The 4400- the Vesuvius Prophecy

by Greg Cox

  The six-figure salary was just a bonus.

  It’s a shame I can’t be there tomorrow, he mused, just to see the look on Tom’s and Diana’s faces when they say good-bye to Cooper DeMeers for good. He couldn’t wait to get the alleged earth-shaker into the hands of Haspelcorp’s eager scientists. General Randa was already intrigued by the possible military applications of DeMeers’s ability . . .

  “Let me guess. Iced vente chai soy, right?”

  “Right on the money,” she confirmed. By now, the friendly baristas here knew her order by heart. She was a regular at this particular Starbucks, with good reason. The cozy coffee shop offered a perfect view of NTAC’s inner sanctums, provided you were equipped with the right sort of spy-eyes. As she paid for her drink, she kept one eye on the ongoing developments at their enemy’s headquarters. Things had just taken an unexpected turn.

  “You ever going to try something different?” the boy behind the counter asked.

  Was he flirting with her? If so, he was going to be disappointed. She had more important matters to occupy her mind. “Sure. Come September, I’ll want a hot chai.”

  Assuming this Starbucks, along with the rest of Seattle, was still around next fall . . .

  “Thanks.” Sipping her afternoon dose of caffeine, she headed for her favorite table, where she flipped open a copy of The Volcano, a local arts and entertainment newsletter. The paper was just a prop, protective coloration to help her blend in with her surroundings, but it was hard not to see the paper’s masthead as an omen of sorts. The spewing mountain reminded her of just how much was at stake where Cooper DeMeers was concerned.

  Her cell phone swiftly connected her with her cell leader. “Listen up. We’ve got trouble.” She quickly outlined the NSA’s intention to spirit DeMeers away to an undisclosed location beyond their reach. “The transfer is tomorrow morning.”

  “That doesn’t give us much time,” her leader acknowledged. “We’re going to have to move quickly.”

  FOURTEEN

  FREE FALL WAS a bitch.

  Ten thousand feet above the snowbound wilderness, Cooper plunged through the freezing night sky. His stomach seemed to lunge up his throat as he accelerated downward at a breath-stealing clip. A heavy overcoat, gloves, and sunglasses provided scant protection against the frigid wind. For a second, he regretted leaving his tie back in the cabin of the plane, not that the thin strip of fabric would have made much of a difference; it felt like ten below, not counting the windchill factor. He lost his brown loafers almost immediately, leaving nothing but a pair of thick wool socks on his feet. The briefcase containing the so-called bomb was torn from his grasp. He wondered if anyone would ever find it.

  He couldn’t believe how cold it was, even more so than he had anticipated. I should have waited until spring, he thought, even though that really hadn’t been an option. The divorce had practically cleaned him out; between his mounting debts and alimony payments, he would have been bankrupt long before warm weather returned to the Northwest, especially given the lousy state of the economy. Massive layoffs at Boeing had sent the whole region into a tailspin. Besides, if I’d stalled any longer, I’d have lost my nerve for sure . . .

  Two parachutes were strapped to his torso, one to his back and another to his chest, just in case of an emergency. He felt confident that the Feds had not sabotaged any of the four chutes he had demanded; they wouldn’t have taken the chance that he might have forced one or more of the hostages to jump with him. That was the idea at least. He had thought this all out ahead of time, and so far everything had gone according to plan. A fabric bag, loaded down with over twenty pounds of cash, was tied to his waist by sturdy nylon cords; he had cannibalized one of the extra chutes for the fabric and cords. The weight of the bag tugged on his hips as it dangled below him. The chutes were slightly different than the T-7’s he had used back in Korea, but the basics didn’t seem to have changed too much.

  What goes up, must come down . . . in one piece, preferably.

  All sense of falling vanished as he reached terminal velocity, roughly 120 miles per hour. He struggled to maintain a stable arch position, his belly to the earth, but the ferocious winter winds pummeled him relentlessly, making it all but impossible to control his descent. His sunglasses went flying, and he squinted into the fierce gale. This was nothing like that jump he had made over Sukchon during the war. Only a daredevil or a maniac would attempt to land a parachute during a winter storm, the night before Thanksgiving, no less. So what did that make him?

