by Jenny Goebel
If there were plans to restrict shipping traffic, then he was betting that at least some of the larger, slower-moving ships had been given prior notification. If he could somehow set off the fireworks early, perhaps it would alert the cargo-ship captains, and they’d start bringing their boats into port. And if the big guys were moving in, Dan imagined that all the little tugs, fishing boats, and pontoons would follow.
Nervously grinding his teeth, he searched the waterway. The barbecuing family was puttering farther out to sea. He inhaled sharply. Admittedly, his fireworks plan was a long shot, but he had to try something.
Pulling out his cell phone, Dan noticed that five more minutes had vaporized. He set an alarm for noon and the countdown began.
35 minutes.
Dan’s chest tightened. If I were a fireworks shell, where would I be? he asked himself as he surveyed the grounds outside the visitor center.
It was hard not to notice all the people still streaming down the sidewalk. And who could blame them? It was a bright, sunny day and a national holiday, after all. If Dan wasn’t a Cahill, he’d be doing the same exact thing.
The old adage that “ignorance is bliss” popped into his brain. But he couldn’t entirely swallow the thought. If a fight for his life was coming down the pipeline, he’d want to know. He’d want to be able to do something.
A woman wearing a vibrant orange dress and carrying a saxophone case beneath her arm caught his eye.
“ ‘Live band,’ ” Dan said musingly. Perhaps this woman was one of the musicians playing “Het Wilhelmus” during the fireworks display. He did his best to dissolve into the background. Then, merging with the pedestrian traffic, he silently followed the saxophone player down the sidewalk.
Find the band, find the fireworks.
He trailed the musician for a block and a half before the woman stopped at a shady spot alongside the canal. Then she flipped open her case on the ground and pulled out a shiny brass instrument. After placing a cardboard sign that read TIPS on the concrete in front of her, she began playing.
Dan silently cursed himself for wasting time.
30 minutes.
Time was ticking away and he was no closer to finding the shells. Despairingly, he spun on his heel, looking for any sign of where the fireworks might be. It was then that he noticed a small hill just beyond the visitor center.
Considering that so much of the land was well below sea level, high points were pretty scarce. The hill might just be the perfect place to set up the display. Dan squinted. Through the people and trees, Dan could almost make out a row of rudimentary plywood frames, plastic tubes, and jumbles of wire. They looked like the type of makeshift materials that shells could be launched from. His feet pounded the pavement again, this time at full speed.
A chain-link fence encircled the hillside. As Dan drew near he took a running leap. Lodging his sneakers between the links, he scrambled the remaining distance to the top, then hurled his body over the side.
25 minutes.
He sprinted for the apex.
At the highest point he found endless rows of steel tubes, supported by sand and wooden racks spread out before him. The tubes were locked in firing position. Wires ran like blood-filled veins from each tube to separate circuit boards attached to each rack.
When Dan dashed to the first circuit board, he found a cable running from it to a tangle of other cables leading away from their corresponding boards.
It reminded him of the webs of canals in Amsterdam: branching out and flowing in a multitude of directions, but all originating at a single source. The canals all led back to the sea. Dan was guessing that the cables led to some sort of firing mechanism. All he had to do was follow the line of cables.
He tracked the twist of cables to a steel blast shield. Behind it sat the main firing control panel. Hope tugged at him as he tried to make heads or tails of all the buttons. He just had to figure out how to turn the panel on, and then he’d let the shells rip.
“Wie bent U? Stoppen!” someone yelled.
Dan glanced up to see an irate man in a hard hat running toward him from a panel truck parked just over the ridge of the hill. “Whoa, take it easy,” Dan said, raising his hands and acting like he wasn’t just about to press every button on the panel.
“Get away from there!” the man said, switching from Dutch to English. He was only about ten feet from the fireworks pods and closing the gap between them quickly.
Dan’s eyes darted to the man’s hard hat and then back to the firing panel. “Sorry I have to do this to you, dude.” He dove behind the blast wall. As fast as his fingers could operate, he threw the switches.
