Superpowers 1: Superguy

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Superpowers 1: Superguy Page 22

by T. Jackson King


  His wife looked relieved. “Thank God! I felt so alone here, thinking of Mira. I knew you were working on saving those kids, but it looked really bad, especially after the helicopter crashed.” She paused, then looked intently at him. “Andrew, do you think this Green Mask guy is on our side? On the side of law and order?”

  Was he? “I think he is on the side of saving civilians from harm at the hands of mad men and women. And the Paris rescue says he will go outside the U.S. to help save people. Maybe we’re lucky to have his help.”

  Martha smiled. “I agree. I’m sure he knows you and your agents do the best you can to stop kidnappers, killers and terrorists, but you and our street cops cannot be every place all the time. I wonder who he is? And why he is doing what he’s doing?”

  “Me too,” he said. “Martha, this place is hyper-busy. I’ll call you when we confirm Mira’s name has shown up in the list of rescued band people. Gotta go.”

  She nodded, a soft smile still on her face. “I know. And let your people know that I’m proud of them too.”

  He gave her a smile. It was real, not for show. “Thank you. Love you. Bye.”

  Her image vanished from his iPhone. He tapped it off and stuffed it into his pocket. Looking up he saw Richardson watching him.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, what now on Green Mask?”

  He looked over to Ethel Lowenstein, who had come in on her day off. “Ethel?” he said, not giving a damn he didn’t use her title and last name. After today, after what everyone in this room had seen and had gone through here and in working with folks in the field, first names seemed right.

  The gray-haired woman looked away from the video wall image of the green grass field and its hundreds of stumbling young people who waved to oncoming rescuers, helped those near to them or walked over to collect their band instruments. She fixed on him. Her eyebrows rose.

  “Yes . . . Andrew?”

  “What will he do next?”

  She frowned. “Well, since this lightning bolt rescue was being live-streamed on YouTube from that EMT’s smartphone, I suspect he is going to have lots of admirers around the world. And plenty of people making up conspiracy theories. He might just go public, now.”

  Would he?

  “Thank you,” Andrew said, then pulled out his iPhone. He tapped in the number for the chief of the Houston Police Department. He’d met the man during a trip to Houston for a family get-together of Martha’s relatives. Turned out the HPD chief was a third cousin on her father’s side.

  “Hello Ryan, it’s Andrew from D.C. You got a minute?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I woke up at 7:58 a.m. Monday, like I usually do. Don’t need an alarm clock or to set the alarm on my cell phone, though I do that as a backup. Just in case. I lay in bed a moment, thinking of yesterday afternoon. It had been kinda wild, floating in the air above the stadium field, feeling the eager flow of electric charges just yearning to be born as lightning. The feel of cloud electricity is different from the feel of wall socket electricity. Very similar, but different. Wall socket electricity does not talk to me. Cloud electricity, now, well, maybe I had imagined the words in my mind. Or maybe they had been real, somehow, someway. I just knew that the way I mind-feel cloud electricity is way different than how I mind feel wall socket electricity. Or how I feel electricity whenever I drive under a powerline.

  Sitting up, I stretched. Then I touched my face. The two day beard growth felt singed and short. Maybe that close hug from the second bolt had been a bit too close. To my bare skin, at least. Reaching up I felt the top of my head. The ends felt dry and crispy, though the bulk of my hair felt normal. Weird. Double weird. Time for a shower.

  I got up from bed, stripped off my pajamas and walked into the hall and then left into the bathroom. The shower glass entry slid to one side. I got in. Turned on the hot and cold water. Adjusted the temp. Then I stood there, my face uplifted, letting the steaming hot water flow over my face and down my body.

  Today my REI shift began at 10 a.m. What to do before then?

  A fun thought hit me.

