The Olympus Device: Book Three

by Joe Nobody

  The confused commander had to look for the seldom-utilized equipment, finally locating the mic and its curly cord. “Turn it up… all the way,” Armstrong ordered.

  After a confirming nod by the vehicle’s commander, Armstrong raised the mic to his mouth and called out, “Weathers! Durham Weathers! I have your son. Cease firing on my men, if you ever want to see him again!”

  The admiral threw the microphone back and then hopped to the ground. “Everybody hold in place,” he ordered, not wanting to expose any more of his people until it could be determined what Weathers was going to do.

  “Kill as many of them as you can, but advance no further,” he repeated into the radio.

  Dusty was three blocks away, the sound of his name causing the Texan to pause and tilt his ear toward the source of the voice.

  Armstrong repeated his statement, scanning right and left, wondering if his words were being heard, and if the rampaging Texan would listen.

  The mention of Andy’s status caused Dusty to pause, his mind trying to reconcile what the loudspeaker was broadcasting. “So the president wasn’t lying,” he finally whispered, moving to the corner of a nearby building and crouching low. “The government doesn’t have Andy – those traitors do.”

  It took considerable effort for the Texan to push aside his chagrin at misjudging the government. Now, finding himself in the midst of a full-blown rebellion, it wasn’t the time or the place to feel guilty about making a bad call.

  Then it occurred to Dusty that the loudspeaker might be lying. Had his shot hurt them so badly the admiral was getting desperate? He quickly dismissed the notion. It all made sense now, the timing of Andy’s abduction, the president’s denial, and the missile attack fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.

  It dawned on the Texan that the men leading the revolt were even more ruthless than the man sitting in the White House. At least the government had made a half-hearted attempt to arrest him before opening fire. Tomahawks didn’t Mirandize their targets… didn’t carry handcuffs.

  Dusty scampered across a street. He didn’t even know the name, or exactly where he was. Some instinct told the Texan that here, amid the battle, movement was life. He sensed he was skirting the White House, his direction more to avoid the hottest points of the firefight than to reach any particular destination. Besides, he needed time to think.

  He came to another intersection, pausing to stick his head around the corner of the building. The timing was bad.

  Half a block away, an M1 battle tank chose that moment to fire its massive cannon at a group of White House defenders up the street.

  Even though Dusty wasn’t the target, the shock wave of the powerful discharge caught him full in the face, a blow as painful as any fist he’d ever encountered.

  He found himself sitting, hot blood rolling out of his nose, his eyes watering from the sting and shock. How did men fight amongst such weapons? Dusty wondered. That guy wasn’t even shooting at me, and it damn near dimmed my lights.

  Staying put until his strength returned, he took the moment to scan his surroundings. It wasn’t pretty.

  Washington, once a beautiful jewel on the river and the pride of the world’s oldest democracy was in ruins. Fires raged in several, different locations, columns of gritty smoke rising into the air, the ominous glow of the flames generating an eerie hue. The blackened shells and burning hulks of military and civilian vehicles were everywhere.

  Hundreds of windows had been shattered by the violence, the streets twinkling with the shards. Some piles of crystal were so high they looked like drifting snow. Mounds of wreckage cluttered the sidewalks and streets, some buildings missing façades, others suffering severe structural damage.

  Here and there, low clouds of pulverized concrete dust combined with the smoke to create a dense, gray fog. An odd smell filled the Texan’s nostrils, a combination of burning wood, wet concrete, and the bitter bite of cordite.

  And then there was the clamor.

  The screaming of the wounded was the worst, their pleas and agony occasionally echoing down the limestone canyons of the city streets. The rattle of gunfire was almost constant, ebbing and flowing from one direction or the other. Now and then, the firefight’s chorus was punctuated with the resounding blast of a heavy weapon and subsequent rumbling of an explosion.

  “This is truly Armageddon,” Dusty thought. “I’ve never seen so much destruction and death. It is truly doomsday.”

  Dusty knew the violence was limited to his immediate surroundings – at least for now. It then occurred to him that if men like Admiral Armstrong were to control the rail gun, the entire planet might end up looking like the surrounding city.

  “They’ll kill Andy if they don’t get the gun – but isn’t he dead either way? What kind of life would any of us have if Armstrong and his ilk had their hands on this much power?”

  The father’s voice inside the Texan’s head argued the point. “You don’t know that,” it screamed. “Think of your son! Think of Andy’s life! You don’t know what will happen tomorrow. Do everything you can to make sure your son lives another day.”

  But deep inside his core, Dusty knew better.

  Even if he walked toward Lafayette Park with his hands in the air, there was no guarantee that the admiral wouldn’t shoot him on sight and then pry the rail gun from his cold, dead fingers.

  It didn’t matter if the rebels had Andy here, or in Texas, or in Timbuktu… the moment anyone put their hands on the rail gun, all bets were off.

