Sigma One

by Hutchison, William

  Earlier that day, he had taken the afternoon off and played golf with some of his cronies from the Pentagon, this, after he hand-carried his retirement papers to the personnel section, He was so sure he was in the cat-bird seat and that in a few short months he'd have Radcliff's job, that the day after he had met with Sgt. Rory Hatchett, he'd decided it was time to make a move. He already had his thirty years in the Air Force and, even if he didn't win the first election when he ran against Radcliff, he knew he had more stamina than the old bastard and would win eventually. Besides, he rationalized, his retirement pay would be more than enough to live off while he waited.

  Had he not taken the day off, he might have reconsidered his decision for early retirement, for just twenty minutes after he left, his secretary took a phone message from the Senator's office. Radcliff had called after he decided he'd toy with the general by letting him know that he knew about Sgt. Hatchett being ordered to kidnap the Soviet. Even though Radcliff was going to have Lassiter killed, he didn't want the general to die without knowing that he'd been outsmarted. And although Radcliff didn't know it at the time, it was a good thing for him Lassiter never got the message. If he had, it might have given him enough time to put his own back-up plan into motion.

  As a precaution, in the event things went wrong with Kamarov's kidnapping or with the way the senator cooperated, Lassiter had planned to take the video tapes of the senator and Cherisa to the press to begin his smear campaign which would make it that much easier for him to win the next election. The call, had he received it coupled with his dislike for the senator, might have been just the motivation he needed to act then. But alas, Lassiter never received the call so Radcliff never got the satisfaction of telling him, and the tapes remained in the portable camcorder locked in Lassiter's desk and not on their way to the Washington Post as they might have been. They still, however, did exist. Radcliff had become so involved in stopping the mad general from getting Kamarov, he'd completely forgotten about that. Even with Lassiter out of the way, he still wasn't entirely out of the woods.

  Lassiter stretched as soon as he slammed the door on the Vette and mentally prepared himself for his flight. Before stepping out onto the tarmac, he looked back at the silver body of the car and admired its lines. He had gotten the car as a perk from a contractor who had needed a favor just six months earlier. How could he help it if the car had been seized by the DEA and he was the only one to give a sealed bid on it? At least that's what the ownership papers stated. He laughed to himself thinking how smart he was to have usurped his position for his own gain and not gotten caught. It had allowed him to get a thirty-eight thousand dollar car for only three hundred dollars. Still laughing, he turned and headed down the row of private planes toward his Citabria.

  As he passed a Lear, his thoughts drifted back to his first flight in an airplane back to March Air Force Base where he, as an aviation cadet some 33 years earlier had taken his first training flight. It was during that flight, while he was upside down screaming at 300 miles per hour over the California desert that he’d decided to become a pilot. Fifty weeks later, he was a Lieutenant, and was doing just what he'd decided to do. He was flying.

  Now the sight of the Lear made him angry. It reminded him of how the service had mistreated him when, some ten years earlier when he was still a Lieutenant Colonel, the Air Force had clipped his wings simply because his blood pressure was a little too high. Now, the only flying in jets he did was back and forth across the Atlantic in the coach section of commercial airliners as he skittered between continents during arms negotiations. That torqued him too. Once a jet jock, always a jet jock, and every bad landing he had to experience on one of those commercial jobs reminded him that he could have done it better. And he would have, too, if he had been allowed by the system to continue flying.

  As he passed by the plane and touched the wing of the little two-seater airplane he had been forced to settle for instead of the jet he wanted, some of his earlier frustration and bitterness left him. Even though his plane wasn't as fast, nor as comfortable as a 1Par, it was still his and he could still fly; if not for the Air Force, at least for himself.

  "Besides," he thought to himself as he slid his hand along the wing, "when I'm elected,I’ll get that Lear."

  Putting these delusions of grandeur aside momentarily, Kurt completed his pre-flight, unlocked the cowling and stepped up into the plane. He then switched on the radio to get the local altimeter setting and catch any NOTAMS that might be coming in over the ATIS. While he was doing this, he clamped his lap clipboard which held his charts, to his right knee where it would be readily available in flight. Then he looked around in the cockpit for any loose objects. Since he was going to be doing aerobatics, he wanted to be sure a spare pencil or change hadn't slipped out of his pocket on any previous flights. A pencil in the eye in the middle of a barrel roll could be fatal. He searched under the front seat first and then leaned back and shined his pen light into the rear compartment directly behind him, and, finding nothing, put the key into the ignition and started the plane.

  As the plane jumped to life, Kurt picked up the radio and contacted the ground controller at the tower for clearance to taxi, while a big DC-10 lumbered down the runway in front of him. Slowly the big hulk of metal began to accelerate and when it was nearly out of runway, its nose wheel lifted off the ground. Seconds later he saw it begin its climb out over the countryside.

  "Citabria 5-7-9 November, cleared to taxi, runway 2-4."

