Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two

by Joe Nobody

  Moaning distracted the agent, diverting his attention back to the men who were fighting alongside him before Weathers had fired his gun. Realizing they might need medical attention, Shultz summoned all of his strength and rolled over. Nausea surged through his torso, but he somehow kept it together.

  He looked up to see Dusty kneeling beside one of the fallen deputies, holding a bottle of water to the wounded fellow’s lips.

  “You’re under arrest,” Shultz managed to gasp.

  Weathers looked up, the sound of a voice startling him. Shultz noticed the man’s expression was serious for just a moment, and then a grin formed on his lips.

  “It’s good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” Weathers replied. “Most guys are a little sour after getting their asses kicked as badly as all this,” he continued, sweeping an arm to indicate the carnage that surrounded the two men.

  Shultz had to admit, the man had a point. He wasn’t capable of taking in a stray dog at the moment, and it probably showed.

  “I thought about letting them kill all of you,” Dusty admitted. “It crossed my mind, if only for a moment. But I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “Are they all dead?” Shultz asked, making a weak effort to look around.

  “Yes, they’re all dead.”

  There was a hint of sadness in the man’s voice Shultz realized, almost as if he regretted killing the invaders. “You brought this on,” the agent stated. “All of this is on you, and you know it.”

  Dusty stood and squared his shoulders. He stepped closer, towering over the prone agent, who for a moment thought the Texan was going to finish him off.

  Instead, Dusty smiled and said, “No, it’s on your head Mister FBI man. I didn’t want any of this. My conscience is clear.”

  Shultz grunted, “How can you possibly think that? You’ve left nothing but a path of destruction and death in your wake since College Station. I’m only trying to stop the killing. That’s all we’ve been trying to do.”

  It was Dusty’s turn to laugh. He knelt down and handed Shultz the bottle of water before responding. “I didn’t initiate any of the gunplay, sir. It was you and your kind that fired the first shot every time. If you and your law dogs had backed off and let me be, none of this would’ve happened.”

  “You know we couldn’t do that… that was never in the cards.” Shultz took another sip of the drink and then nodded at the rail gun slung across his adversary’s shoulder. “You’re holding a weapon of mass destruction. We can’t let people walk around controlling that sort of power. Look around if you need proof. Durham Weathers may be the nicest guy in the world, but that’s not going to stop every power-hungry megalomaniac on the planet from trying to get his hands on your damned invention. That dead man over my shoulder… the one with the broken neck… he’s one of the most ruthless men in the world. That’s Tio, the leader of the Gulf Cartel. He’s no doubt the guy who wanted your invention bad enough to invade a country. That’s why we’ve been trying to arrest you and seize that fucked-up piece of technology you’ve got hanging from your neck.”

  Dusty glanced up at the corpse, his eyes taking in the now-dead criminal. “What’s your name?”

  Shultz didn’t answer for a moment, the question taking him by surprise. The lack of response didn’t deter the man beside him. Dusty reached down and flipped the agent’s ID badge over so he could read the name.

  “Thomas Shultz. Well, Tom, it’s the power-hungry megalomaniacs in Washington that I’m most worried about. Think about it for a minute. Every invention, creation, and device that can be used as a weapon has been used as a weapon. Chemical, biological, nuclear… you name it. When my brother informed me of the potential power within my little discovery, the last people on earth I wanted controlling it were politicians. Handing over something like this is, has been, and always will be a receipt for human suffering. The difference with this little baby is that there’s no second chance. It can end it all if a mistake is made, and that scares the shit out of me.”

  “How’s that high and mighty philosophy working out for you?” Shultz asked, his good hand motioning toward the battlefield. “Sure looks like it’s already being used as a weapon to me.”

