Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device

by Joe Nobody

  Monroe’s face flushed red, and the man actually leaned closer to Mitch. “I don’t have time for this professor. We know that a rifle-shaped object was fired into that tube over there, which Dean Floss claims is practically indestructible. Furthermore, I have the United States Aerospace Defense Command barking up my backside over what they perceive as a nuclear, or near-nuclear event. If that’s not dangerous, I don’t know what is.”

  Mitch held his ground, “There was no nuclear event, sir. You’ll detect no radiation or other evidence of any sort of isotope in this lab.”

  Monroe held up another photograph, this one showing an image of the rail gun. “Exactly what is this device, Professor?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  For a moment, Monroe didn’t think he had heard the response correctly. His confusion didn’t last long. “I most certainly do want to know, Professor… and I want to know right now.”

  “Trust me, Agent Monroe – no, you don’t. No laws have been broken here. I had zero pre-knowledge that the test we performed would generate any side effects detectable by Homeland Security. I will fill out the proper paperwork in due course as per the regulations.”

  Monroe shifted his weight back on his heels, his chin sticking out in defiance. Turning to Shultz, he flatly instructed, “Arrest Dr. Weathers, Tom. Mirandize him.”

  Both Mitch and Dean Floss’s mouths fell open, the brash move completely unexpected. Shultz played better poker than either of the academics, holding his expression neutral. “What’s the charge, sir?”

  “Conspiracy, conspiracy to commit an act of terrorism, harboring a terrorist. I’m sure more specific charges will be developed by the Department of Justice.”

  “Terrorist?” Mitch cried out. “Who the hell do you think is a terrorist?”

  “The man who built this weapon,” replied Monroe while pointing to the picture. He switched back to the image of Dusty, “This man is a threat to the United States of America.”

  Dusty was relieved to see the airport parking lot wasn’t brim-full of police cars. Paying the cabbie, he rushed over, pulling the blocks from underneath the Thrush’s wheels in less than a minute.

  He hadn’t filed a flight plan, nor checked the weather, but he didn’t care. The need to get out of College Station was so vital; he felt it worth the risk. To Dusty, distance equaled time to think, and he desperately wanted to figure everything out. Doing so in a jail cell while strangers poured over the rail gun wasn’t what he had in mind.

  The old crop duster started on the first turn, and it was a fortunate event. Flashing blue lights swerving into the airport’s lot drew his eye, the arrival of the authorities eliminating any chance of radioing for permission to take off.

  A quick scan right and left revealed no incoming air traffic as Dusty rolled across the tarmac much faster than normal. He had just applied full power when two policemen came rushing out of the main offices, waving their arms for him to stop. The ground controller was so insistent over the radio that Dusty reached down and turned off the squawking device, the distraction of the annoying voice grating on his already frayed nerves.

  The small plane achieved wheels up after a short acceleration down the pavement, Dusty looking over his shoulder in time to see one of the police officers talking into a radio.

  The soft drink machine spit out the dollar bill for the third time. With a grunt of displeasure, Colonel Chamberlin snatched the bill away and began flattening it over the edge of the misbehaving device.

  “How did a man who struggles with technology as much as you do ever become a pilot?” asked the captain, sitting at a nearby table.

  Chamberlin ignored the question and re-inserted his money. After a series of humming and grinding noises, the red LED letters registered $1.00. Looking up with a grin as he punched his drink selection, the colonel answered the question. “Hard work and persistence is how I managed these wings, Captain Taylor… hard work and persistence.”

  Returning to his game of solitaire, the junior officer grunted, but offered no other comment.

  Chamberlin moved to the bulletin board hanging next to the fickle drink machine, intently reading a paper thumbtacked to the cork surface. “If we beat the maintenance team Saturday, we’ve got a shot at the trophy this year,” he commented.

  “If I don’t come out of my hitting slump, we won’t be able to beat the local little league team.”

