ICE Murders Arouse Heartland Backlash: ICE Out Now!
The temperature was well below zero, but the frigid weather didn’t stop hundreds of angry Evanston patriots from gathering at Fountain Square in the center of town to express their opposition to Trump’s ICE Brownshirts and their brutal occupation of cities led by Democratic politicians.
My wife Victoria and I were among the first to arrive minutes before the 4:00 PM start of the protest, but over the next ten minutes, the square was packed with progressive townsfolk, braving the cold to make their voices heard. (Victoria is holding our “Dump Trump” sign with flag: a veteran of many protests since the Mango Mussolini’s re-election.)
Here’s a sample of the many statements that our fellow Americans felt compelled to share despite the biting cold.
The next morning, Mike and Andy checked Huber’s email. The paramilitary RSVPs were already flooding in from Arizona, Oregon, Texas, Idaho — even as far as Michigan. There was a lot of excitement over seeing Goebbels’ and Himmler’s medals and decorations — and sheer ecstasy over what appeared to be Hitler’s own uniform! These right-wing freaks really knew their Nazi gear. There was no way they were going to miss the big show. It looked like Mike would have a full house, or a full barn, for the big bash he had planned.
With less than forty-eight hours to prepare for the party, Mike and Andy packed his van with the necessary supplies, including all the explosives, Mike’s TEC-9, and a fully loaded AR-15 from Andy’s arsenal with four additional 30-round magazines. “I got this baby when the assault weapons ban ended four years ago, like a lot of those militia nuts did. If things get out of hand, you’ll need the extra firepower.”
“Good idea, Andy. But drive extra careful. We can’t get stopped with all this stuff in your van.”
“Relax, pal. I’ve got handicapped plates. They always get me out of trouble. Cops don’t like to mess with an old guy in a wheelchair. What are they gonna say? ‘Step out of the car, mister?’ It’s too much of a hassle with the ramp and everything.”
“I get it, Andy, but stick to the speed limit and don’t run any red lights, okay?”
“Okay, dad.”
Andy observed all the traffic laws as they drove back up to the deserted farm north of Goleta. Just as Andy expected, there was nobody there. They parked near the closed gate and Mike used bolt cutters on the padlock so Andy could drive in and park behind his dead buddy’s abandoned farmhouse. Mike pocketed the broken lock, replaced it with a new one, then closed the gate and locked it. This farm didn’t need any surprise visitors today.
Mike went to work. He knew his way around explosives. Though not trained in the Marines as a sapper or combat engineer, he’d been pressed to help those guys blow up roads and bridges when they’d taken too many casualties to handle the job on their own. He knew where to place the charges for maximum effect, how to hide them, and how to wire them for detonation.
As he prepped the old barn to explode with a maximum loss of life, a nagging thought entered Mike’s mind. Was he any better than the Nazis with their death camps? Or the Japs in the Pacific, ruthlessly killing tens of thousands of civilians and prisoners of war?
Hell yes, he reassured himself. Hitler and Tojo’s armies murdered innocent people. They and their minions were guilty of war crimes. The assholes Mike was targeting were just as bad: racist killers who’d already started slaughtering blameless, unsuspecting Americans who weren’t like them. The other. Like the Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, the mentally retarded, intellectuals, and everyone else who didn’t conform to the Nazi’s perverse Aryan ideal. Or the Chinese, Filipinos, and other Pacific islanders sacrificed on the bloody altar of Japanese imperialism.
But still, Mike wondered, should he just alert the cops to this gathering? Stage a police raid, and hand all these militia bastards over to the authorities? Leave them to justice?
No way.
As a cop, Mike had seen all too often how bad guys would lawyer-up and get away with their crimes. Even now, he was hearing right wingers on TV and radio making pathetic excuses for the rash of mass shootings. The killings were regrettable, but the shooters were aggrieved. “We’ve got to understand why these militia men feel the way they do. They’ve been ‘radicalized’ by changing demographics in what they feel has always been their country – ‘alienated’ by a loss of white privilege.” To the apologists it was all about economic anxiety and “cultural dislocation” among the white working class: too many immigrants from Africa and Central and South America taking away their jobs.
Mike was calling bullshit on all that claptrap. None of these jerks were ever going to spend a single day in the hot sun, bent over row upon row of lettuce or strawberries. Their teenage sons weren’t going to clean hotel bathrooms or wash dishes or mow anybody’s damned lawn but their own. These gun-loving militia yokels were just fascist stooges, easily led by soulless men who preyed on their hatreds, fears and insecurity. Mike and his GI pals had defeated creeps like these in the war – and he was ready to, once again, send them all back to hell.
Before the sun dropped below the Pacific Ocean’s western horizon, all the explosives were in place. Tomorrow, it was down to Mike to play his part.
He and Andy camped out overnight on the farm. Siting in Andy’s car, they watched as the excited email chatter continued to pour in on Huber’s iPhone. The top militia boys had clearly taken the bait. Mike figured there’d be at least forty to fifty of these bastards at the big event tomorrow night. The plan was for this secret shindig to end with a big bang. But before Mike could set it off, he had to start the show on the right note. He had to keep these lowbrows in suspense. They were expecting something spectacular.
Perhaps the inconceivable arrival of the Fuhrer himself!
The sun finally sank behind the ocean. Maybe it was the cool ocean breeze, or the exertion of playing sapper again after all these years, but Mike had no trouble drifting off to sleep. As he slept, there were no challenging thoughts of the day to come. Just blessed rest. Much needed rest. Not enough rest.
The next morning, Mike woke up to a crowing rooster. Abandoned as it was, this was still a farm. As he shook off the fog of sleep, he considered calling Gloria, but he couldn’t use Andy’s phone. That could put Andy and Gloria both in hot water. And there was no way he could use his phone – Huber’s phone. At this point, Mike knew he should only use it for official business. Militia business. He knew just enough about these damn iPhones to suspect that the militia nuts might be able to track down Gloria somehow through his phone activity.
However the day turned out, Mike was determined to protect Gloria. If he somehow got out of this crazy situation alive, he needed her to be there for him. There were a lot of big ideas on the line — democracy, equality, freedom from fascism, and defeating racist hate — but Gloria was foremost on his mind.
Despite the insanity of their years apart, and the difference in their ages, he was no less in love with Gloria than on that day in ’51 when he disappeared down the rabbit hole. She was his point of focus. Do the right thing, take the right steps, make the right moves, and he might get back to the girl he loved. He might survive. That’s why so many Marine pals carried photos of their sweethearts into battle — and kissed them just before the shells started flying.
It was 10:00 in the morning. The meeting would start at 9:00 PM — only eleven hours away. There were many things Mike still had to do, but Andy was useless at this point. In fact, he was a burden. You can’t tool around a farm in a wheelchair. Especially when the shit is hitting the fan.
Mike woke Andy up and told him to drive back home and wait for his call after the show over. “You kidding, Mike? I should be standing by. You don’t know what’s gonna happen! I might need to come to your rescue…”
Mike stopped him. “You can’t help me now, buddy. You’ve done all you can do. You’re the brains of this outfit. This whole setup is yours: the plan, the pyro, the farm, the barn. It’s all you, my friend – and it’s all wired to explode. But I’ve got to greet these assholes and dazzle them for a while before I blow them all to hell. If I manage to come out alive, I’ll call you to come and pick me up. Go home, pal. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
Andy was crestfallen, but he was no fool. He knew he couldn’t be much help in the madhouse situation Mike was facing. Instead, he’d wind up being a burden. “Okay, Mike. I’m driving out of here. But I’m not going far. Maybe I’ll get a motel room in Santa Barbara. Hell, I might even go wine tasting over in Santa Ynez. Drown my sorrows in Chardonnay.”
“Sounds good, buddy. A fine idea.”
“Better yet, I’ll toast your impending victory. At two or three vineyards at least!”
“You do that, Andy. And bring back a bottle or two for me. We’ll share them with Gloria when we get back.”
“Okay. I’ll wait for you in Los Olivos. Love that little town. I’ll hang out at Mattei’s Tavern. That way I’ll be close when I get your call.”
“See, Andy? You are the brains of the operation.”
Andy blushed for a split second, then recovered. “If you need me, call me. And fuck you if you don’t.”
“If I don’t call you, Andy,” Mike replied, “You’ll know I’m truly fucked.”
Mike watched his old buddy drive away and turn right on the 101, heading north toward the Gaviota Pass. It was now less than ten hours before showtime.
Mike had already set the barn to blow. The explosives were connected to a switch that would set off the blast. He hid that switch in a chicken coop located forty yards from the barn. Gritting through the searing pangs in his hip, he practiced running from the barn to the switch. The world’s best athletes could run a forty-yard dash in around 4.25 seconds. Mike was no Olympic sprinter, but even with his old, aching war wound, he covered that distance in a little more than five. Hopefully, that would be enough.
The chicken coop was twenty yards from the front porch of the farmhouse. Mike stashed Andy’s four AR-15 magazines and his loaded TEC-9 under the front porch. From that concealed vantage point, he’d have a clear field of fire between the closest barn door from which anyone might escape and their parked cars.
He was rehearsing an ambush. If anyone survived the blast, he wasn’t taking prisoners.
Next, to be certain of where any blast survivors might emerge, Mike made sure there was just one working door in and out of the barn. He boarded up the door facing away from the farmhouse and closed up any gaps in the walls that might allow for escape. He made sure that the one exit that remained, the door that opened toward the farmhouse and chicken coop, could be bolted shut from the outside. He was glad to find that the large, rusty old iron latch bolt still worked. Mike latched it closed — and tugged mightily. It would hold. For a while at least.
Starting at that door, Mike stepped off about thirty yards behind the barn. This is where he’d direct his guests to park — hidden from the view of passing traffic on the 101. A bunch of cars, vans, and pickups parked on what looked like a vacant farm property might draw attention. The paranoid militia boys would no doubt appreciate yet another level of operational security.
Mike walked down the road past the farmhouse and out to the gate. There was almost no traffic on the 101. As he walked, he rehearsed the speech he’d give to his audience in German. Andy had helped him prepare it by using a translation “app” on his computer. Modern advances like this made Mike’s head spin, but German was, after all, his mother’s tongue. He’d spoken enough around the house as a kid that his accent was passable. He had to admit that, after several dozen rehearsals, he sounded pretty good.
“Gentleman. Es ist mir eine Ehre, heute Abend unter Helden zu sein. Sie haben bereits den großen Krieg für die Erlösung Ihrer Nation begonnen, aber jetzt biete ich Ihnen etwas mehr an als die Waffen, die Ihnen versprochen wurden. Heute Abend bringen wir Ihnen historische Führung. Heil Hitler!”
Translated, Mike would say to the gathered militiamen, “Gentleman. I am honored to be among heroes tonight. You have already begun the great war for the salvation of your nation, but now I offer you something more than the weapons you have been promised. Tonight, we bring you historic leadership. Heil Hitler!” That’s when Mike would walk out the barn door as if to usher in Hitler and his Nazi minions. Instead, that’s when he’d bolt the barn door shut, race to the chicken coop — and blow them all to bits!
Mike rehearsed his speech over and over as he made his final preparations. It soothed his nerves and focused his attention on the task at hand. Tonight, he’d strike a death blow against a movement that was already betraying the proud, democratic nation that his Marine comrades had given their all to defend from island to blasted, bloody island across the Pacific.
All Mike had to do was keep his shit together, stay calm, and pull off the plan. Eight hours from now, he’d know if he measured up to the task.
Chapter Twenty-Five
At 6:00 PM Pacific time, the sun was diving beneath the Pacific Ocean, sending long shadows across the neglected farm where Mike Delaney was preparing to launch a counter-offensive against the right-wing terror that was gripping his beloved country.
And there was still a lot to be done.
With three hours to go before D-Day in Goleta, Mike carried a table from the farmhouse and placed it in the center of the barn. He took the bin of Nazi gear he’d taken from Hitler, Goebbels, and Himmler and laid it on the table: an assortment of insignia, medals, and uniforms that any true Nazi fan would die for. That thought brought a hard-hearted grin to Mike’s face. “Die for,” he mused. That was, indeed, the plan.
Mike knew his audience. This vintage collection of Third Reich memorabilia would focus the attention of every white supremacist in the room. Mike placed Hitler’s Walther and Goebbels’ Luger on display. All unloaded, of course. Then he walked out of the barn, closed the door, and bolted it shut.
At 7:45 PM, he trotted down to the gate, unlocked it, and swung it open. Then he ran back up the road toward the barn. It was time for him to get dressed. He chose the Nazi uniform that fit him best. Heinrich Himmler was five-foot-nine inches. Mike was nearly six feet tall. It was close enough. As he admired his reflection in one of the farmhouse windows, Mike had to admit that — evil though they were — the Nazis turned out some sharp-looking duds.
Mike slung Andy’s AR-15 across his back and holstered one of the Walther pistols on his hip. The sight of a World War Two era Nazi officer armed with a modern automatic weapon and a classic Nazi sidearm would no doubt thrill the men who showed up for tonight’s event.
Mike wasn’t shooting fish in a barrel, but it was damned close.
At 8:00 PM, Mike stood next to the barn and brandished a flashlight. Over the next hour, he signaled the militia boys as they arrived via the 101 and turned into the deserted farm. In his role as a well-armed imperious Nazi officer, Mike said very little, and what he said in the way of direction was minimal – and spoken in broken English with a heavy German accent. There was no friendly chatter. He assumed an air of command and was met with obedience.
With few words, Mike showed the arrivals where to park – and they dutifully lined up thirty yards behind the barn in rows of five cars each. Stacked in that way, the vehicles could not be seen from the highway.
Most of the vehicles carried more than one man. Mike made a tally of all the occupants as they drove in. By the time the last vehicle was in place, he counted thirty-two cars, trucks, and vans containing a total of seventy-three men. This was more militiamen than Mike had seen at the Griffith Park Zoo and Murphy’s Ranch combined. Clearly, the spate of racist mass shootings across the country had energized the right-wing militia movement.
Any vestige of guilt that Mike felt about what he was about to do vanished.
The night grew chilly. Mike ordered the militiamen to stay in their vehicles until 9:00 PM sharp. The door to the barn wouldn’t be opened until then. This caused some grumbling among the more cantankerous guys. One guy in particular, a member of the Boogaloo Boyz, didn’t take kindly to Mike’s directions and let him know it. But most of the arriving guests followed orders without complaint.
Mike ran down the road to the gate, closed it, and locked it — then came back to patrol the rows of neatly parked cars, listening to what the men were saying among themselves: a lot of chest-beating about the mass shootings that were taking place and curiosity about the Nazi gear they saw on the internet. That led to speculation about which Nazi leaders might be showing up. Would they be contemporary neo-Nazis from Europe or South Africa? Or were they about to meet senior officials of the actual historic Third Reich? If time travel was possible, surely a certifiable genius like Dr. Huber would have mastered it.
