The Olympus Device: Book Three (10 page)

Again, there was a hesitation, the petty officers and crew working the sophisticated electronics staring at their commander with questioning expressions. Military discipline, training, and the camaraderie of a well-run ship took over. “Do it,” Montgomery barked.

Fingers began flying over keyboards, the computer-based systems now an essential element in “fighting the ship.” Checklists were executed while the 300-plus personnel aboard the destroyer rushed to make sure they were at assigned duty stations.

On
Gravely
’s deck, rows of square, box-like hatches became the focus of Captain Bard’s sad gaze. Called “cells,” each cover was a small silo built into the ship’s core. Inside, 56 Tomahawk Cruise missiles of various configurations were stored, ready to launch against land or sea-based targets. After giving the order, there was nothing more required of the skipper.

Unlike the warships of previous centuries, the bridge really had very little to do with the pending use of the vessel’s weaponry. It was several decks below, in the hardened, protected CIC where the action was taking place.

“Opening outer hatches on numbers one and thirty,” announced one of the console’s operators.

All eyes darted to the closed-circuit monitors as the thick steel plates began rising into the air on hydraulically powered rams, one toward the bow, the other behind the destroyer’s superstructure.

“Coordinates confirmed, flight path uploaded,” said another.

“All systems green,” confirmed a third.

“Sound the alarm,” Montgomery ordered.

Throughout the vessels, a siren began wailing, giving the crew notice that
Gravely
was about to flex her long-range muscle.

“Fire one.”

A rumbling vibration shook the deck and the missile’s hot-launch motor fired, lifting the 3,000-pound weapon from her canister. In less than a second, the muted thunder grew into a full roar as the powerful rocket engine propelled the 20-foot long cylinder up and away from her mother ship.

A bright red and yellow ball of fire followed the Tomahawk into the sky, encompassing the surrounding deck with its billowing waves of heat and light.

The missile arched over, going horizontal surprisingly close to the ship. Short, stubby wings unfolded, converting the pipe-shaped fuselage into an airworthy configuration. A few seconds later, the ear-splitting rocket motor burned out, replaced by the high-pitched howl of a jet engine. Missile one was on its way.

“Fire thirty,” came Montgomery’s voice, initiating a nearly identical event.

Ten seconds later,
Gravely
was again enveloped by complete calm, the only evidence of her attack being two puffy com-trails against the Gulf’s royal blue sky. Captain Bard looked to the north and home, shaking his head in disgust. “God forgive me,” he whispered. “God forgive us all.”     

Mitch sat in the airport’s control tower, trying his best to remain diligent and observant.

He had to admit, it had been a good idea to post a sentry in the elevated roost. Sitting almost 100 feet in the air, the control room had been purpose-built for observation. There wasn’t any corner or area of the airport he couldn’t observe through the broad, high glass windows.

Still, he’d have a bone to pick with his brother after the powwow was over.

“Guard duty isn’t my cup of tea,” he sat mumbling. “Why didn’t Dusty get Hank or someone else to do this? I should be in that meeting.”

The answer, involving trust, had come to the professor just as activity at the other end of the room drew Mitch’s attention.

The man operating the radar console had motioned for his supervisor to look at something, an apparently puzzled expression painted on the technician’s face. Dusty had warned Mitch to watch for anything unusual.

Strolling toward the seated, naturally nervous radar operator, Mitch arrived just in time to hear the supervisor ask, “And they’re not squawking any sort of code at all?”

“No, sir, I have no transponder code whatsoever.”

“What’s going on guys?” Mitch asked, leaning in to look at the brightly colored display.

The radar man pointed to the screen where two dots were displayed. “Two unidentified bogies just showed up at the edge of our range. They’re low, but traveling at nearly 500 knots, and on a vector directly toward us.”

“Must be military flying that fast and that low,” the supervisor stated. “Have you checked for any filed flight plans via…?”

Mitch didn’t know what sort of aircraft they were, but he didn’t like it.

“How long before they arrive?”

“Seven minutes… give or take. If it weren’t for this new Doppler radar, we wouldn’t even be able to see them. They’re minuscule.”

“Shit!” Mitch barked. Dusty’s question about how many people should be at the conference welled up in his head. A missing admiral and a radical senator… 550 miles per hour incoming… weak radar return.

Turning away from the airport employees, Mitch reached for his cell phone and hit Dusty’s number. His brother answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”

“Get out! Get out right now! Pick me up at the tower. We’ve got less than five minutes.”

Dusty didn’t argue or ask questions. He knew his brother wouldn’t hit the panic button without good cause.

