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Chapter Twenty

After the all-clear siren signaled the end of the air raid, Mike went back for another look at the time portal chamber. Had the portal survived? Dust filled the air in the long hallway, and cracks appeared in the concrete ceiling — but none of the bombs had punched through. How many more direct hits could this bunker withstand? Had Dr. Huber survived this latest Berlin bombing run? Was he safe in the Führerbunker? Did he make it that far?

Mike tried not to wonder too much about stuff he couldn’t possibly know. He focused on what he knew: where he was right now – and how to prepare for what might come. Whoever might come. But he had an edge. Nobody entering this bunker would have any idea that an enemy was waiting for them. He had to maximize that advantage. From what Mike could remember, the element of surprise worked wonders in his dream. Even though it was just a dream.

When he went back to the portal chamber, Mike saw that Dr. Huber had clearly anticipated the worst. The chamber was reinforced far more than the rest of the bunker. Huge iron girders framed the walls and held up the ceiling, which was made of thick sheets of steel. That’s why there was no concrete dust inside the chamber. The room housing the portal was an armored fortress. It was the best place to ride out the bombing runs, but way too far from the bunker door. When it opened, Mike needed to be as close to it as he could get. He had to know right away who he was up against.

Mike shined his flashlight across the room. There didn’t seem to be any damage to Dr. Huber’s equipment — or the time portal itself. But what did Mike know? He’d barely passed his high school algebra class. Sensitive scientific equipment like this could be broken in ways he couldn’t possibly see or understand. But everything appeared to be working yesterday.

Was it truly just yesterday? Mike was losing track of time. It didn’t help that the clocks in the bunker had stopped when Huber shut off the electricity. Mike looked at his watch — but it, too, had stopped. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wound it. It was set to Pacific time, but he had no idea what time zone Berlin was located in. The time thing was getting more and more confusing.

Exploring the chamber, Mike was pleased to confirm there was, indeed, a long counter against the wall opposite the time portal equipment. But unlike in his dream, the counter was pushed directly up against the wall, leaving no space for Mike to hide behind it. Careful not to disturb any items on top of it, Mike slid the counter away from the wall, just enough so he could squeeze in behind it, giving him more room to operate. Would Huber notice his counter had been moved? It was a risk worth taking.

Mike practiced crouching down and moving quietly behind the counter, stopping within a few feet of the entrance to the portal. Remembering the shattered glass in his dream, he took a few fragile items off the countertop so they wouldn’t give him away when he popped up over the counter with his TEC-9. At the critical moment, he had to have a clear kill shot.

He also needed a distraction.

Mike went back to the supply cabinets and found two 12-ounce glass jars full of mixed nuts. He dumped their contents into the closest toilet, flushed them, and went back to the portal chamber with the empty jars. He placed them behind the far end of the counter. They’d be there if he needed them.

It felt good to be able to prepare, to do something positive — even if much of what was to come was unknown. Mike managed a smile. Things were looking up. It was time for breakfast. Or was it lunch time? It didn’t matter. Canned mystery meat was perfect for any meal.

For the next three days, Mike honed his routine. He rehearsed his moves in the portal chamber and built his nightly fire in the same place, extinguishing it after a few hours. Then he slept in his hiding place near the bunker door, prepared to be awakened by the sound of sliding and banging metal. He imagined the door opening — and everyone who might come through the door. Would it be all the Nazi brass he saw in his dream? Less? More? How many SS guards would protect them? And how would they be armed?

Mike was planning and practicing for an event that anyone but he, Andy, Gloria – and Huber and Horst — would consider insane: preventing Hitler and his elite Nazi cadre from traveling into the future.

Several times each day, starting at the bunker door, Mike tracked his imaginary prey from the door to the portal chamber, keeping in the shadows. He repeated his movements enough to be certain that he could remain hidden. He removed obstacles that could get in his way, things he might trip over. He rehearsed how to respond if he accidentally gave himself away along the route, practicing how to react in the firefight that would result. Who he’d kill first. And so on…

Once Mike got to the portal chamber, he repeated his routine, hiding behind the counter and rehearsing various gunplay scenarios. He visualized how he might use the glass nut jars to cause a distraction, covering his movements. But his fading dream may have made it look far too easy. When Huber and his Nazi big shots gathered in the portal chamber, Mike would be lucky to get behind the counter without being seen. The odds were stacked against him, despite his preparations.

