Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (26 page)

“Whatever
you fire at is certain to be destroyed,” began Dusty. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a building, plane or an aircraft carrier, the weapon will pulverize anything. Nothing on this earth can withstand it.”

“So I could just pull the trigger
, and it would destroy that entire building?”

“Yes, and the one behind it
, and the one beyond that if the power is turned up enough.”

Crawford believed Dusty. He was also su
rprised at the lure of the gunsmith’s creation. Unlimited power, right there in his hands. Easy to use, unstoppable. His mind began to race with the possibilities, interrupted only by the big cowboy’s arm reaching outward, obviously wanting his weapon back.

Tim hesitated, not quite ready to give it up.
At first, he told himself that he was simply curious about the technology. Honesty broke through, the reporter finally admitting that the feeling of invincibility was a powerful emotion. To hold such power – right here – in a parking garage. He shook his head to erase the developing fantasy.

“You see my point,
don’t you sir? It’s difficult to hand it back, isn’t it?”

After another moment, Crawford did hand it over.
He felt a deep sense of loss watching Dusty re-sling the weapon.

The reporter’s eyes focused on the
gun, stunned at his own reaction to holding such power in his hands. He hadn’t considered Weather’s side of the story. It had never dawned on him that the now-vilified fugitive might actually be a good guy trying to protect others.

“Mr. Weathers, you’ll pardon my skepticism, but how can I know you’re telling me the truth? How can I prove what you’re saying is accurate?”

Nodding, Dusty replied without hesitation, holding out a small piece of paper. “I was hoping we would get past the invention and around to that question. My story is easy to prove, sir. Find out what is happening to these two people, and you’ll see the government’s lies begin to unravel. Once you do that, I’ll be happy to sit with you and answer all your questions.”

Tim accepted the paper, holding it so he could see in the light. There were two handwritten names on the small
note, Hank Barns and Grace Kennedy.

Before he could ask another question, the sound of a car engine came from the first floor below. Crawford spun to look at the source, which quickly began fading into the distance
going the other direction. When he turned back, Dusty was gone.

“We’ve got him,” came the ex
cited tech’s voice through Monroe’s phone.

“Weathers?”

“Yes, at a gas station - Medical Center area. He showed up on a cop’s dash cam, the NSA’s facial recognition system picked it up.”

“How long ago?”

“Late this afternoon.”

“Fuck! Get me the information, like now!”

A few minutes later, Monroe and Shultz were speeding south in a bureau SUV, the blue strobe lights in the grill helping clear the evening traffic. Two other FBI units were right behind them.

By the time they arrived at the gas station, the parking lot was
full of blue lights. HPD’s units had arrived first, quickly followed by just about every other cop in the sector. Shultz looked at his boss and said, “Didn’t they get the word that Weathers hasn’t been here in over eight hours?”

“I think our co-workers in blue want a little payback for Weathers hitting their SWAT team and scaring the shi
t out of another 100 officers or so. You know police; they don’t like their authority being questioned.”

The duo of FBI agents split up once inside the facility. Monroe broke off to find a shaken store manager being questioned in the back office by
three large officers, while Shultz investigated the store’s video system.

Less than an hour later, Shultz found his boss talking to a sleep
y clerk who had been rudely awaked by two HPD officers banging on his door and then hauling the lad down to his place of employment. Clearing his throat, the junior FBI man motioned his boss out to the hall.

“Bad news on the store’s video system. The cameras covering the pumps are recorded randomly, each island being
taped for about a minute and then switching to another. I never saw any image of Weathers at a pump. We have plenty of video of the suspect standing in line, paying cash and then getting his change, but I can’t tell you what he was driving, or what the plate number is.”

“Shit,” commented Monroe, “The clerk doesn’t remember eith
er. He recalls the guy paying with cash, but didn’t look any further. We can tell by the store receipts it was pump #8, but that’s about it.”

Shultz rolled his eyes, becoming frustrated
by missing such an opportunity. “How much gas did he purchase?”

“About $
70 worth, which tells us nothing. There must be two hundred models out there that have 20 gallon tanks, or he could have just been topping off – getting ready to make a run for it.”

Monroe paused, thinking about the
situation. “What we do know is that he has got to be in this area. We’ve not picked up a single Predator image, nor have the traffic cameras gotten a hit. That tells me he’s hanging around locally. We’ll tighten our dragnet to this side of town and focus all the HPD efforts around here.”

Nodding, Shultz added, “Is it time to call in the little drones?”

Smiling, Monroe said, “I already have, and I called Washington. We’ll have two Hostage Rescue Teams, complete with extra snipers. They’ll all be here within 24 hours. Tomorrow, we’re going to get serious about finding one Mr. Durham Weathers, and he’s not going to escape again.”

Shultz whistled, “Calling in the big guns, eh
, boss?”

“If we find him, I’m not going to
bother approaching. We’ll take him out from a distance – before he even knows we’re there.”

