Mission Hurricane

by Jenny Goebel

  Who needs a hurricane if you have a do-it-yourself tsunami-bomb?

  Mount Fuji, Japan

  Running into a burning building. Hopping aboard a sinking ship. Entering a recently vacated Tomas stronghold while the sirens were still blaring. They all seemed on par with one another.

  Sammy bent down near the rail of the balcony and picked up a stainless-steel thermos. Tipped on its side, the thermos appeared to have been carelessly discarded as someone fled the stronghold.

  He unscrewed the lid and a puff of steam rose in the air. “This coffee is still warm,” he said. “They haven’t been gone for long.”

  Nellie beamed at him. “Nice deduction skills!” she said. “Let’s go see if we can figure out why they left.”

  Sammy screwed the cap back on and dropped the thermos.

  “Great,” Nellie said. “There’s nothing up here to shed any light on the mystery. If there is an explanation for this mass exodus, and for what the Outcast is after, we’ll find it on the lower levels. Ham said that’s where all the offices are located. Now, how are you at skiing?”

  Sammy’s face broke into a crooked smile. “Nah. I’m gonna shred it instead.”

  “Snowboarder, eh?” Nellie raised an eyebrow. “You surprise me.”

  While Nellie strapped on a pair of skis lying near the top of the chairlift, Sammy slipped on a pair of snowboarding boots and buckled into the bindings of a board. In one fluid movement he popped into the air and took off zigzagging down the slope.

  “No way are you beating me to the bottom,” Nellie whispered to his wind, and then shot into the air herself.

  Impressively, the Tomas seemed to have hollowed out nearly a third of Mount Fuji for their stronghold. And they certainly did ski slopes right. Half pipes, rails, moguls, and jumps littered the trail, and the snow machines kept the grounds covered with powder. While Sammy was carving up the white stuff, Nellie streaked past him in a straight line. She would’ve beaten him to the base anyway, but she couldn’t resist—the biggest jump was calling her name.

  Nellie flew over the lip of the jump with so much speed that she didn’t stop catching air until she landed on the artificial turf that butted up to the ski slopes.

  Sammy caught a frontside spin on a rail and then came to a quick backside stop just short of the turf, kicking up a spray of powder. “Crunchy landing! You got killer steez,” he called.

  “Skis?” Nellie asked.

  “No, steez. It’s a cross between style and ease.” Sammy did a rapid shuffling of his arms, then crossed them over his chest, and again said, “Steez!”

  Nellie chuckled. “I must remember to have you sweet-talk me with your snowboarding lingo later. Right now, we need to find some answers.”

  According to the map Ham had drawn for them, the meeting and surveillance rooms were one level down from the bottom of the ski slope. As they wandered room to room, they found long conference tables, buzzing fluorescent lights, half-eaten pastries, more lukewarm coffee, and computers with screen savers of Mount Everest, the North Pole, and Machu Picchu.

  They did not find a single Tomas. Nor was there a fire in the kitchen or anything else that would have constituted an emergency.

  “Did you ever sneak inside your elementary school on a weekend, you know, when no one was around?” Sammy asked.

  “Beyond creepy, right?” Nellie said.

  “Just like this.”

  “I still don’t get it. Why did they all leave?” Nellie asked.

  Sammy placed his hands against the far wall of the final room to be checked. He began walking, trailing his fingers along the bricks as he went. “Hold on. There has to be more to this level. The stronghold seems to expand along with the mountain as we get closer to the base. Yet this level—what we’ve seen of it, anyway—is smaller than the one above.”

  “So what you’re saying is there’s a hidden room or something?” Nellie said excitedly. Perhaps Hamilton hadn’t divulged all the Tomas secrets.

  “Exactly. We just have to find the entrance, and I’m guessing it’s somewhere in this room. Notice anything different about this wall?” Sammy asked, still running his hands across it.

  “I don’t know. It seems more fortified, maybe. The bricks—there’s a line in them that shouldn’t be there.”