  “I’m not going to debate you on this. This isn’t the place or the time. What I do want is for you to take a message back to your superiors. Tell them to set up something… anything that keeps this technology from being used in warfare. I don’t care if it’s a collation of universities, a specially created commission, or a remote Pacific island that is guarded by aircraft carriers. Convince my brother that my rail gun will never be weaponized, and I’ll gladly hand it over in a heartbeat. Oh, throw in a presidential pardon for yours truly as well. I want to go back to my ranch and enjoy the company of a pretty girl I know back home.”

  “That’s never going to happen, Weathers, and you know it.”

  Dusty frowned, his eyes moving off to the pile of smoldering rubble that had just a few minutes ago been a huge industrial complex. “Then perhaps I should visit Washington with my little invention. Maybe our illustrious elected officials will give my proposal serious consideration after I demonstrate a money shot into the Potomac. The tsunami shouldn’t wipe out too much of DC.”

  Down the Tri-Materials lane, one of the burning police cruisers picked that moment to explode. The event caused Weathers to stand quickly and scan the area for a potential threat. After observing nothing that concerned him, Dusty glanced down at Shultz and continued, “You can stop this madness. It’s all so pointless. Deliver my message, Mister FBI Tom. Let them know I’m growing tired of playing cat and mouse. If they don’t come to their senses soon, I’ll be forced to get mean, and we all know where that will end up.”

  And with that, Dusty turned and began walking away. After two steps, he paused and looked over his shoulder, “Oh, and by the way, you’re welcome.”

  “Welcome for what?”

  “For my saving your life, Mister Tom. I could have let those thugs roll over your position and then toasted their asses. Think about that.”

  As Weathers continued on his way, Shultz reached inside his jacket and pulled his pistol. He flicked off the safety and managed to steady his shaking hand long enough to center the sights on Dusty’s back. His finger slowly put pressure on the trigger - but then he stopped.

  He couldn’t do it, and he didn’t know why. Did he feel a debt? Was it something the man had said?

  The effort drained the last of his energy, and he let the weapon slip to the ground and lowered his head. He watched Weathers trek away until the Texan had disappeared from his view. Shultz closed his eyes, wondering why he couldn’t put a bullet in the most wanted man on earth.

  An idea came to Dusty as he walked toward the road. His instinct to get away from the battlefield was overridden by the FBI agent’s words. He was a target, first for the Russians and now a drug cartel. Anger and frustration began to override the commonsense of escape. Maybe the elected leaders of his own country weren’t the only ones who needed a clear message.

  He changed course and returned to Tio’s dead body. Fueled by an ever-increasing rage, Dusty bent and lifted the drug lord’s body, hefting the lifeless form over his shoulder.

  He proceeded to one of the police SUVs, a large Suburban that appeared unharmed. He unceremoniously dumped Tio’s corpse onto the hood and then rummaged inside until he found a roll of duct tape in the back. A few moments later, Tio was secured to the front of the vehicle like a trophy deer being taken down from the mountains.

  Dusty hopped inside his newly requisitioned ride and headed from Laredo.

  Colonel Zeta examined the roadblock with a critical eye. It was the third such formation he’d inspected in the last 15 minutes.

  All of the main roadways into Laredo were now home to such obstacles. The nationalist inside of the colonel was proud that his men had fought so well. The military man within him knew their glory would be short lived if Tio didn’t return soon with the pr
omised super-weapon.

  “You have too many men huddled too closely to this barricade,” he chided the inexperienced officer in charge. “The Americans will put a Hellfire missile up your ass if they catch you bunching up like this. Spread your men out and keep them out of sight.”

  The nervous leader seemed confused, looking around as if trying to identify suitable cover for his squad.

  Frustrated, Zeta pointed at a corner gas station. “Use that structure over there. Keep two men here and shelter the rest inside of that building. They’ll have plenty of time to react if there is a counterattack.”

  Without waiting for any response, the colonel leapt back into the idling Land Rover and sped off.

  As he drove to the next roadblock, Zeta couldn’t help but gaze up at the sky. He knew it was a worthless use of time as the odds of spotting any American aircraft or drones were low. Still, his eyes drifted skyward.

