The Olympus Device: Book Three (22 page)

Long convoys of military vehicles added to the gridlock, the armed forces deploying thousands of troops in an attempt to surround the District of Columbia with a ring of steel.

None of this bothered the admiral as his column approached the beltway. The light colonel in the lead Humvee had proper orders that could be verified with a phone call to Norfolk. They were just one of dozens of such formations moving to protect the government from the rail gun-wielding madman.

Nor was the senior naval commander worried about the other two similar formations that were taking a slightly different route into Washington. They too had verifiable paperwork.

Four vehicles back from the lead, the admiral watched as the MPs at the checkpoint scanned the produced orders with only minimal interest. They were looking for a lone individual from Texas, not a military unit intent on deposing a broken government. In a way, the confusion resulting from Weathers and his criminal hijinks were working for Armstrong and his men.

There were thirty up-armored Humvees, four Stryker fighting vehicles, and two M1-A2 Abrams battle tanks in Armstrong’s core group. All of the armored firepower was courtesy of the U.S. Army, the Naval base’s marshaling yards lined with rows of such assets due to the draw-down of American forces in Afghanistan.

The irony wasn’t lost on the admiral. By his way of thinking, ending that war was an enormous strategic mistake. He was about to leverage a byproduct of that blunder against the incompetent man who had ordered the withdrawal.

Groups B and C were not as heavily armed, but that didn’t matter. Their objectives were neither as critical, nor as heavily guarded as Armstrong’s primary objective – the White House.

With Weathers on the rampage, Congress was holding a late night session, the politicians’ bloated egos fueling high-minded fantasies that mere words were going to stop the crazed Texan from laying waste to the nation’s capital.
How unrealistic
, the senior officer thought, watching the exchange at the roadblock.
Senators and Representatives know nothing of how the real world functions. They’ve lost touch with the reality of men’s hearts, and the evil that lurks there. We’re about to give them an overdose of lead-based reality.

Group B was to surround Capitol Hill, taking both the Senate and the House hostage. The admiral and his co-conspirators weren’t delusional, all involved fully aware that the loyal U.S. military could root them out in hours if they didn’t pull off the rebellion according to plan. Having several hundred elected officials as prisoners might slow down any counter-reaction.

Group C’s objective had been controversial among Armstrong’s brain trust of planners. After entering Washington proper, they were to divide into small units and take control of all primary media outlets. This was a tall order, as the capital was home to practically every newspaper, network television, radio, and cable news service in the world. Such a tactic was risky, but the admiral had been unyielding.

To successfully overthrow a freely elected government required a unique set of circumstances. Americans had experienced over 200 years of stable transition from one administration to another. The threat of a military upheaval had never seriously raised its ugly head. The messaging presented to the people was a critical element of their victory, and that meant controlling the media. By some measure, Armstrong felt Group C’s job was the most important of all.

And then they were moving again, passing through the smiling, friendly MPs. “Smile and wave as we pass,” Armstrong told his driver. “We’re all one big, happy military family.”

The retired Navy SEAL piloting the officer’s Humvee did as he was told, forcing a slight nod and hand motion, while whispering, “I may have to kill you later,” at the MP.

“Let’s hope he’s one of many that sees the light,” Armstrong said to the SEAL. “To pull this off, we’re going to need a lot of men just like these to join our cause.”

Not exactly a talkative type of guy, it was a few minutes later before the driver responded, “Do you really think many will come over to our side, sir?”

“Yes, Master Chief, I do. Practically every officer I speak with is extremely frustrated. We have terrorists beheading civilians in the Middle East, hit squads in Paris, schools being blown to hell in Pakistan, and girls being kidnapped by the hundreds in Africa. We’ve got Christians being murdered by the dozens just because of their faith, and Iran building nukes right under our noses. You’ve got the world’s goofiest looking, shitbird-dictator running North Korea, brandishing warheads at Japan and the South. Russia is punching way above its military weight class and expanding her territory at will. And yet, the current leader of the free world has us sitting on our asses, trying to use sanctions, political pressure, and pleasant words to solve these issues. Everybody knows we’re going to have to fight at some point in the future. Why are we waiting until our enemies get strong enough to seriously hurt us? We all know it’s better to lose a few thousand now than a few million later.”

“You don’t have to sell me, Admiral. I’ve deployed on over 200 missions in the last 10 years. I know what kind of animals we’re dealing with. But I have to wonder if those MPs back there have any clue. Will the everyday soldier join with us or fight against us?”

“They better come to our side,” the older warrior responded. “Or this will be one of the shortest coups in history.”

Millard and the German exited the rental house, dressed like two casual vacationers ready to see if the fish were biting. Instead of the typical rifle muzzles and hand grenades, each was armed with only the long barrel of a fishing pole and a few canisters of beer.

