Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (3 page)

He needed to sit… take a load off. Pulling the nearby chair produced a vibrating scrape across the floor, as well as a grimace on the agent’s face. “Damn it,” he whispered, embarrassed by the racket.

“Hello, Tom,” came a hoarse voice from the bed.

“How are you feeling, sir?”

“I’ve been better; that’s for sure. Did we get him?”

The junior agent had dreaded the question, and for a variety of reasons. Special Agent in Charge Monroe hadn’t asked how many men they’d lost.
Nor was his first inquiry concerning the number of civilian casualties or collateral damage. No, nothing of the sort. Lying in critical condition with half of the nation’s fourth largest city in ruins, the region’s top FBI man wanted to know if the suspect was still loose on the streets. It revealed an obsession that had consumed all of their lives for the last two weeks. Shultz didn’t know if he should be impressed with the man’s dedication to the job, or worried about his mental state. It was easier to go with the former.

“Unknown at this time, sir. The crime scene has been… err… obliterated.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“The tanker that washed up on the pier - it exploded, sir. A blast large enough to make a mushroom cloud.”

Monroe didn’t comment for several moments, the duration of the silence so long at one point that Shultz wondered if he’d slipped back into dreamland. The junior agent wasn’t so lucky.

“And the aerial surveillance? The drones?”

“Those images and video are still being processed, sir. Right now the top priority is accounting for all of our men and putting out the fires.”

“What about the rail gun? Surely we recovered at least some pieces of that damned weapon?”

“Sir, the tanker was lying directly on top of the spot where we last saw that damned thing. The explosion left a crater the size of a football field and then immediately filled with water. Frankly, the rescue effort has taken precedence, and retrieval of any evidence has not yet fully begun.”

Something in the tone of his subordinate’s voice made Monroe pull back and rethink his line of questioning. “How many dead and wounded, Tom?”

“A lot, sir. I don’t have a final count, but a lot.”

A grimace crossed the patient’s face. “I’ll recommend to the director that you take over the investigation, Tom, at least while I’m recovering. Until Durham Weathers is confirmed dead or captured, I don’t want you to slow down our efforts… not one single bit. Is that clear?”

Shultz didn’t tell his boss that the director had already called. He’d let the upper echelons work things out, such men often inflexible when it came to topics like chain of command. And then there was Weathers. “Yes, sir. It is clear. But you know there’s very, very little chance he survived. Even if he did manage to make it through the missile attack and tidal wave, no one within an 800-meter radius of that ship is alive now.”

Despite the tub
es and wires, Monroe managed a curt nod. “No matter,” he whispered. “We need confirmation.”

You need confirmation
, Shultz thought.
Weathers would have faded into oblivion or accepted a presidential pardon if you hadn’t had a stick up your ass.

The couple spent the rest of the day napping, eating, and strolling through the marina. Grace visited the hotel’s boutiques, informing her male traveling companion that she was a lady, and thus required more than one outfit for this little adventure. Dusty noted the bathroom counter had suddenly become crowded with a smorgasbord of powders, crèmes, and smell-wells. She also purchased a few items for him, including a razor and deodorant. “Give ’em an inch,” he quietly mumbled, but then smiled at his reaction. She cared, and that made him feel good inside.

Dusty, living in West Texas for most of his life, was fascinated by the boats. He even toured a few vessels offered for sale by a local broker.

“Some of those yachts have everything you need,” he informed Grace. “You can turn saltwater into fresh, generate your own electricity, and fish for food. Amazing. If the Russian hadn’t ripped me off, I’d consider buying one and taking it to some remote island. We could live comfortably and no one would know we were there.”

“The Russian left us with about $12,000 in cash. That’s not enough money to last long, especially on a boat. We need to figure out what we’re going to do.”

He looked down with a grimace, her statement bringing back the harsh reality of the fugitive’s world. “Let’s go to the poolside bar and order a sandwich,” he recommended. “We can hatch our plot there.”

The poo
l was resort quality, with shining blue water, colorful lounge chairs, and a cascading waterfall. The oasis was nearly empty, so they selected two seats at the end of the bar. A smiling, young man appeared, offering the happy hour special margaritas. They chose iced tea instead, Dusty going with a ham and cheese, his lady selecting the spinach salad.

