Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device

by Joe Nobody

  Any intelligence gathered by the swarm was transmitted back to the hive-van where it was bundled into long streams of binary data. Microburst satellite transmissions carried terabytes of compressed images, readings and sound, bouncing the signals off a low-earth orbit, military communications bird. Those signals were received by the NSA’s supercomputers.

  The NSA had once been the most secretive of any US intelligence-gathering entities. Unlike the CIA, or other field-active government organizations, the NSA was created purely to perform electronic eavesdropping on telephone, radio, and later, internet activity.

  Plagued by scandals, whistleblowers, and congressional inquiries during 2013, many average Americans were shocked to learn that the all-powerful spying technologies possessed by the agency were being used to monitor domestic activity within their country’s borders.

  Email accounts, cell phone records, and internet sessions were being stored, sorted and analyzed on a scale that seemed like science fiction to most people. Politicians scrambled to publicly decry the agency’s domestic spying as a violation of privacy, while at the same time, in private, supporting the expansion of the NSA’s capabilities with secretive funding and lackluster congressional hearings.

  One such investment was the construction of the world’s largest data center in Utah. While specific capabilities were kept ultra-secret, some information did leak out for public scrutiny. Despite the warnings of independent experts, the size, scale, and scope of the new installation received very little press coverage in the mainstream media.

  People who built large networks of computer systems were astounded by the size of the NSA’s new facility. One Silicon Valley expert was quoted as saying that the agency could now store every detail, phone conversation, internet browsing session, and email for the entire population of the planet – times 10. In reality, his prediction was short by several multiples.

  As the giant, skyward pointing dishes received the hive’s streams of data, massive banks of super-computers began processing the drone’s output at the Utah location.

  RFI signals embedded in credit cards, driver’s licenses, toll road passes, and security system key cards could be crosschecked and verified against numerous databases. Newer model automobiles with satellite radios and location tracking systems could be scanned, identified, and tracked.

  Every conversation and phone call could be monitored, the NSA’s supercomputers correlating the signals provided by the cell phone carriers with the microphone built into the drone’s tiny leg. Voice imprints could be stored, analyzed, and compared with existing records collected over dozens of years. As one intelligence analyst had said, “It is practically impossible to hide anything but thought from the drones, and we’re working on that.”

  Monroe and Shultz watched the six hive-vans exit the staging area, each driver’s route plotted in advance with logistical precision to provide as much area coverage as possible. The Medical Center was a downtown in its own right, complete with high-rise buildings, parking garages, and of course, apartment and condo buildings. It would require the enormous swarm to cover the entire area.

  “If he’s in the search area, we’ll find him,” commented Monroe.

  Shultz shook his head, “That’s what worries me the most.”

  The charlatan parcel van designated Hive One rolled to a stop at an intersection. After a check of the rear view mirrors, the driver pushed a hidden button on the steering column that signaled the controllers in the back that they were free from prying eyes and could deploy.

  A small trapdoor in the roof of the cargo area was unhinged, a small peephole showing the yellow glow of the Houston night sky visible through the opening. One of the glass tubes was inserted into the small portal, immediately followed by a few keystrokes on one of the keyboards.

  Without any sound or fanfare, the topmost mosquito drone disappeared into the atmosphere. One by one, the small machines exited the tube, each patiently waiting its turn. The container was empty in less than 20 seconds.

  A small blue light flashed once on the dashboard, a signal that the driver could proceed to the next launch point. Similar launches were occurring all over the Medical Center area.

  Less than one percent of the tiny robots failed – normally the fault of a manufacture’s defect or improperly assembled component. Another insignificant number fell victim to natural predators, such as spider webs and birds.

  Of those deployed from the van this evening, two were wiped out by a lawn sprinkler, another struck by a delivery truck speeding the opposite way. All in all, over 99% of the 10,000 drones survived the deployment and proceeded to dissect the grid that had been preprogrammed into their microprocessor brains.

  Unit 2131 was launched three blocks from Dusty’s condo. Staged at the 13th position in the tube, it powered up its wings and rose vertically 12 feet above the parcel van’s roof, hovering there until it verified its position via GPS.

  Using its camera and internal programming, it began its predetermined course toward the southwest, avoiding trees, lampposts, and other non-structural obstacles. Once every ten seconds, #2131 verified its position, altitude, and course, its electronic brain intent on finding the flat surface of a structure.

  The first building it encountered was actually a small warehouse of pharmaceutical supplies. Sending a signal back to the van’s controllers, the tiny drone was soon ordered to bypass the building as it was already being searched by 20 or so of its cousins.

  The next image to be detected by #2131 was Dusty’s condo building. Again, permission was sought from the van’s computers, and this time the drone was ordered to begin scanning the third floor windows.

  The northernmost balcony was the closest opportunity, so the drone corrected its flight path and made for the destination. Slowing as it approached the sliding glass door, the mechanical bug made for the upper right hand corner of what its primitive brain recognized as a window and gently landed on the glass surface. Its camera-nose began searching for the brightest point of light, movement of shape differential equations surging through its internal processor.