  Grinning, Chamberlin turned to the younger man and inquired, “How did a guy who struggles to hit a softball ever manage to become a pilot?”

  Before the captain could respond, a sergeant burst into the room. “Sir, we have a scramble order, level Red from NORAD. This is a Noble Eagle roll.”

  Both pilots vacated the break room, moving quickly for their lockers. They were joined almost immediately by a group of airmen who began assisting with the complex task of donning flight suits.

  A short time later, the two pilots were riding across the tarmac of Kelly Field outside San Antonio.

  The 182nd Fighter Squadron, known as the Lone Star Gunfighters, was technically a training unit. Staffed with experienced combat pilots and equipped with F-16 Fighting Falcon (block-30) aircraft, the outfit occasionally was tasked with performing missions for Homeland Security as part of Operation Noble Eagle.

  Since hijacked aircraft had been used to attack the World Trade Centers on September 11, 2001, the US and Canadian Air Forces have been tasked with providing air patrols over major American cities, successfully executing over 400 missions since the terrorist attack.

  A “Red” scramble was a pilot’s worst nightmare. Noble Eagle missions almost always involved an unknown civilian aircraft, often a commercial jetliner filled with hundreds of passengers. Every pilot dreaded the day when he would be asked to execute “the order,” a command to shoot down such a plane full of innocents.

  As they approached their aircraft, Chamberlin’s mind was heavy with the concern. He’d personally flown several of these missions, praying each time that he wouldn’t have to execute the order, but knowing he would if he had to. The logic was simple – killing 200 in the air might save thousands on the ground. The lesser of two evils. But that didn’t make the prospect any easier on his blossoming stomach ulcer.

  The two Falcons were an ant mound of activity. Live, air-to-air missiles were being loaded under each wing by the ordnance specialist while the crew chiefs and other maintenance personnel checked every detail of the warplanes.

  Each of the pilots performed a quick visual inspection of his aircraft’s exterior and then climbed aboard. The two jet fighters were rolling across the runway a few minutes later. Colonel Chamberlin, flying lead, began receiving his mission briefing as he neared the end of the runway.

  As the controller’s voice sounded in his ear, the Falcon’s flight computers were receiving streams of data containing potential vectors, codes, and other necessary information regarding the potential target. The two interceptors were immediately cleared for takeoff, their powerful GE F-110 engines roaring to life.

  While the F-16 was nearing the end of its service life, it was still a potent multi-role aircraft. Simple, nimble, and capable of hosting a variety of weapons, the Falcon was still a frontline aircraft for several of America’s allies. They were more than capable of handling anything that could cross into American airspace.

  The intercept orders received by Colonel Chamberlin were a mixed bag. The airmen were hunting a single-passenger private aircraft, and that was both good and bad news. The pilots were relieved that the order wouldn’t come into play during this mission, at least not involving hundreds of lives. The problem was this tango, or target, would be difficult to find.

  Small, low, slow moving airplanes weren’t the intended foe for the Falcon’s modern avionics. Chamberlin’s bird was built to hunt other jet aircraft and engage them at great distances - if at all possible. In case a standoff missile intercept didn’t bring down the adversary, he was ready for a supersonic dogfight. None
of these tactics would be effective against a small propeller-driven aircraft.

  The colonel knew his radar would be practically worthless in acquiring the target. He also understood that the maximum speed of his quarry was less than the Falcon’s stall speed, and that could be a serious handicap.

  A crop duster, he mused. Now why are they scrambling warplanes to hunt a crop duster?

  The vector he’d been given pointed east, northeast. The target’s last known position had been College Station. A possible scenario popped into the pilot’s mind, and it chilled his soul.

  Long ago, he’d attended one of the seemingly endless security briefings so common after 9/11. Texas A&M University maintained one of the largest, deadliest collections of biological samples in the world. Ebola, Yellow Fever, several variety of plague, smallpox and other infectious agents were stored in a high-security facility at the university – the same area his target was last seen leaving.

