The Prophecies Trilogy (Omnibus Edition): A Dystopian Adventure

by Linda Hawley

  “Stay dry, Ann.”

  “Bye.”

  Hanging up, I was shaken by his question. The only way Bob could know about my connection to the Canadian RFID hack was if the other agency was viewing it.

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now,” I said out loud, trying to reassure myself.

  I arrived at Bellingham Airport at eight a.m., parked, and was in the terminal check-in line by eight ten. That was a benefit to the tiny airport; I only had to show up an hour before the flight. As I was waiting in line, my phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Ann, it’s Paul.”

  “Hey there,” I said cheerfully.

  “I’m not going to be able to make it. I’ve been at the company since five this morning. We had a server crash. I thought I’d be able to get it back up in time, but it’s more complicated than that.”

  “That’s okay. I know where I’m going. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “Okay, bye,” he said, sounding stressed and rushed.

  “Bye.”

  I was looking forward to his company and being able to meet with GOG together. I stepped forward to check in for the flight. I had about a half hour before my flight would board, so I decided to call Elinor at college.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Mom,” I said, exuberant that I had caught her instead of voicemail.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “I had a few minutes and thought I’d check in and see how you and your sweetie are.”

  “It’s so good to hear your voice, Mom. We are both great—terrific, actually.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad, Elinor.”

  We talked for about fifteen minutes. Elinor caught me up on school details and what she and Eliott had been up to. He hadn’t popped the question yet, but Elinor was sure he was ring shopping.

  “Mom, I love you and miss you.”

  “I love you, too,” I said. “Tell Eliott ‘hi’ for me and give him a hug. You two take care of each other,” I said.

  “Okay. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I loved my little girl. Maybe she wasn’t little anymore, but she would always be my sweet little girl.

  They called for the flight to board, and I stepped into the line. It was a short flight to Seattle, only twenty-five minutes—a prop plane for this route. I never really knew whether I’d get a bumpy ride on this hop or not, but today the skies looked clear. As we took to the air, I looked out the window and saw the San Juan Islands below. Seeing them from the air always made me tenderly remember sailing the islands with Armond and Elinor in those perfect days. About ten minutes into the flight, we entered a Seattle-area storm, and the turbulence began. I always noticed how other passengers who didn’t fly this route regularly would look a little green at this point. My own gut was rock solid, whether I was in heavy turbulence flying or in rough ocean swells below. This flight seemed like a roller-coaster ride, unexpected and fun.

  When we landed at Seattle Airport, some passengers were definitely peaked. After letting those who seemed in a hurry go in front of me, I exited onto the tarmac and walked up the stairs to the terminal. I looked for the boarding gate; it wasn’t far from my arrival gate, and I only had twenty minutes to wait. I did some people watching, which was always fun. Seattle was such an eclectic city, filled with all sorts of colorful people.

  We finally started to board the jet for Portland, and it looked like a completely full flight. Sinéad had moved me into the window seat of the emergency exit. It was the perfect place to sit because it had the most legroom, and there were no seats in front to recline and take up all my space. I didn’t care if it was a full flight, as long as I had my window seat and some legroom.

  The takeoff was a little rough, due to the storm that had moved in. The sky was dark. We had some turbulence during the flight, but it wasn’t horrible. Being in a Boeing 717 commuter jet was much better than being in a prop plane.

  “So what are you doing in Portland?” the blond woman next to me asked.

  “Just going down for a day trip,” I replied, giving no information.

  “I’m going down for a meeting…” she offered, trying to generate conversation.

  “And who do you work for?” I asked, obliging.

  “Microsoft. I direct sales for a new product line,” she replied, boasting.

  She’s doing well at Microsoft, I thought, looking at her.

  Blondie was about my age and height, but she looked a little anorexic. She quite obviously had some plastic surgery help with her bosom, as I could see the outline of her ribs below her size D. She wore enormous diamonds in her engagement and wedding rings, she had a diamond bracelet, and though I couldn’t tell for certain, I was sure her clothes came from an expensive designer.