Mike still hadn’t decided whether he should just kill all the Nazis right there in the bunker if he got the chance – or follow them into the portal and gun them down them after they arrived in the future. Either way, all they all deserved to die. But he also had to stop the militia violence. And he desperately wanted to get back to Gloria, to know if she survived.   

All Mike could do in his impossible situation was to practice his moves and wait for Dr. Huber’s return. Of course, Huber could return any time of day or night. Mike had to be ready for that. A veteran detective, he understood the vagaries of a stakeout. You started with an educated guess – but you had to be ready for anything. At this point, Mike was ready for way beyond anything.

Six days and nights passed. Mike kept track of the time with a pen and paper from the supply cabinets. By now, he’d practiced his routine to the point of muscle memory. He’d been back and forth from the bunker door to the portal chamber maybe fifty or sixty times, tracking phantom Nazis and enacting every violent scenario he could think of. Twice during that time, Mike heard bombs falling in the distance, leveling other parts of Berlin. The tempo of the Allied bombing campaign was increasing. Mike wondered which day would be the one that Dr. Huber finally got Hitler to agree to his mad escape plan.

While Mike worked and waited, he was well fed. The food supply in the bunker would last for months. But every day he spent getting fat and training for his rendezvous with Huber and his Nazi cohort was another day that Gloria could be fighting for her life. Another day those racist militia morons were shooting up the American dream. He was sick and tired of waiting and preparing. Like his fellow Marines on those landing craft in the choppy Pacific surf, he was aching to finally hit the beach and charge the enemy.

Whoever came through that bunker door, Mike felt ready — to die or to kill. He wasn’t a very religious guy, but as the saying went, there are no atheists in foxholes. Still, Mike wondered. Did almighty God give a damn about American democracy? Did he side with the Bund Boys and Oath Takers? Many of them claimed to be god-fearing, Bible-thumping Christians. Mike was just a decorated war veteran with a blemished record as an LA cop — and an indifferent career as a private eye — but he knew for sure he was on the right side of history.

Whether God was on his side remained to be seen.

The next morning, Mike was in his accustomed hiding place in sight of the bunker door when he woke up to the unmistakable sounds of the door opening.

Mike shook off the fog of sleep and prepared for action. His TEC-9 and Luger were fully loaded, his knife strapped to his leg. He watched the door open, his TEC-9 drawn, aiming in the direction of whoever came through that door.

Just as he’d dreamed, Dr. Huber was the first to enter. He went to the console and turned on the lights in the bunker. Mike blinked: his eyes accustomed to days of darkness. But he was well prepared for the lights to go on. His dream had shown him that darkness and shadow were his friends. But who would follow Huber through that door?  

Huber issued a command and a squad of four SS troops took up positions inside the bunker: two less than in Mike’s dream. They were armed not with MP 44s but with MG42 Mausers. Known as “Hitler’s buzzsaw,” the MG42 was a high-powered automatic rifle that had done deadly service in the Battle of Berlin: the very fight currently raging outside the bunker. The Mauser was fully automatic with a 50-round belt clipped to the side of the gun. These four guys could unload two hundred rounds within seconds.

Mike was certainly outgunned, but he liked his odds. These Nazi creeps were unaware he was just ten yards away, aiming right at them. He could drop them all before they had a chance to return fire. But they weren’t the big game. The Nazi honchos coming through the door next were his real targets.

Hitler was next through the door. This time it was no dream. Mike was truly in the presence of the devil himself. Hitler looked tired, Mike thought, and smaller than he imagined. Mike wished he could get closer and look right into Hitler’s eyes. Would he see fear? Desperation? What would he learn about this angry, hate-filled little Austrian corporal who’d managed to kill so many innocent souls and reduce Europe to rubble? Mike couldn’t let this demon flee into the future and make the same horrific mess of America.

Unlike in Mike’s dream, only three of the Fuhrer’s top henchmen followed behind him: Goebbels, Himmler, and Eichmann. Were the others left behind to oversee the final defense of the fatherland? Perhaps the time portal couldn’t transport a larger contingent? Or were these three chosen because they possessed the critical skills needed to inspire and direct the hate-filled American militias: racist zeal and a proficiency in organizing cold-blooded mass murder?

Hitler and his three hateful honchos were all carrying holstered handguns: Goebbels and Eichmann appeared to be packing Lugers. It looked like Hitler and Himmler had Walther pistols. If the SS men stayed behind to guard the door, Mike’s TEC-9 would have a big advantage in firepower when they got to the portal chamber. His hopes began to rise. Mike was ready to deal with a much larger group of Nazi brass. But, like any a combat veteran, he knew not to get overconfident. Shit could get FUBAR at any moment.

