Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (23 page)

Five minutes later, a bicycle messenger zoomed out of the facility, his helmet,
sunglasses and backpack appearing like any one of the dozens of other such delivery riders prowling the streets. The disguise was rounded out with a slightly soiled white tee shirt, the logo clearly indicating the rider was an employee of the
Monroe Delivery Services
. He had laughed with glee two nights ago when the idea had popped into his mind.

Dusty hadn’t ridden
in some years; his only practice was zipping around his hideout’s neighborhood. True to the old saying, he hadn’t forgotten how to ride a bike.

He headed south, staying in residential neighborhoods and carefully crossing busy intersections. His destination was the Medical Center, a city within the city of Houston
, a little over a mile from the site of his attack.

A collection of over 30 hospitals, teaching facilities, labs and research centers, the Medical Center could have been a major metropolitan area all its own. With an impressive
prospect of high-rise buildings adding a second skyline to the horizon, the area was densely populated and quite upscale.

It took Dusty only 20 minutes to cover the distance. He had memorized a map of the area,
realizing a real messenger wouldn’t stop and pull out a street guide. Without delay, he found his destination. Steering the bike into a small adjoining garage, he lowered the kickstand, locked the bike, and then hurried to the front entrance of the Midtown Lofts.

A client of
Maria’s had a listing in the building, a one-bedroom condo on the third floor. According to his ex, the doctor who owned the unit had “completely priced it out of the market.” She assured Dusty that no one would be coming to see the property until she convinced the seller to lower his asking price.

Dusty rode the elevator to the third floor, his backpack
riding easily on his hip. He found “312” on the door, and sure enough, a realtor’s key-box hung from the knob. He punched in Maria’s code, and the little container opened with a clang. The condo’s door key was nestled inside.

The place smelled of stale air and inactivity. He open
ed the balcony’s sliding glass door and the bedroom’s windows to circulate a breeze. The water worked, as did the air conditioner. It was exactly what he had expected from a dwelling that had been abandoned for almost a year, and he was content with the space.

After overcoming the restlessness of new surroundings, Dusty eventually settled
on the couch. His curiosity peaked as he stared at the blank television, his mind speculating what the newscasters were reporting about the attack. On one side, he was worried that he’d taken a human life, the unexpected effect of the shock waves fueling those concerns.

On the other side, he wanted to see if hi
s message had been delivered. His purpose had been to raise awareness and cause people to ask why. Why had this madman attacked Houston? Why had this idiot disrupted everything from my lunch break to my commute home?

The batteries in the remote co
ntrol were dead, prompting him to operate the television the old-fashioned way. Kneeling in front of the boob tube, he found the power button and was immediately disappointed to see that the cable had been turned off, no doubt an effort by the owner to save money.

It took 15 minutes of fiddling to figure out how to source the TV from the inactive cable connection to the somewhat-workable rabbit ears. He sat back on the floor and sighed, three local channels broadcast
ing strong enough signals to maintain a clear picture, one of those a Spanish language station.

Still, the local newscasts were all over the story. He was glued to the screen as helicopters provided aerial coverage of the “destruction,” while on-street reporters interviewed “survivors.”

It was at least 15 minutes before he heard the magic words, “So far, Bruce, local hospitals are reporting 26 people injured, but luckily, no causalities at this time.” Dusty grunted, disgusted that the reporter sounded disappointed in the lack of dead bodies.

Next began a parade
the law enforcement officers, all of whom offered no comment regarding what had happened or who, if anybody, was responsible. The journalists did their best to draw out the cops, but they wouldn’t budge. The lack of official explanations didn’t hamper the reporters’ speculations, however. Varied opinions were offered that ranged from terrorist bombs to gas main explosions. One fellow even commented that the scene in front of the library looked like the site of a meteor strike.

Finally, a cycle of eyewitness accounts and interviews filled the airwaves. Dusty, having been there, was amazed at the discrepancies vocalized to the on-scene reporters. One woman claimed to have seen
several masked gunmen carrying assault rifles, while another recalled seeing utility trucks in the area. One guy was sure it was a dual bombing, much like the Boston Marathon incident some time ago. On and on it went, the faces of ordinary citizens spouting a wide range of fiction and conjecture.

Dusty muted the coverage, leaving the images flashing silently on the screen. Sitting back and exhaling, he wondered how long it would be before there was official word that today’s events were indeed an attack. How long before his image was displayed on every news broadcast in the country?
He actually wanted the coverage – the attention. It was critical to his plan.

Dusty
hoped his message would resonate with the American public. He wanted people to seek an understanding of his actions to question his motive. Once they did, he’d be happy to answer, and hopefully, Hank and Grace would go free. Even more importantly, he prayed his government would reform – returning to the principles that had made the nation so great.

“You pissed him off, boss. You did it on purpose, and I think we’ve all learned something from the experience,” Shultz blurted out, no longer able to contain his opinion.

The junior agent’s timing wasn’t impeccable by any sense. Since the attacks four
hours ago, Monroe’s phone had rung constantly, the callers including the director, both Texas senators, and a host of representatives. The governor and mayor had added their voices as well.