“DUCK!” Dan screamed right before the first shell erupted from its steel tube. It made a hollow phruump sound as it left the cannon, a swishhhh as it rocketed into the sky, followed by sizzles and crackles, then BANG! as it discharged directly overhead.
Then it happened over and over again in rapid succession—grand finale times ten.
The sound was deafening, painful almost, as it rattled inside him. The air popped. Smoke and sparks engulfed the hillside. Dan’s eyes burned and he choked on the thick gray clouds. Being this close was like being stuck in a war zone with explosives detonating all around him. It was electrifying and scary. And he hoped it worked.
At some point he’d switched from pressing buttons to using his hands as earmuffs. With his ears still covered, and with gunpowder and sparkles still bursting in the sky, he peeked out from behind the blast wall.
The man was flat on the ground, using his arms for added protection over the hard hat. But he was slowly inching forward, army crawling his way toward Dan.
20 minutes.
Dan dropped his hands from his ears and slid the panel off his lap. He’d just deployed twenty minutes’ worth of fireworks in less than a minute. If that hadn’t been enough to draw the ships into the harbor, he wasn’t sure what would.
Before the man could grab hold of him, Dan jumped to his feet and tore down the hillside. As he raced back toward the fence, he could see a cargo ship moving through the gates, and the family’s pontoon boat behind it.
“Yes!” he screamed, and fist-pumped at the sky.
He could also see that the crescent-shaped buoyant arms of the Maeslantkering were entering the waterway. He fist-pumped the sky a second time. Cara had hacked the computer and the gates were closing. Still, as they inched toward each other, he was aware of the tick of the clock. The gates were moving so slowly. What if they didn’t shut in time? Then he caught sight of something that caused his stomach to leap into his throat. Just beyond the arms of the barrier, in the mouth of the Schenr River, a small fishing boat was having engine trouble.
The boat was dead in the water.
Nieuwe Waterweg, the Netherlands
15 minutes to detonation.
Don’t think, just act, Dan told himself. If he let what could happen sink in—that heading out on the waterway meant he might not come back—he’d never do what needed to be done. So he gave in to instinct.
He charged for the stolen speedboat left docked along the riverside. His motions were deft and sure as he untied the boat and jumped aboard.
12 minutes.
The engine hummed to life when Dan started the ignition and roared when he hit the throttle. Once again, he raced against traffic as he wound his way out to the sea.
10 minutes.
As he neared the shutting arms, an oil tanker blocked his way. Dan veered around it, cutting dangerously close to the ship’s stern as he slipped the speedboat between the tanker and the gates.
The captain of the boat laid on the horn.
8 minutes.
Dan ignored the blare ringing in his ears. He ignored the ocean spray wetting his cheeks and the jarring bounce of the boat on the waves as he sped into open water. He only cared about one thing: getting to the fishing boat before the surge came.
6 minutes.
When he closed in on the small vessel, Dan saw
a fisherman leaning over the back of the boat, messing with the outboard motor. The motor was smoking and sputtering in the water but refused to turn over. A second fisherman stood at the helm, barking orders to the man tinkering with the engine.
4 minutes.
Cutting the ignition, Dan drifted up beside them. However, he couldn’t halt the wake, and the fishermen’s boat jostled in the water. They quickly flashed him angry glares, then ignored him entirely.
Dan forced his face muscles into a smile. Panic caused people to behave in unpredictable ways. No need to further upset the fishermen if he didn’t have to.
3 minutes.
“Hi there!” Dan said, keeping his tone cheerful even though fear was running his insides through a meat grinder. The two kept their attention focused on the malfunctioning motor. “Looks like you’re having some trouble. Can I give you a lift?” Dan offered.
“Nee!” the man behind the wheel shouted back at him. Without so much as another glance in Dan’s direction, the fisherman waved him off.
2 minutes.