They’d all know soon enough.
At 9:00 PM, Mike ordered the men to exit their vehicles and gather in front of the barn door. There was some muttering as they assembled. They’d been patient so far, but these guys weren’t used to taking orders. Mike had to maintain control if he was going to pull this thing off. He required strict obedience, whatever it took.
The same member of the Boogaloo Boyz that had chafed at Mike’s orders upon his arrival less than an hour ago pushed his way forward through the crowd. He stood two feet from Mike, looked him in the eye, and issued a direct challenge. “Who the fuck are you, pal? And why should we take orders from you?”
Mike instantly drew his Walther pistol and calmly put a bullet through the man’s forehead. As his dead body hit the ground, Mike glared at the assemblage, and without raising his voice or betraying any emotion, spoke with force in his convincing German accent.
“Do you think this is a game? I say to you all – we’ve not come so far to suffer fools who doubt our cause!Small men who put their own egos above our sacred mission. We have all devoted our lives to the master plan! Our brothers in arms are already in the field! This is no time for weak minds that don’t understand the need for total obedience to Nazi leadership. No time for small men without stout hearts and wills of solid steel! Forward now brothers, to our glorious future!”
Mike opened the barn door and motioned the militiamen to enter, filing past the man he’d just killed. They did so. Obediently. Most of them enthusiastically.
The table full of Nazi gear stood in the center of the barn. The sight of the uniforms, the medals, the insignia — especially all the SS emblems and weapons — had an electric effect on the assembly. They were like little boys on Christmas morning getting their first look at the delights that Santa stashed under the tree. Hitler’s uniform was not on the table. Mike wanted the militia boys to imagine that the great man himself might wear that uniform when he entered the barn to take personal control of their racist crusade.
Mike gave the men a moment to appreciate what this display represented before directing them to take up positions in the back half of the barn. Once they all fell into place, Mike addressed the group in his well-rehearsed German, as though the Fuhrer himself were listening.
“Gentleman. I am honored to be among heroes tonight. You have already begun the great war for the salvation of your nation, but now I offer you something more than the weapons you have been promised. Tonight, we bring you historic leadership. Heil Hitler!”
The crowd responded with a hearty, “Heil Hitler!” Mike continued, this time in his heavily accented English.
“My brothers in arms. I am Helmut Brinkmann. I wear the uniform of Reichsführer of the Schutzstaffel, the Nazi cadre you may know as the SS. I wear this uniform because the day will soon be upon us when we will all be proud to show the world who we are and what we stand for. The day is coming when white Christian men will regain supremacy in America and the world. I am, like all of you, a patriot in this battle for the soul of our nation: a battle in which God himself has ordained our victory. Seig Heil!”
Mike may have gotten carried away, but the lusty “Seig Heil” shouted back in reply assured him that he knew his audience all too well.
“Dr. Huber and Horst Mueller cannot be with us tonight. Their scientific breakthrough – which has led to the miracles you will witness tonight — has aroused the interest of those in the U.S, government that would oppose our noble goals. Concerned they might be under surveillance,” Mike gestured to the table of Nazi gear, “they have sent me in their stead with these tokens from the past – and this message.”
Mike’s mention of “tokens from the past” did not go unnoticed. When he repeated the part about giving them “something more than the weapons you have been promised. Tonight, I present you not just with arms – but with historic leadership,” the gathering was, to a man, nearly foaming at the mouth. Mike’s final “Heil Hitler!” was met with a thunderous response that would have made the Brownshirts of the Beer Hall Putsch proud.
Mike held his AR-15 aloft and told the whipped-up crowd that, after they met their new leaders, they would all head over to the farmhouse where hundreds of these weapons were waiting for them. That drew more cheers. But first, Mike redirected their attention to the display of Nazi paraphernalia, saying the items “are clues to the identities of the great men you are about to meet — leaders who will guide us to a glorious victory over the mud races who stain the blood of our proud white Christian nation!”
Summoning all the bravado he could muster; Mike ordered the militiamen to stand at attention while he brought in the Nazi leaders. Every man stood rigid, obeying his command. Mike had them right where he wanted them. He strode out the door, bolted it closed from the outside – then sprinted the 40 yards to the switch that would detonate the explosives. In the few seconds it took to reach the switch, Mike could hear some shouting inside the barn and men pounding on the locked door.
Mike flattened himself on the ground — and threw the switch.
The barn exploded in a rapid series of powerful blasts that shattered the wooden walls and engulfed what remained of the structure in a roiling maelstrom of fire.
Mike could hear the screams as he raced to his hideout under the farmhouse stairs and trained his AR-15 on anything that might emerge from the inferno. Within seconds, he was gunning down wounded men staggering from the blaze — many with their clothes and bodies on fire. The few that managed to escape the conflagration unharmed, some with weapons in hand, fell victim to Mike’s withering automatic fire. A handful of them managed to get off a shot at their unseen attacker before Mike dropped them.
Four minutes and four thirty-round magazines later, nothing was moving in Mike’s kill zone. Nobody had gotten as far as their vehicle.
The cops and the firemen would be on the scene before too long. The locked gate would make it harder for them to get to the burning barn, and the carnage behind it. It would also help Mike put more distance between him and this grisly scene. He went looking for any survivors, found just a few terribly wounded men – and with a few quick bursts from his TEC-9, he left no one alive.
Mike took off his Nazi uniform and tossed it along with his AR-15 into the back of a burning pickup truck before running to the farmhouse and putting on his old clothes.
Carrying his TEC-9 and trusty old .45 automatic, he disappeared into the woods on the northern edge of the farm. He paused for a moment, hidden, and looked back at the dreadful scene.
Nothing was moving except the devouring flames. No sirens could be heard yet.
It was time to get lost.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mike hiked north, parallel to the highway, staying well off the road and out of sight. Fifteen minutes after he fled the farm, emergency vehicles started racing by on the 101, heading southwest from towns like Buellton and Solvang. There were probably more of them racing north from Goleta and Santa Barbara. Mike wondered whether Andy could hear all those screaming sirens up in Los Olivos.
Mike had made a hell of a mess back there. He’d done some grim, hard-hearted, cold-blooded things. But this was all-out war — and those bastards had started it. He’d never forget their full-throated shouts of “Seig Heil’ and “Heil Hitler!” There was only one way to deal with that kind of evil. And he’d done it. Just like he and his men had done with M1 rifles, flame throwers, and satchel charges on Iwo Jima and all those other places where the forces of hate and extremism had dug in for a fight to the bitter end.
When he finally got a chance to sleep — if he ever got that chance — he’d sleep just fine.
For the next three and a half hours, Mike trudged more than ten arduous miles through farmland, woods, and occasional streams and irrigations ditches. High and bright, the winter moon lit his way but kept him mindful of staying hidden. Then, that annoying shred of shrapnel in his hip insisted he stop soon for a rest.
It was past midnight when he gave in to the pain and settled on a secluded spot where he felt safe enough to take a breather and call Andy.
“How was the wine tasting, buddy?”
“Mike! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Andy. Listen. I’m about twelve miles or so south of Gaviota Pass. I’m gonna rest here for a while before pushing on. I figure I’ll reach the pass sometime before five or six in the morning, just before sunrise. Can you pick me up there?”
“No chance, pal. I’ve got another wine tasting.”
There was a brief, confused pause. Mike’s wits weren’t the sharpest at that moment.
“Of course, you asshole, I’ll pick you up. Jeez, Mike! Where’s your sense of humor?”
“Sorry, Andy. That was hilarious. You’re a regular George Burns.”
“You know he lived to be a hundred? He died just twelve years ago.”
“That’s amazing. Good for George. Listen, Andy. I’ll be waiting near the historical marker. You know, the one about Fremont in the Mexican War?”
“Sure. Sure. I know where that is.”
“Good. I’ll see you there by six o’clock.”
“I’ll be there, pal. You know, Gloria called me asking about you…”
“For Pete’s sake, Andy — don’t talk to Gloria or anyone else until you pick me up. Radio silence, buddy. Got that?”
“Roger.”
“Okay, my friend. Over and out.”
Mike hung up. What would he do without Andy?
Nearly five hours after he hung up with Andy, Mike arrived at Gaviota Pass and collapsed, totally exhausted, behind a large clump of chapparal. The sun had yet to rise over the steep Santa Ynez Mountains to the east — and there was almost no traffic moving through the pass.
Mike welcomed the relative peace of the small roadside park on the south side of the road that featured the Fremont-Foxen Memorial. Mike was around fifteen years old when the memorial was erected. His dad was the kind of guy who always stopped at roadside history markers, so no family trip to the Santa Ynez Valley was complete without a brief visit to California Historical Landmark No. 248.
Mike was too tired to get up and walk over to the metal plaque, plus he wanted to keep out of sight. But he knew what the memorial said. He’d once memorized the text for a high school history presentation on the Mexican American War. It was either that or build another sugar cube replica of the Santa Barbara, Santa Ines, or La Purisima Missions.
“Here on Christmas Day, 1846, natives and soldiers from the Presidio of Santa Barbara lay in ambush for Lt. Col. John C. Fremont, U.S.A. and his battalion. Advised of the plot, Fremont was guided over the San Marcos Pass by Benjamin Foxen and his son William, and captured Santa Barbara without bloodshed.”
Researching his presentation, Mike learned that the events inscribed on the memorial weren’t true. According to local lore, Mexican soldiers from the Presidio of Santa Barbara lay in ambush on the cliffs above Gaviota Pass, ready to rain an avalanche of boulders down on Fremont and his troops. But, in fact, those Mexican soldiers were way down south in Los Angeles at the time, and torrential rains had flooded the Gaviota Pass. So, there was no such plot. Fremont and his command actually marched out of the Santa Ynez valley for Santa Barbara through the San Marcos pass on the other end of the valley because it was the most direct way out.
Still, the local legend made a hero out of William Benjamin Foxen, a former merchant seaman who eventually became a wealthy rancher.
That’s how it is with events in war, Mike reflected. The dark truth gets confused over time. Deadly command mistakes, self-glorifying lies, and savage, brutal battles, butchery, and carnage become sanitized tales of victory and heroism as they’re told through the years.
Mike didn’t have to wonder about how his story would be told. Nobody would believe it anyway. There were only two people in the world who would know what happened. Only Gloria and Andy could judge whether what Mike had just done was a heroic act of national defense in a budding civil war or just evil piled upon evil. Only Gloria and Andy…
His mind was wandering. Where was Andy?
A short time later – was it seconds, minutes, or more? — Mike was awakened by the short blast of a car horn. He shook the cobwebs from his brain and poked his head over the bushes. It was Andy alright. Mike got up, waved to him, then trotted over to his van. “Six o-clock on the dot,” said Andy, as Mike climbed into the passenger seat.
“Thanks, pal. Let’s get out of here.”
Andy pulled out of the park, heading northeast toward the Gaviota Tunnel. “You know, this is a divided highway, buddy. I had to drive about 10 miles south before I could get in a northbound lane. I got within eight or so miles of the farm you torched last night.”
“Did you see any cops or fire trucks?”
“I heard some faint sirens in Los Olivos last night. Nothing unusual. But I didn’t hear anything this morning. Not even on the 101 near the farm.” Andy took a good look at Mike. “You look like shit.”
“I feel worse.”
“Want me to turn on the radio? Local news is blowing up with stories about last night.”
“Blowing up?’
“Sorry, Mike, I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“Take the 154 through the San Marcos Pass into Santa Barbara.”
“Just like Fremont?”
“Yeah, Andy. Just like Fremont.”
Mike leaned back in his seat as Andy switched on the radio. KZSB was on the story big time. The broadcasters were saying it was the biggest new story in Santa Barbara County since the 1968 oil spill disaster — or that time in 1942 when a Jap submarine lobbed some shells at the oil installations on the Gaviota Coast.
Reporters close to scene weren’t getting a lot of information from local authorities, but from the number of ambulances and emergency vehicles arriving from both north and south, it appeared to be a mass casualty event.
“Why so many bodies and vehicles have been found on this abandoned farm is still a mystery,” a reporter informed his radio audience. “The absentee owners, who both live out of state, are the only children of the man who owned the farm before he passed away two years ago.” Mike was impressed with how soon they’d gathered so many details. But he knew they’d never know the full story.
The reporter went on. “Authorities will be holding a news conference at noon to update the public on the latest information. At this point, there is no reason to believe that residents of Santa Barbara County are in any immediate danger.”
“The local cops don’t know shit,” said Andy. “And what little they do know they aren’t about to talk about. Before long, the ATF and FBI are gonna come in and bigfoot the whole case. And then, nobody’s gonna get any information until the Feds are damn good and ready to release it.” He turned to Mike. “But you, my friend, know all the details. And you don’t exist. So, this shit could hardly be more nuts.”
As they briefly lost radio traffic in the Gaviota Tunnel, Mike took it all in for a moment. He hadn’t felt this physically and emotionally spent since the war. Emerging from the tunnel, the breathless radio reports resumed, but Mike wasn’t listening. Andy was right. Mike already knew what happened. And he knew that law enforcement, no matter how good they were — local, state, or federal — had any chance of figuring it all out.
Less than a half hour later, they were almost out of the valley. The Cold Spring Canyon Arch Bridge approaching the San Marcos Pass on Highway 154 rose four hundred feet above the canyon floor. One of the highest bridges in the nation, Mike had never seen it before. “Holy shit, Andy! When did they build this?”
“They cut the ribbon in ’64. Thirteen years before your dumb ass disappeared. Still scares me to drive over it. Dozens of folks have killed themselves jumping off this thing. It’s what they call an attractive nuisance. But it beats winding your way up these hills like we did back in the day, remember? Although, stopping for drinks and barbecued tri-tip at Cold Spring Tavern was well worth the trouble, wasn’t it, buddy?”
“Sure was, my friend,” Mike replied, happy to think for a moment about good old times.
“Cold Spring Tavern’s still going gangbusters, Mike. But they’re closed ‘til lunch time, or I’d take you there for breakfast right now.”
“I’m damned hungry, Andy. But I want to see Gloria as soon as I can. I gotta touch base with her before I can relax.”
“I get it, pal. You just get some rest. I’ll wake you up when we get to Malibu.”
A restful half-hour later, Mike woke up as Andy pulled off the 101 to park along the coast at County Line surf break — so named for being on the border between Ventura and Santa Barbara counties. “Sorry for stopping, Mike. But I just love this place. It’s like therapy, you know? We caught a lot of great waves here back in the day.”
“We sure did. But I caught a hell of a lot more than you.”
“So, what! You were younger.”
