Superpowers 1: Superguy

by T. Jackson King

  He kept his eyes on Ramsay. “Leonard, you know all the NCTC and Quantico people. Are there any BAU people in this room? Anyone on loan from Quantico?”

  Relief showed in Ramsay’s face. “Yes, Deputy Director Steinbach. Over by you is seated Special Agent Ethel Lowenstein. She is a member of BAU One.”

  Andrew felt relief. The woman’s expertise was in analysis of counterterrorism, arson and bombing as part of BAU One. He met the gaze of an older woman whose gray hair was tied into a bun on top of her head.

  “Agent Lowenstein, do you have any explanation for how that man with the green bandana could disappear in midair? Or cause a ball of flame to appear in front of him? Or be able to lift the second jihadist without touching him?”

  The room went almost quiet as most of the 27 agents in the room stopped talking, typing or interacting with each other. Richardson, Ramsay and Whitson looked toward Andrew, intensely focused on him and the agent.

  She sat back from her desktop computer screen, which showed the hostages being led to the south end of the room and being guided over the sheet metal that covered the blast hole. She glanced to one side, noticing the attention of everyone, before she focused on him. Her gray eyes were bright.

  “Deputy director, I have no facts relating to your questions. What we all saw is not possible.”

  He shrugged. “But it happened. So speculate.”

  She frowned, then sighed. “In popular literature associated with comic books and fantasy novels, what that man did by disappearing in thin air is called teleportation. Using the power of one’s mind to jump instantly from one spot to another spot.”

  Sourness filled his mouth. “And his other actions? What are they called?”

  “Lifting the body up the way we saw is called telekinesis or psychokinesis. New Age mediums claim they can lift chairs and other objects without touching them.” She grimaced. “The flame ball is beyond strange. In the parapsychology literature it is called pyrokinesis. The definition of pyrokinesis is the ability to create and control fire using one’s mind. Sir.”

  Andrew’s face felt hot. Which meant he was flushing. What the BAU woman was telling him was stuff he’d associated with Hollywood and comic books. Not the real world.

  “Thank you, Special Agent Lowenstein.” He looked to the SIOC leader. “Special Agent Richardson, see to the identification of the two jihadists, analyze the cell phones that hung from their necks, get rid of the explosive bottle if it cannot be safely transported for analysis, recover the AK-47 rifles and track their origin, and raid the residences of these jihadists. I want you to work with the Terrorist Screening Center to determine who these men are, where they come from and whether they are part of an Islamic State network focused on taking hostages at national landmarks.” Andrew paused, too many thoughts rushing through his mind. He focused on a young black woman sitting on the far side of the room. “Agent Beverly Chase, you work in the TSC in the National Security Branch, right?”

  “Yes I do, deputy director,” responded the woman, who looked as shocked as everyone else in the room at the sudden appearance of weird mental powers playing a role in a hostage rescue. She put down a tablet she had been looking at.

  “Good. Work with Agent Richardson on the matters I just assigned. Two high profile hostage takings at major national landmarks within a week smells to me. This looks like a new phase of radical Islamic terrorism. A phase focused on mass media embarrassment of national governments. I am concerned there may be other sleeper cells or self-radicalized jihadists now taking orders from ISIS. We have to find them and stop them. That begins with deep analysis of everything we can learn about those two jihadists.”

  “I will be glad to assist in that effort,” Chase said.

  Andrew looked back to the BAU woman. “Special Agent Lowenstein, open a file on this Green Mask intruder, the guy the media are calling the ‘reluctant superhero’, according to that CNN headline,” he said, pointing to the CNN imagery screen. “We have a DNA profile for him. Various data suggest he comes from the Southwest region of America. Some of his clothing comes from the REI outdoor supplies chain. Pollen analysis suggests he may live in either Arizona or New Mexico. The details are in Agent Richardson’s recent report to me.” He paused, looking around the attentive faces of the agents in the room. “People, while I am very happy all hostages are alive and well, we cannot let a mystery vigilante intrude on the duties of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We have to know who this man is, where he comes from, why he does these intrusions and . . . and we need to know if his unique abilities are due to a genetic mutation, which I consider a better explanation than magic!”

