The Hydra Conspiracy

by Len Levinson

  The helicopter buzzed south past San Jose and Santa Cruz and soon was over Big Sur. Butler looked down at the mountains and the ocean and thought that someday he’d like to have a home down there, a little A-frame overlooking the sea where he could take it easy and contemplate the vicissitudes of life. Maybe he’d write a book of philosophy called The World According to Butler. Or maybe he’d write his memoirs, although nobody would ever believe them.

  The helicopter began to lose altitude just as Butler was finishing his last sandwich. Down amid the rocks and trees he could make out the huge mansion that was the headquarters of the Bancroft Research Institute. Suddenly he thought of Wilma B. Willoughby, hoping she was down there someplace and that he could attempt to seduce her again.

  The helicopter landed in the parking lot in back of the mansion. When the motor stopped he opened the door and jumped out, just as two men came out of the building and ran toward him.

  “Mr. Sheffield would like to see you right away in his office,” one of them said.

  “That’s where I’m headed,” Butler replied.

  He walked past them and made his way through the corridors of the building, finally arriving at the outer office where Sheffield’s three secretaries worked.

  “He’s expecting you,” one of them said. “Go right in.”

  Butler opened the door and entered the large office. In the darkness at the end sat Sheffield behind his desk.

  “Have a seat, Butler,” Sheffield said.

  Butler sat and looked at Sheffield’s vague, shadowy form. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “I didn’t, but I do now.”

  “Why did you start?”

  “It’s a long story and I don’t think we have time for it.” He took out his dwindling supply of cigarettes, lit one. He was hooked again and he knew that trying to quit once more would be hellish.

  “How do you feel, Butler?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Get any sleep on the plane?”

  “A little. What’s the latest on Hydra?”

  Sheffield paused for a few moments. “The situation is deteriorating rather badly, I’m afraid. Noble has his atom bomb and it’s on its way to Halvados even as we speak.”

  Butler shook his head. “It certainly didn’t take him long to get it.”

  “That’s because he didn’t meet much resistance. Radicals in the military and the CIA have been itching for a chance to attack Russia and China, and so has the rabid anticommunist business community.”

  “What about Congress and the President?”

  “They’ll find out about everything when it’s too late to stop the machinery that Hydra already has in motion. Besides, most of them in their heart of hearts would like to see Russia and China out of the picture. I hate to say it, but it looks as if civilization might be all over by the end of the month.”

  “We can’t let that happen.”

  “We’ll do everything we can to save it. Under normal circumstances you’d get a few days’ rest and I’d assign other agents to this operation, but I’m afraid there isn’t time for that leisurely approach. I’d like you to resume work immediately, because we don’t have time to brief anybody else.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Somehow you’ve got to defuse that bomb.”

  “Where the hell is it?”

  “At this moment it’s on its way from the factory in Wichita, Kansas to Corpus Christi, Texas. It’s concealed in a truck belonging to the Noble Oil Company. The tanker will sail from Corpus Christi to Halvados tomorrow evening. They’ve decided not to fly the bomb down because there’s always the danger that a plane might crash and the bomb might be found. The oil tanker is less likely to sink—and, if it does, no one will ever know there was a bomb aboard.”

  “How long will it take for the tanker to get to Halvados?”

  “Three days.”

  “Somehow I’ll have to get on that tanker.”

  “We’re taking care of that. The tanker is staffed by sailors from the Maritime Union and we’re preparing union identification for you. Through our contacts in the union we’re having you assigned to the ship as a cook. You’ll have three days to locate the bomb and defuse it.”

  “How do I defuse an atom bomb?”

  “We have a technician here and a replica of an atom bomb. He’ll teach you how to do it. It’s not hard; it shouldn’t take more than an hour or two to learn. Then we fly you to Corpus Christi; after that you’ll be on your own. The name of the ship is the Laurel Canyon. Any questions?”

  “Is Wilma B. Willoughby around here, by any chance?”

  “I believe she’s away on an operation. Do you have any questions related to this operation?”

  “No.”

  There was a pause, then the office door opened. One of the secretaries entered. “You rang, sir?”

  “Escort Mr. Butler to the basement laboratory.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The secretary led Butler along a series of corridors, down a flight of stairs, and into a laboratory filled with tables on which were test tubes, beakers and Bunsen burners. They passed through a door, descended another flight of stairs, walked down another corridor, entered a room.

  In the room was the bomb, lying on the floor. Beside it, sitting on a chair, was a lean man in blue jeans and a black beard, reading a book. At his feet was a toolbox. Upon hearing Butler and the secretary enter he stood up. He had the nose of a hawk and a nervous furtive manner.

  “Mr. Butler,” said the secretary, “this is Doctor Levinson.”

  “Hello there, Butler,” said Levinson. “Glad to meet you.”

  The men shook hands, and the secretary left. “Are you ready to go to work?” asked Levinson.

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Good.”

  Levinson turned to the bomb, and Butler looked at it. It was round, about twelve feet long and six feet wide, with a beveled nose and a finned tail.