  They had lost over 350 men taking the city. After recovering from the initial shock of the assault, the American law enforcement officers had fought bravely, vicious pockets of resistance that took time, ammunition, and casualties to overcome. While this stubbornness had been somewhat anticipated, the reaction of the local population had not.

  The response from the citizens of Laredo reminded the colonel of the quote, You can never invade the American Mainland – there will be a rifle behind every blade of grass.

  Zeta grunted, now having had firsthand experience with those rifles. The Mexican officer didn’t know who had coined that little bit of wisdom. Many believed it had been Admiral Yamamoto of Japan, but that was incorrect. No matter the source, the adage had been proven accurate in Laredo that afternoon.

  While 350 causalities were still considered acceptable losses, Zeta’s forces had been surprised by the ferocity of the common civilians. It seemed that every shopkeeper, bartender, and housewife possessed a weapon of some sort. Once word began to spread of the invasion, the police were often joined by everyday men and women, firing everything from deer rifles to old revolvers at his men.

  The entire situation had hurt the morale of his troops. Killing uniformed, armed government servants was one thing. Taking down older men barricaded inside the local VFW was another. Worse yet, his men considered themselves liberators of a sort. The commander had overheard more than a few rumblings from his men – his troops amazed by the hostile reception they had received from the local Mexican Americans.

  Some of his men had been motivated by what they saw as a long history of abuse and discrimination against their countrymen. While no one had envisioned joyful parades celebrating the liberators, they definitely hadn’t anticipated having to kill so many members of their own race.

  Zeta was himself shocked by the reaction of the local Latinos. They had resisted his efforts with as much grit and determination as the Anglos. He recalled coming across one injured man, lying in the street and bleeding out. A rusty relic of a shotgun was lying nearby, evidence that his men had taken fire from the old man.

  At least sixty years old, the leathery hands and wrinkled face were those of someone who labored outdoors. For some reason, Zeta had paused, bending down next to the old fellow and asking in Spanish, “Why did you fight us? We are your countrymen.”

  “You are from the old world,” the man sputtered, anger resonating in his voice. “I came here twenty years ago to find a new life. You bring the rotting decay of the old world with you. This is a better place, and you shouldn’t be here.”

  Zeta shook his head, wondering why his thinking was so far off from the reality on the streets around him. It was troubling.

  And now Tio was late.

  Zeta had estimated it would take four to six hours for the Americans to respond. It would be growing dark in another two, and he wanted to be either back across the border or on the offensive before the light faded. It all depended on Tio and the actual power of the super-weapon. If it were even half as effective as some claimed, they would expand their beachhead on U.S. soil and rally the rest of the Mexican army to join their cause.

  But now he was beginning to have doubts. It had been two hours since the syndicate boss had taken his handpicked soldiers and charged forward to capture the prize. With his typical overconfidence, Tio had commented, “I’ll be right back,” before pulling out of Laredo.

  Parking the SUV at the next cluster of his men, Zeta found this group was better prepared. He was met by a serious-looking young officer who saluted smartly.

  “Sir, how long before the Americans start dropping bombs on our heads?” the skittish man asked.

  Zeta managed to keep the grin off his face, happy that the young soldier was thinking ahead. “They won’t use bombers. As long as we are integrated tightly with the civilian population, they won’t risk killing their own people. When they come, they’ll use conventional ground forces.”

  “Armor?”

  The colonel shook his head, “Unlikely. It takes longer to arm, fuel and transport heavy armor. The worst thing we’ll see in the next 10 hours will be helicopter gunships. We have a ready supply of ground-to-air missiles if that’s the case.”

  The kid didn’t seem convinced. “Are we here on a suicide mission, sir? We caught the Americans off guard, but that element won’t last long. My men are becoming concerned. We feel like sitting targets just mulling around, waiting to be attacked.”

  “I’m concerned as well,” Zeta admitted. “We should know the outcome of Tio’s efforts shortly. If he has not returned here by dusk, I’ll pull us back over the border and into our native land. We can deal with the Federales later.”

