SecondWorld

24

The phone rang only once before Bensson answered. “You should be sleeping.”

“No longer an option,” Miller replied.

“What happened?” Bensson asked, getting straight to the point.

Miller gave him the short version of the story. “Special Ops squad took a shot at me. They missed.”

“Are you okay?”

Miller thought about the question. He was far from okay. But his heart still pumped, which was more than could be said for Brodeur. “A little banged up, but they dropped Brodeur.”

“Brodeur?”

“The FBI agent assigned to me.”

“Do you want someone else?”

“I’m fine,” Miller said. He’d trusted Brodeur, but didn’t want to risk involving another stranger.

“Where are you?”

“Would prefer to keep that to myself.”

“These phones can’t be tapped.”

As much as Miller trusted the president, he couldn’t take the chance that the person who designed this phone wasn’t a closet Nazi. There was no way to know, for sure, if their conversation was being listened to. He doubted it. But better safe than sorry. At least until he’d slept. “When I need you to know, you’ll know.”

Miller wasn’t sure how Bensson would handle being denied by a subordinate, but the man remained composed.

“Fair enough,” Bensson said.

“I might be a little late to that meeting,” Miller said. “In fact, it might be better if we made it a conference call.”

“You’d be safer here,” Bensson said.

“Coming to you will put me back on the radar,” Miller replied. “I’d rather be under it.”

“Listen,” Bensson said. “When you need something—anything—let me know and I’ll make it happen. If they’re already gunning for you, they know you’re a threat.” There was a pause before Bensson spoke again. “And I’m sorry about that. I can’t help but think my visit in the hospital painted a target on your head.”

Miller agreed, but didn’t say so. The man didn’t need more weight added to his already hefty burden. But he could help ease Miller’s burden. “Actually, there is something you can do.”

“Name it.”

“Arwen.”

“The girl from Miami.”

“If they’re gunning for me, they might try to use her.”

“I’ll assign a security detail to her.”

“You’ll assign more than a detail,” Miller said. “The men who came for me were good, well armed, and weren’t afraid to pull the trigger. If they come for her, the D.C. police and FBI won’t be able to—”

“Secret Service,” Bensson said. “She’ll have the same level of protection as me.”

Miller nodded and said, “That will work. Just make sure they look like Jay-Z’s security.”

After a chuckle, Bensson said, “Will do.”

“I’m going to chase down a lead,” Miller said. “I’ll be in touch in the morning, but I’m hoping to—”

“A lead?”

Miller could hear the eagerness in the president’s voice. The FBI, CIA, and Homeland were most likely clueless, or being derailed from the inside. Bensson would be desperate for some nugget of good news. But he’d have to wait. Miller was in the habit of keeping his cards close during an investigation. It kept him from being distracted. Plus, he had no idea what Adler had in her bag or if it was worthwhile. “If it turns out to be big, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I knew you were the right man for the job,” Bensson said.

“Thought I was the only man for the job,” Miller said, half-smiling.

“You’re both,” the president said. “Godspeed, Miller.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Miller hung up, pocketed the phone, and stared out the tiny windshield of Adler’s Mini Cooper. Night had fallen as they’d crossed into Pennsylvania. For a moment he just watched the reflective mile markers pass by, his anger slowly drifting away like steam.

He glanced over at Adler and found her wide eyes on him.

“That was the president?” she asked.

“The one and only,” Miller said. “We go to the same church.”

Her eyes widened a bit more, which seemed impossible.

The look of shock on Adler’s face made her look like some kind of circus clown. Miller grinned, revealing the joke. His smile turned into a laugh, and Adler joined in. They laughed for nearly a minute, expunging the tension of nearly being killed. Miller watched her laugh. She was a stranger to him and nationality marked her as a potential enemy. But he felt glad to have her there.

Of course, that might change after he got a look at what was in her purse. Remembering the purse sapped the remaining humor from him and he turned back to the road. A Best Western sign appeared in the distance.

“Take the next exit,” he said.

Adler’s smile disappeared when she heard the serious tone in Miller’s voice again. She put on the blinker and eased onto the off-ramp. Ten minutes later, they were checked into the Best Western, having paid in cash and used fake names.

The room was typical—two twin beds, a desk, two uncomfortable chairs, a large poster of a Western scene hung over each bed and screwed to the wall as though someone might actually steal them. The bathroom was small, but clean.

Adler opened the window.

“Better keep that closed.”

“Smells in here.”

She was right. The room reeked of cheap cleaning supplies. “You’ll get used to it,” he said as he stepped around her and closed the window.

“Why?”

“So we’re not overheard.”

A quick flash of fear appeared on Adler’s face. She didn’t know him any better than he did her. He realized this and said, “We need to talk.”

Miller took a seat at the small round table and motioned to the other chair.

“About what?” Adler said, sitting down across from him.

Miller really wanted to take a shower. He’d never felt so dirty before and was sure the stench rising from his body would soon overpower the room’s chemical odor. But the sooner he put his mind to work on what Adler was hiding, the better. “About what’s in your purse and why your boss tried to kill you over it.”

Adler sat still for a moment. Then her shoulders sagged. She lifted the large purse onto the table, opened it, and pulled out a small leather-bound book. “It’s my grandmother’s journal.”

Miller fought against the sigh of frustration building in his chest. What could a grandmother’s journal have to do with the attacks? And then she laid it out in the simplest terms possible.

“She was a mathematician and professor at the University of Königsberg. She was… brilliant.” Her face churned with ancestral guilt. “They couldn’t have done it without her.”

25

“Done what without her?” Miller asked.

Adler studied the table’s drab mustard yellow surface for a moment. “The attacks. The timing. The ratios of iron to oxygen. Particle accelerations. All the calculations required to pull off the extinction of the human race. These things were not her ideas, but the math that made them possible was, is, hers.”

“Your grandmother was a Nazi?”

“She was a German during the Third Reich. Many of the scientists that worked on projects for the Reich didn’t agree with what they were doing. There was no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Miller said.

“She would have been shot, and my mother with her.”

“And yet here you are, risking your life to stop the same evil sixty-something years later. And if you die in the effort, your family’s bloodline will end with you anyway. Sure, you might not have been born, and that’s sad, but your grandmother handed over the keys to genocide to save her family? C’mon.”

Adler’s head bowed back toward the table. “You’re right.”

Miller took the book from Adler. The leather cover was worn and cracking. He opened it and found a name scrawled on the inside cover. “Elizabeth Adler. You were named for her?”

“I was her jewel, she said.” Adler wiped a tear from her eye. “She was a good woman. A loving woman. She believed the SS men in charge of the project had died toward the end of the war. Some of the other scientists survived, but they became U.S. citizens.”

Miller flipped through the diary. The first fifty pages were complex mathematical computations.

“She replicated the math from memory,” Adler said. “And told my mother, and eventually me, that if red poison ever fell from the sky that we should get her diary to someone who could do something to stop it.”

“And that someone was me.”

“You weren’t my first choice, remember?”

As she turned toward the window and looked at her reflection, he saw the bruising around her neck. He remembered.

“So this explains what, how it’s done?”

Adler shook her head. “In theory, yes, but the equations are just part of the puzzle. There were others working on real-world applications. They never told her about the rest of the project, only what she needed to know to work out the math. But after calculating how much oxidized iron it would take to remove the oxygen from the lower atmosphere, she recognized the project’s success could lead to a global mass extinction. She began duplicating her equations and keeping notes about everyone she knew to be involved and the small amount of information they revealed.”

Miller flipped through the journal. The last one hundred pages were handwritten notes in German. “You’ve read this?”

“Several times.”

“Other than the equations, is there anything that might help us?”

“Most of it is notes about her equations and what she believed the possible real-world applications of them could be, which may not be relevant because the world has already experienced the real-world applications. I’m not sure if the book will be of any use to anyone who can’t understand the math.”

“Which is both of us, I’m guessing?”

She nodded. “I took years of advanced math in the hopes that I could understand my grandmother’s work. It’s still like looking at hieroglyphics to me.”

Miller flipped through the pages and stopped at a list of names beneath the word Laternenträger. “What’s this?”

Adler leaned forward, looking at the open page. “Laternenträger. She called it Project Lantern Bearer, but that was just one of many names given to each individual aspect of the final project. The names are a list of everyone she believed was involved.”

Miller read through the list of names.

— Admiral Rhein - Kriegsmarine

— SS Obergruppenführer Emil Mazuw

— Dr. Kurt Debus - Parameter und Messung, Hochspannungs-Stromversorgung, Mathematik

— Dr. Hans Coler - Physiker, Spezialisierung Strom und Magnetismus

— Professor Dr. Walther Gerlach - Spinpolarisation, Magnetismus Schwerkraft

— Dr. Hermann Oberth - Raumfahrt Theoretiker, Raketeningenieur

— Dr. Aldric Huber - Antrieb Spezialist und Assistent von Braun

— Dr. Wernher von Braun - Rakete Wissenschaftler, Ingenieur

“Wernher von Braun?” Miller said. The name sounded familiar.

“You know who he is?”

Miller looked at her. “Do you?”

“Only what it says there. That he was a rocket scientist and engineer.”

Miller shook his head. “I guess that’s why you’re a liaison instead of an investigator?”

She bristled. “Hey, I didn’t know if any of this was real until a few days ago. I loved my grandmother, but she wasn’t lucid before she died. I wasn’t— I wasn’t sure it was—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Miller had the phone out and worked his fingers across the touch screen.

“You think this is worth taking to the president?” she asked.

“Nope,” he said, not looking up from the phone.

“Why not?”

“First, the math may reveal the scope and potential danger of the attacks, but like you said, we’ve already had a taste of Grandma’s secret recipe. Second, the president won’t understand a lick of this either and will have to turn it over to NASA or DARPA. If he does that, there’s a good chance we’ll tip off the bad guys and give them time to erase the trail.”

“What trail?”

Miller turned the iPhone around. A Web site was displayed showing a dapper-looking man in a gray suit leaning on a desk in front of an American flag. Next to the photo was the name: Dr. Wernher von Braun.

Adler took the phone and read through the text. Her expression became more shocked with each line. “Operation Paperclip.” Adler was familiar with the then-secret program that brought the best and brightest Nazi scientists to the United States and made them naturalized citizens. Many of the great scientific achievements of modern America had come from those German minds, including the atom bomb. But she hadn’t realized how much freedom those scientists had been given. “Mein Gott, they made him director of the Marshall Space Flight Center?”

“Wouldn’t have made it to the moon without him. Says he died in ’75.”

“Then what can we do?”

“Other than track down and interrogate his children? Find out if Aldric Huber is still alive.”

“Aldric Huber?”

Miller spun the journal around and pointed to the name near the bottom of the list. “My German is rusty, but I’m pretty sure this says he was von Braun’s assistant.”

“Ja.”

Miller began dialing a number on the phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Someone I trust.”

After reaching the automated switchboard, Miller punched in the extension number. The line picked up a moment later. “You’ve reached the office of Executive Assistant Director Fred Murdock. Leave your name, number, and time and date of your call and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” The message beeped. “Fred, it’s Lincoln. Sorry I haven’t been in touch yet. But something fell in my lap and it can’t be ignored. I need you to get me everything you can on a guy named Aldric Huber. Born in Germany. May be a naturalized U.S. citizen. If he’s still alive he’d be old. Eighties. Maybe nineties. Keep it under the radar. Do the search yourself and delete it when you’re done. Call me back at…” Miller quickly found the phone number under the Settings tab and read it into the phone.

When he hung up, Miller realized his instincts now controlled his actions. He was on the case. And that meant he’d follow this thing to the end, whatever that might be. Which meant he’d be breaking a promise.

He dialed 411 and got the name and number of the flower shop inside the George Washington University Hospital. After being connected he arranged to have a pack of chocolate puddings and a bouquet of flowers delivered to Arwen’s room. When asked about the note for the flowers, he said, “Arwen, I’m taking the ring to Mount Doom. Love, Frodo.”

The woman on the other end of the line got a laugh out of that, but Miller knew Arwen would understand the message. His quest had begun. He hung up the phone and turned to Adler, who waited with raised eyebrows.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now,” Miller said, “I’m taking a shower.” He opened the Safari Web browser on the phone and handed it to her. “Find out what you can about the other names on the list. If anything stands out, make a note. After that, read and reread your grandmother’s journal. Flag anything that sounds like it doesn’t involve Project Lantern Bearer. If Fred calls, come get me.”

She looked surprised. “In the shower.”

Miller gave a sarcastic nod. “That’s where I’ll be.”

He stood and walked to the bathroom, wondering if it was even possible that a dead German scientist turned U.S. patriot and his assistant could help track down a modern Nazi cabal who’d shown they were fully capable of wiping out the human race. The truth was, he doubted it. He was grasping at straws. But the journal of a German mathematician had provided a few bread crumbs to follow.

Perhaps there would be a trail?

Of course, he didn’t expect to find more bread crumbs. Blood seemed more likely.

26

Miller left the bathroom thirty minutes later feeling clean for the first time in days. While he felt eager to hear back from Fred, he also felt thankful that he’d been given the time to just stand under the scalding water and decompress. The tension melted away from his back and the chaos in his mind eased.

When Adler looked up from her grandmother’s diary, she noticed the difference immediately. “You look… better.”

He sat down next to her. “I feel better.” He tugged at his ill-fitting shirt. “Though we’ll be picking up some clothes for me next time we get a chance. None of these are mine.” He looked at the journal. “Find anything useful?”

“Obergruppenführer Emil Mazuw was general of the Waffen-SS—the Schutzstaffel, Hitler’s elite—and one of eight Higher SS and police leaders. He was definitely involved in the development of secret weapons, but the Allies captured him at the end of the war. He served sixteen years for his part in the Holocaust, which included euthanizing Jews. After his release he got a job, lived off the radar, and died in 1987.”

“Sixteen years?” Miller said, his jaw slack.

“Ja,” she said. “They should have hung them all.”

Miller smiled. Part of him expected Adler to be defensive, but her voice held as much venom as his.

“Dr. Kurt Debus. This may not be any help because he died in 1983, but he was also brought to the U.S. by Operation Paperclip and became the first director of NASA’s Kennedy Space Center.”

“Geez. Between him and von Braun, the U.S. space program was controlled by former Nazis.” The ridiculousness of this made Miller wonder if Nazi sympathizers had infiltrated the U.S. system before the war had even begun.

“Dr. Hermann Oberth was actually von Braun’s mentor and developed liquid-fueled rockets, including the V-2 rockets, for the Reich. He wasn’t part of Operation Paperclip, but lived in the U.S. for a time before returning to Germany. He died in 1989. The last name on the list, Dr. Walther Gerlach, was interned by the British at the end of the war and some believe he helped develop their nuclear program. But he returned to Germany in 1946 and worked as a professor until he died in 1979. Another dead end.”

“Literally,” Miller said. “Anything on Huber?”

“Nothing. He’s a ghost. If he exists, he avoided the history books.”

Miller gave the journal a pat and said, “Not all of them.” That’s when he noticed a passage in the journal had been circled in fresh red ink. “Found something?” Even though he couldn’t read it, Miller turned the journal around and looked at the text.

“I’m not sure. She mentions being asked to calculate the optimal temperatures for freezing and thawing bodies without damaging the cells. But she didn’t believe a mathematical equation could help refine such a process without more data. She’d been disturbed when she was told that trials were being conducted and data would be delivered. But she never mentions it again.”

“So she either didn’t get the data, or just didn’t bother to note it.”

Adler didn’t reply. Miller could see she was uncomfortable with the idea of her grandmother being involved with something as heinous as freezing and thawing living human beings. He knew that such experiments were conducted on the prisoners held in concentration camps, not to mention scores of other revolting experiments, but kept that to himself. He could see the weight of her grandmother’s involvement tugging at Adler’s shoulders. “You’re right. Doesn’t sound related.” He passed the journal back to her. “But keep at it. You might find something.”

The chime of the ringing phone made both of them jump. Miller accepted the call and placed the phone to his ear. “Miller.”

“Damn, it’s good to hear your voice, Linc,” Fred Murdock said on the other end.

“Thanks for visiting me in the hospital,” Miller teased.

“I didn’t know you were there until you were gone,” Murdock said. “Things are a little crazy right now.”

“I’m sure.”

“Where are you, anyway?”

“Better if you don’t know.”

“What, you think someone is going to torture me for the info?”

Murdock’s tone turned grim when Miller didn’t answer. “This is about that red shit, isn’t it? Listen, if this Huber guy is a lead, I want in.”

“That would be a bad idea, Fred.”

“You’re sure?”

“You’ve been out of the field for fifteen years and this isn’t Lethal Weapon. You actually are too old for this shit. Just please, keep this quiet. If I need your help, I’ll call. Until then, if even a mouse fart of this gets out, I’m going to feel some heat.”

“I hear you, Linc. Loose lips sink ships. I know the drill.”

“Thanks. What did you find on Huber?”

“Well…” Miller could hear papers rustling on the other end. “There wasn’t much. The guy’s led a quiet life. Came to the U.S. from Germany like you thought. Was only eighteen at the time, so he’s eighty-five now. Lived in Huntsville, Alabama, for a long time.”

“Huntsville? Isn’t that where—”

“Home to the Marshall Space Flight Center, yup.”

“Where is he now?” Miller asked, then snapped his fingers at Adler and pointed to a Best Western memo pad sitting on the room’s dresser. She quickly snatched the pad and handed it to him. Using Adler’s red pen, he wrote down the information as Murdock gave it to him.

“Last known place of residence is 23 Pinegrove Circle, Barrington, New Hampshire. I don’t have a date of death on the guy, so he must still be there.”

“Phone number?”

“None on record.”

“Good enough,” Miller said. “Thanks, Fred.”

“If you need anything else—more intel, a wiretap, the cavalry—you let me know. Just stay alive, okay?”

“That’s the plan.”

Miller hung up the phone.

“So we’re going to New Hampshire?” Adler asked as she read the memo pad.

Miller stood and picked up the car keys. “Yup.”

“What, now?”

“It’s at least an eight-hour drive. If we leave now we can be there in time to talk to Huber over donuts and coffee.”

“You don’t need to rest?”

Just hearing the question made Miller feel exhausted. He’d been pushing his body hard. But he’d been trained to deal with it. And if Adler wanted to be a part of this, she would have to do the same. “We’ll drive in two four-hour shifts. I’ll take the first.”

With a tired sigh, Adler heaved herself out of the chair, put her scattered belongings back in her purse, and headed for the door with Miller. They were northbound on Route 95 five minutes later. Miller drove in silence as Adler slept. He felt the tug of sleep on his body, but his mind, firing on all cylinders, remained hypervigilant for danger. He half expected a bullet to zing through the window, or a storm of red flakes to descend. Danger felt inescapable—far worse than his combat experiences in the SEALs. Every enemy he’d fought in the military and every criminal he’d chased down for the NCIS had a face, a clear history, and a motive. But the enemy facing him now could be anywhere, anyone, and only God knew what they really wanted.

Would they make demands?

Would they instigate a third world war?

Or maybe just wait for the world to descend into anarchy?

They could deploy a weapon capable of killing millions. All from the shadows.

Doubt crept in when he thought about the immensity of what he was facing—he looked at Adler, sleeping in the passenger’s seat—with a German Interpol liaison whose grandmother played a key role in the development of a doomsday weapon.

The odds were stacked severely against them, but the memory of how Arwen received her burns stuck with him. She had faced impossible odds when she raced into the fire to save her brother. She failed in the attempt, but she tried. She ignored the danger, plunged in, and fought the odds. Miller’s odds of success seemed about as likely as Arwen’s had been. Failure was likely. But he shared Arwen’s spirit. He’d jump into the fire. Even if it killed him. As he turned away from Adler, he hoped she felt similarly. The fire was just getting started.

Four hours later, he pulled over at a twenty-four-hour rest area in Massachusetts. Adler woke up just as he finished fueling the car. She opened the door and got out. She stretched, yawned, took the keys from Miller’s hand, and walked to the driver’s side.

“Let’s go,” she said, climbing into the car and closing the door.

Miller grinned. He’d worried she might be a liability, but she was carrying her own weight, so far. After moving the Mini Cooper’s seat all the way back and reclining it as far as it could go, Miller climbed in. “It’s a straight shot up Route Ninety-five. Wake me up when we hit New Hampshire.”

Adler gave a nod and hit the gas. Miller was asleep before they left the rest area’s on-ramp.

He dreamed of a red sky and woke up to screaming.

27

“Scheiße!”

The shouted word rocked Miller from a hard sleep. His eyes snapped open as he felt the car jerk hard to the left. He saw a flash of Adler’s panic-stricken face. He drew the Glock, spun around, and searched for the vehicle that had tried to force them off the road.

There wasn’t a car in sight.

Then he saw it. A massive bull moose stood in the middle of the road watching them drive away. The giant easily outweighed the tiny car and towered over it. If they’d collided, he had no doubt the moose would have walked away after turning the car and its passengers into a metal-and-flesh pancake.

“Sorry,” Adler said. “Sorry.”

Miller sat up, raised the reclined seatback, and closed his eyes. The close encounter had set his heart pounding and adrenaline surging.

“It stepped right out in front of me,” Adler said, her voice full of apology.

Miller opened his eyes. “Haven’t been to New Hampshire before, I take it?”

“No,” Adler said. “Are moose common here?”

“They have bumper stickers that say, ‘Brake for moose.’” He smiled. “I nearly shot the bastard.”

“I don’t think your nine-millimeter would have done much.”

Miller looked at the gun. She was right. While it was great for putting deadly holes in a human body, the eight-foot-tall, fifteen-hundred-pound herbivore with a quarter-inch-thick hide would just be irritated by the small-caliber rounds.

“It’s a good thing we’re not going up against Nazi moose, then,” Miller said. He took stock of their surroundings. They were on a small winding road that lacked signs or even a double yellow line. A forest of pine, white birch, and maples lined both sides of the road. The windows were open and the eighty-degree air smelled of earth and trees with a hint of something sweet. After breathing inside the rebreather for so long, the fragrant air felt like a dream to Miller. “Where are we?”

“You looked tired,” she said. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Miller rubbed his eyes. He probably could have slept for a few more hours, but felt a good deal better with the time he’d got. “Thanks.”

“We’re almost there. Maybe ten minutes out.”

This came as a surprise to Miller. “How did you find the way?”

She pointed to the iPhone propped up on the front dash cup holder. A map displayed a moving car and a series of winding roads surrounded by a flat green landscape. “Phone has GPS. Two more left turns and we’re there.”

Miller picked up the phone and scanned ahead on the map. He followed the blue trail marking the roads they would take. A small bridge crossing the far side of a lake lay a mile ahead. A left turn after that would take them along the side of the lake and another left onto Huber’s street, which looked like it crossed onto a small island. He zoomed in on the residence and found the house on the outer edge of the island, overlooking the lake.

Miller looked up and saw the bridge up ahead. It was big enough for just one car. A large lake emerged on the left of the bridge. A small pond lay to the right. Big houses with skylights, large decks, fire pits, and hammocks had been built along the shore. The water’s edge was lined with docks holding Jet Skis, pontoon boats, and an assortment of smaller canoes and paddle boats. As they passed over the small bridge Miller looked out over the lake and saw a streak of white. A boat cut across the surface pulling a large inner tube to which a bikini-clad girl clung.

The peaceful surroundings and summertime scene gave Miller hope that things could return to normal. And maybe they could stay here in New Hampshire where there was no real target of significance to worry about. With the populations of most major U.S. cities dwarfing that of the entire state of New Hampshire, he doubted it was high on anyone’s target list.

It was also the perfect place for an ex-Nazi to drop off the radar.

As they approached the left-hand turn just after the bridge, a large black SUV rounded a corner and headed casually toward them. Adler put on the blinker and waited for the beast on wheels to pass. Instead, it turned down the road before them.

“No one uses their turn signal anymore,” Adler grumbled.

But Miller didn’t hear her. He was focused on the SUV. Nothing about the vehicle stood out, really, but the men inside were a different story. He saw the driver through the front windshield as he steered the vehicle onto the street. He had a shaved head and pale skin. A man in the backseat was skinnier, but had the same close-cropped hair. Neither had the look of men about to hit the lake for a BBQ, fishing, or boating. Miller recognized the expression on their faces. He’d seen it on his fellow SEALs before every battle. They had the look of men about to spill blood. As they passed, he saw the silhouettes of two more men on the other side of the car. A hit squad if he ever saw one.

Miller tensed, hand on weapon, but the SUV kept on going, bouncing over a field of potholes before reaching the smooth pavement of the lake house association. They’re not here for us, he thought. They’re here for Huber!

“What’s wrong?” Adler asked, looking down at the Glock clenched in Miller’s hand.

“Get us up behind the SUV. But not too close.”

“Why?”

Miller pointed toward the SUV. “There are at least four hit men on their way toward Huber and if we don’t find a way to get there first, or stop them, we’ll be interviewing a corpse.”

The blood drained from Adler’s face, but she nodded and steered onto the road. The SUV disappeared around a corner as the Mini Cooper struggled with the potholes. Free of the rough road, Adler punched the gas and shot forward. The road was still small, but the Cooper had plenty of room to maneuver and its low center of gravity made hugging turns a snap.

But they only made it around the first corner before everything fell apart. The SUV was parked on the side of the road. All four occupants were out, standing across the road, aiming an assortment of weapons straight at them.

“Steer left and get down!” Miller said, and jammed his foot on top of Adler’s. The car shot forward as a barrage of gunfire peppered the front of the car. Glass flew. Adler screamed. A sound like giant popcorn kernels popping filled the car. The first impact to shake the car was accompanied by two shouts of pain. Their assailants’ strategy had been sound, but they’d staged the ambush too close to the corner. There wasn’t enough time for them to fire and get out of the way.

The second impact loosed a shriek of metal on metal. They’d struck the guardrail Miller had seen a split second before ducking. He sat up when the shriek stopped. They’d cleared the turn and had a stand of trees between them and the shooters.

“You hit?” he asked Adler as she sat up.

“I don’t think so,” she said, then looked out the windshield. “My car…”

The front hood had large dents on either side from where they’d struck the two men. The windshield had been shredded by rounds as the shooters had focused on hitting flesh first instead of stopping the car. But when white steam began billowing from the front of the car, Miller knew the engine had taken a few high-caliber hits.

Miller glanced at the iPhone map. They had half a mile to cover before the turn for Huber’s street, and then a quarter mile to his house. “Gun it for as long as you can,” Miller said.

Adler did an impressive job keeping the Cooper moving fast and on the street. But the increasing amount of steam and ruined windshield made it nearly impossible to see. Before Miller could tell Adler to pull over, the engine coughed and died. They rolled to a stop just thirty feet from the left turn onto Huber’s road. The road dropped away on their left. The lake lapped against a rocky shore twenty feet down. To their right and directly ahead was nothing but forest.

“Get out!” Miller shouted as he snatched the iPhone, stuffed it in his pocket, and kicked open his door.

Outside the car, the roar of the approaching SUV echoed through the forest. Miller waved toward the road. “Run!”

Adler took off, running faster than Miller thought possible for a woman her size. Of course, when life hangs in the balance, most people can put a little extra pepper in their step. Miller, on the other hand, stood his ground and aimed back down the road. The SUV came thundering up over the rise and barreled toward him. A man leaned out of the passenger’s window and opened fire with a submachine gun. Rounds sliced through the small car, but couldn’t find Miller positioned behind the engine block and far-side tire.

As the shooter ducked away to reload, Miller took aim, held his breath, and squeezed off a series of rounds. The first four shots missed the target, shattering the headlight and pinging off the thick metal wheel well. But the fifth shot found nothing but tire. The effect was immediate and violent. The tire rapidly deflated under the SUV’s immense weight. The rim bit into and shredded the rubber. The vehicle tilted toward the lake and the driver, fearing a twenty-foot drop, overcompensated. The SUV turned hard to the right, the tire tore away, and the rim dug into the pavement.

The giant SUV launched into the air, spinning like a flicked coin. The gunman was launched from the open window like a rag doll from a cannon. He flew three hundred feet, snapping dry branches from pine trees before having his head removed by a thick maple limb. Blood sprayed from his body as it spiraled toward the earth and landed with a thud in the forest’s thick leaf litter.

The aerial arc of the SUV was much shorter, but no less dramatic as it flipped over the Mini Cooper. The roof of the SUV crushed the Cooper’s as it rolled and nearly struck Miller, but its momentum carried it forward. The SUV bounced off the road behind Miller and spun into the open air above the lake. The vehicle fell, and with a loud whoosh, struck the lake’s surface upside down. Water poured in through the open windows. Thirty seconds later, the SUV slid beneath the lapping waves.

Miller watched the SUV sink.

Adler ran up to him. “Holy shit!”

He just nodded and kept watching. After a minute, he felt satisfied that no one would be surfacing and checked the Glock’s clip. One round left. He slapped the clip back in and started jogging toward Huber’s road. “Let’s go.”

Adler followed, and had no trouble keeping pace. “You have nothing to say about what just happened?”

