Sigma Division

by Steve Richer

  He grabbed some files from his suitcase and put them in front of Spicer. “That’s all I got. I been tryin’ to make some sense of that stuff for a year and a half. I need more information.”

  He and Esther turned toward Spicer. It occurred to him that they thought he was the solution.

  * * *

  Spicer walked down Calle Ocho with a new burner phone. People were milling about, tourists and locals alike, but no one paid him any attention. What he had to say to Ned made him feel cheap. He hated asking for help.

  “Look man, as cheesy as it might sound, you’re my only hope.”

  “You know,” Ned began, keeping his voice low as to not wake up his wife. “Princess Leia said that to Ben Kenobi and he winds up in another dimension. I’m not really tempted to go with you on that one”

  “I’ve never begged much in my life, Ned. But I absolutely need to have Houseman’s file.”

  “And I absolutely need to get blown more often. Everybody’s got their fantasy, man.”

  Spicer nodded absentmindedly. It had been a long shot anyway. Still, he had to be more convincing.

  “I thought you wanted to fly Hornets again.”

  Ned stiffened. “Don’t even joke about that.”

  “I’m dead fucking serious. Once this thing is over, you’ll be back in the air. I guarantee you that.”

  Ned remained silent at the other end of the line.

  “Hell, aren’t you supposed to be this great big fearless warrior? Didn’t you single-handedly take down the entire Libyan Air Force?”

  “Look, about that…” Ned exhaled softly. “I… I sorta only took one down. I was about to shoot down the second one when number three had me locked on. I panicked, I ejected. The two other guys got confused and ran into each other. I’m no hero, man.”

  That actually made Spicer smile. “I’m giving you a chance to be one. I just need Houseman’s personnel file. You can e-mail it to me. You remember my address?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be checking my inbox every hour on the hour. I hope I find something. Be careful, buddy. Those guys get away with murder.”

  After hanging up, Spicer didn’t go back to the apartment. He wanted to be by himself, he needed it. He loved strolling among the faceless crowd, the anonymity giving him power, making him feel like his old self again. He wasn’t good with people. In fact, he wondered why he was even jeopardizing his life trying to save others. What difference did it make to him if other people got killed?

  Duty. Why was he still dedicated to that concept?

  * * *

  Ned remained at the kitchen table for almost an hour. He stared at the clock on the wall – he’d gotten it at a flea market because it had Cessna’s logo on it. He was perfectly aware that Spicer was laying on bullshit about him getting back in the air. He didn’t have that kind of clout, especially now that he was a wanted man.

  However, he did recognize that the man needed help. His cause was a just one, that much was clear. They were each other’s wingmen and you had to stay together if you wanted to come out alive. Thinking about the situation in these terms made the decision easier.

  He went to his bedroom and got some jeans and sweater from a drawer. Even though he tried his best not to make any noise, his wife stirred. She blinked and stared at him.

  “What is it?”

  “Shhh, go back to sleep. I’m going out for an hour or two.”

  * * *

  The drive to Reston took forever although it was most likely because he was nervous about what he was going to do. Talking about this on the phone was out of the question. It took just as long to drive around the winding suburban streets and find the house but finally he had it.

  He parked, climbed onto the porch, and rang the doorbell. The light came on after almost two minutes. The man who answered was blacker than he was and he was wearing a light blue bowling shirt with boxer shorts. He wasn’t happy to see who the visitor was.

  “Ned, is that you?”

  He’d met Morty at an office party and they had bonded over the fact that they were both African-American men with white boy names. Once in a while Ned went bowling with him but he wasn’t as dedicated to the sport as he was.

  “Jesus, you have any idea what time it is?”

  “I could ballpark it,” Ned said, somewhat offended that he wasn’t being offered to go in. “Listen, I need a favor.”

  “How much?”

  “I need you to pull out a file for me, my boss, Gerald Houseman.”

  “You gotta be outta fucking whack, man. I don’t know what your nine to five gig is but one thing I do know is that your whole outfit’s black. Everybody in your clan’s classified TS, probably Yankee White too.” Yankee White referred to the clearance required to work with the President. “I do this and I’m staring into a bucketful of problems, dawg.”

  “Here’s the deal, being in Personnel you got easy access, I don’t. You copy me a file, nobody knows about it. Somebody ever finds out, Gene Spicer made you do it.”

  Morty frowned. “Gene Spicer? Who the hell is that?”

  “Never mind who it is. Just say he held you at gunpoint. It’ll take you a minute.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hey, how many times did I bowl the victory strike, uh? If it weren’t for me, you’d never have bought that Trans Am.” The Trans Am in question was a miniature model, collectors’ edition. “Come on Morty, I’m asking you for a favor.”

  Morty stared out in the distance. Ned knew that look, he always took that stance before bowling a strike.

  Chapter 25

  Ned was standing in line in the cafeteria. He’d already had breakfast at home – a bagel with light cream cheese which tasted like mayo – but now that it was midmorning he was craving something more substantial. Plus this Tuesday they were having an all-day Russian theme and he was looking forward to sampling their version of breakfast.

