Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (33 page)

He sat and observed the Apache gunships circling in advance of the ground soldiers. Flinching as they roared overhead, Dusty watched as the apocalyptic war birds patrolled, each bristling with missiles, rockets and cannons. Coming from two different directions, the nose-down attitude and crisscrossing pattern seemed as if the pilots were flirting with the enemy, hoping some foe was stupid enough to rise up and take a shot at them. Dusty smirked, knowing any such action would be met with a hailstorm of lead and explosives.

As the airborne predators circled the area,
the sounds of grunted orders and rushing bodies soon filled the air. He spied soldiers in full body armor, scanning right and left with weapons shoulder high. They were looking for work.

Dusty watched as they progressed toward his position, impressed at their coordinated movements. Teams of troopers swept up the
street, clearing every opening and potential enemy position as they advanced.

He heard the impact of combat boots nearby and immediately focused his eyes on an empty point in space.

He sensed more than saw the soldier nearby. Without warning, a hand reached for his neck, quickly finding his pulse. “I’ve got an injured man over here,” a voice shouted as streams of troopers flashed by.

A heavy bag marked with the red cross of
a medic landed on the ground next to Dusty’s leg, and then a kind, concerned face was in his vision. “Hey! Hey, buddy! You okay? You hit?”

Hands felt
up and down Dusty’s torso, the medic searching for wounds.

“I’m… I’m
... I’m okay,” the gunsmith managed weakly, not wanting the soldier to find the rail gun or cut away his duffle. “There are some guys on up that street that are hurt worse. Go help them,” he weakly protested.

Another soldi
er appeared, an older man wearing an officer’s rank. “He’s in shock,” the medic reported. “Other than that and the burns on his face, I think he’s okay.”

Pretending to have trouble focusing, Dusty blinked several times and finally found the officer’s face. “I’m okay,” he
whispered. “Go kill those sons-ah-bitches.”

“Get him to the triage area a
nd then rejoin the squad,” the captain ordered. He then reached over and touched Dusty’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of them,” he promised.

A short time later, two men appeared with a stretcher. When they bent down to load Dusty, he weakly pushed one of them away. “I can walk, damnit! I can walk. Please, let me walk
away from this. I have to walk away… I won’t be carried.”

The two troopers looked at each other, impressed by the old cop’s determination
and honor. “Let us help you. Okay?”

A short time later, Dusty was being
lead to another spot, a young Army private under each arm.

As the
y moved through the battlefield, Dusty spied a solid line of blue and red lights coming up the road. Dozens of fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances were converging on Laredo, following the military forces as they swept through the city.

Dusty eventually found himself riding in an ambulance and keeping up his act of confusion and shock. It seemed like they rode for hours, the EMTs busy with the two other more seriously injured patients
that shared the tiny space inside. He was taken to a hospital, the facility in an absolute state of bedlam.

A
compassionate aide showed Dusty into a waiting area, the large room filled with badly hurt people from both Laredo and the battle at Tri-Materials. He waited patiently, sitting quietly in a corner and trying not to attract attention.

Nurses,
doctors, and orderlies rushed back and forth, moving the wounded and treating some right in the middle of the waiting area. When the mayhem began to subside somewhat, Dusty rose and blended with the remaining crowd, finding a restroom away from the emergency area.

He pulled seve
ral paper towels from the dispenser and soaked them under the sink water. Entering a stall, he spent a considerable amount of time cleaning both his face and clothing of the clotted blood and soil.

When he emerged, a quick check in the mirror revealed a harried-looking, but
unscathed ATF agent. He exited through the front door, unnoticed amid the urgent rush of friends, family and law enforcement bustling around the facility.

As he bounded down the front steps, Dusty read the large sign on the medical building. “Central Hospital – Victoria, Texas.”

“At least I know where I am,” he whispered.

Dusty walked three blocks before ducking behind a dumpster and changing his outfit. It felt good to don his normal western hat and be rid of the badge,
jacket, and sunglasses.

Feeling more like himself again,
he continued walking, unsure where he was going. He thought about the bus station, but wasn’t sure the tiny town had such a thing. Renting a car was obviously not a viable option. No, he needed to get away from the quaint, pintsized Texas berg as soon as possible. If anyone came looking for him here, it wouldn’t take a whole lot of effort to trace where the ambulances had deposited their cargo.