  "Roger," he replied and then pushed the throttle in and began steering the little airplane with his rudder pedals toward the end of the runway. As he moved forward, he watched the blue lights of the taxi way blink by, and in a little over three minutes he reached the turn off to the run up area where he stopped and checked his controls and engine idle to ensure they were operating properly. He switched to the tower frequency next and requested permission to take off.

  The microphone crackled. "Citabria 5-7-9 November cleared for runway 2-4. Caution wake turbulence," the controller warned.

  Kurt knew what that meant. The huge DC-10's wings had created powerful wing tip vortices at the point it withdrew its landing gear and began its climb. These miniature tornados had to be avoided at all costs. They had enough strength in them to rip his small craft apart if he wasn't careful.

  He looked down the runway to the point the jet had rotated and envisioned its climb out path and then decided he had enough room to avoid the turbulence if he did a short field take off. He then replied.

  "Citabria 5-7-9 November, rolling."

  He pushed the throttle forward, eased his feet off the foot brakes and the plane immediately lurched forward down the runway. When it reached fifty miles per hour and was still accelerating, he then gently pulled back on the stick which he held in his left hand in between his knees. Ten seconds later, the plane literally jumped off the pavement and Kurt carefully pulled back and left on the stick as he pushed on the left rudder pedal. The plane responded and began a slow rising turn in the direction he pulled and the runway lights, as he looked back, moved slowly off to his right.

  His flight path was perfect. He had purposefully guided the plane higher and to the left of the flight path of the jet that had preceded him assuring himself the vortices would be well below and to his right as they sank to the earth.

  In a few short moments, Kurt was climbing through four thousand feet, and the gleaming city lights flickered back and forth under his plane's wings as the tiny craft drifted slowly left and then right following Kurt's movement on the stick. He was lazily banking left and then right as he climbed out and occasionally dipping the nose to be sure he didn't have any blind spots which could hide an oncoming airplane.

  At five thousand eight hundred feet, he eased the throttle back slightly and nudged the stick forward to level off. Exactly at six thousand feet, the plane quit its climb and he steered it on an easterly heading of zero nine zero where he could be out over the ocean to practice some b
asic flight maneuvers first to get the feel of the plane again before he attempted any aerobatics. He hadn't flown in over two weeks and wanted to make sure everything felt right.

  When the lights below him disappeared and there was nothing but the deep black of the ocean under him, he pushed the stick snug against his right knee simultaneously while he applied rudder pressure with his right foot.

  The plane danced to his movements and the wings dipped in response while the nose of the airplane swung to the right. Kurt alternated his stare between the compass, the turn/bank indicator and the altimeter to gauge his progress.

  When the compass returned to east, he immediately reversed the rudder pressure and swung the stick to his left knee and began the process again. In each maneuver, he lost only ten feet of altitude--barely a needle's width on the altimeter and that made him happy.

  Satisfied with his ability to control the aircraft, Kurt decided to put a little more air between himself and the ground before he began any simple aerobatics.

  He pushed in on the throttle and eased the stick back again and the nose of the plane pitched upward.

  6100 feet.

  6200 feet.

  6300 feet.

  Kurt watched the altimeter as it measured his progress.

  At 6400 feet, unnoticed by him, inside the engine compartment, a small electrical current charged a capacitor, leading to the detonator as the pressure sensitive switch began its countdown.

  6500 feet. Kurt clenched the stick tighter, preparing for his first maneuver, a barrel roll.

  6600 feet. His hand began to sweat a little.

  6700 feet. He looked back over his shoulder and watched as the city lights off in the distance blazed behind him. He imagined what it was going to be like when, instead of a prop job, he'd be climbing out at 500 miles per hour in his own Lear. He felt a surge of pride as he recalled the look on Radcliff's face when he told him about the tapes he had secretly made of his liaison with Cherisa Hunt.

  6800 feet. The detonator was now fully charged.

  6900 feet. Kurt, still smiling, checked his shoulder harness to ensure it was snug.

  At 7000 feet, the tiny detonator sent its signal to the plastique explosive molded around the fuel line. It immediately ignited and then exploded, ripping the line from the engine as it did and causing the gas which continued to pour out of the ruptured line to explode.

  Ten seconds later, the Air Traffic Controller who had been following the Citabria on his screen, reached forward and adjusted the contrast to pick up the dot which represented his plane that had just disappeared.

  The next day, on the front page of the Post, Lassiter's picture appeared along with an article which all but gave him single handed responsibility for the U.S's recent successes at Geneva in the arms talks.

  Agent Walker stared at the picture of the general and then rolled the paper back up and attached his business card under the rubber band. He then stooped down and carefully placed the paper against the front door of Radcliff's house, turned and got back into his car and drove off.

  CHAPTER 25

  Back in Morrow Bay where she had been since Burt left after they had their fight, Debbie looked up from her dinner plate, a tear in her eye. "What's wrong, honey?" her mother asked. "Is it Burt?"

  "Yes. It's him," she replied taking a bite and then wiping the tears from her eyes.

  "You two didn't have a fight, did you?"

