The Olympus Device: Book Three

by Joe Nobody

  Mitch now replaced his brother as the man in hiding, keeping the rail gun at his side while maintaining a safe distance from the proceedings. He was also an insurance policy of sorts.

  Dusty and Grace didn’t trust the government, or more accurately, the couple had little faith in the hearts of men. While both had thought it best not to bring the weapon into the conference room, the older Weathers had taken the precautions a step further.

  “We insisted on having a man in the control tower,” Dusty announced. “That is going to be you, Mitch. Take the rail gun along. From up there, you can see St. Louis and the bridges crossing the Mississippi. If they try any shenanigans, we’ll threaten to drop a span or two… maybe the arch. I’m sure they’ll see things our way.”

  At first, Mitch thought it was a bad joke, but it soon became apparent his older brother was absolutely serious. “We need an ace up our sleeve,” Dusty had insisted. “A card to play if things get rough. If they try any shit, drop a railroad bridge. In another ten minutes, level something more valuable. Keep on going until either they let us go or kill you. It’s our only option.”

  Now, with a steaming cup of brew sitting right next to the world’s most powerful weapon, Mitch wasn’t so sure he could execute Dusty’s wishes. He was a scientist, not a killer. And while the first target of a railroad crossing might not cause any deaths, the professor realized that eventually his wrecking of the riverside city would result in causalities. Eventually his own.

  As usual, Dusty’s forethought had been sage. The control tower’s elevated perch allowed for the best view of the entire facility, thus making it difficult for any assault teams or snipers to stalk around the area. If airborne assets were going to be part of any betrayal, the newly installed, high-tech radar system would make their approach difficult. While Mitch was confident the government would eventually apprehend them, they wouldn’t make it easy.

  Like his two counterparts, Mitch studied the line of federal SUVs crossing the concrete expanse. He’d watched nervously as the two Air Force executive transports landed a short time ago, right on schedule. Rather than assault teams in full combat regalia, men in business suits had emerged from the two jet aircraft.

  Grace reached for Dusty’s hand as the first vehicle stopped a short distance away and began unloading its passengers. She recognized Dr. Witherspoon, the Department of Energy Secretary, and sighed her own breath of relief.

  Fifteen minutes later, with introductions and handshakes out of the way, the two parties began taking their assigned seats around a large conference table.

  It was an odd assortment facing the couple from Texas, a dozen influential men and women sitting across the table. The whole thing appeared so one-sided, it reminded Grace of the Biblical David versus Goliath. Leaning close to Dusty, she whispered, “David won.”

  But Dusty seemed to not hear her remark, absorbed in thought. Instead, he turned and asked, “How many people are supposed to be here from their side?”

  “I don’t know… 11, I think.”

  “Why did only nine show up?” the Texan inquired.

  Grace understood his nervousness. “I think Mitch kept the list in his briefcase. Maybe he knows for sure.”

  As he watched the government representatives slowly take their seats, Dusty dialed Mitch’s cell phone. “Everything okay,” the nervous professor answered.

  “I don’t know for sure. How many people are supposed to be attending on their side?”

  “I think it was 11. Hold on a second, let me dig out the list.”

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s get started,” the Secretary of Energy began. “Mr. Weathers, would you be so kind as to restate your demands? I think hearing them in your own words would help all of us gain a better understanding and help expedite this entire process.”

  Dusty pulled the phone away from his ear, looking like a daydreaming schoolboy called out of his cloud by a teacher’s question. He glanced around the table, trying to think, and then remembered he was still holding the cell phone. “I’ll call you back in a bit, Mitch,” he whispered. “We’re getting started.”

  The Texan disconnected the call, and then mouthed the word “sorry” to the Secretary.

  The opening question, combined with the meeting’s sudden start, threw Dusty off guard. He recovered quickly, the tone of his response firm, yet sincere. “I have no demands, sir. As far as I’m concerned, if the federal government hadn’t come after me like a pack of hellhounds, I’d still be at my ranch trying to figure out what to do with my invention. I’ve never made any demands.”

  The other side wasn’t expecting that answer, several brows furling in puzzlement. Dusty decided to dose out a little more bewilderment. “If it’s okay with everyone here, I’ll just head back to Texas with a presidential pardon and mind my own business. We’ll destroy the rail gun together and end all this madness.”