After several minutes, the
forlorn sound of a train bellowing its horn gave him an idea. Following the thundering rhythm of the locomotive as it meandered across the tracks, he cut through a residential area and then a thin wood. He soon located the tracks, complete with an engine pulling a long line of boxcars. He was in luck – it was moving slowly.

Glancing around to make sure no one was in the immediate area, he
took off at a fast sprint, racing to catch the northbound freight. Dusty had to really push hard to catch his ride. Like a hobo from a time long ago, he finally closed the gap, grabbed the rail of an open, empty boxcar and pulled himself aboard.

He quickly rolled out of the opening, puffing hard to catch his breath. It wasn’t long before he was leaning back against the wall and watching the
lights of the Texas night scroll by.

Mitch motioned for Penny to stay put. Shouldering his deer rifle, the professor chanced a glance outside the cracked door of the barn apartment.

He and the girls had heeded Dusty’s advice, hiding in the cramped confines of the reinforced storage area, barely able to move. The distant thunder of explosions and gunfire had kept them there, no one complaining about the cramped accommodations.

Twenty minutes after hearing the last, distant sound of violence, Mitch had thought it safe to exit the claustrophobic hide. The smallish apartment was a huge relief as compared to the gun closet.

Another hour passed, Penny doing
her best to keep the girls quiet while Mitch remained vigilant at the door. He could detect nothing outside, only the occasional, faraway siren reaching his ears.

“I’m going to take a walk, have
a look around,” he had finally announced. “You guys stay put and let me make sure it’s safe.”

He found the barn’s interior undisturbed, the lack of any villains or intruders reassuring. The ne
xt step was the check of the great outdoors.

Caution ruled his actions as he pulled the sliding barn door open, the noise of the rusty rails causing him to jump. Again, no thugs, criminals or dope fiends descended on his position.

The light of dusk illuminated the barnyard, enough so that he verified Penny’s property wasn’t housing a small army of invaders from the south. Still, Mitch remained cautious, weary of stragglers or others with ill intent.

He decided to check on the house, scanning right and left as he made for the abode. He was just about to step onto the back porch when the sound of footsteps stopped him cold.

He shouldered the rifle, wondering if he could really shoot anybody. As the shadow of a man appeared around the corner, Mitch decided he could indeed pull the trigger.

“Who the fuck are you?” the professor challenged, trying to make his voice sound as menacing as possible.

“I own this place,” the surprised man responded. “Who the fuck are you?”

Mitch took a few steps closer to the guy. Whoever it was,
the stranger looked like shit. He was wearing a filthy, torn and tattered jumpsuit that had once been a bright, fluorescent orange.  Mitch’s first thought was the guy had been out hunting, the highly visible clothing worn for safety. It then occurred to him that the man before him wasn’t a hunter; he was an escaped prisoner!

The click of the rifle’s safety froze the stranger, Mitch taking another half-step forward. “Get off this land! Right now, or I’ll blow your head off.”

“But… but… I own this place, Mister,” the guy protested.

Before Mitch could respond, Penny’s voice rang out from behind. “Mike! Mike! Oh my God!” the woman yelled, rushing to jump in the trespasser’s arms.

The girls followed, each competing with their mother to hold, hug and kiss their father.

Mitch lowered his weapon, relieved that he hadn’t had to shoot the guy. “How in the hell does Dusty do this sort of thing,” he mumbled
, watching the joyous reunion.

Agent Shultz thought he was dreaming again. The scuffle of shoe leather had forced open his eyes, but the vision that filled his
narcotic-fogged mind didn’t make any sense.

Surely,
he was dreaming, because there was no way the director of the FBI would be standing next to his hospital bed.

“Hello
, Agent Shultz,” the somewhat familiar voice said gently. “How are you feeling, son?”

Why not talk to my dream?
Shultz thought. “I’m doing well, sir. As best as could be expected. Are we still being invaded or did reinforcements arrive yet?”

A grunt from the nation’s top lawman was the initial answer, quickly followed by a flat, “No, all of the rogue Mexican military units are either dead or have been apprehended. The same can be said of the private army assembled by the Gulf Cartel. Our nation owes you a debt of gratitude.”

The painkillers circulating through Shultz’s body lowered his inhibitions while enhancing his sense of humor. “Our nation doesn’t owe me squat, Director. It was Durham Weathers who saved the day. Did we catch him?”

