Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (32 page)

Colonel Zeta
stared across the bridge at the stubborn, pig-headed captain in charge of the small blocking force that was preventing the cartel’s mercenaries from returning to Mexico. Already his rearguard had reported that advancing elements of the 1
st
Cavalry were approaching the outskirts of town. He had trained with the troopers based in Fort Hood and had no intention of facing them in battle. He needed to get across that river… and needed to do so right now.

He’d tried to negotiate with the man across the river, but there was no chance
. The scared officers controlling the Mexican side of the border had obviously been threatened. They refused to allow his men to cross, regardless of any bribe, inducement or plea he offered. Evidently, Washington had pressured Mexico City to block their retreat – an unexpected turn of events. And that is how Zeta suddenly became a man without a country.

Turning to his
second in command, Zeta barked, “I want everybody forming up on this one bridge. We’re going home, either in a box or on our own two legs.”

It took 15 minutes for his men to arrive, only a
few of their original over-the-road trucks having survived the battle of Laredo. It was one of these behemoths that Zeta positioned at the front of his formation.

On
both sides of the oversized vehicle, he placed a number of men equipped with rocket propelled grenades. He was going to blast and shove his way through.

“Everyone’s accounted for,” someone reported. “The rearguard is falling back to our position now.”

“Good,” Zeta whispered. “We may pull this off just yet.”

He verified one last time that all of the drivers and men on foot knew their orders, and then turned to the RPG shooters. “On my command,” he ordered. “Fire!”

Dusty was keeping a close eye on the U.S. troops from his perch. He had selected the overlook because it struck a balance between his need to be as far away from the area as he could to avoid capture without compromising his vantage of the battle before him. He was torn between cheering for his countrymen as they kicked the invaders’ asses and his own safety…
Now, I have reached a new low; I am just like those danged rubberneckers gawking at the roadside wreckage,
he mused.

Finally believing his intervention was no longer warranted, the gunsmith
began to rise when complete chaos erupted on the Mexican side of the bridge closest to him. Several balls of red and white flame appeared, soon followed by the reverberations of explosions rolling across the river.

Dusty’s first instinct was that the
U.S. Air Force had dropped bombs on the wrong side of the border, but no sooner had the racket died down he recognized the racing of several engines and then a volume of gunfire.

A quick look through his optic explained what was going on. Whoever was leading the invaders was smart, grouping all of his men at one bridge and attacking the authorities on the other side.
Evidently, they preferred to face the Mexican government rather than the infantry that was advancing closer by the minute.

And it appeared as though
the retreating Mexicans were going to succeed.

Dusty watched the line of vehicles slowing crossing the span, both sides of the bridge filled with riflemen firing bursts of automatic fire into the
defenders’ now-burning roadblock on the south side of the river.

“
Nooooo!” Dusty yelled over the ruckus. “No. No. No. You are
not
going to get away.”

His head pivoted back and forth between the retreating army that he loathed so deeply and the
U.S. Army that was still a fair distance away. “They’re not going to catch those bastards,” Dusty said. “I can’t let that happen.”

The green LED glowed brightly in the late evening light. Dusty dropped the ball bearing into the chamber and flipped on the aiming laser. He
shouldered the rail gun and centered the red dot directly in front of a large semi that was leading the charge across the bridge.

He pulled the trigger.

The Texan’s aim was true, a 20-foot wide expanse of the bridge evaporating into thin air as the pipeline to an alternative reality expanded at the speed of light. A few thousandths of a second later, it closed, leaving a pure vacuum in the space and time it had previously occupied… a blankness that demanded to be filled for the law of this universe’s physics to remain true.

A fountain of concrete, rebar and blacktop shot into the air, the concussion crushing bone, metal and sinew for the unfortunate men and machines on the bridge. The blast wave expanded outward in all directions, pulverizing everything in
its path.

The lead semi-tractor was o
bliterated almost instantly, its trailer flung over 200 feet through the air.

