Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (23 page)

The technician leaned back in his chair, pulling another sip from the oversized coffee mug that always seemed to be present. The large computer monitor residing on his desk displayed a blur of characters scrolling downward as the automated system cycled through its processes.

At that moment, the FBI’s Houston office was monitoring 1631 mobile devices, tracking locations, phone
calls, and internet browsing activities. There were 122 that were “hot listed,” meaning any call, movement or loss of signal was to be analyzed by human eyes.

Not that turning off their cell phones would do any good. Even removing the
battery was a wasted effort, as the FBI had full access to the NSA’s sophisticated monitoring systems.

Each
modern mobile device sold in the United States contained two batteries. The largest and most commonly known could be removed by the user. The second was tiny, powering the memory of the phone even if the primary power cell was removed. That secondary power source also enabled the phone’s radio frequency identifier to transmit an intermittent signal.

From his desktop, the technician could do some amazing things with the typical smart phone. With the click of a key, he could turn on the device’s cameras and watch live, streaming video. The owner would never know.

He could also turn on the microphone, access the GPS location history, read every text message and even program the phone to record every call. Those recordings could be transmitted during the night and then automatically erased. If programmed to do so, he could sit and view every photograph.

But that was all child’s play. The really sophisticated capabilities
had been brought online just a few months ago.

He could
now scan any fingerprint left by accidently brushing over the camera lenses. The magnetometer in the newer models was so accurate, the system could often detect if the owner were carrying a gun.

Pulse rate, body temperature and other
biofeedback data could be captured as well.

But the really
serious money had been dedicated to the automated analysis systems. There were over a billion cell phones on the planet, and even the U.S. government didn’t have the manpower to watch, listen, and monitor every single one.

Black budgets had been appropriated to write the most complex software ever devised by mankind. Huge banks of supercomputers occupied underground centers in Utah, Fort Meade and other
clandestine locations – all with the dedicated purpose of tracking, scrutinizing and storing the daily habits of cell phone users. It was as if the various government agencies had a law enforcement officer in every American’s purse or pocket.

Earlier that morning, the system had flagged one Dr. Mitch Weathers as having executed movements outside of his normal travel zone – essentially College Station, Texas and the A&M campus.

The third shift tech had immediately notified the surveillance team assigned to Dr. Weathers, who didn’t appreciate receiving the pre-dawn call. Despite the grumbling, they quickly verified that the good doctor was attending a scientific conference in Corpus Christi. It all appeared to be on the up and up.

The FBI computer expert returned the cup to the desktop coaster and smiled at the monitor. There was no flagged activity, which meant he could visit the cafeteria at the regular time – a rare occurrence as of late.

“All the little rabbits are right where they should be,” he mumbled to himself, wondering if the tuna salad was any good today.

An
hour later, Dusty piloted the old pickup out the driveway, both of the young girls giddy with excitement and looking forward to the unexpected trip. As they rolled east, Penny got caught up in her daughters’ enthusiasm, recounting stories of previous excursions to the big city.

Dusty drove on, mostly silent and only showing the occasional polite smile.
He had agreed to the trip because he didn’t intend on coming back. He planned to make up some excuse in Corpus and send Penny and the girls back to the ranch alone. It had been a great gig while it had lasted. Despite his best intentions, he couldn’t help but have a sense of foreboding about the journey.

Vega watched his quarry speed
away. Lowering the binoculars, he turned to Victor and instructed, “Follow them. Stay back, but follow them. They may be trying to run.”

“Why don’t we just ram that truck into
a ditch and get this over with?” responded the cartel enforcer. “It’s only one man and three females. I think we can handle them.”

Vega started to scold the man, but caught the harsh words before they left his throat. Both of the muscular fellows in the back seat worked for
Victor. It was rude to scold a manager in front of his charges, and besides, he didn’t want to give any of them a hint regarding what he had planned.

“H
e is well-armed and skilled,” Vega finally explained. “Our Uncle’s instructions were very clear – we are to take down this target without drawing a lot of attention. Having a shootout along the road isn’t a low key activity.”

Victor
seemed unconvinced, but the cartel boss had ordered him and two trusted compadres to follow Vega’s instructions. He would do so, no matter how silly things seemed.

