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

by Paul Sekulich

  He charged at Nicolai as he dropped six fresh bullets into his revolver’s cylinder from the loader. Frank hit him squarely in the side of his face with a prodigious punch. Nicolai staggered back, blood filling his left eye. Nicolai managed to hang onto his revolver, but the open cylinder spilled several bullets onto the ground. Frank stalked his enemy and swung again. The hammering blow snapped Nicolai’s head violently backward. Nicolai reeled for two more steps, lost his legs, and fell onto his back, unconscious.

  It was then that Frank heard two deafening blasts next to him.

  Chapter 73

  Frank grabbed at his aching ears, but quickly realized he wasn’t hit. Mr. P lay bleeding from a huge hole in his forehead and another in his throat, his cocked revolver still in his hand.

  Sergeant Burgess stepped out from behind Frank, his service pistol extended in his hand. He stared at the downed man. Frank looked over to Trooper Burgess who holstered his gun and leaned against a boulder. He pressed on his bloody shoulder with his palm, in obvious pain.

  “He got me down at the road. Said he came to help, then plugged me.”

  “How bad are you hurt, sergeant?” Frank said.

  “I’m good. A through and through. No sweat. Got first aid in the cruiser.”

  “Let me grab something and I’ll help you back to the road,”

  Frank stooped next to Nicolai’s body and picked up the remains of the tin box near his feet.

  “I heard an explosion coming up here,” Burgess said.

  “This guy on the ground here likes to use fake explosives,” Frank said. “I don’t.”

  He put the shredded tin in his jacket pocket, picked up his 9mm magazine off the ground, jammed it into his Browning, and cycled a round into the chamber. He eased the hammer down and snicked on the safety.

  “I’ll need your cuffs to secure him. We’ll need EMS to treat him before we take him into custody.

  “I saw him trying to nail you with head shots,” Burgess said. “I’d’ve gone for the body.”

  “He had to. Knew I wore a vest. He had three shots to get me.”

  “And he missed with all three.”

  “Well, not entirely,” Frank said and wiping blood from his ear.

  “Close, but a snub-nose isn’t the most accurate piece.” Burgess said.

  Frank stepped toward to the trooper who held out his handcuffs.

  A metallic snapping sound came from behind Frank. He turned to face its origin. Nicolai was sitting upright with the closed revolver leveled at Frank. Frank raised the Browning.

  Click, click, click came from Nicolai’s pistol. Two booms echoed through the rocky ridge. Nicolai fell onto his back, his brow and right eye perforated by the 9mm slugs.

  “Keep the cuffs, sergeant.”

  Frank examined Nicolai’s body to confirm he was dead. He finally holstered his gun and exhaled a long breath.

  “We come into this world either crying and hollering, or without so much as a whimper. We go out pretty much the same way.”

  Frank removed the revolver from Nicolai’s hand and checked the cylinder.

  “The next click would’ve been a winner,” Frank said and gathered up Mr. P’s gun.

  Frank plodded over to the trooper, tore off a piece of his tee shirt, and dressed his wound to staunch the bleeding from his shoulder.

  The two men trudged down toward the police cruisers. Two FBI cars and more highway patrol vehicles converged on the scene down on the road, lights flashing, sirens wailing and whooping.

  “That other dead guy down at the road has on Trooper Tim Hunter’s uniform,” Burgess said. “Wonder where Tim is.”

  “Not in a good place, I suspect,” Frank said.

  “The dead guy took one right between his eyes. Looks like it came from that ridge where we were. Take a pretty damn good shooter to pull that shot off.”

  “Sometimes it takes a little luck.”

  “I hear a cop from Florida won the National Law Enforcement Association’s marksmanship award for this year,” Trooper Burgess said. “They say you’re from Stuart. You ever run into him down there, detective?”

  “Every morning,” Frank said and grinned.

