SecondWorld, Page 2

  Mazuw stormed across the forest floor. His cap was missing. His uniform held sticks and patches of mud. And his eyes burned with fury. “What happened?” he demanded with a growl.

  “The wind. It shifted the effects toward the platform.”

  “We were a half mile away,” Debus noted.

  Gerlach fought a widening smile, but could not contain it.

  Mazuw took Gerlach by the coat, putting his bulldog face within inches of the scientist’s. “We were almost killed. My men, who are the very best the SS have produced and represent the future of the Reich, were almost killed.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  “Because, Obergruppenführer, it worked. Beyond our greatest expectations. It worked.”

  Mazuw considered this for a moment before letting go of Gerlach’s shirt. His expression became one of deep thought. “Well done,” he said after nearly a minute. “You will speak of this to no one.”

  “But there is much to do if we are to use this against the Allies,” Gerlach said.

  “There is not enough time,” Mazuw said. “The war is all but over.”

  “But—”

  “Patience is as deadly a weapon as any, Gerlach. The device will be moved. Refined. And when the conditions are right…”

  “Where are we going?”

  “They,” he said, while motioning to his men, “are going with Kammler. To someplace you cannot follow. A man of your, and Debus’s, renown will be sought after by the Allies when the war ends. Your disappearance would lead to questions. Do not fear, Doctor, we will be in touch.”

  “But … where will we go?” Debus asked.

  “You will surrender, of course. Avoid the Russians. Find the Americans, if you can. Agree to aid them in any way, but never mention what you saw here today or any part of this project. We will rise from the ashes. Am I understood?”

  Debus nodded, once again fidgeting with his fingers.

  “Yes, Obergruppenführer. I have but one more question.”

  Mazuw stared at him, waiting.

  “What will happen to our team? Surely you can’t—”

  “Take aim!” Mazuw shouted. The forest filled with the sounds of weapons being readied and people shouting in fear. “Fire!”

  1

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  WEDNESDAY—AUGUST 8, 2012

  “Shit!”

  The microwave door flew open and Rachel Carter reached her hand in.

  The spoon, left in the bowl of oatmeal and heated along with the cardboard-flavored breakfast, had been shooting off blue sparks when she noticed it. Without thinking, she grabbed the spoon. A millisecond later, her mind registered the stupidity of her action, along with the searing heat. Her arm reacted quicker than her fingers, flailing backward. The spoon soared across the kitchen, weighted with expensive organic oats, and smacked against the stainless steel fridge, where both breakfast and spoon clung like Silly Putty.

  Rachel turned on the tap and ran cold water over her pulsing index finger and thumb, her glare fixed on the spoon. It slid slowly toward the floor.

  “You okay, Mom?” asked her ten-year-old daughter, Samantha.

  “Fine.”

  Samantha walked past the fridge, paused, stepped back and looked at the spoon. She turned to her mother with an eyebrow raised. “Fine?”

  Rachel forced a smile that communicated a single message: don’t ask.

  Samantha shrugged and pulled a chair up to the counter. She climbed onto the chair, then onto the counter.

  “Get down from there!”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I made you oatmeal.”

  “You’re gonna make me puke, too, if I have to eat that sludge.”

  With two granola bars in hand, she jumped down from the counter, swung the chair back to the table, and began unwrapping the first bar. Jake, the younger of the two siblings, strode into the kitchen, still in his footie pajamas, which he wore most days. “One of the advantages of being homeschooled,” he was fond of saying. Samantha tossed him the second granola bar and they sat at the table, eating in silence.

  Rachel sighed. She couldn’t complain. At least they were eating granola bars and not fast-food egg and sausage sandwiches—which she suspected her husband, Walter, had been sneaking on his way to work. Again. She looked at the microwave clock.

  8:30 A.M.

  “Walter, you’re going to be late!” she shouted after noticing the time. He worked for a big downtown marketing firm and had a major pitch to make that afternoon.

  Walter slid into the kitchen, moving fast. He opened the cabinet, reached up, and took down the granola bar box. Empty. “Ouch. Epic fail.” He looked at Rachel, who nodded toward the kids. Her grin said it all.

  He took in their barely contained smiles. “Traitors!” He sighed. “I guess I’ll just get something on the way.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Rachel replied, drying off her still-stinging finger.

  “What?”

  Rachel stared intently at him, trying to convey her annoyance over his bad eating habits, without actually having to spell it out for him in front of the children.

  Seeing her expression, Walter laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about! Now get out of my head, woman!” He grabbed his bag and headed down the hallway for the front door.

  “Love you!” Rachel shouted as the door creaked open.

  There was no reply.

  No customary “Love you, too.”

  No closing door.

  No starting car.

  She was about to go check on him when Walter slowly backed into the kitchen. He had his iPhone out and was tapping the screen madly. This wasn’t an uncommon activity, but the dire look on his face was far from normal. Rachel held her breath. The kids stopped giggling and watched their father.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Did the job fall through already?”

  Walter shook his head and kept on tapping. Then he stopped. “This is wrong.”