He looked at her. Her posture was perfect, her steps even. “You’re a runner?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Endurance?”

“I’ve run a few marathons.”

“Good,” he said, before picking up his pace. She fell in line and became too winded to talk. There was no way to know if a second crew would be sent out, or if they were already on the way. And they still needed to find Huber, get him someplace safe, and hopefully get some answers to a growing list of questions.

They crossed a small stone bridge onto the island. The road became dirt and skirted the shoreline. They followed the road and soon came to the one and only house—Huber’s.

The average-sized log home was in stellar condition and situated in the middle of a cleared section of land that ran down to the lake’s edge. Miller saw an empty dock and feared Huber might actually be out on the lake, which would complicate things. Further out on the water he saw two men fishing from a canoe, but neither looked like an old man.

After slowing his pace and catching his breath, Miller entered the paved, and empty, driveway. A stainless steel carport stood to the side of the driveway, but there was no way to see inside without making noise. Weapon in hand, Miller took the three steps up onto the farmer’s porch and silently stepped up to the red door. He gently took hold of the handle and turned. The door opened silently.

Adler stood next to him. “It’s unlocked?” she whispered.

The same thing had concerned Miller, too, but then he once again remembered they were in the woods of New Hampshire. He suspected they’d find most doors unlocked, especially if the residents were home.

Miller and Adler crept into the house. It smelled of pine and woodsmoke and the temperature felt ten degrees cooler than outside. The front hall, which held a coatrack and welcome mat, opened into a dining area on the left and a small kitchen on the right. The table was thick and rough, sporting two long benches like a picnic table. The marble kitchen counters were spotless and reflected sunlight streaming in through the window over the sink. Directly ahead of them was a long living room that ran the length of the house. Mounted buck busts lined the outside wall above a line of windows that provided a stunning view of the lake. And it was that view that nearly cost Adler her life.

She stepped into the living room, eyes on the window.

Two metallic clicks pricked Miller’s ears before he entered the room. “Elizabeth, freeze,” he said.

“What? Why?”

The voice, that of an old man, came from the corner of the room, behind Adler. “Because, fräulein, I’m still deciding whether or not I should kill you.”

28

Miller hung back in the kitchen, out of view. Adler stood rigid in the middle of the living room, her back to the man that had just threatened her life.

“I’ve been expecting you for some days now,” the man said.

“Expecting me?” Adler said.

“Ja. I knew you would come once I saw the shade effect over Miami. Though I must admit I am surprised you are a woman.”

“Huber,” Miller said.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” Huber warned.

Miller eased toward the living room. “I think you have us confused with someone else.”

“You take me for a fool?”

“I’m going to walk in with my back to you.” Miller eased into the living room. He held his gun out first and when he felt Huber could see it, he ejected the clip and dropped the weapon onto the floor. “I’m unarmed.”

After three slow steps, Miller stopped next to Adler, his arms raised. Huber could kill them both with two quick pulls of the trigger, but Miller had to risk it.

“I heard gunshots from the road,” Huber said. “Who did you kill?”

“Your neighbors are fine, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Miller said.

“They have kids,” Huber conceded.

“I can’t say the same for the four men that were coming to kill you,” Miller said.

“How do I know you’re not here to kill me?”

Because you’d already be dead, Miller thought, but said, “If you’ll let me turn around, I can show you.”

“Slowly.”

Miller turned around, keeping his hands high and his motions slow. As he turned, Miller looked at the line of mounted deer busts. If they were Huber’s kills, the man knew how to shoot. Giving him a reason to pull the trigger would be a very bad idea.

Huber sat in shadow, but the double-barreled shotgun was easy enough to see. And while he couldn’t clearly see Huber’s face, Miller knew the old man had seen his. The shotgun lowered slightly as Huber leaned forward. He stood and walked into the light. His face was old and weathered, but his spectacled eyes burned with intensity. A full head of gray hair and a week’s worth of stubble framed his confused expression. “Am I supposed to recognize you?”

“Most people seem to, these days,” Miller said with a frown. If Huber didn’t recognize him, his plan would go up in smoke. “My face has been on TV a lot lately.”

“Do you see a TV?” Huber asked.

Shit. Miller didn’t.

“Newspaper?” Miller asked.

Huber shook his head, no.

“How do you know what’s happening in the world?” Adler asked.

“Radio,” Huber said.

Miller realized he had just one hope. “Lincoln Miller, you know the name?”

Huber thought for just a moment. “The survivor from Miami, yes, but—”

“I am Lincoln Miller.”

Huber looked at him like he’d just claimed to be Hitler himself.

“I’m going to reach into my pocket,” Miller said. “For some ID.”

“Slowly,” Huber said, keeping his aim tight on Miller’s chest.

Miller pulled out the iPhone and flicked it on.

“That’s not a wallet,” Huber noted.

“My wallet is under fifty feet of water off of Key Largo buried beneath a blue whale,” Miller said as he opened the Web browser, opened a news network Web site, and watched the new headlines rotate. “Kind of hard to reach right now.” When a photo of his face appeared in the rotation, he tapped the article to expand it and held it up for Huber to see.

Huber’s face shifted through a variety of expressions. The article clearly showed Miller’s face, name, and identified him as the man who’d survived the attack on Miami and saved a little girl, but didn’t explain how Miller had gotten to New Hampshire, or why he stood in Huber’s living room.

“I’m Special Agent Lincoln Miller with the NCIS.”

Huber gave a small nod. “That’s what it says under your photo, but—”

“I’m here at the behest of the president of the United States,” Miller said.

That got Huber’s attention. “Figured it out then, have you?” Huber motioned to Adler with the shotgun. “And you? Sie sind Deutsche.”

Adler turned around and eyed the shotgun pointed at her gut. “Elizabeth Adler. I’m a German liaison for Interpol.”

Huber’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, searching their faces for some sign of deception. Finding none, he lowered the shotgun.

Miller noticed the old man’s free hand shaking. A trickle of sweat rolled down the man’s face. Huber was terrified. “You have a beautiful home,” Miller said, trying to put the man at ease. If he had a heart attack, he wouldn’t be any use to anyone.

“It is my sanctuary,” Huber said, returning to his seat.

A great stone fireplace stood to Miller’s right, its chimney rising up through the center of the cabin. He stepped closer to the mantel lined with framed photos. Older pictures showed Huber with a woman, presumably his wife, and two young girls—daughters. Newer pictures showed an aged Huber with two older women—the daughters grown up—and a line of what had to be grandkids. “When did your wife pass?”

Huber sniffed. “Fifteen years ago. Cancer ate her alive.”

“Sorry,” Miller said.

Huber shrugged. “You’re not here to talk about my family and I would prefer you had nothing to do with them. I am no longer burdened by the hatred of my youth. And up until this moment, I thought myself free of that past. But it seems history is repeating itself once again.” He turned to Adler. “The evil born in our homeland has raised itself from the ashes once again.”

“Millions are dead,” Adler said.

“Sixty million lives were taken in the Second World War,” Huber said. “What you have seen is just the beginning.”

Miller stepped toward Huber. “The beginning?”

“Tests.”

“For what?”

Huber leaned forward and pushed his fingers together. “Have you determined where the iron particles came from?”

Miller remembered the vague news report he’d seen in Miami. “I heard something about a cloud of iron that the solar system passed through.”

Huber shook his head at the crude explanation. “The iron is extraterrestrial in origin—”

“Aliens?” Adler asked.

Huber laughed and waved a dismissive hand at her. “Nothing so foolish. There is a vast cloud of finely divided particles on the fringe of our solar system. It is typically held at bay in the heliopause by the sun’s solar wind.”

“Heliopause?” Miller asked.

“The heliopause is the region of space where the sun’s ions meet the galaxy’s. There are particles in this region of space, about one hundred and ten astronomical units from the sun—an astronomical unit is the distance between the Earth and the sun, nearly ninety-three million miles. During times of low sunspot activity, which occurs roughly every ten years, some of these particles slip through into the solar system. Many reach Earth and burn up harmlessly in the thermosphere. A period of extremely low sunspot activity occurred in 1933. Combined with an infrequent alignment of the planets, particularly the gas giants, a large cloud of iron particles entered the solar system and over the past seventy years have been journeying toward Earth.”

“And it reached us a few days ago?” Adler asked.

“Oh, no,” Huber said. “Those were small clouds that arrived in advance and allowed for the tests to be conducted.”

“How do you know all this?” Miller asked.

“Because,” Huber said, meeting Miller’s skeptical gaze. “I was there when Wernher von Braun calculated its arrival.” The old man craned his head toward Adler. “Of course, he wasn’t absolutely sure until your grandmother confirmed the accuracy of his math.”

29

Adler’s mouth hung open for a moment. “You knew my grandmother?”

“I met her twice,” Huber said with a nod. “I was a youth at the time, working in von Braun’s laboratory and living in his loft. She was a stunning woman. Taller, and fairer to look at than you, I’m afraid, but you share her eyes. She was instrumental in the completion of Lantern Bearer. Was she how you found me? Is she still alive?”

“She kept a journal,” Miller said. “Your name was in it, among others.”

Huber pinched his lips together, moving them side to side. “We always suspected her loyalties were not fully aligned with those of the Reich, but we never told the Obergruppenführer about our suspicions.”

“Emil Mazuw?” Miller asked.

“The same. A ruthless man and stalwart believer in the superiority of the Aryan race. He would have had her shot.”

“Why?” Adler asked. “Why didn’t you turn her in?”

“Aside from the fact that her brilliance made our advances possible?” Huber settled back into his chair. “Tell me, what do you know of your grandfather?”

“My grandfather? My grandmother said he was kind and gentle.”

“He was.”

“And he died during the war. Allied bombs.”

Huber shook his head. “I’m sorry to say, this is not true. Your grandfather died in 1979, just a few years after you were born, I suspect. He was ninety years old.”

Adler sat down in the chair across from Huber, her hand to her mouth.

“He loved your grandmother very much and forbade the rest of us from turning her in. He was a dedicated Nazi, a valued colleague, and we trusted his judgment. And while your grandmother certainly helped with the success of several Nazi projects, many of them were born from the mind of your grandfather. In fact, without your family’s involvement, the world wouldn’t now be in danger.”

To say that these revelations were stunning was an understatement. Adler had gone pale and had a lot to process. She felt guilty because of her grandmother’s association with Project Lantern Bearer, but now her grandfather was involved as well, and on a much more grand scale. Her grandparents’ hands were stained with the blood of millions. As horrifying as this was, Miller needed to keep the conversation on track. “What can you tell us about the project?”

Huber shrugged. “Everything I remember. But it won’t help and I’m sure a lot has changed since we worked on the prototype.”

“What do you mean, changed?”

“Debus, Gerlach, Oberth, and von Braun were all scientists of notoriety. The Allies were well aware of their keen minds and sought them out at the end of the war. If they’d been shot, or taken with the prototype—”

“Taken where?” Miller asked.

“We were never told.” Huber cleared his throat and stood. He wandered to the fireplace and looked at the photos on the mantel. “Anything other than capture would have raised suspicions and begun a search. Turning themselves in kept attention away from the project long enough for it to disappear. It also served another purpose that allowed the project to continue into the present day.”

“Which was?” Miller asked.

The old man rubbed a thumb over the photo of his grandkids—three smiling girls and two boys. “Recruitment.”

The word twisted Miller’s gut. Von Braun had been made the director of Marshall Space Flight Center and Debus the director of the Kennedy Space Center. They would have had access to the best and brightest U.S. scientists.

“I can see you understand the implications,” Huber said, looking at Miller. “Our former affiliation with the Nazi regime was well known. We had no trouble finding like-minded scientists. In fifteen years, von Braun and I recruited more than thirty scientists from a variety of fields. Once initiated, they were picked up and we never saw them again.”

Huber turned his attention back to the photos. “But we soon began having children, and grandchildren. And this was their home. Our families were American. And we came to love this country and its… diversity, as our own. We decided, as a group, to end the recruitment program. But it seemed our bold move was a hollow gesture. We were never contacted again.”

“Why not?” Miller asked.

“Based on the events of the last few days, I’d guess it was because we sent them everyone they needed, and every time a recruit left, we ran the risk of exposing the program.”

“So you just kept it all to yourselves?” Miller said. “Why didn’t you expose the program?”

“Just because we weren’t contacted doesn’t mean we weren’t being watched. We stayed silent for the same reason Walther Gerlach never visited his granddaughter.” He looked at Adler when he said it. Gerlach was her grandfather. “A man will suffer a great deal of guilt to protect the ones he loves.”

Miller got in front of Huber. “And now?”

Huber shook his head as a great sadness seeped into his expression. “Now, we’re all going to die.”

“When?” Miller asked. “How long do we have?”

Tears fell from Huber’s eyes and landed on the photo of his grandchildren. “The second, more massive cloud of iron particulates will arrive in five days.”

“And the targets?”

Huber’s face screwed with confusion. “Targets?”

“What cities!” Miller said.

“There is only one target,” Huber said.

One target? Miller thought. His mind ran through everything he knew. Millions were dead. Three major cities had been struck, but how could just one more achieve anything? Washington, D.C., would kill a lot, but the government would be evacuated as the first red flake fell from the sky. In fact, most cities were already preparing large-scale evacuation plans and casualties would be minimized. Hitting a city like Jerusalem might set off a regional war, but after the attack on Tel Aviv, not even the Arab world was blaming Israel. The weapon’s initial success came mostly from its effects not being known. But now, unless you were trapped with no way out, escape should be possible.

But there is always someplace to go, Miller thought, unless…

Oh no…

“The planet? They’re going to wipe out every living thing on the planet?”

“No…,” Adler said.

Huber confirmed it with a low nod.

“But won’t they be killing themselves?”

“They will survive underground. In bunkers stocked with enough raw material, seeds, and animals to begin again.”

“How will they begin again without any oxygen?” Miller asked.

“Only the lowest levels of troposphere are affected. The oxygen above that layer will remain, as will the oxygen trapped in the water and the Earth’s crust, of which forty-six percent by weight is composed of oxygen. It will not take long to replenish the troposphere and make the Earth habitable again. They’ve been working this out for seventy years. I assure you, every detail has been well planned.” He looked at Miller. “Except for you, of course. The survivor. I don’t know how you escaped Miami, but it is nothing short of a miracle that you walked out of that red hell so long after it descended.”

“You believe in miracles?” Miller asked.

“I believe in the ingenuity of man,” Huber said as he walked to the window and looked out at the lake. Miller stood behind him and a little to the side. “Perhaps you can find a way to stop them. To save my family.”

As Huber turned toward him, Miller caught sight of the canoe out on the lake. One of the men was missing and the second held what looked to be a short fishing pole. Miller realized what it was a moment too late. “Get do—”

Two shots rang out.

Glass shattered.

Blood sprayed from Huber’s chest as his body arched in pain. He hit the floor hard, facedown. Two holes had been punched in his back.

Miller dove down to the old man and turned him over. Blood oozed from his mouth, but a glint of life still remained. Huber took Miller’s arm and pulled him close. He shook, gasped, and then whispered, “The bell tolls.”

Huber’s arm fell to the side and the muscles in his face relaxed. The man, and his secrets, were gone. But that was just the beginning of their problems. There were two killers lurking outside. Miller had no idea where the second man had gone, but the sniper in the canoe had put two rounds in Huber from one hundred yards away while sitting in a wobbly boat. He had no doubt that if they tried to run, bullets would find their backs. Problems like this were best tackled head-on.

Miller crawled to his Glock and slammed the clip back home. There was only one round left, but it was better than nothing. “Stay here,” he said to Adler, and then pointed at the shotgun. “Use that if you have to. Just check your target first. Make sure it’s not me you’re shooting at.”

Miller crawled to the back door on the opposite side of the living room.

“Where are you going?” Adler hissed.

“For a swim,” he said, then cranked the door handle, gave it a shove, and ran toward the lake.

30

The man in the canoe took aim as Miller burst from the cabin’s back door. He fired a moment later.

And missed.

Anticipating the shot, Miller dove right, rolled to his feet, and continued his charge toward the lake. Two tall pine trees stood between the cabin and the lake and Miller put the first tree between him and the canoe. Behind the tree, there was no fear of being shot, but he’d eventually have to leave its protection to cover the distance to the dock.

When he reached the first tree, he stood sideways against it to make sure his body didn’t show, and began stripping. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his T-shirt, and slid out of his pants. Anyone watching would think he was just an eager skinny-dipper. To live through the next portion of his journey, his timing would have to be perfect and he couldn’t allow anything to slow him down, not even his clothes.

After hearing the shooter’s weapon three times he felt fairly certain he knew the make and model. He’d seen and heard one just like it just a few days previous—a Karabiner 98k. If he was right, the man in the canoe had two shots left in the clip. If Miller could get him to waste those two it would be a race between Miller’s legs and the shooter’s reload speed.

After three quick breaths Miller peeked out from behind the right side of the tree, made a note of the man’s position, and ducked back just as the man fired. Sharp bits of pine bark stung Miller’s face and the sound of breaking glass filled the air as the deflected bullet shot through one of the cabin’s windows. Miller rolled out from the other side of the tree, took aim, and fired.

The round sailed over grass, then beach sand, and finally water before it struck the canoe just inches from the shooter’s leg. The proximity of the shot made the man flinch. The canoe rocked and the man had to brace himself to keep from tipping.

In that moment of lost balance, Miller made a dash for the dock. He ignored the second pine tree and continued forward. The downward slope of the yard allowed him to pick up speed quickly, but the grass ended at a four-foot drop-off to the beach, from which the floating dock extended out over the water.

The shooter found his balance just as Miller reached the wall and jumped. The shot passed just beneath Miller’s airborne body and pinged off the rock wall that rose from the beach to the yard.

Five shots, Miller thought just before he landed, rolled back to his feet, and began his sprint across the ten-foot beach and twenty-foot dock. He could cover the distance in two seconds, which he knew would be about the same amount of time a skilled shooter would need to reload.

His footfalls thudded loudly across the dock, scattering the fish hiding beneath it. As he reached the end of the dock, Miller saw the shooter raise his rifle. But there was no place to hide, so Miller did the only thing he could—he dove. And as he sailed through the air, he saw the man look down his sight, tracking Miller’s arc through the air. Miller raised the empty Glock at the man, and for just a moment the man flinched. When the assassin pulled the trigger, Miller’s body was already disappearing beneath the water.

The cold embrace of the lake water reinvigorated Miller. As a Navy SEAL, the water was his element. No matter how cold, violent, dark, or murky, Miller could not be topped in the water. Except by a tiger shark, Miller reminded himself. He pumped toward the canoe, angling himself deeper. He had no fear of being shot while under the water—most rounds would mushroom and break apart just feet from the surface—but he wanted his arrival to be a surprise.

After nearly a minute of swimming without a fresh breath, Miller saw the canoe’s hull outlined by the blue sky above. The man’s shimmering form could be seen, too. He stood in the boat, scanning the water with his rifle, no doubt hoping the afternoon sun would reveal Miller’s approach. Not only was Miller thirty feet down, skimming the bottom of the lake, but he was already behind the canoe.

With the burn in his chest just beginning, Miller planted his feet on the lake’s bottom, bent down, and pushed off hard. He shot toward the surface, kicking with his feet. Unhindered by wet clothing, he rose quickly and shot out of the water like a breaching whale.

Before the shooter could react, Miller reached around the man, took hold of the rifle on both sides, and held on as gravity pulled him back to the water. The man shouted something unintelligible, though it sounded German to Miller, and fell back into the water.

Miller held on tight, pinning the rifle against the man’s chest. Treading water with the man firmly in his grasp, he shouted, “Who are you?”

The man said nothing. Instead he roared and leaned forward; for a moment, his voice bubbled as his head entered the lake. Then he flung himself back. Miller tried to duck to the side, but his proximity to the man made dodging the blow impossible. The back of the man’s skull connected hard with Miller’s forehead.

The two men fell away from each other, both dazed by the impact.

He’s lucky he didn’t knock us both unconscious, Miller thought as he fought to regain his senses and find his target. When he found the man, Miller had only a moment to open his mouth and suck in a lungful of air. Then the man, who was much larger than Miller thought, reached his arms around Miller and squeezed him in a bear hug.

With his arms pinned to his sides, Miller couldn’t fight back, and as they slid beneath the water even a head butt would do little good as his movements would be slowed and the force dulled. When fighting underwater, brains always won over brute force. Of course, without a body to control, all the brains in the world wouldn’t be much help.

They sank quickly, weighed down by the man’s clothing and belt, which held pouches of spare clips, a handgun, and a sheathed knife. With his hands free, Miller could have used the man’s weapons against him, but now he could do nothing but push against the man’s muscular arms in a fight to keep the air in his lungs.

The man snarled at Miller with gritted teeth. His brown hair was cut short; his hazel eyes burned with hatred.

Miller stopped fighting and just returned the man’s stare.

I’ve got you now, asshole, Miller thought when the man grinned. Miller let his body go limp, feigning death.

The man’s grip loosened.

Miller blinked, erasing the man’s smile.

The shooter made a halfhearted attempt to crush Miller again, but all he managed to do was further deplete his own oxygen supply.

Miller smiled at the man.

In the fading light, Miller saw the man’s face go red with the realization that Miller had been drowning him.

The crushing force on Miller’s body fell away a moment later. The man kicked frantically for the surface, fighting against the weight that had pulled them both down, using up even more oxygen.

Miller casually reached up and held the man by the ankle. The man kicked violently.

The kicking became shaking.

And then he was dead.

With his lungs craving air, Miller swam up to the man and quickly checked his pockets. Finding nothing, he removed the man’s handgun—a semiautomatic 9mm Walther P38—once again a standard weapon for Germans in World War II. Miller then took the man’s knife and swam for the surface.

He drew in a loud, deep breath when the midday sun struck him. He leaned back, breathing hard, and thanked God there were no red flakes falling from the sky.

Yet, he thought, and climbed into the canoe.

Inside the canoe he found two fishing poles, neither of which held lures, two paddles, and a small notebook.

He flipped through the notebook. Sketches of Nazi symbols covered the pages, no doubt scrawled while waiting for his targets. He paused on a page that held a full-page sketch of the thunderbolt inside a Celtic cross that symbolized the joining of American neo-Nazism and Heinrich Himmler’s World War Two elite Schutzstaffel. The man had written ZweiteWelt beneath the drawing.

SecondWorld, Miller thought with a shake of his head. Outside of an all-powerful God, the idea of wiping the world clean of all life seemed impossible. Hell, the idea of a global flood supposedly caused by God had always struck him as crazy. But here he was, facing global genocide that would be caused by mankind. Of course, when the storm of oxidized iron receded and the air became breathable again, the world wouldn’t be repopulated by a handful of God’s chosen, it would be dominated by a worldwide Aryan race that defined “pure” in an entirely different way than the God of the Old Testament.

Miller turned the page and found a list of ten names. The first three had been crossed out and he didn’t recognize them. The fourth name was Huber’s. Miller mentally crossed him out and read the next three names, which had also been crossed out. Three names remained at the bottom, all written in a different color ink, mostly likely added recently.

The first name was his.

The second, Adler’s.

And the third belonged to a man named Milos “Wayne” Vesely. Except for the “Wayne,” which appeared to be a nickname, the name sounded European. It was the only other name not yet crossed off. And, hopefully, that meant he was still alive.

A shotgun blast rolled over the lake.

Adler!

Miller placed the notebook, handgun, and knife by his feet, picked up the paddle, and stabbed it into the water. He paddled hard for shore, hoping that Adler’s first shot had found its target.

A moment later, he knew it hadn’t.

The shotgun’s second blast echoed across the far shore. New Hampshire was known for its hunters, but the sheer volume of gunfire coming from the area over the past few minutes had no doubt garnered a few 911 calls. While he’d normally welcome police backup, Miller had no way of knowing just who would be responding to the call. Even the police would be suspect, and he fully intended to be gone by the time they arrived.

Hopefully with Adler alive.

The canoe slid up onto the sand. Miller snatched the notebook, knife, and handgun and jumped onto the beach.

That’s when Adler screamed and Miller knew he might not be quick enough to save her, just like he’d been too slow to save the brown-eyed girl in Iraq.

The gunshot that followed confirmed it.

31

Miller’s heart hammered painfully in his chest. Not from exertion, but from the fear that Adler had been shot. He had only just met her, but the bond forged by combat—like with soldiers in the trenches—was strong. He’d lost men before, and it rattled the soul every time. But something about the idea of losing Adler seemed worse. Perhaps because she wasn’t a soldier. She worked for Interpol, but spent most of her time behind a desk and on the phone. A bullet had no right to take her life.

Ten feet from the door, Miller checked the Walther P38 and flicked off the safety. The door hung at an odd angle and a jagged chunk of its side had been blasted away, like a giant had taken a bite out of it.

One of Adler’s shots, Miller realized. Seeing no blood splatter, he knew the shot had missed.

He entered the living room like a missile, but found no target. Huber’s body lay on the braided rug, which had absorbed much of the dead man’s blood. Adler lay just beyond him. When she lifted her head, he felt relieved, but the feeling vanished when her eyes went wide and she shouted, “Behind you!”

The impact came before she finished shouting her warning. Miller sprawled forward and landed on his back. Through fading vision he saw a tall, lanky man with a crooked smile. He wore beige Dickies pants and a plaid shirt that made him look like a local. His hair was slicked to the side in a style that looked straight from the 1940s.

Miller blinked, trying to find his bearings. He no longer felt the weight of the gun in his hand. But even if he had it, he doubted he could hit the man. The room spun around him, so much so that he barely registered the tall man who leaned down, raised his weapon, and slammed it into his forehead.

Miller woke to an argument. The voices—one female, one male—sounded furious. But he couldn’t make out a word of it. He remembered being struck and wondered if the blow had injured his ears, or rattled him so thoroughly that he couldn’t make sense of the words being spoken.

Miller forced his eyes open when he realized the verbal combatants spoke German.

Adler, he thought, and opened his eyes.

The room swirled above him and sparks of lights, like fairies, danced in his vision. A swirl of nausea twisted in his gut. The copperlike smell of blood reached his nose. Blood. His, Huber’s, or Adler’s, he wasn’t sure.

Miller closed his eyes, turned his head toward the side, and opened his eyes again. The spinning worsened. He closed his eyes to keep his stomach under control. In that brief, turbulent look, he saw Adler on the floor, propped up on her hands. The tall man stood above her. He held a World War II–era Sturmgewehr 44 assault rifle—the first of its kind—but didn’t have it aimed directly at her.

“Begleiten Sie mich. Ende dieser Dummheit,” the man said. “Eine schöne, reine deutsche Frau wie Sie wäre eine gute Ehefrau in den kommenden ZweitenWeltkrieg zu machen.”

Miller opened his eyes. The spinning seemed less violent, and he saw Adler looking up at the man, her expression torn between fear and deep thought. While the man’s focus remained on Adler, Miller slowly slid a hand beneath his side. He could feel the cold knife against his back. He’d been holding it in one hand when he’d been struck and had fallen on top of it. He slowly wrapped his fingers around the handle.

The man reached a hand out to Adler. “Kommen Sie.”

Was he inviting her to join him? Miller wondered as he slowly slid the knife out from under himself.

When Adler reached her hand up to the man and said, “Ja. Okay,” Miller’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst way possible. The man offered her an invitation and she accepted.

How could she? Miller thought. He tightened his grip on the knife. Despite her poor choice, he couldn’t let the man take her.

He took aim.

The room still spun.

Shit, he thought. The odds of the knife striking flesh were good, but with Adler and the man so close, he couldn’t be sure which one of them he’d hit.

Adler linked hands with the man. He pulled her up, but her motion didn’t stop. She pulled down on the man’s hand, pulling him forward slightly. Before he could react, she brought her other hand up and around and smashed the butt of the shotgun into his forehead.

The strike wasn’t hard enough to incapacitate the big German, but he let go of Adler’s hand and stumbled back. The man quickly realized he’d been duped and brought his weapon to bear. But Adler was one step ahead of him. Holding the shotgun like a baseball bat, she swung out.

The blow fell just short of the man’s head, but connected solidly with the side of his nose. Cartilage tore, bone cracked, and blood sprayed. The man shouted in pain, and fired off a slew of German curses. But he didn’t lose his composure, or his aim. Instead, he lost his life.

When Adler struck the man, he stumbled back, and stopped just a few feet away from Miller. With a quick jerk, Miller sat up, raised his arm, and plunged the knife into the man’s back. With the assault rifle pointed at Adler, he needed the wound to be an instant kill. Anything else would give the man time to pull the trigger and then turn the weapon on Miller. So when he struck, Miller aimed for the man’s spine.

The jarring blow and instantaneous collapse of his target confirmed his accuracy. He should have felt relieved—that the attacker was dead, that Adler hadn’t actually betrayed him—but all he felt was dizzy. Miller leaned over and held his head.

Adler crouched beside him and placed a hand on his back. “Are you okay?”

Miller opened his eyes. The room spun a little less. “You had me fooled.”

“What?”

“I thought you were going with him.”

“I wanted to be an actress when I was in college,” she confessed.

