Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (18 page)

The Air Force had been launching sophisticated satellites for
decades, concentrating those space-based eyes and ears on the evil empire of the Soviet Union. If anyone from the bureau had suggested using military birds for crime fighting in the 70s or 80s, they would have been laughed out of the organization.

Since the towers had come down, that was no longer the case. America had changed.

Shultz grunted, remembering the uproar over the leaked NSA papers and that agency’s use of computer technology and the internet to gather intelligence. “If they only knew,” he whispered to the empty hotel room.

After 9-11, America’s
ultra-powerful space-based technology was being employed within her own borders. The authorities were careful, utilizing small portions of the information being gathered here and there. Petty crimes, like murder, assault, and kidnapping rarely warranted access to the unbelievable amount of data available. It was a well-kept secret, even more so since the exposure of the NSA’s capabilities and procedures.

Even a case as important as the Olympus Device required serious players at the very top of the government and military to clear the barriers. Other than rumors and the occasional miracle break in
spoiling an anti-terror plot, Shultz had only heard whispers about the true capabilities.

Oh, there had been
the rare mistake. A television reporter, monitoring the manhunt for the Boston Marathon bombers had accidently been shown images from one of the orbiting platforms. That video, depicting the heat signature of a body curled up in a small boat, had even been published as “infrared video shot from a law enforcement helicopter.”

Shultz had used infrared devices – they couldn’t see through glass,
let alone the canvas cover of a boat. Some quick cleanup had been performed, state police logos added along with clever editing of actual helicopter footage. Few had noticed the security breech.

Was it right? Was it moral and just? Such questions were above his pay grade, but he couldn’t help but wond
er if the agency’s actions hadn’t catapulted a simple investigation into one man’s war against his country’s leadership. Would the Port of Houston be a smoldering ruin if they had just talked to Weathers? Would Schultz have over a dozen funerals on his calendar if they hadn’t jumped to conclusions?

The interim FBI lead investigator
knew what Monroe’s response would be. He could just hear the senior agent’s mental wheels turning, evidence of his intellect kicking into high gear. “We were not paying attention when Al Qaeda soldiers were taking flying lessons right under our noses. Over 3,000 Americans perished because of it. Every time we let down our guard, innocent people die. Someone didn’t follow up on the Boston Marathon bombers, and we paid the price. Not on my watch. Not in my region.”

Why didn’t a man such as Durham Weathers trust his government?
Shultz had spent a lot of time pondering that very question. Every indication was the West Texan was a common, law-abiding citizen. He was a political agnostic at worst, uninterested at best. Shouldn’t Agent Monroe have investigated this citizen before unleashing the full force and vengeance of the United States upon the man?

There was now a pinprick hole in the government’s dam of secrecy.
Words like “cover up” had been broadcast on national television. It wouldn’t be long before the term “conspiracy” would follow. More people would join the ranks of those who felt like Weathers, deeply distrusting their elected officials and perhaps even the entire system. How long before those ranks would swell to encompass the majority?

“The
terrorist’s victory grows more profoundly every single day,” he mumbled. “Bin Laden wanted to ignite a revolution, and now a man from West Texas might just finish the job for him.”

Agent Shultz wasn’t the only person analyzing the FBI director’s interview. In her living room, 600 miles away, Grace sat on her couch pondering what she had just watched.

Going to the press had always been the last straw. It was an irreversible act fraught with the potential of unintended consequences.

She fully understood the American political mind. No matter the subject, person or cause, one third of Americans would be on the positive side of the ledger, one-third on the negative. It was the uncommitted, middle-of-the road group that politicians, businesses, and marketers courted and cajoled.

O
nly rarely did these mathematical parameters vary. The list of exceptions included a very limited number of events where the population could be expected to behave outside this norm. Attacking U.S. citizens, or American soil, were sure ways to initiate public outcry by 90 percent of the general populace. Harming a child unified public opinion against the perpetrator at an even slightly higher percentage, but generally speaking, the country divided by the “one-third/one-third/one-third” paradigm.

Going public with Dusty’s story wouldn’t be one of the exceptions. She fully expected one-third to instantly demand his head on a pike, while the remainder of the population would fall somewhere between neutral and supportive.

The press had traditionally played the role of equalizer in the American story. Corruption, draconian policies, cover-ups, and graft had long been favorite objectives of the media. Of course, that news model had not been the norm for decades… not since the old days… when the broadcasts were about real journalism, more about searching for the truth and less about image surveys, target marketing, and ratings. She couldn’t count on the press digging into the facts and using the truth to bolster Dusty’s position.

