The Olympus Device: Book Three (23 page)

Mitch didn’t like the idea, but he couldn’t think of a better alternative. “You know if they catch you out on the water, you’re sunk… no pun intended.”

“I know.”

“Dusty, is it really worth it? I know you want your son released. I know you want this all to be over with. Hell, if it were my kid, I’d probably do anything in my power to gain his freedom. But that’s the key point in all this –
in my power
. If something happens to you, I lose a brother; Andy loses a dad, and mankind loses a tremendous potential. There has to be another way.”

The older brother shook his head, “These men only seem to understand one simple concept – power. They spend their entire lives trying to gain it, either by appointment, promotion, or election. It’s their calling. Some people put their faith in God; for others, their deity is the almighty dollar. These bastards worship at the altar of power, and we’re right outside the church’s door. If we’re going to fix this entire mess, I’ve got to hit them inside their temple and make it hurt.”

“But there are other targets,” Mitch protested. “Go blow up Camp David… or sink an aircraft carrier… or drop a bridge. Hit them where they aren’t expecting it. You’re taking a huge risk, and it’s one that I’m not sure is going to pan out the way you think.”

Dusty disagreed. “If I go elsewhere to extract vengeance, they’ll all pat themselves on the back and say, ‘See, we can defend ourselves. We can keep him at arm’s length.’ They’ll be emboldened, feel safe, and gain the initiative. On the other hand, if I attack them inside their own house… breach the castle keep… then there’s no place for them to hide. If the president evacuates to Camp David or flies around in Air Force One, then he’s retreating. American’s won’t like their leader running away like a cowardly dog.”

Mitch knew his brother, realized it was pointless to argue any further. “Okay. I can tell your mind’s made up. What do you want to do?”

“I want to steal a water bike and pray they’re not real hard to drive.”

Monroe and Shultz stood leaning against their agency car, both men incredibly nervous, both trying not to show it.

They were surrounded by a sea of blue lights and law enforcement officers, everything from the Travis County sheriff’s department to the Austin City SWAT team in attendance. No one was taking any chances on such a high profile, publicly scrutinized operation.

It was just for that reason that the two FBI men were keeping everyone well back. There was one of the bureau’s best hostage negotiators flying in from Chicago, by personal order of the director. In addition to the “talker,” one of the bureau’s elite hostage rescue teams (HRT) was in transit from Dallas.

In the meantime, the local units had done a professional job sealing off the peninsula where the rental house, gang of kidnappers, and hopefully unharmed hostage, resided.

Two Austin SWAT snipers had been tasked with keeping “eyes on” the actual home. Monroe had made it clear everyone was to act purely as a “blocking force,” keeping everyone in… and out. Other than the two ex-Marine long distance shooters, law enforcement was supposed to remain out of sight.

Monroe had also received a personal call from the director. “You need to know that the president is watching this one. I’m on my way over to the White House and will be providing a running commentary to the big guy. No fuck-ups, Agent Monroe. None. Durham Weathers is still on the run, and many of the experts think he’ll show up in Washington. If his son is killed during the rescue operation, the man might just level this entire town. You, of all people, should understand that. You’ve seen firsthand the power of that damn Olympus Device. If that nut-job turns that monster loose on a city, there won’t be two bricks left standing.”

The director’s words took Monroe back to his first encounter with Weather’s weapon. The agent had nearly been crushed when, with a single shot, the suspect had crumpled a 20-story office building into a pile of concrete dust. And that demonstration had been subtle compared to the incident at the Houston Ship Channel just a few days later.

The thought of Weathers going rogue with Washington in his crosshairs, with all of the city’s historical significance, museums, and cultural gems, made the agent shiver. The destruction of the Smithsonian alone would be a loss unlike any the world had seen.

Monroe set up the perimeter by the book. He examined every detail, speaking personally with practically every officer involved.

Still, the man was a bundle of nerves. So much was riding on a smooth rescue.

It was against this background that the SWAT sniper/observer’s voice came over the radio. “Contact. I have eyes on a suspect,” sounded the hushed voice over the airwaves. “I have one Caucasian male exiting the front door. He's holding an object… it appears to be… an umbrella?”

Every ear on the law enforcement frequencies was spellbound, a few eyes scanning the cloudless sky. Monroe did exactly the same, and then turned to Shultz. “What the fuck? There’s no rain within a hundred miles?”

“He’s unfolding the umbrella… wait… it’s something different. Unknown. Never seen anything like it,” the observer reported.

Despite their number, the gathered cops didn’t make a sound, waiting anxiously for the next report. It didn’t take long.

“He’s setting the device on the grass. It’s… it’s… get back! Everybody get back! It’s a drone!”