“Could have made a fortune,” Miller said with a grunt. “Actually, you could have been the first woman in the major leagues with that swing.”

“I was terrified.”

Miller pushed himself to his knees. He kept his eyes closed to minimize the nausea. But he could do nothing about the throbbing pain emanating from his head and rolling down his body in sickening waves. Adler held on to his arm and helped him stand.

He opened his eyes and looked at Adler. “You did good.”

She looked back at the two dead bodies. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

Miller knew what she meant. He’d met many soldiers who felt guilty about what they did. Even if they saved lives, they likely took a few in the process. Adler fought to save the world, but had aided in the taking of a life.

Another life.

They’d left a trail of death in their wake.

And for someone new to the business of war, adjusting to carnage took time. Unfortunately for Adler, time was short and adjustment a luxury. Sirens rang out in the distance, growing louder by the moment.

“We need to go,” Miller said. Moving as fast as he could without falling over, he snatched up the small notebook and pistol taken from the man in the canoe. He handed the pistol to Adler, who took it without comment, and turned his attention to the fresh corpse.

“Did he say anything useful?” Miller asked as he searched the body.

“After I missed my first two shots, he taunted me,” she said. “Forced me to scream and then fired a shot.”

Miller shook his head. He’d been lured into a trap and if the man had shot him instead of knocking him unconscious, the trap would have worked. “Why didn’t he kill me?” he wondered.

“I think he wanted to question you,” she said. “He knew our names.”

“We’re on the list,” he said.

“List?”

“I found a hit list on the other shooter. Our names were recent additions.”

The sirens grew louder still and Miller guessed they’d reached Huber’s road. They had maybe two minutes before the place swarmed with police who might or might not be friendly. He took the assault rifle and a second Walther P38 from the dead assassin. “What is it with these guys and old weapons?”

Miller stood and stumbled to the back door.

“What do you mean?” Adler asked as she helped him walk. “Where are we going?”

“To the canoe,” Miller said, and they started across the grass. Miller pointed to his clothes. “Grab my clothes. The phone is in my pocket.”

Adler let go of Miller’s arm and retrieved the clothes. He stumbled, but remained upright and mobile. “All of their weapons are World War Two relics, like they want to be authentic SS soldiers.”

“Strange,” Adler said as she jumped from the grass to the beach and helped Miller down. “I noticed something, too.”

“What?”

“The way he spoke—” she said, then paused to think. “It sounded, I don’t know. Language changes over time. Certain inflections and words are more common during different time periods. They can define the way a generation speaks.”

Miller knew what she meant. He imagined that he could peg the time period of any movie from the past seventy years just by listening to the dialogue.

He reached the canoe and pushed it into the water. They put the weapons and his clothes in the canoe. Standing in waist-deep water, Miller held the boat steady as Adler stepped in and sat down. After she was in, he flung himself over the side and landed on the bottom of the canoe, too exhausted and dizzy to move. The bobbing of the boat didn’t help any, and he fought to stay lucid. “You paddle,” he said. “Take us along the shore. Get behind the trees.”

Adler picked up the paddle and got them moving. She struggled at first, but quickly found her rhythm, stroking twice on one side and then twice on the other.

Once they were behind the tree line, Adler stopped paddling and looked at Miller. “He sounded old.”

“How old?” he asked. The man in the boat looked to be in his midtwenties. The man now dead in Huber’s living room couldn’t have been much over thirty, right around the same age as Adler. His speech pattern shouldn’t have been all that different from hers. But something about it had rattled her.

She looked up at the sky, paddled twice more, and stopped again. The words were hard to say, but she forced them out. She motioned to the collection of World War II weapons on the floor of the boat next to Miller’s feet. “As old as those weapons.”

32

After taking the canoe a mile along the shore without seeing any sign of police or men with World War II weapons, Miller sat up. The dizziness and nausea had faded, but his head pulsed with pain.

“Got any painkillers on you?”

Adler pulled the paddle out of the water. “I think so.” She rummaged through her purse while the canoe drifted forward, past a string of tall pines lining the shore.

“Found something.”

Miller noted how the “somesing” sound of her voice no longer grated on him. In fact, after everything he’d been through over the past days, her voice, like Arwen’s, kept him thinking straight.

“It’s ibuprofen,” she said. “You want two?”

“Make it four.”

She tsked and said, “You’re going to melt your liver.”

“Odds are I’ll be shot first so it won’t matter much, will it?” Miller took the pills and popped them into his mouth. Unlike the macho men in movies who could not only swallow pills dry, but roughly chew them first, Miller couldn’t take pills without a drink. He dipped his hands into the lake and drank. The water was gritty but felt cool and refreshing. When he leaned back up, Adler was staring at him, a look of disgust frozen on her face. “Once again, I’m more likely to get shot before I die from dysentery. This isn’t Oregon Trail.”

“Oregon Trail?”

“A video game. Forget it.” Miller turned toward the shore. The trees suddenly gave way to a long public beach. The beach wasn’t crowded, but there were more than a few people sitting on the sand and enjoying the water. Good for them, Miller thought. While much of the nation had taken to looting or holing up in their homes, these folks had continued on with their lives, refusing to live in fear. He wondered if they would do the same if they were in the city instead of New Hampshire, or if they knew the world had only five days left.

For a brief moment, Miller realized he was still dressed in just his boxers. But then they passed by an overweight shirtless man standing waist deep in the water. The man held a beer in a bright orange cozy and had enough hair on his body to be mistaken for a yeti. Miller glanced at the other beachgoers and saw more skin than clothes. No one would notice his lack of clothing.

The fat man raised his beer at them as they glided past him. He gave a nod and said, “Live free or die.”

Miller grinned and gave the man a casual salute. He liked New Hampshire. He looked back at Adler. “Take us to the far end of the beach. We need to find a new car.”

Adler took up the paddle again. “Thank God. My arms are killing me.” Sweat dripped down her forehead and she’d undone the top few buttons of her blouse so that a hint of cleavage showed.

Feeling self-conscious again, Miller gathered up his clothes.

Adler noticed his haste. “Don’t worry. You’re not that bad on the eyes.”

Miller smiled as he slid slowly into his pants, trying not to tip them in the process. “Thank you for choosing the Love Boat,” he said as he picked up his shoes. “We hope you enjoy your—”

Adler stopped laughing when Miller’s grin disappeared.

He stared at the boat shoes in his hands. At some point they’d stopped being Scuba Dave’s shoes and become his. But there was blood on them now and he remembered, in fresh detail, where they came from. He pursed his lips and sighed.

“What is it?”

The boat slid onto the sandy beach and they were embraced by the cool shade of the nearby trees. “Back when I was sixteen, I somehow managed to get a girlfriend, and one day after school we found ourselves alone at my house. I don’t think I’ve felt so nervous and excited since that day. It took us thirty minutes to work up the guts, but then we were on the bed. Half naked. I’m rounding the plates like a son of a bitch.” He looked up at Adler. She stared at him with a single raised eyebrow and an unsure smile, no doubt wondering how hard he’d been hit. He continued, “I stand, drop my pants, and then, wham! The front door closes and my mom announces that she’s home.” He held the shoes up. “These shoes are like my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“A wet blanket.”

“A wet blanket?”

“You know. Like when— Forget it. We need to go.”

“I think I understand,” she said, and took the shoes from him. She gave them a once-over, shrugged, and then tossed them over her shoulder. They hit the water with a splash and floated away.

“What?” she said when Miller just stared at her.

He pointed to the woods. “I don’t know how far we have to walk, do you?”

She shrugged. “You’re tough.”

Miller smiled. He wouldn’t admit it, but being free of those shoes was a relief. At first he thought they were a good reminder of what the enemy intended to do to the world. But their repeated attempts to kill him kept their lethality on the forefront of his mind. He said a silent thanks to Dave, wrapped the guns in his shirt, and headed for the woods.

The half-mile walk over a pine-needle-covered path actually felt good on his bare feet. The dirt parking lot filled with jagged rocks, not so much. But he quickly found a vehicle that would suit their needs.

The black pickup truck had a sticker of Calvin—from the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip—peeing, a set of rubber “truck nuts” hanging from the rear hitch, and a bumper sticker that said YANKEES SUCK. While none of these things made the truck desirable, they did ease Miller’s conscience about stealing it. And the toolbox in the bed made it possible.

“Hop in,” Miller said. He opened the driver’s side and placed the shirt-wrapped weapons on the seat. Then he headed for the back and opened the toolbox.

Adler looked around nervously like a true first-time thief. “What if someone shows up?”

“I’m a Navy SEAL, remember? And we have guns.” He paused. “Of course, if skinhead Nazis show up, be sure to let me know.” A moment later he found what he needed and joined Adler in the truck’s cab.

He placed a flathead screwdriver in the ignition and held it tight. “Give me a little room,” he said, raising a hammer. Adler leaned back and Miller gave the screwdriver two hard whacks. He gave the screwdriver a twist and the truck roared to life.

He hopped out of the truck and patted the driver’s seat. “Slide over. You’re driving.”

She complied, but asked, “What are you doing?”

“Research,” he said. “But first I need to castrate this truck.” Walking around the back, Miller kicked the oversized rubber testicles from the back of the truck and then got into the passenger’s seat. He closed the door. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure that out. For now, let’s just get out of here before Bubba comes back.”

The truck rumbled out of the dirt parking lot and onto a narrow paved road. Miller took out the iPhone and flicked it on, but before he could get it to work, Adler hit the brakes.

“Shit,” she said.

Miller looked up and saw two police cars ahead. “Don’t slow down!”

Adler flinched. “You don’t want me to ram them?”

“No. Just don’t act nervous.”

“But they’re looking for us.”

“We don’t know that.”

When they were twenty feet from the squad cars, an officer stepped forward and raised his hand, motioning for them to slow down. The officer, who couldn’t be over twenty-five, approached the passenger’s side. Miller relaxed when he saw the officer’s dark black hair and Hispanic facial features. Racial profiling probably wasn’t the best idea—people could be bought—but he doubted there was a good reason for a small-town Hispanic police officer to be on the take. He rolled down the window and leaned out casually. “Something going on?”

“There was a shooting across the lake,” the officer said. “You folks didn’t see anything… weird? Or hear anything?”

“Heard the gunshots, I think,” Miller said. “Thought they were fireworks at the time.”

The officer gave a slight nod, and then leaned down. “How ’bout you, miss?”

“No. Nothing.”

Miller heard the same thing the officer did. “Nothsing.” Adler tried to mask her German accent, but failed miserably. At first, Miller wondered why she bothered, but when the officer stiffened and stepped back, he understood. Being white and German in a country on high alert for Nazis made Adler a potential enemy. Everyone was profiling.

“Could you step out of the car,” the officer said, hand moving to his hip.

“Don’t do that,” Miller said. “Please.”

Keeping his hand on his sidearm, the officer reached his free hand up to the radio strapped to his chest. Before he could speak, Miller pulled a Walther P38 out from under his shirt and pointed it at the officer, just feet from his face. The man froze.

“Toss the gun,” Miller said. “Now.”

The man slowly drew his weapon and tossed it into the woods behind him.

“What’s your name?” Miller asked.

“Miguel Lewis.”

“Officer Lewis,” Miller said. “Look—”

Before Miller could speak again, a loud voice shouted, “Everything okay, Lewis, or do you need a real cop to come do your job?”

A large white man leaned out of the second squad car. Jowls hung from his portly face. The officer took off his cap and stepped out of the car. Miller doubted the man could run fifty feet, and the walk to the truck winded him.

Miller pulled his hand with the gun back in the car, and gave Lewis a look that said, “Not a peep.” Lewis gave a nervous nod.

The heavyset officer bumbled up to the driver’s window. “Now what the hell is taking so long?” He stopped to look Adler over and grinned. Then he looked up and saw Miller’s face. The smile fell away and was replaced by recognition. And not the happy kind.

Miller couldn’t see the man’s hands, but he could tell he was fumbling for his gun. “Don’t,” Miller said.

“Barnes, don’t,” Lewis said. “He’s—”

Barnes was a surprisingly fast draw once he found his gun. He whipped it up and squeezed off a round. Miller was a little faster, firing three rounds in the same time, and much more accurately—two to the chest, one to the head. Barnes fell away, dead.

Miller spun, expecting to find Lewis taking action, but the man was nowhere in sight. A cough drew Miller’s attention down. Lewis lay on the ground, a wound in his chest. Miller flung open the door and knelt by the fallen man, lifting his head. He inspected the wound. There was nothing to do for the man. He was already dying.

Lewis tried to speak, but only managed a gurgle before he died.

Miller laid Lewis down and shook his head. How many of these assholes are there? he thought. Without another word, he stood, got back in the truck, and closed the door.

Adler rubbed her ears, which rang from the gunshots, and looked at the body of the fat, dead cop. “Should we take their guns?”

Miller rolled his head toward her and held up the German pistol. “This seems to work fine.”

“But—”

“Just drive,” Miller said. “Please.”

Adler steered the truck onto the intersecting street and drove away from the two fresh bodies.

As the woodsy air erased the smell of cordite from the truck’s cab, Miller leaned his head back. There was a lot to figure out, but they had a new problem to take care of first. His face was becoming a liability. And to a certain extent, Adler’s was, too. With every sleeper Nazi in the country taking potshots they might never make it out of New Hampshire, never mind find Milos “Wayne” Vesely, the mysterious last name on the hit list. “Stop at the first drugstore or grocery store you see,” he said. “It’s time to say good-bye to your pretty blond hair.”

33

Miller sat in the cab of the truck, elbow propped in the open window. He’d just eaten a cheeseburger and was waiting for Adler to complete her makeover in the fast-food restaurant’s bathroom. They had found a pharmacy in town where they bought supplies and changes of clothes. Now dressed in cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of cheap sandals, he looked like any other summertime local. He’d also shaved his facial hair into a goatee, trimmed his hair to a quarter inch, and donned a green John Deere cap. He completed the disguise with a pair of NASCAR sunglasses. Not even his mother would recognize him.

With his stomach full and the pain in his head dulled by drugs, Miller switched on the iPhone and connected to the Internet via Wendy’s free wireless connection. He opened Safari and then did a Google search for “Milos Vesely.”

The first return was a Wikipedia page about a Czech bobsledder. He opened it, scanned the contents, saw nothing of interest, and decided he’d found the wrong man. Heading back to Google, he scrolled through the rest of the top results. There were a slew of Facebook pages and message board entries, but still nothing that would make any of them a person of interest to Nazi assassins. Nothing he could see, anyway.

He went back and searched again, this time for “Milos ‘Wayne’ Vesely.” The first hit—a book—caught his attention.

“Nazi Wunderwaffe and Secret Societies,” Miller read. “By Wayne Vesely.”

This is more like it.

He clicked the link and was surprised when the complete text of the book opened in Google Books. The black cover held a hand-drawn sketch of a bell surrounded by what looked like electricity, or fire. The poor skill of the artist combined with low resolution made it hard to tell. He jumped to the end of the book and found an About the Author section. A black-and-white photo of Vesely showed him wearing a cowboy hat, aviator sunglasses, and a cocky grin. A paragraph of text below the image read:

Wayne Vesely is the author of three previous books, The Nazi UFO Connection, The Zero-Point Reich, and The United States of the Fourth Reich. When not preparing for what he calls the Fourth Dawn—also the title of his next book—Vesely can be found lecturing throughout Europe. When not traveling, Vesley resides in Český Krumlov, the Czech Republic.

The guy’s a conspiracy theory nutjob, Miller thought. But if they’re after him, he must have got something right. And that meant he might have answers.

It took Miller just one minute to access the white pages for the Czech Republic, type in “Milos Vesely,” enter “Český Krumlov,” and get the man’s phone number. Being so easy to find, Miller thought for sure the man would be dead already, but when he dialed the number, a man answered on the second ring. “Ahoj?”

“Ahh, hello,” Miller said. “Is this Milos Vesely?”

There was a silence on the other end for a moment, followed by a tentative, “You are American?”

Miller noticed that the man’s accent sounded like Chekov from Star Trek and said, “Yes.” For a moment he considered posing as a publisher interested in his books, but there wasn’t time to play games. Vesely might have answers and his life was certainly in danger. “Am I speaking to Wayne?”

The tone of the man’s voice changed again, this time to a hush. “How do you know that name?”

“It’s on your books.”

“But Milos is not.”

Miller looked at the book. He was right. The hit list revealed his full name.

“Listen closely, you now have thirty seconds to explain who you are and how you obtained my name,” Vesely said. “I’m counting.”

It took Miller ten of those seconds to decide on the one and only explanation he felt wouldn’t result in the man hanging up. “I found your name on a hit list I took off the body of a Nazi assassin.”

Miller waited for some kind of explosive reaction, but heard only silence. Then breathing. Vesely hadn’t hung up.

“And who, my American friend, are you?”

“Lincoln Miller. My name is two spots above yours on the list.”

“Miller? The Survivor?”

“Why is everyone calling me that?” Miller asked.

“It is the news,” Vesely said. “They have deemed you The Survivor. Capital T, capital S. It is a good code name, no? Survivor. You may call me Cowboy if you like.”

“Listen, Milos—”

“Cowboy.”

Miller sighed. “These guys are going to come for you.”

“I am ready for them.”

“Ready for them?”

“I am Cowboy. Gunslinger.”

The nickname “Wayne” suddenly made sense. The man fancied himself an honest-to-goodness cowboy. A UFO-hunting, conspiracy-junky cowboy. Great, Miller thought, wondering how difficult it would be to separate fact from fiction. Then he wondered aloud, “How did you know they’re after you?”

A red Mustang pulled up next to the truck. Its loud engine and pounding bass made Vesely’s next words hard to hear.

“I knew when I saw the red sky,” Vesely said. “I predicted it.”

“Bullshit,” Miller said. If someone like Vesely knew about the attack, someone in power would have figured it out, too. The Mustang’s engine cut off. The music fell silent. The driver got out of his car and said something, but Miller wasn’t paying attention.

“And yet you say they are ‘after’ me. Probudit se. Let me ask you a question. Why should I bother speaking to you? Hmm? I have been publishing everything I have uncovered about the Nazi secret programs for years. The Wunderwaffe. The Bell. The experiments. I have written letters. No one listens.”

“Hey! Who are you?” an angry voice interrupted. Miller glanced up and saw a burly man with a long beard approaching.

“Why should I believe you will be any different, Survivor?” Vesely asked.

“I know you stole Steve’s truck,” the bearded man said as he stopped just shy of the driver’s side door. His clenched fists and body language said he was ready for a fight. “Heard you even left the nuts behind. Now get the fuck out before I knock—”

Miller’s already worn patience snapped. He pulled the door handle and kicked the door open as hard as he could. The hard metal doorframe connected a solid blow with the man’s forehead. He sprawled back, rolling over the hood of his Mustang, and collapsed onto the parking lot.

Miller didn’t give the man another second of his time and seethed his anger into the phone. “You will listen to me because I just came from the home of Aldric Huber, who helped recruit the science team behind these attacks. Because I’ve killed more than fifteen of these Nazi assholes already. Because I have a direct line to the president of the United States. And because I’m the goddamn fucking Survivor.”

A moment of silence. “You met Huber?”

“Yes.”

“And he was forthcoming?”

“Until a sniper put two bullets in him.”

“Hovno. What did you learn?”

“That United States scientific superiority has Nazis to thank.”

Vesely responded with a sniff of a laugh that said, “Duh,” and followed it with, “Anything else?”

“Just your name from the sniper’s dead body.”

“Huber could have told you everything.…”

Miller would have strangled the man had he been present. “I know.”

“But,” Vesely said, “now you have the Cowboy.”

Miller heard three dull thuds in the background. “What was that?”

“Hold on,” Vesely said.

The banging came again. Miller recognized the sound as someone pounding on a door. “Vesely! Damnit!” With no reply, all he could do was listen.

He could hear the tinny voice of the drive-through attendant, the squeaky brakes of a car stopping at the road, and the sound of a baby crying from one of the other parked cars, but not a sound through the phone. A stream of curses ran through Miller’s mind. If they lost Vesely, he and Adler would just be two names on a hit list who posed no threat. Five days later, they’d be corpses along with most of the Earth’s oxygen-dependant life.

Miller pressed the phone hard against his ear when he heard footsteps and heavy breathing.

“Survivor,” Vesely said. “Are you there?”

“I’m here, Cowboy.”

“They are here.”

“Can you get out?”

“I am gunslinger.”

Miller appreciated the man’s confidence, but didn’t share it. The men he’d faced were well-trained professionals. The only reason he’d survived was because he was better. “We need to meet.”

“Agreed. One hour at—”

“I’m in the United States.”

“Can you get here?”

Miller considered this and said, “Yes. I can be there tomorrow.” The president could make it happen.

The banging on the door grew loud. They were kicking their way in.

“Wunderwaffe,” Vesely said quickly. “Page one forty-two!”

The door shattered.

Miller heard shouting.

Gunshots.

Then a dial tone.

Miller stared at the phone. Had Vesley been killed? He hated being one step behind, especially when every step forward resulted in someone dying.

The passenger’s door opened and a woman with short black hair and large sunglasses got in. Miller nearly pulled a pistol on the woman, but then she spoke.

“How do I look?” Adler said. “A good disguise?”

Miller took a deep breath and leaned his head back. “I damn near shot you.”

Adler looked at the phone in his hand. “Who were you speaking to?”

“I found Vesely. We’re going to meet him.”

“But that’s great,” she said. “Why do you look so upset?”

Miller handed the phone to Adler and started the engine. “Because he might be dead when we get there.”

34

“Four hours,” Miller said before hanging up the phone with President Bensson. Normally, he’d consider arranging a covert international flight in just four hours good time, but under the circumstances it felt like an eternity. Of course, with commercial flights grounded and the military full of homegrown Nazi spies, there were very few options on the table. The president’s solution would be hard to miss, but would nicely conceal the true purpose of the flight—to deliver him to a secret rendezvous with a Czech conspiracy theorist who might have information that could save the world.

Miller leaned back in his green metal chair. He looked at the clear blue sky and saw no hint of red. He allowed a slight grin to form on his face. In addition to providing a flight, Bensson had delivered some good news. Brodeur survived, thanks to a bulletproof vest Miller didn’t know the man was wearing. The impacts had knocked him unconscious and bruised his ribs, but he had suffered no serious injuries. That didn’t mean he’d be happy about being back on duty. Brodeur was one of the few men Miller currently trusted, and he’d requested that the FBI agent be on the flight when it arrived at the nearby Portsmouth International Airport at Pease—formerly known as the Pease Air Force Base until 1991 when the Strategic Air Command closed up shop. The base was still home to the Air National Guard and a variety of specialized military refueling aircraft, but the majority of the two-hundred-acre base had been converted for civilian use.

“One cheeseburger with Swiss, mushrooms, Thousand Island, and enough calories to kill you before the Nazis get a chance,” Adler said as she walked out of the seaside grill carrying two red baskets filled with sandwiches and fries. She put Miller’s burger down on the table and joined him. The restaurant stood on the bank of the Piscataqua River in Portsmouth, just ten minutes from Pease. “You realize you had a burger a half hour ago, yes?”

“Who knows when our next meal will come,” Miller said. “Calories equal energy.”

Adler smiled. “Like a seal storing blubber for the winter?”

“Actually,” Miller said, took a bite, and offered a food-muffled, “exactly.”

The pair dug into their food and ate quickly. When their sandwiches were gone and they turned to the fries, Adler restarted the conversation.

“Any luck with the president?”

Miller ate a French fry and nodded. “We’ll be airborne in four hours.”

Adler froze with a fry halfway to her mouth. “What? How?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.” Before Adler could object, Miller added, “Brodeur, the FBI agent from my apartment. He’s alive. He’ll be joining us.”

She placed the fry down and rested her head in her hands, as though she’d found out she hadn’t been convicted of a crime. “Thank God.”

Her reaction surprised Miller at first, but then he understood. “You’ve been blaming yourself for what happened?”

“If I hadn’t been there, things would have turned out differently.”

“Actually, you’re right,” he said.

She looked up at him.

“If you hadn’t been there, I would have been in the shower when they stormed the apartment. I would be dead.”

Adler sat back. “But Brodeur nearly died.”

“It’s likely he would have been shot either way.”

“But—”

Miller grew serious. He leaned forward, elbows on the red-painted picnic table. “Elizabeth. We are at war. We are outgunned, outnumbered, and have zero intel on the enemy. It is very likely more people are going to die. Including me. Including you. You need to be prepared for that. We are the last-ditch effort to stop this thing. If I die, you and Brodeur will take it to the end, even if it kills you both. If you die, I won’t stop to mourn your death until these people are stopped or I’m dead, too.”

Adler pushed her remaining food away and leaned back. She crossed her arms. “That’s cold.”

“Going to be a hell of a lot colder when six billion people are asphyxiating in five days.” He pushed her food back to her. “Finish it. Might be your last real meal.”

“Because I might be dead, you mean?”

Miller gave a nod. “And because as soon as we take off, we’re not going to stop moving until this thing is run down.”

He gave that a second to sink in. She sat forward and continued eating, although each bite was now forced. But the reality check would help keep her alive.

Miller turned his attention back to the iPhone. It was time to find out what was on page 142. He’d called the president first because he needed to set things in motion. But the pilots wouldn’t know where they were flying until Miller told them. And Miller wouldn’t know where that was until he reopened the digital copy of Nazi Wunderwaffe and Secret Societies.

The opened the e-book and scrolled through pages. As he neared page 142 a chapter heading caught his attention. “The Bell.”

“What?” Adler asked.

“The Bell. It’s the title of the chapter Vesely sent us to.”

“Is it a church bell?”

Miller ignored her. Something about the words sounded familiar. Then he remembered. “This is it!”

“You found something?”

“The Bell. Before Huber died, he said, ‘The bell tolls.’ I thought he was talking about his death, but he could have been referring to this.”

Adler slid her chair around the table and they read it together.

The Bell was one of many code names for a secret project that the Nazis began in 1944. The sole goal of this Wunderwaffe, or “wonder weapon,” was mass destruction on a grand scale. The program grew in tandem to the nuclear arms development in Germany, but was considered a higher priority. While weapons like atom bombs, fuel air bombs, guided missiles, stealth planes, sound cannons, and a variety of other exotic weapons were classified as Kriegswichtig, or “important for the war,” the Bell had been deemed Kriegsentscheidend, which translates to “decisive for the war.”

The project was seen as a game changer. Something so important that only those integral to the project’s success were allowed to live to the war’s end. The pages mentioned several names Miller now recognized and explained the parts they played in the weapon’s development. Debus, Huber, Oberth, Gerlach—they were all there, including—

“Oh my God. My grandmother.”

Dr. Elizabeth Adler. University of Königsberg. Mathematician, unknown specialty.

Miller turned the page. Seeing her grandmother’s name listed among those Vesely had determined to be working on a project that might now be threatening all of humanity clearly weighed heavily on her, but easing her conscience could wait. He was more interested in what the Bell supposedly did and where they would be meeting Vesely.

An image on the next page showed a drawing of a bell-shaped object that was clearly not a bell, primarily because the bottom was not open. A block of text described the interior of the bell as two metallic cylinders that rotated in opposite directions. The cylinders were covered with mercury and attached to a hollowed-out core that held a purple liquid theorized to be composed of a thorium-beryllium-mercury compound designated Xerum-525.

Miller shook his head. It sounded like the same conspiracy theory bullshit that surrounded almost everything the military developed. He reminded himself that Vesely’s name sat just beneath his own on the hit list for a reason, and jumped back into the text.

Liquid nitrogen cooled the interior of the device, which stood at nine feet tall, five feet wide at its middle, and eight feet wide at its base. Vesely theorized that something called zero point energy, developed by Dr. Kurt Debus, provided over one million volts of current and powered the device. A quick peek ahead confirmed that an entire chapter had been dedicated to the subject. But Miller didn’t really care how the device was powered. He skimmed ahead until he came to a section that revealed the device’s effect on the human body.

He didn’t like what he read.

Just looking at the Bell from a distance required wearing special red goggles. A little closer and you’d enter the outer rim of some kind of energy field produced by the powered device. Just a few seconds of exposure would leave subjects with red, irritated skin resembling a sunburn. Closer still, the test subjects died due to radiation exposure. They died slowly and in agony. But the fates of those closest to the Bell seemed cruelest of all. The test subjects’ bodies turned to jelly from the inside out. The elements composing muscle, fat, blood, and other tissues separated. Bodies slid apart, as though melted.

The image reminded him of Indiana Jones, tied to a stake, at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, while the Germans around him melted away. Perhaps Spielberg had heard of the Bell and used the scene as a kind of catharsis.

“That is sick,” Adler said.

“Yeah, but it’s not very helpful,” Miller replied. “There’s nothing here about red flakes or iron clouds in space. It’s just as outlandish. It doesn’t match up with what Huber told us.”

“Turn the page,” she said. “One forty-two is next.”

A black-and-white photo of a concrete structure resembling Stonehenge sat at the top of page 142. Beneath it was a drawing of the same henge, that diagrammed a concrete basin, tunnels for cabling, electrical ports, and several metal rings where chains may have once been attached.

