Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two

by Joe Nobody

  She had used one of the no-contract cell phones to call her neighbor, Eva sounding a bit surprised to hear Grace’s voice.

  “Honey, are you okay? We heard about the incident at the Port of Houston and were concerned that Dusty and you might have been caught up in all that. We’ve been worried sick.”

  The attorney still didn’t trust the FBI and didn’t want to talk about anything over the phone. She decided to stick with her story. “I’m not sure what happened, Eva. I found myself wandering around Houston in a daze,” she explained. “I had a little cash in my pocket and took a bus out here, but I need a ride home.”

  Eva seemed to catch on, the next question about Dusty never making it out of her throat. “I’ll send Hank right away. He needs to get out of this house for a while anyway. He’s not done much since his arrest.”

  And there he was, right where Eva said he would be.

  Hank drove her straight home, the pair making only unrelated small talk about weather, the upcoming 4-H fair, and the price of grain during the ride. In a way, Grace was thankful for her driver’s reserved demeanor.

  Cooter was happy to see her, actually rising from his perch and affectionately wagging his tail. Grace had arranged for one of the neighbor boys to feed the old hound, and she was glad to find her pet’s food and water dish brimming with substance.

  Her first priority was to watch the news, actually hoping to hear nothing about Dusty or additional problems in Houston. The national cable channels carried little other than follow-on stories about the ship channel.

  Next, she browsed the internet, just to be sure. A trifling blurb about a gas line exploding caught her attention, but she shrugged it off not recognizing the connection.

  After browsing the stacked mail, her next task was a super-hot bubble bath. Then she was going to get to work on Dusty’s behalf.

  As she drew the water, a mental list of contacts was already forming in her head. Beyond the obvious senators and representatives, she recalled important, powerful people she had met in government and industry. Wasn’t one of her law professors now clerking for a federal judge? Didn’t one of her clients in Dallas now run a huge lobbying firm in Washington?

  Grace smiled as she slid into the stress-melting water. She was happy to be back home, a strong feeling of wellness battling away what had been a hectic week. “Dusty needs to feel the same way,” she whispered to the bubbles. “He needs to see his home again and enjoy familiar surroundings. I’m going to get him back here – one way or the other.”

  The hot liquid performed well, dissolving the stress and grime of travel. Grace leaned back, closing her eyes and letting her mind wander. Despite her desire to relax for just a few minutes, she couldn’t help but worry about Dusty. The fact that the news reports didn’t contain any specific information wasn’t conclusive. I hope you made it to wherever you’re going, she thought. I pray you made a clean getaway.

  A squeak of a floorboard caused her eyes to snap open. She inhaled sharply when they focused. There, standing in her bathroom were three men. Clad completely in black, their chests bulged with pouches and body armor. Only their eyes were visible through narrow slits in their facemasks, evil-looking rifles aimed directly at her head.

  “FBI,” hissed the lead man. “Are you alone?”

  It took Grace a moment to regain her composure, the intrusion so fast and overwhelming. Her first thought, after glancing at the narrow, claw foot tub, was sarcasm. The reply, “No, my security men are all in here with me,” died before it left her throat.

  When she finally began breathing again, one thought dominated her consciousness. I guess this answers any question about Dusty making it out undetected.

  Mitch chanced a glance through the gap in the curtains, knowing the exercise was futile, yet unable to resist. He recognized both of the cars parked along the street, but knew the observation meant little. If the FBI were still watching him, he probably wouldn’t be able to detect their presence.

  News of the explosions and destruction in Houston had ripped at his soul. He knew instinctively his brother was somehow involved in the mayhem, the television news footage showing clear evidence of the rail gun’s potential. The downing of the high capacity power lines had been the first sign that Dusty had managed to avoid the authorities after escaping College Station. Then the attack on the FBI headquarters had caused him to smile. He knew his brother’s intolerance of bullying initiated aggression when the older Weathers felt cornered or wronged.