  Sammy’s face lit up as his thumb caught on a groove in the brick unlike the others. “Looks like my batch of ballistics gel wasn’t a waste after all—I just found another scanner.”

  Sammy pulled the synthetic thumbprint back out of his bag and placed it on the camouflaged pad. Immediately, the bricks separated at the line and a secret door swung open directly in front of them.

  Nellie grinned. “Sammy, you have steez.”

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Hamilton was in stitches—clutching his stomach and rolling around on the hotel room floor, laughing. “What were you doing making those ridiculous faces?” he asked. “Practicing for selfies?”

  Jonah turned beet red, but didn’t answer.

  Amy cleared her throat to hide her own laughter as the clip of a duck-lipped Jonah reciting Shakespeare to a mirror played on Hamilton’s computer screen. The soliloquy Hamilton had traded to the paparazzo for his camera had gone viral. It was popping up everywhere on the Internet—appearing in memes and being spoofed by other stars and wannabe stars alike.

  Hamilton hit the REPLAY button and the onscreen Jonah, with one hand over his heart and the other holding the mirror, recited:

  “ ‘The man that hath no music in himself,

  Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,

  Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;

  The motions of his spirit are dull as night

  And his affections dark as Erebus:

  Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.’ ”

  Ham clicked on the REPLAY button a second time. “It’s just too good. We gotta watch it again.”

  Jonah dropped his head in his hands and groaned.

  “You two go ahead. I have to get going,” Amy said. “The reading of Aunt Beatrice’s will is starting soon.”

  “You don’t, um, want us to come with you, do you?” Jonah offered, picking up his head long enough to look Amy in the eye.

  Amy considered. “No, Aunt Beatrice could be … ” She trailed off, searching for the right word. She finally settled on, “cruel. This reading could be torture. No need for all of us to suffer.”

  “True that,” Jonah said, sitting up straighter and speaking over Hamilton’s laughter and his own voice playing in the background. “This is torture enough, yo.” He gestured at the image of himself projected on the screen. “If you really don’t mind, I think I’m just gonna lie low for a while. Wait until the world finds a new pincushion before I show my face in public again.”

  “No worries,” Amy said.

  “Text if you need us,” Ham replied, tearing his attention from the screen for just a second before turning back. “Bro, look! This new meme is a mashup of your mime moves in Greece and your mirror time. They’re calling it ‘Jonah Wizard’s Massive Mime Mirror Meltdown.’ ”

  Hamilton sobered up for just a second, almost looking remorseful. “I’m sorry, man.” But then he lost it again, breaking into another fit of laughter. “It’s going to be eons before the world forgets something this awesome.”

  * * *

  There wasn’t a screen set up in her great-aunt’s formal living room for the reading of her will. That didn’t surprise Amy. Aunt Beatrice always got in the last word, but it was also her way to operate underhandedly. She never would’ve masterminded a challenge, or recorded herself prior to death the way Amy’s grandmother had.

  Memories of the day Grace’s will was read came flooding back. Amy had been nothing more than a scared little girl when she’d seen the image of her grandmother flicker to life on screen, daring the group to risk everything in a race for power and treasure. The younger Amy never would’ve believed where the race would take her. That on
e day she would actually be the capable young woman that Grace had dared her to become.

  Amy’s anger had oscillated back to sorrow. Thinking about Grace was painful today, like gingerly poking her tongue against a sore tooth.

  She canvassed the crowded living room. Had any of the people greedily eyeing her aunt’s worldly possessions actually liked the old bat? It seemed more probable that they were clinging to some small hope that they’d been included in her will. Money had a way of attracting flies. So did power. Amy knew that now.

  Whoever all these people were, they didn’t appear to be family. Even Beatrice’s brother, Fiske, had been too ill to show up. I’m the only Cahill in the room, Amy thought. That would really irk Aunt Bea.

  The majority of the people present were strangers to Amy. But she did recognize Mr. Berman standing at the back of the room, wearing a dark suit and highly polished shoes. Amy’s face tightened in anger. What was he doing here? The butler was tall and big-boned, without any extra meat on him. He also seemed to have a bad case of the jitters. Amy stared him down until he turned to face her.

