by Bill Walker
“Shit. Shit. Shit!”
With his hair still dripping, Jack threw on his uniform, careful not to forget to pin on the party badge, a minor offense, but one that could nix a promotion. The clock read 0745 hours. He jammed his feet into his boots and bolted out the door.
Jumping into his VW Blitz, Jack slammed his way through the gears, tore out of the underground parking, and streaked into traffic. In the distance he could see another submarine approaching the bridge.
“No, no. Not today,” he said, smashing the accelerator to the floor. The little VW sports car rocketed forward, barely clearing the descending barriers on the bridge. He skidded to a stop inches from the rear bumper of a Mercedes Berliner and let out a huge rush of air. Behind him the bridge rose, and the submarine floated through the channel, at the stately pace of a dowager empress, its crew identical to the last one.
“I wonder who’s left inside to drive it?” he said, laughing humorlessly. Damn things practically ran themselves with the new generation of computer chips.
The light turned green and Jack turned onto Biscayne Boulevard. Luckily, his office lay near the downtown area. With a little luck, he’d only be a moment or two late. Besides, it was not as if his presence was crucial. He was merely a cog in the great political machine. Still, Reece would not be happy.
Jack snorted with contempt. If ever the term “political toady” fit anyone, it fit Bryant Reece to a tee. As an ass-kisser, he was an Olympic champion. Reece got where he was, the Direktor of Advertising and Propaganda for South Florida, by kissing every fat, warty butt in sight. Ironically, the man would brook no brown-nosing toward himself, not that Jack would ever stoop that low.
As a creative talent, the man was definitely second-rate. His own ideas tended toward the bland and mediocre, and some were out and out plagiarism, not that stealing ideas from one’s subordinates and claiming them as one’s own would ever be called plagiarism. No, to Reece, it was all part of playing on his team. But what really charred Jack’s butt was Reece’s habit of blaming the failures on his staff. He was quick enough to take credit for the successes, but for the failures he’d throw someone else to the wolves, and not necessarily the person who’d come up with the idea to begin with.
When Jack pulled up to 20th and Biscayne, he spotted one of the black vans belonging to State Security. They were herding a group of what looked like students into the van, their hands held over their heads. The State Security troops stood holding deadly-looking MP89 machine pistols on them, their faces hid behind darkly tinted face plates attached to their helmets. Jack shuddered and pulled away from the light. The Security troops frightened him, but not nearly as much as the ones he couldn’t see.
State Security was so pervasive, so all-encompassing, that no one ever really knew who was a member. It was rumored that the organization was deliberately compartmentalized below command level so that individual operatives didn’t know each other beyond a small cadre. This fostered blind fear and compliance even by its own staff. The only positive ID was a special transponder implanted under every operative’s skin. It not only identified them, but also let the higher-ups track personnel via satellite.
At 25th and Biscayne, Jack turned into the gate and presented his ID to the guard. The old man scrutinized it carefully as he did every morning.
“Morning, Mr. Dunham,” he said, saluting. “Have a nice day.”
Jack drove toward the large, glass building, noting the sun gleaming off its thousands of mirrored panes. It was both impressive and ugly as hell. Built ten years before in a sort of neo-ziggurat style, The Joseph Goebbels Ministry of Advertising and Propaganda occupied over ten acres. It had ten sublevels below the ground that held offices and parking. The twenty stories above ground hummed day and night, controlling the dissemination of information for the whole Southern Sector of what had once been the United States, now fancifully known as Avalon. Jack could recall the opening ceremonies, the ribbon cut by a doddering eighty-seven-year-old Goebbels. During his very brief speech, the old man had mumbled something about the greater glory of the Party and had been quickly replaced by a younger, more coherent speaker.
Jack pulled into his space and saw that it was the last to be occupied. Suppressing his anxiety, he grabbed his briefcase and bounded for the elevator. It opened and disgorged a gaggle of secretaries chattering about some juicy inter-office gossip.