“That’s where they tested it?”

“Looks that way,” Miller said. “But I don’t see a location.”

“There it is,” she said, pointing to the next page. “Ludwigsdorf, Germany.”

Miller studied the images, hoping to glean more information from them. The information in this book, if accurate, was interesting to say the least. But it didn’t reveal anything that might help them track down modern-day Nazis. Miller was convinced that Vesely had yet to publish the information that posed a threat to their enemies. If he had, they would have no reason to kill him. But he’d been attacked and that meant he knew something important; something worth traveling halfway around the world to discover. Miller looked at Adler, whose brows were furrowed. “What is it?”

“There is no Ludwigsdorf in Germany,” she said. “Not anymore. After World War Two, the village was given to Poland. I think it’s named Ludwikowice Kłodzkie now. I’ve driven through a few times. A beautiful place.”

Miller closed the book. “Looks like we’re going to Poland.”

35

“Scheiße, that is Air Force One,” Adler said when she saw the large blue and white Boeing VC-25, which was a highly modified 747, taxi toward them. It turned parallel to them and stopped, revealing the big UNITED STATES OF AMERICA painted on the side.

Miller stood next to her on the tarmac, a grin on his face. The president had come through nicely. “Actually, it’s technically not Air Force One right now because the president isn’t on board. ‘Air Force One’ is the designation given to any military airplane carrying the president, whether it’s this giant or the Red Baron’s biwing. If he’s on a civilian plane, it’s ‘Executive One.’”

“If the president’s not on board then what—”

A strange-looking truck with a staircase on top of it pulled up to the plane. The “air-stair” vehicle stopped and raised its staircase up to the door, which opened a moment later. A tall, blond-haired man wearing a suit coat that screamed “FBI” gave a wave in their direction. Miller waved back.

Adler craned her head toward him. “This is our ride?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Miller headed for the stairs. It felt strange, boarding a plane without a carry-on, never mind without the weapons he had gathered. He felt naked out on the tarmac. But better gear and weapons were waiting for him on board. “It works out well, actually. When I told Bensson about the five-day deadline he realized it was time to get out of Dodge and find an underground shelter. But he also knew the enemy might be gunning for him. So they deployed all of the presidential aircraft and ground vehicles, hoping to confuse anyone that might want him dead.”

“So should we just paint a big target on the side?”

Miller laughed and motioned to the plane. “These are the safest aircraft in the world. We’ll be perfectly safe.” Twin rumbles announced the presence of their guards. He pointed at the two F-22 Raptor fighter jets circling the airfield. “And we have two of the deadliest watchdogs in the world escorting us across the Atlantic. There is no faster or safer way to get us to Poland in under twenty-four hours. I promise.”

“I can’t believe you left me, you son of a bitch!” Brodeur said when he reached the bottom of the air-stairs. He sounded serious, but wore a smile on his face and extended his hand. “I ought to kill you where you stand.”

Miller shook his hand. “Quit whining. You’re fine.” He slapped Brodeur’s shoulder and laughed when the man cringed.

“By the way, thanks for getting me back on duty,” Brodeur quipped. “I hate resting after being shot. Twice.”

“You see?” Miller said to Adler. “This is why I joined the NCIS instead of the FBI. They’re all a bunch of pussies.”

“Ugh,” Adler said, then pushed past the pair and started up the stairs. “Please tell me I do not have to sit with you two.”

“Other than the two pilots, we have the whole bird to ourselves,” Brodeur said. “You can sleep in the president’s bed if you fancy.”

Miller hopped onto the steps with a chuckle. “C’mon, Fancy Nancy. Let’s get a move on.”

Five hours later, the 747 cruised over the North Sea, just south of England, at thirty thousand feet. At seven hundred miles per hour, it was one of the fastest passenger jets in the world. They had completed the majority of the nearly four-thousand-mile flight in just five hours—one to go. They would soon land at the Strachowice Airport in Poland and take a car to Ludwikowice Kłodzkie, where they would have to track down the strange concrete henge. Total time since hanging up the phone with Vesely—twelve to fourteen hours, maybe a little longer if the henge’s location wasn’t well known by locals. Not bad for a last-minute, round-the-world meeting. But Vesely had not given a time. They might miss the man, or end up waiting ten hours for him, especially if he was on the run. Of course, the wait would be much longer if he’d been killed.

Miller sat in a brown leather executive chair at the head of a long oak conference table. He’d changed into a dark gray T-shirt and black cargo pants that could hold a good number of supplies and concealed weapons. He would have preferred a jacket, too, to hide more weapons, but it was summer and a jacket would make him stand out and sweat like a bastard. With his shaved head and dark garb he would look “military” but hoped the bright green John Deere cap would offset the look.

Brodeur sat kitty-corner to Miller, still dressed in his black suit and red tie. An array of weapons rested on the table. Miller looked the weapons over with satisfaction.

Two MP5 submachine guns and six spare clips.

Three Sig Sauer P226 handguns. Two spare clips for each.

A single SEAL team knife, delivered at Miller’s request, rounded out the armament. The SEAL knife underwent the most rigorous evaluation program for a blade in military history and beat out even the fabled KA-BAR blade favored by certain Delta operators he knew. Its seven-inch blade could chop, slice, penetrate, and saw almost anything it encountered.

Miller would have preferred a couple of M4s added to the mix, but they’d be impossible to conceal. And since there were only three of them, there were plenty of weapons to go around. He took the two MP5s and slid them to Brodeur. “Keep them under your jacket.”

Brodeur grinned. “Yehaw.”

“I’ll keep two of the Sigs for myself,” Miller said, pulling the weapons and four clips.

Brodeur motioned to the open double doors with his head. “Can she handle the third?”

“Yes,” Adler said, appearing in the doorway. “She can.” She took the gun, two clips, and sat down across from Brodeur. She wore black pants and a dark short-sleeve blouse that matched her now-black hair and made her blue eyes stand out like LED beacons. But for all the color in her eyes, they looked heavy.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Miller asked.

“You could?”

Miller had slept for four solid hours, but didn’t bother mentioning it.

“There’s some instant coffee in the kitchen,” Brodeur said.

“That would be great,” Adler said. “Thank you.”

Brodeur sat in the chair for a moment while Adler stared at him. “You want me to make it?”

“Sounded like you were offering,” she said without a hint of humor.

Brodeur pushed up from the chair. “Fine. Fine. But be warned, I make my Joe with some kick.”

“Make it two,” Miller said as Brodeur left.

They sat in silence as Brodeur’s footsteps faded.

“How did you do it?” Adler asked.

“Do what?”

“Survive.”

Miller frowned. The topic of his survival grated on him, but he knew the question would be asked from now until the day he died. Even after they wrote books, and made movies, people would still want to hear the story from his lips. The air. How it tasted. The whale. The shark. The bodies. The close calls and the battles with Nazis. He’d prefer to forget it all.

But then Adler clarified the question. “I don’t mean physically. Breathing and all that. Most people would have given up. I have no idea what you saw. I don’t really want to know. The little I do know is enough to convince me I wouldn’t have pushed on. I wouldn’t have survived.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” he said. “You’re a survivor, too.”

“Not without you.” She placed her hand on his forearm. “I need to know. In case it happens again. In case I need to survive.”

He looked at the table, reliving the emotions of survival. “At first, my reactions were guided by instincts and training. SEALs are conditioned to survive the harshest conditions on Earth. It’s what we do. I saw a news report saved on Scuba Dave’s laptop—”

“Scuba Dave?”

“The guy I took the shoes from. I saw a report about a group claiming responsibility for the attack. I guess revenge became my motivation. I wanted to survive long enough to take a shot at whoever was responsible. Had I met the SecondWorld assholes before Arwen I might have stayed in Miami until each and every one of them lay dead.”

“But you met Arwen first.”

He nodded. “She probably saved my life, too, though. As much as I’d like to think I’m invincible, it’s likely I would have been killed in Miami. Lack of air or neo-Nazis; one of them would have done me in eventually. Saving her became my motivation.”

“And it still is, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, Oprah, it is. Her and everyone else. But vengeance is still a close second.”

They smiled together, but Miller’s smile disappeared a moment later. He cocked his head to the side, listening.

Brodeur returned with a tray holding three steaming coffee cups and a box of biscotti. “Java is serv—”

Miller shot an open palm in Brodeur’s direction and shushed him loudly.

The room fell silent.

The noise that had been at the edge of his hearing grew louder—the rumble of a second, very large, plane.

“What the hell is that?” Brodeur asked.

Miller jumped from his seat and headed for the cockpit. Adler and Brodeur followed.

As he pounded toward the cockpit, Miller glanced out the hallway windows. The deep blue sky of a new day greeted him. The sun was rising. Four days left. He quickened his pace and after reaching the cockpit door, gave it a firm knock. “It’s Miller.”

The cockpit door opened a moment later. Colonel Keith Wallman, who they’d met upon boarding, smiled at them. He had a friendly manner and a kind smile.

“I hear a second aircraft,” Miller said.

“What?” Wallman replied. “Oh! That’s the KC-10.”

The McDonnell Douglas KC-10 Extender was an air-to-air refueling plane that serviced all branches of the U.S. Air Force. It explained the noise, but not why it was here. “We’re on a 747,” Miller said. “We could probably make the round-trip from New Hampshire to Poland without refueling.”

Wallman offered a nod. “And then some. This is the president’s plane, after all. The KC isn’t here for us.” He stepped to the side, revealing the rest of the expansive cockpit, which held more gauges, buttons, and lights than seemed reasonable.

The copilot, Lieutenant Colonel Matherson, gave a wave and turned back to his job.

“Take a peek,” Wallman said.

Miller stepped forward and looked out the cockpit window. The ass end of the massive KC-10 hovered above and to the right of them. One of the two F-22 Raptors was attached to the long boom that sent fuel from the larger plane to the fighter jet. It made sense now. The Raptor’s range was far shorter than the 747’s.

A moment later, the Raptor disengaged from the KC-10 and fell back. A second Raptor skillfully dropped into view and approached the boom. The boom found its target and linked the two planes in midflight.

That’s when the Raptor exploded and all hell broke loose.

The last thing Miller heard before being flung to the floor was Matherson’s voice shouting, “Missile lock! Missile lock! Missile lock!”

36

“Deploying chaff!” Wallman shouted as he lunged into his chair and toggled a switch. A distant choom, choom, choom sounded out from behind the plane.

Miller gripped the cockpit door and hoisted himself to his feet. Matherson had banked hard as soon as the missile-lock warning sounded. The sudden movement had thrown him to the floor, but he was uninjured.

For now.

He glanced back at Brodeur and Adler. “Get to a chair and strap in! Now!” He thought for a moment that both of them would object. But they turned and ran for the chairs lining the hallway just beyond the cockpit doors. Miller sat in the cockpit’s third chair, just behind the copilot.

Choom, choom, choom.

More chaff.

Chaff was a missile countermeasure that confused missile radar systems by dispersing a cloud of aluminium, plastic, or metallized glass. The sudden appearance of a secondary target, sometimes several, can wreak havoc with the guidance systems of radar-guided missiles. But the system was far from perfect. Modern missiles were often smart enough to stay on target.

The radio came alive with shouted reports from the KC-10. “Eagle One! Eagle One! Be advised, attacker is Eagle Three! Repeat, attacker is Eagle Three!”

A momentary silence filled the cockpit.

Eagle Three was the second F-22 Raptor that had been escorting them across the Atlantic. Its pilot had waited for Eagle Two to connect to the fuel boom, effectively making the plane defenseless, and then destroyed it. Now it had turned its deadly sights on the 747.

Miller did a quick calculation in his head. Time to live—five minutes. Tops. Make your peace with God and kiss your ass good-bye. The F-22 Raptor was a stealth fighter jet, which meant they had no way to track it. It could fly circles around them at Mach 1.82 (1,674 miles per hour) and while the 747 could fly far higher, the six AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles it carried weren’t called “beyond visual range” missiles for no reason. The fire-and-forget, active-guidance missiles could track them down at any altitude.

The only positive of the situation was that they were aboard the world’s toughest and most heavily defended aircraft. Of course, the escort comprised a large part of that defensive capability, but if any aircraft stood a chance against the Raptor, the president’s transport was it.

The last hope they had was that the mayday Wallman called out while Matherson communicated with the KC-10 would be responded to quickly. There were air bases all over Europe and he had no doubt that jets could reach them in minutes. But minutes was all they had.

The silence in the cockpit ended with Matherson stating, “Missile lock, off.”

The chaff had done its job for the moment.

“Hawk Ten, Hawk Ten,” Wallman said into the radio transmitter, speaking to the KC-10 refueling plane. “Can you confirm hostile as Eagle Three? Are you sure?”

“Hell yes!” the man on the other end shouted. “The boom operator saw it with his own eyes.”

“Eagle Three,” Wallman said into the transmitter. “Stand down!”

No reply.

“Listen, you son of a bitch,” Wallman said, seething with anger. “If you—”

And shrill alarm sounded.

“Missile lock!” Matherson shouted.

Wallman toggled the chaff switch again. “Deploying chaff.”

Choom, choom, choom.

“Missile away!”

An explosion shook the plane from behind, but the plane was intact.

“Doesn’t this thing have any offensive weapons?”

Wallman shook his head. “Even if it did, the Raptor’s invisible.”

Miller hated being helpless. He wanted to fight. To shoot back. But there was nothing he could do but watch, and hang on tight.

Matherson banked hard to the right. The plane rumbled. A warning blared along with a flashing light.

“An engine is on fire!” Adler shouted from the hallway.

“Shutting down engine four,” Wallman said. The alarm fell silent.

Choom, choom, choom.

The sky behind them filled with chaff.

An alarm blared.

Before Matherson could shout out a warning, a second explosion shook the plane.

And still, they flew.

Three missiles left, Miller thought. Just three more.

“Take us up,” Wallman said. He sounded calm now. In control.

The three remaining engines whined as the plane angled up and gained altitude. But Miller knew that all the altitude in the world couldn’t save them from the AMRAAM missiles. “Why up?”

“Because when—if we fall, we’ll have more time to jump.”

“Jump?”

“Parachutes, but odds are we won’t need them.” Wallman looked back at Miller. “We’re either flying away from this or going up in a big ball of flame. If one of those missiles connects with a fuel tank there won’t be much of a plane left to jump from.”

Choom, choom, choom.

The plane continued to climb. Miller watched as the altimeter reached thirty-five thousand feet, which was the Raptor’s ceiling.

“What the hell is he waiting for?” Miller asked.

Choom, choom—

“That,” Wallman said. “We’re out of chaff.”

Miller’s respect for Wallman grew as the man reacted to the development as though they’d just flown through turbulence. He realized the pilot had another trick up his sleeve just before he spoke.

“Deploying ALE-50.”

Muffled clucks rang out. The ALE-50 countermeasure was a towed metal decoy that provided a large radar cross section and lured missiles toward it. The plane shook as the cables connecting the 747 to the ALE-50 snapped taut. The jolt felt stronger than Miller expected. “How many of them did you deploy?”

“Four.”

Four countermeasures against three missiles. Could be worse.

“Missile lo— Incoming!” Matherson shouted. “Two from behind.”

Was the enemy pilot hoping to sneak one of the two missiles past the countermeasure, or was he hoping the shock wave from the dual explosions would shake them apart? Miller didn’t think the latter was possible. The 747 was armored like a flying Abrams tank. It could take a beating. Of course, the engines were another matter. They were vulnerable to shrapnel. Hell, a gaggle of geese in the wrong place might be enough to foul the engines.

Twin explosions rocked the plane from behind. They pitched forward.

“Engine two is hit,” Matherson said as he shut the engine down. “Losing speed. Altitude.”

“Hold us,” Wallman said.

Matherson fought to retain their altitude.

Wallman scanned a line of warning lights. “We lost three of four ALEs.”

“Shit,” Matherson whispered.

“Just keep us steady,” Wallman said. “Wait for it.”

Miller realized that this was a pivotal moment in the battle. The Raptor held just one more missile. If it could be avoided without losing another engine, they might limp their way all the way to Warsaw. If not…

“Missile launch!”

“Take us down!” Wallman shouted. “Go, go, go!”

The plane’s nose dipped toward the earth as Matherson pushed the control column forward. The whiny pitch of the engines increased as, thanks to gravity, they gained speed. Behind them, the ALE-50 followed the plane’s arc, descending behind and above the plane.

A jolt shook the plane as the last of the six missiles struck the countermeasure. But there was no secondary impact. The missile had been traveling horizontally, and most of the shrapnel continued harmlessly in that direction.

Miller felt a rush of relief. “Now I know why you guys fly for the pres—”

A roar filled the cabin as the F-22 rocketed past beneath them.

Matherson leveled out the 747 at thirty thousand feet. They watched in silence as the fighter jet became a speck in the distance.

“Eagle One. Eagle One,” said the KC-10 pilot. “You guys okay?”

Miller looked out the window and saw the big KC-10 about a half mile ahead and just above them.

“We’re down two engines,” Wallman replied. “But we’re still—Holy shit!” He grabbed the controls and rolled the plane to the right.

Miller saw a flash of tracer fire zing past, followed by the roaring Raptor. The thing still had a M61A2 Vulcan 20mm rotary cannon hidden within its stealth body. The cannon was drastically harder to aim than a guided missile, but the 747 was a big target, and they couldn’t afford to lose another engine.

“I’m starting to think a missile or two might not be a bad idea,” Wallman said, his lips twisted in a deep frown.

The 747 couldn’t be maneuvered like a fighter jet. Avoiding a constant stream of fire from the Raptor would be impossible. Miller pictured the jet looping around for another run, this time from behind. Unseen. They didn’t stand a chance.

Or did they?

Miller unbuckled and stood between the two pilots, gripping their headrests to stay balanced. “Keep us steady,” he said.

Matherson started to protest, but Miller spoke over him. “Is there a way to contact the KC-10 without the Raptor hearing us?”

“KC-10,” Wallman said. “Initiate communication protocol Whisper Seven.” He changed the channel and waited. “It’s a predetermined emergency channel for all aircraft that come in contact with Air Force One. He’ll have to look up the right frequency.”

“Won’t the Raptor know it, too?”

“Escorts have a separate emergency channel,” Wallman said. “And it’s a single-pilot plane. He wouldn’t be able to look it up even if he had the option.”

The radio crackled. “We’re here,” the KC-10 pilot said.

Miller took the transmitter and spoke to the pilot of the KC-10. “KC-10, are you able to purge the fuel you’re carrying?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Position yourself just in front of and below us. When I tell you to, purge all the fuel.”

“What!” The KC-10 pilot sounded like he’d just been told he had a second head growing out of his ass. “Who is this?”

“Just do it! We don’t have much time.”

Miller could see Wallman nodding slightly as he understood the plan. The man lifted the protective plastic cover from a button labeled FLARES.

Wallman took the transmitter. “This is Colonel Keith Wallman. Do what he said.”

The KC-10 dropped down and flew in front of them for a moment. The 747 shook in the wake of the giant fuel plane. Then the KC-10 was below them.

“Get us closer,” Miller said.

Matherson throttled forward until they were just fifty feet back from and above the other plane. If they flew through a batch of rough turbulence, which could drop a plane one hundred feet in just seconds, a collision might be hard to avoid.

Miller’s gut told him the Raptor would be behind them now. Approaching fast. “Keep us steady… steady…” He took the transmitter. “Start dumping the fuel.”

A billowing cloud of fuel shot from the back of the KC-10. Thousands of gallons of highly combustible fuel.

A loud metallic ticking came from the back of the 747. They were taking fire.

The Raptor was right behind them.

“Now!” Miller shouted at Wallman, and then in the transmitter, “Stop the purge!”

Wallman pressed the flare button, unleashing twin cascades of super-hot flares designed to defend against heat-seeking missiles. Instead, they became a fuse.

The air behind the two planes exploded like napalm, enveloping the F-22 and its pilot.

Matherson veered the 747 away from the KC-10 as the shock wave hit both planes and shook them violently. A second explosion marked the destruction of the Raptor.

The 747 leveled out. The KC-10 flew ahead and to the right. Both planes had survived the explosion. All three men relaxed. Miller gave both pilots pats on their shoulders. “How’s that for a countermeasure?”

“We’ll call it the BAE,” Matherson said. Sweat covered his forehead, but he was all smiles.

Miller figured out the acronym—big ass explosion—and laughed. “Good flying, gentlemen,” he said before leaving the cockpit to check on Adler and Brodeur. He felt the same elation as the two pilots—they’d survived an impossible situation—but he doubted the two men would be smiling if they knew he was the one and only countermeasure standing in the way of the Fourth Reich.

His smile faded as soon as he left the cockpit.

37

The ground crew at Strachowice Airport had been nervous about receiving Air Force One. The small regional airport featured just one terminal and had little in terms of security. They were ill-prepared to handle the sudden arrival of the U.S. president, and voiced their concerns several times over the radio when Wallman requested permission to land. When he explained that they’d been attacked and had two engines out, leaving out the fact that the president wasn’t actually on board, permission came quickly. The runway was short for a 747, but Wallman and Matherson handled it with ease. Even with two engines out, they managed to land the plane more smoothly than the three passengers had experienced on a plane.

The forty-minute drive from the airport to Ludwikowice Kłodzkie felt like a roller-coaster ride in comparison. Miller, Brodeur, and Adler had squeezed into a small red Opel Corsa—a two-door hatchback with a whopping ninety horses under the hood. But the small size was only half the problem. Adler, feeling at home on the curvy European country roads, pushed the vehicle to ninety miles per hour every chance she got.

“Just happy to be alive,” she said.

“Well, let’s try to stay alive for a bit longer,” Miller replied, but she had got them to the small village quickly. The terra-cotta-colored roofs and stark white walls of Ludwikowice Kłodzkie’s homes and buildings, glowing in the late-morning sun, came into view after only thirty-five minutes.

Adler slowed as they entered the town on Route 381. The majority of the village was situated around the road, which cut through the center of a valley. Green slopes and patches of forest completed the image of a picturesque European village that most would see as a perfect getaway, but Miller knew it hid dark secrets of the not-too-distant past. Still, the cool breeze and pleasing scent of fresh-cut hay did a lot to ease his nerves.

They pulled into a small roadside shop. Adler put the car in park, took a deep breath, and let it out with a smile. “I love this area,” she said.

Miller and Brodeur looked far less thrilled.

“Just get me out of this rodeo car and let me stretch,” Brodeur said.

Miller opened his door and tilted the front seat forward so Brodeur could get out.

Adler rounded the car and headed for the shop. “I’ll see if I can get directions to the henge.”

Brodeur climbed out of the car, removed his suit jacket, and stretched with a grunt, first touching his toes and then leaning side to side. An old woman with wrinkled jowls and cold blue eyes rode past on a bicycle. A basket on the front held several jars of pickles. Brodeur gave a wave and said, “Howdy,” but the woman just kept on riding.

“Well, she’s a grumpy old gal,” Brodeur said.

“You look like a Mormon warming up for a round of door-to-door evangelizing,” Miller said. “She was probably worried about you taking her bike.”

Before Brodeur could come up with a comeback, Adler exited the shop. “We just missed it.”

Miller stood by the tilted seat and swept his hands toward the backseat, motioning for Brodeur to enter. “Your chariot awaits.”

“I’m starting to hate you,” Brodeur said, but quickly entered.

Adler spun the tires as she turned the car around and went back the way they came. After just three hundred feet, she made a hard left turn and sped up a small, roughly paved road. The street, lined with a mix of oak and pine trees, reminded Miller of their brief visit to the New Hampshire lake house. His discussion with Huber already felt like a lifetime ago.

They passed beneath a tall railroad bridge and watched as another mile of unremarkable terrain went by, along with a few nondescript, but large buildings. Then, the road on the right cleared and the ruins of a massive building came into view. The building was long and tall, and clearly not that old, but looked as worn as the Roman Colosseum. The only sign of recent use was phallic graffiti covering several of the walls. The images were impossible to miss, but no one remarked on them. They were close and eager to find the henge, and hopefully Milos Vesely along with it.

Miller racked the slide of each handgun, chambering rounds in both. Adler holstered hers at the hip. Brodeur threw his jacket on, despite the heat, to hide the two MP5s strapped beneath his arms.

Gravel crunched beneath Miller’s feet as he exited the car. The air here felt warmer, and smelled of dust.

“Around the back,” Adler said.

The threesome walked slowly and quietly around the building. Bees buzzed in the overgrowth rising up through the cracks of what was once a large area of concrete. When they reached the back of the building and saw more of the same, Miller said, “This doesn’t look anything like the picture in the book.”

“Through the trees,” Adler said, pointing to a stand of leafy trees that swayed in the breeze. The swishing leaves transported Miller back to Key Largo again, where the dry palms scratched against each other. He looked up at the sky, confirmed it was still blue, and struck out for the trees.

The temperature dropped in the shadow of the woods, and Miller drew his weapon.

“Hear something?” Brodeur asked, his hand inside his jacket, ready to draw an MP5.

Miller shook his head. “Just tired of being caught with my pants down.”

Brodeur pulled out one of the MP5s and gave a nod.

The trees began to thin and Miller saw the unnatural straight lines of human construction in a clearing ahead. He motioned for Adler and Brodeur to wait and moved ahead alone.

The concrete henge stood half in the forest and half in the clearing. Trees had grown up around it in the past years and a few small saplings rose from its center. Eleven interconnected concrete columns formed the modern monolith. Within the ring, the ground dipped down, revealing where a basin had once been before the forest reclaimed the site. The place felt otherworldly, as though torn from the pages of a fantasy novel. Miller entered the clearing of tall grass, scanning back and forth, looking over his gunsight. Other than the henge, he saw nothing important.

No hostiles.

No Vesely.

“Survivor?”

The voice startled him and spun him around. It sounded like Vesely, but he wouldn’t let his guard down until he erased all doubt. He saw no one and realized that he must have walked right past Vesely. Where the hell is he?

“Is that you, Survivor?”

The repeated use of Vesely’s code name for Miller made him realize it was an identity test. Only he and Vesely knew of the names the man had given them both. “It’s me, Cowboy,” he said, and lowered his weapon.

The ground in front of him came to life. Leaf litter fell away from the lanky man’s body. He wore blue jeans, a plaid flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a pair of leather boots, and a cowboy hat. Vesely slapped the dirt and leaves off of his hat and placed it back on his head. He flashed Miller a smile, strode right up to him, and shook his hand.

“I am happy to see you,” Vesely said.

“I’m happy you’re alive,” Miller replied. “Things didn’t sound too good before we were disconnected.”

“Meh,” Vesely said, giving a dismissive wave. “They sent only two men.” He looked down at his belt where two .38 Supers were strapped to his hips. The .38 Super held six rounds, each easily powerful enough to make a one-shot kill, even if the head or chest weren’t struck—people missing limbs tended to bleed out fairly fast. “I had enough for twelve.”

Miller smiled. The man’s thick accent, eccentric dress, and cocky attitude amused him. But he knew Vesely had been attacked, and had somehow survived, so despite his comical appearance, he might actually know how to use the handguns.

“Just so you know, I’m not here alone,” Miller warned.

“This is good. A battle of this size should not be fought by just two men. How many do you have?”

Miller called out, “Come on out,” into the woods. He knew Vesely would be disappointed when he saw the army of two come out of the woods, but hey, now there were four of them. Arwen would be proud. His very own fellowship. Now they just needed a few elves and hobbits and they’d be all set.

Adler came out of the woods first, putting her handgun away.

“Gut, Sie kennenzulernen,” she said. Good to meet you.

Vesely’s head cocked to the side. “You are German?”

“Ja. I’m an Interpol liaison to the U.S.”

He squinted at her. “Have we met?”

Adler fought a smile. “I think I would remember if we had.”

“It’s your eyes,” Vesely said, then shrugged. “I must be mistaken. What is your name?”

Adler held out her hand. “Elizabeth Adler, nice to finally meet—”

Faster than Miller had ever seen, Vesely drew his .38 and leveled it at Adler’s forehead. Not only did the man know how to use his weapons, Miller had no doubt his quick draw could match Billy the Kid.

“You colored your hair,” Vesely said, “but you cannot hide your grandmother’s eyes.”

38

“Do you know who this woman is?” Vesely said to Miller, his voice filled with suspicion.

“Her grandmother worked for the Nazis, yes,” Miller said, and then pointed to the .38. “Mind putting that down?”

Vesely kept the gun raised. “They couldn’t have done it without her. She brought the red sky on all of us.”

“I am not my grandmother,” Adler said, her hands raised.

“And we wouldn’t be here without her,” Miller said. “She kept a journal detailing her calculations and everyone involved. It’s how we found Huber.”

Vesely looked Miller in the eyes. “You have this journal?”

“It is in the car,” Adler said, thankful that she’d managed to hang on to her bag through all of their journeys and chases.

“You trust her?” he asked Miller.

“With my life.”

Before Vesely could lower his weapon, a gun pressed between his shoulder blades. “Put it down, cowboy.”

