The Olympus Device: Book Three (11 page)

Pulling the phone away and ending the call, Grace reached across and hefted the rail gun. “Okay, how do you aim this thing?”

For the first time since they’d been airborne, Dusty smiled.

From the air, the distant building didn’t look all that imposing. But Dusty knew better.

It was easy to spot the facility, despite Dusty keeping the plane low. To begin with, the thick, green Kentucky foliage ordinarily so prevalent in the area was trimmed back a consider distance. It was as if someone had erected the impressive structure in the middle of a cornfield.

In addition to the lack of neighbors, the ground immediately surrounding the repository consisted of acres of poured concrete. The large sections of flat, unadorned surface reminded the Cessna’s passengers of a shopping mall’s parking lot. But no cars were parked here.

Fields of defensive fire
, Dusty realized.
Ain’t nobody going to sneak up on the men guarding the gold; that’s for sure.

“Where should I aim?” Grace asked as they approached.

“At the base of the building, dead center,” came the cold response. “Set the power rating at 35%. I hear the vault is over 20 inches thick.”

“Dusty, are you sure that much power is the best idea?” Mitch asked from the back. “Kentucky already has Mammoth Cave…. They don’t need another cavern.”

“Okay, dial it back to 30%,” the older brother conceded, as if it would make an appreciable difference.  

They were now close enough to spot men scrambling from the front of the structure, running toward a smaller building that everyone assumed was the headquarters for the security staff. “I think they took your phone call seriously,” Dusty commented, nodding toward the running men.

“How close do we have to be?”

“Any time now. Maybe give the guards a few more seconds.”

Again, Mitch sounded from the back. “Dusty, don’t they have Apache attack helicopters at Fort Knox? I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to hang around and see if they try and protect that gold.”

Born of a love of all flying machines, Dusty had studied the famous warbird. “They have a top speed of just over 180 mph, a little faster than the rental we’re flying. Still, I think we’ll have enough of a head start to make a clean getaway.”

Dusty studied Grace and nodded toward the still-distant federal facility. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I got you into this, Durham Weathers. I convinced you to attend their meeting. They tried to kill me, too. They lied to me. I can feel a need for revenge as much as the next girl.”

“Then go ahead and punch a hole in that thing,” Dusty replied. “And then we’ll get the hell out of Dodge City before they can scramble those gunships.”

Grace pushed open the aircraft’s small vent window, increasing the air noise inside the cabin. She hefted the rail gun to the opening as Dusty leveled off their flight. “Wait,” he said at the last moment, “We should all put in ear protection. I almost forgot.”

It took Mitch another few moments to dig through the case and provide each of the cockpit’s occupants with a pair of the spongy plugs. “Okay, go ahead,” Dusty coached, stuffing a marshmallow-like unit in each ear.

Grace centered the crosshairs just as Dusty had instructed, her finger slowly squeezing the trigger.

The black pipe appeared, Mitch catching a blink of the discoloration as the rail gun’s shot drew a perfectly straight line between the plane and the depository in the distance. It was the first time the curious professor had seen the device fired in the field.

For a microsecond, the physics guru was disappointed. Other than a small puff of dust and the slight distortion as the universal portal opened, there didn’t seem to be much of a show. The question, “Did it misfire?” was forming in his throat when turbulence rocked the tiny plane.

Dusty had been expecting the wall of air, hands tight on the controls, feet at the ready. Despite being at a right angle to the vacuum tunnel created by the collapsing portal, the Cessna took a beating equal to any thunderstorm.

The plane was buffeted for what seemed like several minutes to both pilot and passengers alike. Dusty fought hard to keep the craft level, his feet and hands a blur on the controls.

In reality, the blast wave only lasted a few seconds, but that was more than enough time to test the Texan’s skill and nerve. The earth’s atmosphere calmed back down, and then they returned to a quiet, smooth ride.

Mitch noticed none of it.

The professor’s angle on the bullion-bin was perfect, his scientific eyes unable to pry from inspecting the shot’s impact.

With his mind running at a slow-motion speed, he watched as the walls of the limestone and granite fortress seemed to momentarily swell, as if someone were inflating a balloon.

Then it popped.

The walls, mostly whole, went sailing through the air while the imposing roof shot skyward. Mortar dust, dirt, and pulverized rock debris created an expanding cloud of gray and swirling white. The shock wave rolled across the open ground surrounding the ex-structure, first slamming into the nearby headquarters building and its employee parking lot.

