Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (16 page)

With his vision partially recovered, Mitch rolled his chair back to the console. He paused for the hundredth time, wondering if he had done his brother a disservice by convincing him not to destroy the rail gun. Living on the run, seeing his face plastered all over the newscasts, and being target practice for virtually every law enforcement agency in the local, state and federal government couldn’t possibly offer the quality of life Dusty had in mind for himself.

Mitch frowned, his intellect determined to prove his side of the debate as the correct position. Pushing all of those distracting concerns aside, he returned to the computer screen with a newfound vigor.

A broad smile creased the scientist’s face a few minutes later.

“There you are,” he mumbled to the monitor.

With deft fingers flying across the keyboard, Mitch began absorbing a series of numbers and graphs. Twice he inhaled sharply, the results displayed on the screen so astounding. Once he even whistled.

The capabilities predicted by the simulator were off the scale.

Human engineering had been producing usable mechanical energy from vacuums for over 100 years. Early locomotive engines used the expansion, and eventual contraction, of steam for a variety of applications. Modern day diesel motors still required a vacuum pump to function. There was nothing earthshattering about the concept of pressure differentials producing work.

But there were two unique characteristics about Dusty’s invention. The first, and most important, was the fact that he used energy from the grid to produce a vacuum.

Mitch thought back to the small placard resting on his desk. “Energy can neither be created, nor destroyed,” was the motto of anyone who understood modern thermodynamics. Perpetual motion, free energy and other such outlying concepts were often referred to as “howlers” by the scientific community, as learned men would often howl in laughter at some of the crazy concepts floated by the snake oil salesmen preying on the unaware public.

Accessing energy from the “grid,” had been the latest buzzword used by the not so scrupulous, hawking everything from remarkable electricity generators to car motors that claimed to offer the efficient ability to drive hundreds of miles per gallon.

While grid energy was real, accessing it for usable work had been accomplished by only a handful of inventions since mankind had walked the earth. Gravity was a commonly known example, with mills from colonial times utilizing gravity’s effect on water to turn their grindstones and produce usable work. Modern day hydro-electric dams operated on the same principle.

Sunlight was another example, used to generate electrical power from a star’s radiation via solar panels.

But the list was short. Man’s overwhelming utilization of fossil fuels was proof that large scale implementations were difficult, expensive, and thus rare. Dusty’s invention changed all of that – and so much more.

Mitch was so astounded at the results generated by the simulation that it required several readings to overcome his disbelief. Using a primitive, unrefined design, he’d constructed a virtual power plant that would generate electricity via the rail gun’s opening and closing of a portal.

A facility the size of a current-day bungalow could power the entire eastern seaboard of the United States. Five of the miniature plants would generate enough juice to satisfy North America. It would take less than 30 to bathe the entire planet in virtually free electrical current.

Billions of tons of air pollution would be eliminated. The cost per megawatt would be less than one penny each. Acid rain, ozone deterioration and other environmental concerns would almost disappear overnight.

But that was just the beginning. Drought stricken areas could employ desalination technology without the prohibitive electrical costs associated with current-day methods.

Mitch’s attention wandered off the screen for a moment, speculating how much of the desert could be converted into green, productive farmland.

Affordable energy would be an equalizer like never seen before. Everyday life for much of the planet’s population would improve. Third world countries with ready access to electricity would experience progress at exponential speed. Corporations wouldn’t have to deal with the high cost of energy and could reinvest those savings into research and development, or hiring additional workers. Irrigation pumps could be powered by even the poorest of farmers. Transportation, medical care, manufacturing and agriculture would all benefit from clean, cheap energy.

How would the world’s political landscape change if wars, disputes and distrust over energy were no longer a concern? If food production could be guaranteed and hunger were eliminated?

The professor stopped, realizing he could contemplate the possibilities indefinitely. 

“This is how I clear Dusty’s name,” Mitch realized. “This is what people need to see and hear. This is the road to my brother’s redemption.”

The box resting on his desk wasn’t unusual. Being a department head at a major university resulted in a
large variety of correspondence - including free samples from vendors, wanna-be graduate candidates sending the results of their experiments, and the occasional thank-you gift.

The size and shape of this particular package was unusual. As had been the case since the incident with the rail gun, the box had been opened. He smirked at the concept of the FBI reading and searching all of his parcels and letters. “I should order some really, really k
inky stuff off the internet just to mess with their heads,” he whispered. “But on the other hand, they are saving wear and tear on my letter opener.”