“How would the average American view Dusty Weathers if I got on national
TV and told his story?” she whispered in a hushed voice. “Would he become another terrorist like the men who bombed Oklahoma City? Or would he become a folk hero, swept into popularity like the lore of outlaws as recent as John Dillinger? Would he become a Paul Revere or a John Wilkes Booth?”

Switch
ing off the television, she meandered to the kitchen and began heating water for tea. Given the turmoil in her world, a cup of the relaxing brew before turning in was now more important than ever.

As the burner’s flames licked around the edges of the teapot, her mind wandered again to the topic that had dominated her thoughts for weeks – Durham Weathers.

Before tonight’s broadcast, going public with their side of the story wasn’t an option. The one article published to date, the piece in the
Houston Post
, had been dismissed by the national media as hyperbole and conjecture.

The fact that she would be going up against a very skilled and powerful propaganda machine wasn’t to be sold short. Politicians, government
officials, and law enforcement leaders were expert manipulators of public opinion. They routinely and deftly used the press as a promotional machine.

“The President of the United States versus Grace Kennedy, small town lawyer,” she mumbled as the pot began to whistle. “What chance would I have?”

Dusty had caused the destruction of personal property and community assets as well as a mounting body count. His actions had directly influenced the lives of thousands of citizens, mostly in a negative context. The authorities would play that up, using the violence to rally public opinion against him. Before tonight, she wouldn’t have stood a chance of being heard by open minds.

But now things had chang
ed. The interview with the FBI director had cracked the government’s façade. Perhaps only a tiny fracture, but an opening nonetheless.

Pouri
ng the steaming water over the chamomile infusion blended with bits of peach and pineapple, she took a moment to savor the aroma. A half-teaspoon of raw honey resulted in a formula she often termed, “liquid happiness.”

Carefully sipping the brew, she meandered back
to her room to prepare for bed. “Do I have the skills to plead Dusty’s case to the American people?” she questioned. “Can I overcome the spin-jobs, propaganda, and credibility of the DOJ and FBI?”

The answer, up until now,
had always been a resounding “No.” While there had been some examples of the government losing media backing, they were rare.

Cattle ranchers, a favor
ite American icon of independence and self-reliance, had managed to take on a myriad of agencies over the years to varying degrees of success. Native American uprisings were often viewed through a positive lense by the public as well. But those incidents were few and far between.

She placed
her cup on the nightstand and pulled back the comforter and sheets. “I need the skills of a Madison Avenue publicist,” she grinned. “I wish I could engage a personal image consultant to give Dusty Weathers a makeover.”

Then another thought occurred. “If I do go public with this tale, every outlaw, tin pan
dictator, and ne’er-do-well will want to get his hands on that rail gun. Plastering this story in front of an entire viewing audience might be the equivalent of signing a death sentence for Dusty, rendering all of his sacrifice and suffering for naught.”

Taking one last sip of the calming brew,
she reached a conclusion. “No, I’m going to work this in the background, out of the public eye. The stakes are too high.”    

Dusty poured the last of the feed into the dispenser, stepping back carefully to avoid hurting any of the gathering chickens. “I can go have breakfast now that you guys are fed,” he said to the uncaring animals flocking around his feet.

He noticed Penny and one of the girls by the house and waved. They returned the greeting, and the older of the two motioned that he should join them.

“Good morning!” she greeted, obviously in a good mood.

“Fine day it is,” Dusty replied with a smile.

“My husband’s hearing is today,” she announced. “I’m taking the girls with me to the courthouse.
I hope to have my partner back this afternoon.”

Dusty had mixed emotions about the news. He was just settling in and was unsure of what Mr. Boyce’s return would mean to his room and board
arrangement.

“
I’ve finished the morning chores,” he responded. “This is sure to be a stressful day for you - regardless of the outcome. Would you like for me to go with you?” Dusty offered, not really knowing what else to say.

Penny
nodded and produced a slip of paper. “I’ve got a list of things we need from the co-op. If you wouldn’t mind dropping us off and then doing a little shopping, it would save another trip into town.”

Twenty minutes
later, they were all loaded into the truck and heading into Laredo.

The Tri-Materials entrance was just under two miles
down the road. As they passed, Penny couldn’t help but glare at the facility, the massive building’s silhouette projecting a foreboding image in the early grey light.