  “But that’s impossible, sir,” responded a man Dusty recalled was from MIT. “The world now knows of the Olympus Device, and clearly there are some who would do anything to hold such power. Even if the prototype were destroyed, what’s inside your head would still be extremely valuable.”

  “I suppose you’ve got a valid point there,” the Texan acknowledged. “Which leads to why I agreed to this meeting. If all of the brainpower in this room can come up with a way to guarantee my device won’t ever be used as a weapon, then I’ll hand it over. That arrangement would also have to include a process whereby any benefits from the technology would be made available to the entire planet.”

  “We have some ideas about that,” Witherspoon said. “Let’s get started on the first deman…. Err… item on Mr. Weather’s agenda. How do we prevent the militarization of his technology?”

  Admiral Armstrong ended the call, nodding to Senator Hughes in a confirming gesture. “That was my man at the airport. The conference is underway.”

  “And the Olympus Device?” the senator asked.

  “Location unknown.”

  Hughes reached for the wine glass resting nearby, taking a moment to savor the excellent California red his host had provided. He didn’t make eye contact with the admiral when he spoke. “Are you confident the men you’ve mentioned in the national command structure are with us on this? Are you 100% positive?”

  Armstrong replied with his usual confident tone, “Yes, Senator. There are officers in several key positions who have pledged their loyalty to our cause. They see this Texan’s weapon as a threat to our nation, the military, and world peace. I’m quite sure that a majority of our military personnel will join us once the objective becomes clear.”

  The senator admired the Swarovski crystal in his hand, swirling the cloudy crimson liquid as he contemplated the next move. The wine reminded him of blood, the analogy unavoidable given what he was contemplating.

  “And if the weapon isn’t at the conference? What if that madman Weathers has stashed it somewhere?” the politician asked.

  Armstrong responded with a very unmilitary shrug. “No matter. The tactic is quite straightforward. While it would be nice to possess the technology for ourselves, the primary goal of the mission is to keep the rail gun away from other potential adversaries. You’ve seen the after-action reports, Senator. If those cartel thugs had been successful, there would be hell to pay about now.”

  “And if the weapon is at the airport?”

  “Then it may be destroyed in the attack… or it may not. There’s no way to be sure. My hope is that enough of the device is salvageable to reverse engineer. But again, nothing is foolproof.”

  Hughes took another sip of wine, apparently digesting the admiral’s answers. Several minutes had passed in silence before the contemplation ended, replaced by the expression of a man who had made a decision.

  “The time has come, Admiral. We’ve let this craziness go on long enough. Our government’s policies and actions have ruined our national reputation. The world was already convinced we are weak and in decline. Now, with this fucking
doomsday weapon running loose, the entire globe thinks we’re nothing more than a bunch of circus clowns. The U.S. military must have this super-weapon, and that military must be governed by men who aren’t afraid to use this technology in our national interest. And this time, Admiral, we’re not going to let the Russians, or anyone else, steal it from us.”

  “Then we’re in agreement, Senator?”

  “Yes. Launch the missiles.”

  Armstrong lifted the cell phone still in his hand, punching in a pre-programmed number. The call was answered on the first ring.

  “Operation Olympus Down is a go. Execute immediately.”

  Hughes sipped his wine, a knowing grin crossing his face when he finally met the admiral’s gaze. “Once again, the world will respect the United States and our interests – or suffer the consequences.”

  Captain Bard’s eyes seemed fixated on an undefined point on the horizon, the Gulf of Mexico’s casual blue waters providing a stark contrast to the sterile white and gray of the warship’s bustling bridge.

  Three weeks ago, he’d been ordered to sail his command from Norfolk, Virginia to the southern region of the U.S. territorial waters. Patrolling 85 miles off the Mississippi coast, the USS Gravely’s assigned area of operation should have been a low-stress mission, at least compared to her normal responsibilities with Carrier Strike Group Two.

  But the Gravely’s skipper didn’t see it that way.

  Despite the mundane day-to-day routine and slow passage of time, Bard was still troubled by the thought of actually being ordered to fire on the United States of America.

  After the events in Laredo, the president had been persuaded to pull out the big guns, or more accurately, the big missiles.

  A picket of naval vessels had been positioned at strategic locations around the continental United States. Most of the assigned ships were similar to the Gravely, Arleigh Burke-class destroyers that boasted a dazzling array of weapons, both defensive and offensive in nature.

