Page 107 of The Presidents Shadow

I TILT MY head back. Way back, farther back than a man’s neck was ever designed to tilt. The rear of my neck could probably touch the tops of my shoulders.

Then, gazing hard at the sky, I raise my trumpet voice, my violent, angry, incredibly loud new voice.

This world does not belong to you!

Again I say: this world does not belong to you!

Nay. And nay. And nay again.

The world belongs to the good and noble who inhabit it.

You can dare to destroy it. But you will fail.

I will see to that!

I wait. The slap-slap-slap of the waves, the spatter of sea spray and the drumming of rain on the top deck, squawking sea hawks, their sounds all suddenly seem to disappear. For the first time ever I understand the phrase the silence was deafening.

Is this insane silence a fantasy inside my head? Or is this the response of the madman I want to lure into battle? If this is his response, it is insulting. I deserve more. I deserve an opponent who will face me.

I bring my head back up to its upright position. My next action is an attempt to confirm that Ambrose or Khan or Satan or whoever is behind the scourge of the world has received my challenge.

Only the just will command the world.

Control will live only with the good.

And then I flatly and loudly and threateningly announce:

Destroy me if you dare.

Destroy me if you can.

It is then that all sound and fury return. The ocean begins to roil. The clouds dissolve and then re-form, new clouds following the same pattern. They, too, dissolve, then they, too, reappear.

But this is merely the beginning.

I have predicted that the enemy might retaliate against my furious threats by causing the oceans to suck me into a churning vortex. In my mind, the skies will turn black with adversarial action, the floor of the sea will crack open, much as they did during the attacks on Kyoto and Copenhagen.

But Dache has warned me in the past, Rarely trust your instincts. Always trust your brain. This, the worst challenge of my life, will prove that my wise teacher is always wise.

The dark sky begins to brighten. Each and every cloud dissipates, and a dazzling yellow light bathes the battleship, the water, the sky itself. The comforting sounds of nature—birdsong and gentle winds—replace the eerie quiet.

None of this new environment calms me.

This understanding does not come from an instinct. Rather, it comes from my brain, and from so many lifetimes of battling evil.

I have been allowed a few seconds of reprieve, but I know it only means that my enemy is preparing to attack. Yet again, it is nothing I might have predicted.

The yellow sky begins to fade, but not to a lighter hue.

It seems the enemy has flipped a switch that infuses the heavens to explode with an intense orange.

The orange seems to join with the ever-fading yellow, and to my amazement the firmament changes from orange to a deep bloodred.

The red turns scarlet, and the scarlet becomes burgundy, and then… the water, the water, the water.

The small, safe waves grow into swells that expand higher and wider. I have no control over them. They climb above me, an enormous weight of water gathered together. How high are the new waves? My estimate is three hundred feet. And climbing.

The battleship lurches wildly from the unbridled power of the ocean.

My battleship turns and tilts beneath my feet.

With growing fear, I watch the wave reach its zenith—and then fall back toward the earth…

toward me. Yes, then it happens—this war-tested twelve-thousand-ton pile of strength capsizes completely.

I am now underwater. And I am now fighting for my life.