But the sniper’s request was impossible. There were almost 100 men manning the blockade, nearly that many vehicles.

“It’s lifting into the air. I can see the camera hanging underneath. The suspect is scouting the neighborhood.”

“Shit!” Monroe barked, his eyes automatically darting skyward, scanning for the foreign object.

It was Shultz who spotted it first, the quadcopter, or 4-rotor helicopter hovering less than 200 meters away, just hanging in the air and watching them.

And then, without warning, the drone pivoted and disappeared over the tree line.

“Now they know we’re here,” Monroe said with a grimace. “So much for the element of surprise.”

Sergeant Millard inhaled sharply when the drone’s FPV (first person view) exposed the massive police presence less than a mile away. It was obvious the authorities had discovered their location.

He ordered the drone home, some inner voice telling the ex-operator that he might need his “eyes in the sky” later.

While he waited for the machine to return to the front yard, Millard couldn’t help but feel a wave of fear streaming through his core. If there were that many cops already deployed, no doubt his body was dead center in a sniper’s scope. He could only hope the police were smart enough not to shoot him out of fear of what his teammates might do to the hostage.

The possibility of discovery had been part of their plan all along. While none of the men holding Andrew Weathers hostage wanted a showdown with the police, it was a contingency they were ready for.

Finally the drone appeared, lowering itself in a graceful hover until the foldable legs made contact with the front lawn. Calmly, professionally, Millard retrieved the tiny flyer, folding it neatly and returning the expensive piece of equipment to its case.

He then turned and strolled back inside the house, walking as if nothing was wrong.
Let the head games begin
, he thought as he closed and locked the front door.

His demeanor changed instantly, turning to shout orders to his team. “They’ve found us,” he informed the gathered shooters. “We’ve got about 90 cops, and they have already formed a perimeter. We go to ‘profile Alamo’ right now. Any questions?”

There were none.

With the purpose and the energy of survival, the 4-man team began a series of pre-determined tasks. The German and Millard began strapping on full combat loads, including automatic weapons, body armor, mich helmets, and night vision.

The two remaining members were hustling around the home, making sure every window was closed and locked, and that blinds and curtains were pulled.

Millard had already picked the exterior fighting positions on the day they’d arrived. There was a raised flowerbed just east of the pool, the landscaper building the retaining wall out of old railroad ties and large boulders of native limestone. It was a nearly bulletproof, mini-fortress that provided a commanding view of the yard.

On the opposite side of the property were the home’s carport and garage. With a flat roof that served as a patio for an upstairs bedroom, the elevated position was a perfect observation point. It had taken two of the strong men considerable effort to lift and move the huge potted plants. Grunting and cursing, they’d finally managed to rearrange the hefty containers of soil, erecting a defensible bullet stop with excellent fields of fire.

And then there were the alternative positions. An upstairs bedroom on the south side of the home looked directly down a long stretch of the street. The master bathroom included a sunken bathtub that would provide belowground cover if a severe firefight erupted.

With the scrutiny of a professional soldier, Millard and his team had quickly identified every tactical asset of the civilian residence. They had food, water, plenty of ammunition, and most importantly of all, the hostage.

After announcing the presence of the police, Millard had immediately moved to perform his primary task in the event they had to invoke Alamo. He placed three blocks of C4 explosive on the hostage’s closet door, and then began wiring the charges to a special transmitter.

After all of the connections were complete, the sergeant pulled a small, black fob from a nearby box of equipment. The size and shape of a typical automobile remote starter, the device’s primary difference was that its button was protected by a flip-up shield so there was little chance of accidental activation.

That would be bad
, Millard thought, judging the amount of C4 was enough to level the entire structure.
Still, a quick end beats the shit out of spending the rest of your life in a federal prison.

Uncoiling the remote’s thick, metal chain, Millard draped the “necklace of doom,” over his head and around his neck. Just to be extra sure, he then tucked the detonator behind his body armor, reducing the chances of a mishap that would kill everyone within a 50-meter radius.

Less than five minutes after the drone had spotted the massive police presence, voices began to sound off in the sergeant’s earpiece, his team using their encrypted radios to report their status. They were all in position and ready.

Smiling, Millard walked to the front room and pulled back the blind to gaze toward the location he knew the police would be huddling. “Now we wait,” he whispered as if the police could hear his words. “Your move.”

The ignition was easy to hot-wire, or at least it would have been if Mitch had been able to hold the flashlight steady.

Mitch’s head kept pivoting like it was on a swivel, nervously glancing right and left as if he expected a SWAT team to appear from the shadows. His constantly trembling hands combined with his relentless watch keeping drew several barked reprimands from the senior thief.

