Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

Not wanting to expose himself to more gunfire, Miller found a gap in the crates of the shelving unit between him and the control center. He slid through and found Adler waving him over. “I cannot get in! The programs running the satellites are protected. The settings are locked.”

She tapped on the keyboard, trying something else. “Scheiße!”

Miller entered the control center and ran to her side. On the screen he saw a display that showed the status of several satellites. Bars rose and fell, monitoring various systems, none of which Miller could discern since everything was in German. “What is all this?”

“The system is monitoring the satellites, adjusting power, altitude, everything from here. But it’s locked. I can’t boost the power.” Adler slammed her fist down on the keyboard.

Computers were not Miller’s forte, but thinking clearly under pressure was. “What would happen if the satellites were no longer being controlled?”

“In theory, without their energy intake being controlled, they would take in more energy than they could handle. Different method. Same result. They might also just shut down. But I can’t do that either,” Adler said. “Everything to do with the satellites is locked. I’d need a password.”

“But you can access other functions?”

“Yeah, everything else, but—”

“Fork bomb,” Miller said.

Adler’s eyes went wide. She mouthed the word “fork bomb” and then her fingers became a blur over the keyboard, but the windows he saw on the screen looked nothing like the command prompt he saw in Antarctica.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Have something to do first.”

“What? There isn’t—”

“Done,” she said. The command prompt opened and Miller saw the fork bomb code scroll onto the screen.

$ :(){:|:&};:

She hit Enter and then said, “We need to get out of here. Now!”

“We should make sure it works,” Miller said. “If they get here, they could—”

“They’re never going to get the chance,” Adler shouted. “Listen!”

Miller focused on his hearing. There were boots. Voices—muffled behind rebreathers. Weapons being cocked. The occasional gunshot seeking them out. And he heard crates being shoved aside from the aisle where Kammler had been buried. But behind it all, there was something else.

Something persistent.

And rising.

A buzz.

Like a beehive.

Miller’s head snapped up. A much more modern-looking Bell hung from the ceiling. It was at least half the size of the one in Antarctica. Adler had managed to activate the fail-safe device—what was no doubt meant to be used if the facility was overrun by a hostile force—using Brodeur’s own tactic against him.

“Take off your weapon’s sound suppressor,” Miller said as he twisted his off. “Let’s make as much noise as we can.”

Adler removed her silencer. “If we’re going to get out of here, we need to leave now.”

“We’re not leaving,” Miller said.

“What!”

He pointed to the set of double doors that led to the vault door. “You better believe that’s locked down. There’s no way out.”

Adler looked at the floor. “Then it ends here.”

“Actually,” Miller said with a morphine smile, “I was thinking it could end in there.” He pointed to the cryogenic chamber. The short hall connecting the two spaces was open. “The cavern in Antarctica was one big open space, so I don’t think they had much choice. But this place is man-made. It will be shielded. I’d bet my life on it.”

“You are,” she said.

Miller gave a laugh, forced away his smile, and said, “Sorry. Morphine. Ready?”

She nodded.

Miller peeked over the partition and saw an army. A hundred men at least.

Bullets zinged over his head as he ducked.

Adler saw his wide eyes. “That bad?”

“Don’t look. Just point your gun in back as you run and you’re bound to hit someone. Don’t stop shooting until you run out of bullets.”

Adler braced herself, ready to make a suicidal sprint over two hundred feet of open space.

Miller looked back at Adler and a flicker of light behind her caught his attention. The computer screens—all of them, including the big display—went black. The fork bomb had worked, but would the satellites overload? And would it be soon enough? There was no way to know, unless they lived. “Go!” Miller shouted, breaking out into a limpy sprint with Adler on his heels.

The pair started firing right away, which gave them a few seconds to build speed while the enemy flinched. At his best, Miller could finish a hundred-yard dash in just over twelve seconds, two longer than the world record. Injured and hopped up on morphine, he figured it would take twenty.

Five seconds into his run, Miller ejected his spent clip and slapped in another. The enemy opened fire.

Adler shouted in pain, but stayed on her feet and kept firing.

Miller dove into a roll, allowing Adler to pass him, and came up facing the enemy. The control center in the middle of the room had helped block a lot of the fire, but the SS men were running around it now, shooting wildly as they ran. Miller focused, fired several times, and took out the two lead men. But the rest didn’t slow. They had numbers and cultlike conviction on their side.

He caught sight of Brodeur, just three men back, shouting for his men to press forward. He lined up the shot, but never took it. A round struck his side, tearing skin and muscle before ricocheting off a rib, which broke.

Miller fell back with a shout.

Brodeur ordered his men to fire.

Adler appeared by Miller’s side, yanking him to his feet.

The SS shooters took aim, tracking their targets more easily while not giving chase.

Miller stumbled, tripping up Adler. They both fell into the hallway joining the control center with the cryogenics chamber.

Bullets flew over their heads, kill shots had they not fallen.

A spike of adrenaline cleared Miller’s morphine-dulled mind and while he gained a surge of energy, he also felt his pain more acutely. He roared in pain as he jumped up, took hold of Adler, and dove into the cryogenics chamber. He scrambled to the side as bullets pinged off the floor.

Out of sight for the moment, Miller took two deep breaths. His lungs burned. All of the exertion had drained his pony bottle’s air five minutes faster than advertised.

He took it off and tossed it aside.

Adler handed him hers, and he took two deep breaths from it before handing it back. He looked down at the woman. She’d taken two rounds, one on the side of her waist and the other on her left trapezius. Both were close to being kill shots, but they were survivable wounds. If treated.

Running feet followed a war cry from the control center. Miller chanced a look. The SS soldiers ran for the hallway door, charging like men on an ancient battlefield, Brodeur at their lead.

Miller ducked back as bullets began to fly.

They were done.

He dropped his weapon.

Raised his eyes, like he could see the sky through the hundreds of feet of stone, and said a quick prayer for Arwen.

That’s when he saw the door.

A large steel blast door hung above the hallway entrance.

Just above Miller’s head was a red button labeled NOTFALL in German. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but the button’s function was clear. He struggled to reach it as the sound of running boots echoed through the short hallway.

Miller lunged up and slapped the button.

The door descended.

The fastest of the Nazis dove under the falling door.

Adler shot him five times.

The second fastest made it halfway through before the door slammed down, cutting him in half.