The Olympus Device: Book Three

By Joe Nobody

Book three of the Olympus Device trilogy takes the reader along on the adventures of a simple man who finds himself in the unenviable position of trying to protect mankind from his own creation.
Dusty’s whereabouts are exposed by a selfless act of heroism, and again the Texan finds himself a target of a massive manhunt and political cover-up. As the truth becomes known, there is an outcry for justice, and the government has no choice but to consider compromise.
But not everyone is happy with the most influential nation on earth negotiating with a man who many consider a terrorist. Conspiracy and sedition orchestrate corruptive alliances, intent on controlling not only the United States, but the world.
The Olympus Device is a tempting mistress of power and global dominance, and treachery is soon afoot.

Follow Dusty and his friends as they attempt to negotiate through a swirling vortex of treason and deceit... and men who will stop at nothing to possess the Olympus Device.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Nobody
• Release date: Dec 20, 2018

Joe Nobody

Joe Nobody (pen name for the author who wishes to keep his identity confidential) has provided systems, consulting and training for the U.S. Army, Department of Homeland Security, Office of Naval Research, United States Border Patrol as well as several private firms and government agencies which cannot be disclosed.He is currently active in this area and for the security of his family and ongoing business, wishes to remain anonymous.He has over 30 years of competitive shooting experience, including IPSC, NRA, and other related organizations. He has been a firearms instructor and consultant for over 30 years and holds the rights to a United States Patent for a firearms modification.Joe initially became involved in helping private citizens "prepare" at the request of his students and clients. A conscientious instructor, he would always inquire as to why they wanted to learn certain skills or techniques and often the response was to prepare for more than just simple home invasion or self-defense. If you ask Joe what his greatest attribute is, he will tell you he is a "problem solver" and uses his formal education in Systems Engineering to this end.

Book preview

The Olympus Device

Book Three

By

Joe Nobody

introducing Major West

Copyright © 2015

Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC

All rights reserved.

Edited by:

E. T. Ivester

D. Allen

www.joenobodybooks.com

This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.

Other Books by Joe Nobody:

The Archangel Drones

Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart

The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire

Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive

Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

Holding Their Own II: The Independents

Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash

Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles

Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song

Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

Holding Their Own IX: The Salt War

The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine

Apocalypse Drift

The Little River Otter

The Olympus Device: Book One

The Olympus Device: Book Two

Secession: The Storm

The Ebola Wall

Foreword by Joe Nobody

In writing Olympus III, I solicited the help of an aspiring young author, Major West.

Major’s work had been recommended to me by a friend, and the young man’s talent was immediately obvious. It was a gratifying endeavor, and we both hope the reader will enjoy our combined efforts.

All the best,

Joe

Chapter 1

Dusty sauntered to the hotel room’s sliding glass door and peered out from behind the blackout curtains. Sporting a popular geometric pattern, the bourgeois, mass-produced drapes reminded him of the upholstered chairs in his hometown coffee shop. A twinge of melancholy enveloped him as he longed for the familiar aroma of his favorite blonde roast with room for cream and four raw sugars. Decaf, of course, since it was past lunch. He had been drawn to the window by a half-hearted concern that his watch had started gaining time. It seemed far too dark outside for the indicated mid-afternoon hour.

He ascertained the timepiece was indeed reporting correctly, a fact reinforced by the parade of yellow school buses cueing just a few blocks away. His gaze drifted skyward, noting the line of dark, threatening storm clouds on the horizon. Satisfied with identifying the culprit responsible for the low light conditions, he elected to entertain himself by scanning the small Kansas town surrounding his fishbowl existence.

The bank tower’s clock told the same story as his wristwatch. The dime store was having a sale on work boots, and the small cafe up the street was busy as usual. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, just a typical, slow-paced day in America’s heartland. Two cars were parked at the laundry across the street, one with a basket of whites resting on its hood. Dusty couldn’t tell if the clothes were soiled or freshly washed.

He sighed, expelling the frustrations of his existence with the cleansing breath. He waited for the clamoring bell that signaled an oncoming flood of bouncing, giggling, squirming youngsters released from the public school. He delighted in their joy and exuberance. It was one of the few connections to the outside world he afforded himself, an event he’d grown to anticipate on weekdays.

In a way, he felt a kindred spirit with the little ones. Like him, they were cooped up most of the day, no doubt many of them daydreaming of being elsewhere rather than focusing on the finer points of grammar. Like no time before in his life, he could relate to the restrictions associated with their mandated attendance. Just like them, his sequestered existence forced him to remain secreted and soundless.