  “What?” she demanded, growing worried. “Is the phone broken?”

  He stared blankly down at the screen. “It’s happening everywhere—all over the world. Wait— Crap, I lost our Wi-Fi connection.”

  “Walter…”

  “The 3G network is down, too.” He met his wife’s eyes. “It must be disrupting cell service.”

  She took his face in her hands, willing his stunned eyes to meet hers. “Walter! What are you talking about? What is happening?”

  He glanced toward the still-open front door. She followed his gaze and gasped.

  The kids hopped out of their chairs to look.

  “It’s snowing!” Jake shouted, running for the door.

  “No!” Walter jumped forward and snagged his son by the sleeve. He looked at Rachel, his expression alarmed. “Close any open windows. Tape the seams. Use the duct tape.”

  She nodded, feeling sick, and they both set off around the house, closing doors and windows. Samantha and Jake went into the living room, climbed onto the couch, and peered curiously out the bay window.

  “Why can’t we go out?” Jake asked. “It never snows here. I want to play in the snow!”

  “Dad says it’s not snow.”

  Jake looked grumpy. “Well, how does he know?”

  “Because, silly, snow isn’t red.”

  2

  TOKYO, JAPAN

  WEDNESDAY—AUGUST 8, 2012

  Akiko Sato woke to a loud chime.

  She reached for the alarm and hit the snooze button. The sound disappeared and she returned to sleep within seconds.

  Moments later, the shrill electronic chime sounded again. Her mind, pulled from REM sleep by the first chime, finally registered the sound for what it was—her cell phone. She rolled over to look at the clock, but her tightly tucked-in sheets resisted her movement.

  Had she missed her alarm? Was work calling to find out why she was late?

  When she saw the time, she relaxed.


  10:30 P.M.

  She’d only been asleep for half an hour.

  She brought the phone up to her eyes and squinted in the screen’s bright blue glow as she read the caller ID. She groaned. Tadao. Her boyfriend. Soon to be ex-boyfriend. He was nice enough, but just too clingy for her. She hadn’t called to say goodnight, and here he was, calling her instead. She popped open the phone and decided that she would break it off with the whipped pup of a man tomorrow. Tonight she had to sleep, and that meant saying goodnight now, or the phone would ring until morning.

  “I was asleep, Tadao.”

  “Sorry, sorry. Right, it’s late. But you have to see something.”

  Just say goodnight, hang up, and go to sleep, she willed herself. “I’m up at four thirty. You know that, don’t you? I have to go.”

  “Wait! Just look out your window.”

  She glanced toward the drawn shades on the other end of her long, narrow bedroom. She lived on the thirtieth floor of a high-rise apartment building. The only thing to look at outside her window was other buildings. What could he want her to see?

  A surge of nervous energy stirred in her belly. Normally reserved and always professional, Tadao sounded unusually lively. Like someone about to do something stupid. He was a system programmer, making it possible for hotels to control lighting and environmental systems from one location. He had, in fact, worked on several of the hotels within eyeshot of her building.

  She had a feeling she knew where this phone call was leading.

  “I’m going,” she said as she yanked free of her sheets and stumbled over to the window. She hoped he wasn’t going to take a picture of her in her nightgown, using some kind of long-range camera while she read, with a scowl on her face, his marriage proposal written out in lights on the side of a building.

  She was positive that’s what he had planned, because as reserved as Tadao was, that was exactly the stupid romantic kind of stunt he would pull.

  She took hold of the curtain and held her breath. She’d never been one to climb slowly into a pool. She preferred to jump in. Let the shock hit her all at once and then fade all the more quickly. She counted to three, then jerked open the curtain, scouring the buildings for anything unusual.

  Everything looked normal. Tokyo glowed brightly below her window. A thick haze filled the air, which was nothing new, though the color seemed more vibrant than usual. The streets were packed, which was typical.

  Well, not quite typical, actually. Something was different. She pressed her nose lightly against the glass and looked down.

  The streets were mobbed, but no one was moving one way or the other, simply standing frozen as they gazed upward in awe.

  “Are you there? Do you see it?” Tadao asked. “Pretty amazing, right?”

  She caught her breath. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Step onto your balcony and look up.”

  Akiko did as she was told, more curious now than worried. She unlocked the slider, pulled it open, and stepped out into the cool night air. She breathed deep and sneezed immediately. The air was bad tonight.

  But then she looked up and forgot all about the air.

  The sky was ablaze with colors! Like a rainbow in motion, the atmosphere from horizon to horizon danced with vivid colors like the aurora borealis seen through a kaleidoscope. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bright streaks, like shooting stars zipping in and out of view, made the display even more spectacular.

  She laughed.

  “Beautiful, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Like you,” he said.

  Akiko frowned, closed the phone, and tossed it back inside. It began ringing a moment later. She closed the door, blocking out the sound, and returned to watching the sky. Tadao could call all night if he wanted to. She doubted anyone in Tokyo would be sleeping tonight.

  She turned toward the sky again as a collective “ahhh” rose up from the streets below. The shooting stars had picked up pace. They were everywhere. They were incredibly beautiful.