  When the news stations had reported the number of causalities associated with the medical center event, he had been saddened by the entire affair. Deep down, he knew his brother was a gentle soul and would only have unleashed the power of the weapon if seriously provoked. Dusty wasn’t a killer, and Mitch worried his brother would be scarred by the deaths. For some reason, his gut led him to believe Dusty had survived the encounter.

  For a few days, everything had calmed down in Texas’s largest city, Mitch secretly hoping his brother had escaped and was in hiding. When the airwaves had filled with the tragedy at the ship channel, he knew instantly that his sibling was involved. Again, there had been a significant loss of life, and the A&M professor would have given almost anything to be able to comfort his brother.

  Since then, every time the phone rang with an unknown number, his heart had stopped. He couldn’t help it, his mind always wondering if the caller was about to inform his of his brother’s demise.

  One of those calls had been from Dr. Witherspoon, head of the U.S. Department of Energy and a past associate. The conversation that had ensued had shaken Mitch to his core.

  “I’ve spoken to the dean down there at A&M,” his old mentor had begun. “We want you to initiate a project to recreate the rail gun’s technology.”

  Mitch protested, “But, sir, why won’t the president just grant my brother a pardon and set up a way to manage the technology for the good of all? Why waste the time and money to recreate a new device when we could have access to the original unit?”

  “Your brother has inflicted too much damage for that, Mitch. The destruction down in Houston has turned Durham Weathers into political poison. No one in Washington would touch amnesty with a 10-foot pole.”

  Again, the A&M professor had objected, “He was framed from the beginning! I know my brother, and he wouldn’t have harmed a soul unless he or his family was threatened. None of this would have happened if our leaders had listened to common sense.”

  “Look… Mitch… it was all I could do to get approval for you to be associated with this project. My argument only carried weight because you are one of the few people who have ever examined the device. Besides, it will keep you in the loop. It’s the best I can do right now.”

  The statement had frustrated Mitch, to say the least. He wanted to scream at the other man through the phone, grab him by the shoulders, and shake some sense into him. Didn’t Washington realize the technology represented by the rail gun was above politics or any single nation? Why couldn’t those thickheaded elected officials understand the ramifications for mankind as a whole? Did party lines blur the fact that dimensional portals could provide free, clean, renewable electric power for the entire planet? The science behind it all could propel spacecraft, advance medical treatments, and revolutionize global travel. The possibilities were practically endless.

  “You’re flirting with disaster, Mr. Secretary,” Mitch replied. “My brother understands the power of that device. He knows what he holds in his hands. If you put him in a corner, he’ll come out fighting. He’s already proven that. End this. Let me come and speak with the president. Let me address Congress. End this right now, I beg you.”

  For just a moment, Mitch thought he was getting through, but that hope was short-lived. “I’m sorry, Mitch, this is the most I can offer. Please don’t throw away this opportunity.”

  Since the rail gun’s discharge in the A&M lab, Mitch had been on administrative leave with pay. He realized Secretary Withersp
oon was correct on at least one aspect – it would be good to get back to work. Besides, he was driving his wife crazy, moping, and wandering around the house in a permanent state of frustration.

  Given there was little else he could do, Mitch rolled up his intellectual sleeves and dove headlong into the project. He didn’t possess his brother’s skills with a lathe or press, but that didn’t slow him down. While Dusty could work miracles with steel and iron, the younger Weathers could manipulate computer based simulations and digital modeling with an equally deft hand.

  At first, he was concerned he didn’t have enough to go on. There was the film, video captured by both the cameras in the lab, and the little homemade movie Dusty had emailed from his shop. He had the test results from their test firing as well as what his brother had relayed verbally. That wasn’t much, but at least he had enough to get started.

  Then a file was delivered from the FBI investigation. The law enforcement agency had traced every purchase Dusty had made for the last two years. He found the model of Taser, cordless drill battery, and specific magnets used in the construction. The information helped.