The Houstonian was a household name in its hometown, yet few of the Bayou city’s residents had ever visited the reclusive retreat.

Despite being located right in the middle of a densely populated section of town, the facility was well hidden from the passing public by its lush 89 acres of landscaping and sub-tropical growth.

Its fame was derived mostly from the fact that presidents, kings, and other heads of state commonly sheltered at the hotel while visiting Houston. Security teams loved the centralized location and restricted visibility, while their VIPs enjoyed the lavish facilities and luxury appointments. The service was second to none. That fact combined with the privacy afforded, made it a unique destination.

The wealthy, non-dignitary class often frequent
ed the property as well, prompting the hotel to be named one of the top 25 finest in the world by more than one travel publication.

Sergei was enjoying breakfast on his balcony, the view of the pool and tennis courts pleasing to his eye. The seemingly non-ending skyline of Houston was visible to the south and east, clusters of high-rise building
s trailing off into the humidity-obscured distance.

Seated next to the d
irector was a stoic man dressed in clothing more suited for the gym than having a meal with one of the most powerful men in his home country. Sergei wasn’t insulted, no, quite the contrary. He understood the captain’s discipline and near-slave like attitude toward physical fitness, a welcome attribute for a SPETZ team commander.

Western media had romanticized the now famous acronym SPET
ZNAZ, the term commonly used as the designation of an elite group of fighting men - the Soviet military’s equivalent of the American SEALs or Green Berets. While such units did exist, in reality, the name applied to any special group or unit of men. “SPETZ” was literally an abbreviation for the Russian language, “Special Forces.”

Many government organizations in the Motherland had SPETZ units. One such group carrying the moniker worked for the Department of the Interior, a special rescue team trained to find lost hikers and vacationers.

Sergei’s agency had its own SPETZ units, one of the best commanded by the burly, young officer seated next to him, enjoying a double order of ham and eggs. The SVR’s special units were highly trained in two arts, espionage and military tactics.

The
ir US State Department-approved travel visas included a visit to the Syrian consulate located not more than two miles from where the two Russians were enjoying their meal. Sergei had no intention of even driving by the remote annex of his country’s Middle Eastern ally. His purpose in Houston didn’t allow for such frivolous expenditures of time.

The plan was simple.

Sergei knew from past experience that the FBI would deploy their Hostage Rescue Teams. His men were very familiar with the bureau’s elite units, many of his own personnel having trained together at various schools and courses. After all, the two countries were now “friendly democracies,” and past American administrations believed that Russia would benefit from strong rule of law. Why not train their enforcement agencies?

The d
irector also knew that the HRTs would arrive in Houston with a lot of special equipment, most likely at a military airfield. That made their stakeout simple enough, and now three of his team were monitoring the potential landing spots, waiting for the special FBI shooters to arrive.

Once they were on location, Sergei’s men would simply follow the HRTs around, waiting on them to deploy against the farmer who had invented the rail gun.

Sergei smiled smugly, happy with his plan. In addition to its simplicity, it was cost-efficient and offered very few risks for himself or his men. He would use the American’s resources against them, allowing them to lead the effort until the very last moment. Right when the US authorities relaxed, thinking their mission was over, he would snatch the weapon away and fade into the night. It was brilliant.

As if on cue, the c
aptain’s cell phone rang. “Zdrahstuiteh.”

Sergei could hear the little voice on the other end, but couldn’t make out what was being said.

The captain nodded, replying with a curt “Da,” and then disconnecting the phone. He looked at his boss and announced, “Sir, the FBI teams landed at Ellington Field and were transported to a hotel in the Medical Center area. They have deployed two units, supplemented with three long distance marksmen. Our men have taken up observation positions around their quarters and will inform us when they move.”

“Good, Captain. That’s very welcome news. Could you pass me that beaker of juice?”

Monroe put his car keys in his pocket and proceeded out of the garage. Casually glancing around, he was thankful none of the members of his team were on the sidewalk, a little embarrassed that he was parking his private car somewhere other than the FBI garage that had been attacked.

The
two-block walk passed quickly, his later than normal arrival avoiding the heaviest of Houston’s traffic. He was only a few steps from the steps of the federal building when a voice sounded nearby.

“Agent Monroe?” A man was suddenly blocking Mon
roe’s path. “Tim Crawford from the
Post
. Would you have time to answer a few questions?”

The FBI man started to wave off the man. “I’m sorry
, mister. What did you say your name was?”

“Crawford, sir.”

“You’re the reporter who wrote the piece about God’s Gun – am I right?”

Looking down, almost shy
ly, Crawford replied. “Yes, sir. That would be me.”

“I didn’t like your article,
Mr. Crawford. I’m afraid you’ll have to speak with an official bureau spokesman, I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

“Dusty Weathers claims you’re holding two of his friends on trumped up charges. He also said that he offered a compromise on two different occasions. Are either of those accusations valid, sir?”