“Two years is nothing. Besides, I was riding those waves with Jap shrapnel in my hip.”
“Don’t give me that ‘shrapnel’ crap, pal. Sometimes I wonder if you were ever even wounded. Sometimes I think to myself, ‘He’s just making this shrapnel shit up.’”
“I don’t blame you, buddy. Fact is, the truth is only the stories we tell each other, right?”
“I guess so, Mike. But your story’s getting so fucking impossible to believe – and it’s true. That’s the crazy part. Among a fuck ton of totally crazy parts — it’s true.”
Mike fell silent for a moment. He hadn’t been through anything like what happened last night since Iwo Jima. Andy knew what he was thinking.
“You gonna tell Gloria everything?”
Mike gave Andy a solemn look. “No, Andy. And you won’t tell her either, okay?”
“Hell, I don’t even know all the details. I’ll back whatever story you want to tell her.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Mike replied, taking the phone out of his pocket. “I’ll give her a heads-up.”
Gloria came on the line, overtaken by waves of heart-rending relief at finally hearing from Mike. He told her he was with Andy and he’d be home soon, but that he didn’t want to stay on the line too long. They exchanged an emotional, tearful goodbye for now, then Mike hung up.
He held the phone in his hand: the black, mysterious object that had started this whole insane adventure. He realized that the time had come for this thing — Dr. Otto Huber’s iPhone – to disappear.
Andy agreed. “There’s too much information stored on that sucker, Mike. You have no idea. Too many ways to track you or Gloria – or me – down.”
“Okay,” said Mike, “Let’s give it a burial at sea.”
He ran down the beach, paused at the water’s edge – and threw the iPhone as far as he could. It sailed through the moist morning air for nearly one hundred feet until it finally splashed into the water and disappeared beneath the waves.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Andy dropped Mike off at Gloria’s house. Mike looked like shit. And Gloria agreed.
“You look like hell, lover-boy. Is this what I waited for the past two days?”
Gloria’s jest landed for just a split second before she broke down and threw her arms around Mike. “I missed you, baby. I was so worried. Hell, I’m still worried,” she gushed. “Are you okay? I heard on the radio about that big farm fire in Goleta…”
“Yeah, I heard about it, too, baby.” Mike held on to her for life. He kissed her forehead, then her lips. “They don’t really know anything, babe. The reporters don’t know — and the cops won’t say. That’s usually how it goes.” He gave Gloria another kiss. “It’s crazy. But you know what I know?”
“What’s that?”
“I know that I love you, baby.”
“I know, Mike. And I love you, too. That’s just one more crazy thing, right?”
“Right, doll.”
Just then, Gloria caught a whiff of her returning hero. “First things first, boyfriend. Jump in the shower and do something about your sorry self.”
Gloria started making breakfast while Mike cleansed himself of his ordeal. As he washed away the filth of the past two days, he wondered what Gloria was thinking. How much did she know? How far did she think he went? He’d told her he could do things the cops couldn’t do: things she didn’t need to know. But could he be completely honest with her? Could he tell her the whole story? And if he did, would she be horrified? Not just by all the killing – but by him. By what he was capable of doing.
After Mike’s shower, he wrapped the towel around his waist. He could glimpse Gloria in the kitchen, and the smell of bacon was in the air. He never wanted to move from that spot, that moment, for the rest of his life. But he walked into the kitchen.
“Nice outfit, Mike.”
Gloria looked him over, his banged-up 29-year-old torso was nonetheless like a Roman statue. “It’s nice to see you’re finally trying to appeal to my intellect.”
She put a big plate of bacon and eggs, a steaming cup of coffee, and a stack of pancakes in front of him. “So, what’ve you been doing all night?”
“Andy and I were working a job.”
“Up in Santa Barbara County?”
Mike didn’t say a word.
“I’m not a mind reader, Mike. I know where you were. You called me from County Line.” Gloria showed him her phone. “See? It’s right there, Sherlock. Welcome to the modern world.”
Mike was happy to see Gloria in a joking mood. It might be best, he thought, not to burden her with too much darkness.
“Were you and Andy just riding some waves?”
Mike wanted to share as much as he could with Gloria, but he had to protect her. The militia nuts would be looking for revenge. And while he couldn’t imagine how they might track his 76-year-old girlfriend down – it wasn’t a zero percent chance. Nothing was. Not after everything he’d been through.
“Gloria, baby.” Mike looked her in the eyes and took her hands in his. “The less you know the better. It was a really bad night for the bad guys. And now I’m back home with you. Let’s just start there and go from here.”
“Start there and go from here?’ You’re so damned smooth, Detective Delaney,” she pretended to purr, “How can an old gal resist such witty repartee? You’re the most eloquent guy I’ve known since Abe Shatz and Ignatz Kalicky held up one end of my bar.” Their lips were about to meet when Gloria’s phone rang.
It was Andy. She gave Mike the phone. “You want me to leave? Is this some kind of Batman and Robin shit? Or can I finish my breakfast?”
Mike motioned for Gloria to stay. “What’ve you heard, buddy?”
Andy had been listening to local AM radio since he dropped Mike off at Gloria’s. Now, he told Mike, the story is getting covered on television. “You gotta tune in, Mike. They don’t know much, but it’s clear that the bodies are stacking up. Holy hell, man! You really bagged…”
“Andy!” Mike cut him off cold. “Don’t talk like that. Understand? And since your phone was talking to the good doctor’s phone, you better get yours replaced. Pronto.” He looked at Gloria. “Gloria needs a new phone, too.”
“Done,” said Andy. “It’s taken care of. But turn on the news. It’s a big deal.”
Mike handed the phone back to Gloria. “Don’t use this thing until Andy gets you a new one.”
“Don’t scare me, Mike.”
“You don’t have to be scared. You told me yourself. I’m an impossible person. I shouldn’t even exist. Look at me. I’m eighty-six years old. You’re seventy-seven. I’m almost ten years older than you – and look at us. It’s crazy. We’re in love, babe. Don’t worry about anything else.”
Gloria gave Mike a pointed look. “Gina’s been asking about you. ‘Where’s Mike? What happened to Mike?’ What am I supposed to tell her? I think she likes you. And who could blame her?”
Mike gave Gloria a squeeze and a deep seal-the-deal, kiss.
“We’ll figure it out, babe. Just tell her that I’m into older women.”
“You’re into her grandmother?”
“Well, you’re the cradle robber.”
They kissed again. It was a “get a room” kind of kiss.
“Okay, baby doll. Let’s see what the hell is going on this morning.”
Gloria turned on the television just as a reporter was saying that “as many as sixty or seventy bodies have been recovered from the scene of the fire. Many, we are being told, look like they’ve also been shot.”
Gloria and Mike settled into the couch. After a moment, she looked back at Mike, tears welling up in her eyes. He met her gaze and said simply, “We’re at war, baby.”
“And you’re America’s secret weapon. Is that it, Mike?”
They sat together, switching from channel to channel as “The Goleta Massacre” was fast becoming a national story.
Gloria hit the pause button and stared at Mike, seeing right through him. “So, you’re just gonna play house with me until Andy sends out the Bat Signal – and then you’ll go off into the unknown to battle the forces of evil. Is that it?”
Mike just stared at Gloria: the absolute magnificence of the woman.
“Because if that’s what you’re saying, Mike. If that’s what the future holds for us. Then all I can say is…”
She looked straight at him, “I guess it’s okay with me, my hero.”
“Now, give me your plate, lover-boy. I’ll toss it in the sink,” she said heading back to the kitchen. “But let’s switch channels. I need a break from all this heavy shit. Let’s watch ‘Celebrity Apprentice.’ I recorded it last night.”
“You recorded it last night?”
“Yes, on DVR.”
“What’s that?”
“I forgot. You’re an unfrozen caveman. It’s a digital video recorder. You can set your TV to record shows now.”
“Any TV?”
“No. Just the newer ones. This one’s brand new. Unlike you, my dear.”
“Wild. A couple weeks ago, TV was black and white…”
“I get it, babe. It’s a lot to deal with. But I think you’ll like “Celebrity Apprentice.’ It’s a reality game show on NBC.”
“A reality game show?”
“Well, it’s not ‘Your Show of Shows’, my dinosaur darling. It’s a contest hosted by this New York business mogul, Donald Trump. He’s a pompous ass, but it’s a lot of fun. Celebrities compete to win money for their charities. If they lose, Trump fires them.”
“Can we just take a nap instead?” Mike reached out to grab Gloria around the waist.
She sidestepped him.
“Save it for later, Batman,” she cooed. “Just get your rest so you can take me out to dinner later tonight. After dinner, I’ll think about it.”
Walking out of the room, she turned and blew him a kiss.
He followed Gloria’s every step as she disappeared into the kitchen.
After breakfast, Mike took a long, hot shower to soothe his aching body and go over the plan he was hatching. The key was to assemble as many of the militia honchos he’d seen gather at the Griffith Park Zoo and Murphy’s Ranch meetings as he could: the Bund Boys, Aryan Patriots, Boogaloo Boyz, Oath Takers, and the rest. The rank and file were shooting up the country right now, but their leaders might still be hoping that Horst and Huber will deliver more AR-15s and ammo. And maybe even that “cadre of great Nazi leaders” they’d been promised.
Mike’s plan was still evolving as Gloria drove him over to Andy’s house. They didn’t say much along the way. The less Gloria knew, the better it was for her. She already knew from Mike’s call with Andy that whatever the plan was it involved explosives. It all sounded dangerous as hell, but she knew her darling boy had to see this thing through. Horst Mueller had shot her in cold blood. Innocent people were being killed. They were up against evil itself.
Gloria pulled up to Andy’s place. Mike gave her a this might be the last time we see each other kiss, then got out and lingered at the open car window. He thought of things to say at this moment. Again, Bogart in Casablanca came to mind. “I’ve got a job to do. Where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of.” But he didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “I’ll be back, babe.”
Gloria held back her tears. They wouldn’t help right now. “I love you, Mike. I just don’t want to lose you again.”
“I’ll be careful, baby. I love you, too.” He leaned through the window for one more kiss. When their lips parted, she smiled, doing her best to be brave — then drove away before her tears started falling. Mike wondered if he’d ever see her again. Then he shook himself. From now on he needed to focus on the mission.
Andy was impressed that Mike had arrived at 12:00 sharp. Back in the day, his old partner was rarely on time.
“So, Ace, what’s the plan? And how can I help?”
Mike handed Andy Huber’s old iPhone – the object that started this whole mad adventure in the first place.
“First, we need to get this thing working again.”
“That’s easy,” said Andy, plugging it into a charger. “It should only take a few minutes. That is, if it still works.”
Minutes later, the screen flashed that image of an apple with a bite taken out of it. “That’s a good sign, Mike. It’s booting up.”
“It’s what?”
“It’s booting up. That means it’s getting ready to work. So, what are we looking to do with this thing?”
“I’m hoping it still has the info I need. I want to get in touch with all the militia assholes I saw at the zoo and Murphy’s Ranch. Huber might have called them all on his phone.”
“More likely, he would have emailed them or messaged them. You may be in luck, because not long ago, Apple added an update that gave users the ability to send a text message to multiple recipients.”
“Jeez, Andy. How do you know all this shit?”
“I’m a nerd, Mike.”
“A nerd?”
“I keep forgetting what a square you are, pal.”
Soon, Dr. Huber’s phone sprang to life. “We’re in luck, Mikey! The doctor’s phone is still working. So, what do you need to know?”
“Find all his communications with the militia guys.”
“I’m on the case, pal!” Andy was getting excited. “We’ll start with his emails. I’m betting old Doc Huber didn’t know how to delete his emails and messages…and bingo! There it is — the whole email thread. Subject line: ‘Murphy’s Ranch’. For a couple of big scientific eggheads, this ain’t exactly top-flight secret agent stuff.”
For the next hour, Mike and Andy pored through the emails and text messages that passed between Huber, Horst, and the leaders of the various militias. Mike was amazed. It was all there: what Andy called their “email addresses” and whatever names they called themselves in the text “chats.” It all seemed too simple, too easy. Back when Mike was working cases after the war, a trove of information like this would have been impossible to gather so fast. It would’ve taken him days, weeks, maybe months to track it all down. Now, it was all literally at his fingertips. The question was how to use it.
“Here’s the deal, Mike. These militia guys haven’t heard from Horst or Huber in what, maybe two weeks? A lot’s happened since then. The killing has already started, but these nutjobs haven’t heard anything about their Nazi genius friends getting arrested, so they have no reason to think there’s a problem on Horst or Huber’s end. They may be hoping Horst and Huber will still deliver what they promised.”
“That’s what I’m counting on, Andy. But what about the two militia guys I killed at Cal Tech?”
“Those guys were burnt to a crisp. The cops will have to run dental records on ‘em. I doubt they were dumb enough to carry any ID – but even if they did, it would’ve been cinders after the blaze. Don’t worry about them. They were just foot soldiers anyway. You want the big boys.”
“I want a lot of them, Andy. All the bastards I can get in one room at the same time.”
“So, we compose a group email from Huber and Horst. Make it a big deal.”
“A group email?”
“That’s right, Mike. We can send the same email to all of them at once. If you want, we can hide the names of the other recipients and make it look like each of them are getting a personal invitation from Huber and Horst.”
“What do you think would be best?”
“Hide all the other names, Mike. Let each of these jerks-offs think they’re something special. If they tell any of their comrades about the email and learn that others are invited, they’ll probably appreciate the operational security.”
“Okay, Andy. We’ll them that the guns, ammo – and most of all, the great Nazi leaders – will be delivered at such a place, at such a time. I’d love to use some of the Nazi gear I’ve got as bait.”
“No problem, Mike. To really entice them, we can attach photos of some of Hitler, Goebbels, and Himmler’s personal Nazi regalia.”
“Attach?”
“Yeah. We can actually add photos of that shit to the email. Knowing these militia freaks, they’ll do their own online research and start foaming at the mouth when they find out what big time Nazi goodies they appear to be.”
“But let’s use a bit of code, Andy. One more level of operational security. Say something like, ‘At this glorious moment, you’re invited to a private showing of vintage Nazi memorabilia recently arrived from Berlin.’ What do you think?”
“That may be too cute. But it might also be perfect. You probably can’t go wrong appealing to their outsized egos and Nazi fetishism.”
“Fetishism?”
“Jesus, Mike. What did they teach you in your very brief time at UCLA?”
“Fuck you, Andy. I was a chemistry major.”
“Fine. So, where do you want to hold this clandestine militia shindig?”
“Somewhere no innocent people will get hurt when I touch things off.”