Less than an hour later, i
t became apparent that their prey was heading to Corpus Christi. As they approached the metropolitan area, Vega spoke again. “Move closer. The last thing I want to report to our uncle is that we lost them in traffic.”

Penny pulled a brochure from her purse and began showing the girls pictures of their sightseeing options. It was soon agreed that everyone wanted to tour the aircraft carrier USS Lexington, which was now a docked museum and one of Corpus’s most popular tourist attractions.

It wasn’t difficult to find the big ship, her outline visible from quite some distance away. “Okay, everyone… we have two hours before we have to be at my sister’s house for lunch. Let’s get this show on the road!” Penny declared.

Even in his foul mood, Dusty had to admit that the huge vessel was a sight to see. The museum’s parking lot was right next to the permanent mooring, and the size of the “Blue Ghost” was daunting. As they exited the truck, he couldn’t help but share the girls’ excitement as everyone approached the gangway to buy tickets and begin the outing.

Dusty picked up a pamphlet at th
e ticket booth and began to learn a little about the history of the great ship. The USS Lexington was a veteran of WWII, having entered service in 1943. Decommissioned in 1991, she had earned her spooky nickname from the wartime Japanese Navy, who believed they had sunk Lexington no less than three times, and took to calling her a ghost ship.

“They’ve got a theatre, gift
shop, and restaurant on this boat,” Penny noted as the group entered the main hangar deck. “It’s like a floating city.”

And it was.

For an hour, the foursome climbed through narrow passageways, marveled at the scope of the flight deck and stared out the windows, taking in the magnificent view of the bay offered from the high-rise bridge. The girls were wide-eyed and excited.

They had just finished touring the machinery spaces when Dusty caught a glimpse of a face that looked familiar. He paused for a moment, searching the tourists scattered in the various rooms and compartments.
Penny and the girls continued, stepping through a watertight hatch into another section of the ship.

He couldn’t spot anyone he knew and was just about to dismiss the whole episode when a scream rang out from up ahead.

Through the steel bulkhead doorway, Dusty could see Penny holding up her arms in the classic “Don’t shoot” position. She was pale white and clearly shocked.

The big Texan moved quickly, reaching in his belt for the .45 caliber
Glock tucked inside. “Please… Mister… please let her go,” Penny was pleading.

Sidestepping for an angle, Dusty spied a man’s arm holding a pistol against the older girl’s head. Another voice responded to the mother’s desperate plea. “We want to speak to Weathers. Co
me out Mr. Weathers, I know you’re back there.”

“What do you want
?” Dusty called, remaining out of sight.

“We want what you have in that duffle bag, Mr. Weathers. Hand it over
, and no one will be harmed,” came the reply.

Dusty was confuse
d. His mind had immediately concluded that the Tri-Materials thugs followed them from Laredo, but they didn’t know about the rail gun.
Or did they?

He knew it wasn’t the
FBI, as they wouldn’t take a hostage.
Or would they?

A dozen thoughts
surged through his head, the blood pounding in his ears making it difficult to react. Unable to reach a decision, he couldn’t come up with anything other than to stall.

“You want the money? Is that it?” he called through the doorway
, knowing that wasn’t the case at all.

A throaty laugh was the initial response, quickly followed by, “No, Mr. Weathers. You know exactly what I want. Now please show yourself or we will begin execut
ing these females.”

Dusty could see Penny, her eyes wide and darting around the room in sheer terror. She had managed to pull the other girl around behind her, shielding the frightened child with her body. The voice had said “we,” which meant there was more than one goon on the other side of the doorway.
But how many?

“You’ve miscalculated,” Dusty answered. “Those women mean nothing to me,”
he stated flatly, as he slowly began unzipping the duffle.

There wasn’t an immediate response. After a few moments, again the voice sounded from beyond. “I don’t believe you Mr. Weathers, and time is of the essence. Like you, I don’t want an encounter with the authorities, so stop trying my patience and hand over the bag.”

Dusty pulled the rail gun from the duffle.

The voice from
the other side was Latino. In south Texas, that didn’t mean anything specific, but it gave Dusty his next response. “Who are you?”

The green LED glowed bright.

Again the laugh, “Mr. Weathers, you’re stalling, and I’m growing tired of our conversation. My identity isn’t important. What matters is that the men with me are more than willing to execute these women. Hand over the weapon immediately, or I’ll prove that I’m not bluffing.”