SecondWorld

by Jeremy Robinson

  “That I’m an ex-SEAL and NCIS special agent has nothing to do with it?”

  “Not in the slightest,” the president said. “Ranks and titles no longer designate whether you’re on the side of angels or demons. The line between friend and foe is smudged. That said, you being an ex-SEAL and NCIS agent are certainly helpful.”

  Something about Bensson’s statement triggered Miller’s subconscious. He’d said something without actually saying it. When it didn’t come to him, he said, “Fine. But I’m still not clear on why you’re here, talking to me.”

  “The nation is terrified. The economy is taking a dive. Things are falling apart fast and if we don’t figure this thing out soon we’re going to be looking at riots. Looting. Maybe worse. And everyone left in Washington is pointing fingers, but no one really knows who’s to blame.”

  “What do you mean, ‘everyone left in Washington’?” Miller asked.

  The president frowned. “There are some people we have no doubt about.”

  Bensson’s look of defeat returned. He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “About an hour before your return to the real world, the vice president’s motorcade disappeared. We lost all contact. Secret Service followed the GPS tracking units in the vehicles. When they arrived, they found the VP missing and half of his guard dead.”

  “Half?”

  “They’d been shot … by rounds issued to the Secret Service.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Tears formed in the president’s eyes. “They were gunned down by men they’d served with for years.”

  Miller knew very little about the vice president, other than the fact that he was an older white man who seemed gentle and kind. But he’d clearly been living a double life.

  “Twenty-five members of Congress have disappeared. Over one hundred thousand men and women in the armed forces have gone AWOL. In some parts of the South, entire towns have vanished.”

  “They’re going to ground,” Miller said. He was up and pacing now. “How’s this possible?”

  “There are a lot of religious groups and cults preparing for the end of the world. It’s possible some of them have been fronts, allowing these neo-Nazis to prepare behind a veil of religious freedom. Hell, the Mormons have been building underground bunkers around the world for years. And either no one bothered to track their construction, or the information has been destroyed, because it’s like they no longer exist. But we know they’re there. Look, the point is, I’m not sure who I can trust anymore, but I know I can trust you. The reason for this conversation is twofold. The first is that I wanted to hear your story firsthand and unfiltered.”

  Miller gave a nod. Under the circumstances, his testimony would be unique and potentially beneficial to the ongoing investigation. If he had helpful information, it’s likely the testimony could be altered before it reached those in power, or even altered by those in power. Miller empathized with the president’s paranoia. Who could he trust? “That’s why I was under guard,” Miller realized and said aloud.

  Bensson confirmed this with a nod.

  “You know he looks very … German, right?”

  “I didn’t, but we can replace him if you’d like.”

  Miller smiled and shook his head. He couldn’t decide whether the fact that the president took his joke seriously was funny or depressing. “He could have killed me if he wanted to.”

  “I doubt that very much,” Bensson said. “I’ve seen your record.”

  “That was another life.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Miller didn’t like the sound of that, but before he could follow that line of thinking, Bensson looked at his watch and said, “I’m running out of time. Every move I make is being scrutinized. If I stay too long it might draw attention.”

  Miller caught the hint. Bensson wasn’t worried about himself. He was the president of the United States during the worst act of genocide in the history of the world. Only the president’s death could draw more attention to his office. Bensson was worried his presence would draw attention on Miller.

  The story took ten minutes to relay. He told Bensson about the news report he’d seen, the spray-painted symbol, and his encounter with the well-equipped but poorly trained gang. The president didn’t say a word until Miller relayed his encounter with the German sniper.

  “You’re sure he was German?”

  “Even carried a Karabiner 98k with a mounted scope.”

  “What’s a Karabiner?”

  “Standard weapon for the Germans in the World War. But sharpshooters used it with a scope.”

  “World War Two?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s an obsolete weapon. But the way he handled it … he came damn near close to shooting me dead through a windshield while I had the needle pegged. That’s a hard shot with modern sniper rifles, never mind an antique. For whatever reason, the Karabiner was his weapon of choice.” Miller met the president’s eyes. “You don’t think the Germans are part of this?”

  “God, I hope not.” Bensson stared at the floor. “But it’s safe to assume that our local neo-Nazis aren’t operating alone.”

  “Well, that’s pretty much the end of the story. You know how it ended. It’s not much, but I hope the Nazi angle gives the agencies something new to go on. They can find his body in the trees just after the off-ramp for exit fifty-seven. Maybe he’ll have some more intel.”

  “Good thinking,” Bensson said.

  Miller sensed the man had something more to say, but felt uncomfortable saying it. “The agencies are on this, right? CIA. FBI. Homeland.”

  “NCIS, too,” the president confirmed. “But—”

  Everything clicked into place as Miller’s subconscious finally found its voice. This meeting was never about getting the story straight from the horse’s mouth. It was about recruiting the horse. Miller stopped his pacing and turned toward Bensson. “But you don’t trust them.”

  “Can’t afford to.”

  “But—shit—you trust me.”

  “I do. You’ve seen combat. You’re an excellent investigator. You’re the one and only person alive who’s drawn blood on the other side of this thing.”