The four SS guards remained at the bunker door as Huber, Hitler, and the other three villains proceeded down the long hallway to the portal chamber. So far, so good, thought Mike. Those four 50-round Mausers were out of the immediate equation. He had only four 7-shot pistols too contend with. But, as he trailed Huber and company down the hallway, Mike wasn’t planning to trade gunfire with anyone. His plan was coming into focus. All he had to do was stay close to these five unsuspecting Nazis, stay out of sight, and make his move at the right moment.

Mike remained in the shadows as the Nazis finally reached the portal chamber. There was a charged moment when Hitler and his cadre entered the room and beheld the good doctor’s time machine — for what appeared to be the first time. Could it be that none of them had been in this bunker before? That might be another advantage for Mike, but every step he took next could also be his last.

As he’d practiced over and over, Mike slipped unnoticed into position behind the counter and did his best to keep up with the conversation as Herr Huber went over the workings of the portal. Mike wondered whether he was better prepared for what came next than the Nazis were. He noticed that Eichmann wasn’t doing any talking, wasn’t asking questions like the others. It seemed to Mike that Eichmann knew more about the portal than the Fuhrer and the others.

This time, unlike in Mike’s dream, Hitler wasn’t having anyone draw straws. It was clear that Otto Adolph Eichmann had been designated to operate the time machine controls while Hitler and the other two joined Huber in the portal to be sent into the future. It figured. If Hitler could trust Eichmann to pull of the systematic murder of millions of Jews and other undesirables, Huber could surely count on him to push the right buttons.

Dr. Huber threw a series of switches — and the complex machinery sprang to life. The whole, mad contraption hummed and sparked. Eichmann took his place at the controls. The time had come. Huber, Hitler, Goebbels, and Himmler walked into the time portal.

It was game time.

Once the Nazi time-travelers disappeared into the portal, Mike made his move. From his hiding place at the end of the counter, he took one of the glass jars he’d pre-placed just for this moment — and threw it against the doorway leading into the chamber. When it smashed against the wall, Eichmann’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, just long enough for Mike to slip unnoticed into the portal.

By the time Eichmann refocused on his task, Mike Delaney was time-traveling for the third time in less than two weeks.   

Chapter Twenty-One

As in his previous trips through the time portal, Mike didn’t feel any strange sensations — and there were no science fiction movie effects — as he moved from the past into the future. Huber, Hitler and their two criminal comrades were somewhere ahead of him, though he couldn’t see or hear them.

Suddenly, Mike could see the Nazi foursome exit the portal and enter Horst’s brightly lit lab. He hung back in the portal for a moment, obscured by a welcome shadow. He made sure the silencer on his loaded TEC-9 was locked in place. He recalled that, for some odd reason, he hadn’t used the silencer in his dream. It was a useless thought. Mike had to focus clearly now. He moved toward the end of the portal with the stealth of a trained assassin.

As Horst Mueller greeted his time-traveling companions, exchanging stiff-arm salutes and triumphant shouts of “Heil Hitler!” their backs were turned to Mike. They had no idea they’d been followed. Horst’s view of the portal was blocked by his comrades. Intent on greeting his Fuhrer, he didn’t see Mike step out of the portal with his gun drawn.

Grimly resolved and cold as ice, Mike got as close as he could — and swiftly executed Huber, Hitler, Himmler, and Goebbels with kill shots to the back of their heads.

The four fell in a heap, and Mike raked their bodies one more time before taking aim directly at the head of the lone survivor: a stunned and quaking Horst Mueller.

“Hands up, Horst!” Mike barked, “Or you’ll die slowly and painfully.”

Just then, Himmler stirred — so Mike sprayed all the fallen bodies with another round of lead.

When Horst tried to take this opportunity to move, Mike fired a burst at his feet. “Stay put, Horst,” said Mike, seething with anger, “I’m not in a mood to dance with you.”

Mike kicked a chair in Horst’s direction. “Take a seat, professor. Let’s talk. And speak English. If I hear another word of German out of you, I’ll take my combat knife and carve you into little pieces. You won’t enjoy it. But I will.

Horst took a seat, soiling his pants.

“Go ahead, piss yourself, pal. That way you’ll know how all those brave men tortured by the Gestapo felt right before they died.”

“I was…not…Gestapo,” Horst stammered. “I didn’t even fight in the war. I was too young.”

“Save that bullshit for your trial, Horst. That is, if I let you live to see one.”