The Southern drawl of Brodeur’s voice put a smile on Vesely’s face. “You are from Texas, no?”

“You got it.”

“Where in Texas?”

“Amarillo,” Brodeur said. “Born and raised in the panhandle.”

“Then you are for-real cowboy?” Vesely asked, excitement creeping into his voice.

“I’m for-real FBI, and if you don’t lower your weapon, I’m going to put a for-real hole in your for-real back. You following me?”

Vesely holstered the weapon and turned around to look at Brodeur. He looked him up and down, scrunching his face like he’d just smelled something foul. “FBI, yes. Cowboy, no. From Texas and not even boots.” He shook his head.

“I drive a car, too,” Brodeur said. “Hard to catch bad guys on horseback these days.”

Vesely let out a hearty laugh and all four relaxed. “I will call you Tex.” He looked at Adler, suspicion creeping back into his eyes. “And you… you will be Chameleon because I suspect you have yet to reveal your true colors.”

Adler shook her head with a roll of her eyes. “Genug! We just flew halfway around the world to meet with you.”

“Of course,” Vesely said. “What would you like to know first?”

“We know what was in your book,” Miller said.

“You have my book?” Vesely looked pleased.

“It’s on Google.”

After muttering a string of Czech curses, Vesely said, “Then you know its general construction, who was involved—” He gave Adler a sideways glance. “—and the effects it had on anyone unfortunate enough to stand too close to it.” He looked at the concrete henge. “Were we standing this close during a test, we would be dead in seconds, the fluids and materials that make up our bodies separated. Is like melting.”

Miller remembered the description from Vesely’s book. “The problem is, people aren’t being melted. They’re being suffocated in the open air. So far, nothing we know about the Bell explains how iron clouds from the solar system’s heliopause are being oxidized in our atmosphere.”

Vesely’s eyes widened. “Heliopause? What is this you speak of?”

“Huber told us about it,” Adler said. “It’s a place beyond our solar system. Something about the solar wind, and the galaxy’s ions. It’s where a vast cloud of refined iron particles was trapped until low sunspot activity and a specific alignment of the planets allowed the particles to enter the solar system.”

“Ahh,” Vesely said. “That is where the iron is coming from. I wondered how they could reproduce the tests done here on such a grand scale.”

“Miami, Tokyo, and Tel Aviv were tests,” Miller said. “The grand finale involves the whole planet.”

Vesely nodded and wandered away. He bent down, plucked a long, dry strand of grass, and put it in his mouth. “I should have known.”

“How could you?” Brodeur asked.

“Is my job to know. Or at least to surmise. But I did not think even they would commit global genocide. The first targets made sense. Miami is major U.S. city known for its… alternative lifestyles and has large Cuban population. Tokyo was targeted, I suspect, because the Nazis held a grudge against the Japanese. Had they not attacked Pearl Harbor, the Americans might not have entered the war and things would have most likely ended very differently. And Tel Aviv, well, that’s obvious. I thought more attacks would come. That they would follow pattern. Domination, not eradication.” Vesely removed the grass from his mouth. “But if they are dependent on the solar system to deliver iron particles, perhaps we can predict when they will strike next?”

“Huber already did,” Miller said. “We have four days.”

The news seemed to weaken Vesely. First he lowered his head, then knelt down on one knee. “We must move quickly,” he said. “There is much distance to cover. But first I must show you.”

Vesely tore away clumps of the tall grass, revealing a patch of topsoil. “The connection between the Bell and the attacks is here, in the earth.” He dug into the dirt, scooping out handfuls of dark brown soil. After digging down eight inches, he sat back and let them see his handiwork.

Miller noticed the oddity first. The top layer of soil was dark, composed of fresh decomposition. Beneath that was a band of drier, lighter brown soil, and beneath that a sandy layer full of small stones and chips of concrete. But it was the thin layer separating the soil from the sand that captured his full attention. He immediately recognized the horrible red hue. “Rust,” he said.

“For nearly half mile in every direction, radiating out from this site. I discovered it years ago, but never knew what it meant until I saw the pictures of Miami on TV. Red rust falling from the sky. It has only happened one other time that I know of, here at the henge—the test site of the Bell.”

“Son of a bitch,” Brodeur said, running a hand through his hair. “But how can something created during World War Two be doing this now?”

Vesely looked up from where he squatted next to the hole. “Because they have been working on it, perfecting it, for seventy years.”

“We would know about it,” Brodeur said.

“There are strong ties to Nazi Germany in all areas of United States government. Operation Paperclip infused thousands—thousands—of Nazi scientists into system. Financial sector was controlled by families who had supported the Nazis—the Harrimans, Rockefellers, and the Bushes—all of them financed Nazi war machine. The Bush family remained on the corporate boards of many Nazi front companies even after they were exposed. When war ended, America reached out over the game board like greedy child and pulled as many pieces into itself as possible. The result was Nazi infection that festered in the political, military, and social aspects of your country. If they wanted to stay hidden, they could.”

“He’s right,” Miller said. “We’ve been attacked by our own people several times. Even the president doesn’t know who to trust. The entire system is corrupt. Hell, the vice president is in on it.”

“What!” Brodeur said. He looked like he’d been slapped in the face. “You left out that detail.” He rubbed his head. “Man alive.”

“So how does the Bell work?” Adler asked.

“Surely you know. You have seen calculations, no?”

“That doesn’t mean I understand them,” Adler said, her voice full of vitriol. “I only know what little Huber told us, and what my grandmother’s notes explained, and she said nothing about how a device strapped to a concrete henge could pull iron out of space, oxidize it, and destroy the world’s oxygen.”

Vesely twisted the grass between his lips and leaned against one of the concrete columns. “When Miami is explored again, we will not find Bells attached to sites such as this.”

“Then where are they?” Miller asked. “We need to find them. Destroy them.”

“They are out of reach,” Vesely said. He motioned to the ring of columns. “Tell me, what do you think this construction is for?”

Brodeur ventured a guess. “It held the Bell above the ground.”

Vesely took off his cowboy hat and looked at the structure. “Close. Device was tethered, but not to hold it aloft. It was to keep it from leaving the ground. To keep it from going—” Vesely pointed to the blue sky. “—up there.”

“They can fly?” Adler asked.

Vesely nodded. “I suspect there are hundreds of them in Earth’s orbit by now. Perhaps thousands.”

Miller wasn’t buying it. “We would have seen them.”

“Even if those in charge of the observation centers that had capability to locate and track secret satellites were not part of the plot, it is well documented that Nazis spent significant resources developing stealth technology. Where do you think Americans got it from? Hiding a satellite from radar and the naked eye would be a simple thing.”

“But we would see them being launched into space,” Adler said.

“Once again, I must remind you of the scope of what we face. The roots of many American corporations can be traced back to Nazi Germany. Siemens, Bayer, Volkswagen, IBM, Ford, GM—never mind families of super-rich I mentioned earlier. If they wanted satellite in orbit, it could be done without raising eyebrows. But, when satellite is capable of flight on its own, and cannot be seen, one does not need rocket to get it in Earth’s orbit. Once there I suspect magnetism attracts the iron to the devices. The Bell produced powerful fields and may be used to shelter the particles as they are forced into upper layers of our atmosphere at superhigh speeds. It’s when they strike lower troposphere that the fast-moving particles are exposed to friction, rapidly heat, and oxidize.”

“This is hogwash,” Brodeur said with a shake of his head. He looked at Miller. “Flying bells? The thing doesn’t have wings, never mind an engine.”

“Antigravity,” Vesely said.

“Antigravity. That’s great,” Brodeur said. “Next thing, Engineer Chekov here is going to tell us they have bilithium crystals.”

“Scotty was the engineer of the Enterprise,” Vesely said with a grin. “But I can see how my accent has you confused. And for record it is dilithium or trilithium crystals. There is no such thing as bilithium crystals.”

Brodeur looked like a sarcastic mime when he thrust both hands toward Vesely in a motion that said, see!

Vesely got a crafty look in his eyes, the kind a man gets when he’s about to win a game of chess. “Tell me, Tex, what do you know about Roswell?”

39

“Roswell?” Brodeur said with a scoffing laugh. “Lots of people dressed up like freaks selling alien cookies, hats, T-shirts, and thongs that say ‘I got probed at Roswell.’ Hell, you’d fit right in.”

Vesely shrugged and raised his eyebrows as though to say, “This is true,” and said, “Actually, forget Roswell.”

Brodeur threw his hands up in the air and walked a few feet away. “Now he’s backpedaling. I’m going to wait in the car. Come get me when we need to figure out our next move.”

“Roger,” Adler said, then looked at Miller. “You are just going to let him go?”

“I’m going to follow him in a minute, if Cowboy doesn’t start talking some sense.”

Vesely held up his hands. “Okay, okay.” He took the strand of grass from his mouth and twisted it between his fingers. “Foo fighters. You have heard of them, yes?”

“Yes,” Miller said. “World War Two pilots reported a lot of flying lights.”

“And you take this subject seriously. The witnesses are credible?”

Miller nodded. If just one pilot made a report, he might dismiss it, as would have the military. But the sheer number of reports by Allied pilots meant that there really had been something unexplainable in the skies over Germany.

“Okay. These objects, these lights, they weren’t seen until near end of war. Some say that they were angels come to witness war’s end. Some say they were, and are, aliens come to observe mankind from another planet. These lights could move horizontally and vertically far faster than any plane. They could not be engaged, or captured. Superior to Allied planes in every way. And they began appearing shortly after successful antigravity tests, including the Bell. Declassified British and American documents reveal this to be true.”

“But they never attacked,” Miller said.

“That we know of,” Vesely corrected. “Had any pilots been attacked by such craft I do not think they would have lived to tell the tale. That being true, I believe that foo fighters were simply extended tests of mobility, stealth, speed, and maneuverability when facing enemy aircraft. Shortly before war ended, foo fighters disappeared.”

Vesely looked Miller and Adler in the eyes for a moment, then continued. “Until 1947.”

“Roswell,” Miller said. He’d seen enough cheesy late-night specials to know the date.

“Follow me, I want to show you something.” He led them into the woods toward the abandoned factory and continued speaking. “I’m sure you know story. A strange flying object crashed at a ranch in Roswell and was recovered by air force. A press release was issued saying that they’d recovered a flying disk.” He held a tree branch aside for Miller and Adler and then continued with his story and walk. “A day later, same air force people said the flying disk was actually a weather balloon.”

Vesely paused and looked at Miller. “Do you think you could confuse a weather balloon for a flying disk?”

Miller grinned. “Probably not.”

“You see? And you are navy.” Vesely led them out of the woods and approached an open hole in the brick back wall of the factory. “Before air force collected the object, several people saw it, and some describe strange-looking text, almost like hieroglyphs, etched into the metal. Remember that for later. No one saw object before it crashed so is hard to say if it was truly disk shaped, balloon shaped… or bell.”

They entered the large open factory floor. The place smelled of dust, mold, and animal piss. The building had been gutted for the most part. No furniture remained. No assembly lines. Just a lot of graffiti, broken glass, and beer cans.

Vesely walked to a partially torn-down interior wall and leaned against it. Miller could see that the wall had once been part of an enclosed space, but two of the interior walls had been torn down and removed.

“December ninth, 1965. Kecksburg, Pennsylvania. Many people saw and reported UFO crash in the woods, just outside town. Several witnesses went in search of the object. They described what they found as acorn shaped. Some said it was shaped like bell. The dimensions were similar to those of the Bell tested here and some people described hieroglyphic-like text surrounding the outer rim of the device.”

“Are there any photos?” Adler asked.

“There was no time for photo-taking,” Vesely said. “The military arrived quickly, led by two men in trench coats who announced the area was under quarantine. But the strange text is important. It links this craft to the one found at Roswell, and both craft to Bell.”

“How so?” Miller asked.

“Hitler dabbled—‘dabbled’ is too weak a word—Hitler pursued the occult. He sent teams around the world in search of arcane and supernatural powers, of mystical artifacts, like the Spear of Destiny, the supposed spear used to pierce Jesus’s side on cross. And we sometimes find strange, possibly occult languages etched into many of the more fantastic Nazi experiments.”

“Are you saying the Bell is supernatural?” Miller asked, a hint of skepticism returning.

“No, no. Not at all. As Tex would have learned if he had remained with us, I believe people often use the supernatural, and now aliens, to explain things they do not understand. Even the Nazis. They made leaps in science, but didn’t fully understand what they had done, so they deemed it supernatural. The occult. When the outside world sees that same science—UFOs—we say it is work of extraterrestrials. But it is far more likely that neither is true. That the foo fighters and the various UFO crashes around world are of terrestrial origin.”

“But—” Adler started.

“Wait, wait, wait. Back to Pennsylvania. Object is quarantined. Military controls the area. But several locals see large, bell-shaped object obscured by a large tarp taken away by military truck. Two days later, Wright-Patterson Air Force base, only two hundred fifty miles away, orders sixty-five hundred double-glazed ceramic bricks. Delivery truck driver later reported that he saw large bell-shaped object in the hangar where he dropped off the bricks. He said they wanted to enclose the object. Entomb it.”

“Holy shit,” Miller said.

“What?” Adler asked.

“I wondered how long it would take you to see it, Survivor,” Vesely said with a lopsided grin.

“See what?” Adler said.

Vesely knocked on the wall behind him. “Double-glazed ceramic brick, perfect for insulating electricity and heat, but is also resistant to radiation, and I suspect also contains the fields produced by Bell.”

“The field that melts people,” Miller said.

“The same,” Vesely said. “I believe UFO crashes in New Mexico and Pennsylvania, and a few others around the world, were test flights of the objects now threatening the human race.”

“But if the military recovered them—” Adler stopped when both Miller and Vesely gave her dubious looks. “Right. They had Nazis in the military and science communities. Maybe that’s why they got there so fast?”

“To Pennsylvania,” Vesely agreed. “They reached Roswell a day too late.”

“All right,” Miller said. “Let’s assume you’re right. That the Nazis achieved antigravity. That UFO sightings and crashes starting at the end of World War Two are actually the Bell—”

“Bells,” Vesley corrected. “There would be thousands of them by now.”

Miller continued. “So there are thousands of Bells—killer stealth antigravity satellites—orbiting the Earth waiting for a massive cloud of refined iron to reach the planet, at which point they will pull the iron in, speed it up, and launch it at high speed into the lower atmosphere—protecting the iron from friction by whatever body-melting field it produces—and when the iron hits the lower atmosphere it superheats, oxidizes, and kills everyone on the planet.”

While Miller took a deep breath, Vesely clapped his hands. “Yes, yes! You have it exactly.”

“Don’t tell me they did all that on U.S. soil,” Miller said. “I don’t care how many Nazis are embedded in the military, they’d need a full-scale base and lots of space to fabricate thousands of these Bells. It would be impossible to hide.”

“You’re right,” Vesely said. “Americans filtered money, personnel, and resources, but the technology was developed somewhere else.”

“And you know where that is?” Adler asked.

“I do,” Vesely said, “but…”

“But what?” Adler said.

Miller knew exactly what the man wanted. He had spent his whole life researching this subject; in essence, preparing for this fight. “He wants to come with us.”

“I don’t think—”

Miller cut Adler off. “Done.”

“Yes!” Vesely said, thrusting a victorious fist in the air.

Adler looked incredulous.

“We don’t have time to beat the information out of him,” Miller explained. “And I’ve seen the way he handles a gun. Might come in handy.” He turned to Vesely. “So, where are we going? I suspect it will be far from the eyes of civilization.”

“Correct again, Survivor. We’re going to Antarctica.”

Neither Adler nor Miller spoke. It was too crazy. Too far. How could they get there?

Vesely spoke, his voice serious. “I can see you need to be convinced. Let’s start before war. In 1938, Germany launched expedition to Antarctica under supervision of Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, who would later become Oberbefehlshaber or Supreme Commander of the Luftwaffe, Germany’s air force, and after war was tried and convicted of war crimes and crimes against humanity. He committed suicide before being hanged. I say this because Göring’s promotion may be result of his success in the Antarctic. They took a seaplane carrier, the Schwabenland, to Queen Maud Land, a region of Antarctica claimed by Denmark. They flew over area, dropping clouds of tiny, spiked flags bearing swastika, and renamed region Neuschwabenland. They also took thousands of photos of coast, mountain ranges, and ice sheets. A large team of scientists including biologists, geologists, and climatologists scoured the land and claimed to have found geothermal hot springs—free of ice and home to algae. They spoke of deep, heated caverns, noted food sources such as penguins, walruses, and whales, and without saying so directly, made a convincing argument that this area, with its harsh terrain, freezing temperatures, and geographic isolation, would make perfect place for a secret base.

“Göring returned to Germany five months later, made his report, handed out medals, and never, not once, spoke of mission again. Flash forward to end of the war. The Allies are advancing on all fronts. The war is essentially over. Obergruppenführer Hans Kammler, not only oversaw construction of the concentration camp system, extermination camps, and all cremation facilities used on prisoners, but also ran a think tank that developed secret weapons projects including the Messerschmitt ME 262 fighter jet, V-2 rockets, and the Bell alongside Obergruppenführer Emil Mazuw. More than that, he also oversaw relocation of the Reich’s R and D facilities to underground locations, something he apparently had previous experience with before war. He was also in charge of a special evacuation plan developed by Martin Bormann, personal secretary to the Führer. The plan detailed how Hitler, key scientists—ones that would not be missed—personnel, supplies, and projects like the Bell, would board several Junkers 390 transport planes just miles from our current location, at the very same place Kammler was last seen alive. There are several contradictory reports of his death, but many believe he simply vanished. The plan had the Junkers fly to the coast of Norway where all materials and personnel would be transported to a fleet of waiting U-boats, several of which were advanced XXI variety—wire-guided torpedoes, magnetic proximity fuses—advanced for the time.

“Three days after Hitler supposedly killed himself—”

“What do you mean, supposedly?” Adler asked.

Vesely shook his head. “You are German. You should know this.”

Adler crossed her arms. “Some Germans don’t like talking about Hitler. I’m not as fascinated by the man as you apparently are.”

“Fascination is the wrong word,” Vesely said. “Prepared.”

“Know your enemy,” Miller chimed in. “Finish your story. Please.”

Vesely looked at the factory ceiling, recalling where he’d stopped talking, and said, “The Russians told the world that Hitler committed suicide, along with his wife, Eva Braun, by shooting himself. They claimed his body had then been covered in gasoline and set on fire. They recovered two charred bodies and a skull fragment. There was never a positive ID made from body. No DNA tests. And the Russians cremated the remains a second time, in 1970, and scattered the ashes. Many believe the Russian claims were simply propaganda that U.S. and England went along with because they did not want the world to know that Hitler still lived, and they could not find him.”

“A World War Two Bin Laden situation,” Miller said.

“Exactly. That one man cannot be found by world’s superpower would have been as embarrassing then as it is now.” Vesely stretched and continued. “Three days after his supposed death, Kammler’s disappearance, and the mass killing of sixty-two scientists that worked on the Bell, a flotilla of U-boats left coast of Norway and headed for Iceland.”

“This is part of the plan?” Adler asked.

“No,” Vesely said. “This is history. The submarine fleet made run south between Iceland and Greenland, where they encountered an Allied battle group. The result was an epic battle, perhaps the last of the war, that left only one Allied survivor, the commander of a destroyer, who told of an overwhelming naval force of advanced submarines that, after wiping out the Allied fleet, powered south and were never seen again.”

Vesely held his hands out to his impatient-looking audience. “I am almost finished. In 1946, U.S. Admiral Byrd led fleet of seaplane carriers, destroyers, fueling ships, and submarines to Neuschwabenland, the region claimed by Germany before war. The expedition was prepared for eight-month stay. Forty-eight hours after reaching Neuschwabenland, they were ordered back to the States. No official reason was ever given for mission’s cancelation, but I suspect Nazi influence in upper echelons of American power was already at work.”

“That’s all very interesting history,” Miller said. “And I admit that I’m intrigued, but how can you be sure that after seventy years, the Nazis—including Hitler and Kammler—are still hiding out in Neuschwabenland?”

“Because,” Vesley said, “a U.S. aircraft carrier group has been stationed there for the past five months.”

“How can you know that?” Adler asked.

“Aircraft carrier groups are hard to hide,” Vesely said. “Even in Antarctica. Several whaling, fishing, and scientific expeditions have come across the fleet, and I make it habit to keep track of such things.”

Miller took out his phone and prepared to call the president. If Vesely was right and there was an aircraft carrier group at the German-claimed territory, he required no more convincing. In part, the presence of an aircraft carrier was good news because they would have a place to land and a jumping-off point to Antarctica. The bad news was, a portion of the crew, and most certainly the officers, were part of the Fourth Reich. A warm welcome might include surface-to-air missiles.

But if that’s where the enemy hid themselves, that’s where he would go. Miller’s thumb hovered over the Send button, but a loud booming voice stopped him from placing the call.

“To jest policja. Wyjdźcie z podniesionymi rękami!”

Miller, Adler, and Vesely all snapped toward the sound of the amplified voice, just outside the factory.

“It’s police,” Vesely said. “They want us to come out.”

40

“They sound angry,” Adler said as the officer repeated his command.

“If they found Brodeur and his two MP5s they’re probably pissed,” Miller said.

“Backup is probably en route,” Adler said.

Miller clenched his fists. “We don’t have time for this.”

Vesely whipped off his belt and holsters, tucked the two .38s into his pants behind his back, and headed for a hole in the front wall. “Watch my back, Survivor?”

Miller wanted to object, but Vesely stepped into the sunlight before he could say anything. The police started shouting a moment later. Miller peeked through a hole in the wall and saw Brodeur lying against the hood of one of two police cars, hands cuffed behind his back. Two officers stood beside him, weapons drawn and pointed at Vesely, who strode confidently toward the men.

That’s when Miller noticed the weapons the officers carried were Micro-Uzis, which from a distance looked like standard handguns, but could actually fire 1,200 rounds per minute. Two things quickly occurred to him. First, these weren’t police. Second, they were about to tear Vesely apart. But it was too late to warn the man without revealing himself as well.

Vesely approached the officers calmly, open passport clutched in one of his raised hands. His body language was relaxed and the faux police approached him less aggressively than Miller expected. That was, until they got a look at the name on his passport.

Both officers took a reflexive step backward, Miller assumed because they didn’t want to get splattered with Vesely’s blood. The step only took a second, but it was longer than Vesely needed. The man’s hands came down and behind his back in a blur. He drew both .38s, leveled them at both men’s chests, and pulled the triggers. Twin explosions of blood and gore burst from the two men’s backs as the high-caliber rounds tore through them.

Miller charged out of the factory as two more officers appeared behind the cars, which left only their heads for targets. Miller fired twice and one of the officers’ heads snapped back. He dropped down behind the car. The second officer opened fire, causing Miller to dive for cover. But the man only got off three shots before Vesely turned one of his hand cannons on the man and fired a single round. Unlike the man Miller had shot, this man’s head burst like a melon.

“Good God, man,” Brodeur said from the hood of the car, where he still lay, cuffed. “You could have shot me!”

“I do not miss,” Vesely said.

“Right, you’re a cowb—”

A single shot rang out. Vesely spun, but not in reflex. He’d been struck in the shoulder.

Miller turned toward the sound of the shot and saw another officer standing at the corner of the factory. The man’s Micro-Uzi was already leveled at Miller, who knew he wasn’t nearly as fast a draw as Vesely.

Fortunately, he didn’t need to be.

Three shots fired.

The first two struck the officer’s chest, twitching his body with each impact. The third shot punched a hole in the man’s nose. The round, slowed by bone and brain, didn’t exit the skull, but the effect on his body was no less dramatic. He fell in a heap.

Miller turned and found Adler by the ruined factory wall, gun still raised in a solid shooter’s stance. “Thanks.”

She kept her weapon raised and stayed silent. Together, she and Miller scanned the area for more hostiles and peeked around the factory corner. All seemed quiet. When they turned back to the cars, they found Vesely holding a hand over his shoulder, which was wet with blood. Brodeur was still cuffed, but stood on his feet. His cheek was swollen.

“What happened?” Miller asked Brodeur.

“I was in the car. Didn’t hear them coming.” He pointed to his injured cheek. “Sucker punched me through the open window, dragged me out, cuffed me, and threw me on the hood.”

“Why did they not shoot you?” Vesely asked.

“How the hell should I know?” Brodeur said, his typical good nature fading fast. He locked his eyes on Vesely. “Maybe because my name’s not on the list. It was your name they reacted to.” He shook the cuffs at Miller. “Can you please get these off of me?”

Miller searched a body and found the cuff keys. He freed Brodeur and turned to Vesely. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Is nothing. The man’s aim was horrible.”

Adler lifted Vesely’s hand away, found the hole the bullet had torn in his shirt, and ripped it open. She inspected the wound. “Looks like it could use a few stitches.”

Vesely waved her off. “Let it heal. Will leave scar. Women will like it.”

Adler smiled and tore the sleeve the rest of the way off, ignoring Vesely’s protests. She tied the sleeve around his shoulder. “Keep it there until the bleeding stops. Then you can look tough and not bleed to death.”

Vesely chuckled, but then grew serious. “Survivor, before I risk my life for this cause, I would like to know how they found us.”

“Maybe a local called it in to the police?” Adler asked.

“Police in Poland do not carry Uzi,” Vesely said, picking up one of the weapons and showing it to her. “They came for me.” He nodded to Adler and then to Miller. “They came for both of you.” He turned to Brodeur. “But not for him.”

“If you’re implying that—”

“I imply nothing,” Vesely said. “He was not on the list, yes?”

“No, just the three of us,” Miller confirmed.

“Then perhaps this is why you were not shot. Or perhaps they simply did not want to reveal their presence. I cannot say. What I can say is that they knew we were here.”

“Maybe they followed you?” Brodeur said.

“Is not likely,” Vesely said. “I was very careful. But is possible. If they are embedded in the U.S. military as deep as we suspect then perhaps they are watching us even now.”

All four turned their faces to the sky, as though they could see the satellite watching them. Vesely lifted his fist and extended his middle finger.

“What are you doing?” Adler asked.

“I am sending message,” Vesely said. “I say, fuck you.”

“Great,” Brodeur said. “Can we leave before a drone shows up and blows us to kingdom come?”

After squeezing into the small rental car, they left the five officers—if they were indeed officers—dead where they lay.

“Where to?” Adler asked as she sat at the steering wheel.

“Back to the airport,” Miller said. “I have some flights to arrange.”

He took the iPhone out of his pocket.

“Do not use that!” Vesely shouted. “Don’t you know it can be tracked?”

Miller shared Vesely’s paranoia about the phone, but it was a necessary risk, so he decided to put the Cowboy’s mind at ease. “Not this phone,” Miller said. He dialed, glanced back at Vesely, and said, “Mr. President, it’s Miller.”

Vesely’s eyes opened wide as he realized to whom Miller spoke. But then he turned to Adler and whispered, “Perhaps it is the president who betrayed us?”

Adler turned back to Vesely and whispered, “I don’t think the black president of the United States is a Nazi.”

Miller ignored the conversation happening around him and focused on the president. The man sounded stressed, but still in control. Still fighting.

Miller quickly relayed everything that had happened and explained that the military should be trying to find and destroy stealth satellites in Earth’s orbit. He then relayed a list of required equipment, where he needed to go, how he needed to get there, and his suspicions about the aircraft carrier group stationed off the Antarctic coast.

“Shit,” Bensson said. “We’ve had reports of friendly fire from most of the deployed armed forces, but it’s hard to believe an entire battle group could be compromised. Though, at this point, anything is possible. I have a growing list of generals and admirals I believe to be trustworthy. They are in the process of reestablishing a chain of command while doing what they can to root out this cancer infecting our country. I’ll do my best to make sure your pilots, and escorts, don’t try to kill you.”

“Appreciate that,” Miller said.

“I’ll call with details as soon as I have them.”

“One more thing, Mr. President,” Miller said.

“What is it?”

“Can you track this phone?”

“If I needed to, I could; even if you’re out of cell range, I could trace the GPS. But no one else can track it if that’s what you’re—”

“Not at all,” Miller said. “If you haven’t heard from me, and red flakes start falling from the sky, track my phone’s location and drop a nuke on it.”

“Are you serious?”

“If you don’t hear from me, it means I’m dead and you are out of options.”

“Okay… okay, I’ll see to it.”

Miller hung up a moment later and turned to find three sets of wide eyes on him.

“Let me get this straight,” Brodeur said. “We’re going to Antarctica because of intel you got from him—” He motioned to Vesely. “—and you’ve just turned your cell phone into a targeting device for a nuclear missile.”

Miller glanced back. “That a problem?”

“Course not,” Brodeur said. “Be a helluva way to die.”

41

“I’ve got fifteen men in the brig. The world is on the brink of war. And you want to use four F/A-18 Hornets and their pilots as glorified taxis!” Commander Aaron Brown had his arms crossed over his khaki shirt and wore a deep scowl on his face that, for the most part, hid beneath a prodigious gray mustache. He hadn’t liked receiving the orders to send four jets to Antarctica, but he absolutely loathed the idea when he got a look at whom his precious jets would be ferrying to the underbelly of the world.

