Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

“Why are you a cook?” Brodeur asked.

Hammaker shrugged. “Never told the recruiter. Joined to pay for school and didn’t want to risk getting shot down. Figured the galley of an aircraft carrier was a safe place to be. Didn’t turn out that way, though.”

“Well, it’s about to get worse,” Miller said. “You’re hired.” He turned to Brodeur. “He’s all we’ve got. Unless you know how to fly a helicopter.”

He didn’t.

“How long will it take to prep a chopper?” Miller asked Partin.

“I can have you in the air in ten minutes.”

“Do it.”

Partin left. Hammaker followed him.

“Suit up,” Miller said to Adler, Vesely, and Brodeur.

Adler opened the duffel bags containing white snow gear and an assortment of weapons they’d commandeered from the USS George H.W. Bush . The four of them stripped down and donned their winter gear, perhaps the first people in the history of the modern navy to change clothes on the bridge of an aircraft carrier.

Vesely grinned as he pulled up his white thermal pants. “We are like the Allies,” he said. “People from around the world, joining forces. The new Allies. No?”

Miller shook his head with a grin, which felt completely inappropriate, considering what they were up against and what had happened on this ship. But the man was right. They were a ragtag group of allies going up against a technologically advanced Nazi force with the world hanging in the balance. The difference was, there were only four of them—five if you included the kid—and he had no doubt this flight would take them into the heart of the enemy’s preparations.

He could be dead within the hour.

He looked at his watch, still set for eastern time.

The whole world could be dead in sixty.

“You all right?” Miller said into his headset microphone. He sat in the helicopter’s copilot seat, across from Hammaker. The large CH-53 Sea Stallion transport helicopter had lurched hard to the left as they descended over mainland Antarctica.

Hammaker gave his nose a twitch, like it itched, but refused to take his hands off the controls. “Sorry about that. Felt like we flew into a wall of wind.”

“Katabatic winds,” Vesely said from his seat in the back of the helicopter. “Cold air from the mountains is denser and pulled toward the coast by gravity.”

The chopper could hold up to twenty soldiers and equipment. Right now the only passengers it held were Vesely, Adler, and Brodeur. Ensign Partin had offered more men, but Miller still had trust issues. Though the men and women of the George Washington were true patriots, there was no way to know if any of the enemy still lurked among them. And seeing as how most of them were deck crew, engineers, galley staff, and cleaning crews, they’d be more likely to shoot each other than the enemy. They might be good with kitchen knives and broom handles, but Miller’s four-person team now carried MP4 assault rifles, 9mm sidearms, and had enough ammunition to stage a mutiny of their own.

“Whatever it is,” Hammaker said, “I’ve got it under control.”

Miller noticed that Hammaker’s lack of confidence had disappeared when he sat down behind the helicopter’s controls. The kid’s claim to be a helicopter pilot proved true. While the cockpit contained a lot of buttons, switches, and gauges he didn’t recognize because they had to do with weapons and defensive systems, the flight controls for most helicopters were universal.

The GPS coordinates recovered from the previous flights made by the mysterious missing aircraft carrier crews had been punched into the helicopter’s GPS system, which had a larger-than-average display screen. The target area showed as a green pushpin. The red blinking circle representing the helicopter was almost on top of it.

Miller leaned forward, but couldn’t see much over the nose of the helicopter. “Take us around,” he said to Hammaker while twisting his finger around in the air.

The kid gave a nod and banked the helicopter, taking them in a clockwise circle that gave Miller a clear view of the land below. He felt thankful he’d thought to wear antiglare sunglasses, because all he could see was white snow blazingly bright. Of course, the bright white snow would soon fade to pitch darkness. Night would arrive soon and last well into the following day. If they didn’t locate Vesely’s Nazi hideaway quickly it might be eighteen hours before they got another chance.

“Can you take us lower?” Miller asked.

Hammaker replied by dropping the helicopter down to just one hundred feet above the surface.

Miller saw what he was looking for right away—a square of white that didn’t shine as brightly. The white-painted landing pad would be impossible to see by satellite. He pointed to it. “There. Take us down.”

Hammaker saw the landing pad and gave a nod. The Sea Stallion swung around, leveled out, and dropped down onto the landing pad. A tornado of snow churned by the rotor whipped around the helicopter.

“Good job, kid,” Miller said. “Keep her warmed up and ready to go.”

“I’m not coming with you?” Hammaker said, clearly not pleased about being alone.

“If we need to make a quick exit, I want you ready.” Miller handed Hammaker a 9mm Glock. “If you see anyone that is not one of us, shoot them. No questions asked.”

“Yes, sir.”

Miller climbed into the back of the helicopter, joining Vesely, Adler, and Brodeur, who were dressed in white from head to toe and held their MP5s at the ready.

“What is plan, Survivor?” Vesely asked.

“I’m going to take a look,” Miller replied.

Adler put her hand on Miller’s arm. “Not by yourself.”

“If there are snipers, I don’t want all of us exposed,” Miller said. “And we still don’t know where we’re going.” Before Adler could object, Miller slid open the side door, jumped out into the bitter cold—made worse by the rotor-fueled wind—and closed the door behind him. Now on the ground, he could see a one-foot-tall rim of snow that had been cleared from the landing pad. With his assault rifle up, he scanned the area, searching for targets, and clues. Thankfully, he found the latter and not the former.

A portion of the snowy rim looked trampled. He headed for it and found a trail of footprints that led to a white metal hatch large enough to drive a truck through, had it been on a wall instead of in the ground. He waved to the chopper. Vesely, Brodeur, and Adler quickly joined him.

“We’ll never get that open,” Brodeur said when he saw the hatch. “There has to be another way in.”

“Always so negative,” Vesely said, inspecting the hatch.

“You see an alternative?” Brodeur asked.

“Other than knocking,” Adler added.

Vesely and Miller scoured the hatch, checking every crack, rivet, and indentation.

“Here,” Miller said. He’d found a circular recess with a bar across it, perfectly sized for a human hand. He tried turning it, but it wouldn’t budge.

Vesely dashed to the far side of the large hatch. “There is another here.” He knelt by it and gripped the bar. “Perhaps if we turn at the same time?”

“On three,” Miller said. “Counterclockwise.”

“Lefty-loosy, as you Americans say,” Vesely replied with a nod.

“One, two, three.”

Both men twisted.

The bars rotated ninety degrees and sank in an inch. But nothing else happened.

“Twist again,” Vesely said. “One, two, three.”

The bars rotated another ninety degrees. This time a dull clunk sounded from beneath the door. Then it shook.

“Get off!” Miller said, diving away from the hatch, which had already begun rising. Four massive hydraulic posts pushed the door skyward. It stopped twenty feet from the surface, leaving a square hole in the ice large enough to drive a tractor trailer through. Miller stood and approached the hole. A ramp descended into the ice, and then stone, where it merged with what could only be described as a road—a paved road, under the Antarctic ice.