  Desperate, that’s what.

  A sudden jolt yanked him upward as the automatic activation device on his chute went off. No matter how much you were prepared for it, the chute’s deployment always came as a shock. Pins and needles stabbed his frozen fingers as they tugged on the risers. The parachute billowed above him, or so he assumed; it was so dark that he could barely see the outline of the canopy. On the brighter side, any air force planes tailing the 727 wouldn’t be able to spot the parachute, either. The jet’s relatively slow speed would also challenge any other aircraft’s attempt to shadow the 727. Most military aircraft would zip right past it.

  Or so he’d figured when he cooked up this scheme.

  Looking down, he saw storm clouds directly below him. Dense mist enveloped him as he dropped into the mass of heavy, black clouds. Snow pelted his face. Ice and sleet glazed his defenseless body, soaking through his meager overcoat, business suit, and thermal underwear. The turbulence was unbelievable. Raging winds buffeted him from all directions, so that he was tossed about like a leaf in a hurricane. A violent updraft jerked him dozens of feet higher, then dropped him just as abruptly. Any attempt to maintain a proper diving posture was a lost cause. Vertigo and nausea assailed him; he clenched his chattering teeth to keep from vomiting into the wind. Sleet splashed against his face like a tidal wave; he felt as if he were drowning beneath an arctic sea. Lightning flashed within the storm clouds, way too close for comfort. Blinding bursts of bright red electrical fire forced him to squeeze his eyes shut. The wind howled in his ears, punctuated by deafening booms of thunder. He clasped his hands over his ears, but the din was still loud enough to torture his eardrums, which felt like they were on the verge of bursting. Terrifying possibilities raced through his brain. What if the wind tangled the canopy or tore loose the straps across his torso? What if a stray burst of lightning set his parachute aflame?

  This is crazy, he thought. I’m a goner for sure.

  He had always known that the odds were against him on this stunt. But what other choice had he had except to roll the dice on one all-or-nothing gamble? A shrink would no doubt claim that Cooper had some kind of lunatic death wish, and, to be honest, that probably wasn’t too far from the mark. His life had being going downhill for months now, ever since he’d lost his job at Boeing in the big bust, but not for much longer. One way or another, all his troubles would be over soon . . .

  Blame Hollywood, he thought. After all, he had gotten the idea from that movie last year. Ever since he’d seen Airport, which had showed him how easy it was to smuggle a bomb aboard a commercial jetliner, the plan for tonight’s risky caper had been forming in his mind. At first it had been just a wild idea, something to fantasize about during all those long, tedious hours tending bar at the airport, but as time went by, and his life and finances continued to go down the toilet, the notion had grown into an obsession, until finally it had been all he could think about: one bold act that could change his life for good. Better to go out in a blaze of glory than let poverty and failure eat you away by inches.

  At least that’s what he’d thought before. Who knew glory could be so cold?

  The brutal turbulence abated slightly as he fell out of the clouds into the snowy sky above the drop zone. Forcing his eyes open, he peered downward, trying in vain to penetrate the murky wilderness below. No house or street lights gleamed in the dark, confirming that he was more or less where he was supposed to be. In theory, there should be nothing bene
ath him except miles of rugged forest and a few scattered farms. He had planned to aim for an open field or clearing, but clearly he had underestimated the severity of the weather. Even now, powerful winds carried him horizontally over the forest at breakneck speed. There was no way to control his descent. Any minute he expected to be impaled upon a treetop.

  Unlike in Korea, there were no spongy rice paddies waiting for him below.

  And no medals, either.

  Dangling beneath him, the money bag hit the trees first, giving him a split second of warning before he came down right after it. He twisted in the harness just in time to slip between two towering pines. Branches and needles scratched his face and hands. A wrenching halt gave him whiplash as the canopy fouled in the branches overhead. Dislodged snow tumbled onto his bare head. Swinging like a pendulum, he smacked face first into a solid tree trunk. The impact set his head ringing. Tasting blood, he spit out a broken tooth.

