Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two

by Joe Nobody

  The camera switched to a close up of the director’s face. Shultz could plainly see the beads of sweat forming on the man’s forehead. Still, the head of the FBI maintained his cool. “I’m sorry, Bill. Was there a question there?”

  Now it was the reporter’s turn to grow emotional. “I’ll be blunt, sir. I’m seeing a trail of evidence that points to a cover up on a massive scale. And what’s even more troubling is that I can’t see any good reason why - unless there was a complete mishandling of the situation.”

  It was clear to Shultz that his boss didn’t like the words “cover up,” a deep scowl appearing on the head FBI man’s face. But he didn’t say a word.

  Frustrated, Bill turned to the camera and said, “In the next segment, we’ll have the House minority leader here to discuss the new tax proposal being floated in Congress next week. We’ll be right back.”

  Shultz switched off the television, partially disgusted by his lack of diversion, mostly troubled by the fact that the cat was out of the bag.

  Despite 20 plus years as an FBI agent, he couldn’t always walk the agency line. There were certain cases, narrow situations where he was forced to be nothing more than a simple man. A man who was forced to pay heed to his conscience and soul – not some law or a superior’s wishes.

  Deep inside, he knew the reporter on television was right. The entire case surrounding the Olympus Device had been mishandled from the start. Weathers had never been granted an ounce of “presumed innocence.” The man had been judged a terrorist and enemy of the state based on circumstantial evidence, political innuendo, and…

  Shultz stopped, suddenly realizing where this train of thought was taking him. It was fear that had driven Special Agent Monroe to react as he had. Fear of terrorists and another attack like 9-11.

  He leaned back on the couch, staring at the blank screen across the room. The NSA spying, drone technology usage, and bypassing the warrant process were all symptoms of one thing. The agency’s reaction to Weathers was a direct result of an underlying current that had swept through every federal agency since Bin Laden had ordered the planes into the towers.

  The terrorists had won. If their objective had been to alter America, they had achieved their goal. Despite the loss of every major engagement on the battlefield. Regardless of the fact that most of the men who had ordered the attack on the United States were either dead or imprisoned – they had achieved their objective. More powerful than any elected official or political party, they had become policymakers. They had rendered permanent changes to every American’s personal liberty in a single attack. No doubt about it, they had won.

  When Shultz first joined the FBI, the act of gathering evidence via electronic eavesdropping was a major step, often requiring several levels of approval before a warrant was even sought. Now, electronic intelligence was harvested en masse, without question.

  The use of military grade capabilities was never considered, not even by Herbert Hoover. As far as Shultz knew, the agency hadn’t even thought about using spy planes like the U2 or the Blackbird, despite that technology being available since the 1960s.

  The Air Force had been launching sophisticated satellites for decades, concentrating those space-based eyes and ears on the evil empire of the Soviet Union. If anyone from the bureau had suggested using military birds for crime fighting in the 70s or 80s, they would have been laughed out of the organization.

  Since the towers had come down, that was no longer the case. America had changed.

  Shultz grunted, remembering the uproar over the leaked NSA papers and that agency’s use of computer technology and the internet to gather intelligence. “If they only knew,” he whispered to the empty hotel room.

  After 9-11, America’s ultra-powerful space-based technology was being employed within her own borders. The authorities were careful, utilizing small portions of the information being gathered here and there. Petty crimes, like murder, assault, and kidnapping rarely warranted access to the unbelievable amount of data available. It was a well-kept secret, even more so since the exposure of the NSA’s capabilities and procedures.

  Even a case as important as the Olympus Device required serious players at the very top of the government and military to clear the barriers. Other than rumors and the occasional miracle break in spoiling an anti-terror plot, Shultz had only heard whispers about the true capabilities.

  Oh, there had been the rare mistake. A television reporter, monitoring the manhunt for the Boston Marathon bombers had accidently been shown images from one of the orbiting platforms. That video, depicting the heat signature of a body curled up in a small boat, had even been published as “infrared video shot from a law enforcement helicopter.”

  Shultz had used infrared devices – they couldn’t see through glass, let alone the canvas cover of a boat. Some quick cleanup had been performed, state police logos added along with clever editing of actual helicopter footage. Few had noticed the security breech.

  Was it right? Was it moral and just? Such questions were above his pay grade, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the agency’s actions hadn’t catapulted a simple investigation into one man’s war against his country’s leadership. Would the Port of Houston be a smoldering ruin if they had just talked to Weathers? Would Schultz have over a dozen funerals on his calendar if they hadn’t jumped to conclusions?

  The interim FBI lead investigator knew what Monroe’s response would be. He could just hear the senior agent’s mental wheels turning, evidence of his intellect kicking into high gear. “We were not paying attention when Al Qaeda soldiers were taking flying lessons right under our noses. Over 3,000 Americans perished because of it. Every time we let down our guard, innocent people die. Someone didn’t follow up on the Boston Marathon bombers, and we paid the price. Not on my watch. Not in my region.”