Beyond the guard shack and heavy gate, a winding blacktop drive lead
to an impressive menagerie of pipes, valves, and storage tanks. The main plant, larger than a big-city high school, looked like some sort of evil baron’s castle. The two skyward reaching smokestacks were the bastion’s towers, each exhausting thin trails of some bluish vapor.

“Seems like
an odd place for such a massive industrial plant. Not much else around here to help with the supply chain,” Dusty commented.

“After the NAFTA treaty was signed, there was
an explosion of growth along this area of the border. The oversized manufacturing companies found cheap land on both sides of the Rio Grande and a horde of small municipalities willing to provide tax incentives,” Penny replied. “Most of the activity was closer to Brownsville. There are a few towns over that way that I remember as sleepy, quiet little farming communities. These days, the fields of corn, cotton and sugar cane have been replaced with acres of shipping containers and factories.”

Dusty frowned, “I guess I don’t know much about big business because I still can’t make the connection. Why did the treaty change everything?”

Penny grunted, shaking her head. “They use cheap labor on the Mexican side and more skilled workers on our side. With the treaty, they can transport the goods back and forth without tariffs, inspections, or fees. If whatever your company makes requires both types of employees, this is the best place to do it – or so I am told.”

Dusty nodded, the explanation making sense.

As they entered the outskirts of town, Penny fussed over the girls, straightening hair and inspecting clothing. “We’re supposed to meet my husband’s lawyer a little early. He wanted me to bring the girls to make a good impression on the judge. He said if we look like an all-American family, it might help lower the bail.”

“Makes sense,” Dusty replied, growing uneasy as they drove into the more densely populated area.

“Mr. Hastings is an old friend of my father’s. He’s been the one bright spot in this whole affair. He even came out of retirement to take the case,” she added.

Dusty pulled the pickup to the curb and watched silently as
Penny and her children climbed out of the cab. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” she smiled. “Wish me luck.”

“It will be fine,” he smiled
, trying to quell the nervousness. “You guys look like you could have walked out of a Norman Rockwell painting, and that is sure to help the cause. Good luck!”

After watching the Boyce clan mount the courthouse steps, he put the truck into gear and pulled out into the light
flow of small-town traffic. Penny had drawn a rough map for directions to the co-op, and he unfolded the paper as he rolled toward a four-way stop sign.

Figuring out th
e directions, he started to pull forward and almost hit two men who appeared out of nowhere, obviously in a hurry as they hustled across the street. Pushing hard on the brakes, Dusty managed to stop the front bumper just inches from the pedestrians.

One of the men, now upset, slapped his palm on th
e hood and bellowed, “Hey! Watch where the fuck you’re going, buddy.”

“Sorry, didn’t see…
” Dusty started, and then recognized the Tri-Materials security guard from the encounter at the fence.

The man knew instantly who Dusty was as well.

The two stared at each other across the old truck’s hood for just a moment, and then the Tri-Mat security man continued across the street trying to catch up with his half-jogging partner. Dusty watched as the goon glanced over his shoulder, casting a nasty look in his direction. But he didn’t stop. They continued on, quickly disappearing around the corner.

Dusty shook his head, whispering a half-felt joke about winning friends and influencing people in his new
hometown. He started to cross the intersection again, when a sense of curiosity entered his mind.

“What are they doing at the courthouse?” he
mumbled.

“That guy clearly wanted an
other shot at kicking my ass. Wonder where they were going that was important enough for him to bypass such a prime opportunity?”

Deciding he had plenty of time, Dusty turned at the next street, intent on circling the block to see where his antagonist
s might be going. He was halfway through the maneuver, slowly progressing down a side street while glancing right and left.

He almost missed seeing the pair of legs protruding from behind a
nearby-parked car. Someone was lying on the sidewalk.

“Shit,” he grunted, stopping in the middle of the street and throwing open the door.

He rushed around the back of the car and found an elderly man prone on the concrete. The old fellow was trying to rise up on one elbow at the same time as spitting blood from his mouth.

“You okay, sir?” Dusty asked, bending over to check on the injured man.

“I was robbed,” the guy mumbled. “I think they damn near broke my jaw,” he added, rubbing his face and chin.

Dusty helped the gent up, keeping close as the victim leaned against his car on wobbly legs.

“Did you see who did it?”

“No… no I didn’t,” came the
mumbled response, the effort required to answer clearly causing the old-timer serious discomfort.

