Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (12 page)

It was Mitch’s turn to smirk. “You don’t have to call him, Agent Monroe. He was my post-graduate sponsor and is the godfather of my children. He’ll take
the call on my name alone.”

Mitch watched his nemesis carefully, secretly hoping for some sort of embarrassment or backpedaling. He received no such gratification from
the name drop. Instead, Monroe signaled a nearby policeman to open the cell, and then calmly waved for the professor to follow.

The two men walked to a semi-empty office, Mitch getting the impression it was Monroe’s temporary workspace while he was visiting. Again without a word, the agent pointed to the telephone sitting on the desk and said, “Be my guest.”

“Actually, sir, it would be easier if I could use my cell phone. I have the number stored in my contacts.”

Nodding, Monroe stuck his head outside the door and ordered Mitch’s personal effects be brought to his office. Five minutes later there was a soft knock on the door, and then a uniformed sleeve handed Monroe a large plastic bag.

Mitch dialed the Washington number, a voicemail system answering the call after four rings. “Please leave a message for Henry Witherspoon after the tone,” sounded from Mitch’s speaker.

After the beep, Mitch said, “Dr. Witherspoon, this is Mitch Weathers. I hope you and Paula are both doing well. Sir, I need your hel
p desperately… an emergency. Please return this message, any time day or night as soon as possible. Thank you.”

Monroe was impressed. Most of the civilians, suspects and criminals he worked with on a daily basis exaggerated their connections. “Okay, Mr. Weathers, the answer to this next question determines if you sleep here or at home tonight.”

“Okay.”

“What would happen to me if I did know your deep, dark secret?”

Mitch considered his words before replying. “You might become corrupted, Agent Monroe. Or someone above you would succumb to the temptation and have you, or anyone else who knew the secret eliminated. I’d hate to see people start disappearing simply because of what they know. I wish I didn’t know. Look at what’s happened to me since I found out just a few hours ago.”

The answer seemed to surprise the senior agent. Thumping a pencil on his des
k for a moment, he apparently settled on a course of action. “Go home, Professor Weathers. One condition – if anyone tries to contact you regarding this case, I’m to be informed immediately. Anyone. Do we have an agreement?”

“Does anyone include my brother?”

“Yes… probably the most important person on the list.”

“Then we don’t have an agreement, sir. I’ll not turn on my brother. Lock me away forever, but he’s my blood.”

Smiling, Monroe nodded. “Good. I think that’s the first time you’ve been absolutely honest with me. Go home, Weathers – with the condition that I’ll know about anyone but Dusty contacting you.”

Mitch rose to leave, but hesitated at the door. T
urning back, he said, “I have an important suggestion for you, sir. You’ve caused quite the ruckus here on campus. I would strongly suggest you create some sort of cover story. Despite its size, the campus is a close society. People talk. I’m sure the last thing you want is a bunch of conspiracy junkies roaming around looking for a government cover up of some rumored super weapon.”

The FBI man pondered Mitch’s statement for a bit, and then asked, “What would you suggest, Doctor?”

“A bomb threat… nothing found… false alarm.”

“That’s not a bad idea. N
ot bad at all. Thank you, Doctor.”

Dusty waited until there was just enough light to safely take off. While illumination wasn’t a prerequisite for flying, he was in an unfamiliar area and didn’t feel like there was any advantage in waiting.

He’d studied the charts, entered the waypoints into the GPS
, and double-checked the aircraft. It was time to leave the secure surroundings of the barn and head to the fourth largest city in the country. Hopefully he could lose himself in the vast humanity residing there.

Opening the barn doors, he carefully taxied the Thrush out into the field. There wasn’t any breeze, a fact confirmed by a
telling glance at the closest line of trees. The takeoff went smoothly, and in a few minutes, he was 1,000 feet above the remote Texas countryside with just enough remaining light to make out the occasional feature here and there.

Flying at night was
a different experience. The rods and cones in the human eye didn’t relay as much depth perception in low light as during the day. Vertigo was far more common, with stories of pilots flying their planes right into the ground while thinking they were maintain a safe altitude. It was a sobering thought.

Dusty knew from his charts that the only obstacles he had to worry about were radio towers. He’d carefully plotted a course that would avoid them.

Even at such a low height, he could see for a considerable distance. Lights twinkled in the cooling atmosphere, some clusters of illuminations indicating small towns or villages. Other, more distant examples were distorted with color – a horizon to horizon display of Christmas decorations if he used his imagination.