After flying from Poland to France, Miller, Adler, Vesely, and Brodeur had boarded a Blackhawk helicopter and flown out over the Mediterranean where they rendezvoused with the USS George H.W. Bush, a massive Nimitz-class aircraft carrier. When the chopper had landed and Vesely got out, clutching his cowboy hat to his head, Brown’s face had turned two shades redder.

Brodeur had followed wearing a bloodstained white shirt—the red tie long since removed. Adler went next, clutching her purse containing her grandmother’s journal. Miller brought up the rear, and since he was the only one of the bunch who looked like he had any business in a war, Brown directed his comments and anger toward him.

“They told me you were Navy SEALs!” Brown shouted. “There’s no way I’m giving you four of my birds.”

“I am a SEAL,” Miller said, trying to keep his cool. He’d been attacked enough by the enemy. He had little patience left, even for a navy commander. “And we need those planes. Now.”

The commander gave Miller a once-over. He shook his head in disgust. “Bullshit.” He turned away. “I’ll be damned before letting a couple clowns take my—”

Miller caught the commander’s arm and spun him around. It was a move he would never have considered while enlisted, but he was a civilian now, and had the backing of the U.S. president.

The two men accompanying the commander tensed and moved their hands to their sidearms. Vesely, who had kept his .38s tucked into his pants, once again proved he was the fastest draw in town. He leveled the weapons at the two sailors and shook his head.

“What the hell is this?” Brown asked.

Miller took out his phone, initiated a video call, and waited for the other end to pick up. “I told you he would need convincing,” he said when the call was answered. “Here he is.” He handed the phone to Brown.

The man’s beet-red face went white when he saw the president’s face staring back at him. His scowl flattened out. His deeply furrowed eyebrows rose. He turned away and walked a few steps so the group couldn’t hear what Bensson was saying, but they could hear Brown’s quick replies. “Yes, sir. I understand. But— Yes, sir. I will. I will.” The call was ended from the other end. He turned to face Miller again and handed the phone back.

“Stand down,” Brown said to the sailors, whose hands were still perched over their weapons. They complied and Vesely did as well. “Take off the hat and glasses,” Brown said to Miller.

He did.

“Why are you here?” Brown asked.

“Long story,” Miller said. “If we both live past the next few days, I’d love to tell you all about it, but right now, I need four planes.”

The commander nodded and sent the two sailors away with a “Do it.” Then he turned back to Miller. “You’ll need to rendezvous with refueling planes three times, and that’s already been arranged. The flight will take roughly six hours at top speed.”

Miller could hear the “but” coming, and added, “But…”

“But we haven’t been able to reach the USS George Washington. She’s been stationed there, running cold-weather drills, for some time. But she’s not replying to us, or anyone else. We know she’s still there. You can’t hide a ship like that short of sinking it, but either no one is home, or they’ve got a mutiny on their hands. I caught thirty-two traitors trying to sabotage my ship. It’s possible the ship is no longer under U.S. control.”

“Guess we’ll find out in six hours,” Miller said.

“If they don’t welcome you with open arms, you’ll be too low on gas to make it back, and there are no other places to land.”

“We will eject over target area,” Vesely said.

Miller couldn’t help but smile. He appreciated the man’s spirit, and he’d just taken the words out of his mouth.

“You do know it’s winter in Antarctica? It’s going to be below freezing, windy as hell, and dark for most hours of the day. The odds are against you surviving.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Brodeur said.

“The odds against you surviving are one hundred percent if we don’t go,” Miller said. “That’s not a threat. It’s a guarantee. The entire world is going to look like Miami in three days.”

“Then why aren’t we flying a battalion down there?” Brown asked.

“I’d rather fight with three people I trust,” Miller said, motioning to the others, “than an army that’s already tried to stab me in the back on more than one occasion.”

Brown stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. “Good luck, then.”

They were in the air twenty minutes later, speeding around the globe at Mach 1.8. The four F/A-18 Hornets flew high and fast, and carried no ordnance, to stretch fuel as far as possible. Each fighter jet carried one passenger and one pilot, and after Miller requested his unlikely band of heroes use the flight to catch up on some sleep, conversation between the planes had stopped. They all knew the next few steps in the master plan were up in the air. And speculating on what they might find in Antarctica, or worrying about the welcome they might receive on the George Washington, served no worthy purpose. So he’d ordered them to sleep.

He quickly fell into a deep REM sleep, and dreamed of Miami.

Pink corpses littered the streets.

Rainbow swirls of dust fell from the sky and clung to the buildings, like children’s glitter.

He could hear engines roaring in the distance, mixed with racial slurs.

Dread consumed him.

He ran, pursued by something unseen.

Pink sludge clung to his legs, slowing his flight.

“Lincoln,” a voice said.

He turned toward it. A short figure stood in front of him, covered in pink. Blood oozed from its chest in the shape of a swastika.

He looked for a weapon and snapped the antenna off of a car that looked just like the station wagon his parents had when he was a kid. He held the antenna like a sword and stabbed the figure twice.

The pink melted away. For a moment, he saw Arwen’s face beneath the pink, but then she melted, too, saying, “Can you hear me?”

“No!” he screamed, reaching for her. The girl’s hand turned to scalding hot liquid in his hand. He lurched back, tripped, and fell—

Miller gasped as he awoke with a spasm. He’d fallen. He swore he’d fallen. It felt so real. But he was still in the F/A-18, strapped in and immobilized, miles above the Earth.

“You okay?” the pilot asked, clearly concerned that his passenger might be mentally unstable or having some kind of seizure.

“Bad dream,” Miller replied. “I’m fine.” But he didn’t feel fine. His subconscious was clearly worried about Arwen, and that was bad enough, but there were a billion innocent kids just like her.

Flashes of the dream repeated as exhaustion moved through his body like a force. The dream, and the emotions it triggered, began to fade. His internal clock told him he’d slept for just ten minutes, and as he closed his eyes again, he said, “Wake me when we’re within radio range.”

He felt his consciousness fading quickly, but the pilot’s reply slapped him awake. “We’re there now, sir.”

The fog of sleep rolled away from Miller as a tornado of questions flooded his mind. “Have you tried reaching them?”

“Twice. No response.”

“ETA?”

“Twelve minutes, but I don’t think they’re hostile, sir.”

“Why?” Miller asked.

“Because we’re in missile range and they’re not—”

A loud beeping filled the cabin.

“Shit,” the pilot said. “Scratch that. They’re locked.”

“Can we make it to land?” Miller asked.

“They’re between us and the land,” the pilot said.

Then a voice came over the radio. “To, uh, the four incoming craft. Please state your reason for being here, or we will fire.”

Not only did the speaker lack confidence, but he also had very little experience when it came to bluffing. Miller had that in spades. He picked up the transmitter, depressed the Speak button, and said, “USS George Washington, this is Lieutenant Lincoln Miller, stand down now or we will attack.”

Silence.

Miller filled his voice with fire and brimstone and said, “We are here under order of the president of the United States of America. Stand down now, or we will launch a tactical nuclear strike on your position in three…”

It was a ridiculous bluff, but the voice on the other end sounded like it belonged to a kid.

“Two… one…”

42

“Okay, okay!” the voice shouted over the radio. “What do you want?”

“First, I’d like to know who I’m speaking to.”

“Uh, CS James Hammaker, sir.”

CS? Miller had to think for a moment to recall the rank. Culinary services! “You’re a chef!”

“I’m rated E2, so I mostly wash dishes, sir.”

“What are you, twenty?”

“Eighteen.”

Miller could see the pilot in the front seat shaking his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing either. “Hammaker, why am I speaking to you?”

“Um, I think it would be better if you spoke to Ensign Partin in person, sir. He’s on the flight deck now.”

“Why Ensign Partin?” Miller asked, suspecting the answer, but hoping it wasn’t true.

“Because, he’s the highest-ranking officer left alive. Sir.”

Miller felt the angle of the F/A-18 change and knew they were already on approach. They’d be standing on the gigantic aircraft carrier deck in just a few minutes, so he decided not to press the kid. There was only one explanation for the comm being operated by a CS and an ensign being in charge of a skyscraper-sized war machine.

Mutiny.

The landing was textbook smooth. The deck crews operated expertly, guiding each fighter jet down, and taxiing them out of the way so the subsequent jet could land. Miller stepped onto the deck before the last of the four planes taxied into position. The flight suit he wore did little to stop the arctic cold. He took a breath through his nose and felt the sting of freezing flesh. He wrapped his arms around his chest and looked for the welcoming committee.

Three men approached him, one dressed in purple, one in red, and one in white. They all wore protective headgear, wind visors, and bright-colored vests that identified their deck crew job. This would be a very different greeting than he’d received on the George H.W. Bush, mainly because as a lieutenant, a rank he received shortly before retiring from the navy, he was the highest-ranking officer on the ship.

The three men gave casual salutes as they neared. Miller noticed all three were armed with sidearms—certainly not standard issue for deck crews. The man in the middle, dressed in white, had dried blood on the front of his shirt.

“That your blood?” Miller asked.

The man looked down. “No, sir. I’m not sure whose it is.” He lifted his wind visor, revealing dark brown eyes. “I’ve killed a lot of men.”

Miller looked over the deck. A rainbow of men and women stood motionless, watching the conversation play out. “Which one of you is Ensign Partin?”

The man with blood on his white vest gave a nod. “I am. This is my ship now.”

Miller felt a challenge in the man’s words. “I outrank you, Ensign. While I’m on this ship, I’m the commanding officer.” Miller had no scruples about leaving out the fact that he was actually Lieutenant Lincoln Miller, Retired. He was here under presidential orders and had already bossed around a commander.

“You’ll find your rank doesn’t hold much weight around here right now,” the man said.

Miller eyed the deck crew again. All of them were armed. Some with handguns, others with assault rifles. “We’re on the same side, Ensign.”

“You sure about that?”

Miller nodded to the man in purple, who was black. “Well, since he’s still breathing, yeah, I think it’s safe to say that you’re not Nazis. And if we were the bad guys, why would we land on a ship full of the enemy. We’re not here for you, Ensign, we’re here to find, and kill, them.”

The three men relaxed a little.

“Care to tell me what happened here?” Miller asked.

“Mind if we go inside?” Partin asked, rubbing his arms.

Miller would have preferred rapid answers to his questions, but the look in Partin’s eyes said he’d seen and done things that would mark him for life. He nodded and waved for Adler, Vesely, Brodeur, and the four pilots, who had been unloading gear, to follow them inside. On the way to the bridge stairs Miller saw more than one dark red stain and the occasional bullet casing. By the time they reached the warmth of the bridge he’d counted twenty-two spots where he believed someone had lost their life.

A war had been fought on this ship.

Goose bumps covered Miller’s body as he stepped out of the cold and onto the bridge of the USS George Washington. He saw a young man sitting at the comm station looking nervous and insecure. “Hammaker?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” the man said, standing to attention.

“For future reference,” Miller said, “F/A-18s don’t carry tactical nukes.”

Hammaker looked to the glossy blue linoleum floor. “Yes, sir.”

Miller gave the kid a pat on the shoulder. He suspected Hammaker had been through a lot. “It was a nice try, though.”

The kid smiled and sat back down.

Miller turned when he heard the bridge door close behind him. Adler, Vesely, and Brodeur stood just inside the door. Ensign Partin gazed out of the long strip of windows lining the front of the high-tech bridge. His helmet had been removed, revealing a gleaming white bald head. The pilots and the two other deck crew members hadn’t joined them.

“Did the president really send you?” Partin asked.

“Yes, you can confirm it by—”

“We have no long-range communications,” Partin said. “Something is blocking satellite communications, from the carrier, the planes, everything. All we have is local radio.”

“Some kind of jammer?” Vesely said.

“Or they just turned the satellites away,” Miller said, then looked at Partin. “You’ll just have to take my word on it. Can you tell me what happened here?”

Partin took a deep breath and let it out with a hiss. “We’ve been here for I don’t know how long—”

“Months,” Hammaker added.

“Months.” Partin turned away from the window and looked at Miller. “Cold-weather training exercises. We put birds in the air every day. Several times a day. And caught them when they came home. It’s what we do on deck. The conditions are beyond miserable here, but harsh-weather exercises test the deck crews as much as the pilots and planes. We did our jobs. No questions asked. A few weeks in, we started sending teams over to the continent. Might have been SEALs. Maybe Rangers. We didn’t ask even though we knew sending troops to mainland Antarctica is against international law. But we’re damn good at our jobs. Damn good. Maybe better than they thought.”

Partin chewed his lower lip for a moment. “They started coming home with more men than they left with. At first it was subtle. One here. Two there. But occasionally there would be ten extra soldiers. Grim-faced sons a bitches, too.”

“They ate like robots,” Hammaker said. “We’ve got some good chow pounders here, but these guys didn’t miss a beat.” He motioned with an imaginary spoon, acting out two scoops per second. “And they did it in unison.”

“In unison?” Adler asked.

“Like when the North Korean Army marches,” Hammaker said. “One, two, three. Scoop, scoop, scoop.”

Partin stared at Adler. “Where are you from?”

Miller quickly understood Partin’s suspicion of Adler’s accent. He stepped forward. “Sorry I haven’t introduced my team yet. This is Elizabeth Adler, she’s a German Interpol liaison.” He motioned to Brodeur. “This is Special Agent Roger Brodeur with the FBI. The man in the cowboy hat is Milo Vesely, a special consultant from the Czech Republic. I can vouch for every one of them and expect them to be treated with the same respect given me. Back to the visiting soldiers.”

Though he was clearly still uncomfortable with Adler’s accent, Partin continued. “They kept to themselves and never spoke to us, which was fine because they scared the shit out of the crew. Then, one day, they were gone. I supervise most flights on and off this ship and I didn’t see them leave. A few days later, the helicopter crews started bringing in big wooden crates, then long metal containers. They stacked them up on the deck like we were a cargo ship.”

“What was in them?” Vesely asked. “Were there any insignias on the wood?”

“I didn’t see any,” Partin said. “But then they started transferring the crates to the support vessels.”

Several ships typically supported an aircraft carrier. Two sub destroyers, two guided-missile cruisers, two antiaircraft warships, a submarine, and two fuel ships. Now that Partin had brought it up, Miller couldn’t remember seeing any support ships surrounding the carrier. “Where are the support ships now?”

Partin shrugged. “One morning, I came on duty and they were gone, along with each and every crate. Crew members who asked questions were thrown in the brig. A group of us started looking for answers. We discovered they were going to the United States, but not what they were taking or their final destination. That’s when we found out about Miami.”

The man leaned forward, clutching a radar console. “I had cousins there.” He looked up. “Did anyone make it out?”

Miller met the man’s eyes. They’d heard about the attack, but not its outcome. “Not many. Millions died.”

“It happened in Tokyo, too,” Adler said.

“And Tel Aviv,” Vesely added.

With a shake of his head, Partin pulled himself out of his despair. “We knew the truth when we heard men cheering. Most of the officers. The commander. Pilots. MPs. Thank God most of the Special Ops guys left with support ships or what followed would have turned out differently. We spread the word and staged a coup that night.” He rubbed a hand over his bald head. “The fighting lasted three days. We lost communications almost immediately and they disabled the screws. We were dead in the water and cut off from the world. Four thousand two hundred men and women served aboard this ship when we left port. I suspect at least two hundred had already left with the support ships, more if you count the newcomers, and we outnumbered them, two to one, but most of us were support crew—flight deck, engineers—” He motioned to Hammaker. “Cooks. We fought guns with knives, with hands, with anything we could find. When their ammunition ran low, we took the ship. There are nine hundred crew members alive. Some are on the fence. We put their numbers close to seven hundred, leaving us with twenty-four hundred dead. We’re still collecting bodies from the lower decks.”

Miller felt sick. War was one thing. The battlefield made sense. The men around you were brothers. You bled for each other. But what happened on this ship was an affront to everything he believed about the U.S. military. He pushed aside his rising anger and asked, “Do you have prisoners?”

“In hindsight, prisoners would have been a smart idea,” Partin said. “But we—we were afraid. We killed the bastards and threw them overboard. Our dead are in the hangar, covered with sheets, but the smell is getting bad and we’ll need to give them sea burials soon.” Partin looked up as he remembered something. “We checked the commander’s quarters. Found lots of Nazi and white supremacist paraphernalia. Same with the senior officers. Small flags. Old uniforms. Guns. I don’t know if they had it all along, or if it came from the mainland, but it helped with the guilt.” He looked at Miller. “Nazis. Can you believe it?”

“You have no idea,” Miller said. He stood in front of Partin. “Listen, Ensign, what you did here; you can’t be thanked enough. If I get my way, each and every member of this crew will get the Medal of Honor. But this thing isn’t over. The world is still in danger.”

Partin listened intently, his eyes locked on Miller’s.

“Can you take us to the mainland? I need to see what’s there.”

“I’ve got plenty of helicopters,” Partin said. “But no pilots. They’re all gone, or dead.”

“I took lessons,” Vesely said.

“How many?” Miller asked.

“Two. But only piloted once. No takeoff. No landing.”

Miller silently cursed, then saw a hand rise in his periphery. He looked over and saw Hammaker, hand raised. He stood, looking unsure of himself, and said, “I can fly.”

“No way are we letting the kid fly us to Antarctica,” Brodeur said.

“My father is a helicopter pilot for Fox News in Chicago. He taught me how to fly. I have a commercial license.”

“Why are you a cook?” Brodeur asked.

Hammaker shrugged. “Never told the recruiter. Joined to pay for school and didn’t want to risk getting shot down. Figured the galley of an aircraft carrier was a safe place to be. Didn’t turn out that way, though.”

“Well, it’s about to get worse,” Miller said. “You’re hired.” He turned to Brodeur. “He’s all we’ve got. Unless you know how to fly a helicopter.”

He didn’t.

“How long will it take to prep a chopper?” Miller asked Partin.

“I can have you in the air in ten minutes.”

“Do it.”

Partin left. Hammaker followed him.

“Suit up,” Miller said to Adler, Vesely, and Brodeur.

Adler opened the duffel bags containing white snow gear and an assortment of weapons they’d commandeered from the USS George H.W. Bush. The four of them stripped down and donned their winter gear, perhaps the first people in the history of the modern navy to change clothes on the bridge of an aircraft carrier.

Vesely grinned as he pulled up his white thermal pants. “We are like the Allies,” he said. “People from around the world, joining forces. The new Allies. No?”

Miller shook his head with a grin, which felt completely inappropriate, considering what they were up against and what had happened on this ship. But the man was right. They were a ragtag group of allies going up against a technologically advanced Nazi force with the world hanging in the balance. The difference was, there were only four of them—five if you included the kid—and he had no doubt this flight would take them into the heart of the enemy’s preparations.

He could be dead within the hour.

He looked at his watch, still set for eastern time.

The whole world could be dead in sixty.

43

“You all right?” Miller said into his headset microphone. He sat in the helicopter’s copilot seat, across from Hammaker. The large CH-53 Sea Stallion transport helicopter had lurched hard to the left as they descended over mainland Antarctica.

Hammaker gave his nose a twitch, like it itched, but refused to take his hands off the controls. “Sorry about that. Felt like we flew into a wall of wind.”

“Katabatic winds,” Vesely said from his seat in the back of the helicopter. “Cold air from the mountains is denser and pulled toward the coast by gravity.”

The chopper could hold up to twenty soldiers and equipment. Right now the only passengers it held were Vesely, Adler, and Brodeur. Ensign Partin had offered more men, but Miller still had trust issues. Though the men and women of the George Washington were true patriots, there was no way to know if any of the enemy still lurked among them. And seeing as how most of them were deck crew, engineers, galley staff, and cleaning crews, they’d be more likely to shoot each other than the enemy. They might be good with kitchen knives and broom handles, but Miller’s four-person team now carried MP4 assault rifles, 9mm sidearms, and had enough ammunition to stage a mutiny of their own.

“Whatever it is,” Hammaker said, “I’ve got it under control.”

Miller noticed that Hammaker’s lack of confidence had disappeared when he sat down behind the helicopter’s controls. The kid’s claim to be a helicopter pilot proved true. While the cockpit contained a lot of buttons, switches, and gauges he didn’t recognize because they had to do with weapons and defensive systems, the flight controls for most helicopters were universal.

The GPS coordinates recovered from the previous flights made by the mysterious missing aircraft carrier crews had been punched into the helicopter’s GPS system, which had a larger-than-average display screen. The target area showed as a green pushpin. The red blinking circle representing the helicopter was almost on top of it.

Miller leaned forward, but couldn’t see much over the nose of the helicopter. “Take us around,” he said to Hammaker while twisting his finger around in the air.

The kid gave a nod and banked the helicopter, taking them in a clockwise circle that gave Miller a clear view of the land below. He felt thankful he’d thought to wear antiglare sunglasses, because all he could see was white snow blazingly bright. Of course, the bright white snow would soon fade to pitch darkness. Night would arrive soon and last well into the following day. If they didn’t locate Vesely’s Nazi hideaway quickly it might be eighteen hours before they got another chance.

“Can you take us lower?” Miller asked.

Hammaker replied by dropping the helicopter down to just one hundred feet above the surface.

Miller saw what he was looking for right away—a square of white that didn’t shine as brightly. The white-painted landing pad would be impossible to see by satellite. He pointed to it. “There. Take us down.”

Hammaker saw the landing pad and gave a nod. The Sea Stallion swung around, leveled out, and dropped down onto the landing pad. A tornado of snow churned by the rotor whipped around the helicopter.

“Good job, kid,” Miller said. “Keep her warmed up and ready to go.”

“I’m not coming with you?” Hammaker said, clearly not pleased about being alone.

“If we need to make a quick exit, I want you ready.” Miller handed Hammaker a 9mm Glock. “If you see anyone that is not one of us, shoot them. No questions asked.”

“Yes, sir.”

Miller climbed into the back of the helicopter, joining Vesely, Adler, and Brodeur, who were dressed in white from head to toe and held their MP5s at the ready.

“What is plan, Survivor?” Vesely asked.

“I’m going to take a look,” Miller replied.

Adler put her hand on Miller’s arm. “Not by yourself.”

“If there are snipers, I don’t want all of us exposed,” Miller said. “And we still don’t know where we’re going.” Before Adler could object, Miller slid open the side door, jumped out into the bitter cold—made worse by the rotor-fueled wind—and closed the door behind him. Now on the ground, he could see a one-foot-tall rim of snow that had been cleared from the landing pad. With his assault rifle up, he scanned the area, searching for targets, and clues. Thankfully, he found the latter and not the former.

A portion of the snowy rim looked trampled. He headed for it and found a trail of footprints that led to a white metal hatch large enough to drive a truck through, had it been on a wall instead of in the ground. He waved to the chopper. Vesely, Brodeur, and Adler quickly joined him.

“We’ll never get that open,” Brodeur said when he saw the hatch. “There has to be another way in.”

“Always so negative,” Vesely said, inspecting the hatch.

“You see an alternative?” Brodeur asked.

“Other than knocking,” Adler added.

Vesely and Miller scoured the hatch, checking every crack, rivet, and indentation.

“Here,” Miller said. He’d found a circular recess with a bar across it, perfectly sized for a human hand. He tried turning it, but it wouldn’t budge.

Vesely dashed to the far side of the large hatch. “There is another here.” He knelt by it and gripped the bar. “Perhaps if we turn at the same time?”

“On three,” Miller said. “Counterclockwise.”

“Lefty-loosy, as you Americans say,” Vesely replied with a nod.

“One, two, three.”

Both men twisted.

The bars rotated ninety degrees and sank in an inch. But nothing else happened.

“Twist again,” Vesely said. “One, two, three.”

The bars rotated another ninety degrees. This time a dull clunk sounded from beneath the door. Then it shook.

“Get off!” Miller said, diving away from the hatch, which had already begun rising. Four massive hydraulic posts pushed the door skyward. It stopped twenty feet from the surface, leaving a square hole in the ice large enough to drive a tractor trailer through. Miller stood and approached the hole. A ramp descended into the ice, and then stone, where it merged with what could only be described as a road—a paved road, under the Antarctic ice.

“Watch our backs,” Miller said to Brodeur, then headed down the road. Twenty feet from the surface he found a large metal switch he suspected would open and close the hatch, but let it be. He wanted the hatch open for the same reason he left Hammaker behind with the helicopter.

The tunnel, which had been cut through solid stone, made a sharp right turn one hundred feet down. Miller slid his head around the corner, ready for a fight, but instead found something amazing.

The road continued down in a series of switchbacks, but it was no longer encased in stone. The road led down the side of a massive gorge, perhaps five hundred feet deep and half as wide. Huge steel beams cut across the top of the gorge, supporting a wire mesh. Ice and snow, which glowed white from the lingering sun, covered the mesh, making the gorge impossible to see from above.

As Miller stepped out of the tunnel and into the gorge, the temperature shift struck him. His thermal winter gear, rated for negative fifteen degrees, suddenly stifled him. He peeled off his white mask, which no longer provided camouflage, and took a breath. The air was humid and smelled of wet earth, and… flowers? The roar of flowing water reached his ears as he crept toward the edge of the road and looked down.

“My God,” he said. The giant crevice stretched for half a mile in either direction. Far to the right, a waterfall emptied, perhaps carrying fresh glacial meltwater. The waterfall ended in a large pool that became a fast-moving river. The water cut through the center of the valley, billows of steam rising from its surface. And lining the shores—son of a bitch—were leafy green plants. Patches of mushrooms grew near the walls. Green algae coated most stones, and the gorge walls fifteen feet up. The gorge was like a tropical oasis, except instead of being in the desert, it was beneath Antarctica.

“Wow,” Adler said as she slid up next to Miller.

Vesely crouched at the edge of the road, balancing on his hands. He pulled his mask off and revealed a huge grin. “The Antarctica Shangri-La. Is real.”

Brodeur said nothing. He removed his mask and looked out at the valley. “I think we should move.”

Miller stepped back from the edge, realizing that the beauty of the place had distracted him and endangered them all. “Lose the suits.”

The four shed their white outer gear, revealing the black BDUs beneath. Feeling less conspicuous and much cooler, Miller led the team down the switchback road. He hugged the walls all the way down, looking for trouble, but only seeing paradise. He stopped at the bottom. A bridge led across the steaming water, which he could now see bubbled with heat.

Vesely stopped next to him and pointed to the water. “Geothermal vents. Whole river is heated.”

“That’s great,” Miller answered, “but I’m more interested in what’s on the other side of the river.” A massive door, like an oversized bank vault, had been built into the wall of the gorge—locked tight.

A modern-looking keypad was attached at the side of the vault door. There was no way to figure out the combination, so Miller dug into his supply belt and took out some small bricks of C4. The vault door looked tough, but he wasn’t going to blow the door. He was going to blow the stone around it.

While Miller assembled the charges, Brodeur walked up to the keypad.

“You’re not going to get it open,” Vesely said. “Not without code.”

Brodeur ignored him and kept fiddling. No one bothered watching as Miller handed each of them an armed explosive charge to hold while he rigged more.

A sharp beep spun them around toward Brodeur.

The vault door slid open silently. Brodeur stepped aside, revealing the now pried-open keypad. “Standard code lock. FBI trains on them. Piece of cake.”

“I’m impressed,” Vesely said. “FBI is more competent than I believed.”

“Glad you approve,” Brodeur said sarcastically.

Miller quickly switched off the detonators and plucked them from the C4. With everything back in his supply belt, he crossed the bridge and stood in the open door. A tunnel, lit by hanging bulbs, led deep into the stone, no end in sight. No guards, either.

Miller led the team in, feeling like he’d entered the throat of a giant who might swallow him whole. But he had no choice. Answers waited in the darkness.

Though he suspected more than answers lurked beyond, Miller began to jog. Then ran. He reached the end of the tunnel a minute later and stopped. He heard the footfalls of his team approaching from behind, but when he looked at the open space around him a bomb could have detonated and he wouldn’t have heard it.

44

A cavern bigger than Miller thought possible opened up before him. Hanging stalactites meant the cavern was at least partly natural. But the walls and floor had been smoothed. And a grid of metal poles held a maze of beams from which hung an endless sea of grated lamps.

While much of the floor was smooth matte stone, shiny walkways had been buffed into the floor. The path Miller now stood on ran toward the center of the space where it split and wrapped around an octagonal control center lined with modern computers. Miller noticed that while the lights were on, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He headed for the command center.

“I think we’re alone,” Miller said to the others, keeping his voice quiet. “But stay ready for anyth—”

A distant high-pitched whir filled the air. It reminded Miller of the remote-controlled car he had as a kid. So he wasn’t surprised when the small, modern-looking vehicle rolled into view. To Miller it looked like a land mine on wheels, but sleek and modern.

The device spun around, stopping when a small red LED light faced their direction. Miller got the distinct feeling that the device was looking at them.

“Looks like Roomba,” Vesely said.

And he was right. The device did resemble the robotic maid, but Miller didn’t think it was left behind to keep the floor looking good, clean as it may be. He tensed when the device approached. When it closed to within twenty-five feet, Miller raised his weapon.

