by Rick Chesler
“Jasmijn? Is that you?”
The reply was prefaced with sniffling. “Yes. I’m sorry, I know it’s been years. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What’s going on? Are you okay?”
He didn’t mean the question to come from a relationship standpoint, and hoped that wasn’t what this was about. At the same time, she was once a close friend of his and he wanted to help.
“I’m…” She fell apart again. “I’m okay. But my lab assistant’s dead.”
Tanner sat up straighter in his desk chair. “When? What happened? Where are you?”
“A couple of hours ago. I couldn’t save him in time, Tanner. I tried…I tried so hard…It was so awful and horrible…”
“Jasmijn, where are you right now?”
“At my place in Netherlands.”
He’d never been there before, so he couldn’t picture it. But he could envision her face, her soft skin, sparkling blue eyes and silky blond hair.
“Slow down and tell me what happened from the beginning. Take a deep breath. Okay?”
She did. First she told him about her cancer research with STX and how lethal the stuff was. And then she related to him the masked terrorists breaking into her lab. Tanner interrupted to ask how many of them there were. He slid a notepad in front of him and picked up a scrimshaw pen made from whale ivory that she had given him many years before. He took notes as Jasmijn continued to lay out what had happened to her. He broke in at one point to ask if she could see their skin color.
“They were clad head to toe in black. The skin around some of their eyes was dark, some light, but they all spoke Dutch.”
Jasmijn went on as Tanner scratched on the pad. “The police came and took a standard report. They said they’re looking for the men. Officials from my university stopped by but they only seemed concerned about liability. They told me how my elevated security request for working with the modified STX hadn’t been approved yet.”
But Tanner was having trouble focusing. Dark skin, speak Dutch…terror…The name Hofstad rode the nerve impulses through his brain.
Although he was no longer with the FBI, Tanner Wilson was a veteran Special Agent having served for a dozen years — two as a field agent and then a decade as a counter-terror specialist. Though not as well known as Al Qaida, Hofstad had been committing local level acts of deadly terrorism from their base near The Hague, Netherland’s seat of government, for at least a decade. They had loose ties throughout Europe, and although the group was never at the top of Tanner’s watch lists while working in the FBI’s vaunted Counter-Terror division, they were usually on the list — somewhere near the bottom, perhaps even dropping off for a while, only to claw back up to the bottom rungs.
“Jasmijn, tell me more about STX. I’m not familiar with that. What is it?”
“Saxitoxin, a potent neurotoxin. It’s derived from marine microorganisms that cause paralytic shellfish poisoning. I was working with a genetically enhanced dinoflagellate population to influence the STX to target cancer cells, but it turns out all I really did was to make the toxin even more potent.” She told him about how all of her lab animals died from it.
“So how exactly did they kill your lab assistant with it?”
“They sprayed it on him from some kind of mister attached to the vat they transferred it to.”
The word aerosolized hopped on the neuron train in Tanner’s brain.
“And tell me exactly what your assistant’s symptoms were?” He immediately regretted the question as he heard her begin to cry softly.
“Never mind, that can wait if you—”
“No, it’s okay. If anyone can help me it would be you. You see, Tanner, I haven’t told you the worst of it yet. I didn’t call you just to cry on your shoulder. I’m in trouble.”
“Go on.”
He heard her take a measured breath. “As soon as they left, I called 1-1-2—that’s like 911 in your country — knowing it would do no good, since there is no known antidote for even naturally occurring STX, and mine is slightly modified. But I’ve been working off and on on an antidote — so as to understand this compound as thoroughly as possible, not to mention to create a safety factor for my own lab. As soon as they left I immediately set up my latest antidote samples — unproven samples that were simply the next iteration from the last batch that failed miserably. I had no other recourse. Even to set that up required almost twenty minutes and toward the end Nicolaas was convulsing on the floor, banging his feet, which had just been shot, into the lab benches. But I couldn’t stop to help him, I had to prepare—” She broke up into a crying jag. Tanner waited, consulting a device that displayed the security status of his home line as he did so.
Green light. So far so good.
“By the time I had the experimental antidote ready to administer, Nicolaas’ face was turning purple and he was unable to talk or move. I knew that he had mere seconds before his muscles were so paralyzed that he wouldn’t even be able to breathe. I injected him with the antidote, and then…” She choked back a sob.
“He didn’t make it,” Tanner finished for her.
“No! His eyes opened for a brief second and I thought, maybe — I—”
“You did your best.”
“The emergency responders arrived right after that. They tried to resuscitate him but it was no use.” She paused for a moment, composing herself, and then continued. “The terrorists said they’ll be back for me, Tanner, and when they come if I don’t have the working antidote ready, they’ll kill me. Probably with my own STX.”
“Jasmijn. Listen. This is very important. Did they say anything or give any kind of hints about what they were going to do with the STX?”
He heard snuffling sounds for a few seconds, and then, “No. Only that ‘the world will thank me for my good work,’ whatever that means.”
Jasmijn continued before Tanner could respond. “Tanner, this is bad. I’ve been working with STX for a long time. Ever since I saw a natural instance of STX become aerosolized on a beach one time, I knew I had to know more about it. It’s one of the most potent toxins in existence.”
“I’m familiar with STX as a potential bioweapon, but to my knowledge it hasn’t yet been able to be harnessed on a large scale. And I know lots of people get sick and even die from tainted shellfish that carry concentrated STX in their flesh.”
“Right, but believe me, Tanner, this is much, much worse than that. First of all, the tanks of the stuff were concentrated a hundred-fold over what even the most tainted shellfish would have. Even if a shellfish lived for ten years inside a potent red tide, it wouldn’t have nearly the concentration of STX that I was working with. And that was before I modified it in the lab. It killed Nicolaas in fourteen minutes, Tanner. Fourteen minutes. And I don’t think I can make the antidote within the terrorists’ timeframe. A week is not enough…”
“Forget about the antidote for now. You need to get to a safe place.”
He heard her sigh in frustration. “I was thinking of going to stay with my mother in the country, and then for some reason I decided to call you.”
“You did the right thing.” Tanner slid out a computer keyboard from his desk and tapped some keys. He brought up a file he had on Hofstad and started reading and viewing pictures of North African Muslims while he spoke. “But you won’t be safe at your mother’s.”
Silence greeted him from the other end of the line. “I…I don’t know where else to go, Tanner.” She paused for a moment before adding, “I’m not seeing anyone. All I do is work, and now my work is not safe.”
“You could come to the States and stay with me for a while. You’ll be safe here.” Tanner stared at the small bank of CCTV monitors on his wall that showed views of his front entrance, backyard and driveway.
“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.”
THREE
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.”
&n
bsp; 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.
FOUR
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.”