  Chapter 74

  The local police and the FBI interviewed and got statements from Frank and Sergeant Burgess at the local hospital where they were treated, and later turned the prairie crime scene over to their CSI units. Trooper Tim Hunter was found in the trunk of his cruiser, dead from a gunshot wound to the back of his head.

  The following morning, Braewyn’s FBI team and the rest of the local authorities worked on the wrap-up of the Cezar Nicolai case in Wichita. Frank ducked out of the intense questioning by mid-afternoon and went into the Prairie Inn bar in hopes of seeing Elwood to say goodbye. And to treat himself to a scotch.

  * * * * *

  Roland returned to the Stuart station with hopes that Carl Rumbaugh hadn’t mortally wounded the reputation of the Martin County Sheriff’s Department. He looked forward to having his top detective back, and to getting re-elected as sheriff in the fall. Farther ahead, he wanted to one day retire, maybe marry a nice lady and start a cattle ranch again.

  Roland remembered Frank had put in his unsolicited two cents about that.

  “You know, marrying at your age could put sex out of the relationship,” Frank said.

  To which Roland countered:

  “I can still push up my glasses with my tongue.”

  Roland also noticed something new was added to the department’s Wall of Commendations, a place where outstanding service awards were displayed in pictures and plaques of those who went above and beyond to protect the citizens of Martin County. A large trophy sat in front of the wall, inscribed with the name of Detective Frank B. Dugan, law enforcement’s Top Gun and champion of the year’s national marksmanship tournament held earlier in Beltsville, Maryland.

  Roland ran his hand over the shiny brass eagle atop the trophy, smiled, and looked forward to the upcoming election.

  Before he left, he meticulously straightened the photo of Frank that hung on the wall.

  * * * * *

  Frank talked Braewyn into flying back to Maryland with him to pick up the Corvette before driving it back home to Stuart. They had over three hours on the plane to talk. They talked about the dinner at Langford’s that needed to be rescheduled. They talked about Cezar Nicolai and people who want too much from life and the world. They talked about Alasdair. They talked a lot. Somewhere 30,000 feet over West Virginia they stopped talking and kissed.

  * * * * *

  Washington was quiet on the Thursday afternoon when Frank and Braewyn returned. He had offered to take her home from the BWI Thurgood Marshall airport after making a stop at Elm Terrace to get the ‘Vette. The DC rotaries weren’t as jammed up as usual and the traffic elsewhere around the nation’s capital was merciful.

  The route to Braewyn’s apartment took the Corvette past the Iwo Jima Memorial at Meade Street and Marshall Drive in Arlington, Virginia. He parked the car across from the sunlight sparkling on the Potomac, and stopped to look at the famous statue by Felix de Weldon of the six brave men erecting the American flag atop Mount Suribachi in 1945. The flag had been raised on February 23rd, the birthday of Colonel Paul Tibbets, the man who flew the Enola Gay to Japan and dropped the world’s first atomic bomb ever used in warfare.

  Frank Dugan hoped it would be the last.

  * * * * *

  A 9x12 FedEx mailer arrived at Elm Terrace while Frank was arranging the estate auction for the saleable contents in the Maryland home. Frank opened the package and pulled out two letters and a large photograph.

  The top letter was from a Nebraska law firm stating that their client had requested that the enclosed documents be sent upon his death. The second letter was a handwritten one which read:

  Frank,

  I thought you should have this when I no longer would be around to possess it and reminisce about the “good old days.” I’m sure it will find a pe
rmanent home in your collection of family memorabilia.

  The event I photographed should be obvious, but the inclusion of a single civilian in the picture will make it a rarity. I believe you are acquainted with the civilian looking on the proceedings with justifiable pride.

  The accompanying photo showed the Japanese signing the surrender on the battleship U. S. S. Missouri in 1945. In the scene, General Douglas MacArthur looks on as one of the Japanese representatives signs a document at a table on the dreadnaught’s deck. In the background, among the throng of military uniforms, stood the lone civilian that Ritter cited.

