Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device

by Joe Nobody

  Ten minutes later, he grunted with satisfaction, surveying the pile of boxes, bags, and packages lying on the garage floor. Maria had sourced every single item on his list and thrown in a few extras to boot.

  Job one was to find the tool kit included on his list. After that, he’d have a full afternoon of assembly.

  Day 13

  The conference room table was filled with half-empty cups of coffee, a few bottles of water and two snack wrappers from the machine in the break room.

  Special Agent in Charge Monroe looked up from the pile of status reports, his preference of receiving paper copies a widely known annoyance throughout the office. “I can’t believe Weathers has simply disappeared from the surface of the earth,” he began. “Yet, I know we’re doing everything in our power to find him. Any additional suggestions?”

  “The hit is going to come from a video camera in all likelihood,” commented Shultz. “He doesn’t have any credit cards and he’s smart enough not to show his driver’s license. He’s going to look into a camera at some point in time, and then at least we’ll know what part of town he’s in.”

  Nodding his agreement, Monroe looked down the table at his head technician. “What’s the turnaround time from the NSA at the moment?”

  We have a quad-pipe of dedicated fiber optic running at full speed between our data center and Fort Mead. They’re processing the facial recognition stream on about a two-hour average – give or take.”

  Shultz whistled, “Two hours? How many images are they receiving per second?”

  The tech, clearly proud of the geeky capabilities, responded with a smile. “We have 1,800 traffic cameras, 10,000 police dash cams, and over 240,000 private security video feeds that we’re processing. It is just over a terabyte per second.”

  “And they’re back to us with potential hits in two hours? I remember when it used to take longer than that to get a match on a fingerprint.”

  Nodding, the computer guru continued. “They run an eight-point facial recognition algorithm on every face that shows on one of those cameras. That’s after they clean up the grainy and out of focus pics.”

  “Amazing,” was Shultz’s only response. Monroe, however, wasn’t impressed.

  “One of my biggest fears is that all this technology is going to make everyone think they can sit around on their asses and wait on the computers to catch the bad guys. Good old-fashioned hard work is what puts more criminals behind bars, not computer chips and megabytes of whatever.”

  Before anyone could comment, the door burst open, and a woman’s head appeared in the opening. Her voice was high pitched from excitement. “He’s on line two.”

  Monroe, upset by the interruption, replied in a growl, “Who is on line two?”

  “Durham Weathers, sir.”

  The head agent’s initial reaction was as if he didn’t understand what the female agent was saying. Frowning, he glanced at the cream-colored phone on the table top, his eyes seeming to focus on the blinking light labeled “Line 2.”

  Inhaling deeply, Monroe reached for the phone and punched the button. “Agent Monroe speaking.”

  “Agent Monroe, this is Dusty Weathers. I understand you’re looking for me,” answered a cheery voice with a strong, Texas accent.

  Before responding, Monroe looked up at the tech and mouthed the words, “Is this being traced?”

  “Automatically,” came the whispered response.

  “Mr. Weathers, you are correct. Several thousand of my colleagues and I would very much like to speak with you. Why don’t you turn yourself in and get it over with?”

  Laughing, Dusty replied, “I’m afraid I’m not going to make it that easy on you. As a matter of fact, if things don’t change, I’m going to make it more difficult on you, sir.”

  “Are you threatening a Federal agent, Mr. Weathers?”

  “I’m threatening all of them, Mr. Monroe. But this sounds so harsh, so antagonistic. The purpose of my call was actually to make you an offer that I feel is a fair compromise.”

  Monroe rubbed his chin, clearly wondering where the conversation was going. “I will inform you that the government of the United States does not negotiate with terrorists, Mr. Weathers. With that being said, I’ll be happy to listen to your offer if it will make you feel better.”

  Again, a relaxed, genuine chuckle came from the other end of the call. “Very well, sir. Here’s my offer, the president will grant a pardon for all of my friends and family associated with my invention. That includes Hank, Grace, Mitch and anyone else you might choose to arrest in order to piss me off. In exchange for this pardon, I will destroy the rail gun and end this entire thing.”

  It was Monroe’s turn to laugh, somehow the agent’s expression didn’t seem so relaxed. “I’m not even going to bother, sir. We would have no way of knowing you actually destroyed the device, and besides, you’ve already committed acts of terrorism against your country. Acts for which you must pay with your freedom, perhaps your life.”

  Monroe’s response shocked Shultz, the junior agent’s face showing surprise at the harshness and inflexible position. Looking around, he saw several others agreed with his assessment.

  The other end of the line was silent for some time. When Dusty did speak again, his tone was low and cold. “I predicted that would be your response, sir. I thought my guilt was a foregone conclusion. Are you near the east side of the building, Agent Monroe?”

  “No, and what does my location have to do with your surrender?”

  “I’ll give you one minute to find a window with a view looking east. I think you’ll want to see this,” and the line went dead.

  All the agents in the FBI conference room seemed to rise from their chairs at once. After a dirty look from Monroe, the meeting attendees filed out calmly, all of them crossing the hall and finding any empty space to peer outside.

