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

by Paul Sekulich

  “She okay?” Frank asked.

  “Shit no. She’s half frazzled chasing some dumbass halfway to Santa Catalina. Hasn’t eaten since we left Stuart.”

  “Got Tom Gardner with her?”

  “No. Left him in Miami with the Celine MacGowan case.”

  “She came here all alone?”

  “She’s fine,” Roland said. “I was with her. Don’t get your balls in an uproar.”

  “The feds let me in on their plan a couple of hours ago. Nice of the feds to tell me. So I get used as bait, eh?” Frank said.

  The bartender set up a draft beer on the bar.

  “Don’t play that phony victim shit with me. You wanted it to turn out this way. And everyone else agreed this was the best way to deal with him,” Roland said. “Plant a few seeds and see what comes up. Looks more like two weeds to me, but hell, at least they’ll be here where we can spray a shot of Round-Up on ‘em.”

  “You hope they’ll be here? Don’t underestimate Cezar Nicolai,” Frank said. “He’s a resourceful sonofabitch, and he’ll think nothing of killing anyone in his way. And his sidekick Vlad Torok is no slouch either. Picks his teeth with a jackhammer.”

  “Braewyn said Nicolai is sure you’ll lead him to the Omega weapon?”

  “Can’t think of any other reason he’d be here,” Frank said. “You sure he’s here?”

  “Feds tailed him to the airport,” Roland said. “Learjet 31. Bastard knows how to travel. Rented a new Cadillac to boot. Must be nice.”

  “Didn’t do so well at Dulles,” Frank said.

  “Got away, didn’t he?” Roland said.

  “Told you he’s resourceful.”

  “He’s got eyes on you, and he’s imported extra help,” Roland said. “He’ll follow your every move, we figure, so we want you to lead him out in the open.”

  “Great,” Frank said. “Why not paint a big bull’s eye on my chest?”

  “He’d be a fool to shoot the person who’s going to lead him to what he wants,” Roland said. “No, he’ll keep his Golden Goose in his sights until that moment, then he’ll probably kill you.”

  “Where’s ‘out in the open’?” Frank said.

  “We want you to go to the air base tomorrow,” Roland said. “Braewyn’s got you cleared to get into areas where the public isn’t allowed. He’ll likely try to follow you somehow. Go tourist. Fake IDs, his brand of bullshit, who knows? But once he hits that base, we take him down.”

  “To luck,” Frank said and raised his drink in a toast, and Roland did the same.

  Frank mouthed the toast, but it was his grandfather’s words that ran through his head. “Every day I see the sunrise is a lucky day. But I’d be wise to prepare for tomorrow, and not leave it to luck.”

  Prepare? How do I prepare for the unknown?

  The FBI saw tomorrow as an infallible steel trap leading to an easy victory. Frank saw himself as a man rolling in heavy seas enduring an anxious night. Tomorrow’s dawn would find him jostling in a landing craft, motoring at flank speed toward his personal Omaha Beach. Tomorrow the gate would drop, and he would jump into unknown depths and clash with a great force bent on winning the day.

  Frank hoped that by noon the day hadn’t killed him.

  * * * * *

  By midnight Roland and Braewyn had said their goodnights to Frank and turned in. Roland’s room, a few doors down the hall from Frank’s, was the closest he could get with the high influx of guests arriving for the upcoming air show in Wichita. The FBI agents were across the hall in three separate rooms and everyone was provided with special radios tuned to a single channel with multiple sub-frequencies, which identified each user in a call.

  Frank propped himself up in bed and read the Wichita Eagle while Bullit played on a late movie channel. Frank felt a distant kinship with Steve McQueen who was currently chasing two bad guys in a powerful Dodge Charger with his tricked-out Mustang through the roller coaster streets of San Francisco. As the two hit men in the Charger got steered into a fireball crash into a gas station by Detective Bullit, Frank’s radio signaled with a unique beep.

  “Dugan,” Frank said.

  “Special Agent Waylans across the hall. You okay, detective?” a Southern-accented voice asked.

  “I’m fine. Watching a movie. Everything okay?”

  “Oh, yeah, jus’ checkin’ in. Did you know there’s a bottle of whiskey in front of your door?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Frank said. “You take it. I’m good.”