Mike searched Horst for a weapon but found none. “You got any poison, Horst? I know you Nazi bigwigs love your cyanide. Your pal Goebbels over here,” he said, giving that body a nudge with his foot, “He loved it so much he fed it to his six children. Himmler also liked his cyanide, right?”

Mike found nothing in Huber’s pockets but his wallet, a couple of pens, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. “Good,” Mike said with a strained smile, “Now we can talk.” Mike pulled up another chair and sat directly across from Huber.

“I know all the crazy shit that you and Huber were up to with those militia nuts. Plus, you shot my girlfriend. Did you know that? She’s that pretty, older lady you shot with your Luger. I’m the guy who shot you in the shoulder. Looks like you’ve been healing nicely over the past week.”

Mike gave Horst’s bandaged shoulder a squeeze. Horst winced. “Now, before I call the cops, you and I have some stuff to talk about. Your dreams of a new Reich are dead, pal. As dead as your buddies on the floor. But I’ve been chasing you creeps back and forth through time for a couple of weeks now, and there’s some things that the detective in me has just got to know.”

“There is nothing I can tell you,” Horst replied, attempting something like bravery. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Aw, come on, professor. I came through your damned time portal, didn’t I? In fact, I went through it three times. From 1951 to 2008, then to 1945 and back again. That’s why I’m here – and all your Nazi pals are dead! Damn it, Horst, I’m telling you a lot more than you’re telling me – and it’s pissing me off!”

Mike placed his TEC-9 up against Horst’s forehead, his anger rising to a level he was struggling to control.

“What do you want me to tell you?” Horst pleaded. “I did my duty to my country. I did what I had to do.”

“You’re an American, Horst. This is an American university. Cal Tech paid for your time-travel experiments, right? But they had no idea what you were actually up to, did they? You got your Nobel Prize as an American. Yet you and Huber plotted to bring Hitler and these Nazi shitheads to America. For what? To lead a fucking race war?”

Mike pushed the muzzle of his gun harder against Horst’s skull.  

“I was there, asshole! I was at Murphy’s Ranch when you and the good doctor riled up those militia wackos – and gave them all those AR-15s! You know what that makes you, Horst? A traitor. And do you know what happens to traitors? What would the Gestapo do in this situation? This conversation would be over, wouldn’t it Horst?”

“I told you. I was not Gestapo…”

“Cut the crap, Horst! Don’t make me any angrier than I am now!

“What do you want to know, Mr…”

“Screw my name. You don’t need to know it. Just answer my questions. How in the hell did you get away with it? After you sent Huber and me to 1945, why didn’t the Pasadena cops shut your crazy operation down? They were banging on your door, for chrissakes. My girlfriend was lying wounded outside! Two dead militia assholes were stinking up your hallway, and a trial of blood led right to your lab – because I shot you! And yet, they let you go right back to work. Why was that? How could that possibly happen?”

Realizing his situation was hopeless, and with more than a vestige of Aryan Nazi pride, Horst explained that Mike’s bullet had only grazed his shoulder. “There was some dripping of blood, but no serious damage. I bandaged it easily and cleaned what little blood fell on the laboratory floor. That was before you must have arrived. And so, when the campus police came to my door, I did not appear to have been shot. I assured them that I had been far too absorbed in my work to be aware of anything that might have been going on outside my laboratory.”  

Horst went on. The Cal Tech cops called for backup, but his Nobel winning reputation convinced the Pasadena police that he truly had no idea who the dead men outside his door were. Nor did he know anything about a woman being shot near his building. “I told them that whatever those unfortunate men and that old woman were involved with, if indeed they were in league at all, it was a mystery to me. They gave me their cards and left me alone. I have not heard from the authorities since then.”

“So, there was no reason to resort to Plan B?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mike ground his gun barrel into Horst’s temple. “I heard you talk about a Plan B, pal. Don’t fuck with me. I’m exhausted and pissed. Huber told you that if the cops got into this lab, you were supposed to destroy the portal – and Hitler and his goons would travel through the Berlin portal and emerge in Berlin on today’s date.”

“Correct,” said Horst with an air of disdainful superiority. “Herr Huber’s Plan B called for them to be transported through the Berlin portal. The same one you came through. But I, myself, considered that a most unlikely scenario. For the bunker and portal to still exist in 2008, it would have had to survive the Allied bombing and the fall of Berlin undamaged and undiscovered. It was far more likely that the Americans or Soviets would have destroyed it — or stolen what equipment they could salvage to advance their own technological superiority. I never wasted any thought on Plan B.”

