The Olympus Device: Book Three (36 page)

No, but you are a chicken
, the admiral thought, his patience with Hughes wearing thin after so many weeks sharing confined and cramped quarters with the high-maintenance man.

“Senator,” Armstrong stated with frustration, “We’ve been over this already. The FBI is eventually going to find us if we stay in the U.S. And frankly, sir, our chance of successfully locating refuge somewhere else is slight. Our only hope of maintaining our freedom and setting things straight in Washington is floating over there on that cargo ship. I need the rail gun, sir. I need it to rally forces to our cause and defeat those that won’t join us.”

The admiral didn’t wait for Hughes’ reply, moving on past the worried–looking politician with a hurried determination.

Armstrong arrived in the salon to find his men performing a pre-operation check of their kit. Weapons, night vision goggles, thermal imagers, full magazines of ammunition, and load bearing equipment were scattered everywhere.

“Three hours, gentlemen. We take the
Parthenon
in three hours.”

Dusty examined the wedding ring with a critical eye. After inspecting the shiny metal circle from every possible angle, he glanced up at the ship’s engineer and smiled. “Perfect. Thank you.”

The Texan then glanced at his watch, “Oh, shit! I’ve got to get moving.”

He hustled up the seemingly endless flights of metal stairs, deciding the exercise would be a good thing if it weren't for a crucial appointment.

He managed the stateroom door with just enough time for a quick shower and shave. He’d decide what clothes to wear while rinsing off the machine shop’s grime.

He found a note from Grace, chiding him for being late and informing him that she was on her way to the main galley to see about a small cake.

Ten minutes later, he emerged from the cabin, dressed in a pair of khaki pants, dark blue button down shirt, and his finest boots. It was the best he could do.

He rushed outside, pausing suddenly to verify the location of the ring in his pocket, laughing at himself over his case of “wedding jitters.”

He found Captain Bard and his first officer waiting by the rail. “Beautiful evening, sir,” Christopher announced, pointing up at the milky-white canopy of stars.

“I broke out some of the emergency candles,” the second bragged. “A little ambiance never hurt a thing.”

Having been raised in West Texas, Dusty thought he’d seen the world’s best star field, but he’d been wrong. “Amazing,” he breathed, looking up at the twinkling mass of distant suns. Grace strolled on the deck, smiling in her mid-length white skirt and peach-colored top.

“You look beautiful,” Dusty informed the soon-to-be bride. He took her in, noticing her hair was perfect. She was a vision. “There’s no one else I would ever want to call Mrs. Weathers.”

Aglow with the event, Grace’s smile was as bright as the star field above.

“Are we ready?” the captain said, reaching for the Bible offered by his second in command.

“We are gathered here today,” Bard proceeded, having found the words for a simple ceremony. Both Dusty and Grace thought it was perfect – no pressure over invitation rhetoric, no keeping the ring bearer on track, no political correctness regarding who would give the bride away…. In reality, so many of the entrapments of traditional services invited an abundance of stress to the event as surely as the folks who received an engraved invite. And Dusty and Grace had had enough stress to last a lifetime. They decided they wanted their special day to be as fresh and carefree as possible.

“Sir, repeat after me….” the captain pivoted toward Dusty, directing this part of the ceremony to him. “I choose you, my darling. I take you to be my best friend, my faithful partner and my one true love….”

Pesky witness protection program
, Grace mused. Her mind drifted for a split second as she considered one of the most interesting questions Bard had asked of the couple – how the two of them wanted to be addressed. Did they want a ceremony for Dusty and Grace or Mr. Smith and Miss Jones? In the end, they had opted to use more generic titles to avoid breaking the security protocol.
You just can’t be too careful these days, especially if you are hiding out from every scoundrel on the face of the planet
, she thought.

“… to respect and honor you for as long as we both shall live,” Dusty repeated, staring deeply into his bride’s eyes. The groom paused for a moment to take it all in. His life was finally coming together. Not only was he a free man, but he was marrying the woman of his dreams. He stood spellbound as he admired the captivating lady before him, about to exchange eternal promises with him. His mind swirled with joy… and anticipation… and possibilities.

Bard smiled at Dusty before turning to the bride. The movement cued Dusty, who planned to pay close attention to the next part of the ceremony.
Wish I had brought my tape recorder,
he mused.
After all, I am marrying one of the most respected attorneys in the Lone Star State. I am going to verify every word
, he smiled to himself, never for an instant really doubting the commitment that Grace shared with him, and in truth quite proud of her legal eagle accomplishments.

