OUTCAST Ops: The Poseidon Initiative

TWENTY-TWO

Ali de Groot shouldered his daypack as he stepped into the bright yellow touring helicopter. As planned, he moved up front to the co-pilot’s seat, which in this case was merely another passenger seat. He nodded amiably at the pilot, a middle-aged man of mixed Asian descent, who returned his good-natured smile as his fare settled in.

Behind him, two of his customer’s associates, one Dutch and one Moroccan man in their early thirties, clamored aboard. They occupied the two rear passenger seats, maxing out the fare capacity for this flight, a quick jaunt from Honolulu International Airport over Waikiki Beach, Diamond Head, and out over the ocean to return. All told, maybe a twenty minute sightseeing trip.

Each of the other two men also bore backpacks. None of the three had been subjected to any kind of a search, as this was a private, tourist-friendly flight.

The pilot knew that his three paying passengers had been briefed by the touring company as to what the tour would encompass and what to expect. He checked to make sure that each of their seatbelts were fastened, that their headphones were working, and then engaged in some chatter with Air Traffic Control before lifting into the air.

The Pacific Ocean was instantly visible as the pilot banked their small craft toward world famous Waikiki Beach, already crammed with sunbathers on this eighty-five degree sunny afternoon. The pilot communicated with his passengers through the use of the headphones, which made his running tour much easier to hear.

“On your left is world-renowned Waikiki Beach. The pink hotel in the middle is the Royal Hawaiian, over 100 years old. Best luau in town!” The aircraft reached the end of the beach and made a turn to follow its length out in the surf zone.

“Good waves today!” the pilot added. He looked down through the windshield at the crowd of surfers jockeying for position in the Ala Moana swells.

Ali established brief eye contact with his associate in the left rear seat, which went unnoticed by their pilot.

“You see that barrel! He was deep in the tube! Great wave! Okay, now ahead, you see Diamond Head volcano. But it’s no longer active, at least we hope so, right? I hear that—”

The pilot’s words choked off as he noticed the M1911 pistol in the hand of his front seat passenger, aimed square at his chest.

“What do you want?” His voice was calm and low, transmitted through his headset mic to all three Hofstad passengers’ earphones.

“Descend to an altitude of 100 feet and fly directly over the entire length of Waikiki Beach. Do you understand?”

“We can’t do that. We have to maintain a minimum altitude above the beach!”

“I’m not asking about the regulations. I’m asking if you understand the command. Let me add, sir, that I myself am a licensed helicopter pilot. If you are unwilling or unable to comply, then we will simply dispose of you.”

The pilot brought the craft lower to the water but hesitated when the end of the beach came into view off to their left. They passed directly over a sailing catamaran, which looked terrifyingly close with its mast protruding skyward.

“Fly over the beach!”

The pilot white-knuckled the controls as if transferring rage he wanted to vent on the gunman to an inanimate object.

“What for! Are you going to hurt people?”

Ali looked back once at his associates. Then he fired a round into the right knee of the pilot, who wailed in agony. He clutched his knee with is right hand, temporarily losing control of the helicopter, which veered sharply to the right.

Ali raised his voice. “Regain control or the next shot is through your worthless neck!” His carotid artery appeared as though it was about to burst, his face red with fury as he aimed the 1911 at the pilot’s Adam’s apple. “I said regain control or die!”

“Okay, okay!” The pilot heaved as if hyperventilating, but managed to bring the aircraft to a stable attitude.

Ali looked out his window, could swear he saw spray from a breaking wave reach one of the landing skids. They had lost altitude but he smiled, deciding that was so much the better to accomplish their objective.

“Keep this altitude and fly over the sand. Now!” Ali waved the gun.

The pilot titled the helicopter’s collective to the left and Ali watched streaks of foam-laced whitewater rush beneath them, in seconds transitioning to golden sand.

“Turn right!”

The pilot banked the craft right with his left hand while still clutching his massacred knee with his right. Below them heads tipped skyward as the helicopter’s rotor wash sent umbrellas, towels and rafts tumbling across the sand.

Ali turned around to look at his colleagues. Both men had already donned biohazard suits and removed silver canisters from the backpacks they’d brought onboard. In front, Ali quickly removed his gear from the pack and put it on.

“What’s going on?” the pilot squeaked. Ali silenced him by pointing the 1911 at his good knee.

Then he opened the door and the occupants of the helicopter were buffeted with a blast of warm, salty air. They could hear shouts from the beachgoers below, some simply excited at the low-flying craft, unaware it wasn’t normal or legal, while others yelled because they feared something was amiss.

