The Olympus Device: Book Three (21 page)

“We have a letter that is being signed by practically everyone attending our little powwow. I want you to deliver it to the president, and make sure he accepts it,” the billionaire stated, his tone as serious as any Evan had ever heard.

“Sir, I can’t make the President of the United Sta.…”

Bill waved off the protest, stopping Evan short. “Yes, you can. Now I don’t care if you sell, threaten, bribe, or scare the Prez into agreeing with our proposal. That’s why you’re here… that’s your area of expertise.”

“And if he doesn’t want play along?”

“Then the people in this room and a host of those downstairs will lay waste to the president’s party. They’ll be lucky to be elected dogcatcher in the next election… if there is a next election. If he denies our offer, then make sure he understands that we are united and will not hesitate to ruin the man.”

Kingsley actually smiled, one of the few times Evan could recall such a reaction.

“Okay, Bill, I’ll be the messenger boy. Let’s hope the president isn’t shooting everyone who delivers bad news these days.”   

Admiral Armstrong scanned the old warehouse’s expansive interior, a brief moment of pride crossing the senior officer’s face as he took it all in. Long ago, this facility had been used by the Navy to store munitions and other replenishments for outgoing warships. That had been an era of dominance for his country, a time when his nation’s flag had plied the seas, flying atop of battlegroups that guaranteed supremacy and freedom.

Now, with a downsized fleet and questionable leadership at the helm, the voluminous, empty space had become one of countless such relics on the outskirts of Norfolk’s naval base. Relegated to the role of eyesore, it was a constant reminder of his nation’s decline.

But not today.

Instead of rows of crated bombs and stacks of ammunition pallets, Armstrong gazed at a large gathering of men. In the admiral’s mind, the loyal faces peering back at him were a far more potent weapon than any store of munitions. The old structure’s importance was restored, once again housing assets that would ensure America’s freedom and prominence.

He’d called them in the day before, summoning former comrades in arms with whom the admiral had served and commanded. Most of them had retired from the military, the vast majority being separated involuntarily, victims of the never-ending cutbacks and political gamesmanship with defense budgets. The military wanted younger men of lower rank. They were cheaper, more malleable, and didn’t compete for the few positions open in the senior ranks.

As he inventoried the men gathering across the warehouse’s concrete floor, Armstrong recalled their stories.

There was a captain and Navy Seal, the operator having been awarded three Purple Hearts. But the man’s bullet-damaged body could no longer pass the harsh physical minimums, and there weren’t any open spots at HQ. Less than three weeks before he would qualify for full retirement benefits, the captain was separated. He’d been easy to recruit.

Over there was a younger Marine, the 20-something kid having survived four deployments in the mountains of Afghanistan. A Navy doctor had determined the young warrior was showing preliminary signs of stress syndrome, and the sawbones had recommended a medical discharge.

The young Marine felt betrayed. The Corps was his family, life, and future. He had nothing else, nowhere else to go. One of the admiral’s colleagues had found the kid, living under an interstate overpass outside of Nashville. He’d been easy to recruit as well.

The men now filling the warehouse all had similar stories, tales of forced reduction, terrible VA medical care, and of a government that only wanted them to serve in hell, and then politely and quietly go away.

But now, the admiral would give them all a chance to set things straight.

Climbing onto the bumper of an up-armored Humvee, Armstrong waited a moment until the men quieted down.

"'Gentlemen, I have called all of you here for an important announcement. Today is a great day for our cause. As you all know, our government and the Commander in Chief have failed us. They've not only betrayed our colleagues, but the very people who elected them to lead. Our country has been poisoned by a bunch of filthy, incompetent political hacks who have ruined the American dream and made our nation the laughing stock of the world!”

Armstrong paused, scanning across the hundreds of faces, most of them holding rapt attention on his words. In the senior military man’s entire career, he’d never experienced such a feeling of pride. A slight smile, rare for such a serious man, turned up the corners of his lips before he continued.

“Not long ago we all shared a common vision, a guiding destiny that was founded on a strong, prosperous, and free America. Our founding fathers instilled these beliefs in all freeborn Americans. They were brave men of vision, who weren’t afraid to take on a corrupt, overbearing power that shackled their lives and denied them liberty. Now, I stand before you, living in much the same state as existed when those early patriots first raised their muskets against the British.”

The admiral again took a breath, noting that many of his listeners were nodding their heads in agreement. “So I ask all of you today… all who are gathered here... to follow me in a campaign to retake what our forefathers sacrificed so much to achieve. Follow me, and return America to what it was intended to be, and once was. A nation that is truly free. A country of action, not words, ruled by the strength and will of the people!”

Despite the years of military discipline instilled in the men watching Armstrong speak, they finally spoke out, several of the senior men responding with “Yes!” and “We’re with you, Admiral!”

Armstrong gave them a moment to settle, and then finished his speech.