  The mere fact that the colonel had a plan that didn’t involve certain death seemed to settle the younger man down. Zeta was about to move on when excited voices began shouting at the roadblock.

  Just as he’d expected, the invaders had barricaded the road at the onset of Laredo. Dusty pulled the SUV to the side and stepped from behind the wheel. The rail gun’s scope provided an excellent view of the armed men scrambling into positions. For a moment, Dusty was tempted to fire the weapon, the concept of anyone holding American soil offending to the Texan.

  “But that’s not what I’m here for,” he whispered as he lowered the rail.

  Walking beside the open door of the SUV, he reached inside and pulled the transmission into gear. The engine’s idle was enough to move the heavy vehicle forward at a snail’s pace.

  Twenty steps later, Dusty felt like he had the slow rolling Suburban headed in a reasonably straight line. He took his hand from the wheel and stepped aside, watching his message as it headed toward the roadblock just over 500 yards ahead. The terrain on both sides of the road was flat and featureless, so even if his aim was off, he was sure its meaning would be understood.

  He watched the SUV travel for a few moments, and then he proceeded south, trotting through a new subdivision, toward the Rio Grande.

  Zeta lowered the binoculars and ordered, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”

  He turned toward the lieutenant and instructed, “Send a man out to retrieve that truck. There’s a body taped to the hood, and I want to verify its identity.”

  The Suburban had rolled off the road, coming to a stop against the curb some 200 yards shy of the cartel’s barricade. Still, it was close enough for Zeta to view the corpse secured to the hood. A feeling of fear began to rise in the officer’s gut.

  A few minutes later, one of his soldiers drove the police SUV to the barricade. Zeta walked over, holding up Tio’s head by the hair.

  “You failed… you incompetent son of a bitch… you failed. Now we all may die,” the frightened officer hissed.

  Pivoting on his heel, Zeta shouted, “Everybody back across the bridges! Now! Hurry! Tio is dead, and the Americans will be coming for our heads!”

  Radio broadcasts sounded throughout Laredo, the military walkie-talkies carrying the order to withdraw. The meaning was clear to even the lowest private – something had gone badly wrong, and it was time to fl
ee.

  Men began scrambling, trying to carry looted booty and their weapons at the same time. Commandeered trucks and cars raced through the streets of the town, tires squealing as their engines raced south… to the bridges… to safety.

  Colonel Zeta tried to maintain order and discipline, but it was nearly impossible. His men were frightened, the flush of the easy victory suddenly replaced by the enormity of their foe. The U.S. military forces would be coming, and they would be pissed. Not a single man expected anything less than a merciless, crushing response.

  Toward safe passage on the other side of the Rio Grande they fled, bustling, shouting groups of men who acted as though they were being chased by Satan and an army of demons. Zeta followed, a zombie-like trance replacing the enthusiasm of a dream fueled by revenge. Not only had he allowed his sister to perish horribly, now the souls of all of these men would haunt him forever.

  Despite the profane deflation engendered by their failure, Zeta’s training refused to abandon discipline. Passing a squad that was trying to hotwire a flatbed truck, he ordered them to cease the effort and retreat. Another group, intent on one last looting pass at a jewelry store, was shouted into submission. His radio transmitted stern orders to maintain a rear guard.

  Zeta continued driving slowly toward the south, his last mission in life to save as many of his men as possible. Deep down inside, the colonel was a defeated man. He no longer feared death, no longer cared about himself. Glancing down at the pistol he had used to execute the insubordinate ass at the jail, Zeta smiled. He’d use the same weapon to end his own life as soon as his men were safely across the border.

  Dusty pulled down the fire escape ladder and climbed. He found himself on the roof of a two-story building overlooking the valley and downtown Laredo. The fiery red of the late afternoon sun colored the great river’s water with a dark crimson hue, a stark contrast to the pale steel and concrete structures of the five paths crossing over the waterway.