Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (13 page)

Mitch chanced a glance through the gap in the curtains, knowing the exercise was futile, yet unable to resist. He recognized both of the cars parked along the street, but knew the observation meant little. If the FBI were still watching him, he probably wouldn’t be able to detect their presence.

News of the explosions and d
estruction in Houston had ripped at his soul. He knew instinctively his brother was somehow involved in the mayhem, the television news footage showing clear evidence of the rail gun’s potential. The downing of the high capacity power lines had been the first sign that Dusty had managed to avoid the authorities after escaping College Station. Then the attack on the FBI headquarters had caused him to smile. He knew his brother’s intolerance of bullying initiated aggression when the older Weathers felt cornered or wronged.

When the news stations had reported the number of causalities associated with the
medical center event, he had been saddened by the entire affair. Deep down, he knew his brother was a gentle soul and would only have unleashed the power of the weapon if seriously provoked. Dusty wasn’t a killer, and Mitch worried his brother would be scarred by the deaths. For some reason, his gut led him to believe Dusty had survived the encounter.

For a few days, everything had calmed down in Texas’s largest city, Mitch secretly hoping his brother had escaped and was in hiding. When the airwaves had filled with the tragedy at the ship channel, he knew instantly that his sibling was involved. Again, there had been a significant loss of life
, and the A&M professor would have given almost anything to be able to comfort his brother.

Since then, e
very time the phone rang with an unknown number, his heart had stopped. He couldn’t help it, his mind always wondering if the caller was about to inform his of his brother’s demise.

One of those calls had been from Dr. Witherspoon, head of the
U.S. Department of Energy and a past associate. The conversation that had ensued had shaken Mitch to his core.

“I’ve spoken to the dean down there at A&M,” his old mentor had begun. “We want you to initiate a project to recreate the rail gun’s technology.”

Mitch protested, “But, sir, why won’t the president just grant my brother a pardon and set up a way to manage the technology for the good of all? Why waste the time and money to recreate a new device when we could have access to the original unit?”

“Your brother has inflicted too much damage for that, Mitch. The destruction down in Houston has turned Durham Weathers into political poison. No one in Washington would touch amnesty with a 10-foot pole.”

Again, the A&M professor had objected, “He was framed from the beginning! I know my brother, and he wouldn’t have harmed a soul unless he or his family was threatened. None of this would have happened if our leaders had listened to common sense.”

“Look… Mitch… it was all I could do to get approval for you to be associated with this project. My argument only carried weight because you are one of the few people who have ever examined the device. Besides, it will keep you in the loop. It’s the best I can do right now.”

The statement had frustrated Mitch, to say the least. He wanted to scream at the other man through the phone, grab him by the shoulders, and shake some sense into him. Didn’t Washington realize the technology represented by the rail gun was above politics or any single nation? Why couldn’t those thickheaded elected officials understand the ramifications for mankind as a whole? Did party lines blur the fact that dimensional portals could provide free, clean, renewable electric power for the entire planet? The science behind it all could propel spacecraft, advance medical treatments, and revolutionize global travel. The possibilities were practically endless.

“You’re flirting with disaster, Mr. Secretary,” Mitch replied. “My brother understands the power of that device. He knows what he holds in his hands. If you put him in a corner, he’ll come out fighting. He’s
already proven that. End this. Let me come and speak with the president. Let me address Congress. End this right now, I beg you.”

For just a moment, Mitch thought he was getting through, but
that hope was short-lived. “I’m sorry, Mitch, this is the most I can offer. Please don’t throw away this opportunity.”

Since the
rail gun’s discharge in the A&M lab, Mitch had been on administrative leave with pay. He realized Secretary Witherspoon was correct on at least one aspect – it would be good to get back to work. Besides, he was driving his wife crazy, moping, and wandering around the house in a permanent state of frustration.

Given there was little else he could do, Mitch rolled up his intellectual sleeves and dove headlong into the project. He didn’t possess his brother’s skills with a lathe or press, but that didn’t slow him down. While Dusty could work miracles with steel and iron, the younger Weathers could manipulate computer based simulations and
digital modeling with an equally deft hand.

