The Olympus Device: Book Three (3 page)

The rail gun was out, the green LED shedding an odd hue inside the cab while Dusty’s nervous fingers fumbled for a ball bearing. But the cop passed the Ford by, giving it no more study than any of the other empty cars.

“So they don’t know I’m in a stolen truck,” Dusty observed, watching as the officer parked, obviously readying to enter the building.

“Either he’s got to take a leak, or he’s going in to see if any of the clerks recognize my picture,” the Texan whispered. “Time to hit the road.”

Calmly, at an average speed, Dusty waited until the officer was inside the doors before pulling out of the expansive lot. He hadn’t managed to plot a route, but wanted to get away just in case the kid at the cash register had been paying attention. 

The only road he knew to be clear was back the way he’d come.

The Texan’s eyes kept a constant vigilance on the rearview mirror as he drove. He found himself indecisive and growing frustrated with both his situation and surroundings. The flat, agricultural landscape didn’t afford any place to hide. There weren’t any woods to shield the truck, no hills to pull behind.

Yet he needed time to study the map and listen to the radio. Merely pulling to the side of the sparsely traveled highway wasn’t an option either, that tactic sure to draw the attention of any passing patrol car.

Finally, he spied a sign ahead, the small information rectangle announcing that a place called Johnson Creek State Recreational Area was just two miles further ahead.

“I wonder if the park rangers are looking for me, too,” he whispered to the empty truck.

He almost missed the turnoff, the narrow gravel lane looking more like a private driveway than any park entrance Dusty had ever seen. Still, it was better than taking his chances with the cops on the open road.

Dusty drove for another few miles, keeping his speed reasonable, eyes open, and the rail gun close at his side.

The lane began a gradual descent, exposing a wooded area and a small creek ahead. There wasn’t ranger station, entry fee, or even a single building in sight.

Trying to act like any other tourist, Dusty slowed and read the large brown sign at the entrance, reviewing the rules and regulations of the remote facility. No alcoholic beverages, firearms, fireworks, or glass containers were allowed. Gathering firewood was also forbidden. No lifeguard on duty; visitors would have to swim at their own risk. And of course, there was no tolerance for littering.

A small, plastic tub contained a handful of maps, including a history of the property on the back. Dusty studied the outline, deciding to head for the rear of the facility, home of the park’s primitive campsites.

What pristine and unspoiled grounds,
he noted, steering the pickup through a winding route. The grass was just a bit too high, obviously in need of mowing, but other than that, it looked like any one of hundreds of such state-owned parcels scattered all over the country.

There were patches of elm and oak scattered among the picnic tables and trash cans, with the thickest foliage lining the banks of a slow-moving stream.

According to the brochure, the Johnson family had obstructed the creek in the early 1800s, importing a grindstone from New York, and establishing the first mill in the area. Dusty soon reached the remnants of the dam and waterfall, the old stone barrier still causing a pool of water to form on the upstream side. It was obviously a first class, country swimming hole.

He kept driving, never seeing another soul.

At one point, he stopped the truck to inspect a trashcan. The completely empty container reaffirmed his growing belief that the facility didn’t see many weekday visitors.

There wasn’t a single car in the camping area parking lot, a fact that allowed Dusty to relax even more. But he kept going, noting that the park’s paved surface was fundamentally shaped like a large loop. He wanted to make sure he had the entire place to himself.

A few minutes later, he found himself back at the campground lot, looking at a nicely constructed shower building, complete with indoor toilets and a large green dumpster for trash. “Looks like an abandoned paradise,” he informed the Ford.

Dusty’s fascination with the building had nothing to do with any need for hygiene. He was looking for some place to hide the truck, and the bathhouse looked to be the perfect solution.

He pulled the Ford off the roadway and soon was parked behind the building.

He exited, holding the rail gun like it was any old hunting rifle. He walked up and down the park’s loop, making sure no evidence of his makeshift campsite was visible should a policeman or maintenance worker decide to drive through. It was the perfect hiding spot for a man on the run.

