Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (9 page)

“Two, did he land?”

“One, it was awful quick if he did. Maybe you scared him so bad he crashed.”

“Two, there would be some smoke – wouldn’t there?”

“One, who knows? I don’t see him though.”

A
tinge of panic began to rise in the colonel’s mind – visions of Taylor and him being the laughingstock of the Air Force if they couldn’t rein in a little prop-job. “Two,” the colonel broadcasted, “You split north, I’ll take the south. Low and slow, 20-mile sweep.”

“
Roger, One. Breaking right.”

Separating would double the amount of air space they could search and provide different angles of sight.

Three minutes later, they met up again, no need to transmit their failure. Chamberlin was becoming angry, partly out of embarrassment. Most of his ire, however, was directed at the pilot who was eluding them.

“Two, maybe he did a 180 on us and headed back east. Let’s backtrack 30 miles and then sweep forward.”

“Roger, One – on your lead.”

For
10 minutes, the sophisticated, all-powerful cats searched for the defenseless mouse. The effort produced nothing but a growing frustration and dwindling fuel. Chamberlin’s voice developed an edge. “Two, I read 18 minutes to bingo fuel.”

“One, concur - 18 is about it.”

The lead pilot’s thoughts changed to how in the hell he was going to explain losing the target - his mind trying to reconcile what they had done wrong, if anything. When that didn’t pan out, he began mentally creating excuses while contemplating the imaginative spin that would be necessary in his report. Taylor might come through this unscathed, but his career was over.

His wingman saved the day. “One, got him,” sounded the excited voice. “Bearing 040, ang
els 20 or less. He’s flying laps down in that woods. I would’ve never seen him, but the sun flashed off his glass.”

Even with Taylor’s direction, the lead pilot couldn’t find Dusty. Not wanting to take the chance of another Houdini-like escape, Chamberlin transmitted, “Two – you’ve got the lead, my angle is bad.”

Dusty was flying to save his life – the most difficult piloting he’d ever attempted. The soup bowl he was hiding in didn’t have enough diameter to ever straighten the Thrush’s course. Pulling a constant, highly banked turn required all of his attention and skills – one minor distraction would result in his smashing head-on into a thick canopy of trees at 115 mph.

In addition to the difficult flying, it hadn’t occurred to him that there was no way to know how long he’d have to stay in the pattern. He couldn’t afford to scan the surrounding sky, yet the concept of looping
the racetrack for even a single minute after the jets had given up and left, didn’t sit well. Every moment he circled was dangerous flying.

In the end, his predicament didn’t
matter; the gray streak of the two warplanes flashing in front of him at treetop level signaled his scheme had failed. In a way, Dusty was relieved.

Timing it just right, he straightened out the Thrush and rose from his hide
. He was exhausted, scared, and tired of the whole encounter. The first priority was to find a place to land the damned plane and wait for the authorities.

A few minutes later, Dusty spied a farm lane that wasn’t lined with utility poles – about as good a spot as he could hope for in the rural countryside. He adjusted his course and prepared to set the Thrush down. It soon became clear that he’d noticed the spot too late – the approach was just bad. Keeping low, he decided to circle around rather than make a mistake that would end his life.

“One, he’s trying to hide again,” announced Captain Taylor, completely misunderstanding Dusty’s maneuver.

“I see it. I’m sending this guy a message. I’m going to make sure he knows I don’t like his little games. Switching to cannon.”

Chamberlin’s broadcast seemed to take his wingman by surprise, “One… sir?”

Grunting, the flight leader said, “Two, just a warning shot. I want to see that plane on the ground before we head back to Kelly.”

The M61A1 Vulcan mini-gun installed in each fighter’s nose had been designed to crack the hulls of Soviet era battle tanks. Capable of firing 100 rounds per second, the weapon was so powerful its recoil could actually slow the Falcon’s air speed.

When Chamberlin activated the cannon, the display projected onto his canopy changed to bright green crosshairs surrounded by various sighting data. He aligned his aircraft to fire in front of the target, adjusting
for the speed and angle of both planes. He squeezed the trigger.

Sounding more like a buzz saw than a gun, a virtual rope of 20mm lead shells exited the 6-barrel mini-gun. 