The German had never been fishing before and was anxious to experience something new. Millard didn’t care if they caught a bass or not, the team leader only interested in keeping up appearances in case there were nosey neighbors on the prowl.

The ex-operator had found an old fishing hat in the garage, probably a leftover from previous renters. Despite several lures hooked into the fabric and an unusual odor, the sergeant happily adorned what he believed to be an excellent addition to their camouflage.

The mere existence of such headgear confused the German’s analytical mind. He wanted desperately to question his superior about the purpose, design, and use of the hat, but didn’t. Such inquiries had nothing to do with the mission and might be considered a breach of discipline. There would be plenty of time to perform internet searches later.

As they casually sauntered across the backyard toward the lake’s edge, neither man had any way of knowing they were being watched.

Almost five miles above Lake Travis, a Global Hawk drone was following its pre-programmed flight path, processing a search grid that encompassed approximately 100 square miles of Central Texas real estate.

Given the daylight, clear skies, and the nature of its mission, the G-hawk was only deploying two of its considerable array of sensors.

The first was a ground scanning radar. As the Hill Country’s citizens continued about their usual afternoon routines, waves of invisible energy beams were being broadcast from the sky above, covering vast swaths of the local territory and then bouncing back to their point of origin.

Extremely sophisticated computer chips were processing those returning signals, searching for a limited set of very specific targets that had been programmed into the machine’s expansive memory.

One such “match” involved long guns. Metal weapons generated a unique set of returns that could be mathematically separated from less lethal devices, such as hand tools, tennis rackets, and golf clubs. All in all, 14 hunters, 5 target shooters, and 2 guys walking into a pawnshop with an old shotgun were spotted by the orbiting drone.

The radar was performing what the Air Force operators referred to as “bird dogging” for the second of the flying spy’s active sensors. The coordinates of each radar-hit were immediately used to “point” the drone’s high-powered cameras. Capable of reading the brand off of a pack of cigarettes at a distance of over 10 miles, the video recording units were tasked with snapping a series of images and transferring those to a ground control station. From there, each picture was sent to a network of servers charged with processing the bits and bytes, searching for a match.

Another of the Global Hawk’s objectives was to locate the rental car assumed to be in the kidnapper’s possession. Initially developed to scan enemy armored units on the battlefield, the system was capable of differentiating between a Russian BTR-18 command APC and the more common Provozka troop carrier. This, despite the two military vehicles appearing nearly identical to the human eye.

Sorting Honda sedans from other 4-door automobiles was well within the unit’s capabilities.

The German was trying to master the art of casting. Bored and curious, he had decided to make the best of his time outside by putting considerable effort into learning a new skill.

Like most new fishermen, his eyes automatically drew to the end of the pole as his brain struggled with the motion of throwing the lure while timing the release of the line.

His skyward looking face painted the perfect portrait for the G-Hawk’s powerful lenses.

Within 45 minutes, one of the NSA’s servers matched the European’s face with the video from the Austin airport.

Monroe’s cell phone rang less than 60 seconds later.

Evidently, boating was a favorite pastime on the Potomac River. After checking into the barely tolerable motel and paying three times the average rate, Dusty and Mitch had set off to scout for the best possible route to penetrate fortress Washington.

After two hours of careful stalking, it became apparent that driving, walking, or flying into the nation’s capital was out of the question. Every bridge was secured, the airports closed. The brothers witnessed more police cars patrolling the I-95 corridor than either man thought existed in the entire country.

Twice they barely avoided discovery by random checkpoints, the hastily erected roadblocks reminding Dusty of law enforcement’s effort to snare drunk drivers.

So intense was the police presence, the duo had been forced into a series of turns and meanderings, finally ending up along the shoreline of the famous river.

They entered an area thick with businesses catering to the water sporting public, passing by signs offering canoe, kayak, and Jet Ski rentals. Dusty was inspired.

“One by land, two if by sea,” he winked at Mitch. “I bet they’re not expecting an invasion from the water.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Mitch said, skeptical that the authorities would leave such a gaping hole in their security.

“Oh, I’m sure they have the Coast Guard, or Navy, or somebody patrolling the river. But that would have to be a lot tougher task than the bridges and roads, especially at night.”

“So you’re going to pirate a canoe, navigate a busy waterway you’ve never traveled before, keep the rail gun dry, and do all this at night? I think that’s a pretty tall order, brother.”

Dusty studied the map in his lap. “It’s less than 10 miles. The river isn’t busy this time of night, and I was thinking more of using a wave runner than paddling upstream. If I stick close to the shore and take my time, I should be able to sneak into the city well before dawn.”