Page 116 of The Presidents Shadow

AS ALWAYS, OUR plan is designed to be as efficient as possible.

We break into two teams: Margo and Burbank are one team, Jericho and I the other.

Dr. DaSilva will remain to guard the vital vaccine bundle and to stay in constant touch with both her laboratory in California and Maddy, Hawkeye, Jessica, and Tapper in New York.

As a simple first step, Jericho and I will walk south; Margo and Burbank will head north. So we split up.

Our mountain, as explained, is not much of a mountain, but it is slippery with patches of mud and wet greenery.

A thick mist begins to fill the air, and the temperature feels like it’s climbing.

Jericho and I remain comfortable and enthusiastic.

Are we afraid? Of course we are. Or, better put, I know that I am anxious.

That being reported, I believe we all feel more secure because of the fortification from Dr. DaSilva’s vaccine.

Jericho and I have very helpful devices at our disposal.

Our handheld equipment supplies us with notifications of any human presence, change in soil type, or variations in oxygen and carbon dioxide levels.

Our device also keeps us connected to Margo and Burbank on their exploration, as well as Dr. DaSilva back at the camp.

As Jericho and I walk quietly but quickly around the jungle passages, thick with vegetation, I tell him that, at any time, I am ready to shape-change when it serves our purposes. I can become and will become a wildebeest, an electric drill, a falling rubber tree, a drop of acid rain.

“Good to know,” he says with a trace of a smile. I am assuming that his comment is meant to be amusing, not sarcastic. But I am so anxious about our mutual adventure that I can’t be completely sure. Stay calm, Lamont.

Still no sign of animal life. I mention this to Jericho. And he agrees. It is perplexing.

We have been exploring for a little more than an hour when we notice a small stretch of land—not more than four feet long—that is… completely barren. All we see is a combination of mud and gray pebbles.

I try to imagine that this is a path, a clue, a direction. But as we carefully investigate the area around the empty barren land, we find nothing helpful. So we walk some more. A quarter mile. A half mile. A mile.

I receive a message from Margo.

Nothing so far. You guys?

I reply.

Same as you. Nothing.

Then a sound. Both Jericho and I hear it—a strange, weak bleat. Yes, bleat is the proper word. Perhaps a large injured bird. An ostrich? An ibis?

“Over there,” Jericho says.

He points to his right, and there, standing still and bleating, is a goat.

The goat walks slowly and calmly away from us, completely disinterested. We follow the animal for five or ten yards. Then it suddenly stops in front of a crude, jagged entrance carved into the side of the mountain.

The opening is large enough for a person to pass in and out of. And that is exactly what happens.

As Jericho and I approach the cave opening, we hear human sounds: a cough, a throat clearing, the scratch of shoes against the dry ground.

And then… a skinny young man emerges.

The young man can be no older than twenty. He wears black-framed eyeglasses. He wears tan Bermuda shorts and a white T-shirt.

We see him. He sees us. We are surprised. He is not.

He speaks. His voice is soft, almost a whisper.

“I’m Glenn Ambrose,” he says. Then he adds, “I think you may be looking for me.”