Still relishing in his own good luck, he spotted a small speck of light in the vast, dark ocean. A moment later, he noticed what he thought might be movement over the captain’s shoulder, but didn’t want to say anything due to the solemn proceedings. When the outline of a large yacht appeared through the darkness, the Texan couldn’t help himself, “That guy looks like he intends on ramming us.”

Bard turned and stared in the direction indicated, “What the hell?”

Two white clouds of smoke and flame appeared on the deck of the approaching boat, followed by two streaks of red flying toward
Parthenon
. “Oh, shit!” yelled Bard. “Missiles!”

Before anyone could move, twin explosions rocked the superstructure three decks above their heads. Dusty grabbed Grace and threw her roughly to the deck just as hunks of hot debris began raining down on the wedding party.

Bard and the first officer were running toward the bridge when the klaxons began roaring their ship-wide warning. Dusty pulled Grace to her feet and said, “We’re under attack. Let’s get to our cabin.”

The Texan helped her up, subconsciously trying to shield her body from the threat as they hustled to get away.

Dusty chanced a glance toward the rapidly closing boat, the vessel now near enough to make out several men on her foredeck. The outline of rifles and combat gear was clear. So was their intent to board
Parthenon
.

Grace and he made it to their cabin, Dusty guiding her toward the media room that occupied the interior most spaces. “Stay here,” he barked. “It offers the best protection.”

“Where are you going?” she managed, despite the terror.

“I’m going to go repel boarders,” he answered coolly.

A moment later, the Texan was at the vault. The machine functioned as expected, its massive door soon opening to reveal the rail gun. Dusty was pulling his invention from the case when the rattle of automatic small arms fire echoed throughout the ship.

It seemed to take a long time before the green LED announced the weapon was ready. Dusty dropped a projectile into the breech, pocketing the remaining ammo and wondering how many reloads he would need tonight.

He turned and almost ran headlong into Grace. “You can’t shoot that thing on this ship,” she stated. “What good will it do to defend her if you sink her at the same time?”

“I’ll just have to be careful with my aim, I suppose,” he said, trying to step around the attorney.

But Grace wasn’t finished, blocking him again. “I can’t swim, so you be very, very careful…. And come back to me, my love.”

Dusty nodded, bent to kiss her cheek, and then he was gone.

There weren’t any weapons onboard for the crew to defend the good ship
Parthenon
, a condition of employment that Bard was now seriously regretting. Due to compliance with international law, about the only defensive force his men could utilize were the ship’s high-pressure fire hoses and associated axes.

Bard knew the drill, his military experience having exposed the captain to the methods used in boarding a ship. He was organizing his men to the hoses when the yacht came alongside. Two grappling hooks sailed over the main deck’s rail, pulled tight with the weight of climbing assaulters.

One of the crew ran forward thinking to cut a hook’s rope with his fire axe. He was cut down by a stream of small arms fire from the pirate vessel below. No one else made an attempt.

After firing the RPGs (rocket-propelled grenades) into the ship’s superstructure, Armstrong stood on the yacht’s deck with the rest of the boarding party, watching his men efficiently begin ascending the freighter’s wall-like steel hull. Each line held the best climber, another two shooters scrambling up the maintenance ladder welded to the target vessel’s outer hull.

“Who’s going to stay here on the yacht?” a near frantic Hughes shouted from nearby. “I can’t drive a boat.”

“You’re going to have to learn on the job, Senator,” the admiral shouted back. “We need every man to take that ship.”

“But… but… what do I do?”

“Can’t you drive a fucking car?” Armstrong yelled, obviously losing his patience with the man. “It has a steering wheel and throttles. No brakes. Just keep her alongside that ship. When we’re finished taking over, I’ll send two men down to help you aboard.”

“I don’t like this,” Hughes whined. “Why don’t you just leave a man on board with me? It will be safer.”

Shaking his head, Armstrong started to respond, but then it was his turn to climb the ladder. Without giving the worried politician a second glance, the admiral jumped for the lowest rung and then disappeared into the darkness above.

Hughes scurried to the helm, his nervous eyes darting between the cluster of gauges and the looming wall of steel nearby. Wringing his hands, he reached for the steering wheel, trying to keep the smaller vessel where Armstrong had ordered, feeling a band of tightness grasp his chest.