The mention of Weather’s name froze the FBI agent mid-stride, just as the reporter knew it would. Monroe turned, his face twisted in anger. “Are you saying that you spoke to Durham Weathers and didn’t notify law enforcement immediately?”

Tim had been ready for that angle, his response critical to the remainder of the interview. “I had no way of being sure the man who contacted me was actually Weathers. It was only a short time ago that I verified the man was actually who he claimed to be, and now I’m here – talking to the FBI about what he said.”

Monroe’s career at the FBI had encompassed numerous encounters with the press. He knew the game as well as Crawford. “As I said, Mr. Crawford, I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

“I called several people out in Fort Davis, sir. They confirm one Mr. Henry Barns was apprehended
a few days ago, by federal officers. They also confirm that one Miss Grace Kennedy is missing, along with Mr. Barn’s wife, Eva. The people I spoke with claim that Kennedy and Mrs. Barns were on their way here to Houston, where Mr. Barns was to be arraigned. Yet, I can’t find any public court records validating these accounts. Are these people in your custody, Agent Monroe?”

The agent frowned, and then jutted out his chin in defiance. “I can’t comment on an on-going investigation.”

Crawford shook his head, “The arrest of any US citizen has never been considered confidential information. Furthermore, in my 25 years of reporting, I’ve never encountered secret courts or off the record hearings. Even the occasional ‘closed hearing,’ is a matter of public disclosure. I can’t even locate a sealed indictment.”

Monroe didn’t comment, his gaze simply boring into Crawford’s eyes.

After an uncomfortable pause, Tim inhaled and went for broke. “I see. You’ll understand, if I pursue a claim of missing persons… if my paper chases the mysterious disappearance of these citizens?”

The agent shrugged his shoulders, “Suit yourself,” and turned away. He stopped two steps later and pivoted to face the reporter. “I can tell you one thing, Mr. Crawford. In about five minutes, the United States government is going to offer a reward for your friend Weathers. It will be 25 million dollars, dead or alive.”

Tim whistled, “That’s unprecedented, isn’t it? I mean, wasn’t that the same amount offered for Osama Bin Laden?”

“Yes, it is.
” Monroe hesitated a moment, having intentionally avoided the reporter’s barrage. Now it was time to turn the tables. The press could be used as a tool, and he knew how to do it. His vast experience at the higher levels of the nation’s premier law enforcement agency had given Fred Monroe a lot of firsthand experience in manipulating the fourth estate.

Keeping in mind his recent discussion with Shultz regarding
public perception, Monroe decided to make Durham Weathers Public Enemy Number 1.

“Look, Mr. Crawford, I can tell you’ve got some sort of conspiracy bug flying up your ass. If you really want to get a nice, warm-fuzzy
feeling concerning Weathers, why don’t you investigate his recent issues with the IRS? I understand they are investigating him for tax evasion. Why don’t you drive out to West Texas and take pictures of his workshop and huge gun safe? Talk to the locals about his reputation for making super-accurate rifles – weapons that could only have one logical purpose – to kill. He’s a disgruntled, divorced loner who blames his country for his own personal problems. He’s a danger to every citizen, and I’m doing my best to bring him in before more people get hurt.”

Crawford’s voice was hollow
, “I’ll do just that. But what about Barns and Kennedy?”

“Again, sir, I’m not breaking the law. I’m well aware of what DOJ is doing, and it is perfectly legal. Rarely used, but perfectly legal. That’s all I
will say.”

Monroe spun away, avoiding the temptation to look at the reporter
’s face. If he had, he would have seen a bewildered man, standing in the street with his gaze focused on nothing.

His statements about Weathers were calculated to sway public opinion. A large segment of the public didn’t lik
e guns – especially if there were a hint of radicalism involved. The same could be said of tax evasion. So, if you wanted the average Joe on the street to hate someone, paint a picture of a tax cheat toting a sniper rifle.

Monroe grunted as he walked up the steps. About the only thing that would make Weathers look worse was if they’d found a Nazi flag in his workshop. He’d have to think about stocking up on a couple of “throw downs,” sporting the evil German emblem. 

With her boss’s ex making the front page on an almost daily basis, Paula had taken to buying a newspaper on the way in each morning.

Strolling in after her morning ritual of reassuring Eva, yet again, that everything was going to
be okay, Maria saw the copy of the
Post
on the corner of her assistant’s desk. With a casual glance, she said, “What’s up with my outlaw ex-husband this morning?”

Maria’s statement was crafted, just as her behavior had been the last few days. She now assumed the FBI was watching her every moment, listening to every word. She had taken to walking about the house naked, just to frustrate
any pervert-Fed who might be watching. The activity had given her an outlet, until an embarrassed Eva had trouble sleeping and came downstairs unexpected.

Her façade included projecting an air around the office, a mixture of “I don’t give a shi
t,” accented with a touch of, “He’s ruining my life by splashing my name all over the headlines.”