  Debbie looked away. She didn't like to think of it as a fight, but that's what it was. That's what caused Burt to leave so unexpectedly. She didn't want to tell her mother that. It would only make matters worse. If she told her, her mother would just ask more questions and she would have to answer them and that would upset her more than she was already upset. She decided to lie.

  "No, not really," she said, avoiding her mother's stare.Her mother didn't believe her, but decided it best not to be too inquisitive. "What then if it wasn't a fight?"

  Debbie looked away again, but then answered. "We're just not talking. That's all."

  "Why don't you just call him?"

  "I did, earlier. And he wasn't in. Or worse yet, he was in, but knew it was me and didn't answer."

  "He wouldn't do that, dear," her mother said trying to soothe her.

  "I'm worried about him. He hasn't been out of the hospital that long, and he's been acting sort of strange lately. He just hasn't been himself."

  Her mother thought about what Debbie said, but didn't want to add to her concern. She had also noticed that Burt was acting peculiar and more volatile than she remembered him being, but she had assumed he was just reacting to concern for his own health problems. The boy had, after all, just brushed with death recently. He had every right, in her mind, to act differently. Lord knows, she would have.

  "Burt's probably just been out, or if he is in, not answering because he has a lot on his mind. It's not like the boy hasn't been through a lot of late, Debbie. Don't be so hard on him, or on yourself."

  Debbie listened and what she said made sense. The thought of Burt needing time alone like he had said when he left, but she didn't believe then, was a lot more palatable than to think he was purposefully ignoring her.

  "Yeh, I guess you're right. I'm just worried something may have happened to him, that's all."

  "Nothing's happened to him," her mother reassured. "You yourself said the doctor gave him a clean bill of health before they released him, and he looked perfectly fine when he was here. He's probably just been out when you called. Don't be such a worry wart."

  Debbie smiled. "I guess I am being a little silly, huh?"

  "Uh, uh."

  "Maybe I won't call any more today. But not tomorrow, She added resolutely. "Tomorrow I'm going over to the campus and stop by his dorm to see for myself how he's doing. That's not being too pushy is it, Mom?"

  Her mother paused momentarily and then remembered how she had felt the first time she had fallen in love. She remembered how at that time she couldn't stand to be away from Amos, Debbie's father, and how she had let him know it in no uncertain terms, too. She also remembered his reaction when she did. She almost lost him then. Now she could see Debbie making the same mistakes she had made and if she wasn't careful she might lose Burt as she almost lost Amos. For in those early days of her own courtship with him, she was so pushy she almost scared him off, and it was only when he balked and she cow-toed to him and gave him his head that she finally won him. Debbie needed to learn that lesson too: that you give them enough rope and they'll tie themselves up. But whatever you do, you never try to rope them in. They'll resist every time if you do. She decided to offer a little advice to her daughter so she wouldn't make the same mistake.

  "It's a good idea for you to try and see him to let him know you care, Debbie," she advised, 'but let me make some fresh homemade apple pie for him. You can use that as an excuse to see him, and you can say I insisted."

  Debbie smiled again and her mother added, "you really do like him don't you?"

  Without hesitation, she nodded.

  Her mother reached out and took Debbie's hand and gave it a slight squeeze. "He'll be okay. He just needs some time alone. Now finish your dinner. You can call him tomorrow."

  CHAPTER 26

  The next day, Debbie, bleary-eyed, drove to the campus to find Burt. The fresh apple pie her mother had made for him was seated right next to her as she headed South on 101 dreamily changing lanes to get there quicker and not minding the traffic as she did. She had barely slept the night before anticipating seeing him again, and although it had only been two days since he had driven back to school, alone, those two day seemed like two years as she sped along.

  The entire previous night she had tossed and turned in bed as she rehearsed her apology. She still felt he was the real cause of the problems between them because of his peculiar actions--like when he had slapped her at the beach,--and it was he who should apologize first rather than her. Or at least that's the way she saw it. But what her mother had said at
dinner about his unpredictability probably resulting from his needing rest, rang in her ears, and in the end, just before falling asleep, she had resolved to swallow her pride and say she was sorry rather than wait for him to do the same. Had she come to that conclusion earlier in the night instead of wrestling with it, she wouldn't have felt so tired. Now she was exhausted.

  When she finally pulled into the campus and climbed the winding road to his dormitory, her heart began to pound in her chest. Their two day separation, which earlier had seems liked two years, now seemed more like two lifetimes, and Debbie began to worry about how she looked and to wonder if he would still find her attractive. She then looked down at her fresh-washed jeans and noted how tightly they fit. Earlier that week they had fit considerably looser, but she had gained four pounds from her mother's cooking over Thanksgiving. Now the tightness of the jeans as they pulled on her thighs made her feel even more self-conscious. She felt like crying when she finally stopped the car in front of the dorm, and more like turning away than walking up to his door, but she fought back her tears and forced herself to continue. She did want so much to see him and felt the risk of rejection was worth it.