He was less than an hour’s flying to from his destination, and the miles passed quickly. Before long
, the sky ahead began to glow a pale yellow, the effect growing more intense as he flew south. Houston’s nightglow was enormous, almost as bright as a false dawn. It made sense to Dusty. After all, the city measured over 70 miles wide and 50 miles deep.

The GPS indicated he was getting close to Texas Highway 290, which according to the map was a four
- lane freeway close to the metropolis. Right on time, he detected the almost solid line of white car lights heading north, a similar trail of red taillights heading south.

The scene was distracting, his mind playing airborne trivia instead of
staying tuned and tight on his instruments and controls. Each unusual ground formation or cluster commanded his attention, curiosity consuming him with the vague images his eyes registered. It was one reason why flying at night was dangerous.

The next identifiable landmark was another highway, this one Texas 249. Dusty crossed the
lesser-used road right on schedule, only a few miles from the destination airport.

He got lucky three miles out. Detecting the blinking lights of another aircraft, Dusty
first made sure that he wasn’t on a collision course. That potential disaster eliminated, it then occurred to him that the other plane appeared to be lining up to land at Hooks. He decided to follow, hoping the other guy had more experience with the facility.

Not only did the other plane have more experience, it also had access to the remote lighting system. This new feature allowed an incoming aircraft to radio a specific code to a computer
, which in turn illuminated the runway lights. This good fortune improved Dusty’s mood enormously.

Wheels-down was smooth. Looking at the larger than anticipated facility out his cockpit
glass, Dusty began scanning for a good place to hide the Thrush in plain sight. He didn’t have to look for long.

The sign above the large,
metal-sided building read, “North Side Aviation and Storage.” In front of the main building, two rows of private planes stretched off into the distance.

The Thrush fit nicely in an open spot about a football field’s length away from the office. It wasn’t unusual for a visiting aircraft to use the facilities without permission. Normally, the pilot would call or stop by in the morning and pay for the parking, fuel or any other service needed. With any luck, the Thrush wouldn’t be noticed until he had put a lot of distance between himself and the plane.

As he emptied his belongings from the cockpit, a dark sadness came over him. He knew this was probably the last time he would see his old girl – at least for a very long time. Despite being a wanted man and feeling the urge to move out, he walked around the plane one last time – his throat tight and eyes moist.

Shaking it off, Dusty headed
off on foot toward the edge of the airfield. He knew from the maps that a well-traveled roadway ran north and south along the airport grounds. He intended to use it as a guide.

Three hours later, Dusty had barely managed to travel five miles into Houston. Completely underestimating how difficult it
was to follow the road while staying off it, he’d struggled with every fence, subdivision, ditch, and creek.

Wet, sweaty, exhausted
, and hungry, he finally found himself in an urban area dense enough where he could walk along the sidewalk and not draw attention to himself. Cars zipped along the thoroughfare, paying him no heed. He’d hiked another mile before a neon sign flashing “Vacancy” drew his eye.

At the late hour, the lobby was locked. The clerk, summ
oned by the door side buzzer, gave Dusty a hard look before letting him in. When he saw his reflection in the mirror, he understood why. Muddy boots, a small tear in his jeans, and a mismatch of clothing wasn’t indicative of his normal personal presentation.

“Do you still have a vacancy, sir?”

“Yes, it’s $80 a night with tax.”

“Okay, sign me up.”

“Could I see your ID, please?”

The question froze the fugitive. While his driver’s license was still inside his wallet, he didn’t know how sophisticated the law enforcement computer systems were. Would they be immediately alerted if his real name went on the register?

“My wallet’s been stolen, sir. That’s why I’m here in the middle of the night. I stopped down the street to eat, and when I came out, my car had been broken into and my billfold was gone.”

The man behind the counter seemed to ponder Dusty’s fake predic
ament. As an afterthought, the West Texan pulled out his significant wad of cash. “Fortunately, I hadn’t left my money in the car, or I’d really be screwed,” he offered.

“Eighty dollars for one night,” the man repeated while sliding a form across the counter
. His intent was clearly for Dusty to fill it out.

Again, he hesitated. The hotel wanted his name, address, phone number and other information. Picking up the pen, he decided to become George Dunlap,
the high school shop teacher’s name the only one he could conjure up.

Ten minutes later, Dusty was inserting a magnetic key card and opening the door to the “mini-suite.” Setting down the backpack, he explored his new residence. “Sure beats sleeping
in the barn,” he mumbled. In reality, it wasn’t a bad place to hole up for a few days. There was a small kitchenette, queen size bed, and free cable TV. What more could any outlaw need?