Andy and Mike gave this a lot of thought. Murphy’s Ranch was out of the question. It was still a crime scene, with police tape zigzagging across the landscape and investigators still poking around. The Griffith Park Zoo? Too public, even late at night. Besides, an outdoor location would be tough to booby trap. They needed an indoor space in a remote area. But where? After hours of brainstorming and frustration, Andy hit on a possible answer.
“There’s a big old barn north of Goleta, about twenty-two miles from Santa Barbara. I pass it all the time when I go up to the wine country in Santa Ynez. It’s south of the Gaviota Pass on the east side of the 101 freeway. I knew the old guy who owned the farm. We used to surf together at Hollister Ranch back in the day. He keeled over from a heart attack a couple years ago, right after his wife died. A broken heart can be a real thing, my friend.
“Anyway, the property’s in limbo now. His two kids are fighting over it. They both live out of state, and they’ve got families of their own. They’ve got zero interest in working the farm — but they can’t agree on a sale price. So, it’s been sitting there, off the market, since he died. Let’s drive up, scout it out, and see if it’ll do. The kids are never in town. And there’s not another property for a half mile.”
It took less than two hours for Andy to drive Mike up the 101 past Goleta. Sure enough, the farm was vacant, and the barn looked large enough, and remote enough, for Mike’s purpose. Andy parked on the shoulder of the road and Mike climbed over the chain link fence bearing a “No Trespassing” sign. The few cars that whizzed past on the 101 paid no attention to Mike as he walked the hundred yards up to the barn and made his reconnaissance.
Using Huber’s iPhone, he took photos of the scene. Mike saw where the militia guys would drive up and park behind the barn, where they’d enter the barn, and where he’d hide the explosives. That part of the plan was coming into focus. But how would he pull off his own role? He was no actor, but he was the one that would have to greet the hard-core paramilitary fanatics who showed up to his surprise party.
One step at a time, he reminded himself. One step at a time.
After completing his scout of the property, Mike jumped back over the fence and Andy drove him back to Malibu. He’d stay at Andy’s place until the job was done. His beloved Gloria would be too great a distraction from the hard-hearted work at hand. He and Andy had an important message to write and send to the militia leadership. They had explosives to pack. And Mike had a big old barn to prepare for demolition. Human demolition.
Back at Andy’s house, they had dinner. Strictly bachelor fare. Mike marveled as Andy used a device that he called a “microwave,” “zapping up” Velveeta cheese sandwiches and Vienna sausage. Did Andy only eat food that began with a V? It was the worst meal Mike had eaten since he choked down military rations on Iwo Jima. But he was basically on a combat mission, so he made peace with Andy’s meager fare. He longed for Gloria – and not just for her cooking.
After their miserable dinner, Mike wrote Dr. Huber’s invitation to the militia boys.
“Comrades! The time has come to share in the glorious bounty we have promised to those heroes faithful to our sacred cause. The great work has already begun. We must gather in two days at 9:00 PM Pacific at the attached location. At that time, the additional supplies we previously offered will be made available. And something far more valuable will also be provided: leadership of the highest rank. The attached photos featuring vintage items recently arrived from Berlin, will no doubt inform you of whom I speak.”
Andy wondered whether folks should RSVP to the email. Mike had no idea what an RSVP was. “It’s French, Mike. It means ‘let us know if you’re coming.’ Something like that.”
Mike sent the email, the location, the photos, and the RSVP request, via Huber’s email.
Leaving the fiery chaos that was Physics Lab #7 behind, Mike made his way to a dark street just a few blocks from the Cal Tech campus. San Pasqual was a quiet, lane in a tranquil, upscale part of town. Fire truck sirens wailed in the distance, but they aroused no evident concern in this peaceful neighborhood. Mike called Andy to pick him up — and within an hour he arrived on the spot.
Mike put the bin full of Nazi gear in the back of Andy’s van, then got in the passenger seat. The van was fixed so Andy could drive while still seated in his wheelchair. He noticed that Mike was staring at the modifications.
“Cool rig, right? It’s got a ramp that lets me roll up in my chair and get behind the wheel. And I can drive the damn thing using only my hands.”
Andy started driving away. “So, mind if I ask who got whacked back there?”
“You won’t believe it.”
“At this point, I’ll believe anything.”
“Huber, Horst – and Himmler and Goebbels and Adolph Hitler himself!’’
“No shit! That’s nuts.”
“Tell me about it. But ya gotta wonder, Andy. How’s this gonna change history? Does it change history?”
“Who knows? Think about it, Mike. All those big Nazi assholes killed themselves right around the time our troops reached Berlin. So, if Hitler and his boys went off the grid a few months earlier, does it really matter? They’d already lost the war. And none of those creeps were in the dock at Nuremberg anyway. So, there’s no point in wondering about it.”
As they turned right off San Pasqual onto Hill Avenue, bound for the 134 Freeway, Andy jerked a thumb toward the back of the van. “What’s in the bin, Mike? Souvenirs?”
“Nazi stuff. Their uniforms, medals, sidearms, and everything else.”
“No shit! That’s a goddamn treasure trove, buddy. Those right-wing militia freaks would pay beaucoup bucks for big time Nazi shit like that. You could make a mint.”
“It’s not for sale, Andy, but it could be bait. I’ve got some ideas brewing about next steps. But what I want to know right now is how’s Gloria? Is she okay? Can I see her?”
“She’s home, Mike. She’s fine. They discharged her two days ago. The bullet passed through her arm. No broken bones. She lost lots of blood, but she was using an improvised tourniquet when the paramedics found her. Was that you, Mike?’
“I used my tie.”
“Good call, buddy. You probably saved her life.”
“Take me to her, Andy.”
“Will do.”
Andy turned the van onto the northbound ramp of the 134 Freeway. They were passing through Glendale when Mike broke a period of anxious silence.
“So, Andy. What’s the latest on that footage I shot at Murphy’s Ranch? What do your guys at the FBI think? Are they taking any action?”
“I don’t know, Mike. They stopped talking to me.”
“They what…?
“They’re polite when I call, but they say they can’t talk. The higher-ups must’ve gotten spooked. Maybe they’re worried the video’s a fake. All that excitement and now? Nada.”
“Goddammit! I almost got killed shooting that stuff.”
“Yeah, and so did a cop.”
“What about that whole damn Rustic Canyon Shootout? The cops killed some of those militia bastards, right? Doesn’t that confirm what’s on the footage?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mike. They’re stonewalling me.”
“They’re fucking this up, Andy. That’s what they’re doing. They’ve got no idea what they’re dealing with. Our democracy is on the line. This is a neo-Nazi, fascist wet dream. I’m not shitting you, Andy, we’re looking at civil war!”
“Aw, c’mon, Mike…”
“Listen! This is no bullshit. Maybe I just cut off the head of the snake, but the rest of it is alive and growing — all across the country. And I’m the only asshole who knows exactly what’s going on. That means I’m probably the only one who might be able to stop it.”
“So,” Andy asked, “What’s your plan?”
“I’m working on it, pal. I’m working on it. But first, I gotta see Gloria.”
Nearly an hour later, Andy dropped Mike off at Gloria’s Malibu beach house. Dressed in Andy’s police uniform, Mike looked like shit, and smelled like gasoline. How would she receive him? He’d only been gone for a week or so – time being totally fucked up at this point. But it felt like ages to him. What had it been like for her? She took a bullet for him, and he left her behind, wounded, as he ran off after Horst. Was she still going to be okay with that?
Mike knocked on Gloria’s door like a nervous high school boy picking up his freshman prom date. It felt like forever before she spoke through the screen door.
“Is that you, Mike Delaney?”
“Yes, ma’am, it’s me.”
“Any reason why I should open this door and let you in?”
“I was the guy who gave you that tourniquet?”
“Weren’t you the asshole who got me shot?”
“Guilty as charged. But…”
“But what?”
“I love you, Gloria.”
“You do?”
“I just traveled sixty-three years to get back to you.”
“Big deal. Did you get shot?”
“No.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
Gloria opened the door, her arm in a sling. “Kiss me, asshole. And mind my wounded wing.”
Two hours later, after several drinks and the whole, mad story, Mike and Gloria lay in bed, sexually spent — and way too tired to think.
After Gloria fell asleep, her head resting on his shoulder, Mike turned on the television in time for a report on the latest racist mass murder — this time in the American heartland. Fifty-seven Hispanic farm workers and family members gunned down in rural southern Ohio. Masked men in combat gear attacked a local community center, run by a Catholic church, that provided support to immigrant farm laborers. They were having a fiesta to celebrate the upcoming Christmas holiday.
In the days since Mike had stalked Dr. Huber into the past, the race war had spread across the country. The news anchor ran down a list of mass shootings in the past week. There were dozens of them. The fifty-seven dead in Ohio was the highest toll, but more than five hundred innocent people had lost their lives so far. Most of the dead were minorities. The southern states were hit hardest. Texas was the worst.
So far, none of the shooters were in custody.
A former FBI profiler came on TV to emphasize that this wasn’t a series of “lone wolf” attacks. Unlike most mass shooters looking to go out in a blaze of glory, none of these perps killed themselves – or left any kind of manifesto. And they always worked in teams. Witnesses reported anywhere from three to five shooters at each scene: all masked and equipped for war. On the few occasions that police arrived in time to confront the attackers, the cops were outgunned by what appeared to be AR-15s. Fifteen responding lawmen had been killed so far.
Just as the anchor was reporting that the governors of California, Oregon and New Mexico were preparing to call up the National Guard, Mike switched off the television.
“I’m not done, Gloria. I’m not done.”
She heard him. She’d only appeared to be sleeping. Much as she wanted Mike to be safe – to be hers — she knew it was coming.
“I’ve got to take these guys down. And I think I know how to do it.”
“Why is this your job, Mike? You’ve already done enough. Give whatever information you’ve got to Andy, and he can feed it to the FBI or the CIA or whoever…”
“Look, babe,” Mike said, holding Gloria close and gazing into her eyes with all the longing a woman could ever dream of, “I want to be here with you more than anything. But I’m the only guy in the world who really knows what the hell is going on.”
“So, tell Andy everything you know – and he can pass it on to the cops!”
Mike squeezed Gloria harder, maybe too hard. “Baby. Think about it. They’d wonder where Andy got all that information. He’s just an old, retired desk jockey. They’d think he was nuts.”
“But Andy gave them the video you shot at Murphy’s Ranch, right? He said that when they saw that video their hair was on fire, remember? So, the FBI already knows about these militia guys and all the guns. Anybody who saw that video could connect the dots.”
“Maybe they did connect them, baby. Maybe my video is helping. I don’t know. But Andy says nobody at the Bureau is talking to him now. They might’ve gotten cold feet. It was an insane scene after all. Crazy Nazis talking about leading a race war in America.”
“But what can you do on your own? What can any one man do?’
“I can do things the cops can’t do. Things they’d never imagine. Things you don’t need to know.”
“You’re scaring me, Mike.”
“Baby, listen. If I can’t throw a wrench in this crazy militia shit, you and I can never truly be happy. We’d just be fucking our way through the apocalypse.”
“What a way to go, right?”
“Amen, baby.”
Mike kissed Gloria with all the passion he could muster in his weary, time-traveling state. She wiped away a tear. “Mike Delaney. You’re an impossible person. You shouldn’t even exist. But you know more than anyone else how all this craziness started. So, it’s just my luck that my long-lost lover boy is the only guy who can bring it to an end.”
Gloria was sending her beloved knight on a righteous crusade — and he’d prove himself worthy of her favor.
“Gina asks about you, Mike. She wonders who you are and what the deal is between us. I tell her you’re an old friend, but she asks how old. Should I tell her the truth? Can she deal with the fact that her grandmother’s boyfriend is really eighty-six years old? It’s weird as hell.”
“And getting weirder.” Mike kissed Gloria’s hand. “Weirder every damned day.”
“So, go solve this fascist Armageddon shit, Mike. Then we’ll sort out the personal stuff. Now, let’s get to sleep. You need some rest for whatever comes next.”
Mike woke up the next morning, still exhausted. Gloria teased that he was suffering from “time travel lag.” She thought it was funny, but Mike didn’t get the joke. “Time travel lag, honey,” she said, a bit miffed that he didn’t appreciate her wit. “You know, like jet lag.”
“Jet lag?”
“You never heard of jet lag?”
After a beat, Gloria realized. “Oh, that’s right. No passenger jets in 1951. Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re a dinosaur. Would you like some eggs?”
“About a hundred of ‘em. Us dinosaurs have to maintain our enormous weight.”
Mike wrapped his arms around Gloria’s waist while she fried up breakfast. She shook him off, pretending to be annoyed. He wished it could go on like this with her: cracking jokes around the house, sharing lost time, living in the moment, and loving each other for as long as it could possibly last. But not a chance.
The phone rang and Gloria picked it up. She handed it to Mike. “It’s Andy. He’s got news.”
“Hey, Mike. How’re you feeling this morning?”
“I’m okay, Andy. As okay as I can be right now. Just about to have some breakfast. So, what’ve you got?”
“Have you been watching the news?”
“I just woke up, buddy. I don’t know shit. I killed a bunch of Nazis and blew up Cal Tech yesterday. Did anybody notice?”
“Very funny, pal. Local TV is covering the fire at Cal Tech, but they don’t know much at all. They certainly haven’t connected it to all these shootings. The fire ran through most of the building. They say it appeared to have started somewhere on the first floor. No students were hurt. But they obviously don’t know what we know.”
“Don’t know or aren’t saying?”
“Who can tell?” Andy continued. “I talked to an old surfing pal in the Pasadena FD. Nobody’ll go on the record, but he says there were a bunch of bodies found at the scene. As many as seven. Burned to a crisp. Two looked like they were dressed in body armor. A pile of bodies in the lab didn’t look like they were wearing anything at all. My guy got the scoop from one of the first responders. Then word from the top came to shut the fuck up! So now, nobody’s talking. Either they don’t know what Physics Lab #7 was all about — or they’re covering up.”
“Have they ID’d any of the bodies?”
“Are you nuts, Mike? They were nothing but ashes.”
Mike knew they’d probably identify Horst – and maybe the militia guys — from dental records, but what about the other charred bodies? Will they search dental records all the way back to ‘45? From fucking Berlin? Mike suddenly felt very good about taking all their Nazi uniforms and shit.
“Don’t ask too many questions, Andy, but keep the lines of communication open.”
“Right, Mike. I’m just a curious old ex-cop, trying to stay ahead of the TV news.”
“That’s right, pal.”
Gloria chimed in. “They might think Horst was just a Nobel Prize winning genius who went crazy and destroyed his work.”
Mike smiled. Gloria was beautiful and brilliant. “True, my love. But what about the four Nazis who died with him?”
“Potential investors?” Gloria turned back to the stove. “You’re breakfast’s almost ready.”
