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.”
After the all-clear siren signaled the end of the air raid, Mike went back for another look at the time portal chamber. Had the portal survived? Dust filled the air in the long hallway, and cracks appeared in the concrete ceiling — but none of the bombs had punched through. How many more direct hits could this bunker withstand? Had Dr. Huber survived this latest Berlin bombing run? Was he safe in the Führerbunker? Did he make it that far?
Mike tried not to wonder too much about stuff he couldn’t possibly know. He focused on what he knew: where he was right now – and how to prepare for what might come. Whoever might come. But he had an edge. Nobody entering this bunker would have any idea that an enemy was waiting for them. He had to maximize that advantage. From what Mike could remember, the element of surprise worked wonders in his dream. Even though it was just a dream.
When he went back to the portal chamber, Mike saw that Dr. Huber had clearly anticipated the worst. The chamber was reinforced far more than the rest of the bunker. Huge iron girders framed the walls and held up the ceiling, which was made of thick sheets of steel. That’s why there was no concrete dust inside the chamber. The room housing the portal was an armored fortress. It was the best place to ride out the bombing runs, but way too far from the bunker door. When it opened, Mike needed to be as close to it as he could get. He had to know right away who he was up against.
Mike shined his flashlight across the room. There didn’t seem to be any damage to Dr. Huber’s equipment — or the time portal itself. But what did Mike know? He’d barely passed his high school algebra class. Sensitive scientific equipment like this could be broken in ways he couldn’t possibly see or understand. But everything appeared to be working yesterday.
Was it truly just yesterday? Mike was losing track of time. It didn’t help that the clocks in the bunker had stopped when Huber shut off the electricity. Mike looked at his watch — but it, too, had stopped. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wound it. It was set to Pacific time, but he had no idea what time zone Berlin was located in. The time thing was getting more and more confusing.
Exploring the chamber, Mike was pleased to confirm there was, indeed, a long counter against the wall opposite the time portal equipment. But unlike in his dream, the counter was pushed directly up against the wall, leaving no space for Mike to hide behind it. Careful not to disturb any items on top of it, Mike slid the counter away from the wall, just enough so he could squeeze in behind it, giving him more room to operate. Would Huber notice his counter had been moved? It was a risk worth taking.
Mike practiced crouching down and moving quietly behind the counter, stopping within a few feet of the entrance to the portal. Remembering the shattered glass in his dream, he took a few fragile items off the countertop so they wouldn’t give him away when he popped up over the counter with his TEC-9. At the critical moment, he had to have a clear kill shot.
He also needed a distraction.
Mike went back to the supply cabinets and found two 12-ounce glass jars full of mixed nuts. He dumped their contents into the closest toilet, flushed them, and went back to the portal chamber with the empty jars. He placed them behind the far end of the counter. They’d be there if he needed them.
It felt good to be able to prepare, to do something positive — even if much of what was to come was unknown. Mike managed a smile. Things were looking up. It was time for breakfast. Or was it lunch time? It didn’t matter. Canned mystery meat was perfect for any meal.
For the next three days, Mike honed his routine. He rehearsed his moves in the portal chamber and built his nightly fire in the same place, extinguishing it after a few hours. Then he slept in his hiding place near the bunker door, prepared to be awakened by the sound of sliding and banging metal. He imagined the door opening — and everyone who might come through the door. Would it be all the Nazi brass he saw in his dream? Less? More? How many SS guards would protect them? And how would they be armed?
Mike was planning and practicing for an event that anyone but he, Andy, Gloria – and Huber and Horst — would consider insane: preventing Hitler and his elite Nazi cadre from traveling into the future.
Several times each day, starting at the bunker door, Mike tracked his imaginary prey from the door to the portal chamber, keeping in the shadows. He repeated his movements enough to be certain that he could remain hidden. He removed obstacles that could get in his way, things he might trip over. He rehearsed how to respond if he accidentally gave himself away along the route, practicing how to react in the firefight that would result. Who he’d kill first. And so on…
Once Mike got to the portal chamber, he repeated his routine, hiding behind the counter and rehearsing various gunplay scenarios. He visualized how he might use the glass nut jars to cause a distraction, covering his movements. But his fading dream may have made it look far too easy. When Huber and his Nazi big shots gathered in the portal chamber, Mike would be lucky to get behind the counter without being seen. The odds were stacked against him, despite his preparations.
Mike still hadn’t decided whether he should just kill all the Nazis right there in the bunker if he got the chance – or follow them into the portal and gun them down them after they arrived in the future. Either way, all they all deserved to die. But he also had to stop the militia violence. And he desperately wanted to get back to Gloria, to know if she survived.
All Mike could do in his impossible situation was to practice his moves and wait for Dr. Huber’s return. Of course, Huber could return any time of day or night. Mike had to be ready for that. A veteran detective, he understood the vagaries of a stakeout. You started with an educated guess – but you had to be ready for anything. At this point, Mike was ready for way beyond anything.
Six days and nights passed. Mike kept track of the time with a pen and paper from the supply cabinets. By now, he’d practiced his routine to the point of muscle memory. He’d been back and forth from the bunker door to the portal chamber maybe fifty or sixty times, tracking phantom Nazis and enacting every violent scenario he could think of. Twice during that time, Mike heard bombs falling in the distance, leveling other parts of Berlin. The tempo of the Allied bombing campaign was increasing. Mike wondered which day would be the one that Dr. Huber finally got Hitler to agree to his mad escape plan.
While Mike worked and waited, he was well fed. The food supply in the bunker would last for months. But every day he spent getting fat and training for his rendezvous with Huber and his Nazi cohort was another day that Gloria could be fighting for her life. Another day those racist militia morons were shooting up the American dream. He was sick and tired of waiting and preparing. Like his fellow Marines on those landing craft in the choppy Pacific surf, he was aching to finally hit the beach and charge the enemy.
Whoever came through that bunker door, Mike felt ready — to die or to kill. He wasn’t a very religious guy, but as the saying went, there are no atheists in foxholes. Still, Mike wondered. Did almighty God give a damn about American democracy? Did he side with the Bund Boys and Oath Takers? Many of them claimed to be god-fearing, Bible-thumping Christians. Mike was just a decorated war veteran with a blemished record as an LA cop — and an indifferent career as a private eye — but he knew for sure he was on the right side of history.
Whether God was on his side remained to be seen.
The next morning, Mike was in his accustomed hiding place in sight of the bunker door when he woke up to the unmistakable sounds of the door opening.
Mike shook off the fog of sleep and prepared for action. His TEC-9 and Luger were fully loaded, his knife strapped to his leg. He watched the door open, his TEC-9 drawn, aiming in the direction of whoever came through that door.
Just as he’d dreamed, Dr. Huber was the first to enter. He went to the console and turned on the lights in the bunker. Mike blinked: his eyes accustomed to days of darkness. But he was well prepared for the lights to go on. His dream had shown him that darkness and shadow were his friends. But who would follow Huber through that door?
Huber issued a command and a squad of four SS troops took up positions inside the bunker: two less than in Mike’s dream. They were armed not with MP 44s but with MG42 Mausers. Known as “Hitler’s buzzsaw,” the MG42 was a high-powered automatic rifle that had done deadly service in the Battle of Berlin: the very fight currently raging outside the bunker. The Mauser was fully automatic with a 50-round belt clipped to the side of the gun. These four guys could unload two hundred rounds within seconds.
Mike was certainly outgunned, but he liked his odds. These Nazi creeps were unaware he was just ten yards away, aiming right at them. He could drop them all before they had a chance to return fire. But they weren’t the big game. The Nazi honchos coming through the door next were his real targets.
Hitler was next through the door. This time it was no dream. Mike was truly in the presence of the devil himself. Hitler looked tired, Mike thought, and smaller than he imagined. Mike wished he could get closer and look right into Hitler’s eyes. Would he see fear? Desperation? What would he learn about this angry, hate-filled little Austrian corporal who’d managed to kill so many innocent souls and reduce Europe to rubble? Mike couldn’t let this demon flee into the future and make the same horrific mess of America.
Unlike in Mike’s dream, only three of the Fuhrer’s top henchmen followed behind him: Goebbels, Himmler, and Eichmann. Were the others left behind to oversee the final defense of the fatherland? Perhaps the time portal couldn’t transport a larger contingent? Or were these three chosen because they possessed the critical skills needed to inspire and direct the hate-filled American militias: racist zeal and a proficiency in organizing cold-blooded mass murder?
Hitler and his three hateful honchos were all carrying holstered handguns: Goebbels and Eichmann appeared to be packing Lugers. It looked like Hitler and Himmler had Walther pistols. If the SS men stayed behind to guard the door, Mike’s TEC-9 would have a big advantage in firepower when they got to the portal chamber. His hopes began to rise. Mike was ready to deal with a much larger group of Nazi brass. But, like any a combat veteran, he knew not to get overconfident. Shit could get FUBAR at any moment.
The four SS guards remained at the bunker door as Huber, Hitler, and the other three villains proceeded down the long hallway to the portal chamber. So far, so good, thought Mike. Those four 50-round Mausers were out of the immediate equation. He had only four 7-shot pistols too contend with. But, as he trailed Huber and company down the hallway, Mike wasn’t planning to trade gunfire with anyone. His plan was coming into focus. All he had to do was stay close to these five unsuspecting Nazis, stay out of sight, and make his move at the right moment.
