by Rick Chesler
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.”
FIVE
Bethesda, Maryland
“This is all my fault.” Jasmijn cradled her head in her hands. Tanner clicked the television off and looked at her. He put a hand on her arm.
“It’s not your fault. It’s the terrorists’ fault. They’re the ones doing this.”
Jasmijn raised her head and rubbed her eyes. “The president just said they won’t give in to Hofstad’s demands. If they don’t shut down the embassy…”
“Standard policy. They’ll be working behind the scenes as we speak to take Hofstad down.” But no sooner had the words escaped his lips than he questioned the validity of his own statement. His loyalty to his country was beyond reproach, but his trust in some sectors of the government itself had been compromised through his own experiences as a former FBI Special Agent in the Counter-terrorism Division (CTD). Well regarded for both his field acumen as well as his analytical capabilities, Tanner had been directly responsible for identifying, tracking, bringing to justice, and in some cases, killing — literally hundreds of terrorists. Indirectly, that count easily rose into the thousands. After a dozen years it seemed that nothing could derail his stellar career within the vaunted CTD.
But then came along a fiery administrative assistant by the name Caitlin White. He’d had a brief relationship with her and when he tried to call it off after realizing it wasn’t meant to be, she refused to accept it. In retaliation, she claimed Tanner had harassed her on the job, filing a formal grievance. In the hyper-politically correct era of the time, the Bureau preferred to let a good man go rather than suffer the negative press of any kind of impropriety happening in D.C. And thus had ended his illustrious career with J. Edgar Hoover’s storied organization. His pride wounded but his skill-set untouched, Tanner had withdrawn for a time, taking long walks on the beach alone, solo swims farther from shore than was prudent, meandering hiking trips into the mountains with minimal gear. When he emerged from these soul-searching activities nearly a year later, he was more convinced than ever that his country needed him even if it had cast him aside. He would not turn his back on the nation that had given him so much, even though it had spurned him. Each day’s news headlines reminded him that America needed him. He could not stand to sit idly by and do nothing while he watched threat after threat to his beloved homeland materialize.
And so it was that Tanner Wilson had cast himself out from hiding in order to seek out like-minded individuals. For the irony was that although he had been branded an outcast, he knew that he was not the only one. Far from it. And he had been all too aware that while talented, he would require help. In the FBI he had enjoyed the support of a competent and motivated team. That would not be easy to replace, but at the same time he had been aware that it was just a matter of finding those in a similar situation as himself. And he had known where to look.
Tanner held Jasmijn’s gaze with his own. “I have some familiarity with Hofstad from my FBI days. I may be able to help here. But first let me ask you a question.” Her quizzical expression said she wanted to hear it.
“Based on your estimation of how much STX they stole from your lab, how much of that do you think they already used in last night’s attack?”
She answered with no hesitation. “Hardly any. Unless they spilled some during the transfer process. But from what I saw on television, perhaps two percent of what they took, if that.”
Tanner tried not to let his concern show on his face. He kept the conversation moving so as not to dwell on this disconcerting fact. “Do you think they have the ability to make more of it?”
Again, her response was decisive and swift. “No. The process is highly technical and requires specific source compounds. They did not press me for it. They probably knew that what they were taking was more than enough.” She shuddered.
“More than enough for what?” Tanner wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Jasmijn shrugged. “More than enough to kill…” Her eyes looked up and to the right as she mentally calculated…” Let’s see, if last night’s plume in the
halftime show killed 700 people, then they probably have enough, if they don’t waste or lose — or sell— any, to kill…millions.” She hung her head as she concluded her grim estimation.
“There’s a group of people I’d like you to meet.” Tanner’s words hung heavy in the air.
Jasmijn raised her head as though its weight was almost more than she could bear. “Who are they?”
“They’re a team of special people I work with to handle situations like these.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Special people? Did they ride the short bus to school?”
Tanner blushed, close to embarrassment. He wasn’t used to explaining his organization to outsiders. He pushed his chair back from the table and stood.
“I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Listen, it’ll be a lot easier for me to explain once we’re in the meeting. Not to mention,” he said, glancing at his G-shock watch, “that we don’t have a lot of time before Hofstad acts again.”