  It was a young William Dugan dressed in a dark, double-breasted suit.

  The letter continued:

  General MacArthur signed the Japanese surrender with three different fountain pens, one for each of his title and two names: General… Douglas… MacArthur. One of the pens belonged to his wife. A second pen he donated to the U. S. Military Academy at West Point. The third pen he gave to William, a bright orange Parker called a “Big Red.” I’m sure your grandfather kept it as a cherished memento. I hope it has found its way to his grandson, of whom he was so proud.

  My very best wishes,

  Vernon Ritter

  Frank noted the postmark on the mailer. It was yesterday, August the 14th, a date he’d never forget. And today, was the 15th, the day the Japanese surrendered. It was also Braewyn Joyce’s birthday. Which exact birthday he had no clue, and dared not press to find out, but he would call her and ask her out to dinner for the occasion.

  If his good luck continued to hold, she’d say yes.

  * * * * *

  On the first of September, Special Agent Braewyn Joyce of the FBI made a formal news announcement that, after a careful and diligent investigation, they concluded that the Omega Formula project was a complete and ingeniously successful ruse, formulated and carried out by a handful of dedicated and courageous American patriots. They further said the weapon depicted in the propaganda film, and used to persuade the Japanese to surrender, never existed and never actually could exist.

  With that they closed the book on the entire affair.

  On the same day, Frank received a text message from Dr. Edward Clement. It read:

  A group representing the victims of Raymond Grandview’s horrors has prevailed on the courts to re-evaluate his sanity. They found him sane and overturned his original sentencing. They take him tomorrow to a federal super-max in Arizona to serve out his life. 23 hours a day in a small cell. No color TV this time. Thought you’d like to know.

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  In October, Frank sold the house at Elm Terrace, gave the Ford Explorer to charity, and had the Reo insured and shipped to his home in Stuart, Florida. He would drive the Corvette south when he returned from a trip he needed to make, now that Cezar Nicolai was dead and the Omega hubbub was, at last, over.

  Frank flew into Wichita, Kansas, rented a car and aimed it northwest, out of Wichita.

  In just over an hour he arrived in Hutchinson, Kansas. He motored down Plum Street toward 11th Avenue looking for a very particular place.

  His grandfather’s poem played out, verse by verse, in his head, and he reviewed the solution he’d long held as to its meaning.

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

  His grandfather was a near-pro golfer. He taught Frank to play as soon as he was big enough to drag a bag of clubs. William firmly believed there was no better way to assess character than to spend four hours on a golf course with someone. He often told Frank that a good golfer should be able to play near par, under 80 strokes, scoring in the 70s.

  like boys who dream of playing on the moon.

  There actually was a boy-turned-man who played golf on the surface of the moon.

  Find someone to recount the sheep,

  Who counts sheep? A shepherd…or a Shepard. Like Apollo 14 astronaut Alan Shepard.

  avoid the deep six that rusts plain iron,

  Shepard was ex-navy, and knew the term “deep six” was a nautical reference to something disposed of, like a dead body or a rusted, decommissioned ship. He played his two historic shots on the moon’s Fra Mauro highlands with a specially-made Wilson six iron constructed of a light aluminum-type alloy that could never rust. And, unlike many things abandoned on the moon, the club was never disposed of in that way. Thus, it would always “avoid the deep six.”

  and keep a tool as a rune.

  Many items used on the moon never returned, but Shepard’s special golf club-tool was brought back and kept with the astronaut. The club was attached and adapted to a moon sample recovery tool, which was ceremoniously donated by Alan Shepard to the United States Golf Association Museum in New Jersey. where it was preserved and displayed. But in 2007, the club was evaluated, and later purchased by its creator, and moved to Hutchinson, Kansas.