  He pushed his tray along the stainless steel counter and grabbed himself a butterbrot. It was a single piece of bread layered with butter, some chopped up boiled egg, and tvorog which kind of looked like cottage cheese. The longer he stared at it and the faster his appetite faded away. He promptly forgot about the food when Morty fell in beside him.

  He did his best not to acknowledge him and both men continued moving along the counter. Ned got himself a doughnut as a backup plan and his friend had the same idea, reaching for a jelly roll. That’s when the deal went down.

  As Morty extended his arm, he gently dropped a thumb drive on Ned’s tray with his other hand. Keeping his breathing in check, Ned set his own doughnut on top of the drive.

  The line moved and so did they, continuing to browse the food selection.

  Doing his best to appear casual, Ned sat down by himself and tasted the butterbrot. It wasn’t bad but he preferred the doughnut which he wolfed down in record time. He pocketed the thumb drive, returned the tray, and walked away with his coffee.

  He waved at people he knew but he was in a hurry to get to his cubicle. He couldn’t even finish his coffee because his stomach was already rumbling. He coarsely wiped his hands on his pants and sat at his desk.

  Here goes nothing…

  He produced the flash drive and inserted it in his computer. At once a window popped up and it only contained a massive PDF file. He didn’t bother reading it. Instead he focused on what mattered most: sending the file out.

  He knew it was only a matter of time before the CIA discovered that the personnel dossier had been accessed, sent out, and who the people responsible were. What he had to do was buy some time.

  He went to an online service which not only compressed but anonymized files for transmission over the dark net. He glanced around furtively to make sure no one was snooping in and uploaded the document.

  A progress bar appeared. 0%. 5%. 10%. He entered the e-mail address but it was a long process because of the compression and encryption involved.

  “Come on, bitch. Hurry up
for papa…”

  35%. 40%. 45%.

  He began nervously tapping his foot.

  55%. 60%. 65%.

  Out of the blue, Clara showed up in the doorway.

  “Ned, can you come up to Houseman’s office?”

  He sat upright, his heart lurching. He turned around to face her but mostly it was to block the computer screen.

  “Oh, hey. What uh, what for?”

  75%. 80%. 85%. He needed more time.

  “I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it,” Clara said. “Come on.”

  He peeked at the screen from the corner of his eye. 90%. 95%. 100%.

  “Okay, I’m coming.”

  He was hoping this was her cue to leave except she didn’t go away. The file conversion was done but he needed to hit the Confirm button. As he stood up, he used his desk for balance and accidently knocked a folder to the floor.

  “Damn, too much coffee today.”

  He used that confusion to click his mouse, and as he kneeled down to pick up the file he took the opportunity to remove the flash drive, concealing it in the palm of his hand.

  Clara became impatient. “Let’s go, I don’t like having the boss wait for me.”

  He beamed at her, his heart lighter. He put the file back on the desk and followed her out.

  * * *

  In spite of the air-conditioning, the apartment was stifling and Spicer opened a window. He remained next to it, the curtains pulled up to keep off the sun. Meanwhile, Esther and David Weller were sitting side-by-side on the couch, huddled over the laptop computer. Spicer figured they were more qualified to go over Houseman’s file than he was.

  “Okay, let’s see,” the scientist began. “Houseman joined the CIA in the early 50s. He was in Korea until ‘55.”

  Esther spotted something and became excited.

  “Hey, listen to this. He was in charge of propaganda and disinformation for Project Bluebook until 1963. Why does that ring a bell?”

  Spicer turned around. “Project Bluebook was the official government report on the alien crash at Roswell, New Mexico.”

  “Spooky. Anyway, next he was assigned to Saigon. Received the CIA Distinguished Intelligence Medal in 1972 for the Kontum Province campaign.”

  “Oh my God,” Esther whispered.

  “What?” Spicer asked as he walked back to them so he could take a look at the screen. Then he saw it. “Jesus.”

  Weller still didn’t understand. “What is it?”

  “A young Army captain got commended at the same time. Regis Ford.”

  “The Common Sense Alliance candidate?”

  Spicer exhaled. “It’s the only one I know.”

  “Wait, that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Maybe,” Spicer said as he scrolled down the text. “But it seems they continued to work together. Their involvement in the Watergate scandal was kept under wraps. In ‘74, they both worked on a report about the moral fiber of America. Then, in ‘78, they founded Sigma Division. Together.”

  His voice trailed off. All he kept thinking about was the picture he’d found in Clara’s Mailley office. She was much more than a casual supporter. The man was involved with Sigma.

  Weller leaned back into the couch. “This guy’s a Nazi nutjob!”

  That hit a nerve with Esther and she stood up.

  “He has fresh ideas about this country! He’s gonna make tougher laws that are really gonna stop crime.”

  “My God, he’s got you brainwashed too,” Spicer said as he took a step in her direction, making her back away defensively.

  “This file doesn’t prove anything! He was a soldier in Vietnam, everybody knows that.”

  “His paychecks weren’t issued by the Pentagon, Esther. This guy’s been a spook if there ever was one.”

  “So what? That was in the past. He’s been a US senator for the last 30 years.”

  “Which committee?”