  But somehow ominous.

  She looked down at the people below again, all still looking up. Something major was happening. She followed their gaze and for the first time saw something in the night sky brighter than the neon city lights. The haze wasn’t haze. It had a solid form to it.

  Like snow.

  Red snow.

  She glanced down at the shoulder of her pale blue nightgown. What looked like ruddy dandruff, though some bits were more similar in size to a fifty-yen coin, covered the light fabric. Her entire nightgown was coated in it. Akiko gasped, breathing some of it in.

  Tasting it.

  She gagged and spit, trying to expunge the flavor from her mouth, but each breath only increased the potency.

  The air tasted like blood.

  3

  NINE MILES SOUTH OF KEY LARGO, FLORIDA—ATLANTIC OCEAN

  SATURDAY—AUGUST 11, 2012

  Fifty feet below the surface of the tropical ocean, Lincoln Miller cringed as his eyes locked onto the cracked portal window. A spiderweb of fissures spread out from the center, reaching for the edge like desperate fingers. He knew the glass would give way at any moment and ocean water would rocket into the research station, drowning whoever was inside.

  Despite the dire circumstances, he had more urgent needs to attend to. He picked up the TV remote and paused the DVD before heading to the bathroom. The picture froze on the screen, stopping the first jet of CGI water as it rocketed through the portal.

  As an NCIS (Naval Criminal Investigation Service) special agent currently tasked with investigating recently reported acts of ocean dumping over the coral reefs, Miller was technically hard at work. There were only three other people in the world who knew he wasn’t—the director of the NCIS, the deputy director, and the executive assistant director for combating terrorism—his bosses. He had balked at the assignment when it landed on his desk. His skills were better suited to tracking down navy criminals on the lam or hunting seafaring terrorists. As a former Navy SEAL, now special agent, his skills seemed a gross overkill in the battle against glorified litterbugs. It wasn’t until he arrived on-site that he realized the true nature of his assignment—a vacation.

  He was scheduled to spend two weeks in Aquarius, an undersea research station run by NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration)—the world’s only underwater research station. He was required to patrol the reefs surrounding the laboratory twice daily, searching for signs of recent polluting, and if possible, apprehend the culprits in the act. As a scuba enthusiast and lover of all things ocean, he looked forward to each and every “patrol.”

  Because Miller was an extreme workaholic, the NOAA assignment was the only way his superiors could get him to take his first real break in five years. It wasn’t that Miller was performing poorly; quite the opposite. They simply believed that no engine could run forever without a respite. In truth, their actions were selfish. Were Miller to burn out, the loss would be significant to the organization. Not only was he a consummate investigator, but his time with the SEALs made him a man of action as well. The NCIS had plenty of both, but rarely in the same package.

  With his first week of forced vacation over and his second week just beginning, he was feeling pretty good. The laboratory was cramped, but he had traveled by submarine several times as a SEAL and had no problems with claustrophobia. The lab was well stocked with every deep-sea movie and novel available. The lab’s full refrigerator, air-conditioning, microwave, shower, and high-tech computer system, complete with video games, not to mention unlimited time to swim or even spearfish, made this place Miller’s dream come true. Of course, he’d spent the last few days lazing about, watching movies, playing games, and reading books. He suspected the “ocean dumping” investigation was just a clever cover story for his vacation and had taken a break from his scheduled scuba patrols. There was plenty of time left to dive; he just needed some couch potato time first.

  The facility was a forty-three-foo
t long, nine-foot in diameter, eighty-ton cylindrical steel chamber separated into two different compartments, each with its own air-pressure system and life support. There were living quarters for sleeping and eating, and labs for work. At the far end, off the lab, was a wet porch with an open moon pool for entering the ocean. Miller had all of this to himself, plus—and this was the best part—not a peep from the outside world for three days.

  It’s not that he didn’t like people. It’s just that people liked to talk, and after his first day aboard he had decided the break would be good for him. Quiet was bliss. Years of pent-up tension he hadn’t realized he carried began to melt away. So when the NOAA staff stopped checking in on their laboratory, he didn’t think twice about why. Instead, he allowed himself to undergo an emotional readjustment. He went over years of cases, of killers caught, of terrorists exposed, and the few who had slipped away. Then he moved farther back, to the SEALs, and the event that had etched a long scar into his leg and left a little girl dead. The tragedy ended his career with the SEALs, but down here, fifty feet beneath the surface of the ocean, he thought he might finally make peace with his past.

  After he finished the movie.

  Finished relieving himself, Miller hustled back to his seat without washing his hands. Why bother? Urine was sterile. More important, no one was here to judge him. He’d let his appearance slide over the past week, as well. His black hair was uncombed, his face unshaven. Thanks to his half-Jewish, half-Italian ancestry, Miller’s week’s worth of facial hair was damn near a beard now.

  The chair beneath him groaned as he leaned back and propped his legs up on a work desk. With the remote back in his hand, he waited, held his breath, and listened.

  Silence.