Mike remained in the shadows as the Nazis finally reached the portal chamber. There was a charged moment when Hitler and his cadre entered the room and beheld the good doctor’s time machine — for what appeared to be the first time. Could it be that none of them had been in this bunker before? That might be another advantage for Mike, but every step he took next could also be his last.
As he’d practiced over and over, Mike slipped unnoticed into position behind the counter and did his best to keep up with the conversation as Herr Huber went over the workings of the portal. Mike wondered whether he was better prepared for what came next than the Nazis were. He noticed that Eichmann wasn’t doing any talking, wasn’t asking questions like the others. It seemed to Mike that Eichmann knew more about the portal than the Fuhrer and the others.
This time, unlike in Mike’s dream, Hitler wasn’t having anyone draw straws. It was clear that Otto Adolph Eichmann had been designated to operate the time machine controls while Hitler and the other two joined Huber in the portal to be sent into the future. It figured. If Hitler could trust Eichmann to pull of the systematic murder of millions of Jews and other undesirables, Huber could surely count on him to push the right buttons.
Dr. Huber threw a series of switches — and the complex machinery sprang to life. The whole, mad contraption hummed and sparked. Eichmann took his place at the controls. The time had come. Huber, Hitler, Goebbels, and Himmler walked into the time portal.
It was game time.
Once the Nazi time-travelers disappeared into the portal, Mike made his move. From his hiding place at the end of the counter, he took one of the glass jars he’d pre-placed just for this moment — and threw it against the doorway leading into the chamber. When it smashed against the wall, Eichmann’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, just long enough for Mike to slip unnoticed into the portal.
By the time Eichmann refocused on his task, Mike Delaney was time-traveling for the third time in less than two weeks.
Chapter Twenty-One
As in his previous trips through the time portal, Mike didn’t feel any strange sensations — and there were no science fiction movie effects — as he moved from the past into the future. Huber, Hitler and their two criminal comrades were somewhere ahead of him, though he couldn’t see or hear them.
Suddenly, Mike could see the Nazi foursome exit the portal and enter Horst’s brightly lit lab. He hung back in the portal for a moment, obscured by a welcome shadow. He made sure the silencer on his loaded TEC-9 was locked in place. He recalled that, for some odd reason, he hadn’t used the silencer in his dream. It was a useless thought. Mike had to focus clearly now. He moved toward the end of the portal with the stealth of a trained assassin.
As Horst Mueller greeted his time-traveling companions, exchanging stiff-arm salutes and triumphant shouts of “Heil Hitler!” their backs were turned to Mike. They had no idea they’d been followed. Horst’s view of the portal was blocked by his comrades. Intent on greeting his Fuhrer, he didn’t see Mike step out of the portal with his gun drawn.
Grimly resolved and cold as ice, Mike got as close as he could — and swiftly executed Huber, Hitler, Himmler, and Goebbels with kill shots to the back of their heads.
The four fell in a heap, and Mike raked their bodies one more time before taking aim directly at the head of the lone survivor: a stunned and quaking Horst Mueller.
“Hands up, Horst!” Mike barked, “Or you’ll die slowly and painfully.”
Just then, Himmler stirred — so Mike sprayed all the fallen bodies with another round of lead.
When Horst tried to take this opportunity to move, Mike fired a burst at his feet. “Stay put, Horst,” said Mike, seething with anger, “I’m not in a mood to dance with you.”
Mike kicked a chair in Horst’s direction. “Take a seat, professor. Let’s talk. And speak English. If I hear another word of German out of you, I’ll take my combat knife and carve you into little pieces. You won’t enjoy it. But I will.
Horst took a seat, soiling his pants.
“Go ahead, piss yourself, pal. That way you’ll know how all those brave men tortured by the Gestapo felt right before they died.”
“I was…not…Gestapo,” Horst stammered. “I didn’t even fight in the war. I was too young.”
“Save that bullshit for your trial, Horst. That is, if I let you live to see one.”
Mike searched Horst for a weapon but found none. “You got any poison, Horst? I know you Nazi bigwigs love your cyanide. Your pal Goebbels over here,” he said, giving that body a nudge with his foot, “He loved it so much he fed it to his six children. Himmler also liked his cyanide, right?”
Mike found nothing in Huber’s pockets but his wallet, a couple of pens, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. “Good,” Mike said with a strained smile, “Now we can talk.” Mike pulled up another chair and sat directly across from Huber.
“I know all the crazy shit that you and Huber were up to with those militia nuts. Plus, you shot my girlfriend. Did you know that? She’s that pretty, older lady you shot with your Luger. I’m the guy who shot you in the shoulder. Looks like you’ve been healing nicely over the past week.”
Mike gave Horst’s bandaged shoulder a squeeze. Horst winced. “Now, before I call the cops, you and I have some stuff to talk about. Your dreams of a new Reich are dead, pal. As dead as your buddies on the floor. But I’ve been chasing you creeps back and forth through time for a couple of weeks now, and there’s some things that the detective in me has just got to know.”
“There is nothing I can tell you,” Horst replied, attempting something like bravery. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Aw, come on, professor. I came through your damned time portal, didn’t I? In fact, I went through it three times. From 1951 to 2008, then to 1945 and back again. That’s why I’m here – and all your Nazi pals are dead! Damn it, Horst, I’m telling you a lot more than you’re telling me – and it’s pissing me off!”
Mike placed his TEC-9 up against Horst’s forehead, his anger rising to a level he was struggling to control.
“What do you want me to tell you?” Horst pleaded. “I did my duty to my country. I did what I had to do.”
“You’re an American, Horst. This is an American university. Cal Tech paid for your time-travel experiments, right? But they had no idea what you were actually up to, did they? You got your Nobel Prize as an American. Yet you and Huber plotted to bring Hitler and these Nazi shitheads to America. For what? To lead a fucking race war?”
Mike pushed the muzzle of his gun harder against Horst’s skull.
“I was there, asshole! I was at Murphy’s Ranch when you and the good doctor riled up those militia wackos – and gave them all those AR-15s! You know what that makes you, Horst? A traitor. And do you know what happens to traitors? What would the Gestapo do in this situation? This conversation would be over, wouldn’t it Horst?”
“I told you. I was not Gestapo…”
“Cut the crap, Horst! Don’t make me any angrier than I am now!
“What do you want to know, Mr…”
“Screw my name. You don’t need to know it. Just answer my questions. How in the hell did you get away with it? After you sent Huber and me to 1945, why didn’t the Pasadena cops shut your crazy operation down? They were banging on your door, for chrissakes. My girlfriend was lying wounded outside! Two dead militia assholes were stinking up your hallway, and a trial of blood led right to your lab – because I shot you! And yet, they let you go right back to work. Why was that? How could that possibly happen?”
Realizing his situation was hopeless, and with more than a vestige of Aryan Nazi pride, Horst explained that Mike’s bullet had only grazed his shoulder. “There was some dripping of blood, but no serious damage. I bandaged it easily and cleaned what little blood fell on the laboratory floor. That was before you must have arrived. And so, when the campus police came to my door, I did not appear to have been shot. I assured them that I had been far too absorbed in my work to be aware of anything that might have been going on outside my laboratory.”
Horst went on. The Cal Tech cops called for backup, but his Nobel winning reputation convinced the Pasadena police that he truly had no idea who the dead men outside his door were. Nor did he know anything about a woman being shot near his building. “I told them that whatever those unfortunate men and that old woman were involved with, if indeed they were in league at all, it was a mystery to me. They gave me their cards and left me alone. I have not heard from the authorities since then.”
“So, there was no reason to resort to Plan B?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mike ground his gun barrel into Horst’s temple. “I heard you talk about a Plan B, pal. Don’t fuck with me. I’m exhausted and pissed. Huber told you that if the cops got into this lab, you were supposed to destroy the portal – and Hitler and his goons would travel through the Berlin portal and emerge in Berlin on today’s date.”
“Correct,” said Horst with an air of disdainful superiority. “Herr Huber’s Plan B called for them to be transported through the Berlin portal. The same one you came through. But I, myself, considered that a most unlikely scenario. For the bunker and portal to still exist in 2008, it would have had to survive the Allied bombing and the fall of Berlin undamaged and undiscovered. It was far more likely that the Americans or Soviets would have destroyed it — or stolen what equipment they could salvage to advance their own technological superiority. I never wasted any thought on Plan B.”
Dr. Huber warmed to the subject of his own brilliance. “Moments ago, when the Fuhrer stepped gloriously out of my portal, he was delighted to find himself in the United States. He was not trying to sneak his way through the Berlin of the future — then find a way to somehow get to America. Instead, he shook my hand and congratulated me. He called me a Hero of the Fatherland. So, Dr. Huber was in no position to chastise me for ignoring his mad Plan B.”
Even in Horst’s dire situation, he could manage to swell with pride. The pupil had outperformed his teacher. He’d proven himself to be a better scientist and tactician than Huber. He was the superior Nazi egghead in service of his Fuhrer.
