Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device

by Joe Nobody

  Dusty pushed down the panic. There could be a million reasons why there weren’t any cars or people, random circumstance being one of them. The microwave dinged, signaling his coffee water was ready, but he ignored it.

  He needed a better vantage. Looking down at the real rail gun, he decided to use the weapon’s powerful scope to check the area. Carrying it back to the window, he shouldered the device and began sweeping his surroundings using the optic’s magnification. The microwaved again sounded its bell.

  “Gun! Gun! Gun!” sounded the voice in Monroe’s ear. “The suspect has a weapon, repeat, the suspect has a weapon. Appears to be a shoulder-fired rifle with a large optic.”

  Monroe keyed his mic, “Do you have a shot?”

  A brief moment passed, every officer with a radio pausing to wait on the response.

  On the sixth floor of the bank building, the sniper pressed a button protruding from the black box attached to his riflescope. The circular view inside the optic changed, red numbers flashing in sequence as a laser rangefinder scanned the doorframe next to Dusty’s enlarged image. The readout in the sniper’s eyepiece read 1260 meters, well within the range of the .338 Laupa Magnum chambered rifle.

  “I have a shot.”

  Monroe didn’t hesitate. “Take the shot.”

  “Sir,” sounded the calm voice, “I need your authorization for the record.”

  “Monroe, Special Agent in Charge, BN171433 – take the shot.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  The ballistics computer mounted to the sniper’s rifle was a marvel of modern technology. Fully integrated with the optic, rifle and even the actual round being fired, the shooter again pressed a single button, the action followed by small electric motors automatically adjusting the crosshairs for windage and bullet drop.

  The spotter, watching Dusty’s window with an even more powerful optic, looked at his teammate and instructed, “Send it.”

  The sniper pulled the trigger.

  The .338 Lapua Magnum was named for the Swedish company that assisted in the cartridge’s development. Designed as a possible replacement for the heavier .50 BMG round, the terminal ballistics of the bullet were considered by many experts to be the most efficient in the world.

  By the 1990s, practically every military and police organization on the planet was evaluating weapons that fired the big cartridge.

  A 250-grain bullet left the barrel, aimed 61 inches above the center mass of Dusty’s chest, and traveling at 3,000 feet per second. After leaving the muzzle, there was nothing more the sniper could do but wait the nearly two seconds it would take for the round to impact on the target.

  The microwave dinged again, the annoying sound reminding Dusty of the elevator’s chime from down the hall. Frowning, he turned to shut the damn thing off so it would quit adding to his paranoia. He took one step toward the kitchen, and then the entire room exploded with flying glass and splinters of wood.

  Dusty froze for just a moment, his racing mind unsure of what had just happened. Instinctively flinching into a crouch, he first thought someone had thrown a hand grenade into the room, but a quick glance at the door revealed it was still securely closed.

  “Shit,” mumbled the spotter, “I think he moved at the last moment. Switch to infrared.”

  The sniper nodded, pulling a small tubular device from his chest-rig and quickly snapping it onto the rifle in front of the optic. The view through the scope was now a world of bright hues, the new addition to his weapon displaying variations of color, each object reflecting different levels of heat. The human body, at an average of 98.6 degrees, normally showed solid red or yellow.

  Dusty finally figured it out, a large bullet hole in the wall directly behind where he was standing just a moment before. “They’re shooting at me from outside,” he said aloud, and then he dove for the floor.

  The curtains covering the sliding glass door blocked some of Dusty’s body heat, but not all. While the thermal imager couldn’t see through walls or solid objects, it could detect heat as it was transferred through fabric. The sniper caught Dusty’s movement as he went prone, his mind thinking it was logical for the target to go low after the first missed shot. He pulled the trigger again, this time rushing the shot ever so slightly.

