Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

“Oh my God. My grandmother.”

Dr. Elizabeth Adler. University of Königsberg. Mathematician, unknown specialty.

Miller turned the page. Seeing her grandmother’s name listed among those Vesely had determined to be working on a project that might now be threatening all of humanity clearly weighed heavily on her, but easing her conscience could wait. He was more interested in what the Bell supposedly did and where they would be meeting Vesely.

An image on the next page showed a drawing of a bell-shaped object that was clearly not a bell, primarily because the bottom was not open. A block of text described the interior of the bell as two metallic cylinders that rotated in opposite directions. The cylinders were covered with mercury and attached to a hollowed-out core that held a purple liquid theorized to be composed of a thorium-beryllium-mercury compound designated Xerum-525.

Miller shook his head. It sounded like the same conspiracy theory bullshit that surrounded almost everything the military developed. He reminded himself that Vesely’s name sat just beneath his own on the hit list for a reason, and jumped back into the text.

Liquid nitrogen cooled the interior of the device, which stood at nine feet tall, five feet wide at its middle, and eight feet wide at its base. Vesely theorized that something called zero point energy, developed by Dr. Kurt Debus, provided over one million volts of current and powered the device. A quick peek ahead confirmed that an entire chapter had been dedicated to the subject. But Miller didn’t really care how the device was powered. He skimmed ahead until he came to a section that revealed the device’s effect on the human body.

He didn’t like what he read.

Just looking at the Bell from a distance required wearing special red goggles. A little closer and you’d enter the outer rim of some kind of energy field produced by the powered device. Just a few seconds of exposure would leave subjects with red, irritated skin resembling a sunburn. Closer still, the test subjects died due to radiation exposure. They died slowly and in agony. But the fates of those closest to the Bell seemed cruelest of all. The test subjects’ bodies turned to jelly from the inside out. The elements composing muscle, fat, blood, and other tissues separated. Bodies slid apart, as though melted.

The image reminded him of Indiana Jones, tied to a stake, at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, while the Germans around him melted away. Perhaps Spielberg had heard of the Bell and used the scene as a kind of catharsis.

“That is sick,” Adler said.

“Yeah, but it’s not very helpful,” Miller replied. “There’s nothing here about red flakes or iron clouds in space. It’s just as outlandish. It doesn’t match up with what Huber told us.”

“Turn the page,” she said. “One forty-two is next.”

A black-and-white photo of a concrete structure resembling Stonehenge sat at the top of page 142. Beneath it was a drawing of the same henge, that diagrammed a concrete basin, tunnels for cabling, electrical ports, and several metal rings where chains may have once been attached.

“That’s where they tested it?”

“Looks that way,” Miller said. “But I don’t see a location.”

“There it is,” she said, pointing to the next page. “Ludwigsdorf, Germany.”

Miller studied the images, hoping to glean more information from them. The information in this book, if accurate, was interesting to say the least. But it didn’t reveal anything that might help them track down modern-day Nazis. Miller was convinced that Vesely had yet to publish the information that posed a threat to their enemies. If he had, they would have no reason to kill him. But he’d been attacked and that meant he knew something important; something worth traveling halfway around the world to discover. Miller looked at Adler, whose brows were furrowed. “What is it?”

“There is no Ludwigsdorf in Germany,” she said. “Not anymore. After World War Two, the village was given to Poland. I think it’s named Ludwikowice Kłodzkie now. I’ve driven through a few times. A beautiful place.”

Miller closed the book. “Looks like we’re going to Poland.”

“ Scheiße, that is Air Force One,” Adler said when she saw the large blue and white Boeing VC-25, which was a highly modified 747, taxi toward them. It turned parallel to them and stopped, revealing the big UNITED STATES OF AMERICA painted on the side.

Miller stood next to her on the tarmac, a grin on his face. The president had come through nicely. “Actually, it’s technically not Air Force One right now because the president isn’t on board. ‘Air Force One’ is the designation given to any military airplane carrying the president, whether it’s this giant or the Red Baron’s biwing. If he’s on a civilian plane, it’s ‘Executive One.’”

“If the president’s not on board then what—”

A strange-looking truck with a staircase on top of it pulled up to the plane. The “air-stair” vehicle stopped and raised its staircase up to the door, which opened a moment later. A tall, blond-haired man wearing a suit coat that screamed “FBI” gave a wave in their direction. Miller waved back.

Adler craned her head toward him. “ This is our ride?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Miller headed for the stairs. It felt strange, boarding a plane without a carry-on, never mind without the weapons he had gathered. He felt naked out on the tarmac. But better gear and weapons were waiting for him on board. “It works out well, actually. When I told Bensson about the five-day deadline he realized it was time to get out of Dodge and find an underground shelter. But he also knew the enemy might be gunning for him. So they deployed all of the presidential aircraft and ground vehicles, hoping to confuse anyone that might want him dead.”

“So should we just paint a big target on the side?”

Miller laughed and motioned to the plane. “These are the safest aircraft in the world. We’ll be perfectly safe.” Twin rumbles announced the presence of their guards. He pointed at the two F-22 Raptor fighter jets circling the airfield. “And we have two of the deadliest watchdogs in the world escorting us across the Atlantic. There is no faster or safer way to get us to Poland in under twenty-four hours. I promise.”

“I can’t believe you left me, you son of a bitch!” Brodeur said when he reached the bottom of the air-stairs. He sounded serious, but wore a smile on his face and extended his hand. “I ought to kill you where you stand.”

Miller shook his hand. “Quit whining. You’re fine.” He slapped Brodeur’s shoulder and laughed when the man cringed.

“By the way, thanks for getting me back on duty,” Brodeur quipped. “I hate resting after being shot. Twice .”

“You see?” Miller said to Adler. “This is why I joined the NCIS instead of the FBI. They’re all a bunch of pussies.”

“Ugh,” Adler said, then pushed past the pair and started up the stairs. “Please tell me I do not have to sit with you two.”

“Other than the two pilots, we have the whole bird to ourselves,” Brodeur said. “You can sleep in the president’s bed if you fancy.”

Miller hopped onto the steps with a chuckle. “C’mon, Fancy Nancy. Let’s get a move on.”

Five hours later, the 747 cruised over the North Sea, just south of England, at thirty thousand feet. At seven hundred miles per hour, it was one of the fastest passenger jets in the world. They had completed the majority of the nearly four-thousand-mile flight in just five hours—one to go. They would soon land at the Strachowice Airport in Poland and take a car to Ludwikowice Kłodzkie, where they would have to track down the strange concrete henge. Total time since hanging up the phone with Vesely—twelve to fourteen hours, maybe a little longer if the henge’s location wasn’t well known by locals. Not bad for a last-minute, round-the-world meeting. But Vesely had not given a time. They might miss the man, or end up waiting ten hours for him, especially if he was on the run. Of course, the wait would be much longer if he’d been killed.