The Poseidon Initiative (3 page)

“Oh, Tanner, I don’t know, I—”

“It’s no inconvenience at all. I’m not seeing anyone, either, so I’ve got plenty of room here. I’ve got a spare bedroom you can use, you can use my phone — yours might be compromised, but don’t worry, I’ve got safeguards on my end that’ll take care of that for this call. But don’t use your phones — personal or lab — after this call.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll make your flight arrangements.”

Sun Life Stadium, Miami, Florida

In the subterranean labyrinth of tunnels beneath the stadium, Pablo Guitierez sat inside the rear work area of a special production truck that contained equipment needed to put on the halftime show. He was testing an image projector when he heard footsteps approach the open back of the truck behind him. Fellow employee Alec Schmidt walked up to the ramp into the truck, which was dimly lit inside by banks of closed circuit monitors showing the football field, as well as blinking LEDs on various pieces of equipment.

Pablo turned around to acknowledge Alec before quickly resuming his work. It was way too close to showtime to be needing assistance, but Pablo did his best to keep his cool and give the guy a break. Alec was hired only a couple of months ago and was still learning the ropes. “What do you need, Alec?”

The newcomer looked about the truck, including through the thin window into the cab, which he could see was empty. Glancing once behind him, he pulled a three-inch Kershaw folding blade from his front right pocket and stepped up to Pablo, who was hunched over the projector.

“Is the projector working?” He leaned over him while he worked.

“Yeah, it’s good to go, why?”

“I need to put a new slide set in.” The projected images that were used as part of the show were carefully curated and approved beforehand.

“Whoa, nobody told me about any new—”

Pablo never finished his sentence.

“Alec Schmidt” reached out and drew his blade across Pablo’s undefended neck. He made a weird gasping noise that Alec could swear came from the open neck wound itself and not his mouth, and then began to flail in blind panic, far too late.

Alec held his victim’s left arm down with his own, and then used the crook of his right elbow to smother Pablo’s mouth, both to prevent his death cries from being heard and to hasten his demise by smothering the life from him. Once he was still, he released him and allowed his body to slump to the floor.

“Thanks, Pablo, I’ll just swap the slides out myself.” Alec removed a USB drive from the projector and inserted his own in its place. That piece of business concluded, he turned his attention to other matters.

In this same rear area of the truck was a tarp covered bundle he’d carefully hidden there the night before. He went to it and threw back the tarp.

Yes!
Still there. He picked up a small metal container that looked a lot like a thermos, along with a respirator mask. He walked with them outside to the golf cart he’d been driving around the tunnels. On the back of the cart was a large plastic tank of water that was used to create mist for a special effect during the show that would allow for images to be projected onto a thin film of water droplets, so that they appeared to materialize from thin air.

Alec scanned his surroundings. When he determined no one was coming, he unfastened the tank’s lid. Then he hurriedly donned the biohazard mask and carefully opened the container that looked like a thermos but was many times more sturdy, able to shield its contents from both great shocks as well as wide temperature swings. He poured the contents of the metal container in to the larger tank on the cart. He carefully screwed the thermos lid back in place and returned it to its place beneath the tarp in the truck. Then he refastened the lid on the water tank and got back behind the wheel of the cart.

* * *

“Alec! Hey Alec! Where are you going with that? That tank should be on the field already.” Stephanie Parrish trotted down a concrete tunnel beneath the stadium toward her employee. Her ponytail bobbed beneath a Miami Dolphins ball cap as she bounced along. Always full of energy, as the manager for the production company responsible for putting on the stadium’s halftime show, she kept in shape and it showed in her short but toned figure.

The young man was driving an electric cart with a tank of liquid on the back. He greeted her with an enthusiastic wave. “Hi, boss. There was a problem with the tank for the mister — it had a crack in it after we set it up, so I told Antonio I’d be back quick with another one. This is it.”

Stephanie looked at her sports watch.. These type of problems were par for the course for her in the five years she’d been doing this job. She even took a second to glance at her pedometer reading
(9,500 steps so far today — even more than usual — I’ll lose those five pounds in no time
!) before noting the time.

“Okay, Alec. Step on it, though. We’re on air in less than five minutes!”

“Yes ma’am.” Alec nodded and took off in the cart down the tunnel.

High above in the broadcast booth inside the stadium, a sportscaster ushered out the first half of the game. “And it looks to be another disappointing first half for the Dolphins, Bret, as we head in to halftime here on
Monday Night Football
. We’ll be back after these words from our sponsor with first half highlights and the Sun Life halftime show.”

On the field, a marching band and cheerleaders walked out in formation and started through a routine. A few minutes in and the overhead lights dimmed, casting the stadium into momentary blackness before a series of effects lights ringing the field blinked on. The band stopped and electronic music played through the stadium’s PA system.

From an elevated platform in the center of the field, a commercial grade mister ejected an invisible plume of liquid droplets high into the air. A slight wind blew through the open air venue, which the operator compensated for by increasing the spray volume and nozzle direction.

As the music built to a crescendo a technician turned on the projector. A gigantic image of a Miami Dolphins football helmet rotated slowly in mid-air, seemingly appearing out of nothing. Its shape shifted slightly with gusts of wind, but quickly coalesced. The crowd cheered. Additional performers took the field and the show continued.

About four minutes into it, the first screams came from the sideline facing the oncoming wind. Confusion reigned initially, those within earshot of the wailing under the false impression that the drama might be part of the performance. When six cheerleaders fell to the ground in mid-routine, a lifeless tangled heap of skin, pom-poms and glitter, a public address request for medical personnel brayed over the show’s audio track.

As a medic team drove out onto the field in a cart normally used to haul off injured players, the holographic image began to morph from the football helmet into something else. A new shape materialized, indistinct at first but solidifying by the second, until, unbelievably, a massive human figure stood at the fifty yard line, its head reaching halfway to the nosebleed seats.

More frantic shouting rent the air as more and more bodies dropped.

In the broadcast booth, the announcer went live on the air. “Well I don’t know about you, Brett, but I think this is the first time in my career I’ve had to interrupt a halftime show. But…there seems to be some confusion in the stadium…I’m getting word that people have fallen ill. And what’s this — this image forming now?”

Midfield, the 3D image had solidified to an unmistakable rendering of a man with a long, flowing beard, clutching a trident.

The other announcer chimed in. “If I didn’t know any better, Brett — and I caution that I may not — I’d say that was the Greek god, Poseidon. God of the sea?”

There was a pause filled with terrified shouts as the co-announcer thought about this. “I would agree with you, Brett.”

“The Dolphins are from the sea and this is their God, is that it?” The co-anchor speculated.

“No idea, Fred, but right now I don’t see why they aren’t stopping the show. There are people seriously ill down there on the field — spectators, fans, players, cheerleaders.”

“Seems to be affecting those on the lower levels, and closest to mid-field.”

In the broadcast booth an employee rushed to shut the windows and vents.

Far below them in the tunnel system, no one paid any attention to production assistant Alec Schmidt as he drove his golf cart out of the stadium to a nondescript sedan.

Virginia Beach, Virginia

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.”