Dr. Huber warmed to the subject of his own brilliance. “Moments ago, when the Fuhrer stepped gloriously out of my portal, he was delighted to find himself in the United States. He was not trying to sneak his way through the Berlin of the future — then find a way to somehow get to America. Instead, he shook my hand and congratulated me. He called me a Hero of the Fatherland. So, Dr. Huber was in no position to chastise me for ignoring his mad Plan B.”

Even in Horst’s dire situation, he could manage to swell with pride. The pupil had outperformed his teacher. He’d proven himself to be a better scientist and tactician than Huber. He was the superior Nazi egghead in service of his Fuhrer.

“The cops may come back here with more questions,” Mike reminded him. “And when they do, they may want to know what a stinking pile of infamous dead Nazis from World War Two are doing in Physics Lab #7.”

Horst wasn’t concerned.

“The police have no idea about any plan for the Fuhrer to lead a race war in America. They would think it crazy. Far-fetched. It would only be your word against mine, yes? And who are you? Are you a Nobel Prize winning physicist? Are you anybody at all?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am!” Mike snapped, his patience wearing thin. He pointed to the dead Nazis. “It matters who these guys are.”

“True,” said Horst, with a triumphant smile. “If the authorities identify these men that you’ve just killed in cold blood as Adolph Hitler and his closest associates, it will prove that I’ve mastered the physics of time travel. I will no doubt win a second Nobel Prize.”

At that moment Mike realized that, as brilliant as he was, Horst was truly a madman.

Mike now knew what he needed to do. “Sorry, Horst,” he said flatly, “None of that’s gonna happen. You just sit tight while I call a friend.”

It wasn’t proper police procedure. It might have been against the rules of war. But nobody had ever been in Mike’s position before. He took out his iPhone – which now worked – and called Andy Pafko.

“Andy, buddy. It’s a long, crazy story, but I’m back in 2008…”

“No shit. How in the…?”  

“Not now. Just tell me, is Gloria okay?”

“She’s out of the hospital, Mike. She lost a lot of blood, but she’s gonna be fine.”

Andy started in with more questions, but Mike cut him off. “Listen Andy, I’ll explain it all later, okay? I’m in Physics Lab #7 at Cal Tech. You can find out where I am on your phone, right?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, Mike, I can locate you.”

“I need you to get here right away with at least three sticks of dynamite, some of that C-4 shit you were talking about, and a couple gallons of gas. Wear your old police uniform – but take your name tag off. And don’t let anyone see you.”

“But Mike…”

“No time for questions, Andy. Just get here with the pyro, okay? And come in uniform. With no name tag.”

“Uniform? I haven’t worn one in twenty-three years, Mike. I’m a geriatric fart in a fucking wheelchair!”

“Shit, that’s right.” Time travel was screwing with Mike’s head. “Is there anybody else we can trust to bring me that stuff?”

“I can drive, Mike, I just can’t walk.” Andy was eager to play his part. “I can take the explosives over to you in my van. I’ll bring you my old police uniform, too.”

“Yeah. I’ll need ‘em both: the pyro and the uniform. Drive up as close as you can, and I’ll come out and get them.”

“I’ll be there within the hour, Mike. Hang tight and stay out of trouble.”

“Trouble? You’re a funny guy Andy. Call me as soon as you get here.”

“Roger that. Over and out.”

Mike hung up. Horst looked crestfallen. He realized that Mike was going to destroy his greatest scientific achievement.

“Don’t try to be a hero, Horst. You’ve already told me all I need to know. Nobody but a handful of freaks think you Nazis are the heroes. Ever see ‘Hogan’s Heroes’? You goose-stepping freaks have been a joke for decades.”  

While keeping his TEC-9 aimed at Horst’s head with his right hand, he took out Horst’s Luger with his left. “You remember this gun, Horst? You shot my girl with this Luger. I’ve had it for a while now. Haven’t even fired it. Looks like you even designed your own silencer. Those early silencers were real long and cumbersome, weren’t they? Hard to conceal. But yours is some real cloak and dagger stuff. Nice work, pal.”

“There are still seven rounds in your Luger’s clip. If you don’t mind, Horst, I’m gonna use up four of those bullets right now.”

Without waiting for Horst to object, Mike fired a silent round from Horst’s Luger directly into dead Hitler’s head. Then he did the same to Huber, Himmler, and Goebbels. “Now, there’s just two bullets left. What should I do with the last two shots, Horst? What would the SS, the Gestapo — or you do?”