  Still, the Texan was a parent. A man who loved his son, a father who looked forward to grandchildren and seeing his boy grow and make a difference in the world. To willingly sacrifice Andrew’s life to chance was nearly impossible for Dusty to contemplate.

  But wouldn’t that “chance” be the same no matter if he surrendered or not?

  Dusty made his decision, the most difficult choice under the harshest circumstances of his life. With a stoic expression of commitment fixed on his face, the Texan moved toward Lafayette Park – the place where he knew the admiral’s main grouping of forces were deployed.

  They were still there, a cluster of armored units surrounded by squads of riflemen.

  Dusty found an angle that provided a broad view of the park. Hiding behind the smoldering skeleton of what had been a Capital Police SWAT van, the gunsmith went prone and took aim.

  The shot tore into the center of Armstrong’s massed units, ripping metal and shredding steel as if it were paper. Armored vehicles weighing tens of thousands of pounds were tossed into the air, victims of the collapsing vacuum’s overpressure. Human bodies were pulverized into an unrecognizable film of goo.

  The Texan had to move again, but not because of hostile fire.

  The rail gun’s discharge had excavated a trench across the earth’s surface, disintegrating blacktop, crushing concrete, and blowing tons of soil hundreds of meters into the air. The relic SWAT van Dusty was using for cover began sliding down into the 20-foot deep cut as the soft edges started to crumble.

  Rising, Dusty ran like the wind, the sound of rattling gunfire drawing him to his next target.

  Three more times the Olympus Device sang its deadly song. Dusty walked, ran, hid, and charged, the rail gun ripping apart structures and crushing anything in its path. He worked his way around the perimeter of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, using his eyes and ears to find the rebel forces.

  And then there was silence, the battle gone cold and quiet.

  Dusty spotted a group of the admiral’s men scurrying away from the White House, a sight quickly followed by the cheer rising from the few remaining Marines defending the structure.

  The sun picked that moment to finally rise in the east, unveiling a city that looked like a war zone. Washington was covered in smoldering heaps of granite and limestone ruins, columns of smoke drifting above the ashes. Great trenches had been plowed through the streets, sidewalks, and structures. Trees were toppled, vehicles overturned and burning, entire stru
ctures appearing as if they’d been bombed from the air.

  With the daylight, the Texan retreated, hustling away from the battlefield, confident he’d done the right thing. Eventually, exhaustion forced the need to take a breather. He found a hide back toward the south, a position that allowed him to observe what remained of the White House and its surrounding infrastructure.

  Daylight revealed unspeakable damage, entire sections of the facility nothing but smoking ruins. The sections of white façade that still remained were scarred gray and black with smoke and ash. Full lengths of the roofline laid scattered and crumbled on the green lawn below.

  Throughout the grounds were the hulks of tanks and armored vehicles, the blackened, smashed hulls adding to the melancholy scene. Worse yet were the broken bodies, dozens and dozens of human forms lying twisted in the impossible positions of death.

  The first living being to enter Dusty’s field of view was driving a fire engine, the crew approaching cautiously as if they weren’t sure the battle was over. Next came an armored column of more tanks and Humvees, this time escorted by black government SUVs with flashing blue lights of authority.

  As Dusty observed from his perch, helicopters appeared overhead, several landing on the south lawn and disgorging armed troops and medical personnel.

  An orchestra of sirens began playing, all of the District of Columbia seeming to come alive with ambulances, police cars, and hook and ladders.

  The appearance of the copters spooked the Texan. Not feeling secure from overhead observation, Dusty crept away from his hiding spot and began slowly shuffling back towards the river, hoping his stolen transport was still tied up at the marina.

  Dozens of emergency vehicles rushed past. A few, trying to avoid the quickly clogging main arteries of traffic, zoomed right past the homeless man slowly working his way toward the waterfront.

  Dusty caught a reflection of himself in a storefront mirror, the sight causing him a start. Covered with grime, sweat stains, and several layers of filth, the store-bought hobo outfit was no longer essential to his disguise.

  He made the marina less than 30 minutes later, his pilfered jet bike right where he’d left it. Reattaching the ignition wires, Dusty idled out of the marina and headed south along the river.

  Only once did he glance over his shoulder at the nation’s capital. He noted dozens of helicopters orbiting the city, above them the glinting reflection of what appeared to be jet fighters. The wail of emergency sirens could be heard over and above his craft’s engine.

  Dusty accelerated away from Washington, heading to return the somewhat damaged water bike. Despite playing a significant role in overcoming the rebellion, the Texan’s mood was anything but victorious.

  “Did I just seal my son’s death warrant?” he pondered, watching the passing shoreline. “If they do kill Andy, will they at least do it quickly?”

  Despite the warming rays of the sun, Dusty shivered, thinking of what evil, vindictive men might do to his flesh and blood. But there hadn’t been any other choice… no real alternatives or options.

