Page 68 of The Presidents Shadow
THE PARACHUTES ALL deploy; I wait to jump last and see all three balloon into life below me.
The jolt of the chute after I pull the ripcord feels as though I’m being yanked roughly upward, knocking the air from my lungs.
After that, it’s almost pleasant. I glide through the air, taking in the New York City skyline.
But that all changes when I realize what’s about to happen.
The cargo plane shudders on, dropping rapidly as it is programmed to do.
I keep my eye on the three chutes below me, unable to tell who is who.
One of them hits the water, the chute floating for a moment—then sinking.
I can see a human figure flailing, and then it goes under, dragged down by the chute.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I say. But I can’t fall faster.
I concentrate deeply, then send an enormous amount of mind power in their direction, pulling the sinking person above water. I see their hands scrabbling—I don’t know if it’s Margo, Tapper, or Burbank—but they are able to free themselves from the chute and swim away as their gear sinks once again.
The plane, meanwhile, has rapidly lost altitude.
It hits the water of the bay, sending up an enormous wall of water that is only going to give the swimmer more trouble.
But that’s not the biggest problem. Margo was right—the fuel tanks on the plane were quite full, and the plane explodes on impact, sending a percussive wave of hot air in all directions.
I’m immediately blown out to sea, and I spot the other two chutes struggling as well.
One of the jumpers cuts themselves free of their gear and free-falls the rest of the way to the water.
I steady my own chute with my mind powers, watching as the last chute makes it to the water and the human figure swims away, safe.
Now I can see all three of my team below me, swimming for the shore.
The mind connection I’d built between all of us is strong, but in some ways it’s only making matters worse.
I can feel their pain, their fear, and the weakening of their bodies as they try to make it to land.
I send a last pulse of mind power at the trio, creating a small wave that pushes them to the shore, just as my own feet hit water.
I slip easily from my chute and glide to shore, feeling the collective relief of my team as I do.
I gain my feet and walk to them across the surf.
Margo, Tapper, and Burbank are wet and shaking from the cold, but no one seems to be hurt, thank God.
Margo even manages a smile for me. “Next time, Lamont—a better plan would be nice.”
It’s a miracle that we all survive, and it turns out that New York City, in its own way, is also a miracle.
The city has so far remained untouched by the horrors that are destroying so many other parts of the world.
New York has no beds full of sick and dying people like in Australia, no half-mile-high tons of rubble like in Kyoto, no rushing water flooding the streets like Copenhagen.
“Who would have predicted that New York would turn out to be a beacon of stability and peace?” says Margo as we make our way back to our home.
“Too soon,” Tapper says, as he comes to an abrupt halt.
It seems that Margo and the rest of us misread the situation.
A crowd of about fifty people are gathered directly in front of our house. They all push and shove one another, trying to get as close as they can to the entrance of my home.
Burbank is first with the obvious question. “What the hell is going on?”
Then we get our answer. Sort of. One man in the crowd points toward us and yells, “There they are. It’s Cranston and his people! They’re right here! They can’t hide!”
Suddenly, the crowd moves toward us. Everyone is yelling. Questions pepper the air.
“How did you let this all happen, assholes?”
“Do you have a plan to fight back, to stop it?”
“How could such a holy redeemer do such an awful thing?”
I cannot figure out the meaning behind these questions. And I certainly don’t have time. I’ve got to get us through this mini-mob. We’ve got to be safe if we’re going to fix anything.
I force my brain into a strict, structured control mode, even though I’m already so weary from saving everyone during the water landing.
Damnit. I need this to work. Fast. Keep it going, Lamont. Keep it going. Stay focused.
Finally, a narrow pathway seems to be forming through the crowd.
People are suddenly, unexpectedly, backing up.
They look surprised, taken aback by their own movements, which isn’t all that shocking, considering they aren’t in control of their bodies anymore—I am.
The four of us take advantage and walk quickly through the newly cleared pathway. But the screaming does not stop.
“Cranston, do you accept the responsibility for this plague?”
“Responsibility? Are you insane?” I yell back.
Another voice. “Are you planning to destroy the world, just so you can save it?”
The voices gather, coming together in unison, shouting, “ Damn Cranston! Damn Cranston! ” I see another crowd of maybe a hundred people approaching from the other direction, all of them carrying cameras and microphones.
“Oh, great,” Margo mutters. “Reporters. We’ve got to get through before they block us completely.”
One of the marchers, a woman, breaks from the group and rushes toward us. She seems to be aiming at me specifically. I’ve never seen a professional running back this determined or vicious-looking. As I move out of her way, I hear another reporter shouting at us.
“Just tell us the truth, Cranston. What’s your plan?”
“Funny,” Burbank says under his breath. “We were asking the same thing just an hour ago.”
We are only a few feet away from the entrance to the house when the front door suddenly opens. Jessica holds the door, beckoning for us to make a break for it to escape the mob.
The four of us rush inside. Tapper slams the door shut. Bando runs through the group, giving Tapper and Burbank inquisitive sniffs, rubbing against Margo’s legs, and panting happily in my direction.
“Welcome back to New York City,” Jessica says. “You may find your reputation here is greatly changed.”