“Floor, please,” an electronic voice intoned.
Jack scowled. Whatever happened to buttons? He cleared his throat.
“Twenty.”
“Voice print ID correct. Good morning, Mister Dunham.”
He rolled his eyes and resisted making a wise crack. It was, after all, only a microprocessor. The elevator moved swiftly, and within seconds the door slid open. He checked his watch and walked briskly down the hall, nodding at people he knew. The conference room lay in the northeast corner. Through the heavy glass, he could see Reece speaking and gesturing as he always did. The man looked spastic when he talked. Sometimes Jack found it hard to keep a straight face.
He reached the door and pushed it open slowly, hoping to glide in unnoticed. Reece never missed a beat.
“So glad you could join us, Dunham. Please, tell us what kept you?” The man’s eyes narrowed, and he stopped speaking. Jack knew everyone was staring at him. Oh, God, how he wanted to pound the man’s face in! At the very least he wanted to put the creep in his place. Swallowing the nasty comeback that had sprung to mind, Jack smiled and took his seat.
“Sorry, Reece, the drawbridge was up again.”
“Ah, the drawbridge. Well, do try and get here on time from now on, Dunham. You can’t know how hard it is for us to have a meeting without you.”
Jack knew he was blushing, but kept smiling, feeling like a first-class idiot.
Someday...
“Now,” Reece began, “as I was saying. Heroes Day, this year promises to be the most exciting we’ve ever had. Not only will there be the satellite speech by the Führer, but on the reviewing stand will be some very special honorees. I’ve just received some tape from National that will fill in some background. These tapes will be broadcast in the days ahead to whip up the excitement, as well as to inform the public about the accomplishments of our honorees. Lights?”
The lights immediately dimmed, and from a slot in the ceiling near the front of the room, a large Blaupunkt High-Definition Flat Screen descended. A tape began extolling the glorious victory in 1944 in The Great Struggle and how the heroes of that “grand conflict” made it all possible. To Jack, it looked like the same old drivel from every other year. Why the hell couldn’t anyone come up with something new? Because they had wonderfully creative people like Bryant Reece. He frowned and looked out through the glass. If this went on much longer, he was going to have a hard time staying awake. But something on the screen caught his eye.
It was old, black and white footage from just after the Allies surrendered in Berlin. Hitler smiled, his face flush with the heady wine of victory. He stood with Göring, Goebbels, Himmler, and the usual flock of party hacks on the reviewing stand at the Brandenburg gates. Troops marched by in synchronized goose step, ten abreast, their eyes locked on their glorious leader, who saluted them as they passed. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the scene. Jack had seen ones like it a million times, but something bothered him. Leaning forward in his seat, he listened to the narration, his eyes riveted to the screen.
“As our glorious troops marched past their proud Führer, no one stood prouder than Hero of the Reich, Werner Kruger, the man credited with the liquidation of Dwight Eisenhower, Winston Churchill, and all of the jackals connected with the planned Allied invasion of Normandy. Because of this one hero’s daring and his possession of crucial Allied secrets obtained on his daring spy mission deep into Allied territory, we charged onward to glorious victory.”
The camera cut close to Kruger and then dissolved to a modern shot in color. This time it showed a much older Kruger smilin
g in front of one of his massive factories. The narration continued.
“Today, Werner Kruger divides his time between factories in Avalon and the Fatherland. In many ways, he has continued to be a hero with his uncanny ability to invest in technologies that have blossomed into enormous and profitable industries: Computers, Genetic Purification, and Defense. Yes, Werner Kruger is every bit the hero he was fifty years ago. On Heroes Day he will join our glorious Führer on the reviewing stand to receive the Heydrich Medal for unswerving loyalty to the Reich.”
The lights came up and Reece returned to his spot in front of the table, while the flat screen slid back up into the ceiling.