Once the water bike’s engine was purring, Dusty sat on the machine, resplendent in jeans, western shirt and leather cowboy boots. Already strained, the sibling relationship took a turn for the worse when Mitch started teasing his older brother.

“I wish I could switch on my cell phone and snap a picture of this,” he whispered. “The men back in Fort Davis would bust a rib from laughing so hard. It would probably go viral on social media, too.”

Dusty tried to ignore the harassment, focusing instead on familiarizing himself with the odd machine’s controls. But Mitch wouldn’t let up.

“Here is the terrorist mastermind. The most feared man on the entire planet, riding his trusty steed on a campaign to overthrow the government of the United States of America,” the professor continued.

“Am I going to have to dismount this trusty steed and kick your skinny ass?”

“Why would you bother with that, Mr. Nasty Outlaw? Why not just draw your six shooter and ventilate this mouthy pilgrim?”

“I’m going to ventilate your backside with this size 11 boot if you don’t fucking shut up. I’m trying to concentrate here.”

“Okay, I’ll hush… but now that I’ve seen you on that thing, I’m a whole lot less worried about the Coast Guard catching you.”

Dusty acknowledged the statement with a wary glance, “Why’s that?”

“Because if they shine a spotlight on you, they’ll all fall overboard from laughing so hard,” Mitch grinned.

Dusty lifted off the seat, his body language clearly indicating an intent to thrash his brother. Mitch, wisely sensing an impending doom, backed up a couple of steps and half-turned, enabling a hasty retreat if necessary. But Dusty stopped, waving off the pest as if he wasn’t worth the effort.

Flinging Mitch his hat, Dusty said, “If you are done having fun at my expense, could you please get that box of clothes from the Salvation Army store?”

While the younger larcenist hustled off on the errand, Dusty pulled the rail gun from its case, charging the weapon with the perfectly round ball bearing. “I hope you won’t be necessary,” he whispered to the device. “But I ain’t going down without a fight.”

Mitch returned with the small cardboard box of clothing. “Your disguise, sir,” he declared, trying to patch things up before Dusty took off on what was probably the most dangerous trip ever.

Dusty stepped back up on the pier, quickly changing into the second-hand duds. In a few minutes, the once well-kept man looked like a homeless person, complete with stained trench coat and threadbare sneakers – minus any laces. An obviously well-used baseball cap, and turned up collar rounded out the get-up.

“This just went from bad to worse,” Mitch chuckled. “I don’t know who I want to see riding to the rescue, the western redneck or the ultra-chic vagabond. Seriously though, you do look like a man down and out on his luck. Amazing.”

“Let’s hope my fashion sense fits in with Washington’s homeless crowd,” Dusty replied with a slight grin. “I would be terribly embarrassed to meet the president wearing last year’s designs.”

A few minutes later, Dusty motored off, a small wake of white water boiling to the surface behind the Texan’s stern. Mitch stood and watched until he could no longer discern Dusty’s outline across the moonlit surface of the river. “God be with you, brother. Please come back.”

When the rental house’s phone rang, Millard wasn’t quite sure about the source of the noise. It was the first time the device had sounded since they’d occupied the structure.

“Yes,” the ex-operator answered.

“This is Stan….”

“I don’t care who you are, sir,” Millard interrupted. “I will only speak to the man in charge of your HRT team that I’m sure is deploying against my position. Would that be you?”

“No. My role with the FBI is that of….”

“Then we have nothing more to say to each other,” Millard stated, cutting the man off and disconnecting the call.

The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Teams often trained with the CAG, exchanging techniques, tactics, and methods. Both were elite units, each understanding and respecting the other.

A full ten minutes had passed before the phone rang again. “This is Mike Griffin, Sergeant Millard. I can’t recall if we’ve met down at Bragg, but I know who and what you are. You wanted to speak with me?”

“That’s good news, Griffin,” the ex-operator stated without hesitation. “I was hoping they’d send the A-team. So if you know my background, then you know my little holdout here isn’t going to crack like an egg. We planned for this contingency, and my team is ready, willing, and able to engage should your superiors decide to order an assault.”

“I assumed as much,” came the serious response. “But you also have to know you can’t win. Our sheer numbers alone will eventually overwhelm everyone inside that house.”

“And you’ll have a dead hostage on your hands, Griffin. Now nobody wants that, do they?”

“What is it you want?” asked the FBI man.

“Before I answer that, let me explain a few things, sir. First of all, we have installed excellent perimeter security. If you attempt to plant listening devices or video snooping technology, we’ll detect it immediately. Secondly, I have shoulder-fired, anti-armor weapons. So tell the local SWAT boys their military surplus, mine-resistant vehicles aren’t the answer. In addition, this place is wired with enough C4 to lower the level of Lake Travis. And finally, I have anti-air capability as well. If I even get a whiff of you guys deploying air assets against us, I’ll start blowing things up, and everybody will lose. Are we clear?”