“Look. You’ve got to come with me now,” Dan said, still trying to play it cool. Then he added under his breath, “The sea is about to get super turbulent.” A few waves, small in comparison to the ones he knew were coming, rocked the boat. The fishermen didn’t move.
They had just precious seconds left. Dan didn’t want to waste the last moments of his life bickering with strangers. And his panic was making it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. His knees felt weak as he contemplated his next move.
1 minute.
“Seriously, dudes, I don’t want to leave without you. If you’re coming, we need to get out of here, like, pronto,” Dan said a bit more forcefully. “The gates are almost closed, and trust me, we don’t want to be on this side when they lock into place.”
Something about the quaver in Dan’s voice must have finally piqued the fishermen’s interest. They both stopped what they were doing and glanced up. The younger of the two looked past Dan. Eyes widening, and mouth flopping open, he pointed at the moving gates of the surge barrier.
Noon.
The North Sea erupted.
The air cracked and tingled before the boom reached Dan’s ears. Absolutely everything shuddered as an enormous fist of water thrust its way forth from the sea. Although it was hundreds of feet away, Dan could feel the underwater explosion inside his chest. He tasted salt and smelled the dank, moist air as the line between water and sky blurred.
The fishermen’s heads swiveled on their necks. Their faces registered every bit of shock Dan was feeling. Behind a ring of dark water, a plume rose higher and higher in the heavens, building up and out, until it hung like an ominous cauliflower-shaped cloud thousands of feet in the air.
It was just like the videos he’d watched, and Dan knew that no force was strong enough to fight gravity forever. The base surge of water droplets would reach them first. But then a hollow column of water rising within the plume would fall, crashing and tangling as it again met the sea. All the compression and expansion would cause a rising swell. A series of powerful and destructive waves would follow. Dan’s gut was ice. “GO!” he shrieked.
The men launched themselves from one vessel to the next just as a small wave rocked Dan’s boat and pushed it a slight distance.
The first man caught one hand on the gunwale cleat and heaved himself up out of the water and into the boat. The second lost his grip and was dunked under by the starboard side. Dan plunged both hands deep into the chilly water, locking them around the flailing man’s wrists, as a spray of water blasted him in the face.
On the horizon the enormous column began its descent. As it fell, the column displaced the water beneath it. The result was a circular, ring-shaped wall, dispelled in all directions. It would overcome them in a matter of seconds, taking the powerboat into its fold and sweeping it to the bottom of the sea.
As soon as he’d yanked the second man into the boat, Dan flipped the key over in the ignition. The boat revved to life and Dan spun the bow around so that it pointed directly at the narrowing gap between the closing gates.
The mist created by the surge caught up to them. Rain pelted Dan’s skin and blurred his vision. He didn’t dare turn to look, but he sensed the wall of water bearing down on the motor. A giant wave was on their tail. The stern of the boat pitched upward in the water just as Dan bore down on the throttle. There was a moment of weightlessness. Then, instead of being pulled to the depths, the motor propelled them upward until they were riding just beneath the swell of the immense wave.
Dan felt like a fly on the back of a storming beast. He felt tiny and powerless. They were hurtling toward the closing gates, unable to stop now even if they wanted to. A new fear rose inside him. They were going to be crushed against the enormous, clamping arms.
The fishermen hollered at him in Dutch. Roaring waves, thundering rain, and the sound of his thumping heart muted their words. But despite the background noise and the language barrier, he could tell by the lilt in their voices that they were hysterical. The unshaven fisherman moved forward in the jouncing boat. He grabbed Dan by the shoulder, then gestured wildly at the Maeslantkering. “Nee! Nee! De Poorten!”
“It’s okay, we’re going to make it,” Dan said, knowing full well that, more than anything, he was trying to convince himself. The gap between the curved steel walls already looked way too small, and they were still thirty … twenty … a mere ten feet away. “Hold on!” he shouted.