SIX
Bethesda, Maryland
Tanner led Jasmijn down a flight of stairs in his house.
“I thought your garage is outside on ground level?” she said, recalling the quick tour he’d given her.
“It is. We’re meeting down here. I saved the best part of the tour for last.” He opened a heavy steel door at the bottom of the staircase and flipped on a light switch. Jasmijn stared cautiously inside.
“Your group is down here already?” Understandably, the idea that a bunch of people were hanging out downstairs that Tanner had only just told her about made her somewhat uncomfortable. Tanner gave her a good natured laugh.
“In a manner of speaking. C’mon in…” He walked into the converted basement, waving an arm for her to follow. Jasmijn entered and then stood still, taking in the space that served as Tanner’s office area and war room.
“Wow.”
While the main house had more of a rustic, almost-but-not-quite farmhouse quality to it, with a lot of natural wood and unpolished stone, this underground space was a sleek, ultramodern affair. Lots of glass, LED lighting, LCD screens and thin blue carpet. A glass, rectangular conference table occupied the center of the room on a sunken floor. Ergonomic mesh desk chairs surrounded it. Two conference phones sat at either end of the table, and there were cables and outlets built in to the table in front of each chair to plug in laptops and other devices. Ceiling mounted video cameras pointed at the table from either end. A large whiteboard and a retractable projection screen occupied one wall, while a glass etched map of the world graced another.
“This is your private office?” Jasmijn looked around, confused.
“I think of it more as a command center, but yes. Please have a seat. “Tanner wheeled a chair out for her and she sat. He walked to a networking cabinet and flipped on some rack mounted machines before turning back around to address her.
“I’d like to have a videoconference with my associates to discuss the Hofstad situation. If you’re okay with it, I’d like you to participate as a subject matter expert on STX, as well as a witness who has seen the terrorists firsthand.”
Jasmijn nodded, intrigued. “Anything I can do to help.”
Tanner pulled one of the phones to him and pressed some buttons. “I lead a group of former government agents called O.U.T.C.A.S.T. It stands for Operational Undertaking to Counteract Active Stateside Threats.”
“I’d say Hofstad qualifies as a threat to the states.” Jasmijn watched as the projection screen descended from the ceiling with a soft mechanical whir.
Tanner nodded. “That’s why I decided to consult with my team. Let’s see what we might be able to do.”
There was a series of clicks and chirps while connections were made. A male voice with a slight Persian accent came on the line. “Good morning, Tanner. Stephen here.” Tanner preferred not to divulge more of the Outcast Ops team members’ information than necessary, even to a friend like Jasmijn, so first names only were used over communications channels. He knew that the man was Stephen Shah, a former CIA agent who was fired after bringing a discrimination lawsuit against the agency. The man was an expert in middle eastern affairs with two decades of experience as a field operative. Tanner’s mind automatically placed a face of Middle-Eastern ethnicity to the voice. Despite his heritage and the fact that he spoke and wrote fluent Arabic, Tanner knew that the man was a practicing Catholic, a conundrum that illustrated the person himself rather well.
Tanner greeted him and then another voice, this one also male but younger sounding and without an accent. “Liam here. How’s it, Tanner? I guess not that good if we’re having a meeting, right?”
“It’s good to hear your voice, Liam, but you’re right. We’ve got a situation. Standby while the others sign on and authenticate.” He knew the casual sounding twenty-something was actually Liam Reilly, an ex-SEAL Team 6 special warfare operator who was dishonorably discharged from the Navy for writing a non-fiction book of his account of the raid that killed terrorist Osama bin Laden. At 6’3” with sizable chest and shoulders, Tanner had seen him train in American Kenpo and Aikido. There was no one Tanner was afraid to fight, but Liam wasn’t someone he’d ever want to go up against.