  Shultz maintained the wherewithal to turn on his smart phone’s video camera while the technician was calling to his lab, trying desperately to get someone with a digital video unit pointed east. He was too late.

  Dusty smiled when the green LED glowed bright. He turned on the aiming laser and then pushed in his earplug. The power setting was at 10%.

  Bracing against the window frame, he peered through the scope and found the small red dot of his laser illuminating the fender of the closest black SUV. He was on the fourth floor of an under-construction office complex six blocks away from the target, the first shift of workers not scheduled to arrive for another half hour.

  Mindful of his promise to wait one minute, he glanced at his watch and scanned the area around his target one last time, hoping to avoid collateral damage. The top floor of the 3-story garage next to the federal building filled the view of the powerful optic. Two rows of neatly parked, government-issue, black SUVs rounded out the image.

  Why the vehicles were exposed on the roof of the structure was anybody’s guess. Dusty assumed that the employees wanted to keep their personal cars in the shade provided by the lower floors – to hell with the taxpayer’s money. Maybe he was being harsh – maybe they parked the law enforcement vehicles as high as possible for security.

  Shrugging his shoulders to dismiss the question, Dusty again checked his watch – it was time.

  He centered the glimmering red circle of the laser and pulled the trigger.

  The ball bearing changed state before exiting the gun, the friction of the air causing the hardened steel to melt before clearing the last ring of magnets. Despite being a jet of molten metal, the magnetic properties of the missile didn’t change, and the rivulet of liquid shot forth still suspended in the rail’s magnetic field.

  Four feet after leaving the gun, the molten stream began igniting the oxygen in the air, the net effect similar to an arch of plasma racing toward the target at over 20,000 feet per second.

  Like the conversation piece often called “Newton’s Cradle,” the sub-atomic particles of the atmospheric gases began to slam into one another, just like
the steel balls hanging from the desktop toy. The aiming laser had excited the air just enough for the exploding chain of protons to follow its path, accelerating with every collision and following the path of least resistance.

  At this point of the discharge, known particle physics ceased to apply. Billions of protons began splitting, each release of energy adding to the freight train of energy following the red laser. The speed kept increasing until the universe had to defend itself from the ultimate catastrophe of infinite mass.

  A door opened into another dimension, the gap in both time and space expanded at the speed of light. It wasn’t a wide doorway, no larger than an inch in diameter, but the energy released was immense.

  From the sixth floor of the federal building, it looked as if the roof of the parking garage below shuddered. Then complete bedlam broke loose. The black metal bodies looked as if they were being crushed by a giant, invisible hand, bending and mauling right before the on-looking FBI agents’ eyes. And then the detonations began.

  Scraps of flaming metal erupted skyward, closely pursued by rolling balls of black smoke. Blizzards of exploding shards of glass flew in all directions, the glint off the morning sun creating the impression of an early morning frost.

  The blast wave hit next.

  Like a gigantic clap of thunder, the rail’s crack echoed through the glass and steel canyons of downtown Houston. For several blocks in every direction, windows were swept with a wave of air moving at over 700 miles per hour – almost ten times the speed of hurricane-force winds.

  Dusty hadn’t counted on the impact of the wave, a look of horror crossing his face as he watched spider webs of glass replace the shiny, clear windows in nearby buildings.

  The fast moving wall of air raised dust and debris from rooftops and sidewalks, a few pedestrians knocked to the ground.

  Dusty shook himself out of the hypnotic state, feeling like a motorist rubbernecking at a roadside accident. He forced his eyes away from the damage. He had to move, and move quickly.

  Breaking down the weapon, he stuffed it into his pack and casually walked to the stairwell, listening for footsteps at each landing until he exited at street level. He then strolled with purpose through the construction site, squeezing through the chain-link gate and out onto the sidewalk.

  The few people who were on the street didn’t notice the man leaving the construction zone – their attention focused on the huge ball of smoke rising from the FBI’s parking garage.

  Two blocks later, Dusty entered a coffee shop and ordered a large cup of blonde roast – with room for crème.

  Everyone instinctively flinched on the sixth floor of the federal building, the flash of the explosions below causing the witnesses to turn away. The windows rattling with the impact of the blast wave prompted several people to scurry back.

  Monroe recovered first, the experienced man turned and then began shouting, “Where is he? Where is my trace?”

  The tech, standing nearby, checked his smart phone and answered, “Got him! He’s at 500 McKinney Street.”

  “That’s only a few blocks away,” someone added.

  “Let’s go! I want my team there now! Someone call Houston SWAT, and HPD – I want that area with a ring of steel around it in three minutes!”

  The elevator car filled to capacity after opening, anxious agents crowding inside for a ride to street level. A minute later Monroe’s team hustled through the lobby and onto the sidewalk, all of them running at full speed toward the nearby street where they hoped to find the man who had just attacked them.

  Like a television drama’s chase scene, the team raced through the streets, badges in the air and screaming for pedestrians to get out of the way. Dozens of sirens began wailing in the distance, all apparently heading in the same direction.