The head of the Houston office didn’t have the energy to explode at his subordinate. While most of his conversations had been positive, there had been a few heated words. Many of the e
lected officials seemed genuinely concerned, asking if he had enough resources at his disposal, what kind of assistance he and the Houston office might need. On the surface, it all seemed so positive – supportive.

Monroe knew better.
The politicians were already calling news conferences, boasting of their involvement, bragging of their support and concerns for the people of Houston, vowing to get to the bottom of whatever had happened.
How illogical
, concluded Monroe.
How can you promise to fix something when you don’t know what occurred in the first place?

“And what would
you have me do, Tommy? Negotiate with a terrorist? Violate 30 years of bureau policy? Release prisoners just because some guy called and threatened us?”

Shaking his head, Shultz calmly replied, “No, sir,
that’s not my point. I would suggest we bring in the bureau’s hostage negotiators – trained psychologists and other experts to handle Mr. Weathers the next time we have contact with him. You tried brute force, and he responded in kind. It’s clear that method isn’t going to work; the man won’t be intimidated.”

Monroe seemed to consider the younger man’s advice. “Why should we treat this man any different
ly than a bomber? If we had a guy running around planting C4, he could do the same damage. Would you be recommending that we negotiate with such a person?”

“What about the airplanes, boss?”

“The final report isn’t in from the NTSB. We don’t know if those jets bumped each other, if there was mechanical error, or if the pilots just freaked out as a side effect of Weathers shooting at them. I do not doubt that the guy has a powerful weapon, I’m just saying it’s
not
God’s gun.”

Shultz didn’t hesitate, “I’ve read the interrogation transcripts
and all of the interviews. I think Weathers is a West Texas gunsmith who stumbled onto something by accident. He did what any of us would do. He sought the expertise of a family member or trusted friend. I’ve not seen one iota of evidence to support the bureau’s official position that the guy is a terrorist, or that he is under the influence of foreign powers.”

“I must disagree, Tom. The average
US citizen doesn’t shoot at warplanes. We know he did because the satellites picked up the pulse. The average West Texas cowboy doesn’t knock down high-voltage towers or run from police. For sure, our fellow Americans don’t make a habit of launching an attack against a federal facility followed by a premeditated attack against law enforcement.”

Shultz sighed, appearing to hesitate over his response. Fin
ally, he announced, “I think we’re going to see a lot more of this type of pushback. The Patriot Act, NSA scandals, public disclosure of our monitoring techniques and that mess at the IRS are all contributing to a growing distrust of our government… us. If I put myself into Weather’s head, and I had such a device as his brother claims, I would think twice about turning it over to our government.”

Monroe rolled his eyes. “
I’ve heard this abuse of power argument over and over again. We don’t set the rules, Tom; the lawmakers do. I’m given a set of tools to use, and I implement them to the best of my ability. I, for one, am glad we are given these liberties. I’m fighting drug cartels that have a larger budget than most countries. They use sophisticated technology, advanced banking and accounting methods and play the corporate game better than most of the Fortune 500. We are fighting terrorist cells and jihadist movements that are as motivated as any Special Forces military unit, and almost as deadly. I’ve got organized crime syndicates from the Far East that make the Italians look like Boy Scouts. I’ve not even mentioned foreign intelligence services spying on our manufacturing, a spike in cybercrime that is more than concerning. I could go on and on, and you know it. I need every tool I can get – and then some.”

“I agree with that sentiment, sir. I’m just pointing out that many of our fellow citizens think we’re infringing on their rights.”

Nodding, Monroe replied, “On Monday they run around screaming, ‘Protect us from terrorists and thugs,’ then on Tuesday the marchers in the streets are calling us Nazis. The public is manipulated and fickle, Tom. If they don’t like how we are doing things, then they need to take the legal actions granted to every citizen. Vote, pressure representatives, and become involved in the process, not shoot super weapons at government aircraft and vehicles.”

“Aren’t we citizens too, sir? Don’t we
hold some responsibility in defining what’s right and wrong?”

Shultz’s point entered territory
that his boss wasn’t willing to navigate, the entire discussion leading towards the slippery slope of “Just doing my job,” and “I was only following orders.” Both men knew it, but the senior agent wasn’t in the mood to deliberate the underlying, ethical quandaries that had evolved in law enforcement. Monroe rubbed his temples with both hands. “Do I need to reassign you, Tom? It’s sounding like your heart isn’t in this one anymore.”

“That’s up to you, sir. It’s my job as your second to propose alternative theories and play devil’s advocate. If you don’t feel like I’m meeting my obligations, then you should reassign me.”

Shaking his head, the Agent in Charge grinned. “No, I don’t see the need - yet. Forgive me, but right now I’m exhausted and frustrated.”

Shultz’s reply w
as interrupted by Monroe’s desk phone ringing. Glancing at the caller ID, he answered the call with a gruffer than normal “Monroe.”

Shultz sat listening t
o a series of “Uh huhs,” “I sees,” the short responses accented with the occasional Okay.” The call ended quickly.

Peer
ing across the desk, the senior agent announced, “They’ve finally figured out how he placed the call without being in the library at the time. The tech is on the way up.”

A few minutes later, a soft rap sounded on the office do
or, immediately answered with a, “Come in.” The two agents were fascinated as the FBI technician carried in a tower computer, complete with a cell phone duck taped to the back of the cabinet.