  Just like its living cousins, the drone’s legs were tipped with tiny suction cups that allowed it to defy gravity and remain flush against the glass. Light spectrum analysis quickly informed the #2131’s brain that it was looking at a curtain, blind or other window covering. Infrared temperature analysis informed the logic circuits that the window was closed and that no air was flowing nearby.

  The parabolic microphone couldn’t detect any sound vibrations through the glass, so the mechanical bug started crawling from one corner to the next, its sensors seeking some differential in light, temperature, or sound.

  Similar activities were occurring all over the search area. Some of the drones found open windows and entered offices, stores and residences without a second thought. Others detected doors being opened and invaded restaurants, bars, and even the abundant hospitals in the area.

  A flood of data started arriving in the vans. Some of the information was voice recordings of everyday conversations, while other drones found valid video targets and started snapping pictures.

  The vans compressed and transmitted the massive amount of sound and video to Utah, where the world’s largest collection of supercomputers began analyzing the input, filtering through every conceivable human activity while looking for any sign of one Mr. Durham Weathers.

  The NSA’s processors didn’t care that one couple was making love while the man and woman next door were having a fight. Two teenagers, sneaking out to the backyard to smoke pot never saw the drone that hovered above their blue cloud of smoke. Several men playing Texas Hold ’em poker were completely unaware of the mosquito-like robot on their windowsill.

  Every voice was analyzed and compared to the phone call Dusty had made to the FBI headquarters. Every face was digitally measured to find a match with the images of the fugitive held in the bureau’s memory banks. Every human frame was measured against the known dimensions o
f the West Texas gunsmith.

  Unit #2131 eventually gave up on its first landing spot, unable to find anything for its sensors to record. Reinitiating its wings, the drone made for the next window and began repeating the process all over again.

  The NSA Analyst drained his coffee cup, setting the empty mug on the counter without his eyes leaving the computer screen. The manhunt in Houston was resulting in a lot of overtime and tired eyes.

  His monitor was filled with images that the computer software had deemed “Worthy of human attention,” meaning the digital brains ascertained that there might be something in an image, but couldn’t be sure. No machine could match the combination of human eyes and brains. At least not yet.

  Tens of thousands of man-hours were being invested on the project, teams of analysts such as himself scouring over photographs that ranged from innocent cooking utensils scattered on a countertop in the shape of a rifle, to a man cleaning his billiards queue while watching a television show.

  Clicking on the next image on his list, the analyst peered at what looked to be a common apartment or condo, a dark object lying on the kitchen counter. With a bit of imagination, he could make out the shape of a long gun. Using the keyboard, he pulled up a description of what the computer had found interesting about the picture.

  A red square was overlaid on the countertop, the machine-brain ignoring the potential weapon and focusing on the blob of dark color beside it. A few more taps on the keys and the image changed to a brightly colored thermal scan, again the computer focusing on the blob.

  He enhanced the image, adding artificial light and converting the pixels to a dense gray-scale. The blob on the counter became a hat… a hat that matched one known to have been worn by the suspect on a previous occasion.

  Inhaling sharply, the analyst moved the mouse and applied the same photographic magic to the rifle lying on the counter top. Once the image was cleaned up, he immediately reached for the phone.

  The operator controlling the drone swarm answered immediately, the call being from an obvious source. “Yes.”

  “This is Magic Mountain, we have a high confidence hit from #2131 at the following location,” announced the excited voice through the headphones.

  After writing down a sequence of numbers and times, the FBI agent riding in the van replied, “Gotcha. I’ll redirect additional units to that location.”

  After disconnecting the call, the drone-controller typed several commands into his console and sat back, waiting on his nosy insects to execute their new mission.

  The sun was just rising in the east.

  Dusty was sleeping in, the curtains open just enough to allow in a small line of light from the low angle sun. Still, it was enough to wake him.

  Rolling his legs off the edge of the couch, he stretched the slumber from his frame and immediately made for the microwave to heat coffee water. A trip to the bathroom followed.

  He’d been busy making a replica of his rail gun, using parts from the Goodwill’s appliance section. An old blender, a non-working drill and parts from an alarm clock radio were scattered over the kitchen counter. He didn’t know why a decoy seemed important, almost dismissing the project. Still, it kept his hands busy, a state that seemed more aligned with his temperament, especially after years of gunsmithing.

  A 100 times he’d wished for the simplest tool, easily within reach on his workbench at home. Over and over again, he thought about driving the truck to a local store and purchasing a small kit of basics.

  Dusty had developed another habit, one of pacing the length of the small combo and checking for odd behavior outside. Every few minutes he felt a need to check out the sliding glass door, peeking through the crack and watching the traffic patterns on the street below. He’d then walk to the back, checking the bedroom window for the same clues. In between, he’d stop and listen at the door, unsure if he’d hear the SWAT team lining up in the corridor or not.

  You’re a pacing animal in a cage, he concluded. Eventually, you’ll go insane or make a mistake - the end result being the same.