A shower was the first order of business, the small bottles of shampoo helping elimin
ate the layer of grit, stress induced sweat, and nervous grime that covered his body. Wrapped in a towel with the rail gun lying next to him, Dusty fell asleep without even pulling back the bedspread.

He woke up not knowing where he was for a moment. Gingerly rolling off the bed, Dusty made for the windows, partially curio
us to see if the parking lot were full of police cars, mostly wondering what his surroundings looked like in the daylight.

There were no police cars, the weather looked hot
, and he was smack-dab in the middle of an urban shopping area. The view offered no surprises.

He’d
noted that a free breakfast was offered in the lobby, and after verifying he could still make the cut-off, he dressed quickly and proceeded on a determined quest for gratis coffee.

An orange, two cups of java
, and a bowl of cereal accompanied him back to the room – the food energy renewing a positive outlook on the day. As he savored each bite, he began scribbling a “to do” list on the free hotel stationery, the cheap pen protesting actual use.

While h
is A&M pack fit in well within the backdrop of College Station, here it might be more obvious for an older man to carry such an item. Besides, it wasn’t big enough for a criminal who was required to carry all of his belongings everywhere he went.

He also needed spare clothing, including underwear and socks. Adding food, instant coffee, a razor, toothbrush and other hygiene products to his list, Dusty felt ready to go shopping. The problem was where
to go and how to get there. Walking along the street after dark was one level of risk, doing so in broad daylight yet another.

Staring out the window in an effort to gauge the neighborhood, he saw a solution to part of his problem. A large, brightly painted
, metro bus was unloading passengers just a block away. With the transportation issue resolved, the next question was where he could locate the commodity items on his list.

The older woman working the lobby-clerk position that morning
provided the answer. Down the road, less than two miles, was a huge shopping mall. The bus line stopped right in front.

One dollar and 20 minutes later, Dusty climbed down from the public transportation and began eyeing the plethora of stores
, shops, and restaurants within easy walking distance. Not far away he spied an enormous building, a sign over the door advertising “Atlas Sports and Outdoors.”

He soon found himself inside the biggest sporting goods store he’d ever seen. Aisle after aisle
filled with clothing, hunting, camping, and shooting supplies that seemed to stretch out forever. Smiling, Dusty thought,
I can spend the entire day in here, and no one would ever find me. I might just move in permanently
. 

As he stepped forward
, an alarm went off, the sudden alert causing Dusty to freeze mid-step. A smiling young lady approached and asked, “Excuse me, sir, but are you carrying a firearm by any chance?”

He started to lie, but then saw a sign declaring all firearms must be unloaded and checked at the courtesy counter.
It made sense, given the facility claimed to offer the services of an onsite gunsmith, as well as trade-ins.

“I’m sorry, but yes, I have a rifle I want appraised in my pack.”

“No problem,” she chimed. “Let me put a tag on it.”

Dusty unzipped the backpack, exposing the rail gun’s stock. If the girl noticed anything unusual about
the weapon, she didn’t comment. Wrapping a lime green piece of tape around the grip, she nodded and said, “Thanks for shopping at Atlas. If there’s something I can help you find, please let me know.”

Wait till the boys back in Fort Davis get a load of this
, he mused.
A big city store that welcomes a man carrying a rifle. No one will believe me.

Dust
y located everything on his list, and then some. There were so many backpacks on display, he had a hard time making a choice. The camping section offered freeze-dried everything, including stew, bacon and eggs, and even blueberry pie. He also picked up an assortment of hygiene items, intentionally designed to be used on extended outdoor adventures. He even discovered pintsized containers full of laundry soap, the diminutive packets usable in a hotel sink if he needed to hand wash his duds.

Clothing wasn’t an issue either. Rack after rack of every imaginable type, brand
, and color of active wear was available for purchase. The quality was high, as were the prices, but he didn’t care. It would be good to have a change of underwear and fresh socks.

As he meandered up and down the aisles, he came across a display of cell phones that boldly advertised “no contract.” Mobile phones were essentially useless in Fort Davis, the mountain-blocked reception spotty at best. But here… could he use one of these devices to contact Mitch?

A young man wearing a store name tag offered a nicely toned, “Finding everything, sir?”

“My wallet was stolen a few days ago,” Dusty began. “My cell phone
, too. Do I need any sort of identification to use these phones?”

“No, sir. You can buy one and use it almost immediately without any ID or credit card. The purchase price includes a pre-loaded number of minutes.”