  As Monroe rounded a corner one block away from the address, he paused for just a moment to look back at the now flame-engulfed roof of the garage. He realized that there wasn’t a clear shot from this direction – no way could a weapon have been aimed from here. He began to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  As the agents converged, they realized the address where Dusty’s call had originated was the Houston Public Library. The fact that a spacious public building was their destination slowed the team’s pace – frustration filling their faces.

  The first police cruisers began arriving at the same time. Monroe with his gold shield exposed, began shouting orders at the first officers on the scene. He wanted a perimeter surrounding the library, and he didn’t want anyone exiting the building.

  A police captain soon appeared, taking over for Monroe, the FBI man’s plain clothes and shouted orders confusing to the first wave of cops. It wasn’t five minutes before the first SWAT van screeched to a halt directly in front of the structure, the eight-member team flowing out the back in full combat regalia. That vehicle was soon joined by two of its siblings, rapidly discharging its cargo of specially trained officers.

  After a significant number of uniformed lawmen had arrived, Monroe pulled his people back and let HPD do its job. With his team gathered on the front steps, he watched with anticipation, hoping to see Durham Weathers led from the building in handcuffs.

  Dusty stood with all of the other coffee shop patrons, staring out the window at the spectacle of excitement. Like everyone else, he pointed, oohed and awed, commenting on the seemingly endless waves of flashing lights and sirens converging on the area.

  Waiting for what seemed like an eternity, he finally decided enough time had passed, calmly reaching down for his pack and exiting the shop.

  The sidewalk was ringed with businessmen, shoppers, and office workers who stood gawking, their attention focused on the library. Gently probing his way through the thick crowd, he entered an older office building and climbed the mosaic-patterned marble stairs to the men’s room directly off the second floor landing.

  He pushed open the ancient maple door and searched the interior, relieved to find the three stalls and urinals all unoccupied. He pulled a cardboard sign from his pack, the bold letters declaring the facility “Out of Order – Overflowing,” and hung it on the door. He threw the lock, just to be sure.

  A small, high window adorned the outer wall of the room, the natural sunlight passing through the smoked glass that was a clear indicator of the building’s age. Dusty slowly cranked the glass open, the effort exposing a view of the street below, leading to the library four short blocks away.

  He assembled the rail gun, quickly snapping the stock to the primary body of the weapon. Again, the green LED glowed bright and steady. The ball bearing filled the chamber, soon followed by foam plugs filling his ears.

  He turned down the power, still shaken by visions of imploding windows – the glass possibly blinding innocent office workers who happened to be in the wrong place. His anger was at the government, his desire to issue punishment limited strictly to that entity… that symbol of authority that had taken away his friend’s freedom. The small red letters read 5%.

  Keeping the muzzle end well back from the edge, he began to scout the scene below, considering a suitable target. The SWAT vans, all lined up at the curb in front of the library, caught his attention. He couldn’t detect anyone nearby, the closest policeman across the street, trying to keep the crowd at a safe distance.

  He switched on the laser, aimed the dot at the back of the nearest van, and pulled the trigger.

  Even at the reduced power, thunder rolled through the crowded streets. The nearest van shook for a microsecond, the steel of its frame expanding and then contracting. Like dominos falling down a line, the next three vehicles performed the same dance – and then all four exploded with tremendous force. The rear van was launched into the air, flipping end over end and landing on one of its twins. Tires, glass and sheet metal rose into the air while boiling yellow flames of ignited gasoline spread from the destruction.

  Police officers up and down the line ducked for cover, many of them taking a few seconds
to realize they were under attack. Some stood stunned, momentarily mesmerized by the burning mass on the street – the concept that anyone would attack them while they were deployed in such force completely foreign to their reasoning.

  The roaring discharge echoed through the streets, hurting Dusty’s ears despite the protection of the plugs. The carnage of screaming, tortured metal was soon replaced by the shouts and despair of terrified humans as the mass surrounding the library scattered in panic.

  All of it was lost on Dusty. He had ducked immediately after the shot, rapidly breaking down the rail gun and stuffing it in his pack. He moved with purpose toward the door, plucking the sign from the exterior and walking briskly to the rear exit of the complex.

  Less than a minute after his second shot of the day, Dusty was stepping through a back alley, quickly putting distance between himself and the bedlam he’d left behind.

  Monroe’s team was less than 100 yards away from the impact point of Dusty’s shot. A few of the FBI agents were knocked to the ground, the others going prone as a reaction. It was actually several minutes before everyone began to accept that the attack was over. Slowly, cautiously, heads began to appear around cover – tentatively exposing themselves as if expecting another shot. Many officers had their weapons drawn, scanning the surrounding facades for any sign of the shooter.

  As the agents recovered their wits, Monroe surveyed his team, checking on his people. After verifying everyone was unhurt, he immediately went to help the police officers who had been bowled over by the shockwave. It was a miracle that only a few broken bones and burst eardrums appeared to have been inflicted by the brutal ambush.

  Monroe wanted revenge, but soon realized there wasn’t anyone or anything to receive his rage. Scanning the wreckage of police vans, he couldn’t even discern the direction of the shot, let alone give chase to a suspect.