Mike continued with Andy. “Do you have that box of Nazi stuff I left in your van?”
“No. I donated it to Goodwill. Are you kidding? I’ve been on eBay all morning. Nazi fan boys will pay big time money for vintage Third Reich uniforms and stuff. Even if that shit wasn’t worn by the actual real-life motherfuckers, it’s worth tens of thousands. Maybe millions. Mint condition Nazi paraphernalia really sells.”
“No doubt, Andy. That’s why I need it. It’s bait. Big-time bait.
“I’ve got ‘em whenever you need ‘em.”
“You still fixed for explosives?”
“Still got plenty of dynamite and C-4. Why? What’s the plan?”
“I’m still working on it. But I’ll see you later.”
“How much later?”
“After I’ve had my breakfast. I don’t want to disappoint my beautiful cook.”
“I swim at the gym until 10:00 – we can meet after that.”
“Okay. Noon. Your place.”
Mike hung up the phone. Gloria gave him a loving look — both sad and very, very proud.
“Eat your breakfast, Lancelot. Then go out and slay me some dragons.”
Mike’s nagging hip complained bitterly as he settled into a reasonably comfortable corner within sight of the bunker door. He switched off his flashlight and stuffed it into a pocket bulging with batteries, then watched as the fading strip of sunlight over the door gave way to darkness. Night had come to his first day in Berlin. Tomorrow would be January 2, 1945. He had to be ready for anything. He sat down with his back against the wall, face toward the door — and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.
At some point after he lost consciousness, the loud metallic sounds of the bunker door opening woke Mike up with a start. He had no idea what time it was. The strip of sunlight above the door suggested early morning or an overcast day. Dr. Huber had come back sooner than he’d expected. The Nazi genius had evidently been persuasive.
As the door’s bolts and bars slid loudly into their unlocked positions, Mike made sure his two pistols were fully loaded. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his TEC-9, focusing on the door as it slowly swung open, spilling daylight into the chamber, and casting shadows that kept Mike hidden as he waited to see who came through the bunker door.
The first to enter the bunker was Dr. Huber. He went to the console next to the door, flicked some switches, and turned on the lights.
Mike blinked. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. A moment ago, darkness and shadow were his friends. Now, he had to avoid detection. He regretted that he hadn’t settled on a clear plan of action for when Dr. Huber returned. He thought he’d have more time to figure out what he would do. But that didn’t matter now. It was always going to come down to who walked through that door — and what happened after that.
Huber barked some commands in German and a squad of six SS troops took up positions in the chamber, three on each side of the doorway, standing stiffly at attention. They were armed with Sturmgewehr 44 submachine guns — what the GIs called MP 44s. That was a ton of firepower. Mike’s guns were no match for what those SS guards were packing.
Mike figured there may be at least as many Krauts stationed outside the bunker door. It was only a guess. There was so much he couldn’t possibly know. One thing he was certain of, however, was that the first bastard who walked through the bunker door after Dr. Huber was the Fuhrer himself.
Mike was staring at Adolf Hitler.
He was overwhelmed with emotion. Mike had a clear shot at the Fuhrer. He could kill the sonofabitch right now — five months before the war ended — and possibly save millions of lives. With Hitler dead, cooler German heads might sue for peace. Was that what he should do? Mike had barely finished that thought when seven more uniformed men arrived, all Nazi leaders, draped in medals and dressed as if on parade. Huber closed the door behind them.
From what Mike could make out from his hiding place, some of the seven were officers carrying holstered Lugers like the one he had stuffed in his pocket. The odds against Mike had just gotten longer. Though he had the drop on all of them, this was no time for a bold but foolhardy shootout.
Mike wished some Allied bomber would drop a 500-pound distraction on the bunker and shake things up. But the skies over Berlin sky were apparently clear today, as Huber led Hitler and his henchmen toward the chamber where his time portal waited to carry their Nazi evil fifty-seven years into the future.
The SS guards remained stationed at the door, concerned about threats from outside the bunker. They had no idea that Herr Huber had picked up a stowaway on his journey into the past. That gave Mike an advantage — at least for the moment. He kept out of sight, moving in the shadows, tracking this unholy crew as they followed behind Huber and their Fuhrer.
Mike recognized the faces of Hitler’s cadre: faces every veteran of the war knew. These were infamous men, featured in newsreels, newspapers, and magazines. Some of them sat in the dock at the Nuremberg trials, accused of hideous crimes against humanity. These were the twisted, ruthless Nazis who would lead gun-crazy, right-wing American militia nuts like the Bund Boys in a new civil war.
The seven trailed Hitler and Huber in a well-spaced column of twos, their eyes focused straight ahead. They knew where they were going. Some of them may have been in the bunker before. Perhaps they’d already seen the time portal.
Walking just behind Hitler’s right shoulder was Albert Speer, the man in charge of Nazi weapons production. Huber’s time portal would certainly qualify as a top-secret weapon. Speer was also the regime’s chief architect. He designed and built some of the Reich’s most important buildings, including the Nuremberg stadium where the big Nazi rallies were held. Nuremberg was also where Speer would be sentenced to life in prison for his use of slavery and forced labor. What a fucking asshole, Mike thought.
Some of other bastards were even worse.
The man off Hitler’s left shoulder was von Ribbentrop, Nazi Germany’s foreign minister and one of the Fuhrer’s closest confidantes. Mike couldn’t remember his first name – but his face was splashed across every front page in the world when he became the first Nuremberg defendant to be hanged for his crimes.
Behind Speer and von Ribbentrop were a couple of devils in the flesh: Martin Bormann and Joseph Goebbels.
Bormann became Hitler’s chief deputy after Rudolph Hess took off on his ill-fated solo flight to Scotland and wound up a POW. Bormann was the guy you had to go through to see the Fuhrer. He had the final say on legislation and total control of the German public. If Dr. Huber doesn’t send him into the future, four months from now he’ll kill himself here in Berlin.
Alongside Borman was the master of Nazi propaganda, Joseph Goebbels. He controlled every aspect of German media, selling fascist ideology, the fatherland, and the Aryan master race to the “good Germans” who believed his lies and looked the other way as the atrocities – and the bodies — piled up. He’s destined to kill his six children and commit suicide along with his wife the day after Hitler blows his brains out. Unless Dr. Huber’s time machine can save him.
The next pair were Göring and Himmler.
A bear of man, nearly six-foot tall, Hermann Göring was the founder of the Gestapo, the Nazi secret police. He also commanded the Luftwaffe. If Göring was looking to escape, it was a clear sign there was no longer an air force strong enough to defend Germany from Allied bombers. If Dr. Huber’s magic time portal is a bust, Göring will be sentenced to death at Nuremberg — and swallow cyanide before his execution.
To Göring’s right was Heinrich Himmler, the sadistic butcher who commanded the murderous Waffen SS — and ran the Gestapo, too. No job was too dirty for Himmler, a man without a soul. He, too, will kill himself after the fall of Berlin. Unless he can escape to the future – and carry the fight for fascism to America.
The last man in line was maybe the worst: Adolf Eichmann. All Mike needed to know about Eichmann was that he was a big shot in planning and carrying out the Final Solution: the mass murder of millions of Jews, Gypsies, political prisoners, and anyone else he and Hitler deemed undesirable. Mike knew guys in GI units that liberated Eichmann’s death camps. Their stories made him sick. Mike wished he could carve Eichmann up with his knife. Slowly. Dying just one death wouldn’t be enough for a monster like him.
Mike trailed this hateful bunch as they marched down the hallway to the time portal. He had no trouble staying with them while keeping out of sight. So far, it all seemed too easy. He still wasn’t entirely sure what he would do when they all reached the time portal. He yearned to get back to Gloria, but these Nazi creeps had to be stopped. He couldn’t let them join up with the militia nuts who were already shooting up his country. The stakes were as high as they could be. And Mike’ situation was as crazy as it could get.
As Huber and his cohort arrived at the time portal, Mike slid behind a chest-high countertop across from the portal, squeezing himself between the counter and the wall. On the other side of that counter, the Nazis stood marveling at Huber’s time machine. Huber began to give instructions. Mike followed what Huber was saying as best he could, but without Horst Mueller around, Huber had no reason to speak any English.
Mike snuck a peek from his hiding place. It seemed crazy, but it looked like Hitler was having his goons draw straws. From what Mike could make out, the guy who drew the short straw would stay back and operate the portal. Had they all been trained to do it? Was this the best way to choose? They’d need Huber to guide them into the future, and, of course, the Fuhrer wasn’t drawing a straw — but this part of Huber’s plan seemed oddly random.
Mike had to get closer to the portal if he wanted to follow them into the future. TEC-9 in hand, he worked his way silently toward the end of the counter, less than five feet from the entrance to the portal. But his silence was broken when Mike banged his knee against the counter, giving it a jolt – followed by the sound of glass smashing on the concrete floor!
Mike had given himself away.
The Nazis were alarmed by the crash, their voices rising. They’d soon whip their guns out and aim in the direction of the sound. There was only one thing Mike could do: shoot first and drop as many of those assholes as he could. He popped up over the countertop and sprayed them all with the full forty-eight-shot clip in his TEC-9. Five Nazis fell in the fusillade — but two others tried to return fire. Mike drew his Luger, got off two well-aimed shots, and killed them both.
Scanning the room, Mike saw Dr. Huber laying on top of Hitler to protect him. They were both unarmed.
Mike heard footsteps running hard toward him in the distance. The six heavily armed SS guards would be here soon. Mike had just five rounds left in his Luger. It was bad math for Mike. Before he engaged in a final gun battle, he had a grisly job to do. He drew his knife.
Huber helped Hitler up and started moving toward the SS men rushing to save them. Mike bounded from behind the counter – and with the same jungle-honed efficiency that cut down those Bund Boys at Cal Tech, he tackled both men, plunged his knife into Dr. Huber’s chest, then sliced Hitler’s hamstrings.
While Huber clutched his chest, gasping and bleeding out, Mike straddled the writhing Fuhrer. Hitler’s eyes were wide with fear as Mike sliced his throat from ear to ear. Sic semper tyrannis, he thought.
The jackbooted footsteps of the SS guards grew louder as Mike ran back behind the counter, ready to make his last five rounds count. He thought of Gloria. He’d never get back to her now. He loved her so much.
As the SS men arrived at the chamber, Mike peeked around the corner of the counter. Two of the guards, momentarily stunned at the carnage, ran to Hitler’s side. Two others looked for signs of life among the fallen officers. The remaining two swept the room, their 30-round MP 44s at the ready, looking to blow away the men who did this. Those two guys were the ones Mike needed to kill first. If they opened fire with their machine guns, he didn’t stand a chance. As it was, his chances were slim to none.
One of Mike’s SS targets moved along the counter toward where he was hiding. As he reached the end of the counter, Mike made his move. Gripping his Luger, his hand sweating, he put a bullet through the Kraut’s head, dropping him and his MP 44 to the floor. Before the other SS men could respond, Mike picked up the dead man’s rifle and blazed away, riddling the others as they tried to return fire. A few of them got off some wild shots, but Mike had the element of surprise, a lethal weapon, deadly aim – and a righteous fury.
The room grew quiet.
After a heavy moment, Mike stood up, surveyed the bloody scene, and taking no chances, sprayed the fallen bodies with every round left in his stolen MP 44’s magazine. Then he took Horst’s Luger out of his pocket and coolly put his final four bullets into the heads of Hitler, Huber, Himmler, and…
Suddenly, a massive explosion overhead shuddered the bunker and shook loose a downpour of dust and debris. Everything went dark.
Mike woke up with a start as another big Allied bomb shivered the bunker. His tired mind struggled to focus in the dark. He switched on his flashlight and saw that he was still camped near the bunker door, far from the time portal. There was just a hint of daylight above the closed door. The Allies were on an early morning bombing run over Berlin.
As the fog of sleep lifted, Mike realized he hadn’t killed anyone. His vivid images of killing Huber, Hitler, and his whole Nazi cadre were just a dream. His deadly heroics were an unconscious fantasy — satisfying in a way, but as useless as his iPhone.
Now that he was awake, he was back to square one, waiting to see who came through the bunker door. If anyone came through that door.
Mike wished he could remember every detail of his dream. It was, after all, sort of a practice run. Was there really a long countertop in the portal chamber that he could hide behind? He needed to go back and give that room a closer look. After the bombs stopped falling, of course.
If he didn’t get killed in this bombing run, he’d have plenty more chances to die in the hours and days to come. Mike smiled at this bit of gallows humor — until another bomb blast dropped a large chunk of concrete ceiling next to him. Just close enough to remind him that his death could come much sooner than later.
The Practical Theatre Company returns to Studio5 — Opening on December 26th!
Thomas Jefferson and Abigail & John Adams welcome you to an evening of sophisticated frolic, music, and more as The Practical Theatre Company presents their annual holiday revue — “Quick! Before We’re Cancelled!”
Among the subjects comedically explored is Chicago’s embrace of the first American Pope and his relationship to the Windy City’s baseball teams.
Studio5 is Evanston’s shining gem of a cabaret theatre performance space — with adult drinks available at the bar — and acres of free parking. Laughs, music & adult beverages! Holiday fun in classic Practical Theatre style. Featuring Paul Barrosse, Victoria Zielinski and Dana Olsen. With Steve Rashid & the Studio5 All-Stars, keyboard whiz Larry Schanker, Chicago’s finest jazz vocalist Paul Marinaro, Jim Cox on bass, and Robert Rashid on drums. Let’s all enjoy a laugh at the close of 2025. We could all use a good laugh, right?
Join us at Studio5 in Evanston for an evening of classic improvisational sketch comedy, laughter, and great music with Victoria Zielinski & Paul Barrosse & Dana Olsen of The Practical Theatre Company. We’ve been doing this sort of thing on the North Shore since the late 1970s — and this year’s show will close out 2025 with the cathartic comedic celebration we all need.
Featuring multi-instrumentalist and Studio5 impresario Steve Rashid, keyboard wizard Larry Schanker, and Chicago’s finest jazz vocalist, Paul Marinaro! Plus the Studio5 All-Stars, with bassist Jim Cox and drummer Robert Rasdhid.
Trying to enter the building Horst had just entered, Mike turned the door handle. It was locked. Of course, it was. Dr. Horst Mueller wasn’t an idiot.
Time was wasting. Mike looked to his right and saw a first story window about fifteen feet away. Beneath it was a large dumpster. It was a chance.
Climbing up onto the dumpster, Mike saw that the window was open a crack. If he could climb through that window without being detected, he could outflank anyone who might be guarding the front door. He needed some luck right now. America needed some luck.
He wedged his fingers into the space at the bottom of the window and pushed upward. The window moved, making a loud squeaking noise. If anyone but a fool was on guard, he’d surely come running toward that sound. But Mike had no choice but to shove the window open, crawl through it, draw his TEC-9 – and blast his way through to that goddamned portal if he must.
