Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

“Shit,” Bensson said. “We’ve had reports of friendly fire from most of the deployed armed forces, but it’s hard to believe an entire battle group could be compromised. Though, at this point, anything is possible. I have a growing list of generals and admirals I believe to be trustworthy. They are in the process of reestablishing a chain of command while doing what they can to root out this cancer infecting our country. I’ll do my best to make sure your pilots, and escorts, don’t try to kill you.”

“Appreciate that,” Miller said.

“I’ll call with details as soon as I have them.”

“One more thing, Mr. President,” Miller said.

“What is it?”

“Can you track this phone?”

“If I needed to, I could; even if you’re out of cell range, I could trace the GPS. But no one else can track it if that’s what you’re—”

“Not at all,” Miller said. “If you haven’t heard from me, and red flakes start falling from the sky, track my phone’s location and drop a nuke on it.”

“Are you serious?”

“If you don’t hear from me, it means I’m dead and you are out of options.”

“Okay… okay, I’ll see to it.”

Miller hung up a moment later and turned to find three sets of wide eyes on him.

“Let me get this straight,” Brodeur said. “We’re going to Antarctica because of intel you got from him —” He motioned to Vesely. “—and you’ve just turned your cell phone into a targeting device for a nuclear missile.”

Miller glanced back. “That a problem?”

“Course not,” Brodeur said. “Be a helluva way to die.”

“I’ve got fifteen men in the brig. The world is on the brink of war. And you want to use four F/A-18 Hornets and their pilots as glorified taxis!” Commander Aaron Brown had his arms crossed over his khaki shirt and wore a deep scowl on his face that, for the most part, hid beneath a prodigious gray mustache. He hadn’t liked receiving the orders to send four jets to Antarctica, but he absolutely loathed the idea when he got a look at whom his precious jets would be ferrying to the underbelly of the world.

After flying from Poland to France, Miller, Adler, Vesely, and Brodeur had boarded a Blackhawk helicopter and flown out over the Mediterranean where they rendezvoused with the USS George H.W. Bush, a massive Nimitz-class aircraft carrier. When the chopper had landed and Vesely got out, clutching his cowboy hat to his head, Brown’s face had turned two shades redder.

Brodeur had followed wearing a bloodstained white shirt—the red tie long since removed. Adler went next, clutching her purse containing her grandmother’s journal. Miller brought up the rear, and since he was the only one of the bunch who looked like he had any business in a war, Brown directed his comments and anger toward him.

“They told me you were Navy SEALs!” Brown shouted. “There’s no way I’m giving you four of my birds.”

“I am a SEAL,” Miller said, trying to keep his cool. He’d been attacked enough by the enemy. He had little patience left, even for a navy commander. “And we need those planes. Now.”

The commander gave Miller a once-over. He shook his head in disgust. “Bullshit.” He turned away. “I’ll be damned before letting a couple clowns take my—”

Miller caught the commander’s arm and spun him around. It was a move he would never have considered while enlisted, but he was a civilian now, and had the backing of the U.S. president.

The two men accompanying the commander tensed and moved their hands to their sidearms. Vesely, who had kept his .38s tucked into his pants, once again proved he was the fastest draw in town. He leveled the weapons at the two sailors and shook his head.

“What the hell is this?” Brown asked.

Miller took out his phone, initiated a video call, and waited for the other end to pick up. “I told you he would need convincing,” he said when the call was answered. “Here he is.” He handed the phone to Brown.

The man’s beet-red face went white when he saw the president’s face staring back at him. His scowl flattened out. His deeply furrowed eyebrows rose. He turned away and walked a few steps so the group couldn’t hear what Bensson was saying, but they could hear Brown’s quick replies. “Yes, sir. I understand. But— Yes, sir. I will. I will.” The call was ended from the other end. He turned to face Miller again and handed the phone back.

“Stand down,” Brown said to the sailors, whose hands were still perched over their weapons. They complied and Vesely did as well. “Take off the hat and glasses,” Brown said to Miller.

He did.

“Why are you here?” Brown asked.

“Long story,” Miller said. “If we both live past the next few days, I’d love to tell you all about it, but right now, I need four planes.”

The commander nodded and sent the two sailors away with a “Do it.” Then he turned back to Miller. “You’ll need to rendezvous with refueling planes three times, and that’s already been arranged. The flight will take roughly six hours at top speed.”

Miller could hear the “but” coming, and added, “ But …”

“But we haven’t been able to reach the USS George Washington. She’s been stationed there, running cold-weather drills, for some time. But she’s not replying to us, or anyone else. We know she’s still there. You can’t hide a ship like that short of sinking it, but either no one is home, or they’ve got a mutiny on their hands. I caught thirty-two traitors trying to sabotage my ship. It’s possible the ship is no longer under U.S. control.”

“Guess we’ll find out in six hours,” Miller said.

“If they don’t welcome you with open arms, you’ll be too low on gas to make it back, and there are no other places to land.”

“We will eject over target area,” Vesely said.

Miller couldn’t help but smile. He appreciated the man’s spirit, and he’d just taken the words out of his mouth.

“You do know it’s winter in Antarctica? It’s going to be below freezing, windy as hell, and dark for most hours of the day. The odds are against you surviving.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Brodeur said.

“The odds against you surviving are one hundred percent if we don’t go,” Miller said. “That’s not a threat. It’s a guarantee. The entire world is going to look like Miami in three days.”

“Then why aren’t we flying a battalion down there?” Brown asked.

“I’d rather fight with three people I trust,” Miller said, motioning to the others, “than an army that’s already tried to stab me in the back on more than one occasion.”

Brown stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. “Good luck, then.”

They were in the air twenty minutes later, speeding around the globe at Mach 1.8. The four F/A-18 Hornets flew high and fast, and carried no ordnance, to stretch fuel as far as possible. Each fighter jet carried one passenger and one pilot, and after Miller requested his unlikely band of heroes use the flight to catch up on some sleep, conversation between the planes had stopped. They all knew the next few steps in the master plan were up in the air. And speculating on what they might find in Antarctica, or worrying about the welcome they might receive on the George Washington, served no worthy purpose. So he’d ordered them to sleep.

He quickly fell into a deep REM sleep, and dreamed of Miami.

Pink corpses littered the streets.

Rainbow swirls of dust fell from the sky and clung to the buildings, like children’s glitter.

He could hear engines roaring in the distance, mixed with racial slurs.