“Do you need a ride to the hospital? Should I call the police?”

Again rubbing his face, the man managed, “I was on my way to the courthouse to meet my client. Those two thugs took my briefcase. I’ll fill a complaint there… always plenty of cops around.”

“Is your name Mr. Hastings by any chance?” Dusty asked, now growing very suspicious at the circumstances.

“Why yes… yes, it is. Have we had the pleasure?”

“No, sir. No, we’ve never met,” Dusty stumbled, not sure where to take the conversation.

After brushing off his suit pants and straightening his jacket, the lawyer glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get going,” he said. “The judge isn’t going to be happy that I don’t have my paperwork, but at least I can show up to stand with my client.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes… yes, I’m fine,” came the reply. “I’ve not always been such an upstanding officer of the court, young man. This isn’t the first time a fist has landed against my mandible. I’ll be just fine.”

Growing weary of the exposure and proximity to both a crime and the courthouse, Dusty decided to let it go with
out further ado. After patting the attorney on the shoulder, he returned to the pickup and drove away.

Two streets over, he almost experienced his second accident of the morning. A car sped past, completely ignoring a stop sign and almost t-boning
Penny’s truck. Dusty caught a glance of the passenger and knew instantly it was the two men who had just cold-cocked Mr. Hastings. He turned to follow.

The old truck wasn’t a match for the sedan when it came to raw speed, but then again the streets of downtown Laredo weren’t exactly a
racecourse either. Dusty tried to keep back, but not too far back, as the dark green getaway car rushed through town.

It quickly became clear where the driver ahead of him was going. Almost retracing the exact route he and
Penny had used to enter town, Dusty was amazed at the brazen attitude of the men he was chasing.

A short time later, he grunted as the two muggers signaled their turn into the Tri-Materials plant entrance.

He should have driven past, continued back toward the farm like an unaware traveler heading home. But he couldn’t let it go.

He pulled into the factory’s lane and stopped just as the gate was opening for the green 4-door ahead.

Dusty just sat there, 50 yards from the entrance, hoping the men in the car would notice his presence and realize there was a witness to their nefarious deeds. He watched as the muggers pulled through the gate and continued toward the distant facility. His voice of reason spoke up, telling the Texan that he should skedaddle out of there – make a clean escape from the enemy’s home camp.

As the taillights of
the green car faded into the distant parking lot, Dusty noticed one of the security guards walking from the booth toward his idling truck. Throwing the shifter into reverse, he backed out onto the road and headed toward town.

He fumbled through the shopping list absentmindedly, picking up the supplies noted on
Penny’s note without really focusing on what he was doing.

The events of the morning had shed new light on the situation he had accidently bumbled into, the audacity of the Tri-Material
’s personnel both shocking and revealing at the same time.

Dusty struggled to plot a future course. On one hand, his survival instincts pushed him to flee. There was trouble here in south Texas, and it really wasn’t his fight. Eventually, things were going to escalate
, and that would inevitably draw unwanted attention to his whereabouts.

But there was a part of him that wanted to right the wrongs that were happening all around him. He had no idea what had put a bur
r under Tri-Material’s saddle. There was no way of knowing whether it was because the factory wanted the Boyce land, or was polluting the area somehow, or wanted to send a message to the town making it clear who was the big dog on the block.

Whatever their reasoning, Dusty suspected they had the local city officials either in their pocket or cowed. The length of time it was taking to resolve Mike Boyce’s minor offenses was a clear indication that the local employer held significant sway and influence.

He desperately wanted to talk to Grace about the entire affair, but knew the authorities would be watching her like hawks. The thought reminded him of their promise to keep in touch. “It’s been a few days,” he whispered. “I’d better let her know I’m okay.”

He found the
pawnshop where he’d sold the pistol without much trouble. A few minutes later, he walked out with a used laptop and charger.

The next stop was a local co
ffeehouse, entering the establishment reminding him of the last time he’d seen his brother in just such a place. With a Styrofoam cup of java in his hand, Dusty returned to the pickup with the password to access the internet. He powered up the new computer.

It took longer than he anticipated, but eventually he was connected to the internet via the free Wi-Fi offered by th
e coffee shop. Grace had made him repeat the address of a specific website over and over again, and now he was glad.

He entered the gardening site as a guest, quickly finding the link for the forum. Grace’s post was a few
days old, but he eventually found the last entry from GKinWTexas, a user ID for Grace Kennedy in West Texas.