  A few agents laughed. Most stayed attentive and thoughtful. On the far side of the room, Chase raised her hand.

  “Yes Agent Chase? You have some information?”

  She nodded quickly. “I do. On his clothing. I’ve researched the clothing worn by all types of jihadists within the USA. The intruder was wearing a blue, two button Tommy Hilfiger suit. One source for that brand is the Men’s Wearhouse. A check of customer videos from every Men’s Wearhouse in Arizona and New Mexico might yield an image of a blue-eyed, black-haired young man who is six foot three. If he used a credit card, that would give us an address and name. If we only have an image, that can be compared to images of REI employees and customers from the four states.”

  Andrew felt his face get cooler. His flush had subsided. He liked what Chase was saying. Of course all the clothing worn by this intruder could have come from a second hand store, rather than REI and Men’s Wearhouse. Still, dealing with facts and the real world was what he had devoted himself to, ever since he’d graduated from law school and had applied for admission to the FBI academy, thirty years ago.

  “That’s good data, Special Agent Chase.” He looked down to the gray-haired BAU woman. “Special Agent Lowenstein, integrate the data from Agent Chase with Richardson’s report. Build a profile for this young man. The director and, I suspect, the president need answers, not media hysteria.”

  “Will do,” she said.

  Andrew turned and headed for the exit out of the SIOC room. He needed the quiet space of his office on the seventh floor. He had much to think about, and a report to write for the director based on what he himself had seen in the TV screens of the SIOC room. One thing worried him. In biology, there were no unique lifeforms. So if there existed one young man able to teleport from place to place, and send fireballs through the air, there must be other humans with similar talents. Or was this talent so rare it was a once in a generation event, with no one now alive able to do what he’d just seen? He didn’t know. He just hoped the president didn’t ask him that question.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Valery walked into her pueblo style home on Santa Fe’s east side. It lay in the low rolling hills well past St. Francis and was a refuge both she and Justine cherished. Valery tapped on the hallway light, then walked into the living room. The air was cool and it was so quiet. She was used to arriving home from counseling work and having Justine greet her with a big smile. Well, maybe that would happen later tonight, when she headed out to Christus St. Vincent. Her wife’s gall bladder surgery was set for 9 p.m., a few hours yet to go. She glanced at the kitchen area that opened out onto the spacious, high-ceilinged living room. Overstuffed chairs and a big red leather couch filled that room. The couch faced the wall on which the 42 inch flatscreen TV. She and Justine often sat together on the couch and watched nature programs, or a mystery movie downloaded from Netflix. Tonight that would not happen. Nor would dinner. She had no appetite for a micronuked meal and she did not feel up to cooking something from scratch. Instead, she grabbed the pitcher of green tea from the fridge, poured a glass for herself, and sat down on the couch. Leaning forward she grabbed the TV control from the glass table in front of the couch, pointed it at the flatscreen and clicked it on. Maybe there would be news about the hurricane heading for Florida. Her older sister Gladys lived there and she was worried every ti
me her widowed sister—

  “The twenty-two hostages being held inside the top of the Gateway Arch are exposed to explosives at either end of the observation room,” said a blond CNN reporter who was familiar to Valery. She liked watching the news specials put on by this Leslee Howden. “So far there has been no response from the White House on the demands of the two terrorists. Meanwhile, no food or water—” Howden paused, touched her right ear, then showed surprise. “Our CNN copter reports a man in a suit has knocked down the two terrorists! We’re going to a live image from the helicopter.”

  Valery blinked, surprised by the sudden turn of events. When she’d left her office things had been in a stalemate. Now, just after 6 p.m., something was happening in St. Louis. Behind Howden there appeared a jerky image of the top of the arch with its line of narrow windows, through which could be seen two groups of hostages. The two terrorists, who usually occupied the center of the room with rifles pointed at the hostages, were not visible. Instead, standing there and looking out was a man in a business suit whose face was covered by a green bandana.