  She continued, “I do well there, but I have a two-year-old daughter, and I wish I didn’t have to travel so much, so I could spend more time with her. Right now, I think she spends more time with the nanny than with me.”

  “Oh, that’s sad,” I said sincerely, looking at her.

  “I know. It took four series of in-vitro fertilization before it took, and now that I have her, it’s just so much work! I don’t know what I’d do without the nanny,” she said, perplexed.

  For twenty minutes, Blondie continued exposing her personal information, telling me how her husband wasn’t that interested in sex since she’d had their child and how difficult her team at Microsoft was to deal with. I tuned out, being ill-equipped to lend compassion to this woman who was my antithesis. I realized that we hadn’t even exchanged names. It was only a fifty-minute flight, but she was quickly exhausting me.

  Forty minutes into the flight, we started bouncing all over the sky. Other passengers near me were visibly disturbed, as was Blondie; I could tell from her white knuckles as she gripped our joint armrest. It was the worst turbulence I had ever been in. I knew it was pretty bad by the silence from the pilot and copilot. I rode the swells. Blondie abruptly stopped talking, which I was grateful for.

  Our plane was not only dropping altitude from time to time, but it was listing and pitching, seemingly uncontrollably. I watched out the window, and as I did so, our jet took a direct hit from lightning—right on the wing—close to my window. It blinded me and lighted up the inside of the plane. I immediately felt energy move through the wing and into the cabin; I had never felt anything like that before. At that same moment, thunder overcame every other sound, including the jet engines; I could feel the deep sound resonate in my chest. My seatmate grabbed my arm and squeezed, cutting her faux nails into my flesh. Immediately after the lightening hit, the pitching became more radical. Passengers panicked, huddling close to one another out of fear. My seatmate was pushing her shoulder against mine, and she held on to my arm for dear life. Her foot was pushed up on the seat in front of her, trying to stabilize her skinny frame from the lurching.

  Not long after the strike, the pilot came over the speaker, saying, “Yes, folks, we were just hit by lightning, but we’ve checked out all our systems, and everything is operational. We are continuing into Portland. Since we’re still in turbulence, stay seated.”

  “Turbulence?” one passenger behind us shouted incredulously.

  We were still jumping all over the sky, and I thought my blond companion was going to barf all over me.

  As our jet was on approach for Portland Airport, we were still lurching up and down. Just before the wheels touched down, the jet suddenly pitched, starting to turn sideways, one wing up and one wing down, and we began to twist, as though we would cartwheel sideways.

  The cabin filled with the terror of people screaming, praying, and crying. Luggage large and small tumbled from the overhead bins and was thrown all over the cabin. I dodged someone’s purse and turned to look out my window. The wing was about to hit the tarmac.

  I was surprised that I felt no fear.

  Instead, I felt an inexplicable sense of peace. I knew that we would not live through the crash, and
in a nanosecond I remembered flashes from my life with Armond, Elinor, Dad, Aunt Saundra, and others. Falling in love in São Paulo…Elinor’s birth…sailing the San Juans in the Woohoo…kayaking with Orcas…eating at the Red Sea restaurant with Armond and my friends…swing dancing at Glen Echo Park…skiing….

  Then I remembered Armond’s last words. “The Herkimer,” he’d said. “Believe….” And I reached up to feel the crystal hanging from the chain around my neck.

  GUARDIAN OF TIME – BOOK TWO

  Chapter 1

  IN THE SKIES ABOVE PORTLAND, OREGON

  The Year 2015

  The pilot tried to pull the plane out of the nearly sideways cartwheel. The Boeing monster groaned and shook violently, resisting the pilot’s determination to free it from gravity.