  Esther stopped and looked down. She didn’t want to admit that he had a point.

  Weller said, “Intelligence oversight, right?”

  “Esther, I know you’re trying to get this guy elected but you have to look at the bigger picture. If he becomes President, there’s no telling what these two cocksuckers might do.”

  She glanced up at him, her world in upheaval. Nothing was making sense anymore.

  The young scientist perked up. “That’s if he gets elected. Last time I checked, he wasn’t ahead in the polls.”

  “Jesus,” Spicer said, his jaw dropping. “They’re gonna steal the election.”

  Chapter 26

  Houseman’s office had always been hotter than the rest of CIA headquarters because he was a frail old man, but right now Ned was certain it was over 100 degrees. That’s what it felt like anyway as he stood in the middle of the room, almost at attention in front of Houseman. Sitting on the couches behind him were Dr. Michaels and Clara.

  Ned hazarded a glance at them over his shoulder. His only consolation was that they wouldn’t assassinate him here.

  “Lieutenant Wallace,” the old man started. “Do you have any idea why you’re here?”

  “Promotion, pay increase, bring it on.”

  He smiled for half a second. His attempt to warm up the crowd wasn’t working.

  “The news isn’t good, Wallace,” Michaels said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  It was Houseman who answered. “The personnel file you asked for was flagged. Your friend told us how you asked him to pull out my file. It doesn’t matter if you thought you were justified to do so. It was illegal.”

  “The guy obviously lied. I sure as hell didn’t do what you say I did.”

  “We also found the electronic trail of some top secret documents you scanned on your computer,” Clara added. “That’s really illegal.”

  Ned had expected this but he wouldn’t have thought they would be this fast.

  Houseman clasped his hands together as if he was in prayer. “So I guess it will be no surprise to you to learn that you are now unemployed. We’ll also encourage the Navy to discharge you. Whether or not criminal charges against are brought will depend on the US attorney.”

  “Wait just a goddamn minute. This is America. Don’t I get a chance to explain my side of the story?”

  “No. This isn’t America, it’s Sigma Division. You have no rights here. Ms. Mailley will escort you out.”

  Ned and Houseman stared at each other, almost defiantly.

  * * *

  The little red gym bag was feather-light as Spicer swung it onto the kitchen table. He was high on adrenaline, his instincts sharp with the mission lying ahead. He pulled out the smaller wooly case.

  “What’s that?” Weller asked.

  The hitman unsnapped it open and revealed the pistol inside.

  “Gun case. Made from a special material that absorbs X-rays so it can’t be detected.”

  His voice was flat. He wasn’t in a mood to talk. He released the magazine to make sure it was loaded, put it back in, and wracked the slide back to chamber a round.

  “I thought you were done with killing,” Esther said.

  He put the gun back into the pouch and then proceeded to strap it around his stomach, under his shirt.

  “I am done with killing but they’re not. We have a stop to make and I don’t want it to be my last.”

  * * *

  Ned fastened his seatbelt. It was surprising how good he felt at being fired from the Central Intelligence Agency. That life had never been for him, it was like he’d fallen in with the wrong crowd. He also had the hunch that because they had terminated his employment they wouldn’t need to put a bullet in the head.

  He had gladly turned in his ID, cleared out his desk, and left this place behind. He much preferred the military because at least you knew where you stood. In the CIA, the ground was always shifting.

  The one thing he wasn’t looking forward to was telling his wife. He decided he would hold up on revealing his employment status fo
r a week. Maybe he would consult a lawyer, reach out to friends in the Navy, and see if he could somehow resolve the situation before showering her with bad news. She didn’t need any more stress this far along in the pregnancy.

  He was about to turn the ignition, ready to leave the CIA parking lot forever, when he saw a figure in the rearview mirror. It was Clara.

  Oh fuck, he thought. She’s gonna kill me after all…

  He turned the key and the car wouldn’t start. It whirred and whirred and Clara came closer.

  Ned was frantic. He wondered if he could fight her. She was probably a black belt in everything. She would break his neck and make sure there were no security tapes left to analyze.

  She stopped by the rear passenger door. What was she doing? She reached for his window and in one swift move she ripped the CIA parking sticker from his car.

  The engine finally caught and he breathed again. They were glaring at each other through the mirror as he drove away.

  * * *

  The South Florida Common Sense Alliance headquarters was located in North Miami, in a low-rise commercial building. The place was packed and the air seemed to vibrate with energy as dozens of people were milling about, manning the phones and shouting messages to one another.

  It was Election Day and this was what everybody had worked so hard for these past four years.

  Esther wasn’t fully convinced of Spicer’s plan yet and she felt like she was abandoning her post by being in Miami when she should have been in DC, doing exactly what these volunteers were doing. Her sole consolation was that she’d had the foresight of voting early last week.

  Spicer led the way and she followed reluctantly with Weller. He went to what passed for a reception desk, asked a few questions, and came back to his companions.

  “It’s that woman over there,” he said, pointing to a middle-aged woman at a long table who was a party official.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “We don’t have a great deal of time here, Esther.”

  “Ford is a good man,” she pleaded.