The Olympus Device: Book Three (9 page)

The other side wasn’t expecting that answer, several brows furling in puzzlement. Dusty decided to dose out a little more bewilderment. “If it’s okay with everyone here, I’ll just head back to Texas with a presidential pardon and mind my own business. We’ll destroy the rail gun together and end all this madness.”

“But that’s impossible, sir,” responded a man Dusty recalled was from MIT. “The world now knows of the Olympus Device, and clearly there are some who would do anything to hold such power. Even if the prototype were destroyed, what’s inside your head would still be extremely valuable.”

“I suppose you’ve got a valid point there,” the Texan acknowledged. “Which leads to why I agreed to this meeting. If all of the brainpower in this room can come up with a way to guarantee my device won’t ever be used as a weapon, then I’ll hand it over. That arrangement would also have to include a process whereby any benefits from the technology would be made available to the entire planet.”

“We have some ideas about that,” Witherspoon said. “Let’s get started on the first deman…. Err… item on Mr. Weather’s agenda. How do we prevent the militarization of his technology?”

Admiral Armstrong ended the call, nodding to Senator Hughes in a confirming gesture. “That was my man at the airport. The conference is underway.”

“And the Olympus Device?” the senator asked.

“Location unknown.”

Hughes reached for the wine glass resting nearby, taking a moment to savor the excellent California red his host had provided. He didn’t make eye contact with the admiral when he spoke. “Are you confident the men you’ve mentioned in the national command structure are with us on this? Are you 100% positive?”

Armstrong replied with his usual confident tone, “Yes, Senator. There are officers in several key positions who have pledged their loyalty to our cause. They see this Texan’s weapon as a threat to our nation, the military, and world peace. I’m quite sure that a majority of our military personnel will join us once the objective becomes clear.”

The senator admired the Swarovski crystal in his hand, swirling the cloudy crimson liquid as he contemplated the next move. The wine reminded him of blood, the analogy unavoidable given what he was contemplating.

“And if the weapon isn’t at the conference? What if that madman Weathers has stashed it somewhere?” the politician asked.

Armstrong responded with a very unmilitary shrug. “No matter. The tactic is quite straightforward. While it would be nice to possess the technology for ourselves, the primary goal of the mission is to keep the rail gun away from other potential adversaries. You’ve seen the after-action reports, Senator. If those cartel thugs had been successful, there would be hell to pay about now.”

“And if the weapon is at the airport?”

“Then it may be destroyed in the attack… or it may not. There’s no way to be sure. My hope is that enough of the device is salvageable to reverse engineer. But again, nothing is foolproof.”

Hughes took another sip of wine, apparently digesting the admiral’s answers. Several minutes had passed in silence before the contemplation ended, replaced by the expression of a man who had made a decision. 

“The time has come, Admiral. We’ve let this craziness go on long enough. Our government’s policies and actions have ruined our national reputation. The world was already convinced we are weak and in decline. Now, with this fucking doomsday weapon running loose, the entire globe thinks we’re nothing more than a bunch of circus clowns. The U.S. military must have this super-weapon, and that military must be governed by men who aren’t afraid to use this technology in our national interest. And this time, Admiral, we’re not going to let the Russians, or anyone else, steal it from us.”

“Then we’re in agreement, Senator?”

“Yes. Launch the missiles.”

Armstrong lifted the cell phone still in his hand, punching in a pre-programmed number. The call was answered on the first ring.

“Operation Olympus Down is a go. Execute immediately.”

Hughes sipped his wine, a knowing grin crossing his face when he finally met the admiral’s gaze. “Once again, the world will respect the United States and our interests – or suffer the consequences.”

Captain Bard’s eyes seemed fixated on an undefined point on the horizon, the Gulf of Mexico’s casual blue waters providing a stark contrast to the sterile white and gray of the warship’s bustling bridge.

Three weeks ago, he’d been ordered to sail his command from Norfolk, Virginia to the southern region of the U.S. territorial waters. Patrolling 85 miles off the Mississippi coast, the USS
Gravely
’s assigned area of operation should have been a low-stress mission, at least compared to her normal responsibilities with Carrier Strike Group Two.

But the
Gravely
’s skipper didn’t see it that way.

Despite the mundane day-to-day routine and slow passage of time, Bard was still troubled by the thought of actually being ordered to fire on the United States of America.

After the events in Laredo, the president had been persuaded to pull out the big guns, or more accurately, the big missiles.