Dan shut his eyes and cranked a hard left on the steering wheel. The speedboat tipped sharply in the direction he’d turned, skimming the water on the port side only.
The belly of the boat scraped against the steel arm with a terrible screeeeeeeech!
Dan could hear the windshield shatter, and he ducked down and braced himself as shards of glass flew overhead. The earsplitting gnash and grate of metal on metal was nearly unbearable as the gates clipped the motor and it died.
A loud BANG resounded in the air and the boat plummeted as it rolled off the crest of the wave and fell into the canal. Dan’s eyes whipped open as he and the two men were thrown from the boat and plunged toward the water. They splashed down hard, and for a second Dan’s world was nothing but a cold rush of dark and white water. He kicked and struggled against the river, his lungs constricting, until his head broke the surface. One fisherman popped up next to him, and then an agonizing few seconds later, the other one did, too.
They were both sheet white—like two wet ghosts—as the current pushed the three of them and the boat downstream.
Behind them, the arms of the Maeslantkering were rapidly filling with water and sinking into place. The bang they’d heard was the sound of the gates locking shut.
Dan braced himself for the onslaught of waves. When nothing more than a harmless spray sloshed over the top of the barrier, he nearly choked with relief. The tsunami had been held at bay, and Team A was to thank.
Airspace above Nieuwe Waterweg, the Netherlands
“Did it ever occur to you to shower before picking me up?” the Outcast sneered. He wasn’t fond of spending time in close quarters with Magnus Hansen—even when personal hygiene wasn’t in question. However, he was fond of killing two birds with one stone.
Magnus was piloting the Outcast’s helicopter, and the bag containing the Clues that Magnus had stolen rested at the Outcast’s feet. And, thanks to the helicopter’s domed windows, the Outcast had just been treated to a glorious front-row viewing of all the excitement in the Nieuwe Waterweg.
The column that had risen from the sea had been tremendous. The wall of water it had driven toward the canal was horrifyingly grand. And Dan’s gallant race to bring the fishermen safely into harbor before the gates closed had been a real nail-biter.
Grace would have been proud of her grandson. But not of me, the Outcast thought. Resentment churned in his stomach. Long after her death, Grace’s opinion of him still mattered. Her judgment ate at him like acid.
It was simple enough. People needed direction. Whether they knew it or not, they yearned to be dominated. But when he’d pulled back the veneer and revealed his tactics to the one person whose love actually counted, he’d been rejected. It haunted him still.
In their early years, there’d been a synchrony to his and Grace’s actions that everyone envied. Their hopes and ideals had been the same. It was merely their differing styles of execution that got in the way.
The Outcast felt a twang of longing for what could have been. Grace here beside him, watching their grandson’s valiant efforts. Discussing how best to mold the boy. Courage and tenacity were in Dan’s DNA. So was a penchant for corruptibility.
If Grace had only understood the bigger picture, they could have built a legacy together. But she’d never been able to get past the destruction, the tearing down of ideas and people, the tactical deceit necessary to diminish, and then the final caress that reshaped minds and futures. The Outcast was erecting something better, something stronger than any Cahill had ever known. But first he had to break the Cahill family, and then the world.
As for whether or not the Netherlands ever met devastation to rival that of Hurricane Katrina’s, the Outcast had never truly cared. What he wanted was chaos, and that’s what he got. While others succumbed to the fear he caused and the disorder around them, he would gain control.
As Magnus flew the chopper away from the waterway they met a search and rescue helicopter headed the opposite direction. The Outcast waved.
The pilot did not wave back. He was terror-stricken—just one more person looking for a way to find meaning in senseless tragedy. It was beautiful.
The Outcast would show them the way.
Magnus flipped on the helicopter’s radio and the Outcast listened attentively as news reports began to trickle in. The unsuspecting people of the Netherlands were reeling. They didn’t know what had hit them and could only speculate how much worse it would’ve been if the Maeslantkering hadn’t closed. Little did they know, they were merely disposable chess pieces in the greatest game ever played.