  A crop duster would be equipped with sprayers. Biological weapons were often disbursed as a liquid, suitable for spraying. Chamberlin’s mind starting running with the possibility. Did some crazed idiot steal a batch of smallpox and a crop duster? Is he heading for Austin or Dallas with spray tanks full of that shit? What about San Antonio, where my wife and children are right now?

  Chamberlin was a career military officer, accustomed to executing orders that occasionally seemed unnecessary, misaligned, or just plain illogical. It was how discipline and the chain of command functioned.

  This scramble made absolute sense for a change, and he was confident in his ability to carry out the mission.

  Settling in at a cruising altitude, the two hunters flew east at 600 knots.

  Day 3 – Late Afternoon

  It never occurred to Dusty to fly any direction but west. While he knew heading home was out of the question, his knowledge of several local, unofficial landing strips was significant. The Thrush was capable of setting down just about anywhere that wasn’t growing trees, and that was a small comfort to the pilot.

  Not only was his home airstrip not an option, he was sure his house would be under surveillance by now. Dark images entered his head, visions of strangers prowling around his workshop, violating his home. He shook it off, concentrating on the things he could control.

  Miss Grace was the answer. To Dusty, the image of her calm, logical demeanor was like an oasis filled with cool water to a thirsty man crossing the desert. He had to get there. He needed her counsel.

  While he wasn’t an expert on the law, he felt comfortable contacting her. She, being his legal representative, wouldn’t get in trouble by helping him think through this mess. Or at least he hoped so. Be honest with yourself, he reasoned. You desperately want her advice - and to see that smile.

  He was inventorying the potential landing spots within walking distance of the old Barlow place, when two gray streaks shot past the Thrush’s canopy. The pass startled Dusty so severely that he physically lurched against his restraints. The turbulent wake kicked up by the passing fast-movers rattled the Thrush’s cockpit – the air disturbed to the point that he had to make quick, minor corrections to maintain level flight.

  His mind quickly identified the how, what, and why he’d almost suffered a mid-air collision. After settling all that, the fear began to well up. Someone wanted him, someone serious enough about that desire to send up fighter jets. The rail-gun cat must be out of the bag, he reasoned.

  Glancing left and right, he tried to locate the two warplanes. Despite the sky being perfectly clear with unlimited visibility, he couldn’t find them. They, however, had no trouble tracking him.

  Again, seemingly out of nowhere, two flashes of gray metal roared past, closer this time. Dusty, half expecting the pass, got a better look at his antagonists and identified the planes as Falcons – armed Falcons.

  He watched the impressive planes this time, following their track as they climbed while making a steeply banked turn. Despite the situation, he acknowledged the beauty in their capabilities – a respect for the power they represented.

  The Thrush was outgunned and outmaneuvered. Dusty felt like a cyclist competing at the Indianapolis 500 – there wasn’t any way he could outrun his pursuers. While he didn’t know their exact specifications, it was clear that speed wasn’t the answer to his problem.

  The fighter pilots had flown about 200 yards on either side of him with that last pass. He figured they would come closer and closer, eventually damaging the Thrush with their wake. He would either be forced down or crash – the outcome basically the same as far as the military was concerned.

  Taking his eye off the warplanes for a moment, he scanned for somewhere to land. He didn’t have any local knowledge, so the likelihood of spotting an airport was low. In reality, any field would do, but he didn’t want to take too many chances. The terrain below was hilly – not something he was accustomed to gauging from the air.

  I wonder how long they can stay on station, he pondered. Could I land and just wait for them to run out of fuel and leave? The area below him looked pretty rural. The jet pilots would radio his location and law enforcement would be alerted where to find him. How long would it take for a county deputy to find him? Could he get airborne again and escape after the jets left to refuel?

  Colonel Chamberlin cupped his ear with his gloved hand, more from the shock of the radio transmission he’d just received than any difficulty understanding the words.