  “The Green Mask vigilante has appeared and knocked out the two terrorists!” called Howden excitedly. She frowned, then looked aside at her iPad where it lay on top of her announcer’s desk. “We are going now to live video from YouTube. The imagery is being sent from the smartphones of two women hostages. Let’s tune in to what they are hearing and seeing.”

  Valery listened even as the imagery changed from the copter’s outside view to an image from the interior of the room at the top of the arch. Filling the middle of the screen was a tall man dressed in a blue, two button business suit, with a white-striped blue necktie and a green bandana over his face. His black hair was short. The man’s blue eyes scanned past the woman holding the smartphone, his head stopping suddenly.

  “You two!” Green Mask yelled. “You military?”

  “Yes,” called a twenty-something man from one side of the imagery. “Army Ranger.”

  “Me too,” called a second young man dressed in a camo t-shirt. “Marine Recon. Why?”

  Green Mask nodded down at the floor, on which lay two bleeding terrorists.

  “Come over here and tie these guys up with your belts. I’ve got to get rid of—”

  “Ka-booom!”

  The sound of the explosion shocked Valery. The YouTube imagery jerked and lost its focus as the woman holding the smartphone dropped to the floor. The image soon tilted up to show the still standing Green Mask man.

  The two vets were half-crouched, but now rising. As were the smartphone woman and other nearby captives.

  “Fuck!” cursed the Green Mask man, his angry tone of voice sounding familiar to Valery. “Get the hell over here now! Tie up these guys. I’ve got to check out that blast site.”

  As the two vets, both of whom looked to be in their late twenties headed toward Mr. Green Mask, the vigilante looked around, his eyes bright.

  “People! You’re safe now! The two jihadists are down and have no weapons. We’ll get you out of here soon as possible. But you folks on the north side, stay away from that explosive bottle!”

  Valery watched as the rescue of the men and women hostages played out. She gasped when Green Mask pointed a rifle at a window, fired, knocked the glass away, then tossed the two AK-47 rifles out the open window. Things became halfway normal when the young man, whose voice sounded so familiar, turned away, spoke to the vets, then walked toward the end of the room where the blast had happened. He called to a woman nurse to help a man wounded by the explosion. Then he stopped in front of the blast site and commented on what he saw. Once again the low baritone voice sounded familiar.

  When the smartphone imagery showed a ball of flame appear where the explosion had happened, she felt shock mixed with surprise. Amidst the smoke-blackened walls, a ball of flame floated in front of Mr. Green Mask. Who now pointed a gloved finger at a partial wall bent over by the blast. The flame ball touched the top of the wall, then slowly went down, cutting the metal sheet free from the rest of the metal alcove. The man snapped his fingers. The flame ball disappeared. Then the metal sheet, with a low creaking sound that matched the sound of bending metal she’d once heard in her parents’ garage, that sheet bent over and down. It covered the blackened floor in front of Green Mask. One of the vets approached the liberator and stopped behind him.

  “How did you do that?”

  The broad back of Green Mask jerked. Then he turned and faced the vet, who was heavily built but several inches shorter than tall, lanky Green Mask. Blue eyes fixed on the vet.

  “Magic,” Green Mask said. “Now, it’s time for me to get up top and then pull those bastards out and away from these good people. Want to help?”

  The Marine vet stepped aside, then followed after Green Mask. “Sure,” the vet said. “But you should know those two ladies there have been imaging everything on their smartphones since your arrival. It’s likely they got your little ball of flame cutting through the metal wall.”

  Valery saw the veteran pointing toward the woman holding the smartphone, which was both hearing and transmitting live everything that was happening.

  “Can’t be helped,” Green Mask said. The vigilante stopped after he got back to where the two jihadists were lying unconscious. He looked up. “Can someone offer me some hands to step on so I can get up there? Then you all can grab these two bastards and hand them up to me. Once they are on the arch roof, it’ll be clear for you all to head down the south end stairwell and meet folks who will help you. I got the blast hole covered. It’s safe now.”