The Texan wasn’t quite sure if his daily habit of observing the conclusion of the school day was healthy or not. The children were allowed to go home, scurrying to their buses or waiting parents, after being released from another day’s incarceration. He couldn’t escape his isolation.

Their boisterous and rowdy voices filled the air, boundless energy driving the lungs and legs as they poured out of confinement, free at last. Dusty couldn’t avoid his self-imposed captivity. Was it troubling that he experienced freedom vicariously through the little ones?

In the two weeks since he’d arrived in the small Kansas town, the Texan had become a recluse. Daylight hours were spent indoors, holed up inside what amounted to a voluntary prison cell. He had become a creature of the night.

Coveted strolls to maintain his sanity and exercise his limbs were all conducted after the light had faded low in the west. Occasional excursions to the local used bookstore were timed to coincide with dinnertime for most of the sleepy town’s residents. Supplying his grocery list was a chore best scheduled well after dusk when the store was lightly staffed and attracted few customers. His was a lonely, miserable existence.

An abundance of time on his idle hands, Dusty frequently found himself in introspective thought. Was he really free? Were the children?

His brooding was interrupted by a marked change in the earth’s cerulean canopy, the advancing, ominous thunderheads drawing his eye. It was the most menacing front he’d ever seen. I hope the kids get to their buses before that monster cuts loose, he whispered, scowling at the ever-darkening clouds.

The elevated vantage of his second-floor hotel room provided an extensive view of the flat, midwestern landscape, a fact that had been unimpressive until now.

Between the school and the next blocking structure, an open corridor stretched for miles, providing an unobstructed view. There wasn’t really much to look at - a white farmhouse, a red barn, and a collection of grain silos providing the only spatial relief. Trees, like in his native West Texas, were rare here. Acres of cornfields were not.

There wasn’t even a hint of hill, valley, or dale.

When the siren began wailing over the small berg, a fearful jolt surged through Dusty. After all, he was a wanted man, and such unexpected events weren’t welcome.

Quickly recovering from the start, his mind rushed to identify the threat. He first considered a fire, a similar-sounding signal used to rally the local volunteers and usher them off to battle the flames. But this blare was different… a sinister, foreboding, steady pitch that made his heart race.

It took his anxious mind a few moments to realize his ears were being assaulted by some other sort of alarm. Storm warning, he finally deduced. That took long enough.

As if to compete with the man-made alert, hailstones began falling from the sky, generating a roar that made the cautionary alarm nearly inaudible. Lightning flashed; sheets of electricity slashed through the air in brilliant strobes. The thunder’s rumbling was almost continuous, rattling his room’s thick glass doors with its sonic wrath.

Dusty watched the marble-sized balls of ice strike concrete and pavement, an inch-thick ground cover forming in no time at all. It blanketed the ground like snow.

Although intrigued by the all-out display of nature’s fury, the Texan’s attention returned to the children. They would be marshaling just inside the school, readying for the stampede to the buses and then their journey home. The hail might be painful or slicken their path; the lightning was always a worry.

It was a relief when the mayhem outside subsided. Like God had flipped a switch, the elements seemed to be taking a break. No hail, little wind, not even lightning or thunder. An old phrase surfaced in Dusty’s mind – the calm before the storm.

And then fury surged from the sky.

Watching, frozen with fear, Dusty recognized instantly what was happening. He had heard of tornados, watched numerous video clips of the omnipotent phenomenon on television. But nothing had prepared him for the sight of the real thing.

The swirling formation streamed from the belly of the now black clouds, its dominion and potential violence unlike anything Dusty had ever experienced.

Despite the funnel’s presence several miles away, he initially stepped back when it appeared, feeling both fear and awe at the squall’s unimaginable scale. It took several seconds to gather himself, standing motionless as the dancing tip of the twister finally slammed into the earth below.

It must have been a quarter of a mile wide at the bottom, three times that girth at the top. A dust cloud erupted where the dark, whirling wind met the soil.

Take refuge in that central bathroom, Dusty whispered. Or you’re not going to be in Kansas anymore. But his body hesitated, refusing to acknowledge the command, his conscious mind mesmerized by the approaching beast.

He started to turn away, some instinct or instruction from long ago telling him to shelter far from the glass doors and seek sanctuary beneath the ground. Then something caught his eye.

The tempest had reached the white farmhouse, the front edge of its dark form beginning to engulf the property.

Against the cloud’s blue and black background, the white clapboards stuck out like a neon sign in the desert night. Dusty’s eye was drawn by the optical oddity, his mind exploring the potential danger to the family that might be inside.

