Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

“Almost there!” he shouted.

Then the deck fell away.

“Why are you pulling up?” he asked Hammaker.

“Not me,” Hammaker said. “The ship’s in a wave valley. I’m still descending.”

Miller saw the deck lights rising to meet them.

Fast.

“Pull up!” Miller shouted, but he was too late. The giant deck of the aircraft carrier slammed into the bottom of the helicopter. Its legs folded and its belly struck hard.

The impact hammered the three men inside. Miller felt his head spin.

“You okay, Survivor?” Vesely shouted from the back.

He shook his head, shouted, “Yeah,” and looked over at Hammaker. The Kidd was unconscious.

A blast of ocean foam struck the helicopter’s windshield. When it cleared, Miller saw the George Washington ’s deck. It was slick with snow, ice, and ocean water. The ocean lay beyond the deck, lit by the ship’s array of exterior lights. And it was getting closer.

No, Miller thought. We’re getting closer!

The aircraft carrier had entered another giant wave valley and pitched forward, its slippery deck acting like a slide—straight into the water.

Miller shouted as the ocean reached up to swallow them. “Oh shi—”

An impact shook the helicopter.

Water surged over them.

Miller’s thoughts flashed back to his Navy SEAL training. Thirty months of the worst the military could legally put a man through. The infamous “Hell Week” alone included sitting in freezing water, endless running, miles of swimming, and pushed the human body to ten times the amount of exertion of which the average person was capable. He could overcome almost anything. A dip in the Antarctic Ocean on its own could kill a man—any man—in two minutes. But being sandwiched between giant waves and an aircraft carrier would mean a much quicker death. Granted, being crushed by the hull of an aircraft carrier would be a merciful ending as compared to freezing in the water, but Miller didn’t like either option.

When the water fell away, Miller saw the ocean recede. The George Washington rose above the waves. The helicopter sat ten feet from the edge of the deck. Then fifteen. Then twenty. They were sliding back as the ship rose up the next wave.

Miller knew the ship would pitch forward again after cresting the wave and had no doubt the ocean would swallow the chopper whole when it did.

“Get ready to jump!” Miller shouted to Vesely.

The man already had the laptop, secured in its case, in one hand, and his other on the door handle. He would have made a good SEAL, Miller thought, and then turned his attention to Hammaker’s unconscious form. The SEALs had a long tradition of teamwork. It was essential to everything they did. And as a result, they had never—not once—left a man behind, dead or alive. Miller wasn’t about to let Hammaker be the first.

As the metal underbelly of the helicopter struck a clear portion of the deck, it screeched and came to a stop.

Miller heard the back door slide open. A burst of cold air filled the cabin with a violent swirl of snow. He leaned over to Hammaker and fought to unbuckle him. His sore arm and the weather slowed him. As the ship, and helicopter, pitched forward once again, Miller heard Vesely shouting his name like a distant foghorn. But he wouldn’t leave Hammaker. He couldn’t.

Then he remembered Adler. Captured.

And the rest of the world. Red flakes would soon fall from the sky and kill every last non-Nazi on the planet.

For a moment, he considered leaving Hammaker, measuring one life against billions. But then he thought of Arwen. She wouldn’t leave the man. She’d die trying to save his life.

He pushed Hammaker forward, thrust his arms under the man’s shoulders, and dragged him into the passenger’s seat. The pain in his left arm was excruciating, but focused him on the task.

The helicopter skidded over the ice again, headed for the ocean.

Miller twisted the door handle, pushed hard with his legs, and emerged from the door like a penguin leaping from the water.

He hit the deck hard. Hammaker landed on top of him, knocking out the little air left in Miller’s lungs.

The helicopter, riding on a bed of smooth metal, slipped past them.

There was a crash.

The sting of freezing water covered Miller’s body.

He heard shouting voices, but couldn’t make out the words.

All of his effort went into one thing—holding on to Hammaker.

Even if it meant they would die together.

Miller was back in the cryogenic chamber. Cold stabbed his body with icy talons, piercing his muscles and scraping his bones.

But his arms locked around Hammaker’s body and never let go. Not when frigid salt water filled his mouth. Not when the stitches in his arm popped like over-tight guitar strings. Not even when he felt himself lifted up and dragged away.

When his senses returned he found himself on a stretcher covered in heated blankets, being carried through the delightfully warm hallways of the George Washington. He recovered from the cold more quickly than when he was in the actual cryogenic chamber, and realized that the burn of recovery lacked the intensity of his time in the heated river.

Exposure must not have been that long, he thought.

He looked for Vesely, somehow knowing the man would never leave his side. He found him following the pair of medics carrying the stretcher. “How long were we out there?”

The man smiled wide. “I told them you would not stay unconscious long.”

The man carrying the stretcher confirmed it with a grin and a nod. “He did.”

“More than once,” said the other man.

They turned the corner and Vesely said, “You were hit by two waves. Nearly swept you off deck.”

“Was it you?” Miller asked. “Did you pull us off the deck?”

“No,” Vesely said. “Was them.” He motioned to the men carrying the stretcher. Miller looked at them. Their faces were red from exposure to the elements.

“Thank you,” he said to them.

“Just doing our jobs,” said the man in the back.

Miller had never felt more proud of his navy service. Never mind the fact that a portion of the armed services had been infiltrated by the enemy, those that were true Americans never ceased to make him proud.

Like Hammaker.

Miller opened his mouth to ask about the man, when Vesely said, “Kidd is unconscious, but alive. Hit his head hard, they think. Getting X-rays. Will live, but will not be coming with us.”

Probably for the better, Miller thought. The Kidd was brave as hell, a good pilot, and had earned his Vesely-style code name. But his inexperience in a down-and-dirty, no-holds-barred firefight could be a liability. It was always harder to kill people when you were worried about someone else’s well-being. Vesely had no formal training—that Miller knew of—but had proven himself more than once.

“Did he just say ‘coming with us’?” asked one of the men carrying the stretcher.

“He did,” Miller said, sitting up. His head ached, as did most of his body, but he pushed through it. The motion caused the two men carrying the stretcher to stop. Miller spun his legs around and got to his feet. Veseley helped keep him up, but he stood on his own after a moment. He turned to the first man. “Find someone who will patch me up fast. Meet me on the bridge. Go.”

The man nodded quickly, impressed and intimidated by Miller’s show of strength, and then hurried off. Miller turned to the second man.

“How long is this storm supposed to last?”

The man nodded. “Four hours, tops.”

“Any F-22s on board?” Miller asked.

“Yes, sir,” the man replied. “Four of them.”