Opening another bottle of water, Dusty munched on peanuts while he studied the atlas and listened to the truckers complain. Every so often he heard one of them give a roadblock’s location, which he noted on the map with an “X.”

It soon became apparent that the authorities were pulling out all the stops to apprehend the world’s most dangerous fugitive. Despite the rural environment and sparse population, Dusty’s map was soon soiled with several indicators of barricades and checkpoints. Law enforcement was thorough; he’d have to give them that – there was no way out.

The light had begun to fade when he finally resolved to just stay put. The park was completely uninhibited, probably only used as a weekend destination for local youths or the occasional church outing. Unless one of the area farm boys decided to bring his date for a secluded make out session, Dusty doubted anyone would discover his hideaway for several days.

Nature called, the proximity of the bathhouse a handy feature. The Texan was just stretching his legs when he heard the distant, “thump, thump, thump,” of the helicopter. In an instant, the rail gun was on his shoulder, ready for an airborne assault.

He never actually spotted the whirlybird, the bordering undergrowth blocking any vantage. Using only his ears, Dusty determined that the copter was following the highway he’d just exited a few hours before.

“Now that’s a problem,” Dusty whispered, his eyes scanning the sky for additional threats. “Who knew there were so many helicopters in Kansas?”

It took him several minutes to settle down, any need to use the restroom long forgotten. When waves of military warbirds failed to appear over the secluded park, he finally decided he was being paranoid to the extreme and continued with his business.

“How long before they give up?” he asked the night sky, not really expecting an answer. “How long before they decide I’ve slipped through the dragnet and move on?”

Using the pickup’s tailgate, Dusty snacked again. After the meal, he decided sleeping under the stars wasn’t such a bad thing, unrolling his sleeping bag in the bed and using his pack as a pillow.

The rail gun never left his side.

The government did its best to downplay Dusty’s role in what the press was soon calling, “The miracle in Kansas.” Initially, federal spokesmen had attempted to blame the phenomenon on a random act of nature.

That explanation was soon disputed, however. The funnel cloud had attracted the attention of a group of tornado hunters who were recording the entire event on high definition video equipment, including Dusty’s disruptive shot.

It quickly became evident the small town refuge of one Mr. Durham Weathers and his fabled doomsday weapon had been discovered.

In the first place, there were simply too many people searching for the fugitive to keep the story quiet. The press quickly put two and two together, and within 24 hours, the headlines were asking the same question posed by the sheriff while he was holding Dusty at gunpoint. Why? Why had such a despicable megalomaniac performed such a selfless act?

On the topic of one Mr. Durham Weathers, the country again found itself divided. As more facts came to light, the age-old American distrust of government began to creep into the national conversation. Was the Texas gunsmith a terrorist, madman, or patriotic genius?

The issue played well in national media. Carefully crafted stories, interviews, and research pieces crisscrossed the airwaves, alternating between the polar opposite perspectives and serving to deepen the divide. The mere fact that Dusty didn’t trust any existing entity, whether it was a government agency or a private corporation, with his device served as the foundation for the debate.

Some depicted the Texan as a fringe anarchist, throwing in an element of conspiracy theorist for good measure. They propagated the idea that anyone who didn’t trust his own government was an unsound and suspicious individual, especially if he were holding the Olympus Device – and using it. Was this unknown man from West Texas intent on taking power for himself? Did he want to rule the world? Could he be trusted?

The opposite side of the spectrum embraced Dusty’s foresight and caution. Of course, the federal government couldn’t be trusted, they argued – especially given such a potent, society-altering technology. Corruption rampaged through the halls of Washington, and with something like the rail gun, the situation could only get worse.

Trustworthy or not, the debate wasn’t lost on the national leadership. In the White House and on Capitol Hill, elected officials sparred from both sides of the bitter dispute. Core American values like free enterprise, private property, and individual liberties were leveraged against arguments touting orderly society, rule of law, and the principles of eminent domain.

