Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

“Radio,” Huber said.

Miller realized he had just one hope. “Lincoln Miller, you know the name?”

Huber thought for just a moment. “The survivor from Miami, yes, but—”

“ I am Lincoln Miller.”

Huber looked at him like he’d just claimed to be Hitler himself.

“I’m going to reach into my pocket,” Miller said. “For some ID.”

“Slowly,” Huber said, keeping his aim tight on Miller’s chest.

Miller pulled out the iPhone and flicked it on.

“That’s not a wallet,” Huber noted.

“My wallet is under fifty feet of water off of Key Largo buried beneath a blue whale,” Miller said as he opened the Web browser, opened a news network Web site, and watched the new headlines rotate. “Kind of hard to reach right now.” When a photo of his face appeared in the rotation, he tapped the article to expand it and held it up for Huber to see.

Huber’s face shifted through a variety of expressions. The article clearly showed Miller’s face, name, and identified him as the man who’d survived the attack on Miami and saved a little girl, but didn’t explain how Miller had gotten to New Hampshire, or why he stood in Huber’s living room.

“I’m Special Agent Lincoln Miller with the NCIS.”

Huber gave a small nod. “That’s what it says under your photo, but—”

“I’m here at the behest of the president of the United States,” Miller said.

That got Huber’s attention. “Figured it out then, have you?” Huber motioned to Adler with the shotgun. “And you? Sie sind Deutsche. ”

Adler turned around and eyed the shotgun pointed at her gut. “Elizabeth Adler. I’m a German liaison for Interpol.”

Huber’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, searching their faces for some sign of deception. Finding none, he lowered the shotgun.

Miller noticed the old man’s free hand shaking. A trickle of sweat rolled down the man’s face. Huber was terrified. “You have a beautiful home,” Miller said, trying to put the man at ease. If he had a heart attack, he wouldn’t be any use to anyone.

“It is my sanctuary,” Huber said, returning to his seat.

A great stone fireplace stood to Miller’s right, its chimney rising up through the center of the cabin. He stepped closer to the mantel lined with framed photos. Older pictures showed Huber with a woman, presumably his wife, and two young girls—daughters. Newer pictures showed an aged Huber with two older women—the daughters grown up—and a line of what had to be grandkids. “When did your wife pass?”

Huber sniffed. “Fifteen years ago. Cancer ate her alive.”

“Sorry,” Miller said.

Huber shrugged. “You’re not here to talk about my family and I would prefer you had nothing to do with them. I am no longer burdened by the hatred of my youth. And up until this moment, I thought myself free of that past. But it seems history is repeating itself once again.” He turned to Adler. “The evil born in our homeland has raised itself from the ashes once again.”

“Millions are dead,” Adler said.

“Sixty million lives were taken in the Second World War,” Huber said. “What you have seen is just the beginning.”

Miller stepped toward Huber. “The beginning?”

“Tests.”

“For what?”

Huber leaned forward and pushed his fingers together. “Have you determined where the iron particles came from?”

Miller remembered the vague news report he’d seen in Miami. “I heard something about a cloud of iron that the solar system passed through.”

Huber shook his head at the crude explanation. “The iron is extraterrestrial in origin—”

“Aliens?” Adler asked.

Huber laughed and waved a dismissive hand at her. “Nothing so foolish. There is a vast cloud of finely divided particles on the fringe of our solar system. It is typically held at bay in the heliopause by the sun’s solar wind.”

“Heliopause?” Miller asked.

“The heliopause is the region of space where the sun’s ions meet the galaxy’s. There are particles in this region of space, about one hundred and ten astronomical units from the sun—an astronomical unit is the distance between the Earth and the sun, nearly ninety-three million miles. During times of low sunspot activity, which occurs roughly every ten years, some of these particles slip through into the solar system. Many reach Earth and burn up harmlessly in the thermosphere. A period of extremely low sunspot activity occurred in 1933. Combined with an infrequent alignment of the planets, particularly the gas giants, a large cloud of iron particles entered the solar system and over the past seventy years have been journeying toward Earth.”

“And it reached us a few days ago?” Adler asked.

“Oh, no,” Huber said. “Those were small clouds that arrived in advance and allowed for the tests to be conducted.”

“How do you know all this?” Miller asked.

“Because,” Huber said, meeting Miller’s skeptical gaze. “I was there when Wernher von Braun calculated its arrival.” The old man craned his head toward Adler. “Of course, he wasn’t absolutely sure until your grandmother confirmed the accuracy of his math.”

Adler’s mouth hung open for a moment. “You knew my grandmother?”

“I met her twice,” Huber said with a nod. “I was a youth at the time, working in von Braun’s laboratory and living in his loft. She was a stunning woman. Taller, and fairer to look at than you, I’m afraid, but you share her eyes. She was instrumental in the completion of Lantern Bearer. Was she how you found me? Is she still alive?”

“She kept a journal,” Miller said. “Your name was in it, among others.”

Huber pinched his lips together, moving them side to side. “We always suspected her loyalties were not fully aligned with those of the Reich, but we never told the Obergruppenführer about our suspicions.”

“Emil Mazuw?” Miller asked.

“The same. A ruthless man and stalwart believer in the superiority of the Aryan race. He would have had her shot.”

“Why?” Adler asked. “Why didn’t you turn her in?”

“Aside from the fact that her brilliance made our advances possible?” Huber settled back into his chair. “Tell me, what do you know of your grandfather?”

“My grandfather? My grandmother said he was kind and gentle.”

“He was.”

“And he died during the war. Allied bombs.”

Huber shook his head. “I’m sorry to say, this is not true. Your grandfather died in 1979, just a few years after you were born, I suspect. He was ninety years old.”

Adler sat down in the chair across from Huber, her hand to her mouth.

“He loved your grandmother very much and forbade the rest of us from turning her in. He was a dedicated Nazi, a valued colleague, and we trusted his judgment. And while your grandmother certainly helped with the success of several Nazi projects, many of them were born from the mind of your grandfather. In fact, without your family’s involvement, the world wouldn’t now be in danger.”

To say that these revelations were stunning was an understatement. Adler had gone pale and had a lot to process. She felt guilty because of her grandmother’s association with Project Lantern Bearer, but now her grandfather was involved as well, and on a much more grand scale. Her grandparents’ hands were stained with the blood of millions. As horrifying as this was, Miller needed to keep the conversation on track. “What can you tell us about the project?”

Huber shrugged. “Everything I remember. But it won’t help and I’m sure a lot has changed since we worked on the prototype.”

“What do you mean, changed?”