His eyes wide with a rising fear, Horst pleaded, “You wouldn’t. Not in cold blood. I’m your prisoner. Let the police…”

“Let them do what?” Mike glared, grim and determined, as hard as he’d ever been in battle. “Accept your bullshit again? Get mesmerized by your shiny Nobel Prize? After all, who am I? Am I anybody at all?”

In this crucial moment, Mike set humanity aside. Or was he saving it?

He’d sort out the big questions later. Right now, he was wrapping up this case the best way he could. Keeping the Luger trained on Horst, Mike offered his TEC-9 to Horst.

“You ever watch old Western movies on TV? We can make this like a Wild West gunfight.”

“I have no time for old movies,” Horst replied with all the defiance he had left, “You are indulging in a kind of heroic fantasy, yes?”

“Fuck fantasy, professor,” Mike barked. “Take my gun or I’ll kill you right now. If you take it, you’ll still have an outside chance of getting out of this mess alive.”

Mike pressed the Luger to Horst’s right temple as the frightened Nazi scientist took Mike’s TEC-9, fumbling with it in his trembling hands. Before Horst could put his finger on the trigger, Mike shot the Nazi genius clear through the head with his own Luger at close, suicide-like range.

Mike wiped the Luger off with a cloth from a nearby table and placed it in Horst’s dead right hand. He found the keys to the lab in Horst’s coat pocket, then made sure the lab door was locked.

While waiting for Andy to arrive, Mike stripped the bodies of all the dead Nazis, except for Horst. He emptied a large bin of laboratory supplies and stuffed all their uniforms, IDs, weapons, shoes, medals — everything they carried or wore — into the bin. Then he dragged their bodies into a pile.

It was ugly work, but he’d done nasty stuff like this before: after a battle, when he helped prepare fallen comrades for burial. But unlike these Nazis, who’d all died neatly in one piece, he often had to gather the bloody fragments of his Marine buddies. This was easier. And for Mike, this grisly task was almost therapeutic. That’s what war does to a person.

And this had been war.

It was barely an hour before Andy finally called Mike and announced his arrival.

“Hey, Mike — I’m parked outside Horst’s building. Come and get this stuff before I get a visit from the campus rent-a-cops. I got it all packed in a duffel bag.”

“Be right there, Andy.”

Mike unlocked the lab door, then locked it behind him. Luckily, the hallway leading to the lab was empty. Horst was certainly not going to conduct any classes on the day the Fuhrer was supposed to arrive. Mike raced down the hallway and up to Andy’s van. “Stuff’s in the back, Mike. The doors are open. Grab it and go.” Mike took the duffel bag out of the van and closed the doors.

“Beat it, Andy! I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

“Good luck, pal,” Andy said as he drove away. “Light ‘em up!”

Mike returned to the lab, unlocked the door, locked it behind him — and got down to business. He dumped the gasoline on the dead bodies, then placed the dynamite and C-4 inside the portal and under all the machinery in the lab.

As Mike did this, he knew that he’d never return to 1951. He’d never get back to young Gloria. They’d never have a family. But fuck it. Gloria had survived Huber’s gunshot. He’d cherish every last moment they could have together. She was still the same girl. And he was still nuts about her.

Once all the pyro was in place, Mike got dressed in Andy’s LAPD uniform. It didn’t fit very well, but Andy remembered to remove his name tag. It wasn’t great, but it would have to do. Nightfall was approaching, so his costume didn’t have to be perfect.

Mike locked up the lab again, walked back down the hallway – and pulled the nearest fire alarm. He went outside the building and watched as students and teachers evacuated. It must be the weekend, he figured, as less than a dozen people exited the building. Dressed in Andy’s LAPD uniform, Mike was empowered to ask questions and determine that everybody was out of the building. He explained there was a dangerous gas leak in one of the labs and that the area should be cleared immediately.

Everyone complied. So far, so good.

Mike returned to Physics Lab #7, unlocked the door, and carried the bin full of Nazi uniforms and regalia into the hallway. Before he stepped out of the door, he lit a pack of matches and tossed them onto the gasoline that was pooling on the laboratory floor.

As he left the building, dragging his bin of Nazi regalia with him, the fire inside Horst’s lab raged. Explosions could be heard as Mike slipped into the shadows, leaving the scene as sirens signaled the approach of fire trucks.

Horst Mueller was not going to win his second Nobel Prize. But America just might be saved from a second Civil War.