Unexpectedly, the home exploded. As if suffering a direct hit from an artillery shell, the entire structure just vanished, an expanding cloud of white clapboard-scrap and green shingles the only physical remnants of what had been the center of a family’s life.

Dusty was stunned by the instantaneous, complete devastation. It was as if he’d fired on the property with his rail gun. Maybe worse.

A moment later, the barn suffered a similar fate, its tin roof visible as it was sucked into the sky, swirling around as if it were an autumn leaf enjoying a ride on a late afternoon breeze. Unbelievable, Dusty whispered, never having seen Mother Nature flex her muscle with such intimidating force.

Motion, this time closer, drew his attention away from the existing carnage. What the hell, he snapped, watching the school doors fling wide and the children scramble toward freedom as they did every weekday afternoon. Oh, God! No!

With his eyes darting back and forth between nature’s wind-sledgehammer, and the stream of kids pouring outside, Dusty tried to calculate the distance, direction, and timing. The prognosis wasn’t good. There was no way the children and the buses could make it to safety. Not even close.

One of the bus drivers was scurrying in front of the herd, screaming and waving his arms for the children to get back inside. The older gent must have sensed the oncoming storm, or maybe he had heard the warning siren. Regardless, his gestures grew desperate and frantic.

The driver was too late, Dusty quickly surmised. Like a lone cowboy trying to turn stampeding cattle, the kids were too loud to hear his words, too excited to grasp the warning.

A couple of the escorting teachers got the message, Dusty watching as their eyes darted skyward. All the while, the twister whipped closer, crushing anything in its path. A new noise joined the fray, the rumbling moan of a distant freight train. The Texan knew the sound wasn’t from any locomotive.

The teachers darted here and there, waving the children back into the building. The wind was gathering momentum, now howling across the prairie, making their shouted commands and desperate efforts even more problematic.

Maybe it will miss, Dusty prayed. Maybe it will zig or zag… or lose steam and fade away.  Please just go somewhere else.

But the twister doggedly continued upon its trek, barreling across the field just outside of town, growing larger and more ferocious as the distance closed. In a matter of seconds, it became clear that a collision with the school was unavoidable.

Dusty had never felt so helpless. There was nothing he could do for the children, dozens of the scrambling little ones still trapped between the school and the parking lot. Panicked teachers were trying to corral them back inside, the storm’s gale making the effort nearly impossible. The Texan couldn’t help the town. He couldn’t help himself. A lot of people were about to die.

That tornado will level the school, Dusty realized, watching a male teacher carry a smaller child under each arm. Even if they all make it back inside, it’s a death trap.

Onward the tempest whirled, now towering above the town like a titan posed to crush an insect. Despite the impending doom, the storm incited a swelling fountain of rage inside the Texan. It was so mighty in its wrath, yet seemed entirely unconcerned about the death and suffering it was about to unleash. It was a bully, pushing its way through, indifferent of the lesser creatures under its heel.

It wasn’t logic or rational thought that compelled Dusty to rush to the counter and yank the rail gun from its case. Anger drove the Texan’s movements, his ire growing to equal the fury of the storm.

The weapon’s LED glowed its reassuring green hue, the powerful magnets rotating with a comforting hum. He managed to drop the ball bearing into the breech, despite damp, shaking hands.

His thumb hesitated at the power setting, unsure how much of the universe’s mass to unleash on the approaching killer. His thumb moved the lever until the red numerals read 25%.

It was an afterthought that prompted him to reach for his earmuffs. After the last battle in Texas, he’d suffered a ringing in his head for days. With the higher power setting, he worried about becoming deaf – if he survived.

By the time he had bounded to the hotel room’s small balcony, the twister had reached the edge of the town. Some clarity of thought made it through the Texan’s racing head, a realization that he needed to be careful or the rail gun would cause more damage than the imminent collision with the storm.

He aimed high, selecting a target where the shoulders of the funnel met with the flat ceiling of black clouds that had originally spawned the leviathan.

Dusty squeezed the trigger.

Electric current surged through the gun’s magnets, pushing and pulling the steel projectile down the muzzle. The sound barrier was broken before the third ring, friction turning the tiny cannonball into a molten stream of slag just a few inches later.

Dusty couldn’t see the black tunnel into another dimension, the dark backdrop of raging thunderheads making such a sighting impossible. Instead, a hole of bright blue appeared, the universe opening its defensive portal with enough force to separate the clouds and allow a view of the clear sunshine above.

The cyclone’s 300 mph winds were met with a blast wave of atmospheric particles moving at near the speed of light. The battle was wholly one-sided. A shearing effect pushed outward from the rail gun’s wake, confusing the tornado’s focused energy and dispersing the low pressure at the center of the formation.