  My Houston rescue was getting millions of people to click on the EMT’s video that he had live-streamed from his hiding place in the south stands. I’d seen the video last night, along with endless talking head blather on CBS, ABC, NBC, Fox and lots of indy cable news report sites. Even the Christian Broadcasting Network had carried the video, accompanied by serious talk on whether I had a tie-in to the prophet Jeremiah. I’d switched to another channel before I heard some crazy mutter about me being related to Jesus. I was the only son of Elaine and John Webster, originally from Iowa, now gone and buried in Guaje Pines Cemetery in Los Alamos, just off of Range Road. Period. I was normal, in most ways. Just kinda weird in one way. Mentally, that is. Maybe it would be fun to chat about my normality with someone on TV.

  Getting out of the shower, I dried off. The mirror said my two day beard was just a low red fuzz. Wouldn’t do to show red hair on my face with black hair on my head. Minutes later I put away the razor blade, dried my face, and then I walked into my bedroom. Looking over at the chair in one corner of the room I saw what I had worn yesterday. The suit and pants and white shirt and tie. There were some brown singe spots on the sleeves and collar. So be it. I opened my dresser, got out shorts and socks, put them on, dressed in my day-old suit, shirt and necktie, grabbed my green bandana and grabbed my semi-auto. The nightstand sparkled. My two rings were there from yesterday. I put them on, then pulled on green gloves, and walked into the living room where I had kicked off my black dress shoes. After putting them on, I wrapped the bandana over my face. Standing up I looked over to the glass door that led out to my small porch. The porch had a clear view of St. Michael’s Drive and its crazy drivers. But that view was now blocked. The drapes were fully closed. No one outside could see in. Closer in I saw my cell phone sitting on the coffee table between my recliner and the couch. That had to stay here.

  Taking my mind back to the trip years ago that I’d made with my parents, the very trip in which we had taken the elevators up to the top of the Empire State Building, I recalled another part of that trip. After touring the downtown area where plays were advertised on large marquees, we had gone and toured Radio City Music Hall. Then we had gone to another Manhattan skyscraper. This one contained the broadcast studios for BBC America, the program we often watched on our local PBS channel. That trip had been eight years ago, not long after I’d entered Los Alamos High School. But my Mom had really enjoyed it, and I had had fun seeing the large TV cameras being pushed around the floor several camerapersons. The production studio was a high-ceilinged room with a curving video wall backdrop. In front of the backdrop was a table at which the BBC America evening news presenter usually sat. Was the studio in use this morning? Or should I arrive in the bathroom that lay just down the hallway from the glass-front doors that let passers-by see the darkened studio? It was 10:20 a.m. in New York city, two hours ahead of Santa Fe time. Odds were that the stage was empty since the BBC info flyer we’d gotten said the evening news program was recorded in the afternoon. The bathroom could easily have people in it.

  Standing in the middle of my living room, I recalled my memory of that stage, its background video wall and the desk at the center. I grabbed hold of that memory and thought to myself “I want to be there”.

  A whoosh of air told me I had arrived.

  The room was dark. No lights were on. My infrared sensing eyes saw the low heat of the nearby table, the chair behind it, the power cord that fed energy to a desk-mounted microphone and plenty of other details. I turned and looked toward the hallway doors through which I had looked, past the intervening production room that held repeater TV screens, sound controls, and three chairs for technicians. One of whom now occupied a chair. He was a young man whose features were dark in the room’s light. He might be Hindu or Pakistani, judging by his features. The tech had not noticed me. I stepped off the low platform that held the presenter’s table a
nd chair and walked over to the glass half wall that separated the production room from the sound stage. I knocked on the glass.

  Mr. Swarthy Skin looked my way and then his eyebrows rose. He tapped something on his control desk.

  “Yes? Who are you? And why are you in there?” came his voice from a ceiling speaker.

  I smiled, then remembered my bandana hid the smile. “I’m Green Mask, the guy who flies through the air and helps rescue people from terrorists. You may have seen me doing my thing in Houston, yesterday. What’s your name?”

  “Johan Singh,” he said, his bushy mustache moving above thick lips. The man’s dark brown eyes were wide open as he looked me up and down.

  “Well, Johan Singh, would you please ask Katty Kay to come here? I’d like to do an interview with her. As in, she interviews me, I mean.”