  Frank pulled into the parking lot of the Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Center at 4:30

  P. M., a half-hour before closing time. He entered the museum and walked its gigantic halls where many important pieces of space history were displayed. He was looking for one particular piece.

  In a cavernous hall with space capsules and gigantic rockets right in the walkway, close enough to touch, he found what he so fervently sought.

  It was a large bulletproof glass cube. Inside the cube was Alan Shepard’s unique golf club William had designed and fashioned from the original moon rock recovery tool. At its top, was a handle; a long, sealed metal tube made of what appeared to be aluminum, or a magnesium alloy. Frank had always wondered why William had underlined the word “handle” in the closing of his letter, but now that became abundantly clear.

  You were always superb at solving puzzles, so I’m certain you can handle this one.

  Your loving grandfather,

  William

  The cylinder had a diameter of perhaps two inches and looked like a smooth 10-inch length of silver pipe.

  If need be loosed this awful power,

  it lies asleep until that hour.

  Frank knew that inside that closed cylinder was a rolled piece of parchment, tied with a red ribbon, which contained the instructions needed to make the most frightening weapon the world would ever know… or need to forget.

  Sealed in a pipe all eyes can see,

  but blind to all, save you and me.

  This was the clue William wanted Frank to find, think about, and decide upon.

  After he first watched his grandfather’s propaganda film, he worried that his veneration of his mentor would be destroyed by learning the tests shown in the movie included the killing of humans, regardless whether they volunteered or not. Frank knew there were those who would sacrifice themselves, no differently than the Japanese kamikaze pilots, to ensure the victory of their beloved country, and to defend freedom in the world. American soldiers did that every day, but they are given a chance to defend themselves. But murdering those heroic, defenseless, and willing heroes would never preserve his love for the most important man in his life. Thankfully, the O. F. Takes film from David Hapburg showed that the humans were, in fact, only actors in what they thought was the making of a science fiction movie. No humans were killed. Not the same for the prairie dogs. They died, and they weren’t acting. Cezar Nicolai had been correct on that count.

  Now came the terrible onus of what Frank knew. The famous golf club, which was on loan to the Cosmosphere, and technically his by inheritance, would always be owned by him, regardless of what befell the museum where it was currently displayed. Should his country ever be in peril of being conquered by bellicose fanatics from outside her borders, there was an awesome remedy in the center of his nation, waiting to be unleashed, but Frank believed political bureaucracies should never be given an option on that power. In addition, he pondered what was to happen when he neared his time of departing this mortal coil. The terrible burden, that one day, Frank, like William, would have to pass on the secret, pressed on his heart like the weight on the back of At
las.

  William spoke once more to him.

  Powerful knowledge awaits, and awesome power requires huge responsibility.

  The answer to the Omega formula’s use would always have to rest in the hands of those who knew the meaning of huge responsibility.

  Through a journey that took Frank into deep mysteries and up against seemingly unsolvable clues, Frank, the detective, had arrived at the truth. That same destination brought Frank, the grandson, to the assurance of one more undeniable fact:

  Frank’s grandfather never lied.

  A program lay on the leaving table from a theatrical production of Watch on the Rhine Frank had attended at the Stuart Playhouse. He picked it up and studied it for a moment. While his eyes saddened, a smile fought to visit his face. He stepped over to the large bookcase in the living room and pulled out the first edition of Les Miserables his grandfather had sent him. On the bookshelf, a framed photo of William on deck of the battleship Missouri held his gaze for a full minute. Then …

  Frank closed the book.

  About the Author

  Paul Sekulich was a Hollywood television writer and script doctor for several years and has now trained his sights on novel writing. He teaches television and movie scriptwriting on the college level, and holds degrees with majors in Theatre and Communications.

  Detective Frank Dugan will be his lead character in a series of books he has planned for the near future. His new Frank Dugan crime thriller, Resort Isle, the prequel in the series, is currently available on Amazon. Another Frank Dugan thriller, Deep Death, will be making its debut this summer.