“The cops may come back here with more questions,” Mike reminded him. “And when they do, they may want to know what a stinking pile of infamous dead Nazis from World War Two are doing in Physics Lab #7.”
Horst wasn’t concerned.
“The police have no idea about any plan for the Fuhrer to lead a race war in America. They would think it crazy. Far-fetched. It would only be your word against mine, yes? And who are you? Are you a Nobel Prize winning physicist? Are you anybody at all?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am!” Mike snapped, his patience wearing thin. He pointed to the dead Nazis. “It matters who these guys are.”
“True,” said Horst, with a triumphant smile. “If the authorities identify these men that you’ve just killed in cold blood as Adolph Hitler and his closest associates, it will prove that I’ve mastered the physics of time travel. I will no doubt win a second Nobel Prize.”
At that moment Mike realized that, as brilliant as he was, Horst was truly a madman.
Mike now knew what he needed to do. “Sorry, Horst,” he said flatly, “None of that’s gonna happen. You just sit tight while I call a friend.”
It wasn’t proper police procedure. It might have been against the rules of war. But nobody had ever been in Mike’s position before. He took out his iPhone – which now worked – and called Andy Pafko.
“Andy, buddy. It’s a long, crazy story, but I’m back in 2008…”
“No shit. How in the…?”
“Not now. Just tell me, is Gloria okay?”
“She’s out of the hospital, Mike. She lost a lot of blood, but she’s gonna be fine.”
Andy started in with more questions, but Mike cut him off. “Listen Andy, I’ll explain it all later, okay? I’m in Physics Lab #7 at Cal Tech. You can find out where I am on your phone, right?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry, Mike, I can locate you.”
“I need you to get here right away with at least three sticks of dynamite, some of that C-4 shit you were talking about, and a couple gallons of gas. Wear your old police uniform – but take your name tag off. And don’t let anyone see you.”
“But Mike…”
“No time for questions, Andy. Just get here with the pyro, okay? And come in uniform. With no name tag.”
“Uniform? I haven’t worn one in twenty-three years, Mike. I’m a geriatric fart in a fucking wheelchair!”
“Shit, that’s right.” Time travel was screwing with Mike’s head. “Is there anybody else we can trust to bring me that stuff?”
“I can drive, Mike, I just can’t walk.” Andy was eager to play his part. “I can take the explosives over to you in my van. I’ll bring you my old police uniform, too.”
“Yeah. I’ll need ‘em both: the pyro and the uniform. Drive up as close as you can, and I’ll come out and get them.”
“I’ll be there within the hour, Mike. Hang tight and stay out of trouble.”
“Trouble? You’re a funny guy Andy. Call me as soon as you get here.”
“Roger that. Over and out.”
Mike hung up. Horst looked crestfallen. He realized that Mike was going to destroy his greatest scientific achievement.
“Don’t try to be a hero, Horst. You’ve already told me all I need to know. Nobody but a handful of freaks think you Nazis are the heroes. Ever see ‘Hogan’s Heroes’? You goose-stepping freaks have been a joke for decades.”
While keeping his TEC-9 aimed at Horst’s head with his right hand, he took out Horst’s Luger with his left. “You remember this gun, Horst? You shot my girl with this Luger. I’ve had it for a while now. Haven’t even fired it. Looks like you even designed your own silencer. Those early silencers were real long and cumbersome, weren’t they? Hard to conceal. But yours is some real cloak and dagger stuff. Nice work, pal.”
“There are still seven rounds in your Luger’s clip. If you don’t mind, Horst, I’m gonna use up four of those bullets right now.”
Without waiting for Horst to object, Mike fired a silent round from Horst’s Luger directly into dead Hitler’s head. Then he did the same to Huber, Himmler, and Goebbels. “Now, there’s just two bullets left. What should I do with the last two shots, Horst? What would the SS, the Gestapo — or you do?”
His eyes wide with a rising fear, Horst pleaded, “You wouldn’t. Not in cold blood. I’m your prisoner. Let the police…”
“Let them do what?” Mike glared, grim and determined, as hard as he’d ever been in battle. “Accept your bullshit again? Get mesmerized by your shiny Nobel Prize? After all, who am I? Am I anybody at all?”
In this crucial moment, Mike set humanity aside. Or was he saving it?
He’d sort out the big questions later. Right now, he was wrapping up this case the best way he could. Keeping the Luger trained on Horst, Mike offered his TEC-9 to Horst.
“You ever watch old Western movies on TV? We can make this like a Wild West gunfight.”
“I have no time for old movies,” Horst replied with all the defiance he had left, “You are indulging in a kind of heroic fantasy, yes?”
“Fuck fantasy, professor,” Mike barked. “Take my gun or I’ll kill you right now. If you take it, you’ll still have an outside chance of getting out of this mess alive.”
Mike pressed the Luger to Horst’s right temple as the frightened Nazi scientist took Mike’s TEC-9, fumbling with it in his trembling hands. Before Horst could put his finger on the trigger, Mike shot the Nazi genius clear through the head with his own Luger at close, suicide-like range.
Mike wiped the Luger off with a cloth from a nearby table and placed it in Horst’s dead right hand. He found the keys to the lab in Horst’s coat pocket, then made sure the lab door was locked.
While waiting for Andy to arrive, Mike stripped the bodies of all the dead Nazis, except for Horst. He emptied a large bin of laboratory supplies and stuffed all their uniforms, IDs, weapons, shoes, medals — everything they carried or wore — into the bin. Then he dragged their bodies into a pile.
It was ugly work, but he’d done nasty stuff like this before: after a battle, when he helped prepare fallen comrades for burial. But unlike these Nazis, who’d all died neatly in one piece, he often had to gather the bloody fragments of his Marine buddies. This was easier. And for Mike, this grisly task was almost therapeutic. That’s what war does to a person.
And this had been war.
It was barely an hour before Andy finally called Mike and announced his arrival.
“Hey, Mike — I’m parked outside Horst’s building. Come and get this stuff before I get a visit from the campus rent-a-cops. I got it all packed in a duffel bag.”
“Be right there, Andy.”
Mike unlocked the lab door, then locked it behind him. Luckily, the hallway leading to the lab was empty. Horst was certainly not going to conduct any classes on the day the Fuhrer was supposed to arrive. Mike raced down the hallway and up to Andy’s van. “Stuff’s in the back, Mike. The doors are open. Grab it and go.” Mike took the duffel bag out of the van and closed the doors.
“Beat it, Andy! I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
“Good luck, pal,” Andy said as he drove away. “Light ‘em up!”
Mike returned to the lab, unlocked the door, locked it behind him — and got down to business. He dumped the gasoline on the dead bodies, then placed the dynamite and C-4 inside the portal and under all the machinery in the lab.
As Mike did this, he knew that he’d never return to 1951. He’d never get back to young Gloria. They’d never have a family. But fuck it. Gloria had survived Huber’s gunshot. He’d cherish every last moment they could have together. She was still the same girl. And he was still nuts about her.
Once all the pyro was in place, Mike got dressed in Andy’s LAPD uniform. It didn’t fit very well, but Andy remembered to remove his name tag. It wasn’t great, but it would have to do. Nightfall was approaching, so his costume didn’t have to be perfect.
Mike locked up the lab again, walked back down the hallway – and pulled the nearest fire alarm. He went outside the building and watched as students and teachers evacuated. It must be the weekend, he figured, as less than a dozen people exited the building. Dressed in Andy’s LAPD uniform, Mike was empowered to ask questions and determine that everybody was out of the building. He explained there was a dangerous gas leak in one of the labs and that the area should be cleared immediately.
Everyone complied. So far, so good.
Mike returned to Physics Lab #7, unlocked the door, and carried the bin full of Nazi uniforms and regalia into the hallway. Before he stepped out of the door, he lit a pack of matches and tossed them onto the gasoline that was pooling on the laboratory floor.
As he left the building, dragging his bin of Nazi regalia with him, the fire inside Horst’s lab raged. Explosions could be heard as Mike slipped into the shadows, leaving the scene as sirens signaled the approach of fire trucks.
Horst Mueller was not going to win his second Nobel Prize. But America just might be saved from a second Civil War.
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.
Moving on to Chapter Twelve. As always, let me know you’re reading. Thanks!
Chapter Twelve
Mike expected Andy to be stunned by seeing a ghost in the flesh, and he was to some extent – but he was also oddly ahead of the game. “Mike Delaney, as I live and breathe,” he said. “Wild as it seems, I was half expecting you.”
Andy held the door open and ushered them in. “Got a call from an old contact on the force. A guy we both used to know. He said they ran the fingerprints on a couple of stolen cars in the past couple days. Seems there’s some 85-year-old guy named Mike Delaney with a jones for boosting vintage cars. This Delaney guy used to be an L.A. cop. Hasn’t been seen since December of ‘51. They’re looking all over for him – but they sure as hell don’t expect him to look like you.”
Andy rolled up to his dining room table and motioned Mike and Gloria to sit. Gloria went into the kitchen instead to make a pot of coffee. She knew Mike and Andy had some catching up to do.
Andy looked straight into Mike’s face. He was a dead ringer for the man he knew all those years ago. With Gloria and those fingerprints vouching for the guy — and seeing his Marine tattoo right where it should be, Andy had to yield to the wild notion that Mike Delaney was an actual, real-life time traveler.