The frown on the d
irector’s face was clearly visible. “No, Weathers is not in our custody. He’s either dead or has escaped. But I’m not sure what you mean when you say he saved the day?”

Shultz blurted out the story, repeating the conversation
between Weathers and himself as best he could. The director listened, his face remaining expressionless as his subordinate made the report.

Without a word, the senior man moved to the hospital window, his mind clearly trying to digest Shultz’s words. The injured agent couldn’t help himself, violating all the rules by offering an opinion.

“Why don’t we consider his offer, sir? It seems reasonable to me. I’ve studied the man for weeks now, and I don’t think there’s a criminal bone in his body. I’ve seen that weapon in action four times, and I now appreciate why he’s so desperate to keep it out of the wrong hands.”

Th
ere was a hint of anger in the director’s voice, his abrupt spin to face the bed accenting his displeasure. “Because that’s not the way our country works, Agent Shultz. Our government is of the people. We are a representative democracy. Just because one man doesn’t trust or respect our authority doesn’t mean we cave in to his wishes. If we give in to Weathers, that sets a precedent. What happens to the next guy who claims he has a nuke… or the home chemistry guru who mixes up a batch of some super-germ? The majority of the people elected our boss. The majority has spoken. We can’t allow one man to supersede the rest of our citizens just because he doesn’t like how the vote turned out.”

Shultz clearly
understood the argument, his ex-boss Monroe and he having debated the topic numerous times. “He’s not going to give up, sir. He believes that his position is in the right, and that we’re wearing the black hats. He’s smart, creative, and very adaptable. A lot of pain, suffering, and destruction are in our future if we don’t figure a way to end this soon.”

Smiling, the top FBI man bent and patted Shultz on the shoulder. “We’re working on it, Tom. You focus on healing and getting back to your desk. Again, I wanted to thank you for your
brave actions. It was above and beyond.”

Shultz watched him leave, still having some doubts concerning the reality of the whole visit. As he thought about their conversation, he decided he didn’t care very much for his boss.

I wonder if working for Durham Weathers will be better?
he mused.

The duffle didn’t make a good pillow, but Dusty was so exhausted he didn’t care. The gentle sway of the rail car and constant rhythm of the wheels had overridden the discomfort of the hard floor and lack of facilities. He’d actually managed to sleep through most of the night.

While he had no idea of the rail line’s destination, his general sense of direction told him they were heading north. He didn’t care, as every mile between him and the events in South Texas improved his odds of avoiding capture.

Light flooding into the boxcar rousted the Texan, his sleepy eyes taking note of a completely different landscape passing by the open door. There were trees, green plant life, and much denser vegetation than the arid area he’d last seen during the day. North it was.

As the new day progressed, he’d had to switch trains. After a bumpy stop in a marshalling yard thick with tracks and cars, Dusty had waited almost an hour for his transportation to start moving again. When it became clear that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, he’d hopped out of his coach, made sure no one was around and then boarded another train that was mo
ving out. The accommodations varied little from his previous lodgings.

He had a bottle of water and a little beef jerky in his bag, the light meal leaving him still hungry but not desperate. There was little else to do but think
and plan… and capture the occasional catnap.

Small towns passed by his transport
’s door. Keeping back and out of sight, he’d been tempted to disembark at a couple of the communities that laid along the rail line. Sometimes the engine up ahead slowed considerably; sometimes the locomotive rolled right though at a speed that made jumping out potentially lethal.

For what seemed like hundreds of miles, Dusty didn’t mind his method of touring. A sense of progress building with each passi
ng mile, he was content to appreciate the fleeting scenery and think. It was therapeutic in a way, helping him reconcile the death and carnage from the previous day.

But eventually hunger,
boredom, and stiffness began to take hold. Two railroad employees had almost discovered him at the last yard, and he couldn’t stow away on the locomotive forever.

An hour before dusk he felt their momentum slowing. Packing up his belongings, Dusty mov
ed to the door and chanced a peek ahead.

Sure enough, there was a
settlement on the horizon. He didn’t know where he was, but there were lights, buildings and hopefully somewhere to find a bed. As was custom, the engine slowed considerably as it approached the maze of crossings and intersections.

Dusty didn’t want to leap
right in the middle of downtown wherever-he-was, so he watched as civilization meandered by. It certainly was not a metropolitan area, but there was a main street, several stores and a few cars waiting at the signal.