“As you can see, this year’s going to be the hottest yet. National’s depending on us to get everyone excited. Simms, I want you and Roberts to handle the stations in Occupied Texas and Oklahoma. Make sure they get the promos and copies of the tapes on Kruger and Mannheim. Both of these guys are ‘Old Guard’ and are getting the Heydrich Medal. We’ve got to make sure the ‘Great Unwashed’ are informed, right?”
Everyone began to chuckle.
“Wiley?”
“What was that, Dunham?” Reece said, his lip curling in displeasure.
Jack stared wide-eyed toward the front of the room, sweat pouring down the sides of his face. He hadn’t known why he’d said that. He’d just been sitting there when he got this overwhelming feeling, a feeling that felt as though the world was all twisted up, as if everything was wrong. For some inexplicable reason, this name had popped into his head and out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
“Speak up, Dunham, we don’t have all day.”
Jack shook his head.
“Sorry, Reece. Just thinking out loud.”
Reece scowled and went back to his instructions. Jack was barely aware of anything after that, his mind racing with strange thoughts. Who was Wiley? Why had he said the man’s name? Was he going nuts, was the pressure of the job finally catching up with him?
“...and Dunham will coordinate with all of you, got that?” Reece said.
Everyone murmured his assent. Reece nodded and walked toward the door. “All right. Let’s get to it.”
Jack followed everyone out of the conference room and trudged toward his office. His head throbbed with every step, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis, making him dizzy. Maybe he needed a vacation. He’d been planning a trip to the Caribbean colonies later this year. Maybe he should take it now. Jamaica would be great this time of year and Leslie would love it. But who was he kidding? Reece would throw a fit if he tried to leave now. He was supposed to coordinate something for Heroes Day, and Reece would never allow him the time off. Vacation would just have to wait. Now, if he could only remember what the hell the fat slob had asked him to do.
“Hey, Dunham. You okay?”
Jack turned and saw the familiar wry grin and tight skirt. Malloy.
“Hi, Denise. How are you?”
“I’m fine. But you look like you’re gonna blow chunks.”
Another wave of dizziness washed over Jack, causing him to collapse against the corridor wall. Alarmed, Denise came to him, took his arm, and held him up. Her perfume, normally an understated sexy affair, now smelled cloying, overpowering. Jack had to swallow back the bile that rose in his throat. Denise grabbed his arm and put it around her neck and walked him around the corner to her office.
“Christ, Jack, you gotta stop those lunches at Mike’s,” she said, straining under his weight. She helped him to the small leather couch, propping his head with a leather-covered pillow.
“You’re all heart, Malloy.”
Denise’s office reflected her personality—contradictory. On one hand it had been tastefully decorated in a sort of feminine power mode: sturdy modern furniture in glass and steel that bespoke of a woman who knew what she was doing and did it very well. Unfortunately, the effect was undermined by the hundreds of troll dolls that sat on every surface, their big, round eyes and fright-wig hair an unnerving sight to anyone who entered. Jack knew they were staring at him, mocking him with their droll grins.
Denise went over to a tiny refrigerator and opened a Sprudel-Gut Cola, poured a small amount into two paper cups. She then pulled out a bottle of vodka and poured a liberal amount into hers.
Jack stared in disbelief. “A little early, don’t you think?”
Denise handed the nonalcoholic cola to Jack, her mouth twisted in a wry smirk. “You have Reece for a boss, and you ask me that?”
“No thanks. I can’t—”
“Knock it back. It’ll settle your stomach.”
Jack scowled, grabbed the proffered cup, and took a small sip. It tasted good. He swallowed the rest and held out the cup.
“Not yet. You gotta let your stomach take it in small doses.”
“Just like you?” Jack said, smiling. He felt better already.
“Hah, hah, Dunham. You always did play hard to get.”
