The Olympus Device: Book Three (25 page)

“We intercepted a coup attempt,” Armstrong lied. “We heard radio traffic reporting several explosions at the White House, along with a general emergency alert from the Secret Service. We believe active duty military units have joined Durham Weathers and are attempting to overthrow the government.”

The reporters shouted a dozen questions, but the admiral waved them off. “I want you guys to help me get the word out. I need all police and military units alike to stand down and stay away from this area. We’re dealing with total confusion on all fronts. Having additional forces entering this area, no matter how well intended, is just going to add to the chaos. Both sides are wearing the same uniforms and are using the same weapons. I’ve got enough forces under my command to handle the attackers, but that’s going to take some time. Until then, please let the world out there know what’s going on.”

Eager to help the valiant officer and his command save the Union, the reporters all nodded their understanding. Armstrong watched as they were led away to their satellite vans where hastily prepared broadcasts would flood the airwaves.

“Utter pandemonium,” the admiral whispered, watching as the civilian newshounds hustled to file their segments. “Keep the enemy disoriented and off his game.”

Given the early hour, most Americans had no idea what was happening in the capital. It was mainly residents in Washington, awoken by the thunderous rumble of the battle, and a few night owls on the West Coast, who were paying any attention when the first “breaking news” reports of the coup attempt surged across the airwaves.

All of this was lost on Dusty as he made his way north, intent on dropping the Washington Monument before daybreak. Visions of the president having breakfast while staring out at the smoldering mounds of rubble put a smile on the Texan’s face.
I’m doing this for you
,
Andy
, he thought.

Dusty hadn’t progressed more than two blocks from the encounter with the security guard when his single-minded objective of securing his son’s freedom was tossed aside by the bedlam of the Marines’ counterattack.

Meandering his way along side streets and back alleys to avoid detection, he was confused by the echoing sounds of the battle that raged less than a mile away. Not knowing the streets, the Texan soon found he’d wandered into a dead end. After backtracking and trying an alternative route, he finally determined that there was little choice but to cross a main intersection and chance being spotted.

With his head pivoting both directions while scurrying across the wide boulevard, Dusty ducked into a recessed storefront to catch his wind. Peering out to scan up and down the street, he nearly suffered a coronary when he detected a flickering blue and white light reflecting off of the surrounding glass.
Oh shit, it’s the cops
, raced through his mind as he lifted the charged and ready rail gun to his shoulder.

But there weren’t any squad cars with flashing strobes bearing down on his hiding spot. It took a few tense moments before the fugitive realized he was hiding in front of an appliance store, the outlet’s display of televisions left on for the night, reflecting off the storefront’s glass in order to attract the customers’ eye.

He was only mildly surprised to see his picture on the closest screen. That soon changed, however, when the Texan began to read the banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

“White House under attack? Coup attempt?” he whispered just as the picture changed to show some sort of military vehicle burning on the south lawn. “Military units have joined Durham Weathers? Rebellion in process?”

While he couldn’t hear the words, it was easy to grasp the gist of the newscast. Then the picture changed again, this time showing a military officer with numerous microphones shoved into his face. Something about the man being interviewed struck a chord with Dusty.

He looked so familiar; how did Dusty know him? The dossier on the Blue Ribbon Panel! “That’s one of the men that never showed at the conference in St. Louis,” he whispered through squinting eyes. “He’s one of the guys Mitch thinks might have launched the cruise missiles.”

A name appeared under the officer’s picture. “Admiral Armstrong?” Dusty read. “An admiral? Mitch said those missiles came from the south… from the Gulf of Mexico? Were they fired from a ship?”

The television no longer held Dusty’s interest, the Texan leaning back against the glass storefront, his mind running wild with potentials. More explosions snapped him out of his analytical daze, some of the shock waves strong enough to rattle the windows behind his back.

It was all so complex. Dusty was suddenly unsure of his quest for vengeance, doubting all that he’d held sacred. Who was the real enemy? Had the president been telling the truth? Had these non-government traitors actually been the troublemakers all along?

