The Poseidon Initiative (12 page)

He reached the end of a row and knocked over a five-gallon water cooler as he rushed past, flooding the floor. A pair of hands stretched out to grasp him and he deftly snapped one of the wrists, little yelps of pain receding behind him as he crashed into double glass doors that led out into the lobby.

And then came the command he’d known was coming.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Shah grabbed a passing man with a briefcase, whirled him around and flung him through the still open doors into the work area. He took off at a dead sprint through the lobby. He got to the main entrance too late — four more armed officers poured into the lobby area from outside.

He ran past the main exit, mentally recalling the building design as he fled. The lobby was actually a rectangular hallway, sort of like a moat that circled the inner work areas of the building. He traced its way around looking for a way out. A few people stepped aside to let the fleeing man pass. One man, a forty-ish civil servant who looked like he maintained a strict fitness regimen, tried to stop Shah. He put both hands out, sidestepping to block the intruder’s path.

Shah feinted right, then ducked left, sweeping his right foot across the back of his foe’s ankles. He went down hard, swiping at Shah’s legs with a hand as he passed but his fingers clutching only air.

“Over here!” the would-be hero yelled to the unseen security force in pursuit.

Shah guessed he was about halfway around the loop now. No way he’d be able to make it through the heavy security at the main entrance. He had to find a way out. Behind him the heavy footfalls and squawking two-radios were catching up to him.

He spotted a door up ahead on the right marked ROOM A. He slowed his pace as he reached it, willing himself to slow his breathing. He pulled the door handle and was relieved to feel it swing open. Quickly he ducked inside, where a conference was underway. A white-bearded man was speaking at a podium to an audience of perhaps fifty people. No one turned to look at him as he entered. Shah casually walked down the rows of folding chairs until he found one with an empty seat on the edge. He took it and waited.

The speaker was droning on about Dutch-American trade deficits. A man two rows up asked a question and a heated exchange followed. Shah looked around until he was certain no one was watching him. Then he scanned the room for exits behind the speaker. Saw a green lit EXIT sign on the left wall behind the small stage. He had no idea where it led, but sitting here would only buy him a few minutes at most.

Just before he got up, Shah caught himself smiling, a huge shit-eating grin on his face. He was living, wasn’t he? Goddamn if he wasn’t. For a while there, after he was terminated from The Company, he’d thought his life was destined to be a parade of drudgery; that he was ordained to live out his days doing mundane things until he was shoehorned into some nursing home where the highlight of his day was to be wheeled out into the hallway to sit for a couple of hours. He was exaggerating his fate, perhaps, a form of mental self-flagellation, yet that reality was on the spectrum of his possible fates. But here he was, every nerve ending pulsing with electricity.

And he was at least trying to do some good in the world, to help people. Thanks to OUTCAST, his life had purpose once again. If all he cared about was getting a cheap thrill he could go throw himself off a bridge tied to a bungee cord, or take up sky-diving or race car driving some other self-serving adrenaline junkie habit. But he wanted, as he always had during his twenty-year career at CIA, to help his country, to help people lead better lives.

He glanced at his watch, a gold Rolex with Roman numerals, and reminded himself that more Americans were likely to die in the next few hours if he and the rest of the team were not successful. He had personally failed his long-shot mission, that much was clear. So the hope now lay with Tanner in South Carolina, and with Dante, Naomi and Jasmijn in the lab.

Speaking of which, Shah thought, rising as the audience erupted in applause, it was time for him to get back there. As the talk concluded, those not hanging around to try and engage the speaker in a little post-talk one-on-one Q & A were streaming out of the room from two exits. Most left the same way Shah had come in-through the main double-doors out into the perimeter hallway. But a smaller crowd vacated by way of the single door at the rear left. Shah mingled in with this group and followed them through the exit.

It led to a short hallway with two elevators at one end and a stairwell at the other. He followed the group to the elevators and got in when the doors opened. A man pressed the B button and Shah rejoiced at his good luck. He remembered from his visits long ago that there was a basement parking garage. His car was parked above ground, but he would be able to reach the outside from the garage.

The elevator doors opened just as Shah realized that a man was asking him what he had thought of the talk.

He looked at him and nodded agreeably. “Most liberating.”

Shah saw the sliver of gray daylight and strode briskly toward it.

Waikiki Beach, Hawaii

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.”