The Olympus Device: Book Three

by Joe Nobody

  Bard smiled at Dusty before turning to the bride. The movement cued Dusty, who planned to pay close attention to the next part of the ceremony. Wish I had brought my tape recorder, he mused. After all, I am marrying one of the most respected attorneys in the Lone Star State. I am going to verify every word, he smiled to himself, never for an instant really doubting the commitment that Grace shared with him, and in truth quite proud of her legal eagle accomplishments.

  Still relishing in his own good luck, he spotted a small speck of light in the vast, dark ocean. A moment later, he noticed what he thought might be movement over the captain’s shoulder, but didn’t want to say anything due to the solemn proceedings. When the outline of a large yacht appeared through the darkness, the Texan couldn’t help himself, “That guy looks like he intends on ramming us.”

  Bard turned and stared in the direction indicated, “What the hell?”

  Two white clouds of smoke and flame appeared on the deck of the approaching boat, followed by two streaks of red flying toward Parthenon. “Oh, shit!” yelled Bard. “Missiles!”

  Before anyone could move, twin explosions rocked the superstructure three decks above their heads. Dusty grabbed Grace and threw her roughly to the deck just as hunks of hot debris began raining down on the wedding party.

  Bard and the first officer were running toward the bridge when the klaxons began roaring their ship-wide warning. Dusty pulled Grace to her feet and said, “We’re under attack. Let’s get to our cabin.”

  The Texan helped her up, subconsciously trying to shield her body from the threat as they hustled to get away.

  Dusty chanced a glance toward the rapidly closing boat, the vessel now near enough to make out several men on her foredeck. The outline of rifles and combat gear was clear. So was their intent to board Parthenon.

  Grace and he made it to their cabin, Dusty guiding her toward the media room that occupied the interior most spaces. “Stay here,” he barked. “It offers the best protection.”

  “Where are you going?” she managed, despite the terror.

  “I’m going to go repel boarders,” he answered coolly.

  A moment later, the Texan was at the vault. The machine functioned as expected, its massive door soon opening to reveal the rail gun. Dusty was pulling his invention from the case when the rattle of automatic small arms fire echoed throughout the ship.

  It seemed to take a long time before the green LED announced the weapon was ready. Dusty dropped a projectile into the breech, pocketing the remaining ammo and wondering how many reloads he would need tonight.

  He turned and almost ran headlong into Grace. “You can’t shoot that thing on this ship,” she stated. “What good will it do to defend her if you sink her at the same time?”

  “I’ll just have to be careful with my aim, I suppose,” he said, trying to step around the attorney.

  But Grace wasn’t finished, blocking him again. “I can’t swim, so you be very, very careful…. And come back to me, my love.”

  Dusty nodded, bent to kiss her cheek, and then he was gone.

  There weren’t any weapons onboard for the crew to defend the good ship Parthenon, a condition of employment that Bard was now seriously regretting. Due to compliance with international law, about the only defensive force his men could utilize were the ship’s high-pressure fire hoses and associated axes.

  Bard knew the drill, his military experience having exposed the captain to the methods used in boarding a ship. He was organizing his men to the hoses when the yacht came alongside. Two grappling hooks sailed over the main deck’s rail, pulled tight with the weight of climbing assaulters.

  One of the crew ran forward thinking to cut a hook’s rope with his fire axe. He was cut down by a stream of small arms fire from the pirate vessel below. No one else made an attempt.

  After firing the RPGs (rocket-propelled grenades) into the ship’s superstructure, Armstrong stood on the yacht’s deck with the rest of the boarding party, watching his men efficiently begin ascending the freighter’s wall-like steel hull. Each line held the best climber, another two shooters scrambling up the maintenance ladder welded to the target vessel’s outer hull.

  “Who’s going to stay here on the yacht?” a near frantic Hughes shouted from nearby. “I can’t drive a boat.”

  “You’re going to have to learn on the job, Senator,” the admiral shouted back. “We need every man to take that ship.”

  “But… but… what do I do?”

  “Can’t you drive a fucking car?” Armstrong yelled, obviously losing his patience with the man. “It has a steering wheel and throttles. No brakes. Just keep her alongside that ship. When we’re finished taking over, I’ll send two men down to help you aboard.”

  “I don’t like this,” Hughes whined. “Why don’t you just leave a man on board with me? It will be safer.”

  Shaking his head, Armstrong started to respond, but then it was his turn to climb the ladder. Without giving the worried politician a second glance, the admiral jumped for the lowest rung and then disappeared into the darkness above.

  Hughes scurried to the helm, his nervous eyes darting between the cluster of gauges and the looming wall of steel nearby. Wringing his hands, he reached for the steering wheel, trying to keep the smaller vessel where Armstrong had ordered, feeling a band of tightness grasp his chest.