  Frank pulled his Browning from its holster hanging on the bedpost and crept over to the door to peek into the hall. The door lock clicked and was ram-forced open by an unseen power. Frank was knocked backward and tripped over his feet onto the floor. The Browning and his radio fell from his hands and hopped across the carpeted room. Vlad Torok filled the doorway and held an automatic pistol aimed at Frank’s supine body. Cezar Nicolai pushed past his large associate and entered the room. Vlad stepped inside and eased the door closed.

  “So, how are y’all doin’ now, detective?” said Cezar Nicolai in an exaggerated Southern drawl. The Beretta automatic in his hand pointed at Frank’s midsection.

  Vlad picked up the radio and switched it off.

  “Where’s agent Waylans?” Frank asked.

  “In his room,” Nicolai said. “Poor boy died.”

  “Jesus, why, Nicolai?” Frank said. “You don’t have to kill people to get what you want.”

  “Well, we tried the non-violent approach at first,” Cezar said. “But sometimes you just have to change the battle plan. Spent an ugly couple of days in Herndon, Virginia and Dulles airport. Getting tough seems to work better for me.”

  “What’s your new strategy?” Frank said and scooted on his rear toward the bed where the Browning lay.

  “Looks like your team has a trap planned,” Cezar said and gestured to Vlad to step between Frank and the bed. “I see a lot of not-so-touristy cars around this motel. Dark, government issue, everywhere. Stinks of FBI, cops, and the like.”

  “If you want the formula, I need to get inside McConnell air base.” Frank said.

  “That’s exactly my plan.”

  “How?” Frank said and stood.

  “Catch you up in the morning,” Cezar said. “For tonight, you come with us. Vlad, get the detective’s jacket.”

  While Cezar kept the Beretta trained on Frank, Vlad grabbed Frank’s sport coat off its hanger and checked its pockets. Finding nothing, he tossed the coat to Frank.

  “A car awaits us,” Cezar said and carefully opened the door to the hall and peeked down the corridor in both directions.

  The trio moved silently down the hall to the fire exit and descended the stairs.

  “I’d like to know how you expect to get into a high security air force base with me in tow as a hostage without getting yourselves killed.” Frank said.

  “Trust me to know a way, detective.”

  Nicolai stopped the procession on the landing between the floors.

  “I tracked my submarine moving up the Atlantic coast,” Nicolai said. “How did you do that?”

  “Your leaky sub’s on the bottom.” Frank said.

  “We were tracking a transducer in your shoe. Did you leave your shoes on the sub?”

  “Ah, the shoes,” Frank said and laughed. “Probably off Cape Cod by now.”

  * * * * *

  At 6 A. M., Roland called Frank on the walkie-talkie, but got no answer. He called agent Waylans and got the same. Frustrated, and knowing something was wrong, he called the front desk phone and had them ring the two rooms. No responses. He stealthily moved down the hall toward Frank’s room, gun drawn.

  Frank’s room was locked, so he knocked. No answer. He turned to agent Waylans room. His door was not latched fully and Roland carefully pushed it open. On the floor was agent Waylans, his throat cut and blood puddled on the carpeting under his body like a maroon lake.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Roland said.

  Rolan
d radioed Braewyn’s room.

  “He’s got Frank and we don’t have shit,” Roland said.

  “Frank said he was resourceful,” Braewyn said.

  “I want to put a .45 hollow point between his goddamned resourceful eyes.”

  “Hate to think now he’ll be laying down the rules.” Braewyn said.

  “I’m in Waylans room,” Roland said. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, God, no, no, no…Jesus, no.”

  The radio went dead. Roland knew Waylans was one of her favorites. She had hand-picked him for this FBI operation. And now he was lost to them.

  Roland hoped he didn’t lose one of his favorites tomorrow.

  Chapter 67

  In the back seat of the Cadillac Cezar Nicolai made a final adjustment on the tubular device curled around Frank’s neck. It resembled a fat, gray sausage wrapped in thin, clear plastic and was cinched up snugly under his chin and locked in place by two, heavy duty nylon cable ties. A red detonator protruded from the gray mass.