  The man licked his lips, then frowned. “I’m not sure she’s in the building. It’s pretty early for—”

  “For producing BBC World News America,” I said. “I know that.” Letting down my psychic shield, I reached out and felt the nearby minds. Eleven were present on this floor. Six male and five female. Ahhh. One female mind was bright and alert and thought of herself as Miz Katty Kay, the mom of four wonderful kids. Whom she had kissed goodbye an hour earlier, before she boarded the train to get to downtown Manhattan. “Miz Kay is here. She’s in her office down the hall. Go fetch her, would you? I’ll wait. For a few minutes.”

  The young man gulped, then stood up. Stepping back he stumbled against the wheeled chair, which skidded to one side. He waved to me. “Hey, sure, I’ll go get her. Don’t move. I’m sure she will want to talk with you.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  The guy turned, walked fast to the door leading to the hallway, twisted its knob and stepped out into the brightly lit hallway. He turned right and ran.

  As he ran to get the woman who was the official main presenter for BBC America, I scanned the other minds. Johan Singh was the twelfth mind on this floor. The floor above seemed empty of people. The floor below this one held several dozen people working on editing and production for other BBC shows like Dr. Who, Man Vs. Wild, Planet Earth, Top Gear and other popular shows. My mental attention reverted to the production room as I felt the approach of the minds of Singh and Kay. A tall blond woman with a longish face peered through the half glass of the room door. She spotted me. She said “It is him! It’s not some imposter. He’s a perfect match for all the video we’ve seen. Go get Doris! She can work the camera for us.”

  Rather, she thought those words. I heard her say them in her mind immediately before her voice spoke them. I nodded to her. Beside her Singh turned and ran back the way he’d come. Kay stepped into the production room, paused, then walked over to the glass half door that gave access to the stage area. She opened it and stepped through. She turned and faced me.

  “Hello there. I’m Katty Kay, lead anchor for BBC World News America. My friend tells me you wish to offer yourself for an interview. Is that correct?”

  “It is,” I said, feeling her mind go intensely curious and thoughtful.

  “How did you know I would be here this morning?”

  “I felt your mind when Mr. Singh expressed doubt you would be here.”

  She frowned slightly. “Does that mean you read minds?”

  “I can read minds. I rarely do that. It hurts when too many minds are close to me.” My psychic shield went up as I felt her investigative reporter side grow alarmed. “But I just put up my mental shield. I cannot read your thoughts now. Please be at ease.”

  Kay looked past me at the darkened presenter stage, then back to me. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? That you’re not reading my mind? After all, it puts me at a disadvantage if my interview subject sees my question as I think it and before I say it.”

  “You can take my word for it.” I met her sharp look with my own sharp gaze.

  She took a deep breath. “Well, whether you can read my mind or not, this is a unique opportunity. I’m willing to visit with you. Expect hard questions.”

  “I will answer what I can. But you will not learn my name.”

  Her blond eyebrows lifted. “Too bad. But I expected such in view of that green bandana you wear. And have worn at every rescue. Will you join me over there?”

  I nodded. “Sure. But I only see one chair.”

  “That can be fixed.” She turned, opened the door to the production room, grabbed a chair that rolled on wheels, and slid it out into the stage area. “Will this do?”

  “Sure.” I turned and walked over to the presenter stage, not caring that it was very dark.

  “We need some light,” she said.

  The click of a switch told me she had reached inside the room and turned on the stage lights. Which now shone brightly on the presenter table and its single chair. I walked over to the table, turned and watched her walk over, carrying the second chair. She put it down near me, then walked around her desk and over to her chair. I resisted my Mom’s training and did not step over to pull out the chair for her. Mom had insisted on the Iowa tradition that men opened doors and pulled out chairs for women, as a simple courtesy. Knowing how smart my Mom was, I knew she did not need such help from a feeling of inferiority. Far from it. She just knew what she wanted and made sure it happened. Which was much the same sense I was getting from Katty Kay as she sat behind her desk and looked up at me, her expression calm, in control and expectant.