A picket of naval vessels had been positioned at strategic locations around the continental United States. Most of the assigned ships were similar to the
Gravely
, Arleigh Burke-class destroyers that boasted a dazzling array of weapons, both defensive and offensive in nature.

The mission was simple; when the Air Force’s satellites detected the Olympus Device’s signature discharge, one of these ships was to launch cruise missiles at the location – if it met acceptable parameters.

The small Kansas town had been spared due to the potential of collateral damage and loss of civilian life. From what little information Bard had received, that decision had been hotly debated for several minutes. So desperate was the Pentagon to either possess or disable the rail gun, senior commanders had actually contemplated firing Tomahawk cruise missiles at an American town. That was deeply troubling.

The captain’s thoughts drifted to the last time he had visited the Gulf Coast. Not so long ago, he’d been assigned to
Gravely
as her sea trials were scheduled to begin. The proud ship’s hull had been laid at the nearby Ingalls Shipbuilding yard in Pascagoula, less than 200 miles from her present position. His temporary quarters and off-duty hours in the breezy, coastal town had been an eye-opening experience. Being born and raised a New England Yankee, Bard hadn’t really known what to expect from the southern regions of his native country.

He soon found the slower pace of beach life provided a calming balance to what was otherwise the high-speed day of an ambitious, young naval officer. He liked the people, relished the food, and found the local friendliness refreshing. The entire experience served to broaden his love and respect for the good ol’ USA, bolstering his patriotism, and reinforcing the decision to serve his country.

And now, here he was, standing ready to launch weapons of war against those same people he’d taken an oath to protect.

Unlike the vessel’s previous missions, Operation Olympus Down was confusing to the dedicated officer. Their role as a warship patrolling off the coast of Syria – or other global hotspots – had always been clearly defined and easily understood. The potential of firing on Pascagoula, or Kansas, or even his home state of Vermont, was an order Bard had never contemplated following.

To make matters worse,
Gravely
’s racetrack pattern of patrol often took her within range of land-based radio and television broadcasts. Officers and crew alike, exposed to the full media onslaught, were well aware of how the Olympus Device had divided their countrymen. The same debate that raged on shore was often overheard in the narrow passageways and cramped quarters of Bard’s command. Just like their civilian counterparts, this ship’s compliment was split by the issue.

When the president had ordered the formation of the Blue Ribbon Panel, the captain had breathed a sigh of relief. Rather than contemplate the harsh reality of killing American citizens, he could spend his days anticipating orders to return to
Gravely’s
home port and plan for a long-overdue refit.

But the instructions to return to Norfolk were never issued.

Instead,
Gravely
continued to steam just offshore, her vertical launch system primed and ready to rain pure hell upon a set of coordinates within his own country. To make matters worse, the admiral commanding the operation had placed them on high alert just 30 minutes ago.

Captain Bard looked at the operational order with a scowl, a quick flash of concern fleeting over his gray eyes. “This isn’t right. Why are we doing this?” he whispered.

“Sir?” perked the young seaman, apparently keyed-up by the rare visit to the bridge.

“Nothing, sailor,” Bard replied sternly. “Dismissed.”

Snapping a quick salute, the junior man pivoted smartly, happy to exit what his shipmates and he referred to as “officers’ country.”

After watching the messenger leave, Bard’s eyes returned to scanning the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, but only for a moment.

Turning to the communications operator standing nearby,
Gravely
’s skipper snapped, “Get me Montgomery down in CIC.”

A few moments later, the younger officer handed Bard a thick, telephone-like device. “The Combat Information Center, sir. Lieutenant Montgomery.”

“Jesse, I assume you saw the order?”

“Yes, Captain, I saw it.”

There was a brief pause before Bard continued. “Do it, Jesse. The order is confirmed.”

Deep in the bowels of
Gravely’s
superstructure, a frown crossed the younger officer’s face, his adverse reaction as dark and shadowy as the destroyer’s computer-laden nerve center. While his affirmative response was an automatic, “Yes, sir,” it was the first time in the lieutenant’s six-year naval career that he had seriously considered violating a direct order.

He wanted to ask if the captain was sure, some internal voice screaming that the order was madness. Illegal. Immoral. Before the potentially career-ending question could form in his throat, he heard a click-click through his headset and knew the bridge had disconnected the line.

“All hands, all hands,” the captain’s voice blared over the ship’s intercom. “Prepare for VLS shots.

Montgomery peered around the small room, his gaze met by several questioning faces. “Load the coordinates into the TLAMs (Tomahawk Land Attack Missiles),” he ordered in a low tone. “The order is confirmed.”