And then, in a thousandth of a second, the dimensional tunnel collapsed, leaving a vacuum where just a moment before had been a tube of overpressure. It was a vacuum that couldn’t be allowed to exist, an empty space that violated all of the laws that held the fabric of time and space together.

With more violence than the expansion, the planet’s entire gravitational field surged to fill the impossible void, pushing the sea of surrounding air inward from all directions at once, and at incredible velocities.

Dusty didn’t notice the exploding glass doors next to him on the balcony, the heavy units pulverized by the shock wave tearing through the air. His gaze remained intent on the twister, the prayer on his lips soliciting a higher power to grant success to his desperate action… to persuade the storm to rage elsewhere.

The twister seemed to pause, like a giant staggered by a thunderbolt. It became disoriented, the outline of the funnel collapsing, struggling to form again, and then vanishing almost as quickly as it had appeared.

The wall of wind and debris still contained momentum however; and Dusty was pushed back into his room as the gale’s leading edge struck the hotel’s balcony. Swirling foliage, splinters of wood, and stinging rain chased him inside, and for a moment, he was sure he’d failed.

Shingles were ripped from some rooftops. A few trees toppled over. Glass windows, impacted by wind-driven missiles, shattered in blizzards of snow-like shards. But the tornado’s assault was weak and disorganized, its punch-drunk blows flaying like the fists of a dazed and beaten prizefighter.     

And then there was silence.

For a moment, Dusty thought his ear protection was responsible for the lack of noise. After removing the cover, the only sound that reached his ears was the gentle runoff of rainwater.

He managed the balcony again, ignoring the glass crunching under his boots. His eyes sought one image – the school.

The relief that surged through his core was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The brick building was still standing, surrounded by blown limbs, a scattering of uprooted vegetation, and melting hail. The structure was undamaged.

One of the school buses hadn’t fared as well, flipped on its side like a large, yellow animal in the later throes of death. People were already rushing to help the driver, hopping over downed limbs while moving with the purpose of rescue.

A voice broke the calm, Hey! Hey! You at the hotel… I saw that. What the hell….

Dusty peered down to see a police car, the uniformed officer half out of the door. The fugitive recognized the man immediately, the sheriff’s face adorning every storefront in town with campaign posters asking for a vote in the upcoming election.

The most wanted man in the world froze, unsure of what to do. The sheriff was apparently suffering the same dilemma.

The officer hesitated, his head pivoting among the scenes at the school, overturned bus, and Dusty standing above him. He struggled to make up his mind.

Finally clarity came, the lawman staring up at Dusty and commanding, Stay right there. Don’t move. Then he reentered the cruiser, speeding off for the school.

Dusty wasn’t about to follow the cop’s orders.

Cursing his discovery, he turned and hustled back inside. A few seconds later, his meager belongings were flying into his backpack, along with as much food from the tiny hotel refrigerator as would fit.

The rail gun was next, quickly folded and packed inside its case.

Dusty paused at the door, taking one last look around as what he’d come to know as home. Glancing at the school’s roofline in the distance, his mood improved. He’d done a good deed. Saving those kids was worth having to bug out.

Down the hall he rushed, already trying to determine the next move in an outlaw’s game of chess. His planning, however, was quickly interrupted at the stairwell. A tree had crashed into the side of the hotel’s outer wall, blocking his exit.

He knew there was another staircase at the far end of the long, narrow building. Inhaling deeply in frustration, he began jogging across the carpet, improvising his newly hatched escape route.

He bounded down the stairs two at a time, pushing open the emergency door at the bottom. He stepped into the parking lot, glancing both ways, unsure of where to go or what direction to begin walking.

The click of a gun’s safety froze him cold.

That’s far enough, a voice over Dusty’s shoulder barked. "I know who you are. And I know what you’ve got in that case, mister."

Dusty was furious with himself. After all, when you’re on top of the FBI’s Most Wanted List, you can’t afford to get sloppy, and that’s just what he’d done.

The sheriff circled slowly around to face the immobilized Texan, his glare icy, his pistol unwavering. You don’t look so dangerous to me, the cop finally stated.

Dusty snorted, the statement somehow striking him as funny. Opinions vary on that, the escapee responded, the officer’s comment catching him unaware.

I saw what you did, the lawman said, now face to face with his prisoner. As if he were trying to sort out a mystery, he continued his adrenaline induced rant, never pausing for a response. Why would you fire into that storm? Why expose yourself like that? You’re supposed to be some evil, terrorist thug, intent on overthrowing the U.S. government. Yet you saved that school, and probably most of the town.