  The admiral continued climbing, the slick, wet rungs requiring all of his concentration. Only once did he glance over his shoulder, noting that the yacht had already drifted out of position. “Fuck this,” he mumbled. “I don’t need that asshole any longer. He’s nothing but a pain in the ass.”

  When he finally reached the top, the admiral stepped onto the main deck and swept right and left for any defenders. Finding no resistance, he pulled the RPG launcher around from his back.

  Pointing the powerful weapon downward at the yacht below, the admiral centered the sights on the small oval of Senator Hughes’s face, the frightened man staring directly into the rocket’s muzzle. He pulled the trigger.

  The Russian designed weapon ignited, a powerful rocket motor accelerating the warhead downward into the yacht’s thin, fiberglass hull.

  The grenade actually missed Hughes by several feet, easily punching a hole in the first and second decks before detonating directly above the engine spaces and the nearly empty fuel tanks.

  As Armstrong peered down, the rear third of Gabby’s Girl erupted in a massive fireball, the heat and blast forcing the admiral to turn away and protect his face. In less than a minute, the only trace of the multi-million dollar vessel was an oily slick of debris fading quickly in Parthenon’s wake.

  “Now we have no choice,” Armstrong whispered, returning his attention to the task of taking over the larger ship. “We win… or we die, and today isn’t a good day to die.”

  Dusty made it to the forward rail, crouching low to peek around the corner. He spied a group of four men, scrambling up the metal staircase leading to the bridge above. It was evident they were the pirates, and that there was little the crew could do to stop them.

  In the center of the main deck, movement drew the Texan’s eye. He watched as two of Parthenon’s defenders manned a fire hose, the thick jet of high-powered water aimed at a corner of the superstructure where Dusty assumed they’d spotted more boarders.

  Dusty returned his gaze to the stair climbers, thinking to kill them before they could reach the bridge. He raised the rail gun to his shoulder and took aim, but then stopped. Behind the ascending enemy was the ship’s main deck. If he fired, he’d split Parthenon in half. “Shit,” he barked, trying to figure out how to get off a shot without destroying his new home.

  Gunfire sounded from the main deck, the Texan watching in horror as the men wielding the hose were cut down by a flanking shooter. Without hesitation, another group of heavily armed pirates disappeared down an entry hatch, clearly on their way to the engine room.

  “Makes sense,” Dusty whispered, “Take the bridge and the
engine room and you control the ship.”

  It dawned on the Texan that there was no way to defend Parthenon without destroying her. “We’ve lost,” he concluded. “Time to get out.”

  He turned and rushed the short distance to the master stateroom, opening the door and shouting, “Grace, it’s me. We have to get off this ship!”

  Captain Bard realized his command was lost at the same moment as Dusty. The RPG blasts had blown the windows out of the bridge deck, shrapnel peppering the two men standing watch.

  “Get on the radio and call in a mayday,” he snapped at the first officer. “I’ll try and slow them down.”

  After verifying his orders were being executed, Bard scurried to a locked compartment and withdrew the 9MM pistol he’d smuggled aboard. Checking that a round was in the chamber, he turned to his friend and second in command and offered, “Good luck.”

  Bard went to the stairwell where he knew they’d be coming. Keeping low, he glanced over the rail and saw the assaulters were only two flights down and ascending quickly.

  Trying desperately to steady his shaking hands, Bard squeezed off two shots and then pulled back out of view. Several pings and thwacks volleyed in response, the men below returning his fire.

  “That’ll give you something to think about,” Christopher whispered, wishing he could stop shaking.

  “Where are we going to go?” Grace asked as she threw items into a small bag. “We’re out in the middle of the ocean!”

  “The lifeboats,” Dusty replied, hastily gathering his own things. “They have provisions, including a beacon locator and are designed to handle rough seas. We’ll be okay.”

  “So there’s no hope of saving Parthenon?”

  “No. And if we stay, they’ll just kill us and take the rail gun.”

  Nodding her understanding, Grace watched as Dusty hefted his duffel bag and moved for the door. He then hesitated as if he had forgotten something. He rushed back to the still-open vault and grabbed the envelopes containing the new identities Monroe had provided.

  “What do you need those for?” Grace asked as they hustled out the door.

  “You never know,” Dusty replied.

  He made Grace stay several steps behind him, taking an internal passage downward toward the main deck, checking each corner to make sure they didn’t stumble into any pirates.

  It was a relief when they finally stepped into the fresh air of the main deck.

  Again, Dusty scanned for any attackers and saw none. On his signal, they ran toward the middle of the long ship where the lifeboats hung from their wenches.

  Looking like 16-foot long, oversized red capsules of medicine, the emergency boats had been a mandatory part of their tour. Dusty helped Grace climb aboard, and then threw in their belongings. Wishing he’d paid more attention when the first officer had been giving instructions, the Texan studied the winch mechanism that secured the dangling vessel above the sea below.