It was all too much for the Texan’s stressed, overworked mind to contemplate. His back slid down the glass, his legs no longer willing to support weight. With eyes glazed over in apparent analysis paralysis, Dusty squatted in the entrance, rumpled and dirty, his mind apparently in another place.

The squeak of an overfilled shopping cart rolling down the sidewalk drew Dusty back to reality. A homeless gent, wheeling the sum of his worldly possessions, paused in front of the apparently destitute man perched in the doorway. “Hey, man, it’s tuna fish salad night down by the mission. Better hurry or you’ll miss out.”

If the goal had been to fit in with Washington’s homeless crowd, it had been achieved.

The admiral stared at his watch, estimating that he’d given enough time for any reinforcements to join the White House defenders. It was time to close the hangman’s noose. Nodding to his driver and bodyguard, the lead traitor reached for the radio’s microphone, transmitting three words, “Initiate phase three.”

The admiral’s forces had intentionally left the eastern side of the White House grounds open, inviting not only the responding Marine companies, but also any other units answering the desperate calls for help. Now it was time to completely encircle the president’s home and crush those inside.

From the back of Lafayette Park, two turbine engines added their song to the battle’s din. Rolling up to Armstrong’s position, the admiral’s reserves formed an impressive line of offensive firepower. Additional Strykers, accompanied by a host of Humvees, sped off to join their comrades, most of the units heading to close the circle on the east side.

The two Abrams tanks remained with Armstrong. After a few moments, the admiral gave the order. “Let ’em have it.”

From all around the White House, tank cannon and Stryker missiles flew at the doomed structure. Explosions ripped columns, collapsed walls, and shattered practically every window belonging to the executive branch.

Flames leapt from the Oval Office windows, most of the western colonnade nothing more than a heap of smoldering rubble. Armstrong actually shuddered at the vision before him, his mind thinking of the art treasures and priceless historical heirlooms that were being destroyed.

And then the barrage stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

Reaching for the radio dial, Armstrong changed frequencies to the one he knew was being used by the Secret Service. “This is Admiral Armstrong,” he announced. “Will the president surrender, or do I have to level the whole building?”

“Why are you doing this?” a raspy voice retorted. “Why are you killing your own countrymen?”

The admiral shook his head, assuming it was one of the surviving agents handling the radio inside the beleaguered compound.

“That doesn’t matter,” he responded. “Either the president surrenders unconditionally, or I’ll level the entire structure, and then send in my teams with explosives to collapse the underground levels.”

“Fuck you,” came the response.

Shaking his head, Armstrong thought to order the second salvo, but then reconsidered. “While I appreciate your loyalty and bravery, aren’t you making a decision that is well above your pay grade? I will grant you three minutes to locate a senior member of the executive branch, preferably the president himself, and respond to our demands. Otherwise, we’ll wipe that disgraced building off the face of the earth and start all over again.”

“You’ve got to give us more time,” implored a more reasonable-sounding tone. “Everything’s off-line, the president and what’s left of his staff are unreachable.”

“No. Three minutes, and then the gates of hell will open at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”

Dusty moved closer, the broken shards of glass crunching under the soles of his hobo shoes. He’d managed the northeast corner of the Treasury Building without being detected, shuffling along, trying to act the role of the curious but crazy vagabond. No one on either side had paid him any notice, all eyes focused on the battle taking place just on the other end of the massive limestone structure.

He’d arrived at Pennsylvania Avenue just as Armstrong’s forces had launched their devastating salvo at the White House. Still stunned by the noise and violence of the assault, Dusty watched as a group of men in Secret Service uniforms attempted to scurry across East Executive Avenue to join their comrades in defending the East Wing. Heavy machine fire erupted from the park across the street, cutting them down in seconds.

It occurred to Dusty that the Secret Service’s primary job was to protect the president and his family. The forces tearing them to pieces must be the traitors.

Hiding behind a burned-out relic still smoldering at the curb, Dusty used the rail gun’s scope to study the forces arrayed in Lafayette Park. Despite being equipped with a daytime hunting optic, the Texan was pleasantly surprised at how much detail he could discern. Fires were burning throughout the area, illuminating the mass of armor and troops pointing their weapons at the White House.