  The mission was simple; when the Air Force’s satellites detected the Olympus Device’s signature discharge, one of these ships was to launch cruise missiles at the location – if it met acceptable parameters.

  The small Kansas town had been spared due to the potential of collateral damage and loss of civilian life. From what little information Bard had received, that decision had been hotly debated for several minutes. So desperate was the Pentagon to either possess or disable the rail gun, senior commanders had actually contemplated firing Tomahawk cruise missiles at an American town. That was deeply troubling.

  The captain’s thoughts drifted to the last time he had visited the Gulf Coast. Not so long ago, he’d been assigned to Gravely as her sea trials were scheduled to begin. The proud ship’s hull had been laid at the nearby Ingalls Shipbuilding yard in Pascagoula, less than 200 miles from her present position. His temporary quarters and off-duty hours in the breezy, coastal town had been an eye-opening experience. Being born and raised a New England Yankee, Bard hadn’t really known what to expect from the southern regions of his native country.

  He soon found the slower pace of beach life provided a calming balance to what was otherwise the high-speed day of an ambitious, young naval officer. He liked the people, relished the food, and found the local friendliness refreshing. The entire experience served to broaden his love and respect for the good ol’ USA, bolstering his patriotism, and reinforcing the decision to serve his country.

  And now, here he was, standing ready to launch weapons of war against those same people he’d taken an oath to protect.

  Unlike the vessel’s previous missions, Operation Olympus Down was confusing to the dedicated officer. Their role as a warship patrolling off the coast of Syria – or other global hotspots – had always been clearly defined and easily understood. The potential of firing on Pascagoula, or Kansas, or even his home state of Vermont, was an order Bard had never contemplated following.

  To make matters worse, Gravely’s racetrack pattern of patrol often took her within range of land-based radio and television broadcasts. Officers and crew alike, exposed to the full media onslaught, were well aware of how the Olympus Device had divided their countrymen. The same debate that raged on shore was often overheard in the narrow passageways and cramped quarters of Bard’s command. Just like their civilian counterparts, this ship’s compliment was split by the issue.

  When the president had ordered the formation of the Blue Ribbon Panel, the captain had breathed a sigh of relief. Rather than contemplate the harsh reality of killing American citizens, he could spend his days anticipating orders to return to Gravely’s home port and plan for a long-overdue refit.

  But the instructions to return to Norfolk were never issued.

  Instead, Gravely continued to steam just offshore, her vertical launch system primed and ready to rain pure hell upon a set of coordinates within his own country. To make matters worse, the admiral commanding the operation had placed them on high alert just 30 minutes ago.

  Captain Bard looked at the operational order with a scowl, a quick flash of concern fleeting over his gray eyes. “This isn’t right. Why are we doing this?” he whispered.

  “Sir?” perked the young seaman, apparently keyed-up by the rare visit to the bridge.

  “Nothing, sailor,” Bard replied sternly. “Dismissed.”

  Snapping a quick salute, the junior man pivoted smartly, happy to exit what his shipmates and he referred to as “officers’ country.”

  After watching the messenger leave, Bard’s eyes returned to scanning the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, but only for a moment.

  Turning to the communications operator standing nearby, Gravely’s skipper snapped, “Get me Montgomery down in CIC.”

  A few moments later, the younger officer handed Bard a thick, telephone-like device. “The Combat Information Center, sir. Lieutenant Montgomery.”

  “Jesse, I assume you saw the order?”

  “Yes, Captain, I saw it.”

  There was a brief pause before Bard continued. “Do it, Jesse. The order is confirmed.”

  Deep in the bowels of Gravely’s superstructure, a frown crossed the younger officer’s face, his adverse reaction as dark and shadowy as the destroyer’s computer-laden nerve center. While his affirmative response was an automatic, “Yes, sir,” it was the first time in the lieutenant’s six-year naval career that he had seriously considered violating a direct order.

  He wanted to ask if the captain was sure, some internal voice screaming that the order was madness. Illegal. Immoral. Before the potentially career-ending question could form in his throat, he heard a click-click through his headset and knew the bridge had disconnected the line.

  “All hands, all hands,” the captain’s voice blared over the ship’s intercom. “Prepare for VLS shots.

  Montgomery peered around the small room, his gaze met by several questioning faces. “Load the coordinates into the TLAMs (Tomahawk Land Attack Missiles),” he ordered in a low tone. “The order is confirmed.”

  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 weapon
ry. 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.