Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

He distracted her with a question. “How did you know she would recognize me? Were you awake when they brought us in?”

“They had the TV on for me. Let me watch some cartoons. But the news came on after. Mostly it talked about Miami. And Tokyo. And a new attack in someplace called Tel Aviv. They said that people there knew what to do, though. Most of them got away.” Arwen shifted, getting more comfortable. “Anyway, after that they talked about us. Said our names. Showed your picture a lot. Said what they knew about us, which was mostly about you. We’re famous.”

Miller wasn’t sure how to reply. Arwen’s face was a mix of emotions. She enjoyed the idea of being famous, but recognized that it was fame for all the wrong reasons.

Before he could speak, a quick knock on the door interrupted.

“Miller.”

It was Brodeur.

“Can it wait?” Miller said.

“Wish it could.”

Miller wanted to complain, but stowed it. They were on the same team and Brodeur was just doing his job.

Brodeur sensed his apprehension and added, “Someone’s here to see you.”

Miller raised an eyebrow. “Someone?”

“POTUS.”

Miller’s voice caught in his throat.

POTUS.

Arwen saw the change in Miller’s body language. “Who’s POTUS?”

“Someone you don’t keep waiting,” he said, sliding out from the tent.

“But who’s POTUS ?”

“Know what an acronym is?”

“I think so.”

“Each letter of POTUS stands for a word.”

“Like scuba? Self-contained underwater whatever.”

“Exactly,” he said as he closed the tent behind him. “You think on it. Tell me who it is when I get back.”

“’Kay.”

Miller stepped into the hallway, wondering why the president of the United States had come to see him at the hospital. Sure, he was one of two survivors to escape Miami, but Hell had come to Earth. If the president was here to pin a medal, or worse, use the meeting as a PR opportunity, then Miller would tell him to go fuck himself. He saw an army of Secret Service agents in the hallway ahead and made a mental note to use more polite terms when he told POTUS to go fuck himself.

When the waiting room door opened and Miller was ushered into the room, he saw the president’s face and knew, without a doubt, that there would be no medals pinned, and no PR spun. The man looked like he’d gone a few rounds with the Grim Reaper, and the way he sat in the chair said that the next bell could ring at any second.

Miller had never met President Arnold Bensson, but had seen the man on TV enough to recognize him as easily as family. He was a handsome African-American man with a manicured smile and casual and relaxed appearance. He spent a lot of time giving interviews to unusual media sources, including a lot of comedy shows. He couldn’t play the sax like Clinton, but he knew how to work a crowd. But what Miller liked most about the president was that when it came down to the nitty-gritty business of armed combat and homeland defense, Bensson never backed down from the tough calls. And he’d made a few, even when they were unpopular.

Now, he looked defeated.

Or at least on the ropes.

“Mr. President,” Miller said as he instinctively stiffened his posture.

Bensson stood and shook his hand. “You did good work out there, Miller.”

Miller stopped pumping his hand. “Hope that’s not what this is about.”

A small grin appeared on Bensson’s face. “I thought I’d like you.” He returned to his maroon-cushioned chair and leaned his head against the wall.

Miller sat across from Bensson and saw him as just another man—tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, looking desperate for a beer. “If you don’t mind, sir, you pulled me away from a pudding date.”

“She’s a lucky girl.”

“Hardly,” Miller said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “Her parents, her brother, and every other member of her family are dead. She’s been shot at, nearly asphyxiated on multiple occasions, and seen enough dead bodies to keep her in therapy for the rest of her life.”

The president nodded. “Like I said. Lucky. It’s a rare person that can face those kinds of odds and come out alive. You’re that person. Without you, she’d—well, you know how things would have turned out.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re here to pat me on the back.”

“Not at all.” Bensson leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m here because I trust you.”

“Trust me? We’ve only just met.”

Bensson nodded. “There are no microphones in this room. No cameras or recording devices. It’s just us. Everything said will be between us. I had a ten-minute argument with the small army of Secret Service agents watching my back now. And they won’t come in until we open the door.”

That didn’t sound very smart to Miller. “How do you know I’m not a threat?”

Bensson gave a sheepish grin. “If you wanted me to suffer, you’d let me live anyway. Death would be the easy way out of this mess.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you trust me. Or why you need someone you trust.”

“I trust you because you survived.”

“I got news for you. There are other survivors in Miami. And they’re far from trustworthy.”

With a slight nod, the president said, “We have satellite images of gangs roaming Miami. And we all saw the symbol on the news.”

“They’ve been tagging it all around the city, too.”

Bensson shook his head. “ Nazis. It’s just too much.”

The president seemed to be fading into angry distraction. Miller tried to pull him back to the conversation. “You were telling me why you trusted me.”

Bensson looked up, his eyes focusing on Miller. “Mostly it’s because of the girl.” He took a photo out of his pocket and showed it to Miller. The image showed Miller on the ground. Arwen lay beneath him. This was the moment of their rescue. Of their near death. “You nearly died trying to save her. These SecondWorld bastards have so little regard for life that I can’t see any one of them trying so desperately to save hers.”

“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.”