“We wouldn’t allow any individual to meander around with a nuclear weapon,” stated a senator on a Sunday morning talk show. “The device developed by Mr. Weathers is actually more powerful in some regards. No one person can be trusted with such capabilities.”

The White House maintained an even starker position. “The United States government has maintained the world’s largest nuclear arsenal for over 60 years without incident or severe mishap. History has proven that we can steward mankind’s most potent discoveries. Why should this new technology be any different?”

The opponents, however, had their own set of talking points. One senior member of Congress summed them up nicely, “Do we really want to make the same mistakes all over again? Do we want another arms race and cold war? The scientists and engineers who split the atom regretted that their work was weaponized, a turn of events that resulted in half a century of fear. Even today, one of our primary national concerns is the threat of a madman nuking one of our cities. We have spent trillions of dollars, invested significant portions of our national brain trust, and dedicated untold resources toward nuclear development while at the same time trying desperately to contain the genie in the bottle. Mr. Weathers is not only holding the moral high-ground on this issue, but also his position is forward thinking and sage.”

For both sides of the disagreement, the elephant in the room was even more frightening – what if the Olympus Device fell into evil hands?

Supporters of government’s controlling the device leveraged the incident along the Mexican border as their prime example, closely followed by what was known of the Russian attempt to procure the technology for themselves. Wasn’t it better that the U.S. possessed and protected the rail gun, even if it were to be weaponized?

“Fear mongers!” came the response. “Just like the last arms’ race!” shouted the opposition.

But it was Grace Kennedy’s voice that carried the day.

Appearing in a nationally televised interview, she avoided the highbrow strategic arguments while at the same time appealing to what she knew mattered the most. “I can’t believe you would support such a gullible and simpleminded position. The only issue here is the
economy
,” she informed the host, deliberately challenging the old political standard. “Imagine the quality of life every citizen on the planet would experience if my client’s technology were developed to deliver free, clean, renewable energy.”

“Take the example of food storage and preservation,” she continued. “Every household on earth could have a refrigerator. This would not only fight famine and malnutrition, but also create jobs. Somebody has to manufacture those appliances... ship them… maintain them. Imagine the average American household budget without energy costs. No electric bill. No natural gas bill. No filling up the gas tank on 2.5 cars in the driveway. Clean air in our cities, global warming, and carbon footprints – they all cease to become issues.”

Without giving the host a chance at rebuttal, Grace spoke directly into the camera, “Every aspect of our lives would be improved. The cost of food, clothing, travel, healthcare, taxes… it would all go down with free energy. Could your city lower property taxes if it didn’t have to pay for the electricity used for streetlights? What about the cost to your children’s school for heat and air-conditioning? And all the while we’re eliminating millions of tons of pollutants.”

The message resonated with the public. Grace was beautiful, bright and sincere. Her presence and presentation, combined with the potential of a better life, was uplifting. The fact that she touched on many Americans’ favorite subject, their spending power, couldn’t be ignored.

Grace sensed a tipping point in her relentless campaign to bring the man she loved in from the cold, shouting her message to the masses using any venue available. She was interviewed for radio, sat for newspaper interviews, and recorded countless sound bites and appearances on nation television.

The president and federal government had little choice but to modify their once-entrenched position.

The press conference was like any of the other daily briefings hosted by the executive branch. The room exploded with questions when the announcement was made - the president was forming a Blue Ribbon Commission to study the best possible future for the Texan’s discovery.

The press secretary ignored the reporter’s outburst, continuing with a list of appointees and reading a summary resume for each. There were several scholars, a retired Supreme Court justice, and experts from various government departments, including the Pentagon.

The public’s reaction was just as the White House anticipated. The people were relieved that the government was going to put an end to the controversy once and for all. Those sympathetic to Dusty’s cause were pleased, the citizens who wanted the madman off their nation’s streets merely satisfied.