  Finally opting for the lever labeled “Emergency Release,” the Texan turned to Grace and instructed, “Hang on!” while he yanked the handle.

  Like a rollercoaster’s drop, both of the escapees’ stomachs relocated into their throats as the lifeboat plunged like a stone. Dusty was sure the impact with the water would kill them both, but then the automatic brakes engaged, lowering them gently into the waves below.

  Dusty reached up and released the pins securing the cables, and then they were drifting free.

  Armstrong wanted the bridge before Weathers gathered his courage and did something stupid, like blast away with the Olympus Device.

  Pushing his men to assault the lone shooter above, he watched with satisfaction as the defending crewman with the pistol was hit with a spray of rifle fire, tumbling over the rail to impact on the deck below.

  “Go! Go! Go!” he screamed, motivating his men to complete the assault.

  Up they surged, his team finding one last crewman inside the damaged bridge. A quick burst of bullets ended the last of the resistance.

  “You two,” Armstrong barked, pointing at a couple of the brawnier specimens, “With me. We’re going to secure the grand prize.”

  They found the master suite’s door open, but Armstrong was cautious. Exposing only a small amount of his head, the admiral yelled, “Weathers! Durham Weathers! We now control the ship. Come out, and we can strike a deal. There’s no need to be a hero… no need for any more causalities.”

  The admiral waited several beats for a response. When none came, he tried again. “Weathers! You can’t go firing away with that damned blaster of yours. You’ll sink this ship and kill us all. Come on out, and no one will be harmed.”

  Again, there was no response.

  “Shit,” the admiral hissed, turning to his two henchmen. “Looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

  “I saw what that son of a bitch did to our armor in Washington,” whispered one of the men. “Can’t we just burn him out or something?”

  Shaking his head at the stupidity of the suggestion, Armstrong decided to take the lead. With his weapon shoulder high and ready, the admiral stepped into the entrance, sweeping right and left.

  It took the three-man team less than a minute to determine the extensive quarters were unoccupied. Armstrong, standing in front of the empty vault, said, “Now where could they be hiding?”

  Another of the boarders appeared in the doorway, “Sir! There’s a lifeboat missing amidships.”

  “Fuck!” Armstrong barked, turning to follow the new arrival. “They can’t have been gone long.”

  As they dashed toward the area of the missing lifeboat, Armstrong turned to one of his men and barked, “Get up to the bridge and tell them I want this ship stopped. Weathers can’t have drifted far; there’s no motor on these rafts. We have to find them.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply as the soldier hustled off to execute the order.

  Darting for the rail, Armstrong scanned the dark waters below, looking for any sign of a floating red lifeboat. A string of creative cursing sounded across Parthenon’s deck when he saw nothing but dark, empty ocean below.

  The transfer from the smooth riding freighter to the wave-induced roll of the tiny lifeboat was quite a shock for Dusty and Grace.

  The first few minutes terrified both, each rise and fall of the Pacific’s swells feeling like it was about to capsize their unstable craft.

  After a few white-knuckled minutes of hanging on, they began to get the timing and feel of their new home and its buoyant tendencies. “I think we need a bigger boat,” Grace spouted, trying to relieve her tension with the line from the famous shark movie.

  Dusty grinned, but the comic relief was short lived. “I don’t think sharks are our biggest problem right now,” he said. “At least not sharks in the water. We can’t be very far away from that ship, and I have a feeling Armstrong isn’t going to let this rail gun get away so easily.”

  Not having anything better to do, Grace hurried about inventorying the supplies kept onboard. She found bottled water, an emergency medical kit, blankets, some sort of pre-packaged bars of food, and a canister-like device labeled “EPIRB.”

  “What’s this?” she asked, holding up the heavy box.

  Dusty, after a quick examination, said, “That’s the locator beacon. The initials stand for Emergency Position-Indicating Radio Beacon, I think.”

  “Should we turn it on?”

  Scratching his chin, Dusty shook his head. “No. I think they have equipment on the bridge that can detect its signal. We might be helping Armstrong find us.”

  The Texan returned to his task as lookout, scanning the darkness, fully expecting the massive hull of Parthenon to appear out of the night. His task was complicated by having lost his sense of direction during all of the raft’s tossing and turning.

  Despite the rail gun ready in his hands, Dusty had never felt so small and insignificant. The night sky and ocean surrounding them appeared infinitely vast compared to their tiny, lit
tle speck of floating plastic and fiberglass.

  Grace, sensing his uneasiness, moved to his side. She could feel the tension in his shoulders and wanted to help. “This wasn’t exactly what I expected for a honeymoon,” she teased, hoping to make him laugh. “But I’ve got to admit, boredom isn’t an issue with you around, Durham Weathers.”

  Dusty grunted, but never stopped scanning their surroundings.

  Grace decided maybe now wasn’t the right time for gallows humor, resolving to simply stay close to him for as long as she could. Time, she realized now more than ever, was a precious commodity.