OUTCAST Ops: The Poseidon Initiative

THIRTY-NINE

It was a town defined by seafood like no other — and shellfish in particular. Lobster, blue crabs, shrimp, clams, oysters, mussels, scallops… A thriving harbor fishery brought them to shore each day, and the social scene revolved around it. There were seafood restaurants galore and right now a huge summer seafood festival was in full swing at a grassy park. Tanner and Liam threaded their way among the open air booths that were crowded with long lines of tourists waiting to sample the offerings. Although the seafood looked delectable and smelled great, neither of them had the stomach to sample it, knowing that it was the ultimate source of such a deadly poison that might currently be the focus of Hofstad’s sinister initiative. They opted instead for hamburgers and corn on the cob.

The hair on Tanner’s neck raised when he saw a young boy start to throw up into a trash can. He and Liam rushed to his side, wondering how Jasmijn was progressing with the STX antidote back in the Netherlands, but after hearing the boy’s mother elicit from the child that he’d eaten three plates of lobster, they quietly walked away, leaving the mother to scold her child for overeating.

They wended their way through the park until they reached a fence on a bluff overlooking the town’s namesake harbor. There were several wooden piers with harbor tour boats, a multitude of moored fishing trawlers and shrimp boats, and numerous small pleasure craft flitting about the picturesque harbor. In the bay beyond, large sailboats plied the waters with several small islands in the background.

One boat in particular stood out — a yacht. Blue in color and easily one hundred feet long, the sailing vessel lie at anchor near the edge of the harbor, as if overlooking the entire town. Looking carefully, they could see the U.S. flag proudly displayed from one of the masts. A smaller tender vessel hung from a crane on the ship’s stern.

President Carmichael’s yacht, the Lincoln.

Tanner and Liam both knew that in addition to the Secret Service Agents on board the vessel, there would be others in some of the neighboring boats, attempting to blend in; they couldn’t tell which by looking. Liam produced a pair of binoculars and scanned the harbor, looking for suspicious vessels. He saw nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary.

“Time to deadline?” he asked Tanner from behind the glasses.

Tanner glanced casually at his watch and replied, “Six hours.” That put the zero hour at 4:00 P.M., when the bay, harbor and town would be in full swing. The sound of gulls wheeling above mingled with the festival crowd as Tanner wondered how a scene like this could go bad. But he knew all too well that it could.

Presently his earpiece crackled with Danielle’s voice. “News update: major media outlets running a piece on The Hague embassy, how it’s still open for business. White House says it will remain open, over.”

“Copy that. It’s a beautiful day and we’re having fun. Out.”

Tanner frowned as he watched the sailboats take their tourists around the islands. Not that he expected the President to kowtow to the terrorists’ demands, but it would have been nice had the embassy shut down for any reason ahead of the deadline. If Hofstad had plans in place to do something about it, no doubt they would be putting them into effect now. His reply to Danielle had been simple coded language. “It’s a beautiful day” meant that they were on site, and “we’re having fun” signified that they were actively monitoring the situation but had encountered no action yet. The transmission itself was nearly as secure as possible, but you never knew who was listening physically, possibly even with long-range directional microphones.

Tanner searched the sky while Liam continued to scope out the water. Aircraft of all types were a serious threat, too. Small fixed wing planes, helicopters, drones…Hofstad had proven their versatility when it came to methods of attack. Of concern to Tanner right now were the numerous sky-ad planes that pulled banners over the bay, visible all across town. Presently, one reading LABOR DAY SEAFOOD FEST IN THE PARK was being towed through the air. In Hawaii, Hofstad had used a tourist helicopter to camouflage their assault. One of these banner planes could achieve the same purpose — it could be used to dump STX over the President’s yacht, the whole Seafood Fest, or both.

They could issue an alert to the White House, giving them the same intel that OUTCAST had. But would tipping their hand really achieve anything? Either the President would dismiss the information and decide not to act on it, or if he did, what could he do? Evacuate Boothbay Harbor and cause a panic? Hofstad would simply move the strike somewhere else. It would cause a delay, but wouldn’t solve the problem. They needed to catch Hofstad in the act and stop them.

And there was already a palpable defensive presence here, Tanner noted, switching his attention back to the water. It was not as if threats in general had been ignored. A sizable Coast Guard cutter was stationed about a quarter mile out from the president’s yacht, while Boothbay Harbor Police and Harbor Patrol boats crisscrossed the harbor at regular intervals. Should a suspicious aircraft be sighted, fighter jets could be called to the space within minutes. Up here in the park, police patrolled on foot as well as on horseback. Volunteer Community Ambassadors, wearing bright yellow shirts and carrying radios circulated throughout the event, assisting visitors, looking for anything out of the ordinary and notifying police when necessary.

Tanner finished off the last of his food, savoring the rich flavors. He eyed the stately Lincoln, floating serenely out on the bay.

What could possibly go wrong?