“Yes, the message is entirely clear, Sergeant. Now, what is it you want?”

“That’s easy, Griffin - we want the Olympus Device.”

There was a pause on the other end, Millard visualizing a huddle of frustrated FBI agents surrounding Griffin’s phone, trying to agree on a response.

“But we can’t offer that,” came the reply. “That weapon isn’t in our possession. How can you expect us to deliver something we don’t even have?”

“Then you better be getting the word out, sir. I’m sure Mr. Weathers would be happy to trade his little toy for his son’s life. I’ll even let him get close enough to our humble abode to do the exchange. Have a good day, Griffin.”

“But wait…” the FBI agent said, trying to follow his instructions and keep the suspects talking.

It didn’t matter; Millard had already disconnected the call.

After staring at the now-dead cell for a moment, Griffin scanned the solemn faces surrounding him. “He hung up.”

“So what are our options?” Monroe asked, sure he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“We don’t have a lot of options,” Griffin responded. “I know the caliber of man who’s running the show inside that house. I’ve trained and worked beside them. If his team is even half as skilled as Millard, there’s not much we can do. If we attempt an assault or breach, he’ll cut us to pieces on the approach. If we try to drop in via fast-roping from helicopters, he’ll blow our birds out of the sky. We are facing one of the world’s most highly trained shooters, a man who knows our tactics and capabilities. He’ll kill the hostage and a lot of my guys and won’t be taken alive. You can count on it.”

“So what?” Monroe hissed, not liking what he was hearing. “Are you saying we don’t have any options?”

“I think we had better get on the phone with Washington, sir,” Griffin responded. “There’s no obvious answer that I can see, only scenarios that produce negative consequences. I think making a decision on our course of action is far above any of our pay grades.”

Admiral Armstrong’s convoy idled on a side street, less than a mile from the White House. Occupying his time with listening to military radio traffic, his mind drifted back to other times in his life where the waiting had been far more difficult than the actual mission.

“It’s the magic hour,” the driver offered, checking the heavy watch on his left wrist. “They should be in position about now.”

“We’ll wait for the confirmation before jumping off,” came the response.

A few moments later, the radio announced Group B had reached its staging area. That broadcast was soon followed by the confirmation that Group C was ready as well.

“Do it,” Armstrong commanded stoically.

The ex-SEAL put the Humvee in gear, pulling out of line and accelerating to the front of the convoy. All up and down the column, engines revved, weapons were charged, and men prayed. The operation was “a go.”

At President’s Park, just beyond the White House’s south lawn, the convoy split into two separate formations. Less than a minute later, another division occurred, with one Abrams tank and accompanying vehicles heading north on 14th Street towards Lafayette Park.

Again, there was a pause as Armstrong waited for his units to reach their positions.

The plan was simple. The rebels would assault the White House grounds from the southeast and southwest corners. The third formation would squeeze any resistance from the north. Not that Armstrong expected much in the way of defense.

While touted as one of the most protected structures in the world, the actual capability of the Secret Service to provide security was extremely limited.

Designed to deny the lone assassin, keep truck bombs at bay, and protect the Commander in Chief from even small bands of radicalized attackers, the facility wasn’t capable of withstanding a full-on armored assault. In fact, there were few structures anywhere on the planet that could.

“Fixed fortifications are a monument to the stupidity of man,” Armstrong mumbled to his driver.

The SEAL grinned, “General George Patton. Now
there
was a warrior.”

The admiral nodded as a sign of respect to the highly regarded World War II general but didn’t comment further. His comrade’s use of the term “warrior” reminded Armstrong that they still faced a significant opposition. The men protecting the president would fight like rabid dogs.

In fact, it was one such agent manning a rooftop observation post that noticed the military activity on three sides of his position. “Sierra 1 to CnC,” he said into his radio, “I’ve got armored tanks and APCs all around me up here. I don’t recall seeing any authorization or request for military hardware on a tight perimeter. Any idea what these guys are doing out there?”

In the bowels of the Executive Office Building, the shift supervisor working the “Command and Control” room for the Service received the call. “No,” the senior agent replied, flipping through the pages of daily briefing. “I don’t see anything on the operational orders. Probably some private over at the Pentagon gave somebody the wrong address.”    

“There’s an awful lot of firepower in our vicinity. Way, way too close. See if you can light a fire under somebody’s ass over at….”

The tank closest to the south lawn interrupted the agent’s broadcast, its smooth bore cannon erupting with a night-splitting blast. Before the agent could recover from the shock, two of the admiral’s other tanks rocked back on their haunches, their main guns spitting flame like mythical dragons breathing red death.