  Ignoring the glass on the floor, Dusty was just starting to wiggle toward the window when the curtain puffed inward and a solid thud sounded behind him. The bullet’s impact pulled the curtains partially off their rod, the uneven drapes creating a small opening that he could look through.

  Glancing at the damage the bullet had caused in the wall, he judged the shooter was in a position higher than his condo, and that made sense. Any hunter preferred to be above his target if possible.

  Despite shaking hands and short, nervous breathing, Dusty managed to move the rail gun to the opening and began searching the horizon, a desperate attempt to locate the man trying to kill him. It only took a moment to see the high-rise building in the distance, a bit more time and he realized that structure was the only possible option.

  He was scanning floor by floor with his scope when a small flash and puff caught his eye. He rolled hard to his left as the bullet hit the doorframe not two inches away from his face.

  Shards of aluminum stung his cheek, large pieces of the concrete sub-floor slashing his arm and shoulder. The pain changed Dusty. The fear seemed to melt away, replaced by a hot anger that boiled up inside him. They weren’t even giving him a chance, not even making an attempt at an arrest. They were hunting him as if he were some animal, and it enraged him.

  The green LED glowed bright, soon followed by the closing of a full breech. His hand brushed the power selector, turning it up. He really didn’t know how much juice he was giving the rifle; he really didn’t care at that point in time. Fully expecting another bullet to slam into his head, Dusty rolled back to the open window, centered the aiming laser’s dot on the distant building and pulled the trigger.

  The line appeared larger this time, its existence in earth’s universe lasting longer. The darkest black streak ever witnessed by mankind flashed, drawing a super-black pencil mark between Dusty’s wrecked balcony and the far-off bank building.

  The stripe absorbed every color in the spectrum, sucking light, time, and all matter into another dimension. Then it was gone. Moving radially away from the core of the dimensional pipe, the blast wave shredded everything in its path.

  A huge trench, over 20 feet wide and just as deep was plowed through the ground underneath the line of Dusty’s shot. Trees were shredded; the roofs of buildings crushed inward, like the footprint of some giant monster had just walked through.

  For blocks in every direction, a wall of supersonic air slammed into parked cars, street signs and pedestrians, knocking down anything in its path.

  A cloud of dust, powdered concrete, pulverized pavement, and soil was thrown into the air. Rising almost 50 feet above the tortured ground, the airborne debris soon began mingling with the smoke of exploding automobiles, propane tanks and natural gas lines caught in the aftermath of Dusty’s shot.

  The inter-dimensional pipe met the bank building one floor below the sniper team. The FBI shooters experienced a slight shuddering, almost as if a small earthquake were rattling the structure. It was the last sensation they would ever feel. The entire building exploded, structural steel crumpling like tin foil, supporting concrete shredded into talcum powder.

  Monroe was on the street below the bank building, watching and listening to the police communications through his earpiece. The small, tight-fitting, plastic speaker saved his hearing on that side, the other ear suffering a busted drum.

  When the building above him started to collapse, there wasn’t really any time to run. He managed two steps, diving for the back of a nearby car as chunks of cement, glass, and steel rained down on the area.

  With his cheek against the cool pavement, Monroe cringed as the ground shook, the choking fog of debris burning his lungs and stringing his eyes. When
it was all over, he pulled himself out from under the back of the car, kicking several large masses of wreckage out of the way.

  When his vision finally cleared, the scene before him was unbelievable, the destruction stretching off into the distance. It was as if an enormous plow had swooped down from the sky, curling a furrow of devastation right through the middle of the urban area.

  It took a few moments for the shock to wear off, a few more before the reason it had all happened to return to the forefront of his mind. Weathers!

  After brushing off a thick layer of grime, he was stunned to see the radio transmitter on his belt still showing the red LED of power. He pushed to talk, “This is Monroe, any assault team on the command frequency, please respond.”

  He repeated the message a short time later, his voice becoming desperate. He thought they were all dead or badly injured. Finally, a weak voice sounded through the earpiece, “HRT unit one reporting, sir.”