  His sophisticated computer software protested the design, basically claiming the unit wouldn’t function at all, let alone at the levels he had witnessed. Dusty had overcome numerous barriers with his creation, most likely by trial and error. Mitch could see the external surfaces of the magnets, but had no idea of their internal dimensions. The binary code his brother had written to control the firing sequence was also a mystery.

  Also in the file was the scientific analysis performed by the U.S. Air Force Space Command. They could detect the rail gun’s discharge via its electromagnetic pulse, or EMP. Mitch found this particular bit of information interesting because there shouldn’t be any such energy wave generated by the rail gun. Once he had entered the basic known parameters, he focused on this specific unknown.

  This priority wasn’t purely motivated by scientific research. If Dusty was still alive and fired the weapon again, they would pinpoint his location within seconds. Even an accidental discharge would allow him to be tracked. Given Washington’s reaction to the whole affair, Mitch accepted that Dusty may be on the run for a while and might need to use his super-rifle. Being able to do so without giving up his whereabouts might make a difference. Besides, EMPs were a leakage of energy. Leaks were inefficient. Could he actually improve on his brother’s discovery?

  Day Five

  The next morning, Dusty rolled out of the narrow, single bed and inhaled deeply, a smile crossing his face. “I knew the smell of that fresh hay would be a great way to start the morning.” Physically and mentally, he was a bit sore from the previous day’s work on the fence. The stiffness in his back and shoulders was actually comforting, muscles well exercised on a worthwhile endeavor. His anger, however, still simmered over the transgression against the Boyce’s property.

  His foul mood was enhanced by a less than restful evening. Sleep had been difficult, Dusty restless in his thoughts and hammered by nightmares. Grace and he had agreed upon a schedule that would minimize the risk of their communication being intercepted, yet allow each some peace of mind. He missed her already, and that was just the beginning of the troubling night. What he hadn’t anticipated was a shootout with the police and then a confrontation with the local security thugs. Yesterday had been an eventful day.

  He let the miniature shower’s hot water soak his skin, a two-fold attempt to eliminate stress and wash the new-bed stiffness from his body. As he dried off, he realized his tension wasn’t all about Grace and his escapades with law enforcement.

  He knew his brother would be worried sick after the incident at the ship channel. Hell, thought Dusty, Mitch might even be in mourning, believing I have suffered the ultimate injustice and an untimely demise. Like most siblings, the thought of his loved ones suffering in any way didn’t improve his mood. He would have to figure out a way to let Mitch know he was alive. The FBI probably continued surveillance on the A&M professor, so he would have to be creative.

  His mental parade of self-pity continued, the next frame of concern being his son, Anthony. He had no idea what his sudden notoriety was doing to the boy’s life or what his ex-wife was telling the lad. Just as he had avoided contact with Mitch, Grace, and Maria, he resisted the desire to communicate with his son, knowing the FBI would be watching the youngest Weathers like a hawk.

  There was also a streak of self-pity running directly through the center of the daybreak’s grumble. He was being displaced. He was suffering. He was the one having his liberty denied. While he missed his ranch and neighbors, what really bothered Dusty the most was the lack of a plan… the uncertainty of this very day, let alone his life.

  Finishing the last of the so-so, microwave coffee, he decided to improve his outlook by doing a little investigation of the ranch. Already the walls surrounding him were producing waves of anxiety. He was a man accustomed to the outdoors and physical labor. Holding up inside of a prison cell-sized hideout just wasn’t in the cards for the West Texas gunsmith. He would earn his keep on the ranch by more than just valuing the weapons. Besides, he mused, I may be spending enough time in a jail. I should enjoy my freedom while I still can.