He spotted an opportune, grassy-looking patch of earth
ahead and steadied himself. The landing jarred him to his core, and he rolled several times, the train’s speed much faster than he’d anticipated. He was going to be sore tomorrow.

After brushing himself off as best
he could, Dusty stretched his aching muscles and began hiking toward town.

The trek
was less than a mile, but it took its toll as the gunsmith was dog-tired. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal in 24 hours and could recall at least four energy-draining adrenaline surges in the last couple of days. He craved the kind of cuisine that did not lend itself to his duffle bag and a hot shower to ease his aching muscles while purging his skin and hair of the layer of Texas grit that currently covered him. And while he was creating his wish list, at least 10 hours of sleep in a bed would go a long way to his recovery.

The blinking light of the hotel indicated a vacancy. Dusty knew his fake Canadian passport was probably compromised from the rental car company back in Houston. He recalled the motorcycle chase through the Bayou City’s suburbs – it all seemed like a lifetime ago.

Deciding to bluff his way into a room, he entered the small lobby and asked for a room.

The lady behind the counter was watching a small television and barely looked up. “I’ve got two queens or a single king – which do you want,” she said, never taking her eyes
off the game show.

“The king will do just fine,” he responded, unzipping the duffle
to put on a show of looking for his ID.

“That will be $89 with tax,” she announced, pushing a yellow registration form across the counter.

As Dusty looked inside his bag, he spied the ATF badge and ID he’d removed the previous day. He pulled it out and showed it to the clerk. “I’m working undercover,” he stated with a clear voice. “I’d prefer that no one knows I’m in town.”

The woman glanced at the badge and then handed it back. “No problem
, officer. We don’t have feds staying with us often, but I’ll keep it between you and me. You’ll want the government discount I assume?”

“Yes, of course.”

The lodgings were several levels below the luxury accommodations Grace and he had enjoyed in Kemah Bay, but Dusty was satisfied. The bed included a mattress that in itself was nothing to brag about, but it beat sleeping on the moving wooden floor pulled by a locomotive. Realizing that his rumbling stomach would not be compatible with a good night’s sleep, he set out in search of food.

There hadn’t been any restaurants close by, and he doubted the availability of delivery in such a small town… except… maybe… pizza.

A moment later, he searched the yellow pages and was soon to be the proud owner of a large, thin pepperoni and green pepper pizza pie with double cheese. After disconnecting the call, he closed the phone book and looked at the cover.

Dusty grunted, finding it funny that he hadn’t even wondered where he was until just now.

According to the bold print on the directory before him, he was now a resident of Pikesville, Kansas.

Mitch grabbed the large section of sheet metal with both hands and pushed it out of the way, a puff of dust and low thud signaling its impact with the ground. He stood and studied the storage tank revealed by his action, reading the numerous warning signs, specifications and operational instructions plastered on the container.

“This has got to be it,” he whispered.

Twenty feet in diameter and just over ten feet in height, the object of his attention looked like a short, stubby grain silo. Steel rivets dotted the exterior, their patterns indicating a stout structure designed to withstand significant pressures.

The professor paced around the perimeter, finally arriving at a complex maze of pipes, valves, and pumps attached to the tank. Again, he focused his attention on the hardware’s specifications, rubbing dust and grime from the myriad of plates and badges attached to the equipment.

Pulling out his tablet computer, he browsed two manufacturer’s websites, gathering additional specifications and quickly reading the details regarding the intended use of the apparatus.

The labels, declaring the tank was filled with an innocent cleaning solvent, were incongruent with the hardware used to pump the contents into what was once the Tri-Materials facility. “Gotcha,” he said, looking up at the now-destroyed facility.

The pumps and valves were designed specifically for corrosive liquids with a dense viscosity. No plant manager in his right mind would have such expensive, extreme-duty equipment pumping cleaning solvent. It would have been an unfathomable waste of resources.

Mitch turned away from the reservoir and scanned the ex-factory’s grounds. There were dozens of people shifting through the rubble and examining what had been a battlefield just a few days ago. Most were law enforcement, several agencies dedicating forensic teams to try and piece together or document exactly what had happened. A few were no doubt insurance examiners, the Tri-Materials executives having promised their shareholders that the facility would be back in business as soon as possible.