  Why didn’t a man such as Durham Weathers trust his government? Shultz had spent a lot of time pondering that very question. Every indication was the West Texan was a common, law-abiding citizen. He was a political agnostic at worst, uninterested at best. Shouldn’t Agent Monroe have investigated this citizen before unleashing the full force and vengeance of the United States upon the man?

  There was now a pinprick hole in the government’s dam of secrecy. Words like “cover up” had been broadcast on national television. It wouldn’t be long before the term “conspiracy” would follow. More people would join the ranks of those who felt like Weathers, deeply distrusting their elected officials and perhaps even the entire system. How long before those ranks would swell to encompass the majority?

  “The terrorist’s victory grows more profoundly every single day,” he mumbled. “Bin Laden wanted to ignite a revolution, and now a man from West Texas might just finish the job for him.”

  Agent Shultz wasn’t the only person analyzing the FBI director’s interview. In her living room, 600 miles away, Grace sat on her couch pondering what she had just watched.

  Going to the press had always been the last straw. It was an irreversible act fraught with the potential of unintended consequences.

  She fully understood the American political mind. No matter the subject, person or cause, one third of Americans would be on the positive side of the ledger, one-third on the negative. It was the uncommitted, middle-of-the road group that politicians, businesses, and marketers courted and cajoled.

  Only rarely did these mathematical parameters vary. The list of exceptions included a very limited number of events where the population could be expected to behave outside this norm. Attacking U.S. citizens, or American soil, were sure ways to initiate public outcry by 90 percent of the general populace. Harming a child unified public opinion against the perpetrator at an even slightly higher percentage, but generally speaking, the country divided by the “one-third/one-third/one-third” paradigm.

  Going public with Dusty’s story wouldn’t be one of the exceptions. She fully expected one-third to instantly demand his head on a pike, while the remainder of the pop
ulation would fall somewhere between neutral and supportive.

  The press had traditionally played the role of equalizer in the American story. Corruption, draconian policies, cover-ups, and graft had long been favorite objectives of the media. Of course, that news model had not been the norm for decades… not since the old days… when the broadcasts were about real journalism, more about searching for the truth and less about image surveys, target marketing, and ratings. She couldn’t count on the press digging into the facts and using the truth to bolster Dusty’s position.

  “How would the average American view Dusty Weathers if I got on national TV and told his story?” she whispered in a hushed voice. “Would he become another terrorist like the men who bombed Oklahoma City? Or would he become a folk hero, swept into popularity like the lore of outlaws as recent as John Dillinger? Would he become a Paul Revere or a John Wilkes Booth?”

  Switching off the television, she meandered to the kitchen and began heating water for tea. Given the turmoil in her world, a cup of the relaxing brew before turning in was now more important than ever.

  As the burner’s flames licked around the edges of the teapot, her mind wandered again to the topic that had dominated her thoughts for weeks – Durham Weathers.

  Before tonight’s broadcast, going public with their side of the story wasn’t an option. The one article published to date, the piece in the Houston Post, had been dismissed by the national media as hyperbole and conjecture.

  The fact that she would be going up against a very skilled and powerful propaganda machine wasn’t to be sold short. Politicians, government officials, and law enforcement leaders were expert manipulators of public opinion. They routinely and deftly used the press as a promotional machine.

  “The President of the United States versus Grace Kennedy, small town lawyer,” she mumbled as the pot began to whistle. “What chance would I have?”

  Dusty had caused the destruction of personal property and community assets as well as a mounting body count. His actions had directly influenced the lives of thousands of citizens, mostly in a negative context. The authorities would play that up, using the violence to rally public opinion against him. Before tonight, she wouldn’t have stood a chance of being heard by open minds.

  But now things had changed. The interview with the FBI director had cracked the government’s façade. Perhaps only a tiny fracture, but an opening nonetheless.

  Pouring the steaming water over the chamomile infusion blended with bits of peach and pineapple, she took a moment to savor the aroma. A half-teaspoon of raw honey resulted in a formula she often termed, “liquid happiness.”

  Carefully sipping the brew, she meandered back to her room to prepare for bed. “Do I have the skills to plead Dusty’s case to the American people?” she questioned. “Can I overcome the spin-jobs, propaganda, and credibility of the DOJ and FBI?”

  The answer, up until now, had always been a resounding “No.” While there had been some examples of the government losing media backing, they were rare.

  Cattle ranchers, a favorite American icon of independence and self-reliance, had managed to take on a myriad of agencies over the years to varying degrees of success. Native American uprisings were often viewed through a positive lense by the public as well. But those incidents were few and far between.

  She placed her cup on the nightstand and pulled back the comforter and sheets. “I need the skills of a Madison Avenue publicist,” she grinned. “I wish I could engage a personal image consultant to give Dusty Weathers a makeover.”

  Then another thought occurred. “If I do go public with this tale, every outlaw, tin pan dictator, and ne’er-do-well will want to get his hands on that rail gun. Plastering this story in front of an entire viewing audience might be the equivalent of signing a death sentence for Dusty, rendering all of his sacrifice and suffering for naught.”