But nobody came into the room.
Mike glanced at his phone. The tracker showed Horst was somewhere to Mike’s left. At least that’s where his overcoat was. What floor Horst was on was impossible to know, but Mike knew which direction to go. He checked his TEC-9’s clip, just to be sure. Save for the one slug he put into Horst — Mike was loaded and ready for battle. But, if he got into a gunfight, he’d never be able to sneak up on Horst and Huber. The situation called for getting in close – and quiet.
With his gun in his right hand, Mike reached with his left and drew his Marine commando knife from the sheath strapped to his shin. He’d drawn lots of blood with it in the Pacific. It was his good luck charm. He’d never left home without it.
Mike could see about twenty feet down the hallway to what looked like it might be the door that Horst would have staggered through. But he didn’t see any guards. That was odd. He figured Horst and Huber would have employed some kind of armed security — and surely their paramilitary pals would be more than happy to provide some muscle.
He couldn’t just rush in like some gung-ho Marine and hope things went his way. He had to know what he was up against. Looking down the hallway, a shadow darkened the wall, followed closely by a second shadow. Both shadows looked to be armed with long guns. The bastards had guards after all.
Moving silently and surely down the hallway, Mike knew he had the drop on these guys. But gunshots would alert Horst and Huber. Mike had to keep the element of surprise — observing the rules he learned on night raids in the jungle. Go in quietly. Get it done quietly. Get out quietly.
Mike saw the guards just seconds before he and the two shadows converged at the front door. He was bigger than either of them, but they were wearing body armor and carrying long guns. They didn’t look like grad students. They looked more like the militia nuts he saw at Murphy’s Ranch.
Flying bullets were random and chaotic. This was a time for what hardened commandos like Mike called wet work. Close-up, physical combat.
He took his commando knife from its sheath.
As the two guards walked past him, Mike bolted from his hiding place, swept in low behind them with his knife — and hamstrung both men. Before they could cry out, he slit their throats. Butchering them without an ounce of remorse. This wasn’t a police matter, or some sordid little case for a private dick. This was war.
But where were Horst and Huber? And how close were they to bringing Hitler and his pals into the future?
Mike moved with purpose in the direction from which the two unfortunate guards had come, his hip complaining loudly. Drops of blood on the white tile floor confirmed he was heading in the right direction. Luckily, the hallway led to just one windowless door. Horst and Huber were likely on the other side. As he got closer, he could hear the muffled sound of electrical buzzing and humming.
Mike’s plan was simple: open the door — surprise the two Nazi masterminds — and pump them both full of lead before they could cause any more misery. Then, he’d place an anonymous call to the cops and get back to Gloria.
Mike gripped the handle on the metal door, turning it as quietly as he could. Again, luck was with him. The door wasn’t locked. The wounded Horst must not be operating at one hundred percent. Whatever timetable he and Huber had for bringing Hitler and his regime into the future would’ve been moved up now that someone was hot on their trail. What if there were more guards on the other side of the door? No matter. Mike’s TEC-9 was on a hair trigger. More guards would only increase the body count.
Mike opened the door quietly and stepped inside — ready to blast away — but there were no armed militia boys to greet him. He crept into a small cloakroom outside a much larger room which bore the title “Physics Lab #7”. Mike could hear the agitated voices of Horst and Huber amid the hum of the time portal machinery.
He locked the door behind him, turning the knob and setting the deadbolt. He wasn’t going to let his prey escape. He crept up close to the laboratory door, listening in.
Speaking in their customary mix of German and English, Huber was telling Horst to shut up about the pain in his wounded shoulder and focus on the work at hand. He called Horst’s impulsive shooting of “some damned old woman” inexcusable. Mike didn’t like hearing anyone talk about Gloria like that, but Huber was right. Horst’s bloody trail would soon lead the cops to those two militia stiffs in the hallway – and right to Physics Lab #7. Mike figured they’d be here inside of a half hour at most.
Sure enough, Dr. Huber was rushing their ultimate plan into action right now.
Dr. Huber went over that plan one more time. Horst was to dial the portal back to January 1, 1945. Huber would emerge from the portal in Berlin and gather Hitler and his top henchmen. If the police started breaking into the lab after Huber is transported to the past, Horst was to destroy this Cal Tech portal. Huber and his Nazi cohort will then pass through the Berlin portal, emerge on today’s date in 2008, and implement plan B.
Mike understood most of what they were saying. But plan B?The Berlin portal? This was a lot to take in all at once. Could he be hearing this right?
While the two scientists had their backs turned, Huber manipulating dials and Horst taking notes, Mike slipped through the doorway into the lab, ducking out of sight behind some Frankenstein-looking machinery. Should he just kill these creeps now? Destroy their crazy time machine? But what about this Berlin portal? Did Horst and Huber have associates in Germany ready to carry out their plan if for some reason they couldn’t? Plan C perhaps?
As he crouched down, hidden, TEC-9 at the ready, Mike wondered whether it would be a mistake to bump these guys off without truly wrapping up the case: without making sure there’s no way a time-traveling Hitler could escape the fate that history had already recorded? What effect would his miraculous survival and emergence in 2008 have on everything that’s happened in the world since he was supposed to have killed himself in the Fuhrerbunker?
Mike shook his head. These were big thoughts for a guy with less than two years of college.
Just as he did back at Murphy’s Ranch on December 12, 1951 – somehow only six days ago – Mike made a bold decision. He’d follow Huber into the portal. This time into the past. He’d do his best to make damn sure Hitler and his henchmen stayed dead. He wasn’t going to let Gloria take a bullet for nothing. He wasn’t going to let all those gun-toting, racist militia morons rally around the second coming of Hitler. Hell no.
Huber barked final instructions to Horst, who flipped a couple of switches in response. The portal’s machinery hummed at a higher pitch. Raising their hands in salute, the two conspirators exchanged an emotional “Seig Heil!”
Then, Dr. Huber strode into the portal for his trip back to January 1, 1945.
While Horst focused on his time machine’s control panel, Mike crawled unseen toward the portal. Just then, there was a loud banging and shouting at the door. The cops had already arrived! Horst turned his head toward the commotion, freezing for a moment as urgent voices demanded immediate entrance. With Horst momentarily distracted, Mike slipped into the portal.
Ignoring the clamor at the door, Horst turned his attention back to the portal’s controls. He threw one last switch, sending the portal’s occupants back 63 years in time.
As before, there were no sci-fi pyrotechnics inside the portal. Mike experienced no distinct line between present and past. He couldn’t see anything ahead of him. It was as though he was in a cloud. It was surreal. A waking dream.
Mike tried to push away thoughts of Gloria and whether she was going to be okay. He had to focus on staying alive long enough to stop unspeakable horrors from happening. Dr. Huber was somewhere up ahead of him, passing through the portal, moving toward a hideous rendezvous. An appointment with evil.
Suddenly, Mike could see clearly as he emerged from the portal, his adrenaline pumping. He was in the hallway of what appeared to be an underground bunker. Overhead he heard the high-pitched scream of a falling bomb – followed by a blast that shook the ceiling and nearly knock him off his feet. Concrete dust showered him. The smell of cordite was in the air.
Mike was back in the war.
Through the dusty haze and flickering electric light, he saw Huber just five yards ahead of him, getting up slowly from the floor, shaken by the blast. Huber gripped his knee, then began limping down the long hallway. The old scientist never looked back to see if he was being followed. Why would he? He had every reason to think he was alone. And even if he did look back, he wouldn’t see Mike in pursuit. Mike was good at this game.
Upon reaching the bunker’s large, heavy, cast-iron door, Huber sat down and rubbed his injured knee. Outside, the sounds of the air raid continued: the whistling of the falling bombs, the explosions, and the wailing of sirens. It looked like Huber was going to wait until the “all clear” signal sounded before leaving the bunker. It was a good call. It also gave Mike, hidden in the shadows about twenty feet away, a chance to catch his breath and assess the situation.
He had Huber in sight – and the game was on! But Mike had no tracking device on Huber, so he’d have to keep track of his target the normal way. Stalking Huber through the bombed-out streets of Berlin wasn’t going to be easy. For one thing Mike couldn’t trail anybody while dressed in clothes from 2008. He’d have to find something else to wear, perhaps from someone killed in the bombing. Civilian clothes? A uniform? Civies might give him more freedom of movement. If Mike was spotted on the street in uniform, some officer might give him orders he’d have to obey. Orders he wouldn’t completely understand.
Again, Mike wished he’d learned more German growing up.
Identification was another problem. His California driver’s license, issued in 1948, was worse than useless. It was an absurdity. He’d need to steal an identity. Perhaps from the same corpse who provided his clothes?
Mike’s thoughts were interrupted when another bomb came whistling down, exploding somewhere above the bunker and showering him with another layer of concrete dust. The lights flickered. He was in wartime Berlin alright.
The Allies had been bombing Berlin since ‘43. Mike had read all about those daring daylight raids in The Stars & Stripes when he was at Pearl Harbor, ready to ship out to the South Pacific. It was good news at the time. By ‘45, the tempo of the raids picked up, and large parts of Berlin were reduced to rubble. That’s what was going on up above.
Mike also knew that four hundred miles away in Belgium’s Ardennes Forest, the Nazis’ last big offensive of the war was about to fail. By January 25th – a little more than three weeks away — the Germans will lose the Battle of the Bulge, and retreat to fortifications along Germany’s western border. By April, the Allies will break through the Siegfried Line and close in on Berlin. Russian troops will be marching on the city from the east.
Time was running out for Hitler and his godawful regime. Dr. Huber hoped to throw them a lifeline that stretched into the future. But how did Huber and Horst manage to build a time portal in a Berlin bunker? And does that question even matter now?
Mike thought back to when he was eavesdropping on Horst and Huber at Murphy’s Ranch less than a week ago — back in ’51. Huber had given his protégé fifty-seven years to refine their time portal and build another one in Berlin. As nuts as that sounded to Mike at the time, it now made sense. Horst must have eventually advanced their Cal Tech portal to the point that he could travel back in time months or maybe even years before January of ‘45, ferrying the equipment he needed to build this secret portal in Berlin.
The “all clear” signal had yet to sound. Clearly, old Dr. Huber wasn’t going anywhere for a while, so Mike had a bit more time to think.
It’s possible Huber might’ve gotten permission to build his time portal from the Fuhrer himself. Why not? Hitler always tried to be ahead of the technological curve. He had a secret program to develop Wunderwaffe – high-tech wonder weapons like the supersonic V2 rocket, radio-controlled missiles, and an atomic bomb. If a certified scientific genius like Dr. Otto Huber presented an ambitious plan to build a time machine that would allow the Fuhrer and his top lieutenants to escape the fall of Germany, why not give him a shot?
At this point, Mike was ready to believe anything was possible.
But what would Mike do when the bunker door opened? This wasn’t like storming the beach with a platoon of Marines. Young as they were, Mike and his Leatherneck pals knew what they were going up against on those islands. They’d drilled and trained for it as a unit. They were supported by the navy’s big guns, blasting away at the enemy hidden in the tree line. They didn’t need any ID other than their dog tags — and they didn’t need to find new clothes…
The “all clear” siren began to wail.
For Mike, that siren was not an entirely welcome sound. He would soon be outside, facing lots of unknowns as he tried to stay close to Huber. He wondered if he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe he should have stayed with Gloria and made certain she was okay. But how could he and Gloria live happily ever after knowing that he’d allowed the worst person in history to travel through time and lead an army of gun-crazy, racist nuts in a new American civil war? The mass killings were already underway. The Bund Boys, Oath Takers, Aryan Patriots and the rest had started slaughtering those who weren’t like them: innocent folk who didn’t think, worship, or vote like them.
Adding actual Third Reich Nazis to that madhouse mix was unthinkable.
Mike watched from the shadows as Dr. Huber got up slowly, still favoring his gimpy knee. He punched a few buttons on a console next to the door, which was held closed by a series of bars, bolts, and locks. He heard metal grinding against concrete as the massive door slowly opened. A widening shaft of sunlight came through the doorway, revealing a flight of stairs — and chilling blast of wintry air reminded Mike that he wasn’t in southern California anymore.
Suddenly, he had an epiphany. Dr. Huber didn’t know he was being followed. Had no idea who Mike was or what he looked like. That was Mike’s edge. He had to think and move fast. Race to the door, brush past Huber, sprint up the stairs, hide somewhere on the street — and wait for Huber to emerge from the bunker. Then again, wouldn’t that spook Huber? He didn’t even know whether Huber was armed. Mike had scant seconds to act.
Then, a thought flashed in his weary mind — and he caught himself. What the hell was he thinking? The time portal is in this bunker! Why would Mike ever leave it? That would be the dumbest thing he could possibly do. There was no need to track Huber back and forth on his rendezvous with Hitler and company. They’d all have to come back to this bunker – or there’d be no trip to the future. All Mike had to do was stay here and wait for Horst to return with them.
Mike stayed put as Huber stepped through the doorway into the sunlight — and the door closed behind him with a slam that echoed down the long halls of the bunker. The door’s closing turned out all the lights and triggered a mechanism by which the locks, bolts, and bars all slid back into place, sealing the door again.
Now, Mike had no choice. He was stuck in the bunker for the duration. He’d use the time to plan his reception party for the Nazi honchos. He felt for his good-luck knife strapped to his leg. Still there if he needed it. He checked the ammo in his TEC-9 and Horst’s Luger. There were forty-eight rounds left in the TEC-9 and seven in Horst’s Luger. The only bullet missing from the Luger was now in Gloria’s arm. His thoughts returned to Gloria. Was she okay? Was she alive?
Of course, she was alive. He couldn’t entertain any other thought.
Dog tired, Mike sat in the now-quiet darkness. He thought about the bombing raid: a moving blanket of destruction and death. It sounded like the bombers had made two runs over the area. Those flyboys, he figured, must not be all that threatened by what was left of Jerry’s air defenses. Goering’s vaunted Luftwaffe was short on fuel and losing planes and pilots it couldn’t replace. It was no longer capable of shielding the Fatherland. So, the U.S. Eighth Air Force was piling it on.
One month from now, fifteen-hundred American bombers would hit the center of Berlin in one of the largest bombing raids of the war. Mike didn’t want to be in town on that deadly day.
His stomach grumbled. It was way past lunch time.
An awful question chilled Mike’s blood. What if there wasn’t any food in here? If Huber didn’t come back for days – or weeks — how would he survive? Mike took a deep breath. Panic wasn’t going to help. He had to keep positive. Rather than stalking desperate Nazis through the smoldering ruins of Berlin, he’d hunt for food in the bunker.