“Okay. It shouldn’t be possible – but somehow, here you are. Mike fucking Delaney. With his old fiancé Gloria, no less. It’s completely nuts.”
“It sure is,” Mike agreed. “And it’s keeps getting crazier.”
For years after Mike went missing, Andy was frustrated with Gloria’s devotion to a ghost – and he was always curious about how and why his old partner had suddenly disappeared. He leaned in closer to Mike as though someone else might be listening. “The last time we were together, bobbing between waves, you were asking me about some Nazi fugitive named Dr. Otto Huber. Does this have anything to do with him?”
“Sure does. I know this sounds incredible, but I followed him through some crazy time portal at this place called Murphy’s Ranch, just a few miles south of here off Sullivan Ridge Road.”
“That Nazi sympathizer joint they rolled up right after Pearl Harbor?”
“That’s the place. Huber and another guy named Horst Mueller built a time portal there.”
“You keep saying ‘time portal.’ Do you mean to tell me…?”
“Andy. I’m dead serious. Look at me. How the hell do you think I got here? They built a fucking time portal. And it works! They’ve got some wild plot to bring the old Nazi regime into the future to start a race war. Hitler, too!”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Andy, I’m here, right? This is no joke. They’re serious about this shit. I tracked them to a meeting last night with some guys calling themselves The Bund Boys.”
“The Bund Boys,” Andy said, looking Mike dead in the eye. “They’re for real. A bunch of gun-loving white supremacists — and they’re not alone. I kept tabs on a lot of these right-wing whack jobs when I was at the Bureau. Eastern Oregon, Idaho, northeastern California, across the rural south and Midwest — there’s lots of paramilitary groups full of radicalized white boys who don’t get laid enough, full of rage and grievance. They hate Blacks, Jews, the government, gays, liberals – anyone who doesn’t think white men are God’s chosen. Mostly they’re a bunch of big-talking, beer-swilling good ol’ boys playing army in the woods. But sometimes they do some real damage.”
Andy sat back in his chair. “Back in ’95 two of these assholes blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City. They packed a truck with more than five thousand pounds of ammonium nitrate fertilizer and a thousand pounds of liquid nitromethane. It was like the equivalent of five thousand pounds of TNT. They parked their little gift in front of the building and set it off right as the workday was beginning. They killed at least one hundred and sixty-eight people and wounded nearly seven hundred others. Nineteen of them were just little kids in a day care center. The shitheads planned it as payback for the Feds taking down some armed messianic lunatic’s compound in Waco, Texas.
“I figured the government would start rolling up all these militia nuts after that, but they didn’t. At least not with true gusto. Too many conservative politicians wailing about gun rights and talking that “Don’t Tread on Me” anti-government bullshit. I quit the Bureau not long after that.”
Mike listened intently. A lot had happened since ‘51. There was so much more he wanted to know. So much more he needed to know. But what Andy said next was all he needed to know at that moment.
“You’re onto a dangerous situation, buddy. Don’t underestimate these freaks. The militia movement slowed down after Oklahoma City. It peaked at more than eight hundred groups in ’96 and they haven’t pulled off another big attack since then. But when Barrack Obama was elected the first black President last month, that added new fuel to their fire. Now, there’s lots of incendiary chatter on the internet.”
Mike was still trying to wrap his head around the idea of a black President – when Andy’s last word landed. “The internet?”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re from the way back machine. Today, just about everybody’s got a computer or a smartphone,” Andy explained, holding up an iPhone similar to Mike’s. “They’re all connected by a system called the internet. Gloria can show you how it works when you have a chance.”
“I learned a little bit about it from an Apple Genius the other day. I thought it was just on my iPhone.”
“You can access the internet from any computer. Thanks to the internet, what were isolated, mostly rural groups of right-wing nut jobs are now able to connect with each other easily. They can spread their propaganda, recruit new members, and share big talk about a coming race war, or a new civil war – various violent fantasies.”
“Fantasies like ‘Helter-Skelter’?”
“Bingo. That’s one of the names for it. So is ‘The Boogaloo.’ Right now, these groups aren’t well organized across the country. They’re fractious and clannish — paranoid about infiltration by the cops and federal agents. But all it would take to make their white nationalist wet dreams come true is charismatic leadership with the ability to pull them all together. Or some kind of triggering event that galvanizes them. Sounds like your Nazi friends plan to provide just the kind of catalyst they need.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Huber and Horst are thinking big. It seems far-fetched that they can time-travel the leaders of the Third Reich – but here I am, Andy. The fact that I’m here talking to you right now makes all kinds of crazy shit possible. That’s why I’ve got to stop them somehow.”
Gloria came back from the kitchen with a pot of coffee and took a seat.
“So, Andy,” she said, filling his mug, “Should Mike take this to the police?”
“Take what? A crazy story about time-traveling Nazis? They’re gonna ask a lot of questions that are damned hard to answer without sounding like a lunatic. How can our 29-year-old hero explain that he’s also an 86-year-old car thief? And what evidence does he have on these guys?”
Andy locked eyes on Mike. “I believe you, pal, but the cops won’t. Not without hard evidence. You get me something solid, something provable – and maybe I can get an old friend or two at the Bureau to dip his little toe into this thing.”
Mike told Andy that Horst and Huber were meeting with some militia guys at Murphy’s Ranch that night and that he was going to stake them out.
“What if Mike got tonight’s meeting on video?” Gloria got Andy’s attention. “He could shoot it on his iPhone.”
“I could do what?”
“You can shoot video on your phone. I can show you how.”
“What’s video?”
“It’s like television, Mike,” explained Andy, “It’s so simple even kids do it nowadays.” He turned to Gloria. “Show our boy what to do. Make sure his phone is fully charged. The trick will be getting close enough to get good audio.”
All of this was over Mike’s head, but he knew Gloria would fill him in. “Sounds good, Andy. Seeing is believing.”
“And hearing, Mike. Get as close as you can. We gotta hear what these rat bastards are saying. Get me the goods, pal. I’ll say I got it from a confidential source. Somebody who infiltrated the Bund Boys.” Andy scratched his head, a wry smile on his face. “Gotta wonder what the Feds will make of seeing Otto Huber? I mean, that guy should be 107 years old at this point.”
Then, Andy’s expression darkened. He looked at Mike, dead serious. “What’re you packing?”
Mike pulled his .45 out of his pocket. “My old standby.”
Andy took one look at Mike’s World War Two museum piece and told Gloria, “Your man can’t go to war with that old pea shooter.”
Andy went to a drawer in his living room and pulled out a more modern weapon. He handed it to Mike. “This is a TEC-9 semi-automatic pistol, fully loaded with a 50-round magazine. It’ll spray eighteen rounds in two and a half seconds. And it’s equipped with a silencer – so it won’t make much noise. Plus, it’s been scrubbed of any ID. Its serial number is filed off. It can’t be traced. It’s what we call a ghost gun.”
Mike took the TEC-9 in his hand. It was lighter than he thought. He wished he’d had something like it in the Pacific.
“I’ve got some explosives, too, if you need them,” added Andy, like a corner grocer peddling his wares. “Dynamite, C-4…”
“C-4?”
“Yeah. A plastic explosive. It was called Composition C-2 when the U.S. military got it from the Brits around ‘43. C-3 came out in ‘44. Now, we’ve got C-4. Each version gave a bigger bang for the buck. Easy to carry. Easy to conceal.”
“Don’t think I’ll need it, Andy. This is a surveillance mission, right? I want to get in and out quietly.”
“Sure, you do. I’d just love to blow up a big bunch of these assholes, Mike. Get some real revenge for Oklahoma City.”
“I understand, buddy. But let’s take it one step at a time.”
“Okay, Mike, but if any of those militia dirtbags take a shot at you,” Andy said with a devious smile, “open up with that TEC-9 and take ‘em all out.”
Gloria smiled at Andy, then fixed her beautiful, haunting eyes on Mike. She stared at him hard, then whispered in his ear.
“Light ‘em up if you have to, Mike. I want you back in one piece.”
Okay, Chapter 11. No, it’s not about a bankruptcy. It’s the latest installment in the adventures of 50’s detective Mike Delaney. I’m not counting “likes” anymore — but I appreciate it when you let me know you’re reading. Enjoy!
Chapter Eleven
Gloria lit a burner on the stove and poured Mike a bourbon on the rocks. She knew he had to be hungry, so she fried him two hamburgers. He sat in her beach house kitchen, dumbstruck and smitten, barely able to put two coherent words together.
“You know, your old apartment building on PCH got torn down years ago,” Gloria said, doing her best to make casual conversation in an insane situation. “That whole stretch is now a bunch of luxury beach houses for the Hollywood high rollers. This whole area, from Sunset and PCH all the way up through Malibu, is now a high-rent district. The working folks like your parents and my parents have been priced out. The good thing is, I can charge more at Zack’s. We’re getting a more upscale clientele. Not just beach bums and seedy private eyes who kiss girls and run off on some crazy adventure.”
Mike knew Gloria was trying to lighten the mood, but he felt the pain beneath the casual banter. He’d only been gone for a couple days — for Gloria it had been a lifetime.