  It was a rough landing, but it could have been worse.

  A lot worse.

  His numb fingers fumbled with the clasps of his harness. He half slid, half fell to earth, where a deep snowbank broke his fall. Exhausted, he lay on his back beneath the trees, staring up at the tangled canopy many feet above him. For a few perilous moments, he was tempted to just lie there and not get up. He’d always heard that freezing to death was a relatively painless way to go, like drifting off to sleep. His eyelids sagged as he settled into the snow . . .

  Then he remembered the money. Had he managed to hang on to the cash during his fall? Suddenly anxious to find out, he lurched to his feet and groped for the bag. A sigh of relief misted before his lips as he found the ransom money half buried in the snow a few feet away. Despite his tumultuous descent, the bag had not come open. All ten thousand of the unmarked twenties were still inside. Enough money to start a whole new life somewhere a hell of a lot warmer than here. Costa Rica maybe, or Tahiti.

  How about that? he marveled. I did it!

  Euphoria momentarily overcame both the weather and his injuries. He pressed a handful of snow against his aching jaw, letting the cold numb the pain from his missing tooth. A rush of adrenaline fueled his depleted muscles as he looked about for a safe place to stow his loot. These woods were going to be crawling with cops and reporters come morning, and he couldn’t risk getting caught with the ransom on his person, even if he still retained enough strength to lug the twenty-one-pound bag of cash back to civilization, which was doubtful. He would have to come back for it later, after things had cooled down some. It was going to be a long, agonizing wait, but at least he wouldn’t be tempted to spend the money too freely or too quickly. In fact, he shouldn’t even quit his job right away, or people might get suspicious. He had deliberately flown out of Portland just to reduce the odds of being recognized at the airport. The smartest course would be just to go about his life as though nothing had changed while figuring out the best way to launder $200,000 in cash. Then quietly relocate to the Caribbean . . .

  But first he had to get out of these damned woods before he froze to death.

  Slicing apart the spare parachute with a pocket knife, he wrapped the waterproof fabric around his stockinged feet. The improvised footware wasn’t ideal, but hopefully it would save his toes from frostbite. Hefting the bulging money bag, he hiked through the snow until he judged that he had put enough distance between himself and the abandoned canopy. The frozen earth was too hard to bury anything in, so he trudged toward a large fallen log instead. His gloved hands dug out a large quantity of snow from inside the log, then stuffed the bag deep into its hollow interior. He carved his initials—his real initials—into the bark. The possibility of any searchers spotting the crude “CDM” did not concern him; within minutes, the falling snow would cover the telltale inscription.

  But could he find the log again later? Fishing a miniature compass from his pocket, he hurriedly got his bearings. A snowcapped mountain rose above the forest to the northeast. That would be Mount St. Helens, he surmised, recognizing the southwest face of the mountain from his research. Not a bad landmark to remember. He’d have a better sense of his location, of course, once he located the nearest road or residence. For now, the looming mountain would have to do. It’s not like it’s going anywhere in the near future.

  The heavy physical activity helped him fend off the bitter November chill, but he knew he had to find shelter soon. Two hundred grand wasn’t going to do him any good if he died of exposure before morning. According to his watch, it was a little after eight-thirty. Dawn was nearly twelve hours away. He rummaged through his pockets to confirm that he still had his cigarette lighter. If worse came to worse, he’d start a fire to thaw out. The cops weren’t going to scour the forest by night, right? Chances were, they’d wait until the sun rose, and the storm passed, before launching any major search operation.

  The merciless cold seeped straight through his sodden garments into the very marrow of his bones. His teeth chattered no matter how tightly he clenched his jaws. His face felt raw. His chapped lips were cracked and bleeding. Rasping breaths fogged the air. He couldn’t feel his toes or fingertips.

  On second thought, maybe he needed to light that fire right away.

  A blinding white glare caught him by surprise. What the—? Shielding his eyes with his hand, he gazed up into the light, expecting to see a FBI helicopter hovering above him. It’s impossible, he thought in despair. How did they find me so fast? He threw up his hands before some trigger-happy cop could fill him full of lead. “Don’t shoot! I surrender!”