  “Thank God,” replied a relieved Monroe. “Go get that son of a bitch. Go right now.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  Shultz appeared at his side, the junior agent covered from head to toe with a thick coating of dirt and white powder. A slight smile crossed Monroe’s face, genuinely happy to see his co-worker had survived the attack.

  Grabbing the still wobbly agent by the arm, Monroe said, “Come on, Tom, they’re storming Weather’s building. I want to be there to see the end.”

  Looking around, the two agents found every car in the vicinity heavily damaged. Not to be denied, Monroe hurried along on foot, determined to arrive in time to see his quarry either dead or in handcuffs.

  Dusty chanced a glance around the doorframe a few seconds after his shot, uncomfortable with exposing himself and unsure if he’d eliminated the sniper threat.

  What he saw caused his soul to go cold.

  Starting below his balcony, it appeared as if a huge earth-moving machine had dug a trench from his condo all the way to the sniper’s building. Anything that bordered the gash in the earth’s surface was pushed away or toppled over, as if a massive downdraft had blown everything over.

  Trees were snapped off at the base, entire sections of buildings crushed and crumbling, automobiles and trucks lying on their sides or roofs. The devastation was incredible.

  The building… his target… was now a pile of rubble partially hidden by a column of smoke and dust. It was just gone.

  Dusty looked at the rail gun as if to say, “You did that?” The power setting read 20%.

  They’ll be coming, he knew. They’ll really be pissed now.

  He jumped up and began throwing anything in sight into the pack. After it was stuffed full, he grabbed the messenger bag and began filling it. He started to leave his hat – the only thing he had left besides the gun from his previous life, but decided the cat was out of the bag and perched it on his head.

  The rail gun was reloaded, the power lowered, and then he was out the door. Bounding down the steps two at a time, he expected to meet armed men at every turn, but the stairwell was empty. He ran out the back door and into the garage, the uneven load of his packs and weapon slowing the pace.

  He unlocked the old truck, threw in his luggage and started the trusty V8.

  He really didn’t have a destination, no specific place in mind to run. His actions were born of desperation – a burning desire to just get away, as far away as he could. Again, distance equaled life.

  Sergei and his men had been watching the law enforcement proceedings from the parking lot of the warehouse when the shooting had begun. When the FBI agent’s voice had come through the scanner’s speaker, ordering the snipers to shoot, the director had given the captain a glance showing respect for Monroe’s tactic. He would have done the same.

  They had been looking at the bank building when Dusty returned fire. At first, Sergei visualized a meteor slashing in from space and striking the area, but he quickly settled on the true reason. Despite their distance, the Russians’ cars had been badly shaken by the blast wave. Again, a look of respect crossed Sergei’s face – the weapon was truly a marvel, and he wanted to hold it in his hands.

  It was clear that the American authorities had underestimated the backlash from the farmer. From his vantage, Sergei watched a line of HRT assaulters blown over by the shockwave, two nearby police cars now in flames, resting on their sides.

  He couldn’t blame the US commanders. After all, who knew this situation was a possibility? Who could have planned for such destruction delivered by a single man with a handheld weapon? He wanted to hold the device; he had plans for its proper utilization.

  “We had better deploy,” commented the always-stoic captain. “The Americans will recover and storm the farmer’s building. We should be ready.”

  “Agreed. Make it so.”

  The director watched as his team deployed, their uniforms and equipment identical to the FBI HRT squads. It had been easy to equip them so, the patches and identification papers recreated from hours of news video on file at the agency, the weapons purchased from local gun stores in Houston. Helmets hid their face, fancy sunglasses covering their eyes. Even their own superiors would struggle to tell the difference.

  Lighting a cigarette, Sergei leaned against the door of the rental, watching and listening as his men moved toward the farmer’s building. He would have the gun soon, and then the world would change.