  Valery noticed how the smartphone image as transmitted by CNN moved closer to the young man, whose voice was so similar to a memory of hers.

  “Mr. Green Mask, how did you make that ball of flame appear?” the smartphone woman said. “And I didn’t see you touch that metal sheet as it bent over. Are you for real?”

  “I’m very real. And the flame ball came from my campfire.”

  Valery watched as Green Mask lifted up his leg, put a black dress shoe in the cupped hands of one of the vets, touched the man’s shoulder, then rose up until his head and shoulders disappeared into the ceiling above the crowd. The utter normality of a man cupping his hands so another man could step onto those hands and rise up to get to the roof of the arch contrasted sharply with her memory of the flame ball and the hand movements of Green Mask as the sheet metal bent down and covered the floor. The YouTube imagery suddenly changed as, at the far end of the room where the blast had happened, a black dressed SWAT officer suddenly filled that space, followed by other SWAT cops. That officer walked toward the hostages, his goggles lifted up as he looked at the smartphone holder and her friends. She heard one vet say “Cops”, then she looked on with amazement as the body of the second terrorist, whose head was bleeding in several spots, rose up in the air with no one touching the body. The terrorist disappeared through the hatch in the ceiling, as best as she could see from the tilted smartphone image.

  “I’ll take those phones,” called the SWAT officer.

  A black glove closed over the smartphone image. The other CNN image from a second phone also disappeared as a black-gloved hand grabbed it. With the loss of the live YouTube images, Leslee Howden looked at the cameras and gave an uncertain smile.

  “Well, the good news is that all hostages appear to be safe,” she said. “We are switching now to the view from the CNN helicopter. As you can see, the Green Mask vigilante is standing on the roof of the arch. The two terrorists are bound and lying at his feet. What will happen next is anyone’s guess.”

  Valery watched as Green Mask turned away from the copter’s spotlight, walked to the edge of the arch, faced the darkness that lay above the Mississippi River and stepped off the arch.

  His body disappeared, then reappeared under the arch, falling fast. The yellow spotlight followed his downward fall.

  Pull your chute! she thought to herself, seeing the brown backpack that looked like chute packages she’d seen
during Balloon Fiesta in Albuquerque. Pull it!

  The man disappeared.

  “How the hell!” said Howden, then she looked away from her iPad image and faced the camera. “Sorry for that. As viewers were able to see, all twenty-two hostages taken during this latest Islamic terrorist incident have been rescued and are safe. Only one is injured. St. Louis police and—” she looked aside at the copter image “—and FBI agents have now arrived in the observation deck of the Gateway Arch. They are taking charge of the scene.” She touched her ear, then looked relieved. “We go now to reporter Jason Maguire at the base of the arch. He is standing just outside the security ribbon that blocks access to the underground visitor center. Jason, any word from the FBI or St. Louis police?”

  Valery muted the TV sound. She sat back on the couch and pondered what she had heard. The voice tones and the pacing and the sudden anger early on.

  The voice of the Green Mask man had sounded like Jeff Webster.

  That couldn’t be, though. Today was Wednesday. She’d seen Jeff just yesterday. And while Jeff got off at 5 p.m. on Wednesdays, there was no way he could have flown to St. Louis. This had to be the wildest of coincidences. Didn’t it? She reached out to her purse, pulled out her Android phone, thumbed it to Call mode, flipped through her list of client names and numbers, and touched the number listed for Jeff.

  “Brrring! Brrring! Brr—”

  “Hello?”

  It was Jeff’s voice. Answering over his cell phone. “Jeff? It’s Valery Stockton here. I was wondering how things went with you today at work?”

  “Pretty good,” Jeff responded. “Uh, Dr. Stockton, you’ve never called me at home. Just gave me your home number in case I had a bad depression episode. Are things okay with you?”

  Were they? The voice speaking to her was a perfect match to the voice she’d just heard on the YouTube video, talking to hostages in St. Louis. “Yes, Jeff, I’m okay. Guess my worry about Justine’s upcoming surgery caused me to touch base with you. See you next Tuesday. Right?”