  Still, he checked the windows and listened at the door. Everything looked normal, another day on the dodge in south Houston. He sighed, returning to the toy gun and his tinkering.

  “We’ve got him,” said the excited agent on the phone. “We have 100% identification. He’s in a third story condo. I’m transmitting the address.”

  That one simple call to Agent in Charge, Monroe, changed everything. A thousand activities began at once, men scrambling into action all across the south side of the city.

  Orders were issued to hundreds of Houston policemen, instructions to quietly begin evacuating a wide perimeter around where the suspect was holed up. Dozens and dozens of patrol cars converged on the area, city computers coordinating bypasses, traffic control, and signal coordination.

  The Predator drone was commanded to maintain a racetrack orbit above Dusty’s condo, its powerful camera and instruments focused solely on the small flat. The FAA flashed bulletins, restricting the air space above the Medical Center area to law enforcement aircraft only. The Lifeline air ambulance pilots were grounded.

  The HRT squads were alerted, scrambling to load the gear into the back of waiting SUVs that would rush them to the area.

  Every FBI agent available headed toward the address flashing across the computers, command and control instructions being issued by the unit commanders and senior personnel.

  Job one was to protect the surrounding civilian population. Roadblocks were constructed, police waving frustrated motorists into detours they didn’t want to take. Storeowners were forced to lock their doors, shooing customers out and away from what became known as the exclusion zone.

  The commander of the HRT arrived as the evacuation was in progress, eyeing the surrounding area with years of experience and an expert knowledge of his team’s capabilities. After scanning the landscape for five minutes with a beefy set of binoculars, he calmly informed Monroe of his recommendation.

  “Sir, I want to put my best sniper team on a high floor of that building. I think that will provide the best angle of support and observation.”

  Monroe followed the specialist’s pointing arm, scoping out the 12-story Trustline National Bank building. Monroe acknowledged the expert’s wishes, turning to a nearby police captain and barking, “We want our shooters in that building. Please move it up on the priority list to be cleared out.”

  The HRT commander followed Monroe to where a map was unfolded on the hood of a car. Pointing to a street one block over from Dusty’s condo building, he announced, “I’ll stage my entry teams here… and here. We’ll be at his door in three minutes after the all-clear signal is given.”

  Nodding, Monroe looked at his watch and replied, “It will be at least another 30 minutes before HPD gets everyone out. I’ll give the order personally.”

  The two men were interrupted by the arrival of the sniper team, each member of the three-man crew carrying heavy cases of equipment as they rushed past, heading for their assigned hide. Uniformed officers were already hustling confused, frightened workers out of the bank building with more reinforcements arriving on the scene every moment.

  Sergei and his men were also moving quickly. The director had just entered the swimming pool when the captain approached and announced the deployment of the HRT squads. By the time the Russian had dressed, the SPETZ officer knew their destination.

  The rental cars sped from the Houstonian’s parking lot, the remainder of the captain’s men changing into their counterfeit uniforms and unpacking American-made weapons. By the time they were approaching the Medical Center area, it looked as if three carloads of FBI reinforcements had arrived to bolster the dozens and dozens of federal agents already on the scene.

  The captain had received directions for a rally point, the address texted from the team’s first arriving members. With traffic snarled and gridlocked by the blockage of roads, it took some time to locate the abandoned warehouse just eight
blocks from Dusty’s condo, only two blocks away from the nearest police roadblock demarking the exclusion zone.

  Scanning radios had been employed by the snooping Russians, eventually learning the address of the American farmer’s location. After a brief conference with their captain, the team began to deploy.

  Dusty finished wrapping the pretend coil, holding the rifle at arm’s length to examine his handiwork. Four paperclips, part of an empty superglue tube, and a half dozen salvaged parts had been pasted together on the toy rifle, the result remarkably resembling Dusty’s original invention.

  Were it not for the lack of an optic and aiming laser, he’d have trouble telling the fake from the real rifle. Looking at his watch, he realized he’d been absorbed at the task for almost two hours – a record in the close confines of his cage.

  He picked up the empty coffee cup and decided to reward himself with another before starting lunch. Glancing at the toy again, he was kind of sad to see the project finished – wondering what he would find next to occupy his time. I guess this is better than being in a cell, he mused.

  He filled the cup at the sink and then programmed the microwave. Habit moved him toward the sliding glass doors, his hand moving back the curtain just a bit so he could check the street below.

  He stood motionless for almost a minute, waiting to see a car roll down the street, giving the traffic lights a chance to cycle. None came.

  He then moved to the other side of the door, checking to the east where a more traveled street was just a block away. His heart began to race when nothing but empty, black pavement met his gaze. Something was wrong.

  He moved back to his original spot, checking every sidewalk for as far as his limited angle would allow. Nothing – not a single person or car came into sight. Had they found him?

  Several blocks away, Monroe’s earpiece sounded with a calm voice, “This is Eagles Nest to all assets – I have movement at the suspect’s window. Repeat, I have movement at the suspect’s window.”