Anonymous calling
, reasoned Dusty.
I bet these would give those television detectives fits. How would the cops trace calls?
Living in a remote area of West Texas, Dusty had never bought a cell phone. Not only did the mountains interfere with the signals, Fort Davis was not a large enough community to warrant its own tower system. He just didn’t have the need for such a device, especially since it would only function part-time at best.

But now his location and needs had changed. Thinking of calling
his brother after things had settled down, he selected the most user friendly-looking model and threw it in his shopping buggy.

Wandering into the firearms section, a look of enchantment soon covered his face. It wasn’t the seemingly endless row of rifles and pistols along the back wall – he’d seen most of those before. Nor was it the tremendous assortment of ammunition. Dusty was enthralled by the accessories. The internet had shown him pictures of many of the cleaners, optics, slings and other items – but to see them in person! He slowly pushed his cart through each aisle – reading practically every label and pitch.

A large, glass display case held special interest for
the gunsmith. Full of optics, lasers, battle sights and other aiming aids, he dedicated additional time to browsing the various options. He’d wanted to mount some sort of optic on the rail gun, but didn’t have anything suitable in his gun safe at home. Besides, up until a couple of days ago, mounting a scope on the nonfunctional gun was as useless as a politician claiming he wanted to help. It might look good, but no benefit would be gained.

Before he rolled the buggy past the display case, a nice, high-powered scope was riding in the cart along with his
other essentials.

Looking at his watch, Dusty realized he’d been in the store several hours. Unsure of how long the buses ran, he decided he’d had enough fun. Besides, he could always come back.

He paid cash at the checkout line, his money roll significantly diminished by the scope. Still, he had over $2,000 dollars stuffed in his shirt and jeans pockets, a little more hidden in the fold of his boot.

He
waited almost 20 minutes for the return trip bus to arrive, spending most of his time looking away from the street in case a law enforcement officer was passing by. An hour after boarding the public transportation, he was back in his room unwrapping, sorting and packing his gear. With his dirty clothing soaking in the bathtub, he sat about testing the small kitchen. The beef stew smelled reasonable, the instant coffee better than nothing.

The electric golf cart hummed down the pavement at Northside Aviation and Storage. The retired pilot who managed the place advanced slowly, the creeping pace necessary so he could check off tail numbers using the clipboard resting in the seat beside him.

The yellow Thrush caught his
eye, the beautiful plane unusual in both color and model. “You’re new,” he mumbled to the aircraft. “What a pretty lady you are.”

Looking at his watch, he figured he had a moment to inspect the new arrival, his love of all things that flew as passionate as the first time he saw an aircraft
70 years ago.

The old Rockwell was a true classic, her stout frame and extra wide wings mak
ing her a workhorse of the barnstorming trade. She was a blue collar aircraft – strong and proud, able to earn her keep.

Retur
ning to the cart, he squinted at the tail number and noticed something odd. Sliding out of the seat, he moved closer to inspect and realized someone had altered the numbers. To the manager, there were few sins more egregious than stealing a plane. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and dialed the police.

“We’ve found his plane,” announced Shultz. “It was discovered on the north side of Houston at a small airport about 30 min
utes ago. The engine was cold. No sign of the pilot.”

“Houston?” questioned Monroe. Pulling a file from the stack on his desk, he flipped through a few pages and then stabbed the paper with his finger. “His ex-wife l
ives in Houston. I bet he’s gone to her for help.”

The lead FBI man looked at his watch, quickly making up his mind. “Let’s head to Houston, Tommy. I’ll pack everything up here while you run home and throw a change of clothes in a bag.
Obviously, the trail leads to the Bayou City.”

The
FBI helicopter landed at Hooks, not far from the now besieged Thrush. Two black SUVs sat nearby, bureau personnel fingerprinting, photographing, and inspecting Dusty’s now-seized airplane. Shultz and Monroe exited the copter, strolling toward the agent running the airport investigation.

“We know his flight history now,” relayed one of the techs. “He left the waypoints and route history
in the GPS. I can tell you when and where this guy has been going back several months.”

“Can you sum it all up and have it on my desk by tomorrow morning?” Monroe asked.

“Yes, sir. You’ll have that and anything else we uncover first thing.”

After assuring himself that there was little
more to be garnered at the airport, Monroe ordered their driver to Maria Weathers’ home address. Two additional agents from the sizable Houston office had already verified the suspect’s ex-wife was home.

Maria was reviewing an offer when the doorbell rang. Puzzled by the interruption, she
pulled a .40 caliber M&P pistol from her purse and then made for the front door. Peeking out the security hole, she saw two men, wearing suits, on the stoop. “There’s no soliciting in this community, guys. Didn’t you see the sign at the gate?”