SecondWorld (30 page)

“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.”