“Now!” Ali shouted.

“What about me? Do I need breathing protection?” The pilot shrieked into his headset but his question went unanswered.

The operative seated directly behind Ali gripped two handles on his canister and leaned partway out the door. He tipped the canister in the opposite direction of the wind flow and felt the can begin to grow lighter as an invisible mist dispensed from it, raining down onto the throngs below.

“Stay on course and you’ll live!” Ali barked at the pilot. But as menacing as he tried to sound, it was hard for him to suppress a grin as the helicopter traced the gentle curve of the beach, dropping its aerosolized death particles in its wake. It was working!

Ali grinned as he saw the WARNING: Jellyfish signs posted on the beach. It meant that even more people packed the sand, unable to enter the water for fear of the tentacled sea creatures. Ironically, the STX neurotoxin being dumped on them was a million times more toxic than the jellyfish venom they sought to avoid by staying on the beach.

Pride welled up in Ali as he looked back and saw knots of panicked tourists beginning to form on the beach behind them. He heard indecipherable screams, perhaps an “Oh God!” as they raced over the strip of beachfront. He could no longer contain his elation.

“They pray to the wrong God! They should be appealing to Poseidon, the source of this poison!”

Behind him, his man shook his canister before letting it drop to the ground.

Empty.

He turned to his colleague and grabbed the second one.

“Hurry, hurry! We must get them all!” Ali bellowed.

His associate deftly unscrewed the canister’s safety lid and held it out the open window. He steeled himself for Round 2, knowing his muscles would need to be strong to hold the can in place against the wind. But for Hofstad’s victory, he would do it.

His canister began to dump toxic rain just as they passed in front of the iconic pink hotel, literally thousands of people from around the world jamming its beach. Asians, Americans, Hawaiians, Pacific Islanders, Europeans, Canadians… All of them succumbed to the hyper-potent neurotoxin as the death ‘copter flew above like an aerial demon.

The pilot continued to shout as he navigated along the beach. “What are you doing? What is going on?” And his three passengers continued to ignore him except for Ali who kept him in line with the gun when needed.

“Almost empty,” the man with the can reported, holding it nearly upside-down out the window.

Ahead of them the volcano of Diamond Head filled the windscreen. A particularly packed area of beach in front of a cluster of hotels lay before them.

“Get this! Then we’re done,” Ali said.

The bomber in the backseat shook the canister as they flew over the end of Waikiki Beach. Then he gave Ali a thumbs up signal and let the container drop to the beachfront restaurant below.

Ali turned to the pilot, the pistol pointed at his face. “Go left, higher, fly to the base of the mountains.”

Despite not knowing what was in store for him, the pilot was happy to avert the looming volcano of Diamond Head and gain some altitude.

“Radio your base and inform them that you are having mechanical problems and will be setting down inside Diamond Head.”

“Inside Diamond Head? That’s a weird place to land.”

“I don’t care. Tell them you have no other choice. Do it.”

The pilot keyed his transmitter and relayed the instruction. The person radioing from the base of operations continued to ask questions. Ali told the pilot to ignore him.

“To the Manoa hills.”

Wordlessly the pilot set his course. Five minutes later, a series of rainforested mountains came into view, the air thick with mist. A rainbow arched across the sky. The natural beauty meant nothing to any of the men aboard the craft.

“Where do you want me to land?”

Ali pointed. There’s a parking lot at the end of that road down there. Put us down there in one piece and this will all be over.”

The pilot glanced down at the small square of dirt, a couple of cars left there by hikers who trekked up into the rain forest.

In the backseat, Ali’s men had removed their hazmat suits and now tossed them out the still open door. Ali instructed one of them to cover the pilot with the pistol while he removed his own suit and tossed it out.

By the time that was done the pilot was hovering above the parking lot, easing the helicopter down. His radio still boomed with chatter that went ignored. They were searching for the aircraft now in Diamond Head crater.

The skids kissed the dirt with a gentle thump and the pilot sat there with his hands on the collective, looking over at Ali.

The two men in back hefted their backpacks and stepped from the aircraft, now wearing shorts, boots, heads wrapped in bandanas. They looked for all the world like day hikers out to explore the rain forest.

“Let’s go!” They called to Ali.

Ali turned to the pilot and double-tapped his 1911, putting two bullets through his forehead. He watched him slump forward at the controls. Satisfied he was dead, he stepped from the chopper and fell into single file line with his men as they hit the trail that wound up into the rainforest.