“When I saw you chatting with Gina yesterday,” she said as his burger sizzled, “I could’ve sworn you looked just like my long-lost fiancé. But I couldn’t believe it. It was impossible. Yet here you are. My old boyfriend, Mike Delaney. The man who vanished.”
Gloria slid one of the burgers onto a bun and put ketchup on it, not mustard. She hadn’t forgotten how Mike liked his burgers. She remembered everything. Gloria set the burger down in front of Mike and leaned in close. “Give me a kiss,” she said, “and then let’s figure out just what the hell we’re gonna do.”
Their lips came together in a kiss that bridged nearly six decades. Mike loved this woman and she loved him. All those lost years didn’t matter. Soul mates were soul mates. That fervent kiss sealed the deal.
Besotted by Gloria, Mike wolfed down both burgers without tasting them. He knocked back a last shot of bourbon and followed a beckoning Gloria into her bedroom.
After fifty-seven years, as she stripped down to her underwear, she was still a vision of loveliness. Mike yearned for her touch — her everything. He took off his dirty clothes. Was this really happening?
Thirty indescribable minutes later, Mike and Gloria lay spent and satisfied, studying each other’s eyes. They’d just made love for the first time. They were still in love. It was inconceivable — but it was true. They were time-travelling lovers on a mad voyage no one else had ever known. Gloria’s naked body was bathed in moonlight as she sat up and lit a cigarette. She lit another for him. If this was all a dream, Mike didn’t want to wake up. She laid back alongside him.
It was heaven.
Gloria told Mike the sad story of her daughter, Gina’s mom. Camille was a good girl who married a bad man. Angelo was a handsome, charming scoundrel. A talented trumpet player — and a lousy drunk. He left his pregnant wife and ran off to New Orleans a few weeks before Gina was born. Camille died in childbirth and Angelo was never seen again. Months later, Gloria heard he’d died of a heroin overdose in the French Quarter. She raised Gina as her own daughter until the girl was old enough to know the truth.
The truth, Mike thought. The truth was elusive. He’d spent so much of his life trying to discover the truth: figuring out who killed who, who stole what and how – and now, what the hell were Horst and Huber going to do next?
With those thoughts, and Gloria’s warm body nuzzled alongside him, he fell asleep feeling as good as he could possibly feel.
By morning, the surf had calmed, rolling sluggishly to shore after a turbulent night. It was 7:00 am, and Gloria was up frying bacon and eggs while Mike was still in bed. The smell of breakfast on the stove roused him, his mind still fogged by the booze and passion of the night before. What, he wondered, after all he’d seen and done in the past forty-eight hours, could today possibly hold?
Mike was accustomed to danger — but he knew he had to cling to Gloria now. He stood no chance without her. And he didn’t want one. For her part, Gloria didn’t intend to be a bystander. Her long-lost fiancé had shown up at her bar fifty-seven years after he proposed marriage and disappeared. She wanted a measure of control over what happened next.
Gloria had been up all night thinking about the situation while Mike was sawing logs. Last night was thrilling, but as gratifying as it was, her happiness was now tied to a fugitive from the 50’s. Mike tried to explain everything, but there were only two things Gloria knew for sure. Mike was truly her long-lost love. And he needed a lot of help. As they ate breakfast, Gloria began taking charge. She told Mike that she would do the driving from now on — and they’d use her car.
“You can’t keep stealing cars,” she said.
“Why not?” Mike countered. “They can dust those cars for prints – but even if they manage to make a match, they’ll be looking to track down an 85-year-old man with a taste for classic cars. A guy who disappeared in 1951.”
“True,” said Gloria, dead serious. “But what kind of ID do you have, lover boy? A driver’s license from the Truman administration? You can’t afford to make a single mistake, Mike. You’re a freaking curiosity. If you run a red light or get in a fender-bender, they’ll hold you for days just to figure out who the hell you are and what to do with you.”
“You’re right, honey,” Mike said, acknowledging the obvious. “But I don’t want you in the middle of this thing. It’s dangerous. It’s insane. These folks are violent as hell – and crazier than you can possibly imagine.”
“Please, Mike. I’m a 76-year-old woman who just fucked my 29-year-old time-traveling fiancé. So, tell me again what I can’t possibly imagine.”
Game. Set. Match.
How could Mike argue with her? Stung by the knowledge he’d lost so many years with this brilliant, sexy, and courageous woman, he regretted the great life he’d missed. But if he and Gloria could work together now, what kind of life might they salvage? Mike recalled a song he’d heard toward the end of the war.
“You’ve got to accentuate the positive Eliminate the negative Latch on to the affirmative Don’t mess with Mister In-Between”
Against all odds, he and Gloria were still in love. Everything else was a question mark. He needed to start finding answers.
Mike told Gloria he had to be at Murphy’s Ranch in Pacific Palisades that night at 8:00 pm. The Nazi scientists were going to meet with some racist militia guys, and he’d learn more about their plot. Gloria’s response was entirely practical. “Shower up and shave, Mike. Then, we’ll get you some new clothes. You look like hell, baby — and you certainly aren’t dressed for winter.”
An hour later, Mike and Gloria walked out of her Malibu beach house. Gloria’s was the kind of place that Mike dreamed of back in the ‘50s — a hip, expensive pad close to the waves. She must be in the chips. Zack’s had been a lucrative enterprise over the years, and Gloria was clearly doing okay. Now, he was complicating her life – possibly putting everything she’d worked for in jeopardy. The last thing he wanted was for her to get hurt in this whole mad enterprise.
Gloria led Mike to the parking lot, and they climbed into her 2007 Toyota Prius. She explained it was a hybrid: one of the first readily available cars that was part gas-powered and part electric. Mike was floored. A semi-electric automobile? What other leaps of science and technology would he confront? Did she have to plug her Prius in? How far could she drive without a charge? Mike felt like an ancient relic. A time portal was one thing. But electric cars?
Gloria drove Mike down to Santa Monica and bought him some new clothes at a boutique on Wilshire Boulevard. “You can’t go around looking like Sterling Hayden on a week-long bender,” she said. She paid the bill with what she called a “credit card.” No cash was exchanged. She gave them a card about the size of a driver’s license – and they accepted it. What the hell was a credit card? He knew a guy back in ‘51 who had a Diner’s Club card. But that was it. In Mike’s world, cash was king. Clearly, he had to play catch up. The best he could do was take things moment to moment.
Mike changed into his new duds, no longer looking like a fugitive from the past. Thank heavens Mike had Gloria now. She was an absolute miracle — with no real idea what she was getting herself into.
Then she brought up a name Mike knew well.
“You should talk to Andy Pafko,” she said. “Believe it or not, your old surfing buddy’s still alive and kicking in Malibu.”
“No shit? Pafko’s still around?”
“Comes into Zack’s now and then. Used to be your best friend, right? A pal from the force?”
“Yeah. I didn’t have too many friends. I was a suspect character.”
“Maybe he can help. He might freak out a bit — but if I can handle it, so can that old bird.”
Andy was the guy who put Mike on Dr. Huber’s trail more than half a century ago. But, after all these years, was there still a connection between them? Andy was already leery of getting too involved with Mike back in the day. How would he react to Mike’s fantastical story about tracking a time-traveling Nazi scientist into the future?
Andy didn’t respond to Gloria’s call at first – but when he finally got back to her, he agreed to meet with her and her unnamed “old friend.”
Andy was now 83 years-old, still sharp, but troubled. He left the FBI after the Oklahoma City bombing in ‘95, depressed by the rise of right-wing, home-grown terrorism and frustrated by the lack of bipartisan political resistance to that threat. Thirteen years later, he was getting sloshed on the sidelines, in no mood to right the wrongs of the world. Gloria knew these things and more about Andy, but she didn’t tell Mike. She figured Andy could fill him in if he felt like it.
Gloria drove Mike to Andy’s place — another Malibu beach house, but not as classy as hers. Andy’s police and FBI pensions helped pay the mortgage on a dowdy, surf-friendly beachfront pad. Andy had always been crazy about Gloria, and not long after Mike disappeared, he made his move. She let him down easy.
Gloria walked Mike up to Andy’s door and rang the bell. As weird as the situation was, she was cool — while Mike’s heart was racing. Was this the right move? Would Andy think they were both crazy? He had to trust Gloria. She was all he had.
A few tense minutes later, Andy Pafko came to the door. Mike was shocked to see his old pal rolling up in a wheelchair. For Mike, it had only been a few days since he and Andy were riding the waves on this very beach. Now, Andy was an 88-year-old guy in a wheelchair.
Thanks, folks! Glad to know you’re following Mike’s story. It’s always nice to hear from readers!As pharmacist David says in the Prevagen commercials, “That makes my day.”
Chapter Ten
Mike walked along the road out of Griffith Park toward Los Feliz Boulevard looking for his next mount. He felt guilty about stealing another car, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t hitchhike all the way to Malibu. Odds were slim to none that anyone would pick up a ratty-looking guy like him and give him a thirty-five-mile ride to the coast.
The intersection with Los Feliz Boulevard was in sight when Mike spotted his prey: a beat-up Cadillac Coupe DeVille with a license plate reading “CADDY63.” He’d hotwired a few Cadillacs back in the day. Skillfully using his tools, it was a cinch to pinch. He switched plates with the car parked next to the Caddy and was soon on the road.