There was a television above the counter, a local news station showing footage of the recent disaster
at the ship channel. The sound was muted, but it was clear that the reporter was interviewing survivors and first responders. The footage then switched to a different scene of mayhem and destruction, the medical center.

Dusty reached across the bar and picked up the
remote, taking a moment to locate the volume button.

“Authorities are still seeking this man in connection with
the explosions that rocked the medical center,” the announcer stated as a picture of Dusty flashed on the screen. “KTWO news has learned that there may be a connection between the two incidents, but so far the FBI hasn’t made any official announcement.”

“Shit,” Dusty whispered and then cast a worried glance at Grace.

“They don’t know if you’re dead or not, do they?” she observed.

“I wasn’t counting on my picture being splashed all over the television
again. I think we have to take that into consideration as we make our plans. Perhaps the Houston area isn’t the place for us.”

“It will die down,” she said hopefully. “You saw those pic
tures of the pier. It will take months to sort that all out. This might have been just a one-time story.”

Dusty was still digesting the new information when their meal arrived. He found himself taking note
of the server’s face when he set the plates down in front of them.
Did he study my features?
Does he know who I am? Will he dial the police the minute he gets back into the kitchen?

Paranoia was back in his life, and he didn’t like it one single bit.
They had been stupid, checking into the motel and shopping, lulled into the false security of believing they were in the clear.

“Of course the FBI isn’t going to stop looking for me,” he said after washing down a mouthful of potato chips. “They don’t have a body, DNA or any other proof of my demise. We were silly to assume they would give up.”

Grace sat toying with her salad, the fork engaged more with rearranging than eating. “You don’t know that, Durham. We have no facts, and that’s the most troubling part of all of this. How can we make reasonable plans if we don’t know what’s going on?”

He nodded toward the now-muted weather report, “We know they’re still looking for me… sp
lashing my mug all over the airwaves. That’s a pretty black and white fact right there.”

She reached over and covered his hand with her own. “I’m with you, Dusty Weathers. I want to be. We’ll figure it out.”

“One thing is for certain; we can’t stay around Houston. I’ve blown half of this city to hell, or at least people think I have. It wouldn’t surprise me if the local cops have an order to shoot me on sight. Probably 90% of the civilians would too.”

They finished the rest of their mea
l in silence. On the way back to the room, Dusty spied a sign advertising the hotel’s business center. “Let’s do some research,” he suggested, nodding toward the threshold.

They entered a s
mall room furnished with modern-looking computers, a printer, fax machine, and copier. Neither wasted any time, typing in various internet searches and scanning the results with intensity. Dusty browsed newspaper articles and the websites of local radio stations while Grace used her knowledge of the court systems and legal databases.

An hour later they
both reclined back, disappointed in how little they had learned.

“That didn’t help much,” Grace admitted. “About the only thing I learned was that I appear to be no longer wanted by the
authorities. All charges have been dropped and no new ones filed. You, on the other hand, are still the most wanted man in the world.” Smiling coyly, she added, “My mom warned me about hanging around with bad boys. Why are you guys always so cute?”

Dusty grunted, “There are still federal officers in Fort Davis, and I doubt the
y’re hanging out because the diner’s blue-plate special is so tasty.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because there aren’t any rooms at the hotel. That place hasn’t been 100% full since old man Smith died. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry with the same last name showed up claiming to be an heir.”

Grace laughed, but didn’t doubt
the validity of his analysis.

When the humor had worn off, his expression became very serious, his voice sad. “Grace, we need to split up
, and you know it.”

“No.”

“I don’t want to either. It’s actually next to the last thing I want, right after being in prison for 10 years and then being put to death via lethal injection. If we separate, you can work on clearing my name. You can go home and use that wonderfully powerful intellect of yours to end this the right way.”

The lawyer in her knew what he was saying made sense,
but the woman inside didn’t want to acknowledge his logic. “I have waited years to feel this happy with someone. After my husband and daughter were killed, I thought I would never feel this way again. No,” she sniffled.

Dusty reached over, gently lifting her chin. “Grace, you know it
’s best. We are both young; we can have a lot of happy years together, but not if I’m in jail… or worse.”

The
y hugged, sobs racking her frame. Dusty held her tight for several minutes before the emotion worked out. “Okay. But we need to set up some way that I can contact you. I don’t want to lie in bed every night wondering if you’re dead or alive.”