He had reason to be optimistic. Bunkers like these were built for survival, right? What bomb shelter wouldn’t be stocked with lots of stuff to eat? But it was nearly pitch-black inside. There was now no light in the bunker aside from a thin line of sunlight above its closed iron door. That thin shaft of light didn’t travel very far into the interior. Mike had hundreds of feet of blackness to explore.
He reached into his pocket and found a matchbook. Knowing he had to use this limited resource wisely, he struck a match — which flared, shedding a faint light down a long hallway. The time portal was somewhere back there in the deepest, darkest shadows. But right now, time travel wasn’t top of mind. Mike needed light and warmth. He had to build a fire, then search for food. Starvation wouldn’t help him complete his mission.
With no idea when Herr Huber might return with the Nazi hierarchy in tow, Mike had to stay alive long enough to prevent the insanity of a Third Reich restoration in America. And hopefully, somehow, he could return to Gloria. All he needed was some light in the darkness — and as much good luck as he could possibly get.
Mike walked slowly down the hallway, lighting a new match every twenty-five feet until it burned his fingertips. Once he got a good look inside the bunker — he’d have a better grip on his situation.
Okay, readers. Things are getting complicated. Are you with me? Let me know. Are you following Mike Delaney’s descent into the unknown? Likes and comments are appreciated. (Criticisms, too.) This is my first novel, after all…
Chapter Sixteen
As Gloria drove Mike to Cal Tech, it was decided that she would be the one to place the tracker on one of the old Nazis. She’d be the bait to draw either Horst or Huber into a trap. Mike wasn’t comfortable with Gloria taking on such a dangerous role, but it made a lot of sense. A very sexy senior citizen, Gloria’s charms were manifest. If she could somehow nuzzle up to one of the bad guys and plant the tracking device on him, Mike could gain an edge.
The tracker was connected to Mike’s iPhone. Wherever Gloria went, whoever she planted the device on, could be tracked on his phone. He hated to put his lover in such a tight spot – but Gloria was more than game. “Get me next to one of those old Nazi rats and I’ll charm the pants off him,” she said with the assurance of a woman who knows how attractive she is. “That is, if he’s truly a man.”
Mike winced. He knew how far Gloria was willing to go to trap these assholes. The fate of western democracy was at stake – and his girlfriend was ready to take the point with him.
Mike didn’t like being chauffeured by a woman, even Gloria, as fabulous as she was. It just didn’t feel right. He felt humiliated by the loss of control. But it had to be. If they were stopped by the cops for any reason and Mike was at the steering wheel — they’d lose valuable time while the cops tried to sort out the unsortable. The fact was they’d never sort it out.
Mike gazed at Gloria as she drove to Pasadena. She was cool. Magnificent. He could only imagine what she’d gone through in the years after he went missing. What had made her so capable, so fearless? If Gloria had been a Navy officer, barking out orders as her landing craft pounded through surging waves and hellish incoming fire toward a bloody island beachhead, he would’ve followed her without question. Straight into hell.
He’d abandoned Gloria for over half a century, yet she’d forgiven his inexplicable disappearance and still loved him. It was a fucking miracle. But he’d need many more miracles to defeat this time-traveling Nazi plot and save his country. And maybe the whole goddamned world.
The next miracle would be finding those mad scientists. Another would be if Andy’s tracking device actually worked as advertised.
“Turn on the radio, babe,” Mike said, as they drove into Pasadena and were nearing Cal Tech. “Let’s see if this shit’s gotten any worse.” Gloria tuned in the news. It wasn’t good.
A mass shooting was now being reported in northeast California. One of the shooters was wounded and captured by police. He proclaimed himself to be a citizen of the independent State of Jefferson. The killers used automatic rifles, and the victims were all Hispanic farmworkers gathered at a Catholic church. The reporter said the killings might be a hate crime.
“That’s an understatement,” Mike muttered. Horst and Huber had ignited a race war. And if he didn’t track those guys down before they made their next move, things were going to get a whole hell of a lot worse.
Time was wasting. The portal had to be somewhere on or near the Cal Tech campus. The school would have placed every resource at the disposal of their Nobel Prize winning physicist so Horst could continue his groundbreaking research in astrophysics. They wouldn’t question what he was doing. They’d eagerly await the results of his latest Nobel-worthy breakthrough.
Mike and Gloria drove onto the campus and parked on the street near Horst’s campus office. Mike had been on hundreds of stakeouts, but none with such high stakes. They watched for any movement that Horst and Huber might make — running over what they’d do if, and when, they saw the old Nazis. Gloria would engage with one or both of them, plant the tracking device, and Mike would follow their trail.
Andy had run a list of Horst’s graduate students over the last few years and settled on a student named Bill Martens. Martens had graduated from Cal Tech with a Masters in Nuclear Physics and was now in a doctoral program at the University of Chicago. Gloria would play the role of Marten’s grandmother, a sweet old woman with a favor to ask of Dr. Mueller. Mike would listen in at a distance — and move in fast if there was trouble.
If they saw Dr. Huber first, Gloria would simply ask him if he knew where Dr. Mueller’s office was, using the same story about being the grandmother of a gifted ex-student with a favor to ask of the esteemed physicist.
It wasn’t much of a plan, and there was plenty that could go wrong in a hurry, but it was all they had. Mike wasn’t thrilled about Gloria being in harm’s way, but Andy’s tracking device was far better than the old wiretap crap they’d used back in Mike’s day. But Gloria to had to get close to her target. And stay close.
Gloria’s charms would be crucial. Nazi rat bastards as they were, Horst and Huber were just a couple of old men after all. Gloria had a far better chance than Mike did of engaging one of them and planting the tracking device on him before Mike could make his next move. Maybe, once he knew where the portal was located, he could call the cops. But what would he tell the police? “Hey, come arrest a couple of old Nazis who are about to fire up their time machine at Cal Tech and bring back Adolph Hitler? And please hurry up!”
By the time the cops were done asking him questions that would be damned hard to answer – including who the hell he was – it would probably be too late. It was all a goddamn crap shoot. Mike was betting on his beloved Gloria — and letting it all ride.
Before long, they saw Horst Mueller walking with purpose toward his office. This was a first bit of luck. Dr. Huber never had a student named Bill Martens.
Gloria jumped out of the car and ran up to Horst as though she was a young co-ed bumping into him between classes. In English, she gushed, “Forgive me, Dr. Mueller, but I have a question if you have a moment. I know you’re busy, and I hate to disturb a brilliant man like yourself, but I’m desperate. It’s about my grandson, Bill Martens. He’s the only reason I’d dare to contact you in this way.”
Taken aback, yet charmed by Gloria, Horst asked what her question was.
Gloria poured on the charm. “My Billy was a graduate student of yours, Dr. Mueller. He told me that you’re the sole reason he was able to get his Masters. Now, he’s a PhD candidate at the University of Chicago, pursuing his doctorate in Nuclear Physics.”
“That’s admirable, my dear,” said Horst. “Bill is a bright and promising young man. You should be very proud.”
“Of course, Dr. Mueller,” said Gloria, “We both have good reason to be proud of Bill. You far more than me. But I wonder if you might answer his question.”
“And what question is that my dear lady?”
“You must know, Herr Mueller, that my grandson has made quite a study of your brilliant career. He hopes to write his doctoral thesis on your phenomenal life’s work. Surely you agree that it’s a worthy subject.”
“You flatter me, ma’am…”
“Please, call me Gloria.”
“Of course. Gloria.”
Mueller blushed, but he was an agitated man in a hurry — torn between attraction, ego, and an appointment for which he was clearly late. He gave Gloria a warm but nervous smile. “Your grandson honors me – but he should make such a request himself. Directly. This is highly unusual. Forgive me, madam, but your grandson must contact me through proper channels.”
“Please, Dr. Mueller, surely you can answer just one question. It would mean so much to my grandson, Bill. He needs to know if he’s headed in the right direction.”
Listening in, Mike’s blood grew cold. Gloria was pushing hard. Maybe too hard. Horst Mueller was an old man, but he was also a devoted Nazi. Mike fingered the trigger of the TEC-9 in his hand, ready to open fire at a moment’s notice
Gloria stepped up close to Horst, enough for her perfume and pheromones to come into play. Watching from forty feet away, Mike saw Gloria lean into Horst, her chest to his chest.
In a sultry whisper, Gloria asked, “Whatever happened to your mentor, Dr. Otto Huber?” As she said this, she attached Andy’s tracking device to Horst’s jacket.
Unaware he’d been tagged, Horst turned pale, caught between attraction and a growing suspicion. Gloria pressed her case as though she’d said nothing remarkable.
“My grandson has questions about Dr. Huber for his dissertation. You and Herr Huber made history in the study of Physics. Your concepts are so advanced that nobody appreciates them to this day. I’d be grateful if you’d talk to my grandson.”
Intoxicated by Gloria, Horst kept his cool. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone by the name of Dr. Huber. Good day to you, Mrs. Martens…”
“Please, call me Gloria.”
“Please, Mrs. Martens. Excuse me. I must be on my way.”
Gloria stepped in front of Huber, facing him down. “I’m no longer a married woman, Dr. Mueller. You needn’t be so formal. Is my grandson correct that you and Dr. Huber were associates in some very important work?”
Listening in, Mike worried that Gloria was pushing Huber too far, too fast.
“I’m sorry, madam,” Horst said, as if to end the conversation.
“But my grandson,” she replied, looking Horst straight in the eye.…
“I really must go…”
“Please, Herr Mueller. Is there nothing you can tell my grandson about your work with Dr. Huber? It would mean so much to his dissertation on time travel.”
At that moment, Horst’s voice turned ice cold — and Mike’s heart nearly stopped.
“Our conversation is at an end, Madam.”
Horst drew a Luger pistol from his coat pocket and pointed it at Gloria’s heart. “You will ask no more questions.”
From Mike’s vantage point, it looked as though Horst’s Luger had a suppressor attached to its barrel. He could gun Gloria down in the street and nobody would hear a thing.
Horst leaned in close and pushed his Luger into Gloria’s breast. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Martens. But I’ve no information about this Dr. Huber you speak of. Our conversation is over,” he said, as he shifted his gun to Gloria’s back. “Follow me, please, and ask no more questions.”
Mike wanted to draw his gun and drop that fascist prick right where he stood — but he couldn’t. He might save the woman he loved, but he’d lose track of this Nazi mastermind and his whole evil plot. The fate of the free world was at stake.
Still, if he lost Gloria again, was the goddamned free world worth it?
Mike got out of the car. He followed at a distance as Horst directed Gloria into an alley between two nondescript university buildings. The love of his life was in mortal danger, keeping her cool, against an evil she couldn’t truly comprehend. He followed with all the skill he’d gained on a hundred deadly patrols in the Pacific. He paused just outside the alley and poked his head around the corner of a building to get a bead on Gloria and Horst. They were close enough for Mike to hear what they were saying.
“I don’t know who you are, madam,” Horst said. “But I cannot allow you to live.”
Mike took aim at Horst as Gloria pleaded in a loud voice.
“Please, Dr. Mueller!”
Mike squeezed off a shot just as Horst fired point-blank at Gloria. Their silent shots were simultaneous. Gloria fell to the ground, clutching her arm as Horst spun around, gripping his shoulder, and dropping his Luger on the ground.
As Horst staggered away from the scene, Mike was momentarily stunned. He gasped for air, his legs buckling. But, as much as he loved Gloria – as much as he ached for her — he had to keep his mind on the mission. He’d lost so many Marine buddies, slaughtered on the beaches, torn to pieces, and bleeding out. Like the platoon leader he’d been, he had to focus on the job at hand. He knew what the mission was. Stop the Nazis.
But Gloria!
Mike raced to her side as Horst’s footsteps trailed away. He knew gunshot wounds all too well. Gloria was badly wounded, but she was breathing, and alert. The bullet had gone clear through her arm and she was bleeding bad. Mike ripped off his tie and improvised a tourniquet. Gloria fixed her eyes on Mike. She grabbed his wrist with her good arm.
“Get him, Mike,” she gasped. “Don’t let the bastard get away!”
“But Gloria…”
“Damn it, Mike. Track down that Nazi prick,” she whispered in pain. “Follow him to hell if you have to.”
Mike kissed Gloria’s still warm lips as though his love alone might save her life. She looked him in the eye and told him to go – now! “Follow that bastard, Mike. Follow him straight to hell!”
Mike pulled himself away from Gloria – then paused. “I’ll call Andy. He’ll send help. Tighten the tourniquet if you have to…”
“Go, Mike!
Mike stuffed Horst’s Luger into his pocket and ran off to run down his wounded prey. The signal from the tracking device was strong – and Horst was trailing blood, so he wasn’t hard to follow.
At that point, the hour changed, and the class bell rang. Cal Tech students would soon emerge from their classrooms and the sidewalks would fill up. Hopefully, a student would find Gloria and alert campus security. An investigation would soon be underway. But the campus cops weren’t going to help Mike. They’d only get in the way.
This was Mike’s war. And only he could bring it to an end.
As Mike followed Horst’s bloody trail, he called Andy Pafko, who answered on the first ring. “Hey, Mike. The mass shootings are spreading. Reporters still don’t know what’s going on. A black church just got shot up in Vegas…”
“Shut up and listen, Andy. I just traded shots with Horst. Gloria’s wounded at Cal Tech. Campus security will find her soon – but stay on it, will you?”
“Of course, Mike. But what about Horst and Huber?”
“I winged Horst. He’s wounded. I’m on his trail now. No time to talk. Just take care of Gloria, okay?”
“I will, buddy…”
“Make sure she’s okay, Andy. I can’t lose that girl. She’s all I’ve got. I’ll take care of these fucking Nazi bastards.”
Mike stuffed the phone into his pocket next to Horst’s Luger. He knew if that if these right-wing nuts joined with Hitler and his Nazi henchmen, the American experiment could be over in a spasm of uncontrollable violence not seen since the Civil War. Bullets were already flying. Gloria was already a casualty.
Mike had no time to lose. He followed Horst’s blood-dripping trail for two hundred yards to the back door of a three-story brick building, then paused. Would the door be guarded by fanatic Nazi dead-enders — or Cal Tech grad students with no clue that their illustrious old professor was ushering in a new Third Reich?
Either way, Mike was going in with lethal intent, ready to kill the asshole who’d gunned down his one true love: the guy who was about to lead Hitler and his Nazi cadre through some crazy time machine — and turn America into a fascist hellscape.
Mike paused before following Horst through that door. He texted Andy.
Early the next morning, Mike woke up next to Gloria, delighted to be in her bed – but worried sick about everything else. The “Rustic Canyon Shootout” had been on the news all night — and Mike had no idea what his next move should be. Gloria rolled over, stunning in the morning light, and kissed him in a way that crossed all his weary wires. “Let’s talk over breakfast, baby,” she said, soothing him amid the madness.