Moments later, Mike was cruising west on the Ventura Freeway, a road that didn’t exist back in his day. After twenty miles, he took the Las Virgenes exit and drove south for ten miles until he hit Pacific Coast Highway. From there, he was home free. Mike had concerns about driving around in another automotive museum piece, but from the looks of the modern cars that whizzed by, he’d never be able to boost one of them. Once he got this car close to Zack’s, he’d leave it somewhere as a gift to the cops, who would soon be looking for a missing ‘63 Cadillac Coupe DeVille.
A few minutes later, Mike pulled onto the shoulder of PCH a quarter of a mile from Zack’s and left the Caddy for the police. He walked the rest of the way, dog tired, and reached Zack’s more in need of a drink than he’d ever been in his life. Problem was, he had no cash. As he staggered through the door, he wasn’t firing on all cylinders — but he was glad to see Gina behind the bar. Maybe she’d pour him a beer on credit. He was more than willing to swallow his pride for a swig tonight. He looked like hell. And he smelled bad, too. He’d have to rely on what was left of his minimal charms.
Mike had only a puncher’s chance of guessing what would happen next. It was all way too much. He told himself to focus on the here and now. Walk up to the bar, take a seat, and hope for the best. Flag down the lovely Gina and hope she’s in a giving mood. He felt three sheets to the wind – and he hadn’t even had a drink yet.
Mike settled onto a barstool and waved to Gina. How could be possibly tell her what he’d seen and heard and done this evening? He couldn’t. He couldn’t tell the cops, either. The whole thing was insane. All he could do was get hammered and steel his nerves for tomorrow night’s meeting at Murphy’s Ranch.
It was a busy Saturday night at Zack’s. Gina caught his eye and signaled she’d be right with him. Exhausted as he was, her attention thrilled him. And made him feel guilty, too. His thoughts turned to Gloria.
After serving another customer, Gina greeted Mike and asked what she could get him. Mike blushed and stammered, knowing full well how bad he looked. He needed a beer, he confessed, but he was out of cash. Tapping the dregs of his pride, he asked if he could possibly get a beer or two on credit. Gina smiled sweetly, without an ounce of pity. “Let me talk to my grandma, Mike. She’s the boss. If it was up to me, I’d give you a six-pack on the house.”
Mike watched as Gina disappeared behind the bar. Soon after, her grandmother came out, stared at Mike in a meaningful, penetrating way, and walked over to the jukebox. She punched in some numbers, and after a beat, some guy was singing…
Won’t you wear my ring — up around your neck? To tell the world I’m yours, by heck Let them know I love you so…
Gina’s grandma strode from the jukebox over to Mike. She had to be in her seventies, but she’d clearly been a real looker in her day. In fact, take away the years and she looked an awful lot like his Gloria. She fingered a chain around her neck as she sidled up to him. Like she’d known him all her life.
“Gina says your name is Mike,” she said.
“That’s right…” Mike stammered.
“Call me crazy, Mike,” she said, leaning in close. “Haven’t we met before?”
Mike realized he was staring at her open-mouthed like the village idiot. He lowered his gaze – and saw his ring on the chain around her neck! There was no mistaking it: a little diamond between two blue sapphires. Then he caught the scent of her perfume. Jasmine. Of course! His head and heart were about to explode.
“You know who’s singing this song?”
Mike had no idea.
“Of course, you don’t, Mike. You have no idea who Elvis Presley is, do you?”
He had to admit he didn’t.
“Who won the World Series this year? And don’t look it up on your smart phone.”
It was a standard spy-catching trick during the war. Many a Kraut in a G.I. uniform had been stumped by that question while trying to infiltrate the American lines. Mike didn’t even venture a guess.
“The drinks are on the house, Mike. I don’t know what in this crazy world is going on,” she said, fondling his ring, “but you’re not leaving my bar until you tell me all about it.”
How could he tell her? What could he tell her?
Then again, who else could he tell?
“Gina! Get this young man a beer – and keep ‘em coming. I’ll have the top shelf bourbon myself.” She turned back to Mike. “Join me at my private table.”
Mike followed her to the last booth along the wall that faced the sea. Through the windows, the moonlight caught the whitecaps as choppy waves rose and fell. Mike’s heart was churning like the surf. He was in a drunken stupor and had yet to touch a drop. As she slid into the booth, he knew who this woman was. Who she had to be.
“My name’s Gloria, she said, looking straight through him. “Ring a bell?”
Mike searched his tumbling thoughts for something to say at this impossible moment – but he couldn’t take his eyes off Gloria’s face. As he looked at her, the years melted away. He beheld the girl she’d been all those years ago — though, for him, it had only been a couple of days. How could be possibly make sense of that?
Luckily, Gina arrived with their drinks, granting him a brief reprieve.
Gloria told Mike to take off his jacket, and he did as he was told. “Roll up your sleeves and get comfortable. We’re gonna be here awhile.” Mike obeyed, revealing the Marine Corps tattoo on his right forearm. It was just what Gloria was looking for. She raised her glass.
“Here’s looking at you, Mike. I believe we both could use a stiff drink right now.”
Mike took a long chug of his beer, hoping to steel his nerves. He still hadn’t said anything, but Gloria took control. Hadn’t she always taken control? “We can play twenty questions, Mike. But just a couple will do. Let’s start with this ring. When do you think I got it?”
There was nothing he could do but tell the truth – and hope for the best. “Well, for me, it was — just a few days ago. But for you, it’s been fifty-seven years.”
He searched her face for a response. “Fifty-seven years — and three days.”
Her eyes flickered for a moment, but she went on, calmly and directly. “Four days, Mike. And where was I when you gave it to me?”
“You were behind the bar. But you didn’t wear it until the next day — when you wore it on that chain around your neck.”
She smiled. “You told me not to dip it in somebody’s chili.” She remembered it all.
At that point, there was no holding back. This 76-year-old woman was the girl he’d asked to marry him — and then he vanished. As incredible as the story was, she had a right to know what the hell was going on. She had to know that he didn’t just run out on her.
“I had to break our movie date that night because I was on a new case.”
“You said you had to go to a meeting at 7:00.”
“I did. It’s the truth. But before I left, you went out to the parking lot with me and gave me a great big kiss. It was the greatest feeling I ever had in my life.”
“And after I kissed you — what did I say?”
“You said you’d marry me.”
“And what did you say?”
“I promised we’d get married as soon as I closed the case”
“So, Mike Delaney,” she said with the same warmth she’d bathed him in when she accepted his proposal all those years ago, “Have you closed the case?” She finished her bourbon with a longing, pained smile. “A girl can’t wait forever.”
Gina interrupted with another round of drinks and left as fast as she came. She’d never seen that look on her grandmother’s face.
The look of a young girl in love.
Mike’s weary mind wandered for a moment. If he hadn’t followed Huber through that time portal, he would be eighty-five years old right now, enjoying his golden years with Gloria. Probably sitting in this very same booth…
Gloria patted his hand, snapping him out of his reverie. “Drink up, Mike.” She sipped her second bourbon. “What the hell happened after you drove off that day?”
Mike took a long slug from his beer mug, heaved an exhausted sigh, looked deep into Gloria’s eyes — and summoned the strength to tell her the whole unbelievable story.
He must have talked for an hour straight, leaving out no detail, however small: how he found the strange black brick, traced it to Murphy’s Ranch, and discovered the mad Nazi time-travel plot. How he tracked down Dr. Huber and followed him through the time portal and into the future.
He told her about the meeting with the Bund Boys in Griffith Park and the dangerous plans they had for igniting a race war. He paused; worried that Gloria might think him insane — but she wasn’t judgmental. It was almost as though he was convincing himself that it all actually happened.
He paused only when Gina came by with another round.
Gloria said nothing. Her eyes flared when he recounted moments of danger and teared up when he said how desperate he was to return to her. When he was finished, when he had taken her up to the point where he parked the stolen Caddy and walked into Zack’s that night, Gloria finally asked him a question.
“Why did you do it, Mike? Why did you go through the time portal?”
She was near tears now, struggling under the weight of all the lost years. “Why did you take that risk?”
“Because I had to, baby. I’m a detective.”
He continued in his defense, “I’m not a great one, I’ll admit, but I’m a detective. Maybe I could’ve gotten the drop on Horst and bagged Huber that night. But would that have stopped their plan? I didn’t know, Gloria. I still don’t know.”
“But if you gave Huber to the FBI, you would’ve collected the reward money, Horst would go to prison for harboring a wanted fugitive, and you and I would have spent all these years together.” It sounded like a rebuke, but there was no bitterness in it. Gloria gazed right through him.
“I know why you did it, Mike. You wanted to solve the mystery. Busting Huber before he went through that portal would’ve closed the case – but it wouldn’t have solved the mystery.”
Gloria was right, of course. Mike’s eyes grew wet. It had been a selfish thing to do. He’d gambled their happiness on the unknown: on an inconceivable adventure. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said as the tears came, “I should’ve been thinking about you. About us.” Mike was nearly overcome.
Gina approached the table with another round, but Gloria waved her granddaughter off.