At
first, he was concerned he didn’t have enough to go on. There was the film, video captured by both the cameras in the lab, and the little homemade movie Dusty had emailed from his shop. He had the test results from their test firing as well as what his brother had relayed verbally. That wasn’t much, but at least he had enough to get started.

Then a file was delivered from the FBI investigation. The law enforcement agency had traced every purchase Dusty had made for the last two years. He found the model of Taser, cordless drill battery
, and specific magnets used in the construction. The information helped.

His sophisticated computer software protested the design, basically claiming the unit wouldn’t function at all, let alone at the levels he had witnessed. Dusty had overcome numerous barriers with his creation, most likely by trial and error. Mitch could see the external surfaces of the magnets, but had no ide
a of their internal dimensions. The binary code his brother had written to control the firing sequence was also a mystery.

Also in the file was the scientific analysis performed by the
U.S. Air Force Space Command. They could detect the rail gun’s discharge via its electromagnetic pulse, or EMP. Mitch found this particular bit of information interesting because there shouldn’t be any such energy wave generated by the rail gun. Once he had entered the basic known parameters, he focused on this specific unknown.

This priority wasn’t purely motivated by scientific research. If Dusty was still alive and fired the weapon again, they would pinpoint his location within seconds. Even an accidental discharge would
allow him to be tracked. Given Washington’s reaction to the whole affair, Mitch accepted that Dusty may be on the run for a while and might need to use his super-rifle. Being able to do so without giving up his whereabouts might make a difference. Besides, EMPs were a leakage of energy. Leaks were inefficient. Could he actually improve on his brother’s discovery?

The next morning, Dusty
rolled out of the narrow, single bed and inhaled deeply, a smile crossing his face. “I knew the smell of that fresh hay would be a great way to start the morning.” Physically and mentally, he was a bit sore from the previous day’s work on the fence. The stiffness in his back and shoulders was actually comforting, muscles well exercised on a worthwhile endeavor. His anger, however, still simmered over the transgression against the Boyce’s property.

His f
oul mood was enhanced by a less than restful evening. Sleep had been difficult, Dusty restless in his thoughts and hammered by nightmares. Grace and he had agreed upon a schedule that would minimize the risk of their communication being intercepted, yet allow each some peace of mind. He missed her already, and that was just the beginning of the troubling night. What he hadn’t anticipated was a shootout with the police and then a confrontation with the local security thugs. Yesterday had been an eventful day.

He let the miniature
shower’s hot water soak his skin, a two-fold attempt to eliminate stress and wash the new-bed stiffness from his body. As he dried off, he realized his tension wasn’t all about Grace and his escapades with law enforcement.

He knew his brother would be worried
sick after the incident at the ship channel.
Hell
, thought Dusty,
Mitch might even be in mourning, believing I have suffered the ultimate injustice and an untimely demise.
Like most siblings, the thought of his loved ones suffering in any way didn’t improve his mood. He would have to figure out a way to let Mitch know he was alive. The FBI probably continued surveillance on the A&M professor, so he would have to be creative.

His mental parade of self-pity continued, the next frame of concern being his son,
Anthony. He had no idea what his sudden notoriety was doing to the boy’s life or what his ex-wife was telling the lad. Just as he had avoided contact with Mitch, Grace, and Maria, he resisted the desire to communicate with his son, knowing the FBI would be watching the youngest Weathers like a hawk.

There was also a streak of self-pity running directly through the center of the
daybreak’s grumble.
He
was being displaced.
He
was suffering.
He
was the one having his liberty denied. While he missed his ranch and neighbors, what really bothered Dusty the most was the lack of a plan… the uncertainty of this very day, let alone his life.

Finishing the last of the so-so
, microwave coffee, he decided to improve his outlook by doing a little investigation of the ranch. Already the walls surrounding him were producing waves of anxiety. He was a man accustomed to the outdoors and physical labor. Holding up inside of a prison cell-sized hideout just wasn’t in the cards for the West Texas gunsmith. He would earn his keep on the ranch by more than just valuing the weapons.
Besides
, he mused,
I may be spending enough time in a jail. I should enjoy my freedom while I still can.

