Page 70 of The Presidents Shadow

Then, just as unexpectedly as it began, the flashing stops. Everything returns to normal, or, at least, everything seems normal.

“Let’s get back to our planning,” says Margo, who is now closely studying her handheld electronic device. Then she adds, “By my estimations of wind velocity and our destination latitude, I can calculate our arrival time. We are less than an hour from Dubai.”

CHAPTER 92

WE DO OUR best to relax for the rest of the flight and discuss our plans for locating Maddy in Dubai. Tapper, Hawkeye, and Burbank individually have laid some significant groundwork. Burbank has been in touch with important French and Lebanese archaeological experts who have been excavating an ancient underground network of tunnels and caves that extend from about five meters from central Dubai to the Jumeirah Mosque. It is an access route that could provide shelter and a hiding place if necessary.

There is both great anxiety and some hope in our discussions for finding Maddy. You see, to put it simply, a world without our Maddy is no world at all. Of all the mysterious problems I’ve helped control, this one is, understandably, closest to my heart, closest to Margo’s heart. As for Grandma Jessica’s feelings? When we bid her farewell, her eyes filled with tears.

“Just get my girl home” is all she said. Those words echo through my mind as we await our arrival in Dubai.

And, although Tapper, Hawkeye, and Burbank have, with their hard work and keen intelligence, set up some assistance for us, the fact is we will be running more scared than we usually do.

Suddenly, we hear a loud beeping sound. Loud? It grows even louder. Almost earache-inducing levels of loud. We all stand up fast, and Tapper points to the panel of lights and knobs. The blue button that we observed earlier is once again flashing brightly and quickly. The beeping noise is in sync with the flashing light.

I rush to the video screen nearest the light panel and randomly slam and push as many buttons as I can. To no avail. Yet when I stop my haphazard assault on the panel, the video screen below the panel comes to life. I’ve accidentally done something right. Now I can see, on the screen, a gray boxlike object with neat blue stripes. Since it is in isolation against a black background, I have no way to know how small or large the thing is. It could almost be a birthday present, a beautiful gift box floating through a nighttime sky.

But something tells me this is a present no one would want to receive.

Margo, Tapper, Hawkeye, and Burbank all begin talking at once. Whatever force weakened my powers before, I have been feeling better since we took off. I try to channel my anxiety into strength, into focus, but I am overwhelmed by emotion, and emotion is not a wise way to aid my powers.

The video screen suddenly flashes a message.

MALICIOUS ORGANIC/NONORGANIC MATERIAL APPROACHING

“It’s a chemical attack missile,” I yell.

“How do you know?” asks Tapper.

I have no time to answer. The video screen displays another message.

ACCESS B-19 COUNTER

“Over here,” shouts Burbank, who is standing a few feet away from the video screen and flashing blue light.

Sure enough. The moment we join him we see what he sees: a small dial, the size of a child’s hand. The dial, marked B-19, is pulsating. Clearly this is the device to launch some action against the blue-striped box, which is hurtling toward our aircraft.

Damn you, Townsend, you lying bastard!

Burbank tries turning the dial.

“It’s loose,” he announces. “I can’t turn the damn thing.”

Tapper steps in and pushes Burbank’s hand away.

It is then that I decide that I absolutely must call on whatever power I can conjure up. I dig deep. I wish for every power I’ve ever had, wished for, or even daydreamed about. I ask inside myself for the peace of Dache, the joy of helping the good, destroying the evil.

Then suddenly the hideous beeping noise stops. Yet the aircraft we are riding in begins to shake and then tips violently from side to side. It now looks like every light on every panel in the aircraft is flashing.

I keep trying to adjust myself to a state of mental control, to physical strength.

“Do something, sir!” Hawkeye shouts.

I am trying. I am trying. This is no exaggeration: I think I might actually burst.

I watch as Margo reaches in and grabs hold of the dial.

She does not struggle. She does not strain. She does not cry out. The dial turns under her hand as easily as if she were drawing bathwater.

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