  Taylor evidently was puzzled by the order as well, the wingman pulling close to the lead Falcon’s port wing, his gesture of “What the hell,” clearly visible despite the distance separating the two aircraft.

  They had just been given permission to shoot down the crop duster – if necessary.

  It was unprecedented. It was “the order.”

  While taking down an aircraft harboring a single person didn’t carry near the psychological weight of an airliner with hundreds of souls on board, it still wasn’t taken lightly. The plane they were harassing was technically unarmed and assumed to be piloted by a citizen of the United States. Regardless of Chamberlin’s previous fantasy of spray tanks full of deadly biological weapons, he realized that had been pure speculation – unfounded in fact, knowledge, or evidence. Now the justification to kill seemed lacking.

  A little surprised at his reaction, the colonel decided he would focus on the “if necessary” part of the order. He’d do his best to make it unnecessary. He had no desire to be judge and jury, sentencing a man he didn’t know anything about to death.

  Pushing his transmit button, the lead pilot informed his wingman of their next tactic. “Two – I’m going to airbrake with a vertical and drop in on the tango. Let’s see if I can relate a visual message before things get out of hand.”

  “Roger that, One.”

  Searching the ground below resulted in Dusty losing visual contact with the two fighters. Trying to divide his activities between flying, locating a suitable makeshift landing strip, and avoiding another surprise when the jets zoomed past was challenging to say the least.

  Pinpointing the hunters came up in the rotation, and he craned his neck all around trying to find his pursuers. At the last moment, he looked up and slightly behind his right shoulder. What he saw made him squint his eyes and brace for the impact, positive he was about to have a mid-air collision with one of the fighters.

  The belly of the F-16 was coming down almost on top of the Thrush – and descending rapidly. From Dusty’s point-of-view, he understood an insect’s perspective right before being squashed by the sole of a shoe. The undercarriage of the warplane looked huge as it dropped toward his canopy.

  At the last microsecond, the wing of the Falcon tilted slightly, and then the plane leveled itself with the Thrush. Dusty was looking at the military pilot through the cockpit glass, their wingtips less than 10 feet apart.

  The jet’s driver looked like a giant, menacing insect with his bubble-eye visor, deformed helmet and breathing mask that was shaped lik
e a giant mandible.

  The stall speed of the Falcon was significantly higher than the maximum speed of the Thrush - the jet jockey’s hair-raising maneuver required so he could hover next to the slower aircraft for a few moments. He used the time well, relaying what he wanted the private pilot to do, and what would happen if the Commander’s aviator didn’t comply.

  Dusty watched as the officer gestured with sharp, intimidating movements. After pointing to the ground with three quick stabs of his finger, the killer-insect then crossed his throat with one finger – the universal sign for death. Land the damn plane, Dusty interpreted, or I’ll kill you.

  Just as fast as it had arrived, the F-16 was gone, peeling off with a bright circle of flame spouting from its exhaust.

  The threat didn’t have the anticipated effect on the gunsmith. Anger over the injustice of the whole ordeal began forming in his chest – words like abusive, authoritative, and draconian filling his mind. As the old crop duster hummed along, Dusty’s temper simmered.

  An unusual ground feature off the starboard wing distracted him for a moment, a combination of trees, a small hill, and a field reminding him of a spraying challenge he’d faced long ago. As he studied the terrain, an idea occurred to him – a possible plan of escape.

  He scanned for the predators, eventually discovering them off to the south, executing a long, slow turn to come up behind him again. He then checked the sun. If he timed it just right, it might work.

  When he was directly between the fighters and the late afternoon sun, he gave the old plane full throttle and put her into a dive. Pulling up less than 20 feet off the ground, he hugged the central Texas landscape as if he were spraying a field.

  A line of trees appeared through his front glass, the approaching wall of foliage closing with his propeller at 130 mph. It was going to be close.