Brodeur shoved the weapon down. “Might be explosive!”

Miller held his fire. Brodeur was right.

Miller scanned the area. One hundred feet to the left of the walkway was what looked like an empty hangar bay. Large metal frames, now empty, lined the walls. An assembly line, like that of a car factory, complete with robotic arms, stretched down the center of the hangar. This massive fabrication plant had been operating for seventy years, employing scientists recruited from America, financed by American dollars, and hidden by American politicians and military personnel.

Miller turned to the right and found a tall, metal, capsule-shaped object. Its smooth surface appeared to be copper, or lead, and had a sheen like brushed metal. A vertical seam, framed by strips of silver, ran around the outer edge, disappearing around the top and bottom. Its metal base was bolted to the floor. Next to it stood another. And another. There might be a hundred of the things. The rows of metal cylinders looked like giant capacitors arranged on a circuit board.

Miller was about to order the group into the maze of cylinders when the red light atop the Roomba-thing began blinking. Not good. The round device was composed of two sections. Wheels could be seen at the fringe of the outer ring, so Miller assumed it also held the engine and whatever else it needed to function. But the disk at the center could be anything. When it began to spin, Miller assumed the worst. “Get down!”

Miller, Vesely, and Adler dropped to the floor. Brodeur dove toward the cylinders, which he was closest to.

The spinning disk sprang into the air. There was a sound like a thousand puffs of air, which was immediately followed by the ticking of metal balls bouncing off the wall and rolling over the floor. Somewhere in the chaos, Brodeur shouted in pain. The center disk fell to the floor next to Miller, spinning like a flicked coin. He slapped his hand down on it, silencing the thing.

Free of its payload, the rover just sat in place, its red light now extinguished.

“Is modern Bouncing Betty,” Vesely said, standing up.

Miller picked up one of the marble-sized metal balls. They were everywhere. Vesely was right. The Bouncing Betty, formally known as an S-mine, was used extensively by the German army in World War II. When triggered, the spring-loaded mine would bounce two feet into the air and explode, sending a ring of metal balls and shrapnel flying into anyone standing nearby. Unlike conventional mines, enemies didn’t need to be close by to be injured, and those close, well, some men were cut in half. This device was more sophisticated. It fired its payload of metal balls as the disk launched into the air. The attack was silent compared to the explosive force of the other mine. And as demonstrated, this device didn’t have to wait around to be triggered, it could seek its enemies out.

The question nagging Miller was whether or not this was some kind of automated defense, or was it sent?

Movement in the field of metal cylinders reminded him that he’d heard Brodeur shout. Had the man still been standing? Why didn’t he duck with the rest of them? “Brodeur, you hit?”

A blur of motion, black like Brodeur’s clothing, caught Miller’s eye. But Brodeur wasn’t responding. Why would he be running, but not talking? Was there another mobile Bouncing Betty?

The black blur passed through another opening as it closed the distance.

Then it was followed by a second.

Acting on instinct, Miller drew his knife and whipped it toward where he expected the first man to appear.

Adler began to protest. “Miller, wh—”

Thuck. The blade buried in the chest of a tall man whose face and head were covered by some kind of solid mask that reminded Miller of a luchador wrestler, but the eye slots were covered by some kind of tinted glass. The man also wore body armor, but like all bulletproof vests, which stop the blunt impact of bullets, it proved ineffective against the slicing power of a sharp blade. As he spilled to the floor, he pulled the trigger of his Sturmgewehr 44 assault rifle. The cacophony of rounds, fired into the stone wall, acted as a kind of catalyst. At least ten men, most dressed in white lab coats, shouted and charged through the maze of cylinders. The second man dressed in black saw his partner drop and ducked back in time to avoid being shot by one of Vesely’s high-caliber pistol rounds. The shot, however, ricocheted off of two cylinders and struck one of the white-clad men in the chest. He fell to the floor, gasping for air. The man next to him shouted in fright.

They’re not soldiers, Miller thought. The two dressed in black were killers, no doubt. But the rest were science personnel, or maintenance. A few carried handguns, but most held whatever tool had been in their hands when they became aware of the team’s presence—a wrench, a screwdriver; one man even carried a ceramic mug. Vesely and Adler could handle them. But the soldier, Miller knew from experience, needed his personal touch. He’d been lucky with the first, who probably assumed they had been injured by the Betty. But the second, with time to regroup, could be dangerous.

“Take care of them!” he shouted to Vesely, pointing at the approaching group of workers.

Vesely drew his second pistol. Between the two, he’d have eleven shots. Miller knew he’d need just nine to finish the job, but when Adler took up her solid shooter’s stance next to the cowboy, Miller didn’t think the man would even need both guns.

Miller ran right, sprinting through a row of cylinders. He quickly lost sight of the mob, but knew their fate when he heard the occasional boom of Vesely’s handguns, each, without doubt, a well-placed kill shot. The single cannonlike rounds from Vesely were complemented by the less loud triple shots that Miller recognized as Adler. Two to the chest, one to the head. With very few shots fired in return, and lots of screams off to his left, Miller knew the pair had the situation under control.

Miller, on the other hand, did not. An arm stretched out in front of him and caught Miller across the chest. Miller fell backward, but his forward momentum turned the fall into a slide. As he slipped across the polished floor, he leaned back with his MP5. Aiming upside down while sliding would have been a challenge, so he just pulled the trigger and let loose a barrage that sent his attacker diving for cover before he could get off a shot.

Miller got to his feet and dove behind the nearest cylinder. As he rolled to his feet, he ejected the MP5’s magazine and slapped in a new one. The staccato roar of his enemy’s rifle, accompanied by the ping of bullets on metal, echoed through the chamber.

Miller leaned out and fired a volley, then ducked as his adversary took a turn. They could go at this all day, or until one of them ran out of ammunition, Miller realized. Lucky I came prepared. While the other man finished his volley, Miller pulled the pin on a flashbang grenade and tossed it toward the man’s position. While the weapon wouldn’t kill the man, it would effectively render him blind and deaf, and confused as hell.

Miller closed his eyes and covered his ears. The explosion wouldn’t be close enough to render him helpless, but it would still hurt like hell. When it came, the boom hurt his ears, but it wasn’t enough to slow him down. Miller whirled around the cylinder. He planned to come around behind the man and finish him off without a fight. But as he rounded the cylinder behind which the man hid, he realized his plan had a fatal flaw.

The man’s strange mask. The tinted lenses protected him from the flash. And the rest clearly protected him from the noise. Miller would have a ringing in his ears for the next week and this man was no worse for the wear. The man saw Miller coming and spun his weapon toward him.

Miller knew the bullets wouldn’t pierce the man’s armor, but he unloaded anyway as he continued his charge. The kinetic force of each round was diffused by the thick armor, but a series of high-speed projectiles in a row at close quarters was enough to send the man reeling. As he spilled back, the man pulled the trigger, firing the full contents of his clip toward Miller.

But Miller wasn’t there.

When the man caught his balance again, and began to reload, Miller jumped out from behind the man and leapt onto his back. He got his arm up under the man’s mask and squeezed. The man’s armor could deflect bullets and his mask could ward off the effects of a flashbang grenade, but the man still needed to breathe. The man slammed Miller against one of the cylinders and nearly shook him off, but when the man tried again, he missed. The pair fell back onto the floor. With his leverage gone, the man was defenseless. He died thirty seconds later.

Miller shoved the man off of him and stood, listening. The gunshots had stopped, but he could hear Adler shouting. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but he didn’t need to. He bolted toward the voice, weaving in and out through the endless rows and columns of the strange devices.

When Miller reached the end, he found Vesely aiming a gun at a white-clad man standing at a mobile computer console. It wasn’t plugged into anything, so he assumed its power source was inside the big black plastic case beneath the computer. And if it was connected to a network, it was wireless. The man’s finger hovered over the Enter key of a computer keyboard. Adler stepped closer to the man, hands raised. “Don’t do it,” she said.

Miller didn’t know what “it” was, but doubted the man was about to send out a blog entry. Though it could be a communication. Or something worse. Miller gave the slightest of nods to Vesely, who pulled the trigger. But the man must have seen the gesture, because a microsecond before his brains exited the back of his skull, he pushed the button.

In the silence that followed the cacophonous gunshot, Miller heard the rev of a tiny engine. The man had triggered another of the killer Roombas. But then the engine sounded different. Louder. When the small robotic Bouncing Betty rounded the corner from the far end of the cylinder field, Miller knew why.

The man hadn’t activated one Betty.

He’d activated hundreds.

45

The robotic army’s whirring engines grew louder as they closed the distance. Miller rushed to the computer. The screen was covered with text, flashing and moving as the system worked. The text scrolled faster than he could read. He moved the mouse, but nothing happened. Whatever kind of operating system this was, it made little sense to him.

Adler sidled up next to him. “It’s Linux based,” she said. She typed in a command faster than Vesely could quick draw, but nothing happened. She tried several different keystroke combinations and nothing happened. “The program is locked,” she said.

“Please hurry, or start running,” Vesely said. “Roomba army approaches.”

Miller glanced up and saw an endless sea of red LED lights. They were going to have to run in a second, but he doubted they could hide for long. And lying down probably wouldn’t work. One of the Bettys would eventually fire at an angle, assuming that’s how they all functioned. Some might just be bombs.

Adler pointed back toward the entrance. “Cowboy, run that way.”

“Happily,” Vesely said, and then ran toward the exit.

A burst of text flowed onto the screen in response to Vesely’s movements.

“There!” Adler said. “The robots’ movements are being controlled, or at least coordinated by the system. There must be sensors throughout this whole place. Maybe cameras. Motion sensors. But they are being controlled by the network. If the computers go down—”

Miller took aim at the computer.

“No!” Adler shouted. “The entire networked system. Shooting one computer will not stop it.”

“Then what will!”

“Fork bomb,” Adler said.

Miller had no idea what a fork bomb was, but said, “Do it!”

He watched as Adler struck three keys and opened a new window. It was a basic text system, like old DOS. She quickly typed in a seemingly random grouping of symbols.

“A fork bomb is a bash function,” Adler said. “It is called recursively and runs in the background. Once it is started, it cannot be stopped. It opens itself again and again. It starts slow, but each function continues to operate. It is exponential so once it begins, it can happen quickly depending on the power of the networked computers.”

She finished the sequence—

—and hit Enter. “There!”

A single robot Betty rolled around the console. Too late! As the disk at the center of the mobile mine spun up, Miller tackled Adler to the ground. As they fell he realized he would be on top of Adler and quite possibly in the thing’s kill zone, even if it didn’t tilt.

They hit the floor together, each letting out an “oof!” But the puff of air and clack of metal balls never sounded. The disk hit the floor next to Miller, but this time it didn’t spin. It fell flat to the floor, heavy with unfired rounds. Miller leapt up, afraid the thing might fire in his face. He pulled Adler up, too, and then turned to face the rest of the robotic horde. Not a single red light glowed. He looked at the computer screen. Black and dead.

Adler had done it. Before he could thank her, Vesely shouted, “Safe to come out now?”

“Ja,” Adler said.

Vesely slid into view from behind one of the cylinders. He looked down and then stopped. He crouched, scrunched his nose, and then said, “Survivor. Come see this.”

“What is it?” Adler asked.

“Come and see!” Vesely said. “Is labeled with man’s name. Rolf Bergmann.”

Miller stood next to Vesely and looked at the name etched into the base of the strange device. Several gauges and valves lined the base next to the name. Three metal tubes on the far side exited the base and stretched out toward an identical device.

Miller guessed there were at least one hundred of the things. But what really bothered him was that beyond cylinders left behind were several hundred more empty bases. Had they never been filled or were these things part of what had been transported out?

He couldn’t imagine what they were, but they looked like futuristic giant-sized vertical coffins. He knocked his fist against it twice. It rang hollow.

“Here,” Vesely said. “Is handle.” He took hold of a handle on the side and pulled. It stuck for a moment, held closed by a small amount of suction, and then opened. Cool air seeped out, steaming as it rolled around them. The inside of the device was cushioned with red rubber. Several tubes dangled from the side. But it was otherwise empty.

The shape of the cushioning—perfectly fitted for a six-foot-tall man—held Miller’s interest. “I think these held people,” he said.

“Cryogenics,” Vesely said.

“That’s not possible,” Adler said. She moved a hand to play with her hair, but her blond locks had been cut. She squeezed a fist instead.

Vesely turned to Adler. “The Nazis did many experiments on humans. Jews and Russians at Auschwitz were stripped naked. Placed in freezing water with temperature probe in rectum. Is documented. Test subjects were kept in water until death, or near death. Then, they would attempt to resuscitate the victims. Heat lamps. Internal irrigation—scalding water in throat, stomach, and intestines. And bath in near boiling water. To my knowledge, all victims died. But it seems process was perfected.”

“Mein Gott,” Adler said. She walked along the line of cryogenic tombs, reading the names to herself. “There are so many. But where are the others?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Miller said. He turned toward the command center and saw Brodeur sitting at a computer, its screen glowing brightly. He’d apparently recovered from the attack, booted the system back up, and got back on task. His fingers clacked over the keyboard.

“Where were you?” Miller asked.

Brodeur glanced up for just a moment and gave an awkward smile. “Got lost. By the time I came back the army of killer gizmos was on the loose. When they shut down, I got to work.”

Miller headed toward him. “Why did you scream?”

Brodeur’s smile turned sheepish. “I tripped.”

Before Miller could tease the man, Brodeur finished his flurry of keystrokes. “To quote Spaceballs, I ain’t found shit. Can’t make heads nor tails of this operating system, never mind that everything is in German.”

Miller looked at the screen. Like the mobile computer, Miller couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing either. It looked something closer to the Windows operating system, but the learning curve would be steep with everything written in German. But Adler seemed to know her way around a computer.

Vesely entered the command area and whistled. They were surrounded by computers, servers, and bundles of cables that descended from the grid of metal beams above them. As his eyes followed the cables up, Vesely went white and fell back. He landed in one of the floor-bolted swiveling chairs and would have spilled out if Miller hadn’t caught him.

“You okay, Cowboy?” Miller asked.

“No. I am not.” Vesely looked beyond Miller’s face, toward the ceiling. “Am terrified.”

Miller looked up and saw what had Vesely so frightened.

The Bell.

It hung from the stone ceiling, fifty feet above their heads.

“Is that what I think it is?” Miller asked.

“I do not think it is prototype, but it resembles Bell, yes. I do not think this is meant for flight, though.”

“Why?”

Vesely looked at Miller like he was crazy. “Because is mounted to ceiling.”

Adler joined them, looking up, looking nearly as pale as Vesely. Then she saw the computer screen. “Have you found anything?”

“Everything is in German,” Brodeur said.

“Let me,” Adler said, motioning Brodeur out of the seat. She looked the screen over for a moment and said, “Linux, same as the other. Should not have any trouble accessing anything that is not encrypted.” She looked back at Brodeur. “You are lucky starting the system did not restart the robots.”

“Actually, I think it did,” Miller said, pointing out the red lights gleaming like a horde of angry, midget Cyclopes. “It just didn’t restart the last command.”

“Well, good. Knock yourself out,” Brodeur said. “I’m going to do some recon and make sure there aren’t any stragglers.”

“Cowboy,” Miller said. “Go with him.”

Vesely didn’t look happy about the order. Neither did Brodeur. The two men had rubbed each other the wrong way from the beginning. But he didn’t like the idea of any of them being alone. After the two men left, Miller watched over Adler’s shoulder as she worked her way through the system.

A series of folder icons appeared on the screen. She translated them. “Assembly. Stasis. Facilities. Schedule.”

“Facilities,” Miller said.

Adler opened the folder. The first name on the alphabetical list was “Auschwitz.”

The number of sites was mind-blowing. Adler opened one at random and found several more subfolders, everything from schematics to construction reports to photos. They scanned it all, quickly realizing they were looking at the plans for an underground bunker and the evidence that it had been completed.

“Go back to the list,” Miller said. If these bunkers had been built to survive the coming storm, and he believed they were, then one of them might hold the key to stopping it. He scanned the list.

Several names sounded familiar. Some sounded foreign. One of the names had caught his attention. “Dulce.”

“Have you been there?” Adler asked.

“It’s a base so secret it’s kind of a modern myth. I served with a guy who claimed he served at Dulce. Said they had—shit—he said they had UFOs. Was real proud of it. Come to think of it, he was a racist prick, too. It’s our best bet so far.”

“What about Area Fifty-one? Aren’t they supposed to have UFOs?”

“They’ve got stealth bombers, which will probably turn out to be Nazi technology, but I don’t see Groom Lake on the list.”

“I think I can print this if you want.”

“Don’t need to.” He reached into his pocket and took out a thumb drive he’d requested along with the rest of the equipment. Nothing worked better for high-speed, mobile data transfers. “Thought it might come in handy. But don’t just copy the Dulce folder. Copy it all.”

He handed it to her and she plugged the small device in the computer’s front side USB port. She went back to the display of the four folders, selected them all, and started the transfer. Ten gigabytes of information in ten minutes. Not bad. If they found nothing else, Miller would take the information back to the George Washington and have a team of people sift through it. He suspected Dulce was important and didn’t want to stay in the Nazi stronghold any longer than he had to.

“You think that’s what we came for?” she asked.

“We’ll find out when we—” A horrible thought occurred to him. “Can you open the personnel file while that’s transferring?”

She did. Three new folders appeared.

Current.

Deceased.

Stasis.

Miller’s stomach churned. “Open the stasis folder.”

Adler’s shoulders shrunk in. She’d figured out what had him concerned. “You don’t really think?”

“Just open it.”

Inside the folder was a single file. She opened it.

A long list of names, in no discernible order, opened on the left side of the screen. As she scrolled through the names using the arrow keys, a photo and profile for each person opened on the right side of the screen. Images and text flashed past.

“Stop!” Miller said. He moved her hand away from the keyboard and hit the Up key three times. A face he’d hoped to never see again appeared on the screen. It’s true, he thought. Vesely is right.

He scanned the man’s profile. Ulbrecht Busch. Born in 1921. Member of the Schutzstaffel—Germany’s elite SS. He served in World War II under a man named—

“Mazuw,” Adler said. She’d seen the name, too.

Miller nodded. “I’m willing to bet most of the men in this database served under him, perhaps were handpicked by him.”

“You recognized him?”

“I killed him,” Miller said. “In Miami.”

He scrolled through the names again. Images of grim men flashed on the screen, but his eyes were on the names. The first name he recognized sent a chill through his body.

Hans Kammler—the man who’d overseen the building of extermination camps and many of the Reich’s more exotic weapons, including the Bell.

A second name caught his attention as it quickly scrolled past and made his knees nearly give out.

Before he could think about the discovery’s ramifications or point it out to Adler, she said, “Stop!” and brushed his hand away. “The names on the left, highlighted in red. I think they’re the men who have been revived already.”

Miller scanned the list, looking for the name. It was colored mustard yellow.

That was good.

Above it, near the top of the screen, Kammler’s name appeared in red.

Not so good.

Toward the end of the list, most of the names were in red. “Look,” she said. “Rolf Bergmann.”

The name from the cryogenic chamber. It seemed Adler’s assumption was correct. She scanned through the red names slowly. A face appeared that they both recognized.

“The asshole from Huber’s,” Miller said. “Who wanted to marry you.”

Not wanting to look at his face any longer, Adler tapped the Down arrow and immediately felt far more violated by what she saw than when the large Nazi manhandled her at Huber’s cabin.

Miller let out a drawn-out, whispered “Fuuuck.”

While he and Adler once again both recognized the face, the name—Lance Eichmann—didn’t make sense. They knew him by a different name.

“I don’t look bad for ninety years old,” Brodeur said from behind them. The Southern accent was gone, replaced by a thick German zing. He punctuated the statement by chambering the first round of his assault rifle. The message was clear: if they moved, they were dead.

Miller turned around slowly, fire burning him from the inside out.

Roger Brodeur was Lance Eichmann.

A Nazi.

46

“You didn’t bypass the outer door,” Miller said. “You knew the code.”

Brodeur grinned and shrugged. “I may have exaggerated my skills.”

Miller fought back visions of tearing Brodeur’s head from his body. Losing his cool now would be a mistake and would likely result in him and Adler lying in a pool of their own blood. Of course, that seemed the most likely scenario, anyway, but no need to rush things. He really only had one hope left. The Cowboy. “Where is Vesely? Did you kill him?”

“The clown is alive. Wandering the hallways in search of little green men. Bringing him was a mistake, Miller. The man’s not a soldier. Doesn’t follow orders. Of course, if he’d listened to you and followed me, he would be dead. Darwin was wrong, sometimes the stupidest of us survives.” Brodeur grinned like a demon. “Though not for much longer.”

“Is that what you’re doing now?” Miller asked. “Following orders?”

“Right now, I’m improvising.” Brodeur adjusted his aim from Miller to Adler and then back to Miller. “I was tasked with following you and reporting everything you discovered.”

“To monitor what the president knew,” Miller guessed.

He nodded. “I’ve become quite good at intelligence gathering.”

“How is this possible?” Adler asked. “You’re an FBI agent.”

Miller realized Adler could easily put the pieces together herself. She was stalling for time as the data transfer progress bar scrolled across the bottom of the computer screen behind them. But then what? Did she think he had a plan? Because aside from being Superman or the Flash, there was no way he could cover the distance between himself and Brodeur without being cut down.

“I was brought back in 2000. My first year included painful physical therapy. But I regained my former strength, and then surpassed it. For a year I studied modern American culture—learning about all of the silly ways you waste your lives. I perfected my Southern accent and then, in the wake of nine-eleven, when the military and law enforcement agencies began recruiting for the War on Terror, I was inserted into the United States with a complete history—passport, driver’s license, medical history, diplomas, everything I needed to join the FBI. I have enjoyed rapid promotion since.” He smiled. “I will be an Obergruppenführer in the SecondWorld.”

“But you almost died,” Adler said. “Several times.”

“A cause not worth dying for is a cause not worth following,” Brodeur said. “While I am thankful I will survive to witness the new world’s arrival, I would have gladly given my life, along with yours, to stop your progress.”

“Why not kill us yourself?” Miller asked.

“I considered it,” Brodeur replied. “On many occasions. But I could not risk exposing myself, and my superiors, if you survived the attempt. Better to die with you.”

Miller could feel the muscles of his back knotting. He understood how the president must have felt when he learned about the vice president’s involvement. “My apartment. Huber’s lake house. The attack on Air Force One. The police in Poland. Those were all you?”

“I cannot take credit for the lake house, but the rest…” The man just couldn’t keep himself from grinning. He took a small phone from his pocket. “You have your phone. I have mine.”

All of this was disturbing news, but a realization began forming in Miller’s mind. “Huber was already on the hit list?” Miller asked.

“He was.”

“But you wouldn’t send six men to kill an old man. The Germans. The men like you—”

Brodeur’s smile faded slightly. He gripped the MP5 tighter. “Were friends of mine.”

“They were there for Huber. But the other four. They were there for us.”

Brodeur said nothing, waiting for Miller to figure it out.

“And you didn’t know where we were.”

“Not at all,” Brodeur confirmed.

“No…” Miller’s thoughts came clear. “Fred Murdock.” His friend. His boss. Who he’d worked with and fought alongside for years.

Brodeur laughed. “He detests you. Has spoken of you on several occasions. The half-Jew mongrel. Firewood for the oven.”

Miller took half a step forward wondering how many rounds he could take and still break Brodeur’s neck. Adler’s hand on his wrist stopped him from moving.

“You shame Germany,” Adler said, her voice seething spite.

Brodeur’s eyes zeroed in on Adler’s hand gripping Miller’s. His nose twitched with disgust. “It is not I who have betrayed his heritage. Yours surrounds you even now. All of this was made possible by your grandparents. How proud they would have been to see this. How pleased they would be to know you lived to see SecondWorld.”

“I would rather die here,” Adler said.

“I’m afraid I cannot allow that. You will be coming with me.”

What is it with these guys and Adler? Miller wondered. But quickly realized the truth. The Nazis were all about purity—good breeding. Genetics. Adler’s grandparents were Elizabeth Adler and Walther Gerlach. Genius-level genetics. And given Adler’s pure white skin and bright blue eyes it seemed clear that her mother’s last name wasn’t Hernandez. She was a prize to these men in a world where many once “pure” bloodlines had been mixed as skin tone became less of a problem and more of an attraction. And he knew from his time with the NCIS that the majority of white supremacists in the United States were undereducated, and mostly men. The willing and available women in SecondWorld might not meet the stringent standards of the thawed-out Nazis, but Adler… she was—Miller looked at her—stunning, intelligent, and pure-blood German. A wife like that didn’t have to be willing.

Miller pulled Adler behind him. It was a useless gesture. Brodeur could shoot him where he stood. But if he was about to die, and she could make it out alive, then there was still hope—as long as she thought to take the thumb drive from the computer while Brodeur couldn’t see her.

“Please,” Brodeur said, looking at Miller. “Stand to the side. You don’t want her harmed as much as I.”

The man was right. Miller steeled himself for pain and death and—

“Hey, Survivor!” Vesely’s voice was distant, and excited. He had no idea what was happening in the control center, and the surrounding equipment would keep him from seeing Brodeur’s MP5 leveled at Miller's chest. But his appearance unnerved Brodeur and kept him from pulling the trigger. At least for the moment.

“I found a UFO, Survivor. You need to see for yourself!”

Miller looked over his shoulder. Vesely stood one hundred feet away between two of the cryogenic chambers. If Brodeur took a shot and missed, Vesely would have plenty of cover and an MP5 to defend himself with, not to mention the two .38 Supers still strapped to his hips. Brodeur had seen the man’s speed and aim. His first shot had to be a kill.

“Tell him to come closer,” Brodeur said.

“I can’t hear you, Cowboy,” Miller said. “Come closer.”

“Have you found something interesting?” Vesely asked, stepping toward them.

“Come take a gander for yourself,” Brodeur said, his German accent replaced by the Texas drawl.

“A gander,” Vesely repeated with a smile as he walked toward them. “This Texas accent never gets old. Like old Westerns, you know, Survivor?”

Was Vesely trying to tell him something?

“No offense, Survivor, but I think sometimes you would be better off if you were more like John Wayne.”

He was definitely trying to tell him something. John Wayne. How could being more like John Wayne help him? The man played gunslingers, but was actually a slow draw. What else was there? The only other thing he knew about Wayne was that the doors on his movie sets were made in miniature to make him look bigger. Because he was short!

Miller ducked.

Brodeur adjusted his aim toward Vesely.

Three shots rang out.

A shout of pain followed.

Miller recognized the voice as his own.

47

Lancing pain came next.

Miller recognized the burn in his left arm. Brodeur had pulled the trigger a moment before clearing Miller’s body. Two shots left the barrel of the assault rifle. The first struck Miller. The second headed toward Vesely.

But the third round Miller heard fired still echoed in the massive chamber. Cowboy’s .38 Super. He had gotten off a shot.

Miller rolled over and pushed himself up. He saw his MP5 lying a few feet away and reached for it.

“Don’t move!” Brodeur shouted.

Miller stopped mid-reach and looked up.

Brodeur stood near the exit of the octagonal control center. He held Adler by the hair and had his assault rifle pressed against her back. With most of his body concealed behind Adler, not even Vesely could get a clean shot.

“If you come after me, I’ll kill her,” Brodeur said.

Miller wasn’t sure exactly how valuable Adler was to him, but didn’t want to put it to the test. He could do nothing but let her go. He stood and saw Vesely, unharmed and .38 raised toward Brodeur.

“I can hit him,” Vesely said quietly.

“Hold your fire,” Miller commanded.

“But—”

“Cowboy. Do not take the shot.”

His eyes were locked on Adler’s. He saw sadness for a moment, but it was replaced quickly by determination. She opened her hand and let the flash drive slide out. She struggled for a moment, concealing the noise the small device made when it hit the floor.

Then he watched them go. But not toward the exit. Brodeur dragged her in the direction Vesely had come from.

“He’s taking her to the flying craft,” Vesely said. “To the UFO.”

Miller stood still, waiting for Brodeur to lose sight of him before picking up the flash drive. If the man suspected Adler’s defiance he might kill her out of spite. Adler remained silent, keeping her eyes locked on Miller until she was dragged around a corner.

Miller dove to the floor and scooped up the flash drive.

When he stood back up, pain radiated from his arm and through his body. A droning buzz filled his ears. He thought for a moment that he might pass out, but the pain became manageable. The buzzing, however, grew louder.

He ignored it and headed after Brodeur.

“Survivor!” Vesely called.

Miller ignored him.

Vesely took Miller’s arm—his injured left arm—and turned him around. Miller shouted in pain and yanked away. “I’m not letting him leave with her.”

“You must,” Vesely said, his eyes pinched with fear.

The well-trained soldier in Miller knew he was right. They had the flash drive. The answers to questions that might save the world were literally in the palm of his hand. But another part of him, the same part that charged into a missile strike to save a girl he did not know, the same part of him that dragged a little girl out of Miami, couldn’t stand for it. “I can’t.”