He thought that over for a bit, finally brightening with an idea. “I know a way… if we’re careful.”

The dust was finally beginning to settle, and it couldn’t have happened fast enough for Agent Shultz. The hours following the ship channel incident had been a blur of status reports and forensic failures, all the while trying to recover from the loss of over a dozen federal agents in the explosion.

They had been lucky, with most of the Houston office personnel escaping death
. To Shultz, in the role of leading the investigation, an injured agent was just as much of a manpower issue as a dead one.

Other regions had be
gun supplementing field personnel while those still able to report for duty began pulling all too familiar double shifts. Local agencies had been devastated as well. The number of official funerals would keep the local news stations busy for days. He shook his head, disgusted at the thought of having to watch the continuous coverage. The last thing the Houston law enforcement community needed was video of the processions, countless fire trucks and police cars following black hearses throughout the city. Shultz was sure he would attend more than his share.

Sitting down for what seemed like the first time in days, he noticed a stack of pink messages that had recently been delivered. He picked up the bundle, flipping through the records of incoming calls. He discovered that the administration group was now sending Agent Monroe’s messages to his desk as well.
When it rains, it pours,
he mumbled.

Mid-way through the stack, he noticed one slip that was marked “Urgent!” in bright red ink. It was an internal call for the head of the digital technology group three floors below.

Sighing, he reached for the phone and dialed the extension, hoping it wasn’t more bad news.

“We’ve processed the video images from the drones that were orbiting over the Houston Ship Channel. I think you’ll want to
see this right away,” the nerdy-sounding tech informed him.

Shultz entered the lab ten minutes later, where he was led to a conference room equipped with a large screen monitor covering one entire wall. After everyone was seated, the department head clicked a few keys
, and an overhead image of a bridge and waterway appeared on the screen. Shultz recognized it immediately as the area where they had hoped to arrest Durham Weathers just a few days ago.

The tech again tapped on the keyboard
, and the image changed to show odd, glowing colors. “This is the infrared spectrum. You can see here… and here… and here are various law enforcement officers moving into position.

“Yes,” Shultz replied, “I remember deploying men in that area.”

“This hotspot here,” the tech resumed, “we believe is the suspect. If I switch back to straight video, you can see he’s hiding in what appears to be a pallet storage area.”

Shultz nodded for the man to continue.

“Things get a little confusing during certain segments. The drone was in a high orbit to avoid the law enforcement helicopters in the area. As you can see, the video lacks clarity when the craft was at the edge of its range.”

Shultz sat in silence, reliving the events of that morning. He saw the man they all thought was Durham Weathers appear, taking the bridge hostage with his super-weapon. Then the attack helicopters came into view, a large section of the display goin
g pure white when the Hellfire Missile struck the shore. There were people running everywhere, some converging on the area while others, probably civilians, were trying to escape the violence.

Then something odd appeared on the screen. From the clutter of what he knew were the pallets, a thin black line appeared, stretching into the water directly ahead of the ship that was about to coll
ide with the bridge. It appeared on the screen for only a fraction of a moment.

“What was that?” Shultz asked, sitting upright in his chair.

The tech waved him off, “We think that was a glitch in the binary stream being downloaded from the drone. It happens sometimes. The same line appears in the infrared spectrum, which is impossible, so we wrote it off as an anomaly in the data stream.”

Another of the white-coated technicians was also curious. “Sir, could you back that up and show the black line agai
n? I would like to see the time stamp.”

The keyboard clicked a few times
, and again the image showed the odd-looking black streak. In the lower right-hand corner was a date/time stamp. The newly interested tech pulled open a folder and began hastily shuffling through a stack of papers. Finally locating what he was looking for, his complexion flashed pale. He glanced up at the screen and back at the paper twice before announcing, “That was the rail gun!”

“What?” Shultz asked, almost bolting out of his chair.

Poking his finger into the paper, the tech announced, “Space Command in Colorado reported another of those odd EMP waves associated with the discharge of the rail-weapon. The time stamp matches exactly.”

Shultz looked like someone had just
dropkicked his new puppy. More mumbling than speaking, he observed, “So Weathers did survive all that. He wasn’t blown to bits by the Apache’s missile. I’ll be damned.”