She leaned into Mike, close enough to kiss him. “So, what are we gonna do about it, lover? Cry in your beer? Or work our way through this crazy maze?” She sniffed. Then smiled. “First thing we’ve gotta do is get you a bath — and tomorrow, a new suit. You need a jacket, too. It’s winter, for godsakes.”
“I can’t have my man looking like a homeless bum, no matter what century he came from.”
Mike was amazed. Gloria’s love for him had endured for decades. She told him about the guy she married ten years after Mike went missing: a poor, unhappy fella who soon learned that she’d always be carrying a torch for the detective that disappeared. They gave birth to Gina’s mother, but he couldn’t play second fiddle to a phantom. So, he took a powder and Gloria never saw him again.
Mike had ruined Gloria’s second chance for happiness all those years ago. What could he offer her now?
The situation was impossible, but Gloria didn’t see it that way. She wasn’t shocked by the notion of time travel. She’d seen a lot in her long life. Anything seemed possible. Technology was out of this world. She told Mike that the iPhone he was carrying had more computing power than NASA had when they put men on the moon.
Mike had no idea what NASA was. He wasn’t even sure what “computing” was. “They put a man on the moon?” His bloodshot eyes were wide in amazement.
“When in the hell did that happen?”
Gloria saw that Mike had way too much to learn. She’d have to take the lead.
“I’ll fill you in on the space race later,” she said. “Right now, you’re coming home with me.”
Okay, folks. So, we never quite got to 160 “likes”. We’re stuck in the 150’s. But some readers have reached out to ask when I’ll post Chapter Nine — so here it is! If you are reading these chapters please let me know by “liking” these posts, either on this blog or on my Facebook page. Thanks for reading!
Chapter Nine
Shivering in the falling cold, Mike was relieved to see Horst walk out to the waiting Mercedes. But as the driver opened the door for Horst to join Huber in the backseat, Mike’s momentary relief turned to alarm.
How could he follow Huber’s car when his stolen Impala was hidden several blocks away? By the time he’d retrieve it, Horst and Huber would be long gone. And he had no idea where the two old Nazis were going.
His next thoughts came fast.
Were they going back to Murphy’s Ranch? Then again, the portal might not be there anymore. They may not even be headed to a time portal. They could be meeting with more conspirators, maybe at another time portal. Mike had no idea. He wished he could call the cops for backup – but it was hopeless. What he’d seen and done in the past few days was too nuts to be believed.
Mike knew he was on his own.
He took out his notebook and, driven by training, wrote down the plate number of Huber’s Mercedes. As Huber’s driver started the car, Mike’s iPhone vibrated. The screen lit up with a message: “Old Griffith Park Zoo.” Mike knew nothing about old Griffith Park Zoo, but he knew where Griffith Park Zoo was back in ‘51.
Mike figured maybe Horst and Huber didn’t know their messages were going to the phone that Horst had lost — and he had found!
It was a lucky break. One Mike desperately needed.
As Huber’s car drove away, Mike ran to where he’d stashed his Impala, hot-wired it again, and made the half-hour drive to Griffith Park — taking side streets and staying off the highway. He knew this part of town like the back of his hand. That was another lucky break.
He could use several more.
A little after 5:30 PM, Mike parked his stolen Impala behind the Griffith Park Merry-Go-Round, which was deserted at this late hour. Mike had last seen it more than six decades ago, and it now looked worn and dilapidated.
Mike felt a lot like that vintage carousel.
The small corral for the pony rides looked almost like it did when he was a boy, but the lights in the parking lot weren’t there when he was a kid. At least not these lights. They were brighter than he’d like them to be right now. Trailing his two Nazi targets, Mike preferred the concealing darkness. He moved as fast as he could, walking uphill toward where he knew the zoo should be. Would he find Horst and Huber there? Was he too late?
Mike reached into his jacket for his .45. He didn’t know what to expect.
Cresting the ridge, the rising moon illuminated an eerie scene. The concrete, cave-like, animal enclosures Mike remembered as a child were still there — but all the bars were gone. The animals were gone, too. It was a familiar scene – and it was also very new. Another stark reminder that he was a time traveler.
Mike moved toward the ruined enclosures, careful to stay out of sight. Their concrete walls were covered with a lot of the same crazy, avant-garde paintings he’d seen at Murphy’s Ranch after he passed through the time portal. Was this some wild, city-wide art project? The cold night breeze carried the sound of voices ahead — stopping him in his tracks.
The voices were coming from the other side of a low wall, about five feet high. In the moonlight, Mike could make out silhouettes on the other side of the wall. He crept up behind it — and took out his .45 for insurance.
He could hear Dr. Huber speaking in German. Horst was doing most of the talking, but he was doing it in English. Mike couldn’t tell how many people were in this clandestine meeting but, besides Horst, he heard the voices of at least a half dozen others. He got out his notebook and, in the rising moonlight, started taking notes on what they were saying.
Of course, they were all talking crazy.
Compared to Horst and Huber, the other voices sounded much younger. They were all male, though that didn’t mean no women were present. There was just enough light that Mike could see who they were, but he’d have to expose himself to get a better look – and he didn’t dare do that. He was likely outnumbered. Apparently, these guys were members of a paramilitary group calling themselves “The Bund Boys”. They were armed and ready to be part of whatever plot the two old Nazis had cooked up.
The Bund Boys. Mike was well-aware of who “The Bund” were. In the years leading up to the war, The German American Bund backed the Nazis and resisted American intervention against Hitler’s regime — even after the antisemitic horrors of Kristallnacht in ‘38 and the Blitzkrieg invasion of Poland the following year.
The Bund held big rallies in American major cities with Nazi flags flying and stiff-arm salutes. Twenty thousand of these fanatics gathered in New York City for a rally at Madison Square Garden in ‘39. The Nazi followers at Murphy’s Ranch were cozy with The Bund. But after Pearl Harbor, The Bund lost its mojo in America – and the Murphy’s Ranch cabal was rolled up by Hoover’s G-men.
Now, Horst and Huber were conspiring with 21st century American Nazis. The very thought disgusted Mike. Hadn’t he, and millions of Americans, fought to bury Nazism and Fascism once and for all? Yet, the toxic ideology of white supremacy and fascist rule represented by the swastika was still alive in this abandoned corner of Griffith Park – sixty-three years after The Fuhrer blew his brains out in his Berlin bunker.
In the company of these avid young Nazis, neither Horst nor Huber said anything about time travel or their plan to transport the leaders of the Third Reich into the future. Instead, they were talking about something The Bund Boys were calling “Helter-Skelter”.
“Charlie Manson had the right idea,” said one of the Bund Boys. “But he was a nutcase relying on a bunch of strung-out hippies to put his vision into action. That don’t mean he wasn’t right about Helter-Skelter. It you do it right, you can start the race war. There’s a hell of a lot more of us than the coloreds and the foreigners and the faggots. And we’ve got a shit ton more guns. We’re just prepping for the moment when we can touch it off.”
“We’re all in with you two on the white man getting back on top in this country,” said another Bund Boy. “We know old Horst here is a good man – and he told us you can help us. He says you’re some kind of bad ass Nazi genius. That’s why we’re here. We just wanna know how you can help us.”
The guy was obviously addressing Dr. Huber. Huber’s English wasn’t good, so he spoke in German as Horst translated. Truth be told, the Bund Boys probably loved getting the straight dope in Hitler’s mother tongue.
Through Horst, Huber said he’d spent a lifetime preparing for this great moment, and if they all worked together, the day was coming soon when white Christian men would once again rule America and ultimately the world. Democracy had shown itself to be too weak to oppose godless Communism in Russia and China, and too soft on so-called “civil rights” and “equal opportunity” here in America. The laws of nature don’t recognize equal opportunity. Natural law is the survival of the fittest. “We,” declared Huber, “are white men. God made us supreme among the human races. It is our divine right to reclaim our preeminent place in the world.” Mike was sure he’d have heard a lusty “Sieg Heil!” if this meeting wasn’t on the down low.
Dr. Huber pressed on. Decadent western women now dared to consider themselves equal to men. But once America was re-established as a white Christian nationalist state, the natural order would be restored in the family, in the church, and in the government. The Bund Boys were eating it up. Still, they pressed Dr. Huber. How could he help them make all this come to pass?
Dr. Huber played his cards close to the vest. Mike could tell that the old scientist knew these guys were just useful idiots. The Bund Boys had stockpiled an arsenal of weapons and explosives and they’d developed a loose alliance of like-minded militia groups across the country. They dreamed of igniting a race war, but they had no strategic plan beyond their sick “Helter-Skelter” pipe dreams.
Mike listened as Huber assured the assembled wackos that he had contacts with a powerful group of wealthy, well-connected Nazi leaders who were waiting for the critical moment to make common cause with the right-wing American militia movement. But these great leaders needed to know that men like the Bund Boys had the stomach for a real fight. They needed a sign. They needed to see action. What were the Bund Boys willing to do to demonstrate they were prepared to go to war for the future of the white race?
The Bund Boys asserted their willingness to die for the glorious cause, but they needed more direction. Horst took over, telling them they had to make sure they struck the right targets, and that they did so in coordination with militias across the country – and with overwhelming numbers and firepower. Horst and Huber could help them procure that firepower. The Bund Boys liked the sound of that.