  As the miles passed, his mood was buoyed by the passing serenity of the river and air cushion ride of his mount. “They won’t kill him,” he finally determined. “If they have any brains at all, they’ll hold on to their only bargaining chip. Their attempt to overthrow the government didn’t work, and now they’ll want the rail gun to save their hides, or try again.”

  A few miles from where Mitch was supposed to meet him, Dusty settled on the only strategy left to save his flesh and blood. “God, please save my son. Take me instead if you need a soul,” he prayed, not knowing what else to do. The solemn words provided some relief.

  By the time he reached the marina where his ride should be waiting, Dusty had reached an uneasy peace with his actions. Andy would understand. Maria, however, would never be able to accept his decision and would probably never forgive him.

  “I sure hope Mitch won’t mind going out and fetching some breakfast,” he said, idling along the rows of boats and finger piers. “I need a shower and some sleep. Saving a country is exhausting work.”

  Grace was out the hotel door the moment she heard Mitch pull into the parking lot. Despite his appearance, she was in Dusty’s arms as he exited the passenger door.

  “What happened?” she asked after verifying he was in one piece.

  Dusty recalled his adventure, both Mitch and Grace interrupting with the occasional question or point of clarification.

  After he’d finished, a foul look crossed Grace’s face, Mitch and she exchanging worried glances. Finally, Mitch prompted her, “You need to tell him. He’s going to find out eventually.”

  Grace blurted it out, reaching for the television remote while explaining to Dusty that the FBI had found where Andy was being held. “They want the rail gun in exchange for your son’s life.”

  “Lake Travis?” Dusty barked, staring at the hotel’s television screen as the news channel flashed the story. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait, Dusty,” Grace pleaded. “You need to rest, eat, and bathe. And what are you going to do once we do get there? Give those thugs the rail gun? We need to think this through.”

  Dusty pretended not to hear her, his eyes focused on the newscast, hoping the anchorman would return to the “Crisis in Texas.” The television station didn’t offer more details of the Lone Star angle, the vast majority of their coverage focused on Washington, DC and the carnage that had taken place overnight.

  “Dusty?” Grace tried again, moving to his side. “Go take a shower. I’ll have Mitch run out and get some food. The hot water will help you think clearer…. You’ll feel better…. We can talk while you eat.”

  The Texan had to admit, she had a point. Merely nodding, he shuffled off to the bathroom, stripping off his filthy rags along the way. Mitch was already heading for the door, “I spotted a diner down the road. I’ll load him up with bacon and eggs. That always puts a smile on my brother’s face.”

  Grace set out clean clothes while Dusty washed away the battlefield grit and grime. His attention immediately reverted to the television as he emerged with wet hair and a towel around his waist. “Any more news out of Austin?”

  “No. The journalists are all stuck on Washington. How much of that damage was from the rail gun?”

  “A lot, but not all.”

  Dusty had just finished dressing when Mitch entered the room, bags of wonderful smelling food in his hands. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”

  The aroma and an empty stomach squelched the Texan’s urgent need to get on the road. He sat, digging in with a gusto that surprised even Mitch. Between mouthfuls, Dusty explained his plan.

  “We’ll drive all day. I figure we can make Austin in about 22 hours, give or take. The cops will be focusing on Washington and hunting down any of the surviving rebels. I’ll sleep in the car while you two share the driving, and then I’ll take care of those assholes who are holding my son.”

  “How?” Grace asked, her head tilting to indicate her pessimism.

  “I don’t know. I’ll figure that out when I can see the lay of the land,” came the stoic reply. “It’s my son, Grace. I have to be there. I’m the cause of all of this… well, that damned rail gun and me.”

  It was clear that Dusty wasn’t going to be swayed. Exhaling with frustration, Grace nodded. “I’ll start packing. Promise me you’ll sleep on the way there?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  It required significant heavy machinery and almost 10 hours to extract the president and his family from the subterranean levels of the White House compound. Over 40 tons of rubble had to be removed, all of it sifted by hand in hopes of salvaging any of the valuable antiques or art treasures that might be buried within.

  When electrical power was finally restored to the elevator, the chief executive emerged into the sunshine, smiling and waving to the hundreds of firefighters, military personnel, White House staffers, and of course, the press corps.

  The Firs
t Family was immediately rushed off for a medical examination, traveling in a long line of limousines toward Maryland. Practically the entire route was lined with security, police and military uniforms all around.

  “I want Durham Weathers’ head on a pike,” the president stated once away from prying eyes and ears. “I want his thick skull adorning the lawn… or what’s left of the north lawn.”

  “But, sir, Weathers didn’t attack the White House. The preliminary reports we’re receiving indicates that he actually fought off Admiral Armstrong’s forces.”

  “I know that,” responded the irate chief executive. “But his fucking invention was the catalyst, and I’m sick and tired of dealing with every nut job, ambitious psychopath, and egotistical government on the planet. They’re all trying to gain control of that weapon, and until that son of a bitch is dead, they won’t stop. If we don’t end this right now, someone is going to snag the Olympus Device, and then we’re really going to be in trouble.”