  Dusty exited the parking garage and turned onto an empty street. He could hear sirens now… what seemed like thousands of sirens from every direction.

  A block later, it dawned on him that the police had most likely closed the roads surrounding his condo. It made sense that they would evacuate people from the immediate area. With the vision of the destruction caused by his shot still fresh in his mind, the realization that the crushed buildings had most likely been devoid of people, helped him relax – a little.

  The combination of random driving and the pattern of the streets pushed him south. He turned a corner and noted a roadblock up ahead, two police cars blocking the intersection, uniformed officers trying to control the flow of confused traffic.

  Dusty started to turn away from the checkpoint at the first crossroad, but didn’t. He had already spied another intersection controlled by the cops was just a short distance away. Again, it made sense that they would have cordoned off the entire area.

  Glancing at the rail gun sitting in the seat beside him, a sick feeling began to creep into his stomach as he rolled slowly toward the cops. On the far side of their roadblock, a solid line of traffic was backed up as far as he could see. If he had to use the rail again, a lot of people were going to get hurt.

  Two fire trucks and an ambulance were trying to make their way through snarl, desperate to reach the destruction behind him – their presence making the gridlock even more difficult for the cops to manage.

  Evidently, not everyone had managed to get out before the battle. Dusty found himself in a short line of cars trying to exit the area but slowed by the manual control of the traffic by the officers ahead. One by one, the police were letting the cars in front of him pass – the officer leaning down and looking inside of each vehicle. A clash seemed inevitable.

  With three cars in front of him, Dusty looked desperately for a way out. There was none – he was hemmed in. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, his heart pounding in his ears.

  Two cars now, a strong temptation to put the truck in park, jump out and run. It wouldn’t work. They would converge on him from every direction and kill him. His arms were tingling, the back of his legs felt wet with fear.

  One car left, his hand reaching for the gun. He didn’t want to. He’d had enough for one day. A gross vision filling his head - what would the weapon do to a human being if fired point blank?

  As Dusty rolled forward, he pulled the rail from the seat, bringing it across his lap. A figure appeared, out of nowhere, yelling something at the cop. Clad in black and carrying a battle rifle, the new arrival wore
yellow patches declaring him FBI, smaller red swaths of cloth spelling the letters “HRT.”

  Before Dusty came to a complete stop, the FBI shooter was motioning for the cop, trying to get his attention, pointing at an approaching fire truck that was being blocked by a small sedan. The body language was clear, and Dusty could hear the voice shouting at the confused officer, “Fuck this – get those damn firemen into the zone – we’ve got shit burning out of control and people trapped.”

  Nodding his understanding, the cop turned away from Dusty’s truck, moving with purpose toward the blocking sedan. Dusty hit the gas, accelerating past the police. He finally exhaled, as the checkpoint grew smaller in the review mirror.

  Sergei flicked away the butt of his smoke, and then stopped – listening intently as an excited voice sounded in his ear. Something must have gone badly wrong because his captain was ordering an emergency recall back to the rental cars.

  Looking up, the director could see his SPETZ team running at full speed back to the waiting vehicles. In front of the pack was their commander, shouting verbal orders for everyone to get in the cars – now!

  Having confidence in the man, Sergei did as his captain wished. A moment later, the driver’s side door flew open and then an assault rifle was flung inside. Reaching for the key and starting the engine, the SPETZ officer looked at the director and breathlessly managed, “The farmer is on the run,” he gasped. “I helped him get out through a roadblock because the damn fool was getting ready to shoot it out with the American police. We have to hurry to catch him.”

  The captain spun the tires, without waiting on the rest of his team to arrive. Again Sergei approved of the decision, every second giving the farmer better odds of escaping.

  As their lone car sped through the streets, Sergei listened to the captain’s full report, finally nodding his agreement, impressed with the man’s clear thinking. They could deal with the farmer on their own terms if they caught him away from the hundreds of policemen in the area. It would be better.