  “Comfy, detective?” Nicolai asked.

  Frank glared at him.

  “It’s only a little bomb,” Nicolai said. “You’ll get used to it.”

  Vlad Torok pulled the car up to within twenty feet of the guard booth plaza at the entrance to the McConnell Air Base and stopped. Frank watched Cezar punch in a number on his cell phone.

  “McConnell AFB. Sergeant Adkins,” an official-sounding voice said over the phone’s speaker.

  “We are in the black Cadillac outside your booth,” Cezar said.

  “I see you, sir.”

  “I have a man here, a detective named Frank Dugan. You may have heard of him.”

  “I have, sir. What can we do for you?”

  “You can let us inside the base. By the way, he’s wearing a rather cumbersome necklace made of C4 explosive. About three pounds of it. I hold a remote detonator in my hand with the spring-loaded switch in the off position. Should anything happen to me, I will release the remote and vaporize the detective and kill anyone near him. Are we clear so far, sergeant?”

  “Completely, sir. You have already been authorized to pass through by Base Commander, Colonel Dewey Grant.”

  “Excellent. Here I was expecting that government red tape you folks are so famous for.”

  “You may enter, sir, and you may park to the right in the lot marked A-5 Visitor Parking,” the sergeant said and directed them to pass through and enter the base.

  Vlad inched the Cadillac between the guard booths. Cezar, directly behind the driver’s seat, held up the remote for all personnel at the guard plaza to plainly see.

  Vlad parked near a close-set group of military buildings and aircraft hangars. A sign directed visitors to various areas accessible to the public. One arrow pointed to the General Vernon Ritter Memorial Museum of Air History. Frank immediately knew that name and knew he had worked with William on the Omega project. It was Ritter who likely approved the secret Omega bomb tests at this very base where Frank had read he’d been the commander of the top secret B-29 Silverplate training in 1945. He wondered if the giant “R” that was placed on the Enola Gay’s tail section was actually an homage to Ritter’s superfortress leadership.

  The three men exited the Cadillac.

  “That’s where we need to go,” Frank said indicating the museum sign.

  “Why would something pertaining to the Omega formula be here?” Cezar asked, and followed Frank toward the museum.

  “They tested the weapon near here,” Frank said. “Planes from this base dropped the first prototypes.”

  “And the weapon is here?”

  “The formula is here. It’s hidden in the museum.”

  “You know where exactly?” Cezar said.

  “I do,” Frank said and stopped in the walkway. “Are you willing to kill yourself if things go south in there?”

  “If things go south, as you say, won’t my life already be over?”

  “You could surrender.”

  A staff sergeant approached the three men and held up a white-gloved hand to halt them.

  “Stand down, sergeant,” a major said, approaching from several feet away. “These men are cleared to view the museum without base passes. All military personnel are ordered to leave the building.”

  “Thank you, major,” Cezar said and turned to Frank. “Where to?”

  “Over there,” Frank said and pointed to a B-29 superfortress in the center of the main gallery, the size of a modern sports dome.

  “Ah, the historic B-29,” Cezar said. “We meet again.”

  The three men filed to the huge plane and stood under its rear bomb bay at the foot of a specially designed stairway leading up into the fuselage.

  “In the tail gunner’s blister is a small leather seat,” Frank said. “Under the cushion is a storage pocket near the back. It’s where the gunner kept a special saw-toothed knife to cut his way out of the Plexiglas if he needed to bail out or escape. Under the knife is a black metal box. It looks like it’s the bottom of the compartment, but it’s actually hollow and removable. Inside is the formula. You’ll need that knife to cut out the bottom.”

  “You got all that from an idiotic poem from your grandfather?” Cezar said.

  “The poem and other things.”

  “You said he never lied. How about that Enola Gay scavenger hunt?”

  “He never lied,” Frank said. “I did. The document was forged for me by an expert.”

  “If that formula is not here you won’t leave this place alive, putting an end to your puzzles and lying.” Cezar said

  “I don’t figure I’ll live either way,” Frank said, “but I’d cherish a few more moments.”

  “Vlad, you keep him right where he is,” Cezar ordered as he climbed the stairway.

  “Why not let Dugan go get it?” Vlad asked.