Grace was right in the middle of a sentence when Dusty grabbed her by the arm. “This meeting is over,” he growled, pulling the stunned attorney up from her seat. Throwing the government representatives a harsh look, he added, “I can’t believe you were this stupid.”

The two Texans left the conference room in a rush, leaving behind a confused, muttering bunch of government negotiators. Dusty, still practically dragging Grace along, explained, “Mitch saw something and told me to get out. He wasn’t kidding. He said we have less than five minutes.”

“What? What could it be?” Grace responded, trying to shove her laptop back into its bag and hustling to keep up with Dusty’s long stride.

“No time,” he said as they hit the exit door. “Get in the plane and get down on the floor. We’ve got to pick up Mitch on the way out.”

Three minutes after Mitch’s call, Dusty had the engine running and the small aircraft taxiing toward the tower. He could see his brother running to meet him halfway.

Whatever put the fear of God into the younger Weathers, Dusty had to respect it. Mitch wasn’t the most physical guy in the state, but he wasn’t any coward either.

“Go! Go! Go!” screamed a breathless Mitch as he jumped into the small plane’s cabin. “I think they’ve fired cruise missiles.”

“Are you sure? I didn’t even have a chance to do a pre-flight checklist.”

“Go!”

Nodding, Dusty applied throttle and pivoted his head skyward, looking for any inbound traffic. According to the agreed-upon rules of the conference, the airport was supposed to be closed. But now Dusty didn’t trust anybody. It seemed like the runway was 100 miles away as the small plane bumped over the concrete.

Mitch glanced at his watch, worried about their progress. He threw his brother a near-panic look. “We’re not going to make it.”

The GPS tracking system in the lead Tomahawk sensed its proximity to the target’s coordinates and adjusted its altitude to the pre-programmed height for ordnance delivery.

The missile’s sensor system didn’t notice the private plane turning onto the westbound runway, nor could it detect the group of confused government officials standing outside on the tarmac, huddled in a milling mass while they watched Dusty’s plane gain speed.

Less than a mile from the main airport structures, two doors opened on the TLAM’s fuselage, exposing its deadly cargo of canisters. The Tomahawk’s sister, just a few seconds behind, executed an identical maneuver.

Out of each side of the slender airframe, cylinder-shaped containers of bomblets were ejected into the slipstream. The airport was about to be carpeted with cluster bombs.

At just over 500 feet above the earth, each of these canisters opened, scattering a multitude of 8-inch long mini-bombs in a pre-configured pattern. Small streamers trailed behind each, ensuring their formation covered the prescribed area.

Dusty was just lifting the nose of his plane off the ground when the cluster munitions erupted.

Covering an area the size of four football fields, every building, storage tank, aircraft, and hangar was engulfed in a red-hot cloud of fire and slicing shrapnel. The blast wave crushed supporting walls, caved in roofs, and shredded everything in its path.

The Cessna was less than five feet off the ground when the wall of fast-moving, condensed air struck the tiny craft.

Dusty desperately fought the controls, concentrating on keeping his wings level and his nose up. His hands and feet moved in short, coordinated motions while Mitch and Grace stared speechlessly out the windows at the fireball behind them. To call his grip “white knuckled,” would have been an understatement. All aboard thought their lives were over.

For once, luck was on Weathers’ side, the ring of expanding shock actually lifting their bird higher. Dusty struggled to stay in control, keeping his focus on the dash instruments while a whispered prayer crossed his lips.

Several seconds had passed before the pilot and passengers realized the danger was over. The altimeter was just showing 150 feet when Dusty’s lungs began seriously protesting his lack of breathing. Inhaling deeply, he was just about to remark on the miracle of their survival when Mitch mumbled, “Holy Mother of God. Look at that.”

Casting a glance over his shoulder, Dusty spotted a blackened ring of smoldering rubble where the airport had been just a few moments before. The devastation was unimaginable, flames still flickering throughout what looked like a huge, dark, crater of ruin. “Those son of bitches,” the Texan cursed. “They tried to kill us. Those evil, rotten, two-faced bastards.”

Grace, still recovering from the shock, finally found her voice. “I can’t believe they’d do that,” she mumbled, trying to make sense of it all. “Why? It’s not logical. They just murdered their own people and a lot of innocent bystanders as well.”

Mitch was the first to answer, the intellectual putting it together before any of the plane’s other occupants. “They’ll blame it on Dusty and the rail gun. Probably had this planned all along.”

It took the older Weathers a moment to realize what his brother had just said. “Talk about treachery! Why those two-faced, rotten, ignoramuses… they’re going to pin this on me. It will give them an excuse to kill us all.”

Anger continued to build inside the Texan as he angled the plane low and toward the east. It was Grace who finally noticed their direction. “Where are we going, Dusty?”

“Payback,” was the cold response.