Of all the images of destruction and chaos, the one scene that burned into Mitch’s memory was of the cars and trucks being tossed into the air like an angry toddler’s toys.

The blast wave continued its concentric advance, a crushing wall of air moving outward at the speed of sound. Nearly a half-mile away, Mitch watched a tree line fall, the sturdy hardwoods smashed like bowling pins struck by a perfectly rolled ball.

“Damn,” Dusty grunted, finally getting the aircraft under control. “Maybe firing that thing off from a plane isn’t such a hot idea.”

Mitch looked green, but his color wasn’t from the rough ride. Grace’s face was in the same color palette, her skin taking more of an ashen tone. Neither of their conditions was due to potential airsickness, both of them staring at the smoldering hole that had once been an enduring symbol of America’s wealth and might.

“I warned you 30% was too much power,” Mitch mumbled from the back.

“Honey, I think I burned the pot roast,” Grace added, her eyes never leaving the devastation.

The need for fuel, food, and facilities contributed to Dusty’s decision to land the plane. “I’m a lady,” Grace said, announcing the obvious. “You men might be able to go out the window for all I know, but those of us belonging to the fairer half of the species occasionally need a powder room.”

Dusty knew they were burning fuel at an alarming rate. He’d kept the plane low like a crop duster, hoping to avoid radar, and that tactic was draining the tanks quickly. His determination was part common sense, but mostly based on experience. The need to go unnoticed hammered into his conscious mind since that first, horrific day outside College Station where he’d tangled with F16 Falcons. That wasn’t an episode he wanted to repeat.

With Mitch scanning the charts and guides, they found a small, semi-private airport in Northern Tennessee that advertised all of the necessary requirements, including the fact that it was “unattended” during weekdays.

“It will take the authorities a while to regroup,” Dusty announced. “The White House has to be very careful how they proceed. I’m sure they want to control the dialog with the press, so calling for an all-out manhunt probably won’t happen for some time. We should be able to refuel, put some more distance between ourselves and Fort Knox, and then find someplace to hide.”

“But what’s the long-term plan?” Grace asked, not really expecting an answer.

“My wife is going to be going nuts,” Mitch chuckled nervously, “I’m not cut out to be an outlaw… like my brother.”

“You should call her as soon as we’re in the air again,” Dusty replied. “But that will have to be the last time. The authorities will be breathing down her neck after they figure it all out.”

After circling the field and finding it was indeed void of occupation, Dusty landed without incident.

Dusty found the fuel cart, basically a 50-gallon drum on wheels. It was locked and chained, the Texan grimacing as he popped the latch using a length of nearby pipe.

Grace busied herself buying cold soft drinks from a machine outside the small, closed office, the only sustenance available. “So now we can add theft, destruction of property, and trespassing to the list of charges against you, Mr. Weathers,” she teased, watching Dusty pump fuel into the Cessna. “I hope you’re a man of substance because my bill for defending you is going to be outrageous.”

“Can I take it out in trade?” Dusty winked, smiling for only the second time that day.

Grace was game, her eyes roving up and down the tall Texan’s frame. “I suppose we might be able to work something out… if you still look this good after you’re released from prison.”

Once the thirsty plane was refueled, Dusty pushed the cart back to its original spot, and then proceeded to slide an envelope through the office’s mail slot. “Sorry about the lock. It was an emergency. This should cover it,” he’d scrawled on the back, stuffing two $100 bills inside.

The Texan’s gaze drifted to a nearby bulletin board, his eyes ignoring the usual for-sale sheets, a lost dog, and an advert for a plane mechanic. What drew his attention was a poster-sized bill for a new housing development, complete with community center, lakefront lots, and a private airstrip.

“Model homes shown by appointment only,” he read. “I wonder if that means there’s no one on site?”

Mitch strolled over, curious to see what was holding his brother’s attention. “Thinking about relocating to Tennessee?” he asked, trying to join the jovial, gallows humor that seemed to grip his plane-mates.

“As a matter of fact,” Dusty whispered. “Can you go get the chart book? I wonder if this development is so new it’s been included.”

A few minutes later, Dusty had a plan.

They took off without incident, sipping the sugary drinks Grace had procured. Dusty pointed the small craft toward the southeast, his fingers punching in coordinates via the small GPS keypad. The display soon showed the correct heading, estimated arrival, and fuel required for the leg. The Texan kept the plane low. Not crop dusting low, but at an altitude that made Mitch nervous whenever a strand of tall trees appeared ahead.