He pulled open the cardboard ears and looked inside, pulling out the neatly typed letter. “Why me?” he said as he read
Penny’s correspondence. “What would a physics professor have to do with dead chickens?”

Wrinkling his nose at the concept of what was inside the heavy plastic wrap, he almost dismissed the box entirely. Reaching to push it aside, something caught his eye. There was a photograph - a pair of hands holding a dead bird.

Mitch reached inside and snatched out the picture, tilting it toward the light to make sure of the details. His gaze focused on the hands holding the deceased animal, more specifically on the ring prominently displayed on the man’s left hand. It was Dusty!

He couldn’t believe it. This black and gold jewelry was unmistakable, their father’s ring! It was a unique piece, designed by a goldsmith in El Paso and unusual in
its design. They all had chipped in, buying the ornate extravagance, complete with a diamond encrusted “W” in the middle, for their father’s 60
th
birthday.

Dad had pulled it off while lying on his
deathbed, making Dusty promise to keep the bauble above ground. “I won’t be needing it anymore,” the dying man had whispered. “Make sure it always sees the light of day.”  

Dusty never took it off.

Mitch quickly dug through the box, hoping to find more proof. There wasn’t anything else but the dead chicken and containers of dry ice. He then checked the return address and knew instantly where his brother was. It made sense that he would hole up down by the border. The relief flooding through his veins was enormous, a huge weight lifted from his shoulders.

Again, he almost dismissed the remaining contents as simply a cover for Dusty’s message.
Unable to settle down, he decided to double-check and make sure he hadn’t missed anything; Mitch reread the letter hoping to find some encrypted meaning.

“My new ranch hand has informed me that you might be able to help us determine what is killing our birds,” the letter said. “He assures me that you have access to the latest labs and equipment that may unravel this mystery.”

Mitch’s first thought was that the bird’s corpse might have some embedded object or note, but quickly dismissed the notion. His brother had to know the FBI would be checking every package and letter.

He then reconsidered. Did Dusty really need his help? Did his sibling really want an analysis of the dead bird?

He wanted to see his brother. There was a strong need to look his sibling in the eye and make sure he was holding up. There were a thousand things that needed to be said and talked over. “The one way I can do that is to visit that chicken farm,” he whispered. “Maybe that’s what Dusty is trying to help me accomplish without the FBI becoming suspicious.”

Mitch made up his mind.
Reaching for the dial pad, he buzzed his assistant, “Get me Professor Middleton over at Agriculture, please. Tell him, ‘It’s urgent.’”

Mr. Vega looked away from the laptop, rubbing eyes that were burning with screen-fatigue. He stood and made for the apartment’s kitchen
. His action was more from a need to look at something, anything other than the computer’s backlit display, than any need for nourishment.

Tio’s
slightest whim was law. Any member of the organization, regardless of his role, treated the man’s requests as though they were biblical in nature and like the Ten Commandments themselves, carved in stone.

When the
order had been issued to find one Mr. Durham Weathers, Mr. Vega had hesitated for only a moment. Tio wanted to know where the man was, and anyone who didn’t take that command seriously was a fool. Soon to be a dead fool.

While Vega wasn’t associated with the illegal enterprises of smuggling, narcotic
s manufacturing or human trafficking, that didn’t mean he was without resources. The network of businesses under his control was significant and far-reaching. The problem was where to begin.

The first thing he did was order a file be created that contained all known images and information about the wanted man. The volume of data gathered
in the effort had surprised Vega.

The car title loan businesses
within his sphere possessed legitimate access to several state databases, including tax and banking information. In addition, the two law firms under his retainer added all of the recent activity available via the justice system search engines.

All of these sources were further supplemented by collecting what was publicly available on the internet.
The
Houston Post
article, national news agency reports, and of course the numerous blogs and non-mainstream publications all contributed to a significant file.

Vega
had been studying what was available, looking for any angle, unique circumstance or other key detail. Already, the man’s image was being emailed to every regional member of the cartel’s significant hierarchy. He just didn’t believe that would be enough.

Searching the refrigerator for a snack, he pulled out a plate of freshly cleaned
baby carrots and a tub of dip. Hesitating at the additional calories imbedded in the French onion creaminess, he shrugged and whispered, “What the hell. I’ve earned it.” 

Chewing on
the fresh orange veggies, he realized his men needed another identifying parameter to narrow the search. It would probably be something small, unnoticed, or unimportant to law enforcement. If any major, glaring clue existed, the FBI would have already apprehended their suspect. No, this would be something appearing to be inconsequential.