  “Please be seated Mr. Green Mask.”

  “Sure.” I pulled the chair over to one side of her desk, sat in it and split my attention between watching her face and listening for the production room doors to open. Which they did in a few seconds. Two sets of footsteps filled the room. One pair belonged to Singh. The other pair belonged to a woman, judging by the lightness of her footfall. I turned and looked that way.

  “Katty, I’m activating this camera,” called a short, sturdy brunette dressed in black pants, a white blouse and with headphones hanging around her neck.

  “Thank you Doris. Let me know when you’re ready.” Kay paused, reached into a pocket of her white jacket, pulled out the small bar of a wireless microphone and clipped it to the top of her red blouse. She pushed a similar mike toward me. I grabbed it and clipped it to my necktie. Kay looked back at the camerawoman. “Doris, is there any chance we can do a simulcast of this interview? Make it live and stream it to our website? I think we have breaking news here.”

  The brunette looked down at the back of her camera, then up. “Maybe. This unit can transmit wireless to the booth. I’ll have to get Singh to set up a wireless link with our website. Gonna take a few minutes to set this up.”

  Kay, her expression serious, nodded slowly. “You and Johan do what you need to do to get this onto simulcast. Both video and to PBS radio. Activate the video wall and put up our BBC World News logo on it. And have Johan make a call to our AMC bosses. They’ll want to offer the networks a live feed. For a good price, I’m sure.”

  “They sure will!” Doris said as she turned away from the pedestal mounted camera that was as tall as her. She ran to the back of the room, pulled open the door and rushed over to Singh, who was seated at his own control panel.

  Her words did not come through the closed door. I didn’t care. A livestreaming of this interview was just fine with me. I looked over to Kay. Who was watching me intently. So I began the dance.

  “Did you and your husband get rich from sales of your two books?”

  Kay looked briefly startled, then her face went sharply focused. “Looks like you’ve done your homework on me. While Harper Collins and HarperBusiness paid me nice advances, I did not get rich from book sales. But my kids do like it when I read to them when they are in bed at night. Do you have any children, Mr. Green Mask?”

  “Nope. Never been married. Never had any kids married or not.”

  “Katty!” yelled Doris as she burst out of the production room and out into the stage area. “We’ll be going liv
e simulcast in twenty seconds! And I’ll put our logo up on the wall.”

  I watched the brunette run up to her camera, tap something on it, then lean forward and focus on the back of the camera. Located about ten feet away, its snout swung to cover me and Kay. “Ready. Were live. Go ahead,” called the young woman.

  Kay sat forward a bit. “Good Monday morning. This is Katy Kay of BBC World News America. Today I have a surprise interview guest. The mysterious man known in the media as Green Mask has appeared in our New York City studio, offering to be interviewed.” She gave the camera a big smile. “I’m sure everyone in America and around the world will be interested in learning more about this young man who flies through the air, juggles balls of flame in the air, and yesterday shot down lightning bolts to carbonize the six terrorists who were holding captive 303 young men and women at the University of Houston football stadium.” She looked to me. “Let’s get started. What’s your name, sir?”

  “An American.”

  “Why don’t you give me a personal name? And why do you keep your face covered?”

  So it began for real. “Because I learned early on that I was different from other people. When I was four years old I looked up, saw a white cloud and wished to touch it. The wish took me up thousands of feet in the air. I touched the cloud. Then I began to fall. Instinct teleported me back to the basement of my home. Since that day I never port anywhere without wearing a mask.” I held up my hands. “And gloves. I learned early on that being different brings out the bully in some people. My Mom warned me not to show my abilities to other people. So I avoided being too different. Which is why I won’t give you or anyone my name or show my face. It’s safer that way.”

  Kay leaned toward me, her manner intense. “Why do you need to be safe? I’ve seen you lift or levitate people. I’ve seen you mind-call firearms to yourself. I’ve seen you divert bullets from hitting you and other people. And I’ve seen you call down a lightning bolt, which you used to take out those terrorists. Surely you have nothing to fear.”

 

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