OUTCAST Ops: The Poseidon Initiative

FOUR

Tanner Wilson had just sat down to a post-workout protein shake in front of the cable news in his kitchen when his door chime rang. He rose and walked to the door. Glancing at the small video monitor in the entrance hall wall, he smiled upon seeing all 5’2” of Dr. Jasmijn Rotmensen standing there on his doorstep, looking as natural as can be in a winter coat, scarf and leather boots. The blond-haired scientist captivated him now as she had all those years ago. He reminded himself that he was forcing her to stand out in the cold while he admired her from inside, and abandoned his cozy memories. He scanned the video feed for signs of a presence besides Jasmijn’s. Seeing none, he opened the door.

Jasmijn beamed, flashing a mouth full of big, white teeth. She threw her arms around Tanner and pressed his body to hers, hard.

“It’s so good to see you, Tanner,” she breathed. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Not a problem. Let me get your things.” She handed him a duffel bag and he took it, beckoning her to follow him into the house. After giving her a brief tour of his home and dropping her bag in the guest bedroom, Tanner led her back to the kitchen where he poured them both tall glasses of iced-tea. He could see the tension in her eyes as she sipped.

“Relax. You’re safe here.” But then her eyes seemed to grow even wider. At first Tanner thought she was directing her gaze at him — that she took what he said as nonsense — but he saw that she was staring over his shoulder at the television, where the news channel still played.

On screen was a shot of a football stadium at night with a banner crawling beneath: “Hundreds confirmed dead among Monday Night Football stadium crowd in Miami — terror group makes demands.”

Tanner snatched up the remote and turned up the volume. A panic-stricken woman answered a reporter’s question. “It started right after the mist. I saw the image of a Greek god appear in mid-air, and right after that people started dropping like flies.”

A replay from the halftime performance showed the holographic image of Poseidon, and then panned in for a close-up of a cheerleader clutching her throat before crumpling to the turf.

“That looks horrible!” Jasmijn’s mouth dropped open. Tanner turned up the volume some more as the view changed to a full screen shot of a bearded, light-skinned man standing in front of a plain white sheet. Tanner judged him to be somewhere in his mid-thirties. He held an automatic rifle in one hand, butt on the floor, and stared unblinking at the camera as he spoke.

“Oh my God!” Jasmijn clutched Tanner’s arm.

Tanner did his best to comfort her while the man addressed the camera in halting, accented English with Dutch subtitles.

“Our organization is called Hofstad.” Tanner bristled with a disarming combination of recognition and fear.

“We carried out the attack at Sun Life Stadium in Miami last night and we take full responsibility for that attack.”

The terrorist paused for effect while he stared like a snake at the lens, then continued.

“Our demand is but one. It is very simple and easy to carry out. We want the United States embassy out of The Hague, Netherlands. I will say it once more: We demand that the United States embassy at Lange Voorhout 102, 2514 EJ Den Haag, Netherlands, be removed from service. We are allowing the U.S. government a grace period of forty-eight hours in which to comply with this demand, beginning…” The terrorist looked at the plastic digital watch on his wrist…” now.”

He stared impassively at the camera for a moment before continuing. “If the premises have not been vacated in forty-eight hours, more incidents such as the one in your football stadium will happen. There will be no warning. They will be more severe. Take more lives. We are prepared to carry out these attacks in any or all of your fifty states. There will be no negotiating, no bargaining, no delays of any kind for any reason.”

He shouted his final words: “Forty! Eight! Hours!”

Then the terrorist camcorder zoomed to a small television sitting on the floor in a corner, playing news footage of the stadium attack.

Tanner looked away from the TV. Jasmijn had her head lying on her arm on the table, shaking. Tanner tried to comfort her but it was no use. “It’s my fault,” she mumbled over and over.

On screen, the news report shifted to a view of the White House, where the president stood at a podium emblazoned with the presidential seal. A forest of microphones bristled in front of him, an eager throng of reporters hungry for answers waiting just beyond. The President cleared his throat, received a go-ahead signal from an assistant off-screen, and leaned into the microphones.

“It is with great sadness and a heavy heart that I learned of the 768 persons killed in a terror attack last night at Sun Life Stadium during Monday Night Football — an event that is supposed to be a good time for all. I would like to commend our valiant first responders for their prompt reaction and highly professional handling of this horrific incident. To those responsible, let me assure you: you will be held accountable. The United States does not negotiate with terrorists nor does it give in to the demands of terrorists. We are working tenaciously to bring those responsible for this heinous act to justice. We have elevated our terror alert status to the maximum alert possible until further notice. That is all for now.”

The president started to step down from the podium.

“President Carmichael?” a female reporter called out. “What about the Hofstad video? Will you close the embassy in The Hague?”

The President halted for a moment and then stepped back up to the podium. He shook his head emphatically as he looked at the reporter.

“We will not.”