Finding someone on the run wasn’t exactly a new task for the cartel. In reality, the organization had pretty advanced capabilities, honed over the years to track down fugitives who absconded with money, turned informer
, or were labeled traitor by joining a competing entity.

Hundreds of such cases had been pursued with a high rate of success. When huge sums of money were being passed around, criminals would act like… well… criminals. There was no honor amongst drug dealers.

Men carrying suitcases containing millions of dollars were susceptible to temptations. “I could disappear with this much money. I could live well in a foreign land, and no one would ever find me,” wasn’t an uncommon thought.

It was the
assumption, “No one would ever find me,” that the organization worked so hard to disprove. When the thieves were discovered, their demise was brutal, grotesque and very, very public. It sent a message. It established rules. It enforced loyalty.

But they had never pursued a man possessing a doomsday weapon. And what a weapon.

Dipping another carrot, Vega admitted he could understand Tio’s unrelenting desire to control the device. It was obvious that the Americans understood its power and desperately wanted it for themselves… or at least to keep it out of anyone else’s hands.

He chuckled at the thought of his boss possessing such power. All of the military and economic might of the United States would evaporate in a heartbeat. Their daunting Air Force, unbeatable land
armies, and massive carrier battle groups would all become obsolete overnight.

Any city could be held hostage. Vega smiled, an image of Tio aiming th
e weapon at the New York Stock Exchange and demanding tribute. A similar mental image of Hoover Dam almost caused him to choke on his mouthful of food.

After a few sobering coughs, Vega again found himself hesitating to return to his search. Tio was already difficult to work with, the man’s megalomania legendary. What would the world be like if he held ultimate power? Unchecked, unbridled and merciless?
The horrific visions of a single, universal monarch, a tyrannical despot whose oppressive rule would immediately change the global political landscape.
God help us all,
Vega mused, wondering what end-of-the-world drama he had set in motion.

“It would be like… like… like the
four horsemen had been loosed upon the earth,” he whispered.

Then another image from his Cath
olic upbringing suddenly shot to the forefront of his consciousness.

“
The Antichrist,” he mumbled, now truly horrified and for once wishing he had paid more attention in Sister Mary Catherine’s class on the New Testament rather than flirting with Angela Borino. Could the nun have been right? Is this how it happens? Is this the manifestation of John’s Revelation that many Christians believe foretells the end of mankind? Will something like this rail gun provide the catalyst that allows Satan to rule the world?”

Vega’s mind rebelled at
playing any role that resulted in the unleashing of such apocalyptic forces upon the earth. He pushed away the carrots and dip, the nerves in his stomach no longer cooperating. Suddenly, the entire weight of the cartel seemed to find his shoulders. He couldn’t let this happen.

Then a thought entered his mind. Tio was an animal, unsophisticated in his wielding of blunt force and managing by fear. What the world needed was a more refined hand to guide it. Someone who understood people,
relationships, and commerce.

Vega suddenly felt better. He had an out.
A plan. He would continue along, outwardly pretending to be the loyal employee, fulfilling his master’s needs to the best of his ability. But if he did find out where this Durham Weathers was hiding, he’d step in at the last minute and secure the rail gun as his own. He could manage the world’s affairs much better than Tio.

Walking back to continue his work on the laptop, he suddenly had an interesting thought.
He would publically execute Tio, just to prove his own worthiness to rule.

“So you didn’t think it was necessary to notify the authorities that the most wanted man in the world was alive, well and in your company?”

Grace looked at the lawyer from the Department of Justice and smirked. “I’m going to tell you again, he’s my client. Even the most wanted man on earth has a right to representation. I have protection under the United States Constitution to meet and consult with my client. But even above and beyond that, I have a moral foundation – he’s innocent.”

The
statement caused a genuine guffaw to roll out of the DOJ man’s throat. “Sure he is, counselor. He’s destroyed half of our nation’s fourth largest city and killed dozens of law enforcement officers. He’s as pure as the driven snow,” he sarcastically taunted.

“Either arrest me or let me return home and stop th
is harassment. I’m not going to violate my client’s rights or the privilege associated with them,” she said calmly.

He ignored her statement, fiddling with his pen for a moment before looking up with a pained expression on his face
. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed his identification, flopping the credentials onto the table between them. “This interrogation is temporarily suspended. We are now off the record, just two human beings having a chat. Why are you protecting him? I’m not speaking about legal bullshit or anything of the sort. Just as one citizen to another, I want to know why you are harboring such a dangerous person. He represents one of the most chilling threats to our nation… to our species… that may have ever existed. Why?”