  “Do you know how an atom bomb works?” Levinson asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’ll try to explain it simply so that you’ll have an idea of what you’ll be doing.” Levinson placed the palm of his small elegant hand on the gleaming metallic skin of the bomb. “Every atom bomb is filled with a critical mass of uranium, which is a very unstable substance. A critical mass means that there’s a certain specific amount of this unstable system that could explode under certain circumstances. What circumstances? If another small amount of uranium is shot into the critical mass with sufficient velocity, it will cause the uranium molecules in the critical mass to break apart and shoot their atomic particles into other uranium molecules, which will themselves break apart, and so forth. This process is known as a chain reaction, or nuclear fission, and it happens in a split second. The result is a massive release of energy from ail the uranium molecules, which manifests itself as an atomic explosion. Do you understand that part?”

  “I think so,” replied Butler.

  “Good. Now look here in the tail of the bomb, will you please?”

  Butler looked in the direction that Levinson’s finger pointed and saw a toggle switch resembling the one on his stereo receiver at home.

  “This switch,” said Levinson, “arms the bomb. In other words, just before the bomb is dropped this switch must be turned on. It is prevented from being turned on accidentally by a Jock, the key to which is normally held by the bombardier and used just before the bomb is dropped. You may be surprised by all this paraphernalia on the outside of the bomb, because you may think that it might adversely affect the bomb’s aerodynamic qualities. You’re right, but hairsplitting accuracy isn’t very important with a bomb of this type, as I’m sure you can understand. All you have to do is hit somewhere near your target and you’re all right.

  “Now,” continued Levinson, “we come to the next step, namely the firing of the bomb. How does that take place? A special electronic sensor un
it in the nose of the bomb fires the uranium charge into the critical mass when the bomb is approximately one hundred yards away from the ground. Therefore, in order to render the bomb useless, we must either interfere with the circuit in some way or remove the uranium charge. We’ve decided that the bomb could fire even without the electronic sensor unit, so you will have to remove the uranium charge itself from the bomb. Do you follow me so far?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now do you see these screws here?” Levinson pointed to a ring of screws around the nose of the bomb.

  “I see them.”

  “You will take an ordinary Phillips head screwdriver and remove the screws thus.” Levinson bent over, took a screwdriver from the toolbox, and proceeded to unscrew the screws. “Hold out your hand, please.”

  Butler held out his hand and Levinson dropped the screws one by one into his palm. When all the screws were out the scientist returned the screwdriver to the toolbox and removed the outer metallic shell from the nose of the bomb. Revealed were a mass of wires and electrical components.

  Levinson pointed to one of the components. “That is the electronic sensor unit. Under it, do you see an object that looks like a flashlight?”

  Butler looked inside the cavity of the bomb. “I see it.”

  “That’s the uranium charge, and below it in the large metal container is the critical mass. To remove the uranium charge you merely take an ordinary wire cutter and sever all wires leading to it thus.” Levinson removed a wire cutter from the toolbox and cut the wires. “Then you take a regular screwdriver and unfasten the component that looks like a flashlight. It’s quite simple; there are only four screws.” Levinson returned the wire cutter to the toolbox and took out a screwdriver. He unscrewed the four screws and pulled the object out of the bomb, holding it up in the air. “That’s all there is to it,” he said triumphantly.

  “What do I do with it once I’ve got it out?” Butler asked, taking the object from him and examining it.

  “I suggest you throw it out the nearest porthole; but first you must return the metallic shell to the nose of the bomb so no one will know what you’ve done. Any questions?”

  “None that I can think of offhand.”

  “Good.” Levinson reached into the toolbox and took out the two screwdrivers and the wire cutter. “You might as well take these with you,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Butler’s next stop was the costume department in the east wing of the mansion. There he changed from his rumpled suit into blue jeans, white t-shirt and denim jacket. They also gave him an old worn out leather satchel and identification papers. His new name was Joe Gray. They told him not to shave so that he’d look more like a rough tough seafarer, and also so that his features would be obscured from those who might possibly recognize him.

  He went outside with his satchel; the helicopter was waiting, with Lieutenant Kelley standing at the door in her neat blue uniform. She looked at the way his muscles filled out the t-shirt and she said, “Welcome aboard.”

  They climbed up the steps of the helicopter. He strapped himself into a seat and she went to the cabin. She started the engine and soon they were aloft, flying toward San Francisco. Butler walked forward to the cabin.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said cheerily, sitting at the controls.

  He sat in the copilot’s seat beside her and looked over her lean rangy body. She had freckles and looked like a farm girl. He sometimes experienced anxiety and a sense of melancholy if he didn’t have sex for a period of more than forty-eight hours.

  “Is there an automatic pilot system on this copter?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Why don’t you put it on and come back with me to the main cabin there. I’d like to get to know you better.”

  “Is that supposed to be an indecent proposition?”

  “It certainly is.”

  “But we’ll be landing in ten minutes.”

  “That’s long enough for me.”

  “But not for me,” she said. “After all, what do you think I am?”