Despite anxiously anticipating the call for over an hour, Senator Hughes didn’t immediately reach for the receiver. The politician’s external calm was a conscious, intentional effort, designed to impress the other man in the room with his nerve and grit.

Acting as if he didn’t care about the call served another purpose as well. He watched his co-conspirator carefully, trying to detect any sign of weakness or lack of resolve.

Displaying a nonchalant expression, he waited until the third ring was vibrating through walls of his Capitol Hill office before stretching to pick up the phone.

The conversation was quick, a few short words, followed by a grunt from the senator. The politician didn’t utter a single word before placing the receiver back in its cradle.

“That Weathers must have the luck of the devil,” murmured Hughes as he slumped back into his office chair.

“I take it the missile strike failed,” replied Armstrong.

“Failed would be a complete understatement. Weathers escaped while all of the panel members in attendance were killed. I think it’s time we discussed Plan-B,” the senator stated flatly, reaching into a drawer to remove two glasses and an expensive bottle of scotch.

With a shake of his head, the admiral declined the offered drink.

Shrugging his shoulders, Hughes poured two fingers of the brown liquid into the glass. He seemed to be completely enthralled with the concoction as he swirled it around, finally taking a deep breath and throwing the liquor to the back of his throat.

The warm fluid seemed to have a calming effect, the legislator making eye contact with his guest as if he was now ready to conquer the world.

“Admiral, we need to decide quickly if we’re going to execute the contingency phase of our scheme or not. It won’t take the authorities long to figure out what happened. Weathers will be on the defensive now, and he won't be lured in quickly,” Richard stated.

The admiral shrugged, “I don’t really see where Weathers’ escape makes much difference. The analysis predicted a strong probability of failure. From my perspective, we go ahead with phase two. About the only thing that can derail our timeline is the Texan himself and how he reacts to what he thinks was the president trying to kill him. I vote we proceed immediately.

“Are your people in position?” asked Richard.

“Yes, they’ve been gathering Intel on the subject for the last three days. This stage of the operation should be far simpler than faking the orders to fire those missiles.”

“And what about the surveillance?”

Again, the admiral shrugged. “Sometimes in war there is collateral damage. A small price to pay for our cause.”

The senator again leaned back in his executive chair, his eyes drifting to a nearby window while he mulled over the next steps. “And what if Weathers doesn’t react as you’ve predicted? What if he just crawls back in a hole and hides?”

“He won’t.”

“How do you know that, Admiral? How can you be so sure?”

“I’ve been around men like Durham Weathers most of my life. Some I’ve commanded; others have been my superiors.... A few, I’ve hunted down and killed. You can call him a redneck, or a clod, or an unsophisticated hick, and all of those words might be true. But the one thing you can’t do is categorize the man as a coward. He’s already proven to possess the fortitude and courage to enter the battlefield and mix it up. He’s already experienced more firefights than most soldiers see in an entire career. I know what he’s made of, Senator, and I know how men like that think.”

“And?”

“And Durham Weathers is white-blind pissed about now. He’s not sitting around in a plush office, drinking scotch, and pondering tomorrow’s headlines. At this very moment, the only thing that is going through that man’s mind is how hard he’s going to kick the president in the balls for betraying a trust. My guess… the prez is going to be walking a little funny after that Texan strikes back.”

The engine’s unwavering drone served to slowly burn off the adrenaline surge. The smooth air and bright sunshine, combined with the mundane scenery of rural Kentucky passing beneath the wings, provided Mitch and Grace with a much-needed opportunity to settle frayed nerves.

Dusty, however, was a different story.

The betrayal seemed to push the lanky Texan into a heightened zone of fury, silent waves of rage filling the tiny cockpit as the trio continued to journey east. Grace made a few halfhearted attempts to break the ice, offering casual observations and unrelated small talk. Dusty was polite, but curt, and mostly unresponsive.

Mitch, recognizing his brother’s posture and demeanor, wisely remained quiet in the backseat, pretending to be occupied with the charts and maps he’d found stashed in the cramped area.

After they had been airborne for over an hour, it suddenly dawned on Grace that she had no idea where they were going. It seemed a fair question, given the circumstances. “I didn’t pack my bathing suit,” she began, thinking to lighten the mood. “Are we going to hideout in the Florida Keys? Better yet, I have always wanted to try the sand surfing in the Outer Banks in North Carolina.”

“I don’t know,” Dusty replied in a monotone. “Right now I’m just trying to think this all through and put some distance between them and us.”

Mitch, pondering the same question, spoke up. “Well, if you’re trying to avoid the authorities, you might want to turn a few degrees south. As of this moment, our flight path is going to pass right over Fort Knox, and that is restricted air space if I’m reading this chart correctly.”