As he closed the heavy wooden door to
the outbuilding’s apartment, the thought to acquire a computer flashed though his mind again. He made a mental note to ask Penny about it. He didn’t need anything fancy or state of the art. Just something able to access the internet so he could look for work and keep an eye on the news. Besides, Grace and he were going to communicate via the web, and having access to the net from his room might make the tiny space seem more welcoming.

Penny
’s truck was sitting beside the barn, bed full of feedbags. His hostess appeared around the corner. “Good morning,” he opened, and then nodded toward the full pickup. “I didn’t know helping you acquire more pistol-money was going to cause me work,” he teased.

She
smiled, “No good deed goes unpunished. I was hoping my new ranch hand could help me unload all this. Did you sleep okay?”

“I was a little restless, but eventually got out. I kept thinking about what happened out by the fence. H
e paused as he hefted one bag on each shoulder, and then continued. “I don’t mean to probe, but did your husband eventually call the EPA? Is that why they’re so sore?”

“No. We called the Department of Agriculture first. When the birds started getting sick,
we thought a virus or other disease was making its way through our stock. Our county agent, George, came out right away. He took one of the dead birds and made a few phone calls from his cell phone. He was supposed to get back with us within a week, but then he was in a car accident.”

“He what? Was he hurt?”

Penny’s face twisted into a scowl. “He was killed out on County Road 814 north of Laredo. They found his pickup where it had run off the road and struck a utility pole. The deputy told us they thought he had fallen asleep at the wheel.”

“And the sample
chicken carcass?”

She shook her head,
frustrated, “I don’t know what happened to it. It was all so upsetting at the time… I didn’t think about it for a few days. A man who had helped a lot of the ranchers around here… a guy who we had all known for years was dead. By the time I thought to ask, no one knew what had happened to the sample bird.”

“Did you call again?”

She nodded, “Yes, and they promised to send the replacement out as soon as someone was assigned. A few days later, some guy flashing credentials from the FDA showed up, looked around, and ordered us to quarantine our product. We weren’t allowed to sell either meat or eggs. He took water samples and said he’d get back to us, but we never heard from him again.”

Dusty’s gaze focused on
an empty point in space, mulling it all over in his mind. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about Tri-Materials, the timing of so many events unlikely to be coincidental or random.
You’re being paranoid
, he thought.
Just because bad karma follows you around doesn’t mean everyone else is cursed.

Penny
interrupted his thoughts. “Now it’s my turn to play 50 questions,” she began, setting down her bag of feed. “Why do you carry around that duffle bag everywhere you go? I noticed you never let it out of your sight.”

Snorting, he replied, “Everything my wife’s lawyers left me is in this bag. I’ve got some cash, a couple of weapons and some personal documents. When someone takes your life’s work away from you, you tend to grasp onto whatever is left.”

She seemed to accept the explanation, but Dusty made a note to be careful. She wasn’t a stupid woman. Trusting, perhaps, but not naïve.

Glancing
at the sound of a car coming down the road, a look of concern crossed her face. “We’ve got a cop headed our way.”

Dusty turn
ed and looked, his blood going cold at the thought of a confrontation with law enforcement.
Did those security guards call the police?
He cursed his rash behavior at the fence line.

The patrol car didn’t turn into the driveway, instead coasting to a stop
on a patch of grass on the highway’s shoulder directly in front of the house. “What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. I thought you said you didn’t hurt those two security thugs?”

“I didn’t… well maybe I hurt their pride a little. I can’t believe they would call the sheriff over that little incident. They didn’t seem like the type that would enjoy explaining how a single, old rancher got the better of two strong, young bucks.”

Penny
snorted at her helper’s description of himself. Glancing again at the now parked patrol car, she conjectured, “Maybe it has nothing to do with us. Maybe he’s just setting up a speed trap or something.”

“Could be,” Dusty replied, his tone making it clear he didn’t believe it. “Still, I would prefer to avoid
the police knowing where I am. My wife’s bloodhounds have connections, and a police report being entered into a computer would put them on my trail like a big, flashing neon sign.”

Penny
thought about his concern for a moment, “We can unload the feed later. Why don’t you skedaddle on the ATV and stay out of sight for a bit… at least until we figure out what he’s up to.”