This time when he pulled away, Vesely gripped his wound, sapping his strength, and pulled him back. Before Miller could protest, Vesely shouted, “There is no time! Listen!”

As soon as Vesely’s words sank in, Miller heard the buzzing again. “It sounds like a beehive.”

“The Beehive! It was code name for Bell!” Vesely pointed up. A dull white glow pulsed at the base of the bell device attached to the ceiling. “The Bell sounded like angry bees when it was powered up! When it was charging field. Field that melted people!”

Miller’s mind focused upon hearing the word “melted.” He dashed to the computer and hit the three keys Adler had used to open the text window. It popped open just like before. He began typing the fork bomb code, but the loud buzzing sound distracted him. He couldn’t remember the order of the symbols. He gave up and shouted, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

They left the control center and ran for the exit. They’d only gone a few steps when the buzzing suddenly intensified. A wave of nausea sent both men to the floor, but it passed quickly.

“The cryogenic chambers!” Vesely shouted. “They must be shielded from the Bell’s effects.”

They ran to the cryogenic chambers and yanked two of them open. Miller felt sure he was looking at the plush red interior of what would be his coffin, but then his skin began to burn and he didn’t hesitate. He climbed into the cryogenic chamber, pressed himself into the man-shaped indentation. He reached out, took the door, and pulled it shut with a clang.

Darkness consumed him.

The buzzing disappeared.

He took a deep breath.

Relaxed.

And then screamed in agony.

A wave of energy passed through him.

It felt like his body was being torn apart.

He saw stars.

Tasted blood.

And then, nothing.

Hell feels cold.

It was Miller’s first thought upon waking.

The last thing he remembered was Adler being taken away. And then what? Something had happened. Something bad.

He remembered… heat. And feeling sick. And buzzing.

Like bees.

Like a beehive.

The Bell.

His memory returned painfully. Adler was gone and he was stuck inside the Nazi base, trapped in a cryogenic tube.

But he hadn’t melted.

And while that was the world’s shittiest “bright side” ever, he was still alive.

He could move, though his muscles ached and his injured arm throbbed. He’d probably lost a good amount of blood already, which didn’t help his spinning head. He couldn’t hear the buzzing sound, but he remembered not being able to hear it after closing the hatch.

The only way to find out if he’d be melted upon opening the door was to open the door. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. Could have been thirty seconds. Could have been ten minutes.

Or longer.

The cold struck him again. He shivered.

That’s when he remembered that he was in a functional cryogenic chamber.

Miller felt stiff as he reached out and pushed on the door. The metal stung his flesh. He pushed harder, waiting for the suction to give way. But the door held strong.

It can only be opened from the outside, he realized.

When Miller was ten, he was short and scrawny. While visiting his Italian cousins one Sunday, after they’d been to Mass and were feeling fully absolved of their sins, the two older boys took him into the garage. They’d found a row of lockers at the dump and brought it home. The lockers held bats, balls, hockey sticks, and, later that day, Miller. They locked him in and left him there, kicking and screaming, for thirty minutes. Ten years later Miller could look at the cousins and send them running, but that memory always stuck with him. It replayed in his mind now as he kicked and punched at the door.

“Hey!” Miller shouted, his voice echoing loud and close. “Vesely!”

He shouted until his voice grew hoarse.

He stopped pounding when his knuckles bled.

But he kept kicking. Hoping that Vesely would somehow get free.

Miller realized there might be a handle on the inside. He searched for it with his hands, but found nothing, and couldn’t bend over to check below his waist.

He shouted in frustration and kicked the door again.

The door burst open.

Miller fell forward.

And was caught.

“Sir!” Hammaker shouted. “I have you.”

Hammaker laid Miller on the hard stone floor. “Sir, what hap—”

“Vesely,” Miller said through chattering teeth.

“Vesely did this?”

“N-no.” Miller pointed to the cryogenic chamber Vesely had hidden in. “In-in there. Vesely.”

Hammaker understood. He jumped up and yanked open the door. Vesely fell out, eyes closed. But was he unconscious, or dead? The kid laid him down next to Miller and checked for a pulse.

“He’s alive,” Hammaker said. “But his pulse is weak. We need to warm him up. Warm both of you up.”

“The river,” Miller said. “Take him-m to the-the river.”

Hammaker nodded, shoved his hands under Vesely’s arms, and lifted him up. “I’ll come back for you.”

As the kid dragged Vesely toward the large exit, Miller noticed he could barely see them. It’s dark, he realized. The lights were all out. He could only see because Hammaker had left a large blue glow stick on the floor next to him. He looked back up at the kid and saw that he had a small flashlight clutched between his teeth.

Though his body revolted, Miller forced himself up. Holding on to the cryogenic chamber, Miller lifted the glow stick and looked at the control center. In the faint blue glow he could see that every portion of the control center that had been made of plastic had melted. A surge of panic gripped him. He dug into his pocket, found the small device, and pulled it out.

The flash drive appeared fine. But while Miller hadn’t been melted, some of the Bell’s effects had pierced the cryogenic chamber. There was no way to know if the data recovered from the computers remained intact.

Nausea slammed Miller as a violent shudder shook his body. Darkness loomed again.

“Sir!” Hammaker said as he approached. He took Miller’s arm and threw it over his back. “Put your weight on me.”

Miller held the flash drive up. He would have preferred to keep it, but knew it probably wouldn’t survive a dip in the river. “Everything depends on this. Keep it safe.”

Hammaker took the flash drive. “Yes, sir.”

As darkness reduced his vision to pinpoints, Miller asked, “How long?”

“What?”

“How long have we—”

The kid understood and said, “I waited five hours, sir. Spent another hour looking for you.”

Six hours.

Brodeur could be halfway around the world with Adler by now if he really did have access to a modern-day foo fighter. Miller was about to ask the kid to make sure he woke him up soon. The world didn’t have time for him to be unconscious. But the darkness claimed him before he could open his mouth.

He woke just minutes later, screaming, as searing heat consumed his body.

48

Miller thrashed as liquid fire enveloped him. The burn stung his skin like a thousand bees. His heart raced. Stabbing pains pierced his limbs. He fought to free himself, but a tight pressure on his shoulders held him down—someone held him down. He reached up to grab his attacker, but found his arms too weak.

“Stop fighting!” a voice said close to his ear. “The water only feels like it’s burning because you’re so cold.”

The voice sounded familiar.

His vision cleared and he saw water. It bubbled from below.

Boiling!

He fought again, but this time the voice shouted at him. “Stop moving, sir! You need to warm up!”

Sir.

The word identified the voice.

Hammaker.

The kid.

Miller trusted the kid. Remembered being taken out of the cryogenic chamber. Dragged down the hallway, to the—Miller looked at the water. He sat in the river heated by geothermal vents.

As he relaxed and Hammaker loosened his grip, the burn began to fade. The water still stung for sure. It was hot. But he’d been in hotter Jacuzzis. He leaned his head back on the soft, moss-covered shoreline and looked at Hammaker’s upside-down worried face. He was cast in blue, lit by the glow stick. Night had fallen. “Where’s Vesely?”

Hammaker tilted his head to the right. Miller followed the motion, his head spinning as he moved, and found Vesely lying in the water next to him, unconscious and unmoving.

“He didn’t wake up when you put him in?” Miller asked.

“Moaned,” Hammaker replied. “But nothing since. Think he’ll be okay?”

“He’s tough,” Miller said. “Hey, kid—”

Hammaker looked him in the eyes.

“Nice work.”

The kid smiled.

“Can’t believe they made you a cook.”

“Thank you, sir.”

A strange euphoric feeling came over Miller as the heat worked its way into his body, melting the tension away. “You can stop calling me sir. I’m Survivor.” He looked at Vesely. “He’s Cowboy. And now you’re The Kid. I think Cowboy will like it.”

“The kid?”

“Capital T, capital K. And we’ll write it with two Ds so it looks cool.”

Hammaker grinned, but his eyebrows still bent up in the middle. “You need to rest.”

“Uh-uh,” Miller said, and tried to push himself up. “We need to leave. Adler. She—”

Hammaker pushed Miller back down. “Your lips are still blue. You need to get warm. Besides, it’s nighttime and a storm blew in. I’m a good pilot, but I can’t fly in that.”

Miller felt too tired to be angry. He blinked, but had to force his eyes back open. “There isn’t time. The red sky is… We only have two days left. Just two—”

Miller’s vision blurred as sleep claimed him once more.

He woke to the sound of voices.

The river still flowed around him like a wet electric blanket. His head rested on a mossy cushion. The scent of plants and something—coffee?

The smell of fresh brew sat him up.

“Survivor!” Vesely’s voice was loud and cheerful. “You have cheated death once again.”

Miller rolled over and pulled himself from the water. On shore, bathed in blue light, he found his clothes were missing. Naked on Antarctica and not cold, he thought, before wondering what happened to his clothes. Before he could ask, he saw a small fire burning next to the gorge wall. His clothes dangled from the rocks, drying.

Vesely, who was also naked, waved to him from his seat on the gorge floor. Hammaker sat next to him. Both were lit by a large rectangular light that blurred Miller’s vision. He squinted, rubbed his eyes, and then saw the light for what it was—a laptop.

Hammaker noted Miller’s attention. “I went back up to the helicopter after Vesely woke up. Got supplies and the laptop. The flash drive works fine.”

“And it is treasure trove of information,” Vesely added. “Come! See!”

The flash drive! Miller quickly joined them by the laptop, his nudity forgotten. He felt a chill for a moment as the water evaporated from his body, but the air at the bottom of the gorge felt tropical. His muscles ached as he sat down, but the pain was bearable. The throbbing in his arm was another matter. He grunted as he put weight on it. The wound had been bandaged.

“It’s a clean shot through the side,” Hammaker said.

“You dressed it?” Miller asked.

“After I sewed it,” Vesely said. “I’m afraid your scar will be as ugly as mine.” He patted his injured shoulder, which also had a new dressing.

Miller flexed his hand. The pain was immediate, but wouldn’t incapacitate him. He knew morphine would help, but didn’t want to dull his senses or reaction time. He’d need both in the coming days.

Days.

“How long was I out?”

“Four hours,” Vesely replied. “I’ve been awake for an hour.”

“He nearly killed me when he woke up,” Hammaker said.

Vesely shrugged. “I was confused. Last I remember I am being frozen. I wake up in hot water.”

Miller looked at the computer screen and saw a mass of open files. “What have you found?”

“A lot,” Hammaker said. “And honestly, a few days ago I wouldn’t have believed any of it. There are records going back to World War One. Science staff. Military. Engineers. Support staff.”

“Not to mention traitors, spies, moles, and saboteurs,” Vesely added.

Miller knew that it wouldn’t be hard to weed out the majority of turncoats based on who had gone AWOL shortly after the attacks on Miami and Tokyo, but hard proof was always a good thing to have. And there were obviously a good number of traitors still embedded in the actively deployed military. They would need to be exposed and dealt with as well. But not right now.

Vesely read his mind. “But that’s not important right now. I think I figured out where they went.”

Miller remembered. “Dulce.”

“How did you know!” Vesely said, his thunder stolen.

“I’m an investigator,” Miller said. “I investigated. Before Brodeur tried to kill us.”

“Have you been there?” Vesely asked.

Miller shook his head. “I’ve only heard of it once.”

“Is in New Mexico. Little is known about base, and government denies it exists. In 1997, Dulce Papers were released. There was video. And photos. And supposed quotes from guards about internal layout and alien breeding chambers. Tall tubes. Metal. One guard spoke of pale, skinny being removed and placed in tube of hot wat—”

Vesely and Miller looked at each other and then to the river of hot water.

“He saw a cryogenically frozen Nazi,” Miller said. “Being thawed.”

The revelation further solidified Miller’s opinion that Dulce was the place to go.

“Dulce is underground base. Some say tunnels from base stretch far away. Some say across continent. But most believe a tunnel—a high-speed rail—goes to Los Alamos.”

“The laboratory?” Hammaker asked.

Vesely nodded. “If they can become directors of NASA, why not national laboratory? If Kammler wanted a modern think tank there is no better place to start.”

Miller stood, walked to his clothes, and picked up his underwear. Warm and dry. He slipped them on. “So what’s our move? Infiltrate Los Alamos and search for the rail? Or go straight to Dulce and kick in the front door?”

Hammaker raised his hand. “Do I get a say, since I got a code name?”

“He gave you a code name?” Vesely said.

“The Kidd,” Hammaker said. “Two Ds.”

“Like Billy the Kid,” Vesely said. “I like.”

“I knew you would,” Miller said, and turned to Hammaker. “What are you thinking?”

“Kick in the front door,” The Kidd said. “Kill every Nazi son of a bitch you find.”

Miller grinned as he pulled his black pants up and cinched the belt tight. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” He put his shirt on next. “But the only way that’s going to happen is if we leave. Now.”

Vesely stood and began dressing.

“That’s not possible.” Hammaker looked from Vesely to Miller. “There’s hundred-mile-per-hour gusts up there. Blinding snow. Twenty feet visibility if we’re lucky. And it’s night. Going to be for like eight more hours.”

“We don’t have eight hours,” Miller said. “We’ve been here too long already.”

“But—”

“Kidd, impossible sums up my entire week. I survived Miami, two hit squads, a rogue F-22, a traitor, and I was almost melted alive. There is no way I’m going to let a little wind and snow stop me now. I know you weren’t looking to take risks when you enlisted, but you did enlist, you’re here, and if you want to keep that code name, you better grow a set of balls right this second and say you’re going to fly us out of here.”

Hammaker looked on the verge of panic, but dug down deep, set his serious eyes on Miller’s, and said, “On one condition.”

“What?”

“I want in,” he said. “On all of it. Dulce. Los Alamos. Whatever. I want in.”

Miller nodded, slung his MP5 over his shoulder, and took the flash drive out of the laptop. “You got it.”

Ten minutes later, after leaving the gorge and entering the below-freezing Antarctic storm, both men reconsidered the wisdom of their decisions. But there was no turning back. The white flakes that shot through the nighttime air and stung the skin like angry wasps were nothing compared to the red flakes that would soon envelop the planet.

49

The big helicopter lurched to the right just ten feet above the Antarctic landing pad. Miller couldn’t see the ground—the nighttime sky and blanket of snow blinded him—but his stomach and the helicopter’s altitude indicator twisted in tandem. If they rolled much further, the rotor blades might strike the ice and their flight would be one of the shortest in the history of avionics.

Several warning indicators flashed. Alarms sounded. Miller wanted to slap the helicopter. Tell it to stop screaming like a little girl. But all he could do was hang on and trust The Kidd.

Hammaker fought the storm for control of the aircraft. While they were still far from vertical, the altimeter showed them rising slowly. At an angle.

Miller searched his memory. What had the surroundings looked like? They were surrounded by flat ice, but there had been mountains inland, to the east. He found the compass. They were facing north, but moving west.

As they continued to rise, the helicopter’s roll leveled out. Hammaker turned to Miller. “Sorry about that. Wind was intense.”

“That Katabatics,” Vesely said from the back. “Luckily they flow out to sea, which is where we want to go.”

“We’ll make it to sea,” Hammaker said. “But landing on the George Washington in this mess is going to be a trick.”

The chopper shuddered and dropped fifty feet.

“Storm is reminding us who is in control,” Vesely said.

A gust struck the chopper’s side, rolling them to the left. Miller sensed that if he could see, he’d be looking down at the ground through his window. The helicopter was close to tipping.

Either God heard someone’s quickly-said prayer or Hammaker was the best damn closet-pilot in the navy, because the helicopter righted and all three men sighed with relief.

Miller looked at the GPS screen. They were headed in the general direction of the George Washington, but couldn’t see beyond the helicopter’s nose. He picked up the radio transmitter.

“George Washington, George Washington, this is Lieutenant Lincoln Miller. Do you read? Over.”

There was a moment of silence and Miller opened his mouth to repeat his message, but then heard, “Miller, this is the George Washington, Ensign Partin speaking, reading you five by five. Are you all safe? Over.”

“That remains to be seen,” Miller said. “We are en route, over.”

“Did you say you were on your way here?” For a moment, Miller waited for the man to say over, but the surprise in his voice marked a shift in the conversation from trained radio operators to normal conversation.

“We’re a mile out and closing on your position,” Miller said. “But we can’t see anything. Do me a favor and light that boat up like it’s the Fourth of July. Over.”

Miller expected a statement of shock or outrage, but all Partin said was, “Copy that. Consider it done. Out.”

For a moment he thought the change in the man’s demeanor was strange, but then he remembered that the ship was missing the majority of its crew, and Partin might actually have to run around switching on the lights himself.

Two nerve-wracking minutes passed as the helicopter pitched, rolled, and shook. Had the helicopter been a news chopper and not an aerial tank designed to handle extreme weather and machine-gun fire, they would have crashed long ago. That wasn’t to diminish The Kidd’s piloting abilities. He was better than he claimed. But the chopper was a beast.

“There she is!” Hammaker shouted.

Time seemed to pass more quickly as they closed the distance to the ship, but as soon as they descended over the George Washington’s deck, a new level of hell gripped the helicopter. The lower they flew, the stronger the wind became. The Katabatics rolled down Antarctica and spilled out over the ocean. That was normally bad enough, but the storm added power to the wind and turned the normally unidirectional force into an omnidirectional maelstrom. Giant waves, fifty to seventy-five feet tall, hammered the aircraft carrier. The massive vessel surged up and down, its decks repeatedly drenched with freezing seawater.

They could see the lights blazing on the deck, rising and falling with the waves, but there were no colorfully clad crew on deck to guide them down. No one was that stupid. They were on their own.

The helicopter spun as Hammaker guided it down. Sweat dripped down his forehead. “C’mon,” he said to the helicopter. “C’mon!”

A gust of wind sent them flying to the side.

Miller saw the control tower come into view as they flew toward it, seconds away from becoming a bloody, oily smear on the metal wall. Then they tilted away. After leveling out again, Miller could see the deck just ten feet below.

“Almost there!” he shouted.

Then the deck fell away.

“Why are you pulling up?” he asked Hammaker.

“Not me,” Hammaker said. “The ship’s in a wave valley. I’m still descending.”

Miller saw the deck lights rising to meet them.

Fast.

“Pull up!” Miller shouted, but he was too late. The giant deck of the aircraft carrier slammed into the bottom of the helicopter. Its legs folded and its belly struck hard.

The impact hammered the three men inside. Miller felt his head spin.

“You okay, Survivor?” Vesely shouted from the back.

He shook his head, shouted, “Yeah,” and looked over at Hammaker. The Kidd was unconscious.

A blast of ocean foam struck the helicopter’s windshield. When it cleared, Miller saw the George Washington’s deck. It was slick with snow, ice, and ocean water. The ocean lay beyond the deck, lit by the ship’s array of exterior lights. And it was getting closer.

No, Miller thought. We’re getting closer!

The aircraft carrier had entered another giant wave valley and pitched forward, its slippery deck acting like a slide—straight into the water.

Miller shouted as the ocean reached up to swallow them. “Oh shi—”

An impact shook the helicopter.

Water surged over them.

Miller’s thoughts flashed back to his Navy SEAL training. Thirty months of the worst the military could legally put a man through. The infamous “Hell Week” alone included sitting in freezing water, endless running, miles of swimming, and pushed the human body to ten times the amount of exertion of which the average person was capable. He could overcome almost anything. A dip in the Antarctic Ocean on its own could kill a man—any man—in two minutes. But being sandwiched between giant waves and an aircraft carrier would mean a much quicker death. Granted, being crushed by the hull of an aircraft carrier would be a merciful ending as compared to freezing in the water, but Miller didn’t like either option.

When the water fell away, Miller saw the ocean recede. The George Washington rose above the waves. The helicopter sat ten feet from the edge of the deck. Then fifteen. Then twenty. They were sliding back as the ship rose up the next wave.

Miller knew the ship would pitch forward again after cresting the wave and had no doubt the ocean would swallow the chopper whole when it did.

“Get ready to jump!” Miller shouted to Vesely.

The man already had the laptop, secured in its case, in one hand, and his other on the door handle. He would have made a good SEAL, Miller thought, and then turned his attention to Hammaker’s unconscious form. The SEALs had a long tradition of teamwork. It was essential to everything they did. And as a result, they had never—not once—left a man behind, dead or alive. Miller wasn’t about to let Hammaker be the first.

As the metal underbelly of the helicopter struck a clear portion of the deck, it screeched and came to a stop.

Miller heard the back door slide open. A burst of cold air filled the cabin with a violent swirl of snow. He leaned over to Hammaker and fought to unbuckle him. His sore arm and the weather slowed him. As the ship, and helicopter, pitched forward once again, Miller heard Vesely shouting his name like a distant foghorn. But he wouldn’t leave Hammaker. He couldn’t.

Then he remembered Adler. Captured.

And the rest of the world. Red flakes would soon fall from the sky and kill every last non-Nazi on the planet.

For a moment, he considered leaving Hammaker, measuring one life against billions. But then he thought of Arwen. She wouldn’t leave the man. She’d die trying to save his life.

He pushed Hammaker forward, thrust his arms under the man’s shoulders, and dragged him into the passenger’s seat. The pain in his left arm was excruciating, but focused him on the task.

The helicopter skidded over the ice again, headed for the ocean.

Miller twisted the door handle, pushed hard with his legs, and emerged from the door like a penguin leaping from the water.

He hit the deck hard. Hammaker landed on top of him, knocking out the little air left in Miller’s lungs.

The helicopter, riding on a bed of smooth metal, slipped past them.

There was a crash.

The sting of freezing water covered Miller’s body.

He heard shouting voices, but couldn’t make out the words.

All of his effort went into one thing—holding on to Hammaker.

Even if it meant they would die together.

50

Miller was back in the cryogenic chamber. Cold stabbed his body with icy talons, piercing his muscles and scraping his bones.

But his arms locked around Hammaker’s body and never let go. Not when frigid salt water filled his mouth. Not when the stitches in his arm popped like over-tight guitar strings. Not even when he felt himself lifted up and dragged away.

When his senses returned he found himself on a stretcher covered in heated blankets, being carried through the delightfully warm hallways of the George Washington. He recovered from the cold more quickly than when he was in the actual cryogenic chamber, and realized that the burn of recovery lacked the intensity of his time in the heated river.

Exposure must not have been that long, he thought.

He looked for Vesely, somehow knowing the man would never leave his side. He found him following the pair of medics carrying the stretcher. “How long were we out there?”

The man smiled wide. “I told them you would not stay unconscious long.”

The man carrying the stretcher confirmed it with a grin and a nod. “He did.”

“More than once,” said the other man.

They turned the corner and Vesely said, “You were hit by two waves. Nearly swept you off deck.”

“Was it you?” Miller asked. “Did you pull us off the deck?”

“No,” Vesely said. “Was them.” He motioned to the men carrying the stretcher. Miller looked at them. Their faces were red from exposure to the elements.

“Thank you,” he said to them.

“Just doing our jobs,” said the man in the back.

Miller had never felt more proud of his navy service. Never mind the fact that a portion of the armed services had been infiltrated by the enemy, those that were true Americans never ceased to make him proud.

Like Hammaker.

Miller opened his mouth to ask about the man, when Vesely said, “Kidd is unconscious, but alive. Hit his head hard, they think. Getting X-rays. Will live, but will not be coming with us.”

Probably for the better, Miller thought. The Kidd was brave as hell, a good pilot, and had earned his Vesely-style code name. But his inexperience in a down-and-dirty, no-holds-barred firefight could be a liability. It was always harder to kill people when you were worried about someone else’s well-being. Vesely had no formal training—that Miller knew of—but had proven himself more than once.

“Did he just say ‘coming with us’?” asked one of the men carrying the stretcher.

“He did,” Miller said, sitting up. His head ached, as did most of his body, but he pushed through it. The motion caused the two men carrying the stretcher to stop. Miller spun his legs around and got to his feet. Veseley helped keep him up, but he stood on his own after a moment. He turned to the first man. “Find someone who will patch me up fast. Meet me on the bridge. Go.”

The man nodded quickly, impressed and intimidated by Miller’s show of strength, and then hurried off. Miller turned to the second man.

“How long is this storm supposed to last?”

The man nodded. “Four hours, tops.”

“Any F-22s on board?” Miller asked.

“Yes, sir,” the man replied. “Four of them.”

“Find Ensign Partin. Tell him I need two F-22 Raptors and two F/A-18s fueled and ready to leave the second this storm lets up.”

The man nodded and left.

Miller looked back to Vesely. “Go find our pilots. Bring them to me.”

“Is fun to see you in action, Survivor,” Vesely said with a grin, and then went in search of the pilots. Satisfied that the three men would follow his orders, Miller headed for the bridge, and when he got there, he cranked up the heat.

The storm let up three hours later, just as the black sky turned a dark hue of purple. The sun would rise slowly, peek over the horizon for a few hours, and then begin its slow descent. But Miller planned to be in an entirely different hemisphere by the time that happened.

His wounds had been expertly attended to. His body temperature had been brought back up. He’d received two IV fluid bags and a bag of blood to replace the amount he’d lost—it wasn’t a dangerous amount thanks to Vesely’s stitching, but his body would tire more quickly if it was fighting to restore his blood supply while he was in the field. The stitches were tight and dressed properly. He’d been given some heavy-hitting antibiotics to fight off any potential infections and took eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen along with six hundred milligrams of acetaminophen for the pain. His stomach would be spared discomfort because he’d eaten a lot of food with the drugs, but his liver would be working overtime. He had the same dosage in his pocket and would take the drugs again before landing. But even with the high double dose, the pain would merely be dulled, and only for a few hours. After that, pain would consume his body.

After learning what Miller was up against, the medic had given him a small vacuum-sealed preloaded syringe of morphine. “It might make you a little loopy,” she’d said, “but it will keep you in the fight if the pain gets too bad.”

To stay awake he’d been given a pack of caffeine gum, which the medic wouldn’t normally recommend, given his condition, but knew he’d be going back into the fight with or without it, and she’d managed to talk him out of the strong caffeine pills. He’d burned through half of the gum already and cut himself off when the storm began slowing. He didn’t want to be fidgety while sitting in the backseat of an F/A-18. He could chew the rest when they got nearer to their destination—which had been the subject of debate for the past hour.

Miller wanted to kick in the front door, guns blazing. But Vesely had put the kibosh on that idea. Dulce was an underground base, mostly likely designed to survive a nuclear assault. A direct hit might do them in, but short of that, the base could very well be locked up tight—at the ground level, which was little more than a group of faux buildings anyway.

Vesely believed Los Alamos and its fabled underground high-speed rail to be the best entry route. With both facilities likely under the enemy’s control, he thought the rail would be up and running. They would go in quietly. Covert. No guns blazing. No doors kicked in. No trail of dead neo-Nazis. The plan did little to sate Miller’s anger at being duped by Brodeur, the kidnapping of Adler, and the murders of millions of people. But he ultimately agreed.

Miller went over the plan in his head one more time while the F/A-18’s canopy closed over him and the pilot. There was a lot of guesswork involved, despite the intel they’d gathered at the Antarctic base, but it was the best they could do. And since the skeleton crew of the George Washington had not yet discovered how their long-range communications were being jammed, they were on their own. An ex-Navy SEAL. A Czech conspiracy theorist/wanna-be cowboy. Two F/A-18s. Two F-22s. And four pilots. They were all that stood in the way of the rise of the Fourth Reich.

“Hey, Cowboy,” Miller said into his headset. They’d be using code names from here on out. Vesely named the pilots White Horse, Red Horse, Black Horse, and Pale Horse after the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The Pale Horse brought Death, and he sent his victims to Hades. Miller understood the analogy and appreciated it because the Pale Horse was his pilot, and it carried him. He was Death and had every intention of sending the men he killed to Hell.

“I’m here, Survivor,” Vesely said. He was in another F/A-18 waiting for Miller’s to take off.

“Just wanted to say I appreciate everything you’ve done,” Miller said. “Thought I should say it now in case one or both of us die.”

He heard Vesely laugh for a moment. “Two things, Survivor. One, you need to work on motivational speeches. Watch locker room speech from Any Given Sunday. Will help. Two, you are Death now. Riding on Pale Horse. Leave emotions on boat. It does not matter if I die. Only thing that matters is that our enemies die. That we stop the red sky. ‘When Lamb opened fourth seal, I heard voice of fourth living creature say, “Come!” I looked, and there before me was pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over fourth of earth to kill by sword, famine, and plague, and by wild beasts of the earth.’ We are wild beasts, Survivor. We are sword. Plague. Is time to slay our enemies.”

Miller grinned, gave his pilot’s helmet a tap, and said, “You heard the man, Pale Horse; is time to go.”

Engines roared. Adrenaline pumped into Miller’s body as the F/A-18 rocketed across the George Washington’s deck. G-forces pinned him to his seat as they tilted up toward the now blue sky and accelerated toward Mach 1.8. He heard Vesely cheer as his F/A-18 followed close behind. A moment later, the two F-22s followed.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were airborne.