  “And take a chance he’d destroy it? No thanks, I’ll perform the autopsy.” Cezar said.

  “Autopsy?” Vlad said.

  “It means to see oneself,” Cezar said and disappeared into the plane.

  The sound of loud voices carried across the cavernous room from the entrance. People moving into the museum were arguing with the staff sergeant who stayed at the door. It was Braewyn and Roland, staring at Frank and Vlad from a hundred feet away. The two new arrivals rushed toward the B-29, led by Braewyn.

  “Uh-oh,” Vlad said.

  Frank observed that Vlad seemed undecided as to what to do about the approaching visitors. Vlad looked up the stairway into the plane trying to locate Cezar, but he wasn’t in sight, so he climbed the first few stairs.

  “You know what happens if you move,” Vlad called back to Frank.

  Vlad climbed into the fuselage and looked toward the plane’s tail section. Frank watched him disappear into the rear of the fuselage.

  Frank took the unsupervised opportunity to punch his finger through the plastic wrapping covering the bomb around his neck. He quickly gouged off a sample of the pliable gray material and tasted it. Braewyn and Roland stopped moving closer. Frank spit on the floor.

  “It’s all right,” Frank said. “It’s modeling clay.”

  “There’s no bomb,” Roland yelled to the airman at the gallery entrance. “Get some men in here. Now!”

  Braewyn rushed to Frank and hugged him.

  “I’m so sorry, Frank,” Braewyn said. “It wasn’t supposed to go down this way.”

  Vlad appeared in the open bomb bay. A second later, he dropped the nine feet to the floor of the museum, folded like a jackknife, and immediately bounced back to upright. He glared at Frank and Braewyn and charged them. The impact knocked Braewyn to the floor. She slid 15 feet away. Vlad encircled Frank’s midsection in a face-to-face bear hug and constricted his powerful arm muscles like a 350-pound anaconda. Frank groaned in pain with an audible rush of exhaled breath.

  Two armed airmen ran into the gallery.

  “Get the one in the plane,” Braewyn said to the airmen.

  They sprint
ed for the stairway under the B-29, rifles aimed at the bomb bay.

  Frank pained face looked to Roland who dove into the fray and tried to force Vlad to release his hold, but the huge man violently whipped Frank’s body around like a calf in a crocodile’s jaws and knocked Roland onto the polished tile floor. One of Frank’s shoes flew off his foot and skipped across the room.

  The airmen ascended and disappeared into the fuselage of the huge bomber.

  Frank managed to pull one of his hands free and get to his jacket pocket and extract a thin round object that resembled a pen. Frank was unable to inhale because of the pressure Vlad was exerting on his rib cage. He knew in seconds he’d be unconscious if he couldn’t get out of Vlad’s steel grip. He summoned the strength to jab and drive the harpoon-pointed lock needle deep into Vlad’s throat. Vlad instantly released his hold on Frank and dropped him to the floor.

  Frank rolled onto his back and gasped for all the air he could draw. Vlad stumbled away moaning and tugged at the embedded lock needle. He gave it a ferocious yank and pulled it out, screaming. Blood spurted from his carotid artery. In seconds, he dropped to his knees with his blood pumping out with every heartbeat, spraying the floor red around his writhing body.

  Frank gulped more air and scrambled to his feet. He lurched for Braewyn, still sprawled on the floor twenty feet away.

  Shots rang out from inside the B-29.

  Frank’s body jolted and his head snapped violently backward from the linebacker-like tackle from Vlad Torok. Both men hit the slick floor and slid for several feet. Vlad tried to strangle Frank, but the fake bomb necklace interfered with his attempt. Frank threw a flying elbow back at Vlad. Again and again he struck his giant head, crushing Vlad’s nose. Vlad’s chokehold on Frank lessened and the big man slid off him. His massive torso rolled onto the floor, his shaking hands trying in vain to stem the red torrent flowing from his neck.

  Frank slowly rose and gazed at the pathetic eyes and dying hulk of Vlad Torok.

  “There’s a switch, someone giving you a needle,” Frank said, between panting breaths. He stood over the enormous man as he took a final blubbering breath and lay wide-eyed. The Goliath was, at last, deathly still.