Dusty had it all lined up with good alti
tude and speed. He was barely 10 feet off the ground when the earth exploded less than 100 yards in front of his plane. Geysers of soil, rock, and vegetation erupted into the air, quickly followed by the flash of the warplanes as they passed overhead.

Somehow,
he managed to get the Thrush on the ground, pings and thumps of the debris striking the front of the plane as he passed through the grey cloud of residue raised by the attack.

After he was sure the landing was successful, Dusty started screaming at the circling aircraft, “Why are you shooting at me
? I landed, damn it!” It didn’t matter that they couldn’t hear him; the small relief seemed worth the effort.

Shutting down the engine and still angry, Dusty pulled back the canopy and climbed out onto the wing. He reached back, pulling the A&M backpack from behind the seat.

Deciding to make for a nearby tree line, Dusty started walking across the pasture between his landing spot and the woods. He hadn’t traveled more than 30 steps when the two fighters flew over his head so low he physically ducked. His ears rang from the noise generated by their passing engines.

“
Good gawd! I set it down, damn it! So what now? Are you going to make me aviator road kill, too?” he screamed.

Something snapped inside the gunsmith from
West Texas. Some limit of injustice or fear or outrage was crossed with the low pass of the warplanes. Taking a knee in the open field, Dusty unzipped the backpack and removed the rail gun.

The battery was next, followed by the canister of ball bearings
, and then his earplugs. He assembled the gun quickly. Leaving the power at the same 05% setting as had been used in Mitch’s lab, Dusty smiled when the LED glowed green.

He’d hunted his share of fowl, the experience initially causing him to lead the circling aircraft by too great a distanc
e. His mind returned to thoughts of Mitch’s instruments and the readings showing the gun’s projectile moving near the speed of light. He modified his aim, bringing the sites much closer to the nose of the lead fighter.

He pulled the trigger.

The shot’s thunder seemed less intense in the open spaces. Dusty thought he saw the mysterious black line, but it was difficult to be sure.

The most powerful explosi
ve devised by man, the splitting of an atom, expands at roughly 9 kilometers per second, creating an atmospheric overpressure traveling at the speed of sound. Despite a diameter of less than an inch, the doorway opened by Dusty’s shot expanded at the speed of light, or 41,000 times faster. At that velocity, the blast wave created by the dimensional pipe was devastating. A thin wedge of air, with a density greater than chromium steel, slammed head-on into the F16. Like a giant knife, it sliced through the skin of the aircraft, severing metal, hoses and wiring in its wake.  

From Dusty’s view on the ground, the lead warplane seemed to wobble in mid-air, almost as if it was suspended on puppet strings.

Chamberlin spied some sort of black streak flash in front of his aircraft, but before the image could register, the entire world of his cockpit went crazy.

Like an anchor had been dropped from
the tail of his ship, the plane seemed to hesitate in mid-air, the jolt heaving him forward against his restraints. Then every alarm, light, and indicator on the dash started buzzing and blinking.

The stick went dead. The nose went up, and then down. The plane began spinning like a Frisbee.

The G-Force exerted against the colonel’s body was unlike any turn or dive he’d experienced in his 18 plus years of piloting jet aircraft. Quickly exceeding 10 times normal gravity, his head was pinned against the side of the canopy, his helmet weighing the same as 100 pounds, his body tipping the scales at over 2,000.

The force of the spin pulled all of the blood to one side of his
torso, and his vision began to tunnel – a sign that his brain wasn’t receiving enough oxygen to function.

Adrenaline surged through the pilot’s system – his
mind screaming that he was about to die. The hormone gave him super-human strength, and he needed it.

The effort to lift his one free arm was off
the scale, tendons straining and ligaments being punished. Every muscle in his body protested the abuse, but he kept reaching. Visions of his wife and children filled his mind and made him even more determined to live.

His gloved hand finally closed around the ejection handle, r
elief surging through his brain. He heaved with the last bit of strength left in his body.

Small
, explosive bolts detonated around the canopy. The bubble shaped glass flew away, pulled by the 500 mph slipstream racing past the aircraft.

Rocket motors ignited under the colonel’s seat, the
effect eliciting even more pain for his already tortured frame. His perch essentially became an aircraft all its own, blasting away from the dying Falcon with spine compressing thrust.