I couldn’t chance those kids getting hurt or killed, Dusty replied honestly, his hands still in the air. I knew I’d have to go on the run again, but that damned funnel was going to obliterate that building, and I had to try and stop it.

The lawman seemed to be pondering Dusty’s words, almost as if attempting to resolve some weighty, internal quandary. Finally, he lowered and then holstered his weapon. My kids were in that school. I’ve got two daughters, eight and eleven. By the time I saw the tornado forming, I was too far away to warn the staff. That one came out of nowhere.

Stunned by the cop’s reaction, Dusty didn’t know whether or not to lower his hands. Half expecting the sheriff to reach for his handcuffs, he asked, So what happens now?

I’m going to let you go, came the response. We’re even now – all squared up. Don’t expect such good graces if we should meet again.

That’s it?

That’s it. You saved my girls, and besides, I’ve heard both sides of the argument over what you’ve been doing. You’re lucky I’m one of the people who believe the government is persecuting you for all the wrong reasons. Now take that damned doomsday weapon and get the fuck out of my town. All hell is about to rain down on our little berg.

Dusty didn’t understand what the sheriff was trying to tell him. He peered at the now clearing sky, thinking the lawman was perhaps referring to another storm preparing to descend on the town. The cop read the Texan’s puzzled look perfectly.

You don’t know, do you? the sheriff questioned.

No, I guess I don’t. What are you talking about?

They can detect when you fire that thing. The Air Force’s satellites can pinpoint your location.

Frowning, Dusty said, Oh. Shit. I’d forgotten about that. I suppose the phone lines are on fire about now.

"Now you’re going to owe me one, the lawman grinned. Just to really put you in debt, there is a red pickup behind the jail. It belonged to a prisoner of mine, who was recently convicted of his third DUI and won’t be needing it for several years. Now I heard a rumor that the keys were above the visor. No one would probably miss it for several days if it were stolen right from under our noses… if you get my drift."

Dusty smiled and nodded, Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy your dinner this evening, and give the girls a hug from this old terrorist, please.

Will do. You better get going; it’s only twenty minutes by helicopter from the FBI’s Kansas City office.

Dusty extended his hand, the two men shaking with a firm, but friendly grip. And then the Texan pivoted and was running toward a building he’d always hoped to avoid – the county jail.

He discovered the truck just where the cop said it would be, an older model Ford that had seen better days but was still serviceable. The engine fired on the second turn.

After pulling out of the lot, he stopped a few blocks away, unsure of which direction he should travel. Texas was to the south, but they would expect that.

North was Canada, but they’d probably consider the possibility of any outlaw making a run for the border – north or south.

West were the Rockies and the Great Southwest. Barren, sparsely populated territory for sure, but that didn’t appeal to the Texan. He’d been on the run for long enough to know it was easier to hide in plain sight, just another face among the masses. He decided to head east, toward St. Louis.

The rambling, old Ford had just managed the speed limit when the flashing lights of an approaching police car appeared ahead. Dusty reached to unzip the rail gun, unsure if the sheriff had changed his mind.

The state trooper raced on past, ignoring the old Ford in his haste. The first helicopter appeared a few minutes later, quickly followed by two more. There was no way to tell if they were responding to the tornado or tracking a fugitive. Either way, Dusty was glad to be on the road and still free.

He drove for an hour, crossing the flat fields of eastern Kansas using two-lane highways while trying to generally point his nose east. It wasn’t the fastest way to put miles between the town and himself, but he felt it was the safest.

It was pure luck he glanced down at the gas gauge, it never having occurred to the fugitive that the tank might need refilling. The needle was on the bright orange E, and there wasn’t a gas station in sight.

The signs announcing the junction with Interstate I-35 appeared a few miles later, Dusty hopeful that the interchange would offer a gas station or truck stop. In addition to truck fuel, his own tank could use a bottle of water and a sandwich.

Sure enough, the bright beacon of a large refueling plaza soon appeared on the horizon, complete with signs advertising a restaurant, showers, and gift shop.

Dusty didn’t immediately signal to turn into the lot, thinking the cops might be monitoring the gasoline stations by now. But the area was clear of any police presence, and soon he was walking inside to pre-pay for a tankful of regular.

He had the wherewithal to keep his western hat low, sensing the place was thick with security cameras. The kid at the counter didn’t seem to notice, and that was just fine with the Texan.

After filling the Ford’s nearly parched reservoir, Dusty spied an out of the way parking spot and then reentered