  He obviously recognized her, too. His Adam’s apple rippled down his throat as he swallowed hard, and beads of sweat materialized on his forehead.

  Amy narrowed her eyes threateningly and shook her head. He swallowed again, then loosened his tie.

  You think your tie’s too tight? Just wait until I get my hands around your neck.

  Amy took a step forward, then stopped herself. What was she doing? Here she was, thirsty for violence, when she’d found the same behavior so shocking in Grace.

  Fortunately, Mr. Smood started speaking then, keeping her from dwelling on the matter. “Please find a seat, everyone.” His velvety voice rang through the room. “We’ll get started in just a few minutes.”

  Mr. Smood had reserved a seat of honor for Amy at the front of the room. The last thing she wanted, however, was to sit with her back to the butler. Instead, she waited to see where Mr. Berman was going, then claimed a chair directly behind him.

  A woman wrapped in furs occupied the seat next to hers. When Amy sat down, the woman glanced over inquisitively, revealing a suspiciously smooth forehead and abnormally full lips. On the other side of the woman sat a man with a restless leg and bad hair plugs.

  Amy turned her attention to Aunt Beatrice’s collection of porcelain cats lining the shelves around the room. The cats’ painted-on eyes and unnatural smiles were undeniably creepy. But studying all their eerie faces was far better than staring at the butler’s greasy comb-over.

  “Aren’t they adorable?” the fur-wrapped woman seated next to her whispered. “How much do you think the collection is worth?”

  Amy shrugged. She knew for a fact that Aunt Beatrice wasn’t discriminating when it came to shopping for her feline knickknacks. She bought every single kitschy cat she could lay her hands on. Some of them had been picked up from the drugstore, and had come with bright discount stickers adhered to their sides. Yet the woman next to her was eyeing each and every one as though it might be a priceless artifact.

  “I’m not sure, but I know that Aunt Beatrice valued them over everything else she owned,” Amy answered honestly.

  The woman raised her penciled-in eyebrows and smiled a stark white and leering smile. “Bea was your aunt?”

  Amy nodded politely, then to discourage any further conversation, whipped out her phone. She flipped through apps aimlessly until the seats were filled, and Mr. Smood quieted the room by raising his hands and clearing his throat. “Thank you all for joining us today in honor of the late Beatrice Cahill,” he started. “I must say I am surprised to see so many of you here, as the number at the memorial service was not nearly so large.”

  “Not nearly so large” was probably being generous. Amy wondered if anyone other than Mr. Smood had made an appearance at her great-aunt’s funeral.

  Aunt Beatrice had been alone when she died, with only her ceramic cats to witness the murder. Now her family was neglecting her memory after death.

  Amy’s resentment softened. She felt a twinge of loss and a healthy serving of guilt. That was, until she heard her aunt’s last words.

  Amsterdam, Capital of the Kingdom of the Netherlands

  “Let me get this straight,” Ian said, pacing the carpeted floor in Cara’s hotel room. “You think the Outcast is going to explode a nuclear warhead in the North Sea so the surge will overcome the levees?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” Dan said. He’d made it back to the hotel in half the time it had taken him to get to the museum. “Topple, overcome, overtop, breach—whatever. Hurricane or no hurricane, a giant surge of water is blasting through. The important part is: It could happen at any time. We can’t sit around, twiddling our thumbs, or fighting about thread count, while we wait for a storm to blow in.”

  Ian’s face reddened. He looked ready to blow a gasket, but he ignored Dan’s comment about bickering over sheets. “Is it possible, Cara?” he asked. “Can’t you search that up or something? Posthaste. We need to know if a nuclear explosion can cause such a devastating event.”

  “All nuclear explosions cause devastating events,” Dan grumbled under his breath.

