Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

Dread consumed him.

He ran, pursued by something unseen.

Pink sludge clung to his legs, slowing his flight.

“Lincoln,” a voice said.

He turned toward it. A short figure stood in front of him, covered in pink. Blood oozed from its chest in the shape of a swastika.

He looked for a weapon and snapped the antenna off of a car that looked just like the station wagon his parents had when he was a kid. He held the antenna like a sword and stabbed the figure twice.

The pink melted away. For a moment, he saw Arwen’s face beneath the pink, but then she melted, too, saying, “Can you hear me?”

“No!” he screamed, reaching for her. The girl’s hand turned to scalding hot liquid in his hand. He lurched back, tripped, and fell—

Miller gasped as he awoke with a spasm. He’d fallen. He swore he’d fallen. It felt so real. But he was still in the F/A-18, strapped in and immobilized, miles above the Earth.

“You okay?” the pilot asked, clearly concerned that his passenger might be mentally unstable or having some kind of seizure.

“Bad dream,” Miller replied. “I’m fine.” But he didn’t feel fine. His subconscious was clearly worried about Arwen, and that was bad enough, but there were a billion innocent kids just like her.

Flashes of the dream repeated as exhaustion moved through his body like a force. The dream, and the emotions it triggered, began to fade. His internal clock told him he’d slept for just ten minutes, and as he closed his eyes again, he said, “Wake me when we’re within radio range.”

He felt his consciousness fading quickly, but the pilot’s reply slapped him awake. “We’re there now, sir.”

The fog of sleep rolled away from Miller as a tornado of questions flooded his mind. “Have you tried reaching them?”

“Twice. No response.”

“ETA?”

“Twelve minutes, but I don’t think they’re hostile, sir.”

“Why?” Miller asked.

“Because we’re in missile range and they’re not—”

A loud beeping filled the cabin.

“Shit,” the pilot said. “Scratch that. They’re locked.”

“Can we make it to land?” Miller asked.

“They’re between us and the land,” the pilot said.

Then a voice came over the radio. “To, uh, the four incoming craft. Please state your reason for being here, or we will fire.”

Not only did the speaker lack confidence, but he also had very little experience when it came to bluffing. Miller had that in spades. He picked up the transmitter, depressed the Speak button, and said, “USS George Washington, this is Lieutenant Lincoln Miller, stand down now or we will attack.”

Silence.

Miller filled his voice with fire and brimstone and said, “We are here under order of the president of the United States of America. Stand down now, or we will launch a tactical nuclear strike on your position in three…”

It was a ridiculous bluff, but the voice on the other end sounded like it belonged to a kid.

“Two… one…”

“Okay, okay!” the voice shouted over the radio. “What do you want?”

“First, I’d like to know who I’m speaking to.”

“Uh, CS James Hammaker, sir.”

CS? Miller had to think for a moment to recall the rank. Culinary services! “You’re a chef!”

“I’m rated E2, so I mostly wash dishes, sir.”

“What are you, twenty?”

“Eighteen.”

Miller could see the pilot in the front seat shaking his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing either. “Hammaker, why am I speaking to you?”

“Um, I think it would be better if you spoke to Ensign Partin in person, sir. He’s on the flight deck now.”

“Why Ensign Partin?” Miller asked, suspecting the answer, but hoping it wasn’t true.

“Because, he’s the highest-ranking officer left alive. Sir.”

Miller felt the angle of the F/A-18 change and knew they were already on approach. They’d be standing on the gigantic aircraft carrier deck in just a few minutes, so he decided not to press the kid. There was only one explanation for the comm being operated by a CS and an ensign being in charge of a skyscraper-sized war machine.

Mutiny.

The landing was textbook smooth. The deck crews operated expertly, guiding each fighter jet down, and taxiing them out of the way so the subsequent jet could land. Miller stepped onto the deck before the last of the four planes taxied into position. The flight suit he wore did little to stop the arctic cold. He took a breath through his nose and felt the sting of freezing flesh. He wrapped his arms around his chest and looked for the welcoming committee.

Three men approached him, one dressed in purple, one in red, and one in white. They all wore protective headgear, wind visors, and bright-colored vests that identified their deck crew job. This would be a very different greeting than he’d received on the George H.W. Bush, mainly because as a lieutenant, a rank he received shortly before retiring from the navy, he was the highest-ranking officer on the ship.

The three men gave casual salutes as they neared. Miller noticed all three were armed with sidearms—certainly not standard issue for deck crews. The man in the middle, dressed in white, had dried blood on the front of his shirt.

“That your blood?” Miller asked.

The man looked down. “No, sir. I’m not sure whose it is.” He lifted his wind visor, revealing dark brown eyes. “I’ve killed a lot of men.”

Miller looked over the deck. A rainbow of men and women stood motionless, watching the conversation play out. “Which one of you is Ensign Partin?”

The man with blood on his white vest gave a nod. “I am. This is my ship now.”

Miller felt a challenge in the man’s words. “I outrank you, Ensign. While I’m on this ship, I’m the commanding officer.” Miller had no scruples about leaving out the fact that he was actually Lieutenant Lincoln Miller, Retired. He was here under presidential orders and had already bossed around a commander.

“You’ll find your rank doesn’t hold much weight around here right now,” the man said.

Miller eyed the deck crew again. All of them were armed. Some with handguns, others with assault rifles. “We’re on the same side, Ensign.”

“You sure about that?”

Miller nodded to the man in purple, who was black. “Well, since he’s still breathing, yeah, I think it’s safe to say that you’re not Nazis. And if we were the bad guys, why would we land on a ship full of the enemy. We’re not here for you, Ensign, we’re here to find, and kill, them. ”

The three men relaxed a little.

“Care to tell me what happened here?” Miller asked.

“Mind if we go inside?” Partin asked, rubbing his arms.

Miller would have preferred rapid answers to his questions, but the look in Partin’s eyes said he’d seen and done things that would mark him for life. He nodded and waved for Adler, Vesely, Brodeur, and the four pilots, who had been unloading gear, to follow them inside. On the way to the bridge stairs Miller saw more than one dark red stain and the occasional bullet casing. By the time they reached the warmth of the bridge he’d counted twenty-two spots where he believed someone had lost their life.

A war had been fought on this ship.

Goose bumps covered Miller’s body as he stepped out of the cold and onto the bridge of the USS George Washington . He saw a young man sitting at the comm station looking nervous and insecure. “Hammaker?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” the man said, standing to attention.

“For future reference,” Miller said, “F/A-18s don’t carry tactical nukes.”