  My hand held the phantom Herkimer on its chain around my neck, and I remembered the power this crystal had created in my life. I brought it back from a dream into the physical world. It had increased my paranormal abilities and the clarity of my mental focus. Holding it tight, I imagined the plane pulling out of the near forty-five-degree angle we hung in.

  Passengers grabbed on to each other as the jet quivered, straining. Calm washed over me, as my seatmate clutched me in a death grip. I didn’t tell her that it would be all right; I didn’t think we’d make it out alive. All around me I heard crying, panic, and praying. By some miracle, the pilot kept us airborne.

  The engines continued to protest loudly. I strained to pull my head away from my seat to see the passengers on the other wing, which was now nearly above me. I thought impassively that it was unnatural for them to be hanging in their seats like that. Unexpectedly, the feeling of utter joy suddenly filled my entire being, radiating out from my heart; I felt full of glorious energy.

  Fighting gravity, I turned my head to look out my window. As I stared, I noticed that we had left the runway and were over grass now. That’s when I realized that my wing was now at least ten feet above the ground, even though the wings were still far from being level. We were seemingly gaining altitude, even though the plane was still askew. I breathed deeply.

  Time passed in an odd way—it felt as though minutes had passed, but it could only have been seconds. Then I realized that the pilot was winning his battle with the 717. There were still panicked passengers, but others—like me—had kept their heads and figured out that we were not destined to die today. My seatmate opened her eyes, but she still held on to my arm, scared into dumb silence. Soon the wings became level, but we were still climbing very steeply.

  A flight attendant came over the intercom. “Passengers, if anyone is injured from debris, hit your call button right now. If someone sitting beside you is injured, please push the call button for them. We will come to you as soon as we can.” There was debris everywhere, and some passengers tried to pull things into their rows so that the flight attendants could get through the isle.

  After gaining altitude for some time through violent turbulence, we finally leveled off, and then the flight attendants began helping passengers. Finally the cabin sounds lessened and were replaced with quiet weeping by some people around me, including my seatmate.

  The pilot came over the speaker with a very sober voice.

  “We’ve checked all our systems, and they’re okay. As you can feel, we are still in a bit of turbulence, so stay buckled in your seats. The flight attendants tell me that we do have some injuries, but all of them appear minor. We’ll check in with you again shortly,” the captain said, trying to reassure the passengers.

  As we flew, the blood returned to all the normal parts of my body, and my mind tried to make sense of all that had just happened. Then, as though we had our reward for making it through the near crash, the skies got calmer, the turbulence petered out, and the clouds below us seemed less menacing.

  Over the intercom, the pilot—whose natural voice had returned—came back on. “Folks, we’re glad to tell you that the worst of the storm has moved away from Portland Airport, so we’re turning back toward the airport.”

  “Can’t we just go back to Seattle?!” my seatmate loudly demanded, her first words since the near crash.

  “After the miracle by the pilot, I’ll agree to whatever he wants,” I said quietly to her. Blondie blinked at me, still shocked.

  She looked at me like a deer in headlights, fright visible on her face, with channels of foundation gouged down her cheeks and congealed on her chin, where her tears had plowed it away.

  As I took in her changed appearance, I patted her hand, gently reassuring her. “It’ll be okay. It was just a freak weather thing. We’re okay now.”

  Her face still hung horrified, her eyes dull.

  “We’re going to be making a turn back to Portland now,” the pilot continued, preparing us. “Thank you again for your patience,” he added.

  Slowly, the pilot turned us around one hundred eighty degrees, and we headed back to Portland Airport. About twenty minutes into our flight back, we hit the storm again, making many passengers gasp. But this time it seemed like a normal storm, not a life-ender. As we approached the runway, the wind stopped, everything went eerily calm, and we touched down gently.

  The plane erupted with passenger cheers and a loud “Thank you, Jesus” praising from a passenger behind me. It was a surreal and beautiful moment for all of us; I couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear.

  The flight attendant spoke to us again. “As soon as we meet the gate, the emergency medical crew will board and take off injured passengers one by one. Everyone else, please remain in your seats until instructed by crews. Thank you for your help.”