Next they heard a female voice over the line. The woman behind it introduced herself as Danielle. Tanner knew her to be Danielle Sunderland, age 37, a former National Security Agency analyst. Like all of the OUTCAST operators, she, too, had been let go from her long-time government position for reasons having nothing to do with her actual job performance. For her, the cause for her dismissal had been intensely personal. After going through a bitter divorce with her ex-husband, she woke up one morning to find her young daughter missing. After realizing she was nowhere to be found, she knew that her ex had taken the child. In order to locate her, she tapped the powerful database systems she had access to at the NSA. The information she gleaned did aid in the search for her daughter, but it came at a price. She was fired from the NSA for using agency resources to support a personal matter. After fourteen years of service as a computational forensics expert, Danielle Sunderland was cast aside for doing what any parent would. Tanner could picture her frumpy, nerd-girl looks, replete with Lennon-style glasses that seemed to focus the fierce intelligence that issued from the eyes behind them.
A second female voice chimed in on the line, this one slightly huskier. “Hello, Naomi,” Tanner greeted her. She was Naomi “Nay” Washington, ex- Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms after thirteen years of experience investigating arson and explosives. Like her OUTCAST peers, she loved her country deeply and wanted to help it during its times of great need, but officially no longer had that opportunity. Yet unofficially, as a member of Tanner’s organization, she had been given a second chance to do just that. Tanner mentally pictured her long legs, slim waist and vaguely exotic looks.
“Waiting on one more.” Tanner eyed the speakerphone incessantly.
There was no small talk on the line while they waited. The team was far too disciplined to generate unnecessary signal traffic. There were those in powerful places — both abroad and here at home-who would love nothing better than to expose their identities, perhaps even take whatever actions might be necessary to put a stop to what some saw as a “ruthless rogue outfit.”
Soon a new voice issued from the speaker. “Dante.”
Dante Alvarez, thirty-two years of age. Ex-Secret Service agent. Eleven years Presidential Guard detail and international fraud investigation experience, all flushed down the drain when he was summarily dismissed without benefits for his alleged role in a prostitution scandal while in South America during the President’s visit. He had kept the Chief Executive safe even though it had ended up costing his job. Tanner had been surprised when he first met him how competent of a fighter he was with his very tall but lean, wiry physique. But his ropy muscles had translated to jujitsu skills that were superior to Tanner’s own.
“I’ll get right to the point.” Tanner looked over at Jasmijn to gauge her re
action so far. She was watching him closely, alert, engaged. He went on. “If any of you are not aware of the news reports on last night’s football halftime show, speak up.” He paused for three seconds during which there was only silence.
“Let me inform you that I have a guest here with me at headquarters. Her name is Dr. Jasmijn Rotmensen, and she is the scientist who developed the aerosolized neurotoxin known as STX used in last night’s attack. That toxin was stolen from her lab at gunpoint by members of Hofstad only one day before the strike. She was in close proximity with the terrorists during her ordeal. She is here to provide us with information so as to assess if we may be able to neutralize the threat before more innocent lives are taken, in…” He glanced at his watch. “Thirty-four hours.”
He turned to Jasmijn and asked her to recap her work with STX as well as the lab break-in. She did so in meticulous, thorough detail, pausing at one point to hold back tears as she described Nicolaas’ excruciating death from the STX sprayed in his face. She also added what she had told Tanner earlier about how the quantity of STX used during the game likely represented a very small percentage of what was taken. When she was done, Tanner asked the group if they had any questions.
Danielle’s voice came through the speaker. “Dr. Rotmensen, have you informed authorities that the deadly agent used in the attack was the STX from your lab?”
“No, I haven’t done that yet. I will do that immediately following this call. A formal police investigation has been launched in my country based on my lab incident, but they may not have made the connection to the football stadium attack. However, although I can at least inform authorities as to what killed those people, there will still be nothing they can do about it. There is no known antidote for paralytic shellfish poisoning, nor for my particular saxitoxin derivative.”
“You said Hofstad threatened you if you didn’t provide them with the antidote,” Danielle pressed. Tanner saw Jasmijn flinch at the word ‘said’—at the implication that what she claimed had transpired in her lab may possibly be different from the truth. But he knew that an operative was trained to think that way. Trust nothing or no one. Only believe what you observe yourself. Tanner nodded at Jasmijn to respond.