Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (29 page)

The NSA’s processors didn’t care that one couple was making love while the man and woman next door were having a fight. Two teenagers, sneaking out to the back
yard to smoke pot never saw the drone that hovered above their blue cloud of smoke. Several men playing Texas Hold ’em poker were completely unaware of the mosquito-like robot on their windowsill.

Every voice was analyzed and compared to the phone call Dusty had made to the FBI headquarters. Every face was digitally measured to find a match with the images of the fugitive held in the
bureau’s memory banks. Every human frame was measured against the known dimensions of the West Texas gunsmith.

Unit #2131 eventually gave up on its first landing spot, unable to find anything for its sensors to record. Reinitiating its wings, the drone made for the next window and began repeating the process all over again.

The NSA Analyst drained his coffee cup, setting the empty mug on the counter without his eyes leaving the computer screen. The manhunt in Houston was resulting in a lot of overtime and tired eyes.

His monitor was filled with images that the
computer software had deemed “Worthy of human attention,” meaning the digital brains ascertained that there might be something in an image, but couldn’t be sure. No machine could match the combination of human eyes and brains. At least not yet.

Tens of thousands of
man-hours were being invested on the project, teams of analysts such as himself scouring over photographs that ranged from innocent cooking utensils scattered on a countertop in the shape of a rifle, to a man cleaning his billiards queue while watching a television show.

Clicking on t
he next image on his list, the analyst peered at what looked to be a common apartment or condo, a dark object lying on the kitchen counter. With a bit of imagination, he could make out the shape of a long gun. Using the keyboard, he pulled up a description of what the computer had found interesting about the picture.

A red square was overlaid on the countertop, the machine-brain ignoring the potential weapon and focusing on the blob of dark color beside it. A few more taps on the keys and the image changed to a brightly colored thermal scan, again the computer focusing on the blob.

He enhanced the image, adding artificial light and converting the pixels to a dense gray-scale. The blob on the counter became a hat… a hat that matched one known to have been worn by the suspect on a previous occasion.

Inhaling sharply, the analyst moved the mouse and applied the same photographic magic to the rifle lying on the counter top. Once the image was cleaned up, he immediately reached for the phone.

The operator controlling the drone swarm answered immediately, the call being from an obvious source. “Yes.”

“This is Magic Mountain, we have a high confidence hit from #2131 at the following location,” announced the excited voice through the headphones.

After writing down a sequence of numbers and times, the FBI agent riding in the van replied, “Gotcha. I’ll redirect additional units to that location.”

After disconnecting the call, the drone
-controller typed several commands into his console and sat back, waiting on his nosy insects to execute their new mission.

The sun was just rising in the east.

Dusty was sleeping in, the curtains open just enough to allow in a small line of light from the low angle sun. Still, it was enough to wake him.

Rolling his legs off the edge of the couch, he stretched the slumber from his frame and immediately made for the microwave to heat coffee water. A trip to the bathroom followed.

He’d been busy making a replica of his rail gun, using parts from the Goodwill’s appliance section. An old blender, a non-working drill and parts from an alarm clock radio were scattered over the kitchen counter. He didn’t know why a decoy seemed important, almost dismissing the project. Still, it kept his hands busy, a state that seemed more aligned with his temperament, especially after years of gunsmithing.

A 100 times he’d wished for the simplest tool, easily within reach on his workbench at home. Over and over
again, he thought about driving the truck to a local store and purchasing a small kit of basics.

Dusty had deve
loped another habit, one of pacing the length of the small combo and checking for odd behavior outside. Every few minutes he felt a need to check out the sliding glass door, peeking through the crack and watching the traffic patterns on the street below. He’d then walk to the back, checking the bedroom window for the same clues. In between, he’d stop and listen at the door, unsure if he’d hear the SWAT team lining up in the corridor or not.

You’re a pacing animal in a cage
, he concluded.
Eventually, you’ll go insane or make a mistake - the end result being the same.

Still, he checked the windows and listened at the door. Everything looked normal, another day on the dodge in south Houston. He sighed, returning to the toy gun and his tinkering.

“We’ve got him,” said the excited agent on the phone. “We have 100% identification. He’s in a third story condo. I’m transmitting the address.”

That one simple call to Agent in Charge, Monroe, changed everything.
A thousand activities began at once, men scrambling into action all across the south side of the city.

Orders were issued to
hundreds of Houston policemen, instructions to quietly begin evacuating a wide perimeter around where the suspect was holed up. Dozens and dozens of patrol cars converged on the area, city computers coordinating bypasses, traffic control, and signal coordination.

The Predator drone was commanded to maintain a racetrack orbit above Dusty’s condo, its powerful camera and instruments focused solely on the small flat.
The FAA flashed bulletins, restricting the air space above the Medical Center area to law enforcement aircraft only. The Lifeline air ambulance pilots were grounded.

The HRT squads were alerted, scrambling to load the gear into the back of waiting SUVs that would rush them to the area.

Every FBI agent available headed toward the address flashing across the computers, command and control instructions being issued by the unit commanders and senior personnel.

Job one was to protect the surrounding civilian population. Roadblocks were constructed, police waving frustrated motorist
s into detours they didn’t want to take. Storeowners were forced to lock their doors, shooing customers out and away from what became known as the exclusion zone.

The commander of the HRT arrived as the evacuation was in progress, eyeing the surrounding area with years of experience and an expert knowledge of his team’s capabilities. After scanning the
landscape for five minutes with a beefy set of binoculars, he calmly informed Monroe of his recommendation.

“Sir, I want to put my best sniper team on a high floor of that building. I think that will provide the best angle of support and observation.”

Monroe followed the specialist’s pointing arm, scoping out the 12-story Trustline National Bank building. Monroe acknowledged the expert’s wishes, turning to a nearby police captain and barking, “We want our shooters in that building. Please move it up on the priority list to be cleared out.”

The HRT commander followed Monroe to where a map was unfolded on the hood of a car. Pointing to a street one block over from
Dusty’s condo building, he announced, “I’ll stage my entry teams here… and here. We’ll be at his door in three minutes after the all-clear signal is given.”

Nodding, Monroe looked at his watch and replied, “It will be at least another 30 minutes before
HPD gets everyone out. I’ll give the order personally.”

The two men were interrupted by the arrival of the sniper team, each member of the
three-man crew carrying heavy cases of equipment as they rushed past, heading for their assigned hide. Uniformed officers were already hustling confused, frightened workers out of the bank building with more reinforcements arriving on the scene every moment.

Sergei and his men
were also moving quickly. The director had just entered the swimming pool when the captain approached and announced the deployment of the HRT squads. By the time the Russian had dressed, the SPETZ officer knew their destination.

The rental cars sped from the Houstonian’s par
king lot, the remainder of the captain’s men changing into their counterfeit uniforms and unpacking American-made weapons. By the time they were approaching the Medical Center area, it looked as if three carloads of FBI reinforcements had arrived to bolster the dozens and dozens of federal agents already on the scene.

The c
aptain had received directions for a rally point, the address texted from the team’s first arriving members. With traffic snarled and gridlocked by the blockage of roads, it took some time to locate the abandoned warehouse just eight blocks from Dusty’s condo, only two blocks away from the nearest police roadblock demarking the exclusion zone.

Scanning radios had been employed by the snooping Russians, eventually learning the address of the American farmer’s location. After
a brief conference with their captain, the team began to deploy.