroit address, as well as William’s at Elm Terrace.

  “I have this same poem,” Frank said.

  “I saw you on TV. Heard what they said.”

  “What’s your take on it?” Frank said.

  “I never saw the film those reporters asked you about. So I’m not sure about that, but my father told me the formula was for real. That it exists.”

  “How’d he know for sure?”

  “My granddad told him so. Why would he lie about something that’d already done its job? I mean, the Japanese surrendered, didn’t they? The war was over.”

  “Where does that leave us?” Frank said.

  “I don’t know about you and me, but there’s a guy who’s pretty interested in finding out about this Omega formula. It’s the reason I agreed to come here. He’s paid me visits. Asked a lot of questions.”

  “A lot of people want to know about it. They’ll come after you. I got people dogging me about it too. The Today Show and Good Morning America wanted to interview me. I’m plastered all over the supermarket checkout rags. Every agency that viewed the film has interrogated me. The military, of course, then Homeland Security, NSA, CIA, FBI, even the ATF. I thought it best to tell them the truth. I know nothing, and I think the Omega Formula film was invented as a hoax, an elaborate trick.”