Denise turned one of the chairs in front of her desk and sat down, her legs crossing provocatively. Denise Malloy was one great-looking woman. She and Jack had flirted with each other for years and had finally fallen into bed after the last Christmas party. The sex had been great, but later, though it was tempting, each agreed that to jeopardize their working relationship would be foolish. The truth was they liked each other too much as friends, and for Denise it had been a revenge lay. Her lover, a girl from secretarial, had run off with another woman the week before the party.
“And I thought you were just using me.”
“Hell, Jack, you know I like it both ways. And you were one hell of a great way to forget that little nutte.”
Jack smiled. “Thanks. You ever hear from her?”
It was Denise’s turn to smile. It was not a friendly one.
“That bimbo she ran off with dumped her in Acapulco.”
“But—”
“Yeah, I know,” she said, her smile widening. “It got a little hot down there.”
“Remind me to treat you nice from now on.”
“You always do,” she said, her voice warm and throaty. She grabbed his arm and squeezed gently. “If Leslie ever does you wrong, you come to Momma Malloy and she’ll make everything better... I’ll rip her heart out. Want some more Sprudel-Gut?”
“Please.”
She went back to the refrigerator and refilled his cup and dumped another couple of fingers of vodka into her own. “So, what do you think of all this Heroes Day stuff?”
“You mind telling me what Reece is assigning me?”
She chuckled, her eyes slightly glazed.
“You really were out of it, weren’t you?”
She handed him the cup.
Jack shook his head, clearing the last of the fog.
“I’ll tell you. It was the weirdest feeling. You ever feel like you were two places at once?”
Denise tilted her head, her eyebrows furrowed.
“Yeah, I know it sounds nuts, but there I was watching that tape and when I saw Kruger, I suddenly began feeling really strange, like I remembered him from somewhere. Funny thing is, I know I’ve never met him before. Weird, huh?”
“Not really. He reminded you of someone.”
Jack shook his head.
“I don’t think so, the guy’s too distinctive looking. I’d know if he reminded me of my uncle Fred or someone I knew.”
He paused.
“Do you know anyone named Wiley, Denise?”
She shook her head, her frown deepening.
“No, should I?”
“No,” Jack said, sighing, “I suppose not. But at the same time I was getting those weird feelings about Kruger, this name popped into my head. Snap. There it was. Just like that.”
“You sure as hell tweaked Reece.”
Jack smiled again.
“One good thing to come out of it, anyway.”
Jack stood up, feeling a hundred percent better.
“Well, looks like Momma Malloy’s remedy worked.”
<
br /> “You can’t doubt the Irish,” she said. “It’s against the law.”
“Whose law is that?”
“Mine.”
Jack laughed and gave her a friendly hug.
“Thanks for the shoulder, Denise. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, gorgeous, anytime.”
Jack opened the door and walked into the hallway. He was halfway to his office when he realized he still didn’t know what Reece had ordered him to do.
“Shit. What a wonderful day this turned out to be.”
He walked into his office, shut the door, and plopped into his cushy, leather swivel chair.
Fuck it, he thought. If he knew Reece at all, the man would be in and out of his office all day, changing his mind about this or that. Jack would find out what his assignment was about ten times over from that obstreperous little depp.
He turned and looked out the window and sighed. Everything looked familiar, but nothing felt the same.
“Who are you, Wiley?” he whispered.
Somehow, he knew the answer to that question was terribly important, and if he could find that answer, it would change his life. And Jack was just beginning to realize that change was just what he needed.
Chapter Eight
Miami, Florida
15 April 1994
“Hey, shithead, how the hell are you?”
“Jack, are you all right?”
“Huh, what?”
“Are you all right? You look pale.”
Jack looked up from his plate of food and into Leslie’s vibrant, green eyes. Those eyes, so seductive at other times, were now full of concern.
“I’m fine, sweetheart. I think I’m coming down with something.” Jack smiled or tried to. He didn’t think he was very convincing. Where had that voice come from? Was he losing his mind?
Her smile, warm and sweet, reassured him.