  “We don’t have to get into philosophy,” Butler said urgently. “Let’s not think about it. Let’s just go back and have some fun.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Never mind why not. The answer is no. Besides, I should think you’d have better things to think about.”

  “There is nothing better to think about.”

  “Perhaps you should think of Wilma B. Willoughby.”

  Butler’s ears twitched at the sound of that name. “What do you mean?”

  “I heard her talking about you in the dining room the other day, and I had the impression that she was kind of sweet on you.”

  “No kidding?”

  “I definitely formed the opinion that you two had a thing going between you.”

  “If we do, nobody ever told me about it.”

  “Your problem is that you’re not a subtle man, Butler. You don’t pick up the signals.”

  “Oh shit,” Butler grumbled. He got up and returned to the main cabin, strapping himself in the seat. He felt even more anxious and melancholy. Maybe in Corpus Christi he could find some saucy little tart in a waterfront bar and put the boots to her in a crummy hotel someplace.

  The helicopter landed at the small airport outside of San Francisco. Waiting for Butler was a Lear jet with the pilot and copilot standing at the door. It was six o’clock in the evening with the sun setting over a horizon of pine trees.

  The white Lear jet flew non-stop to Corpus Christi, a seaport with a population of 200,000 people, located on the Gulf of Mexico. It was best known as a center for the storing and refining of imported oil, and as the birthplace of Farrah Fawcett-Majors.

  The jet landed at Corpus Christi Airport and coasted down the runway to an obscure hangar off the beaten path. Butler transferred from the plane to an Oldsmobile driven by the director of the local Institute branch office, a man named Frank Pancaldo.

  Pancaldo, a dark-haired, olive-skinned man, said as he drove into town, “My instructions are to drop you off near the docks. You are to check into a hotel and report to the union hiring hall first thing in the morning. Do you need any money?”

  “No,” replied Butler. “I was given five hundred dollars in cash before I left Big Sur. Is the Laurel Canyon in port yet?”

  “It’s supposed to arrive tonight, filled with crude oil from Venezuela. They’ll pump it out in the morning and in a few days it’ll sail for Halvados.”

  “Do you know what pier it’ll tie up to?”

  “Pier 54.”

  “Has the Noble Oil truck been around there?”

  “Not yet, but we don’t think they’ll load on the bomb until they pump out all the oil, and that’ll take twenty-four hours at least.”

  They proceeded past the fashionable shops and fancy hotels of downtown Corpus Christi, then continued east toward the Gulf of Mexico. The buildings became progressively more rundown and drunks were seen staggering in and out of bars. Butler opened his window and smelled salt mixed with oil. He saw seedy hotels, storefronts where you could sell a pint of your blood for thirty bucks, liquor stores, three bars on every block. Dusk was falling on the waterfront of Corpus Christi.

  “Where do you want to get out?” Pancaldo asked.

  “This corner will be all right.”

  Pancaldo steered toward the corner and braked. The Oldsmobile came to a stop. “Good luck,” Pancaldo said.

  “Thanks.”

  Butler got out of the car and watched Pancaldo drive away. Turning around, he saw the pawnshop on the corner. He’d always been fascinated by pawnshops in sleazy neighborhoods. Carrying his satchel, he approached the window and looked at the merchandise.

  There were cameras, watches, portable television sets. At the side was a display of knives, and Butler realized that he’d better get one. A person shouldn’t walk around in a neighborhood like this with
out a knife. He strolled into the pawnshop.

  “What can I do for you?” asked the black man behind the counter.

  “I want to buy a knife.”

  The black man took a box of assorted knives from the display case and laid it on the counter. “Take your pick.”

  Butler fished through the knives, finally selecting a Buck folding knife with an ebony handle and a four-inch blade. It came with a little leather case that he could fasten on the rear of his belt. “How much is this one?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  Butler paid him, put the knife on his belt and left the pawnshop. He walked two blocks more toward the waterfront, passing bars and drunks, drug addicts and petty criminals of every type.

  A prostitute was standing near a telephone pole on the street corner. She was black, in her forties, and wore a green wig. “Wanna have some fun?” she asked Butler.

  “Venereal disease isn’t fun,” he replied.

  He crossed the street and in the middle of the next block was a neon sign that said CURTIS HOTEL. It looked no worse than any other hotel he’d seen in the area. He entered the door and walked to the check-in counter, where a bony old man in a dirty white shirt read a newspaper.

  “I want a room for the night,” Butler said.

  “Single?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With bath?”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “That’s twelve bucks in advance.”

  Butler paid him and signed the register Joe Gray, listing his occupation as sailor. Then he climbed the rickety stairs to the third floor and walked down the decrepit corridor to his room. He opened the door and there was a bed with a big hollow in the middle, a sink, and a dresser leaning like the Tower of Pisa. But when he pulled back the bedspread he was gratified to see that the sheet was clean. The floor had been swept recently, too. He’d lucked out.

  He tossed his satchel on the bed and lit a cigarette. Looking at himself in the mirror, he thought he looked like a real wharf rat in his white t-shirt and jeans, unshaven. Smoking his cigarette, he left the room, locked the door and went outside.