SecondWorld

by Jeremy Robinson

  “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 rkami!”

  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.”