  But there was no helicopter, only a glowing ball of cold white light descending through the tree branches like Glinda’s bubble in The Wizard of Oz. The glare was so intense, he had to avert his eyes. For an instant he thought that the incandescent sphere was going to crash right into him, but then it paused in midair several yards above his head. Luminous coils reached down from the globe, wrapping themselves around his torso and lifting him off his feet. A tingling sensation rushed over his entire body, instantly banishing the chill of night. Every fiber of his being felt like it had been shot full of novocaine; he couldn’t move a muscle. Hairs rose up all over his skin. A freakish wind lifted his soggy brown hair. Unable to resist, he was drawn inexorably toward the mysterious ball of light. A high-pitched hum filled his ears, swelling in volume until it sounded like the roar of an invisible ocean. Defying gravity, his feet dangled above the snow-covered ground.

  Wait! he thought frantically. What’s happening? He tried to cry out, but his paralyzed vocal cords refused to cooperate as he ascended against his will. For a heartbeat, he wondered if he was hallucinating. Or had he actually died during his jump and this was Heaven come to claim him? It was all too surreal to be believed. This wasn’t part of the plan!

  The last thing he saw, before he vanished into the light, was Mount St. Helens standing guard over his buried fortune . . .

  Cooper DeMeers awoke with a start. Glancing around in confusion, it took him a second to recognize his surroundings: a bleak detention cell in a subbasement beneath NTAC’s Seattle offices. The austere gray walls were devoid of decoration. A stainless-steel commode rested across the chamber from his cot. The overhead lamp had been switched off for the evening, but light from the corridor outside penetrated his cell via a horizontal slit cut at eye level into the heavy steel door locking him in. The air had a sterile, antiseptic smell. Muffled sobs and snores came from the adjacent cells. Guards paced in the hall.

  That’s right, he recalled, I’m a prisoner.

  He flopped back down onto his cot, his restless body awash in sweat. He peeked at his wrist to check the time, only to remember that the Feds had confiscated his watch. Judging from the silence outside, he guessed that it was well after midnight. Long hours stretched before him. He didn’t know what was more discouraging: his present captivity or the fact that he had just endured that dream again.

  So what else is new? Clad in his convict-orange jumpsuit, he brooded darkly in his ce
ll. Bad enough that he had to relive that hellish jump every damn night, but what else did he have to show for it, except for the infuriating knowledge that his big score had been snatched away from him by fate and, if you could believe it, some time-traveling do-gooders from tomorrow? Thanks to his involuntary detour to the future, his stolen fortune had probably sat untouched for years—until Mount St. Helens erupted nine years later, burying the drop zone in ash and altering the landscape beyond recognition. That freak disaster was almost more galling than his original abduction. For the first few days after he had gotten back, he had actually entertained the notion that the $200,000 might still be waiting for him up in the woods—until he found out about the cataclysmic events of May 18, 1980. It’s not fair, he thought for possibly the five zillionth time. How was I supposed to know that the damn mountain was going to blow up while I was away?

  Granted, it was possible that years of floods, fires, and avalanches had already dispersed his hidden stash of twenties far and wide. Since washing up on the shores of the twenty-first century, he had wasted hours poring over topographical maps of the region trying to figure out how exactly $5,880 of the ransom money had ended up on the banks of the Columbia River, where that lucky eight-year-old had found it. According to the Internet, the FBI had eventually paid young Brian Ingram a reward of nearly three thousand dollars, which the kid had reportedly spent on a motorcycle and VCR. Stupid brat made out better than I did, Cooper thought bitterly. All I got was a missing tooth—and thirty-five years in limbo.

  Unable to get back to sleep, he sat on the edge of the cot, cradling his head in his hands. He felt groggy, hungover, probably because of all the tranquilizers they had been pumping into him. Not that he blamed NTAC; his unwanted new ability scared him as much as anyone else, maybe even more so. Why give me such a horrific ability? he wondered. What possible good can that do anyone?