The row of building
s closest to the river was blown flat, appearing as though a tornado had magically formed and swept the structures away. For miles in every direction, windows on both sides of the Rio Grande were shattered by the resulting shock wave.

Dusty watched from his elevated vantage, his eyes maintaining a tight focus on the bridge. It was like watching a children’s cartoon as the
few surviving sections wobbled, shook, and then began collapsing into the river below. Displaced water shot high into the air as huge chunks of the span were consumed by its depths, others peeking from the water’s surface. It was all over in a few seconds, nothing but open air where a mammoth 8-lane structure had serviced traffic just a few moments before.

“That road to Mexico is closed,” Dusty whispered, bending to return the rail gun to his duffle. He rearranged the contents and then stood, casting one last glance at the town below. He turned to make for the ladder and found himself staring directly into the barrel of
a rifle.

Zeta pushed a small portion of rub
ble away, the effort providing some relief from his crushed chest. He wiped the blood from his eyes, trying to raise high enough to get a glimpse of the bridge beyond. It was a wasted effort, his body completely unresponsive.

Letting
his neck relax, only the sky appeared in his view. He knew it was over; his time had come.

An aroma fought
its way through the waves of pain and fear that consumed the colonel’s mind. A sweet smell that reminded him of lilac. Consuela. The homemade shampoo she used on her hair.

The light grew brighter and music filled his ears. The sounds of g
uitars in perfect pitch. Consuela dancing to the music, a smile of joy painted on her beautiful face.

Then the
rhythm changed, the melody switching to a hymn he sang at mass so long ago.

The light
became dim around the edges of the sky, fuzzy clouds closing in on the dark blue of the late evening. And then it went dark as the music faded away.

Dusty raised h
is hands high into the air. There weren’t any theatrics in the look of fear that encompassed his face.

“Who are you?” barked a gruff voice.

“My name’s Dusty,” he stuttered, trying desperately to recover from the shock of the soldier’s appearance.

“Where are you from?”

“West Texas,” he answered honestly.

The older soldier continued the interrogation. “What are you doing up here?”

“Hiding from the Mexicans,” was all Dusty could think to say.

That must have been the right answer because the next words carried
an almost friendly tone. “Go hide someplace else. We’re setting up here, and you don’t want to be around.”

Before Dusty could respond, the two men were moving past him, hustling to set up a large bore rifle with the biggest scope the gunsmith had ever seen. He realized he’d bumbled into
a two-man sniper team seeking a good position to cover their unit as it advanced through town.

Dusty didn’t waste any time, quickly climbing down the ladder and scurrying off. His first instinct was to head away from the city center, but a line of advancing
U.S. military quickly reversed his course.

“Shit,” he mumbled as he jogged through an alley. “I fucked around for too long
, and now I’m pinned.”

He ventured onto a street, scann
ing all directions for some place to lay low. He judged most of the buildings were occupied by frightened, confused citizens huddling in the safety of their homes. If he tried to break in, he most likely would be met with a shotgun blast. Not an option.

Down the street, less
than a block away, he spied two shot-up police SUVs. Both units were punctured with bullet holes and surrounded by piles of spent cartridges and glass. There were three dead men still lying in the street.

He walked over to the wreckage
and bent to check the body of a man lying nearby. There was no pulse or respiration.

Dusty inhaled, and with a scowl of distaste, scooped up a handful of bloody mud pooled next to the body. He rubbed the copper-smelling goo on his face and neck. He then rolled the body over and quickly removed the man’s jacket.

Noting the “ATF” initials on the back and breast, Dusty put the windbreaker on and then removed the neck-chain containing the deceased man’s badge and ID. It soon joined his disguise. The corpse’s baseball hat and broken sunglasses soon rounded out his costume.

Checking his appearance in the closest SUV
’s mirror, Dusty inhaled sharply at his image. The side of his head appeared burned and bloody, the red stains on the jacket adding to the charade.

He ambl
ed over to another destroyed cruiser and sat down, leaning his back against the wheel. “Time to watch the show,” he whispered.

And what a show it was.