  “And you want me to what, chase down the bad guys?”

  “I want you to try.”

  Miller began pacing again. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  “No one does.”

  “You do realize that I’m in pain from head to toe, that I’ve got stitches in my arm.”

  “You’ve been through worse,” the president said. “I would give you the full support of my office. Money. Weapons. Transport. Anything you need to get the job done. Unofficially. Off the record.”

  “In case I shoot the wrong person, you mean?”

  The president ignored him. “I need a man I can trust.”

  Wounded soldiers in the field routinely requested to return to the front line. Sometimes out of loyalty to the men they fought beside. Sometimes out of a sense of duty. And sometimes because of baser desires, like vengeance. But the SEALs were different. Wounded men were distracted, slower, and more likely to make mistakes. Miller wanted to help, but the discipline and self-regulation he learned in the SEALs told him to rest. There had to be someone else. “Sir, you can trust me. But I’m in no shape to—”

  The president’s eyes filled with a rage few ever saw in him. He stood face-to-face with Miller. “We might walk out of this room and find red flakes falling from the sky! Millions are dead! Millions!” Bensson reached into his pocket and withdrew a five-by-seven manila envelope. He handed it to Miller without opening it. He just sat back down and waited.

  Miller opened the package and took out a stack of photos. The first was a satellite image. Green land and blue ocean could be seen at the fringe, but a big, dark red splotch filled the center of the image. Miller’s back tensed. “What am I looking at?”

  When the president didn’t answer, he flipped to the next image. The red filled the photo. Barely discernable skyscrap
ers stabbed up through the pink. The next image was closer still, focused on an eight-block radius. He recognized a landmark that was taller than anything else around it. “Tokyo Tower.” He looked at the president. “This is Tokyo.”

  “Next image,” Bensson said.

  Miller flipped to the next photo. Sun streaked down a long stretch of city street. It looked bumpy, but the long shadows weren’t cast by poor paving. They were bodies. Millions of bodies. Miami had been a horrible sight, but he could navigate through the city. Tokyo was carpeted with dead. Miller sat down, speechless.

  “These attacks were focused on the cities,” Bensson said. “Of that, there is no doubt. But they affected the surrounding suburbs as well, which in Tokyo makes the death toll closer to twenty million. Frankly, we got lucky in Miami. It could have been New York or Los Angeles. We also got lucky that there was a southerly wind in Miami that day. Had it shifted north, up the coast, there would have been millions more dead.”

  “The wind?”

  “We have no idea what kind of science is creating this effect, but once those red flakes appear in the lower atmosphere, they move with the wind, and a pocket of lethal air moves with them. On the northern edge of Miami, the wall of red flakes stayed consistent—on target—but to the south, it got dragged out to sea. That’s how it reached you.”

  Miller stared at the photos in his hands. The bodies were so thick that they overlapped each other in red-dust-covered heaps.

  “The clock is ticking,” Bensson said, “and no one knows how much time is left. But we know the enemy is risking exposure by heading underground. Whatever else is coming, is coming soon.”

  He’s right, Miller thought. But that didn’t change the fact that he needed to rest, at least for the night. “I’ll start tomorrow,” Miller said.

  Bensson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He took an iPhone from his pocket and handed it to Miller. “That’s a direct and secure line to me. I’m meeting with the remaining joint chiefs and a few generals I think I can trust. I want you there. Eight o’clock, sharp. I’ll have a team look for that dead German overnight. With luck, we’ll have a direction for you then. We’ll have our best and brightest working every angle of this thing, but since I have no idea if they can be trusted, you’re my point man on this.”

  “Copy that, sir. See you in the morning.” Miller took the phone and pocketed it before heading for the door.

  “Hey,” Bensson said, stopping Miller at the door. He tossed a small pony bottle to him.

  Miller caught it.

  “Fifteen minutes of air,” the president said.

  Miller nodded his thanks and left. Fifteen minutes of air didn’t sound like much to most people, but to Miller, fifteen extra minutes could change everything. It was a good gift. He just hoped he’d never have reason to use it.

  21

  “Wow,” Arwen said. “That’s … a lot.”

  Miller leaned forward in his chair. “I know.” After forcing Brodeur to wait outside Arwen’s room, he’d taken a seat next to the oxygen tent and laid out everything Bensson had asked him to do. He probably should have checked in with Fred Murdock, the executive assistant director of the NCIS and the closest thing Miller had to a confidant, but he felt Arwen deserved to know everything—she’d earned it—and Murdock wasn’t there. Hadn’t called, either.

  Her hand slid out from under the oxygen tent. She held an empty pudding cup. “All done.”

  He took the cup and placed it on the counter next to his, which he’d polished off in three big scoops.

  “So what’d you say?”

  “It’s not something you say no to.”

  She was silent for a moment, and then asked, “You’ll find me when you’re done?”

  The honest answer would have been, “If I’m still alive,” but Miller said, “You’ll still be here when I get back. Going to be in the hospital for a while.”

  “And if you don’t come back?”

  “That’s not going to happen,” he said. Miller felt guilty for saying it. She clearly knew the score, but he couldn’t let her see his fear.