“Washington is diseased, rotten to the core. Even as I speak, our president is cowering in fear, shaking like a coward because of one man from Texas. Our illustrious Commander in Chief has surrounded himself with the loyal guard, afraid of a single citizen and unwilling to face the enemy. All of you know deep in your hearts that if something isn’t done, our great nation will eventually surrender to a single man. Now is the time to strike, gentlemen, before it’s too late. It is that critical moment in time where great men step up and perform deeds to right a wrong. Now is our time. Are you with me?”

“Yes!” came the eruption from the gathered men, accented by shouts of support and fists pumping in the air.

“We need to march on the White House and purge it of all the filth inside!” Armstrong shouted over the din. “We will wipe the slate clean. The old guard must be burned down! And from the ashes, a new America will be born of our efforts. It’s time for a revolution, men! We will be the new hope of the people, and we will make sure America is once again the greatest nation on earth!”

The soldiers roared with approval as they pumped their fists in the air, breaking into a wild frenzy. Soon they started arming themselves and loading up into armored troop carriers and a few tanks. Armstrong watched as his forces readied themselves for the coming battle. A new era was about to be born.

The trio of outlaws arrived in Virginia just before dusk, tired, behind schedule, and generally grouchy. Their goal had been simple enough; they would motor cross-country, find a hotel outside of Washington proper, and finalize their plan after scouting the local area and conditions.

The initial harbinger of concern had been the traffic. Mitch had been taking his turn at the wheel, still 150 miles away from the District of Columbia’s official border, when their progress slowed to a painful crawl.

At first, they believed it was an accident or road construction, but after an hour of advancing only a few miles, Grace dialed up a traffic report on the AM radio. According to the excited announcer, the eastern seaboard between Richmond and Baltimore was gridlocked. The reason for the jam became apparent when the station switched to the news headlines. Washington was all but inaccessible.

Dusty knew they needed information. Car-tired and hungry, he decided to kill two birds with one exit ramp, when he pointed at a truck stop’s elevated sign advertising food, fuel, and lodging at the next exchange. “Let’s utilize one of the most expansive intelligence networks in the world,” he teased Mitch. “Truckers know everything. They already kept me from bumbling into the Kansas State Police’s crafty dragnet. We might learn how to get into Washington.”

It was decided that Dusty would remain in the SUV. The fugitive’s face was too well known to risk some sharp-eyed cashier recognizing the Texan. “We’ll bring you some takeout,” Mitch promised, donning a baseball cap and thick glasses.

“I’ll get you a salad and coffee,” Grace added, pulling her hair up into a makeshift bun that she hoped would serve as a disguise.

“A cheeseburger and fries would suit me just fine,” Dusty sighed, leaning the seat back and stretching his lanky frame. Tilting his hat’s edge low over his eyes, he added, “I think hardening of the arteries is the last of my worries about now.”

The diner resembled the road outside, full to the brim with a long wait. After 50 minutes idling around the gift shop and arcade, and examining the extensive variety of audio books and country music CDs, their name was finally called for a table.

After ordering the blue-plate special from a harried-looking waitress, Mitch and Grace sat back to listen, trying to tune into the surrounding tables and gather key facts. By the time the pork chops and mashed potatoes arrived, it was clear their entrance into the nation’s capital wasn’t going to be easy.

“I’ve still got six tons of beef sitting on my rig,” complained a driver at a nearby booth. “I was supposed to pick up a load of auto parts for New Jersey over 12 hours ago. This is worse than the blizzard of ’06.”

“I hope they catch that guy before my refrigerator unit goes bust,” stated another over the road operator. “The compressor’s squealing so bad it woke me up in the sleeper.”

For nearly an hour they sat, eating, drinking coffee, and listening. “I feel like I’m right in the middle of a massive therapy session,” Grace noted. “I’ve not heard so much bitching, moaning, and complaining since I attended a city council meeting.”

“One thing’s for sure,” Mitch replied, getting close to Washington from the north or west isn’t going to work. It sounds like the south is the best option.”

“There’s no way we can drive in,” Grace conceded. “I’ve heard mention of military checkpoints, searches, dogs, and even drones flying over the roadways. I don’t think our country’s leaders are anxious to meet your brother.”

“If they only knew Dusty like we do,” Mitch teased. “He’s totally misunderstood.”

After paying the ticket and leaving a tip, Grace inquired about lodging. She was disappointed to learn that the local hotels were all void of vacancies. In desperation, she blurted out a sob story about a sick uncle, being on the road for days, and utter exhaustion.

“Let me get on the computer and see what I can dig up,” the middle-aged clerk responded, apparently trying to help the rather attractive damsel in distress.

Five minutes later, Mitch and Grace returned to the SUV, cheeseburger and hotel reservation in hand. “It’s not the Four Seasons,” the lawyer informed Dusty, “But it beats sleeping in the car with two snoring men.”

“I don’t snore,” Mitch said innocently.

Rolling her eyes, Grace proceeded to give Dusty directions to the hotel.

The nation’s capital was basically converted into an armed camp. Checkpoints were erected on all major highways entering the District of Columbia, snarling the traffic flow despite the reduced number of people chancing the roadways.