  Taking one last sip of the calming brew, she reached a conclusion. “No, I’m going to work this in the background, out of the public eye. The stakes are too high.”

  Day Eight

  Dusty poured the last of the feed into the dispenser, stepping back carefully to avoid hurting any of the gathering chickens. “I can go have breakfast now that you guys are fed,” he said to the uncaring animals flocking around his feet.

  He noticed Penny and one of the girls by the house and waved. They returned the greeting, and the older of the two motioned that he should join them.

  “Good morning!” she greeted, obviously in a good mood.

  “Fine day it is,” Dusty replied with a smile.

  “My husband’s hearing is today,” she announced. “I’m taking the girls with me to the courthouse. I hope to have my partner back this afternoon.”

  Dusty had mixed emotions about the news. He was just settling in and was unsure of what Mr. Boyce’s return would mean to his room and board arrangement.

  “I’ve finished the morning chores,” he responded. “This is sure to be a stressful day for you - regardless of the outcome. Would you like for me to go with you?” Dusty offered, not really knowing what else to say.

  Penny nodded and produced a slip of paper. “I’ve got a list of things we need from the co-op. If you wouldn’t mind dropping us off and then doing a little shopping, it would save another trip into town.”

  Twenty minutes later, they were all loaded into the truck and heading into Laredo.

  The Tri-Materials entrance was just under two miles down the road. As they passed, Penny couldn’t help but glare at the facility, the massive building’s silhouette projecting a foreboding image in the early grey light.

  Beyond the guard shack and heavy gate, a winding blacktop drive lead to an impressive menagerie of pipes, valves, and storage tanks. The main plant, larger than a big-city high school, looked like some sort of evil baron’s castle. The two skyward reaching smokestacks were the bastion’s towers, each exhausting thin trails of some bluish vapor.

  “Seems like an odd place for such a massive industrial plant. Not much else around here to help with the supply chain,” Dusty commented.

  “After the NAFTA treaty was signed, there was an explosion of growth along this area of the border. The oversized manufacturing companies found cheap land on both sides of the Rio Grande and a horde of small municipalities willing to provide tax incentives,” Penny replied. “Most of the activity was closer to Brownsville. There are a few towns over that way that I remember as sleepy, quiet little farming communities. These days, the fields of corn, cotton and sugar cane have been replaced with acres of shipping containers and factories.”

  Dusty frowned, “I guess I don’t know much about big business because I still can’t make the connection. Why did the treaty change everything?”

  Penny grunted, shaking her head. “They use cheap labor on the Mexican side and more skilled workers on our side. With the treaty, they can transport the goods back and forth without tariffs, inspections, or fees. If whatever your company makes requires both types of employees, this is the best place to do it – or so I am told.”

  Dusty nodded, the explanation making sense.

  As they entered the outskirts of town, Penny fussed over the girls, straightening hair and inspecting clothing. “We’re supposed to meet my husband’s lawyer a little early. He wanted me to bring the girls to make a good impression on the judge. He said if we look like an all-American family, it might help lower the bail.”

  “Makes sense,” Dusty replied, growing uneasy as they drove into the more densely populated area.

  “Mr. Hastings is an old friend of my father’s. He’s been the one bright spot in this whole affair. He even came out of retirement to take the case,” she added.

  Dusty pulled the pickup to the curb and watched silently as Penny and her children climbed out of the cab. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” she smiled. “Wish me luck.”

  “It will be fine,” he smiled, trying to quell the nervousness. “You guys look like you could have walked out
of a Norman Rockwell painting, and that is sure to help the cause. Good luck!”

  After watching the Boyce clan mount the courthouse steps, he put the truck into gear and pulled out into the light flow of small-town traffic. Penny had drawn a rough map for directions to the co-op, and he unfolded the paper as he rolled toward a four-way stop sign.

  Figuring out the directions, he started to pull forward and almost hit two men who appeared out of nowhere, obviously in a hurry as they hustled across the street. Pushing hard on the brakes, Dusty managed to stop the front bumper just inches from the pedestrians.

  One of the men, now upset, slapped his palm on the hood and bellowed, “Hey! Watch where the fuck you’re going, buddy.”

  “Sorry, didn’t see…” Dusty started, and then recognized the Tri-Materials security guard from the encounter at the fence.

  The man knew instantly who Dusty was as well.

  The two stared at each other across the old truck’s hood for just a moment, and then the Tri-Mat security man continued across the street trying to catch up with his half-jogging partner. Dusty watched as the goon glanced over his shoulder, casting a nasty look in his direction. But he didn’t stop. They continued on, quickly disappearing around the corner.

  Dusty shook his head, whispering a half-felt joke about winning friends and influencing people in his new hometown. He started to cross the intersection again, when a sense of curiosity entered his mind.

  “What are they doing at the courthouse?” he mumbled.

  “That guy clearly wanted another shot at kicking my ass. Wonder where they were going that was important enough for him to bypass such a prime opportunity?”