A questioning look from his older brother prompted Mitch to hold the chart forward so Dusty could see for himself. After studying the large map for a moment, the pilot nodded. “Yes, that is a restricted area. The feds don’t want anybody buzzing over their precious gold reserve.”

Again, the cockpit was filled with nothing more than the propeller’s hum and passing wind noise. Mitch waited for Dusty to turn, but the adjustment never came.

“Are you going to change course, Dusty?” Mitch asked, almost as if he knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Nope.”

“Dusty?” came the worried question from the back.

But the older Weathers didn’t respond, his icy gaze never leaving the front windscreen.

Grace caught on, sensing something was wrong. “You two brothers might be able to communicate telepathically, or sense what the other is thinking, but I’m not a member of your little psychic group. What’s going on?”

“I’m going to send a message,” Dusty replied coldly. “I’m going to let Washington know I’m unhappy with this latest turn of events.”

It was Grace’s turn to ask the one-word question. “Dusty?”

“Mitch, hand me the rail gun,” Dusty said, his tone making it clear the subject wasn’t up for debate.

But Grace wasn’t going to back down that easily. “Durham Weathers, you better start finding words – right now. I don’t like where I think this is headed.”

“We’ve played it your way, Grace. I’ve listened to you, Mitch, and everybody else. Since this whole ordeal got started, I’ve ignored my instincts and gone with the flow. The high road has brought us nothing but pain, trauma, guilt, and death. Now, today, I’m going to let my gut do the talking, and it’s telling me that the beasts we’re dealing with don’t understand or respect anything but power. So I’m going to fight fire with fire.”

Dusty’s statements surprised Grace, his unexpected change in perspective undercutting her argument and position.

“Hand me the rail gun, Mitch. Right now.”

The younger Weathers knew better than to debate his sibling. He recalled the handful of times he’d confronted such resolve and knew arguing would be of no use. That tactic was sure to result in a significant escalation – not a good move with an angry man flying an aircraft.

“Okay, Dusty,” was all he said, reaching for the case. Besides, after the recent attempt on his life, a little payback wasn’t an entirely foreign concept to the professor.

Mitch even went so far as to do his brother a small favor, unpacking the device and handing it forward. Dusty reached inside his jacket and withdrew the vial of ball bearings, flipping on the power switch and waiting for the green LED to glow ready green.

Grace surprised both men, “You fly the plane. Let me do it. If we’re going to fight a war, I want to fire at least one shot.”

Dusty hesitated, his eyebrows arching skyward as he glanced over at the woman next to him. “Are you sure? There will probably be causalities.”

“How long before we’re within range?” she asked, ignoring his point.

Dusty glanced down at the GPS on the dash, his lips moving without sound as he did some quick calculations. “Eight, nine minutes. Why?”

“There’s been enough death today. How about I phone in a bomb scare, and we just take out the building? That still sends a pretty strong message.”

Dusty pondered the suggestion for a moment, quickly dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “I don’t think the Treasury Department is going to take a bomb scare seriously, Grace. That repository is one of the most heavily guarded facilities in the world. They would think it was a bluff.”

“Let me take care of that,” Grace answered, pulling her cell from a pocket.

After pushing a few buttons on the small screen, Grace pressed the phone up to her ear.

“This is Grace Kennedy,” Mitch and Dusty heard her say. “And a very pissed Grace Kennedy, I might add. I need to speak with Mr. Rhodes, and I need to do so right now.”

Covering the cell’s microphone, she whispered, “White House chief of staff,” to answer Dusty’s inquisitive look.

Returning the phone to her ear, Grace waited, glancing impatiently at the GPS display and the ground outside. Less than a minute later, a familiar voice came across the call.

“Miss Kennedy, I’m pleased to hear you survived the event in St. Louis. What the hell happened? I’ve just spoken with the president and…”

Grace cut him off, the ire in her voice rising to a level Dusty hadn’t heard before. “Save it, Rhodes, you two-faced bastard! You tried to kill us and missed. Now, you’re going to pay the price.”

“What? What are you talking about? We did no such….”

“Just shut your mouth and listen,” Grace interrupted again. “Time is of the essence. You have five minutes to evacuate the gold repository at Fort Knox. Get your people out, or you’ll have more dead federal employees to bury.”

“I don’t understand, Miss Kennedy? What are you saying?”

“Do you want to use up some of those precious minutes debating me? Shouldn’t you be on the phone, getting your people out of harm’s way?”

“We can’t just evacuate a federal….”

Grace didn’t let him finish. “Get them out, Mr. Rhodes. Your little gold vault isn’t going to exist in another four minutes and thirty seconds.”