  While the plane taxied, the flight attendants tidied up the plane, since some of the overhead bins had flown open during the crisis. The first thing out of my seatmate’s mouth since landing was, “Maybe I should quit my job and stay home with my daughter.”

  “Maybe you should. You did get a second chance today,” I said, watching her as she looked straight ahead.

  She looked me in the eyes and then suddenly grabbed me in a hug, her tears having returned. I patted her back as a mom would.

  “I thought I was dead,” she cried.

  “I know,” I said gently, trying to comfort her.

  The plane quickly reached our gate. I remained in my seat as emergency personnel walked off the injured passengers. It looked as though the injuries were mainly cuts and scrapes, although I saw one passenger who was holding his shoulder. I wondered if he was hurt by someone’s luggage smacking into him. No one near my row was injured, and I wondered how that was possible, considering how much stuff was flying around the cabin.

  That’s odd.

  We were finally cleared to deplane. I sat, allowing other passengers who were desperate to escape our near tomb to go first. Of course my seatmate was one of those. I realized that we had never even exchanged names.

  Weariness made me wary of moving, the adrenaline draining from me as my body began to feel less numb.

  As I sat, I thought about my call to Elinor at the Bellingham Airport and my breakfast with Aunt Saundra. Did I have a premonition of what would happen today? I wondered. Our being alive was a miracle—there was no doubt about that in my mind—but were we alive only because of the pilot’s skill?

  Once all passengers were out of their seats, I took my time rising in the quiet and retrieved my messenger bag from under my seat. Thankfully, I hadn’t put it in an overhead bin. As I strode past two flight attendants—their lips slightly too pale, eyes too wide—I stopped at the cockpit, where the door was now open.

  “Hey, I just wanted to say thank you,” I offered sincerely, knowing it wasn’t enough.

  Both the pilot and co-pilot turned around and gave me thumbs up and then immediately turned back around to their instrument panel and clipboards. Airline personnel were already entering the cabin to conduct their near-crash investigation, the bustle of life clean and fresh against the current of fear that had passed through the cabin not long before.
/>   Chapter 2

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  The Year 2015

  After logging my name, an airline clerk cleared me to leave. I slowly walked away from the gate, adrenaline fatigue plaguing me, dumbly following the signs for rental cars. It was surreal to be walking down the wide terminal with passengers rushing by—as though it were an ordinary business-travel day, when in reality, I should not even be alive. I watched other passengers from my flight holding one another close as they walked, shock still apparent. Knowing I was very late for my GOG meeting, I inexplicably felt no desire to hurry.

  Finally, I reached Budget Rental Cars. Sinéad had reserved a car under Fastbreak, which meant that I didn’t have to wait in the regular line. There was no one else in the Fastbreak lane, and in three minutes I had the car keys. I quickly found the Ford Fusion hybrid, and I could only hope that my GOG contact had waited—I had no safe phone with me.

  I guess I’ll just hope for the best. At least I’m alive, I thought.

  True to Portland’s reputation, I was caught in a barely-moving traffic jam, and it took me fifty minutes to get to the garden. When I parked, I was nearly two hours late.

  I approached the garden’s ticket booth.

  “Hello. One adult, please,” I requested.

  “Good afternoon,” the white-haired matron said cheerfully. “That’ll be eighteen dollars, dear.”

  I handed the elderly woman cash, amused that her white permed hair barely cleared the counter; she was so short.

  “You know, dear, included in the admission is a free guided tour,” she added enthusiastically. “It starts in a little over a half hour, right over there,” she said with a smile while pointing her small, gnarly finger.

  “No, thank you…” I paused, looking at her name tag. “Deloris.” I turned away, looking at the map to find the meeting place.

  Calling after me with an elevated voice, she added, “But I’m sure you would learn a great deal about the garden if you go on the tour, especially since you’re here alone…”