An air of optimism quickly replaced both imminent doom and distrust. More than anything else, that’s what most of the Washington politicians had wanted.

Most, but not all.

The Cayman Islands were world-renown for white sandy beaches, tropical weather, and beautiful women. The resort community was truly a vacation paradise. All of this was lost on the man waiting for his luggage at Sir Captain Charles Kirkconnell International Airport.

Nervously scanning his surroundings, he noted the general lack of noise and bustle usually associated with a transportation hub. “The name is bigger than the place,” he whispered just as the luggage began appearing on the automated belt.

Dr. Leonard Church had never journeyed outside the United States before. That… and the fact that his assignment had mysteriously demanded absolute confidentiality regarding his travels… resulted in an extra layer of perspiration soaking his shirt.

Always a high-strung individual, the Department of Energy employee had never been associated with anything remotely clandestine in his 12 years of government service. His knowledge of physics, gained while earning a doctorate at Michigan State, was typically utilized pouring over inspection reports from nuclear power plants. Hardly the stuff of Hollywood spy movies.

“Suck it up,” he whispered to himself, hefting his bag and heading for the one and only taxi stand. “You’re finally doing something important. Don’t mess it up.”

At least he thought it was going to be important.

Graduating with a less-than-stellar GPA from a little-known program, Leonard had been passed over by all of the important research institutions after graduation. Now, a decade after finally completing his studies, he admitted the term “ignored” might have been a more apt description of his post-graduate job search. During times of deep, often negative introspection, he decided the phrase “laughed at,” might have been an even better fit.

Were it not for his grandfather-in-law, Dr. Church might not have managed to land his lowly government occupation. Marrying the granddaughter of a serving U.S. Senator did have its perks.

Pushing a pair of unfashionable black rimmed glasses higher on his nose, Leonard entered the cab, handing the driver a slip of paper containing the address where he had been ordered to report.

His mood improved as the taxi managed the island’s narrow lanes. In his late forties with thinning black hair and undistinguished green eyes, his career hadn’t delivered much in the way of gratification, notoriety, or promotion. Perhaps that was all about to change… perhaps his contributions and intellect were finally being recognized.

The taxi’s master wasn’t running the vehicle’s air conditioner, a fact that further enhanced the doctor’s discomfort. Returning to dwell in his usual state of self-doubt, Leonard realized that wearing a black suit and red tie hadn’t been a wise ensemble for the tropics.

“How can a man who writes articles on chaos theory not consider far enough ahead to dress appropriately for the climate?” he chided.

Fortunately, it wasn’t far to the Cayman Reef Resort. After paying the driver in U.S. currency, Dr. Church almost forgot his briefcase in the back seat. Again, he cursed the strain, knowing the contents of the satchel were the primary reason he’d been summoned.

He was so caught up in his thoughts about the meeting that he didn't bother to appreciate the passing scenery. Leonard arrived at the welcome counter, wholly focused on making a good impression on his wife’s grandfather, Senator Hughes.

The clerk at the desk was a tanned young man sporting a white dress shirt and khakis. The young local tried not to stare at the arriving guest’s wool suit and tie, but the task was difficult given the amount of sweat pouring off the gentleman’s brow.

“Hello, I'm Leonard Church,” the doctor announced. “I'm here to meet with Senator Hughes.”

“Welcome to the Cayman Reef Resort, Mr. Church. You’re the first to arrive. You will be in meeting room B15,” the clerk stated after typing keys on the computer.

“Thank you.”

“Would you care for anything to drink from the bar? We’re famous for our margaritas and fuzzy navels here at the Reef,” offered the clerk.

“No, no thank you. Could you point me toward the conference room, please?”

“Of course, sir. I'll have someone show you to the meeting hall,” the clerk answered, as he waved one of the hotel workers over to the main counter.