  Cara turned to her computer and began hitting keys. “Here’s one!” she said, and Ian and Dan gathered around her. The footage was black-and-white and grainy. The first few seconds showed only a few ships bobbing on a peaceful ocean. Then a massive pillar erupted from the water, as if a sea god had shot a fist into the sky. Dan was dumbstruck as he a watched a clip of a four-hundred-and-forty-foot-long cargo ship, docked too close to the testing site, get totally engulfed by a wall of water. His body went rigid—half with fear, the rest with frustration. The video was giving them a clear, horrifying visual of what was coming. But they still had no idea how to stop it.

  “I’ve seen pictures of mushroom clouds over the desert, but I had no idea they tested bombs in the ocean, too,” Dan said solemnly.

  “Unfortunately,” Cara said, “during the nuclear arms race, over a thousand nuclear tests were performed by the United States alone. Most were exploded in secluded areas, like the deserts of Nevada or New Mexico, but about a fifth of them were tested in the atmosphere, underwater, or in space.”

  “So my question is,” Dan said, “should we try to find the bomb and somehow stop it before it goes off, or do we make sure the surge barriers are going to hold? I mean, what if there’s some sort of nuclear fallout? Even if we stop the breach, isn’t the radiation going to be just as bad? Maybe worse?”

  After a few more strokes to the keyboard, Cara said, “I don’t think so. There seems to have been terrible radioactive fallout from the tests conducted on land, but listen to this.… ”

  Cara paraphrased what she’d found for the rest of them. “A nuclear bomb was exploded in the Pacific Ocean five hundred miles southwest of San Diego, California. This test—Operation Wigwam—was conducted in 1955, and scientists found that the radiation effects were negligible. Apparently, water dilutes radiation.”

  “But take a look at that surface surge,” Dan said, staring with disbelief at the picture on the screen. “So, I think it’s safe to say that the biggest danger is the sea breaching the barriers after the blast, right? Because so much of the Netherlands is already below sea level, it’s going to be way more susceptible to flooding than San Diego.”

  “And the Outcast won’t take any chances,” Ian added. “He’ll explode the bomb somewhere closer than five hundred miles off the coast so as to maximize the effects of the surge, right?”

  Cara nodded her head. “Right. I say we still focus our attention on finding the targeted barrier and making sure it holds.” Her eyes flicked to Ian. “But it’s not my call,” she said quietly.

  Dan spun around to look at Ian, too. In that moment, he didn’t envy their current leader one bit. On one hand, they could try to nip the disaster in the bud and prevent the explosion that would cause the water to surge. On the other, they could focus on the barri
ers themselves—ensuring that the Netherlands was indeed fortified enough to withstand a raging and violent sea.

  Either was a terrifyingly daunting task. Dan gritted his teeth against his growing frustration. They still didn’t know which of the numerous barriers would be targeted. Nor did they know where along the 451 miles of coastline the bomb would explode.

  Ian ignored their stares and continued pacing the floor of the hotel room, looking as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. In a way, he did.

  “Maybe we could split up,” Dan offered. “You and Cara can rent a boat and some scuba gear, and try to locate the nuke. What sort of broken arrow do you think the Outcast found? A bomb that got lost when planes collided? A sunken nuclear sub? I guess that part doesn’t matter.… I’ll start with the largest surge barriers and inspect them one by one. It’ll take a while, but maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe we still have some time.”

  Dan could tell by the grimace on Ian’s face that he’d struck a nerve. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who’d discovered new information to share.

  “What?” Dan said, feeling his skin prickle. “What haven’t you told me?”

  “While you were at the museum, I spoke with the concierge—” Ian said.

  “Harassed, is more like it,” Cara cut in.

  “I merely wanted to find accommodations more suitable to our needs, and it’s a good thing I did,” Ian said defensively. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have found out that the entire city is booked for the King’s Day celebration. In fact, hotels all across the Netherlands are booked for King’s Day. It’s the biggest public festival of the year.”

  “And get this,” Cara said. “Everyone flocks to the streets, parks, and canals, wearing the color orange in honor of the Dutch royal family—the House of Orange. Sound familiar?”

  “As in, ‘The House of Orange will crumble and fall,’ ” Dan moaned. “The attack is going to happen on King’s Day. Please tell me that it’s at least a week away.”