  “You don’t have to lie,” she said. “It’s okay to be afraid.”

  Son of a bitch. The kid can read my mind. “I’m not afraid,” he insisted. It was a half-truth. Combat. Life-and-death situations. These things didn’t frighten him. But he was afraid for Arwen. He felt guilty for leaving the kid. Had promised he wouldn’t. If he didn’t come back … Hell, if he didn’t come back, it was likely she’d be dead along with the rest of the world.

  “I didn’t tell you how I got burned,” she said.

  “You don’t need to.” He didn’t want her to relive that memory.

  “I smelled the smoke. Did everything right. Stayed low. Checked the handles. Went to the sidewalk. This was before the red flakes, by the way. But the fire started in my brother’s room. He couldn’t get out.”

  Miller’s hand rose to his mouth. “You went back in.”

  “He was my brother. I’d have done anything to save him. I don’t remember the rest. My father pulled me out. The red snow started the next morning. I didn’t see my parents after that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “The last thing my father said to me…” Arwen sniffed. Miller couldn’t see her, but knew she was crying. “He said he was proud of me. And I know Sam is, too. Because I tried.”

  Miller rolled his neck and looked out the window. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a pink sunset that filled him with dread.

  “You’re like Frodo,” she said. “You’ve been given a quest. To save us all. You need a fellowship, of course.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  A silent beat passed between them.

  “Before you go,” she said, “take a shower. I can smell you even under here. The bad guys will smell you a mile away.”

  Miller smiled. “I don’t live far from here. Going to take a shower, get some shut-eye, and then I’m off to the White House in the morning. And then … who knows.”

  “’Kay.”

  Miller stood and felt a wave of dizziness pass through him. He held on to the chair as his vision turned black for a moment. A single night’s rest wasn’t going to be enough. His body was still weak, and even a momentary blackout could mean the difference between life and death. I’ll rest on the move, he told himself, stepping to the door.

  “I will come back,” he said from the door. The words were as much for him as for her.

  “Linc,” she said as his hand took hold of the doorknob. “Frodo was afraid, too. And he was a hobbit. Just a little guy. And he made it back.”

  “Copy that,” he said, feeling stupid for using military lingo.

  But when Arwen replied with a quick, “Over and out,” he smiled. Had she been his child he’d see her as a chip off the old block. The kid had guts, nerves, and the spirit of a fighter. It kept her alive. Kept them both alive.

  Miller opened the door and stepped into the hall, where he was greeted by the ever-vigilant Brodeur.

  “I’m leaving,” Miller said.

  Brodeur frowned. “You said that like I’m not coming.”

  Miller set a quick pace toward the elevator despite the pain in his legs. “That’s because you’re not.” To clear his head and rest, really rest, Miller needed to be alone. He had a lot to process and only one night to do it in.

  “Going home, then?”

  After stopping in front of the elevator doors, Miller hit the Down button and nodded. No sense in lying about where he was headed. “Cleaning up, getting some shut-eye, and meeting POTUS for a morning brunch.”

  “So that wasn’t just a pat-on-the-back meeting?” Brodeur said.

  “You sound surprised.” The elevator failed to meet Miller’s internal timetable. He found the door for the stairs and made for the stairwell. Brodeur shadowed him. Taking the stairs hurt far worse than walking, but Miller tried not to show it.

  Brodeur noted Miller’s slight l
imp. “You’re not exactly battle ready.”

  “He was persuasive,” Miller said.

  “Dang, man,” Brodeur said, his Southern twang coming through more clearly when unmasked by surprise. “What does he want you to do?”

  Miller ignored the question, reached the ground floor, and exited the stairwell. He entered the lobby and headed for the reception desk. He tried to offer the portly man behind the counter a smile, but felt too uncomfortable to manage much more than an awkward grin that looked more like a grimace. “Can you call a cab for me?”

  “Uh, sure,” the man said, looking at him with wide eyes.

  Miller realized the man recognized him. Great, he thought. He turned away from the desk and found Brodeur there, arms crossed, and a smile on his face.

  “How are you going to pay for that?”

  A quick pat of his pockets reminded him he didn’t have a wallet. “Shit.”

  “Going to have to break into your apartment, too, unless you have a spare.” When Miller said nothing, Brodeur flashed his ID and said, “I can make sure you don’t get arrested for breaking and entering.”

  With a shake of his head, Miller turned to the man behind the desk. The man turned away quickly, looking at random papers on his desk in an attempt to hide his eavesdropping.

  “Cancel the cab,” Miller said.

  The man’s neck jiggled when he nodded. “Are you really him?”

  Miller just turned away and headed for the door. Brodeur followed.

  “I take that back about you being arrested,” Brodeur said. “Everyone knows who you are, now. You’re a celebrity.”

  Miller exited through the large glass doors at the front of the hospital. He stopped on the sidewalk as a breeze carried a waft of fresh air over his body. He breathed deep, intoxicated by the smell, by the feel of it in his lungs. He would never take it for granted again.

  When Brodeur stopped next to him, Miller said, “A celebrity is someone people wish they were. No one wants to be me. Trust me. Where’s your car?”