  As he closed the heavy wooden door to the outbuilding’s apartment, the thought to acquire a computer flashed though his mind again. He made a mental note to ask Penny about it. He didn’t need anything fancy or state of the art. Just something able to access the internet so he could look for work and keep an eye on the news. Besides, Grace and he were going to communicate via the web, and having access to the net from his room might make the tiny space seem more welcoming.

  Penny’s truck was sitting beside the barn, bed full of feedbags. His hostess appeared around the corner. “Good morning,” he opened, and then nodded toward the full pickup. “I didn’t know helping you acquire more pistol-money was going to cause me work,” he teased.

  She smiled, “No good deed goes unpunished. I was hoping my new ranch hand could help me unload all this. Did you sleep okay?”

  “I was a little restless, but eventually got out. I kept thinking about what happened out by the fence. He paused as he hefted one bag on each shoulder, and then continued. “I don’t mean to probe, but did your husband eventually call the EPA? Is that why they’re so sore?”

  “No. We called the Department of Agriculture first. When the birds started getting sick, we thought a virus or other disease was making its way through our stock. Our county agent, George, came out right away. He took one of the dead birds and made a few phone calls from his cell phone. He was supposed to get back with us within a week, but then he was in a car accident.”

  “He what? Was he hurt?”

  Penny’s face twisted into a scowl. “He was killed out on County Road 814 north of Laredo. They found his pickup where it had run off the road and struck a utility pole. The deputy told us they thought he had fallen asleep at the wheel.”

  “And the sample chicken carcass?”

  She shook her head, frustrated, “I don’t know what happened to it. It was all so upsetting at the time… I didn’t think about it for a few days. A man who had helped a lot of the ranchers around here… a guy who we had all known for years was dead. By the time I thought to ask, no one knew what had happened to the sample bird.”

  “Did you call again?”

  She nodded, “Yes, and they promised to send the replacement out as soon as someone was assigned. A few days later, some guy flashing credentials from the FDA showed up, looked around, and ordered us to quarantine our product. We weren’t allowed to sell either meat or eggs. He took water samples and said he’d get back to us, but we never heard from him again.”

  Dusty’s gaze focused on an empty point in space, mulling it all over in his mind. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about Tri-Materials, the timing of so many events unlikely to be coincidental or random. You’re being paranoid, he thought. Just because bad karma follows you around doesn’t mean
everyone else is cursed.

  Penny interrupted his thoughts. “Now it’s my turn to play 50 questions,” she began, setting down her bag of feed. “Why do you carry around that duffle bag everywhere you go? I noticed you never let it out of your sight.”

  Snorting, he replied, “Everything my wife’s lawyers left me is in this bag. I’ve got some cash, a couple of weapons and some personal documents. When someone takes your life’s work away from you, you tend to grasp onto whatever is left.”

  She seemed to accept the explanation, but Dusty made a note to be careful. She wasn’t a stupid woman. Trusting, perhaps, but not naïve.

  Glancing at the sound of a car coming down the road, a look of concern crossed her face. “We’ve got a cop headed our way.”

  Dusty turned and looked, his blood going cold at the thought of a confrontation with law enforcement. Did those security guards call the police? He cursed his rash behavior at the fence line.

  The patrol car didn’t turn into the driveway, instead coasting to a stop on a patch of grass on the highway’s shoulder directly in front of the house. “What’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like it. I thought you said you didn’t hurt those two security thugs?”

  “I didn’t… well maybe I hurt their pride a little. I can’t believe they would call the sheriff over that little incident. They didn’t seem like the type that would enjoy explaining how a single, old rancher got the better of two strong, young bucks.”

  Penny snorted at her helper’s description of himself. Glancing again at the now parked patrol car, she conjectured, “Maybe it has nothing to do with us. Maybe he’s just setting up a speed trap or something.”

  “Could be,” Dusty replied, his tone making it clear he didn’t believe it. “Still, I would prefer to avoid the police knowing where I am. My wife’s bloodhounds have connections, and a police report being entered into a computer would put them on my trail like a big, flashing neon sign.”