Dusty liked the idea. If law enforcement
were onto his whereabouts, it would buy him some time. Besides, he wanted to get a closer look at the Tri-Mat facility. “Sounds good. I’ll sneak back in a few hours.”

The ATV started on the second kick and was soon rolling across the pasture. Dusty was careful to keep the big barn between him and the still-idling deputy.

After he was no longer visible from the road, he vectored in on the section of fence that he’d repaired the day before. He was relieved to find the barrier still intact, not sure of his reaction if the structure had been pushed down again.

Rolling slowly down the line, he noticed a few more dead birds in the pasture. The rest of the flock didn’t seem hea
lthy, their movements uncharacteristically lethargic. “Something is poisoning these animals,” he mumbled.

T
he ranch’s terrain gently sloped downward to a stream that bordered the north side of the property. Cypress trees, with their clutching web of exposed roots, clung to the banks of the waterway. It was a shady, tranquil oasis.

Dusty found a good parking spot under
the low-hanging wisps and switched off the ATV. He dismounted his gas-powered steed and made for the bank, some part of the human consciousness drawing him toward the water.

The flow was steady, smoothly worn rocks and areas of sand lining the bottom and shore. He didn’t see any evidence of industrial waste,
pollution, or stagnation. “But then I probably wouldn’t,” he whispered to the flowing liquid.

Still, the scene before him was picturesque. There was a band of cattails a bit further upstream, healt
hy looking grass lining the creek’s side a little further down.

He meander
ed along the stream, both enjoying and studying nature. The plant life looked healthy, and the darting shadow of a school of minnows seemed to indicate that the water was healthy enough to support fish life. Two crows were enjoying a morning bath and drink, further evidence of a non-toxic environment.

Then s
omething caught his eye. Movement. On the opposite bank, 300 yards up the rise. He stopped mid-stride, and that decision saved his life.

The bullet’s supersonic crack zipped past
his chest so close he could feel the wake of air press into his ribs. The projectile slammed into a cypress trunk, the solid “thud” soon followed by the echo of a gunshot rolling across the prairie.

Dusty’s body recoiled like a rattlesnake had suddenly appeared at his foot. His unthinking, natural reaction was to get his torso away from the deadly line of fire. He twisted and tried to back up at the same instant. The soft
, sandy soil gave way, and he ended up flat on his back.       

S
ome primitive instinct took charge, freezing his muscles, containing his body where it fell. He even found himself holding his breath. His mind began to clear a second later, quickly reaching the conclusion that perhaps lying still wasn’t such a bad plan. Wouldn’t the sniper think he was dead?

Several moments passed, Dusty trying to inhale at a slow, shallow pace. It then occurred to him that perhaps the assassin would come closer to inspect his target. What the hell was he going to do if the guy walked up? How long could he play possum? Would the shooter decide to put a second bullet into his carcas
s – just to be sure? This was maddening.

Less than a minute pa
ssed before he couldn’t stand the suppositions his mind was conjuring any longer. Taking a deep breath, he rolled over and sprang for the ATV. Running half bent at the waist, his body was tense, expecting the hammer-like blow of a bullet any moment.

He slid like
a baseball player stealing second base, coming to a stop behind the protective cover of the off-road vehicle. Or was it?

Almost in a panic, Dusty realized that the thin fiberglass body wasn’t going to stop a high-powered rifle slug. Even the small gas motor and
wheel probably wouldn’t deter death by lead. The fear was almost paralyzing, at best causing him indecision.

In a matter of moments that began to change. Anger at the injustice of it all started filling his core, the rage building quickly. He hated the remoteness of the sniper’s attack, the concept of a man not facing his enemy adding to his ire.

Chancing a brief exposure, Dusty reached into the ATV and grabbed the duffle bag. He yanked it to the ground and pulled out the rail gun.

The green LED illuminated instantly,
its glow reassuring his shaking hands. He managed to drop the ball bearing into the breach.

“I will lay fucking-waste to that entire ridgeline,” he growled as he shouldered the weapon. “I will evaporate that entire pastur
e and you with it, you son of a bitch.”

He didn’t care about exposing his head, bringing his eye to t
he mounted scope and focusing on the area where he’d spotted the movement.