The television was off as Gloria cooked up French toast, eggs, and bacon while Mike scanned the Los Angeles Times. The headlines screamed that Rustic Canyon had been the scene of deadly mayhem the night before. Two cops and a dozen militiamen had been killed — but nobody was certain what the shooting was all about. Nobody but Mike and Gloria and Andy.
Mike shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth as Gloria filled his cup with coffee. Mike wished it could just stay this way: he and Gloria waking up together, having breakfast and enjoying each other’s company. It was a pipe dream, of course. Their destiny was anything but clear – and none of this would ever be normal. Normal disappeared back in ‘51. Now, the best they could do was take things one day at a time. Love each other one day at a time.
After breakfast, at 9:00 AM, Gloria drove Mike to Andy’s place.
“You really stirred up a hornets’ nest last night, pal. ‘The Rustic Canyon Shootout!’ Nice, stealthy work, my friend.”
Andy Pafko looked around to see it any of his neighbors were paying attention, then he ushered Mike and Gloria into his house. “Did you get the goods on video?”
“I got the whole meeting,” said Mike, somewhat defensively. “At least I got what they were saying. It was hard as hell to see anything without giving myself away.”
“Looks like you absolutely gave yourself away, partner,” said Andy with a pained smile. “Who shot first? You or the bad guys?”
“The bad guys. I tripped over a bush. They heard the sound and started shooting at me. Luckily, they couldn’t see me.”
“Hope you dropped ‘em all, buddy.”
“I’m not sure I hit anybody, Andy. I was firing blind. I got out of there before the bullets really started flying.”
“Gotta tell ya, pal — the shit truly hit the fan last night. In spades. Have some coffee and I’ll fill you in on what my pals on the force are telling me.”
Mike and Gloria took a seat at Andy’s small Formica kitchen table as Andy poured three cups of steaming hot coffee and launched into a description of the violent events of the night before – just as his police contacts relayed it to him.
“They found a bunch of dead bodies, Mike. Some by the side of Sullivan Ridge Road, some on and around the stairs leading down into that crazy old Nazi compound. And at least four near some cinder block building with a lot of crazy graffiti.”
“Graffiti?” Mike didn’t know the word.
“That wild spray painting the kids do nowadays.”
“That stuff that looks like Picasso?”
“If you say so, Mike. It’s just vandalism.”
Mike knew he was probably the guy responsible for the bodies near the blockhouse. They were lucky shots. He couldn’t see who he was shooting at. All he did was return fire in the direction of the muzzle flashes. Combat instinct took over.
Gloria kept silent until now. She looked at Mike, her eyes narrowing with concern. “How many guys do you think you killed, Mike? And how many were killed by the cops?” She sounded more like his lawyer than his lover.
Mike knew he likely dropped the guys near the blockhouse, and maybe he shot two or three on the concrete stairs – but nobody on Sullivan Ridge Road. The bad guys hadn’t gotten that far before Mike made his escape. The assholes gunned down on the road must’ve been courtesy of the cops.
“Relax, Gloria,” said Andy. “Your time-traveling fiancé isn’t a suspect.”
Andy turned to Mike, hard as stone.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Mike. You, my friend, don’t exist. And even if they could trace some bullets back to my TEC-9 – and odds are they can’t — how could an old guy in a wheelchair get into a gun battle, late at night, hundreds of steps down into a canyon? In that case, my gun must’ve been stolen, right? You’re home free, pal. You’re a freaking impossibility.”
Andy was right. Mike didn’t really exist. He was here — but his presence was impossible. That was his one great advantage. Horst and Huber were the only other people on Earth who could possibly understand the insanity of Mike’s situation. And they had no clue that he was on their trail.
Andy tuned in the TV to catch up on the latest updates. The “Rustic Canyon Shootout” was still big news. Reports revealed that at least ten members of various right-wing paramilitary militia groups had been killed — and that several cases of high-powered assault rifles were seized in a concrete building on the site of a ruined compound that once belonged to Nazi sympathizers in the years before Pearl Harbor.
“They’re doing their research,” grinned Andy. “Accent on ‘Nazi.’ Let that sink in.”
When Mike heard the reference to “several cases” of assault rifles, he had two thoughts. He had seen at least a dozen cases stacked in the blockhouse. One thought was that the authorities were covering up the scope of the situation. The other was that the militia boys had made off with the rest before the cops shot their way down into the canyon. Mike’s second thought was far worse than his first.
Reporters and experts were speculating that a fight between militia groups may have broken out over possession of all those assault weapons. Mike knew that was bullshit — but he kept the thought to himself. There were lots of questions about where the weapons came from. Mike knew all the answers. But who would believe him?
Andy looked Mike in the eye — serious as a heart attack. “Mike,” he said. “We’re on the verge of civil war.”
Mike was way ahead of him. He gave Gloria a look that was grim, determined, and honestly scared: the kind of look he gave to his Marine pals just before they jumped off the landing craft and waded ashore under fire. She tightened her grip on his arm.
“I hate to tell you, Mike” said Andy, “but this country is seriously FUBAR. And you know what that means. You’ve got millions of self-professed American patriots in rural pockets of this country who get hard thinking about an armed insurrection against the U.S. government. That’s coming from the FBI, the CIA, and the military. All these nuts own guns and, what’s worse, a lot of these douche bags have served in the U.S. military. They took a sacred oath to defend our country – and now they’re all jacked up about overthrowing the government.”
“I know, Andy. I’ve seen them. I’ve heard them. I watched them listening to those old Nazi bastards. They ate up every crazy, racist, fascist thing that Horst and Huber told them. It was all I could do not to open fire and mow them all down on the spot!”
Gloria squeezed Mike’s arm harder than before, grateful her man had kept his cool.
Andy went on. “These nut jobs believe in what they call ‘The Great Replacement’. They say that billionaire Jews are flooding the country with black and Hispanic immigrants who will take their jobs for less pay. They’re scared shitless that colored folk will wind up with the same rights they’ve got. They’ll burn the whole country down before they let white folks become the minority. And they’re dead serious. It’s not a game, Mike. They’re pumped up to where it’s existential for them. A lot of them are ready to go out in a blaze of glory.”
“No shit, Andy. I saw that for myself.”
“So, what did you get on video that’ll help us take these bastards down?”
Mike handed his iPhone to Gloria. She played the recorded video for Andy.
The old cop was stunned by what he saw and heard. It was insane, of course. For a start, the inexplicable presence of Dr. Otto Huber: ageless after fifty-seven years. Even if the authorities could somehow identify Huber, what would they make of his apparent visit to the fountain of youth? And how would they react to seeing a highly regarded Nobel Prize-winning Cal Tech physics professor on the scene?
But, strange as the appearance of the two German scientists was, the incendiary things that they said, the militia yahoos that were gathered, the open threats of violence — and all those automatic rifles waved around — might give Andy just what he needed to get one of his friends at the FBI to dip a cautious toe or two into all this craziness. Especially now that shots had been fired and it was now a big news story. Andy said he’d get the video to a friend in the FBI that very day. He warned Mike to be careful. Mike didn’t need to be warned.
On their way back to Gloria’s, Mike turned on the radio. Suddenly, the madness was horribly worse. The news was reporting that three mass shootings had occurred that morning in towns between Los Angeles and San Diego — Long Beach, Carlsbad, and La Jolla. High-powered automatic rifles were used in each case. The victims were in Hispanic, black, and Asian neighborhoods. The cops who responded were outgunned. Casualty counts were high among victims, responding cops, and assailants. The gunmen appeared to be targeting law enforcement as much as minority communities.
Mike’s heart sank. His clumsy stumble outside the blockhouse had prematurely set all this violence in motion. He saw right away that the militia boys weren’t waiting for Huber and Horst to call the next move. The old Nazi brain trust’s big plans were now out the window. The militia yahoos were getting their Helter-Skelter on without direction from anybody. A lot of pent-up white resentment and fury was exploding with no grand coordination.
But, Mike feared, if those two old Nazis scientists could put their time-travel plans into effect and add Hitler and his cohort to the mix, it might inspire these militia nuts to rally around the Fuhrer — and make things infinitely worse. Mike couldn’t believe he had to think about loony crap like this. Even crazier, he knew he might be the only guy in the world who could keep a lid on all this madness. That old shrapnel pain flared in his hip.
Old wounds meet new wounds.
By the time Mike and Gloria got home cable news was reporting that a black nightclub in Long Beach was attacked, killing fifty people. A security guard gunned down one of the three assailants: a thirty-something white man, dressed in full body armor and armed with an AR-15 and several clips of ammunition. “The motive for the attack is unknown,” said the reporter. But Mike knew the motive all too well.
In Carlsbad, a popular Mexican restaurant was shot up by as many as three masked men armed with semi-automatic rifles. Twenty Hispanic diners were dead. The gunmen were on the loose. Mike’s stomach was in knots.
But there was more.
In La Jolla, two heavily armed men shot up a marketplace in an Asian neighborhood. Twelve people were dead. Dozens wounded. Witnesses said the gunmen sprayed the crowd with automatic rifle fire. The shooters could not be identified — but Mike knew who they were — and it ate at him. Was this the world that he and his Marine brothers fought their bloody way through the Pacific to save?
As a cop, Mike dealt with lots of murders — nasty and brutal as they were. But those killings were mostly drunken rage, domestic violence, and gangsters fighting their deadly wars over territory. Now, he had to wrap his head around something far worse. Violence on a vast scale. Racist mass murder by white nationalists. He’d fought this kind of crap back when it was called “fascism” and “Nazism.”
His stomach churned. How could he stop the madness?
Mike knew he had to get back on Huber and Horst’s trail as soon as he could. He trusted that Andy would give his contact at the FBI the video from Murphy’s Ranch, but Mike also knew the Feds were usually slow to move, especially where politics were involved. Besides, what he recorded at Murphy’s Ranch was totally nuts. If the Feds ran down the details on Dr. Otto Huber, how could that old Nazi’s presence possibly be explained? They’d want to ask the guy behind the camera a lot of questions. And that guy was not available for questioning.
Mike’s head was spinning. He couldn’t control what the Feds would do or wouldn’t do. But he had to do something – and quick. He couldn’t wait for any official blessing to make his next move. And why should he?
After all, he didn’t exist, did he?
What stung Mike most was that LA cops had died at Murphy’s Ranch because of his stumble. And too many people had already been killed by those murderous militia nutcases. He couldn’t just sit on his hands. But where to start? He couldn’t go back to Murphy’s Ranch. It was crawling with crime scene investigators.
Where would Horst and Huber go?
Gloria sat at her kitchen table, glued to the TV. A reporter confirmed that three crates of automatic rifles had been seized at the scene of the Rustic Canyon Shootout. Mike’s ears perked up. Just three cases? Where the hell did the rest of those guns go? A lot of deadly firepower was missing.
Mike knew the shooting – and the dying – had only just begun.
Four hours after they left Andy’s house, Gloria’s phone rang. It was Andy. She handed it to Mike. Andy was blunt.
“Mike. Your Murphy’s Ranch video is already stirring up a shitstorm in official circles. They want to know who was behind the camera, but I told them the guy’s operating in deep cover to infiltrate the militias. I don’t know what the FBI’s next move is gonna be — but everybody’s hair is on fire! We’ve got dead cops, right-wing nut jobs, mass shootings across Southern California, and a cache of high-powered rifles. The Feds know there’s a lot more guns out there, and they’re trying to track them down. They’re jumping on it, Mike, but they don’t know what you know.”
Andy made it clear. “They have no clue about this whole time-travel insanity. They’ll never figure it out. How the hell could they? That’s why you’ve got to take the point.”
“Take the point.”
Mike knew what that meant. Take the lead. Walk down a deadly trail into the unknown. Walking point is how that damned shrapnel got lodged in his hip.
“Stick with Huber and Mueller,” Andy implored. “Dog their every step. I can’t believe I’m fucking saying this, but after the gunfight at Murphy’s Ranch, they’ll be stepping up their time-travel plans, right? They’ll be trying to bring their Nazi pals into the future as soon as possible: Hitler, Himmler, Goehring — the whole unholy bunch! We can’t have those Nazi shit-bags coming back. We kicked their asses back in ‘45. No way we want to fight them again on our home turf.”
Andy went on. “You’re gonna get a delivery in the next hour or so. It’s a tracking device. You don’t know shit about this kind of thing, Mike, ‘cuz you’re just a 50’s private dick – but if you can pin a tracker on one of those Nazi bastards, it’ll lead you to their time machine or whatever the fuck it is. It’s down to you now, pal. The Feds are putting out fires everywhere – but they can’t comprehend how the fires started. The video you shot is a clue, but they’ll never wrap their heads around it in time.”
Andy’s words rang in Mike’s ears. The time-travel madness was all too real. Mike was the only guy who had a chance to do something about it. He had to stay on Huber and Horst’s trail. The old Nazi scientists might be momentarily stunned by the undisciplined, random violence of the last twenty-four hours –and that might give him a slim advantage.
It was nearing 2:30 PM when Andy’s tracking gizmo arrived. There was just enough time for Gloria to drive Mike to Pasadena, where he could tag Horst or Huber with the tracker, and follow one of those Nazi bastards to their time machine. He would need more than a little luck.
But that was always the case when a guy took the point.
Paul's Voyage of Discovery & Etc. 
Coming Soon! “Quick! Before We’re Cancelled!”
The Practical Theatre Company returns to Studio5 — Opening on December 26th!
Thomas Jefferson and Abigail & John Adams welcome you to an evening of sophisticated frolic, music, and more as The Practical Theatre Company presents their annual holiday revue — “Quick! Before We’re Cancelled!”
For tickets: https://buytickets.at/practicaltheatre
Among the subjects comedically explored is Chicago’s embrace of the first American Pope and his relationship to the Windy City’s baseball teams.
Studio5 is Evanston’s shining gem of a cabaret theatre performance space — with adult drinks available at the bar — and acres of free parking. Laughs, music & adult beverages! Holiday fun in classic Practical Theatre style. Featuring Paul Barrosse, Victoria Zielinski and Dana Olsen. With Steve Rashid & the Studio5 All-Stars, keyboard whiz Larry Schanker, Chicago’s finest jazz vocalist Paul Marinaro, Jim Cox on bass, and Robert Rashid on drums. Let’s all enjoy a laugh at the close of 2025. We could all use a good laugh, right?
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Tagged as cabaret, comedy, Dana Olsen, Evanston, improvisational comedy, Jim Cox, Paul Barrosse, Paul Marinaro, Robert Rashid, Steve Rashid, The Practical Theatre, Victoria Zielinski