SecondWorld (25 page)

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.