“You’re talking about launching our own Tet Offensive,” said a Bund Boy who seemed to be the lead voice in the group. “Hit the enemy hard in dozens of places all at once.” Mike had no clue what a “Tet Offensive” was — but it sounded ominous.
Horst told the Bund Boys that their next meeting would be at Murphy’s Ranch tomorrow night at 8:00 pm. Operational security required that they each bring just one member of a fellow militia group to attend. “Any man you bring to this meeting must be someone you know and trust more than your own family. A man who would die alongside you. A man you can trust with your life. Write their names on this paper and I will let you know tomorrow morning if they are cleared to attend. There can be no leaks, no stupid mistakes, or it will not end well for you – and for our cause. Great and powerful men are relying on a loyal army. You and your allies can be that army.”
There was a pause as the men wrote down names. Or at least Mike figured that’s what the pause was all about. A minute later, Horst continued. More information would be revealed at the meeting tomorrow night. Powerful weapons would be made available. Until then, they’d communicate through the normal channels. Horst would be their contact. Sure enough, the meeting concluded with a hushed “Sieg Heil!”
Mike hung back in the shadows as the conspirators dispersed. He saw no point in trailing Horst and Huber. The two old Nazis surely needed their rest. Besides, he knew when and where their next move would take place.
Mike returned to his stolen Impala and got behind the wheel. But before he hotwired the ignition again, he took out his iPhone, opened the Google app just like the Apple Genius had showed him, and typed “Tet Offensive” into the search bar. He wasn’t sure he’d spelled “Tet” correctly, but the results came up instantly. He read how the Tet Offensive was a turning point in the Vietnam War. The Vietnam War? Mike had scant time to learn why the U.S. was fighting in Vietnam in 1968. He wasn’t even sure where Vietnam was. The article said that it was another battle against Communism, like the war going on in Korea when Mike stepped through that damned time portal.
But what Mike read next gave him the shakes. The Tet Offensive was a series of surprise attacks launched simultaneously by the North Vietnamese in 100 towns and cities across South Vietnam. Holy shit! If Horst and Huber and their fanatical militia pals were planning something on that scale, it wasn’t something Mike could tackle on his own. He had to bring in local, state, and federal authorities – and fast!
But how could he do that? What would he tell them? What tangible evidence did he have? What would law enforcement think when he rolled out this crazy story? Mike couldn’t even rationally explain who he was or how he got here. His current ID was more than a half-century old. The cops would likely hold him for psychiatric observation. He’d lose any chance to disrupt this insane Nazi scheme. And he’d never be to get back to 1951.
He’d never again see his beloved Gloria.
It was now 7:00 pm, and while a lot had gone down that evening, the night was still young. After a long, bewildering day, Mike yearned to touch home base at Zack’s. He’d have a couple beers, pull himself together and come up with a plan – that is if the cops didn’t collar him in his hot Impala before he got to Malibu. If that happened, all bets were off. Mike decided he’d have to leave the Impala behind and commandeer a new ride.
Mike pulled a blank page out of his notebook, scribbled a message, and left it on the dashboard before getting out of the car with his bag of tools. “Dear cops,” it read, “I stole this from a car lot in Santa Monica. Please see that it gets returned. And don’t bother dusting it for prints.”
And now, my friends, Chapter Eight! When we get to 160 “likes” — I’ll drop Chapter Nine. You can read the whole novel-to-date in sequence by clicking on “My Novel” in the “Landmarks” menu at right. Enjoy!
Chapter Eight
Late the next morning, as the sun rose over the still-agitated Pacific, Mike woke up in his cave with a brutal hangover. He’d have to do a lot better than he did last night if he wanted to solve this case and return to 1951 and Gloria. Mike looked like a fall-down drunk on a week-long bender. If he didn’t find some clean clothes soon, he’d be mistaken for a homeless bum. Of course, he was currently homeless. He’d figure out what to do about that later.
Right now, Mike had to find Dr. Huber – and fast. Huber would be looking to connect with his old protégé, Horst Mueller, who was, according to their plan, likely at Cal Tech in Pasadena.
Last night at Zack’s, Gina told him that his iPhone just needed a charge. So, that was the next step. He’d charge up the crazy black brick and see what else it could tell him. There was no time to lose. He staggered out to the highway and walked into a corner store.
“Sorry, buddy,” the old man behind the counter said. “You can just turn around and get out. I can smell you from here. You look like you slept on the damn beach.”
“I did. But don’t worry, I’m not staying long…”
“You sure as hell ain’t!”
Mike held up his iPhone. “Do you know where I can charge this thing?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about those newfangled phones. I have a flip-phone myself. My daughter got it for me. Don’t need all those bells and whistles.”
“I get it, pal. But do you know where I can charge this thing?”
“You don’t have a charger?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then you gotta get one.”
“Any idea where?”
“What am I? The Answer Man? Try the Apple Store in Santa Monica. It’s on the Third Street promenade. My daughter took me there once. They got everything. It’s all too goddamned expensive. Me? I’ll keep my flip-phone, thank you.”
The Apple Store. So, that’s what that apple on the back of his iPhone meant. It was a trademark. “Thanks for the tip,” he said to the cantankerous proprietor.
“You’re welcome. And here’s another tip. Take a goddamn shower. You’re stinkin’ up the joint.”
Mike walked out onto the street. The guy was right. Mike was smelling awfully ripe. He ran down to the beach, took off everything but his boxer shorts, and plunged into the ocean. The cold water was cleansing — and invigorating. After a few moments, he got out of the surf, ditched his soggy boxers, and put his clothes and shoes back on. It wasn’t the hot, soapy shower he needed, but it would have to do for now.
Mike walked back to PCH and spent some of his precious cash on a cab ride to Santa Monica. Fifteen minutes later, the cabbie pulled up in front of the Apple Store, which clearly had nothing to do with fruit.
It was like no store Mike had ever seen before: the hushed, polite voices, the unnatural pleasantness, and all those futuristic devices. The overhead light was way too bright, and the ridiculously young staff was way too upbeat, intelligent, and eager to help. Mike felt awkward admitting that he didn’t know how to use his iPhone — but there was no problem. He was directed to the “genius bar”, where a 20-something “Apple Genius” quickly powered-up Mike’s phone and showed him the basics, like how to retrieve old messages, click on “links” and “Google” things he wanted to know. The damn thing was also a camera. He could take pictures with his phone! How crazy is that?
It was mind-bending how much information Mike now had at his fingertips. He spent more of his dwindling cash on a charger, left the Apple Store, and sat down on a bench to do his first “online” research.
Whatever Mike “Googled” came up on his iPhone with lightning speed. Mike typed “Horst Mueller” into Google and the screen soon displayed a series of “links” to articles about Horst, including the recent announcement of his Nobel Prize in Astrophysics. He also learned that Dr. Horst Mueller was now 79 years old and a Professor Emeritus at Cal Tech.
Dr. Huber’s old protégé had stuck to the script and played his part to the letter.
Another link led Mike to the vital information that Horst kept office hours at Cal Tech on Tuesday and Thursday evenings between 4:00 and 6:00 pm. And today was Thursday. Mike marveled, at the speed with which he could gather information. It was a detective’s dream! But it was already 11:30 am, so Mike had to move fast. Horst would surely lead him to Dr. Huber. But first, he had to solve his transportation problem.
With the scant cash he had left, Mike couldn’t afford cab fare from Santa Monica to Pasadena, and he didn’t have a valid driver’s license. The one in his wallet expired on March 31, 1952. He hated to do it, but Mike would have to steal a car. He found a hardware store and spent his last few dollars on a thin metal ruler, flat head and Phillips screwdrivers, a hammer, and wire cutters – all tools of the car stealing trade. Plus, a box of matches and a new pocket notebook.
Mike walked down Santa Monica Boulevard and came upon an upscale vintage car lot, where he picked out a 1962 Chevy Impala Sport Coupe in cherry condition. The Impala’s technology was old enough that Mike, employing his low-tech private eye skills, would have no trouble getting it started. He set a fire in a dumpster on the opposite end of the car lot, and while everybody was reacting to the raging dumpster fire, Mike jimmied the driver’s side door open and hotwired the ignition. The Impala’s 283 V-8 engine roared to life — and Mike drove it off the lot without anyone noticing.
Despite his surface cool, Mike was a desperate man. He turned the Impala into an alley, took out a screwdriver, and switched license plates with a parked car. He wasn’t proud of his theft, but the situation was dire. He was trying to save America from an evil Nazi plot. He couldn’t possibly go to the police for help. At least not yet. They’d figure he was nuts.
Mike never trained for a mission like this in the Marines – and they didn’t cover stuff like this at the police academy. As he steered his hot Impala out of the alley, his mind was racing. He was going to have to make it up as he went along. Go with his gut.
Rather than driving directly to Pasadena and staking out Professor Mueller at Cal Tech, Mike took the risk of going back to Zack’s in his stolen car. Why take such a chance? The only explanation was his magnetic attraction to the lovely Gina. He had a few hours to spare before who-knows-what might happen, and he wanted to spend that time at Zack’s with her. He wasn’t sure why, but Gina reminded him of Gloria.
Mike pulled into Zack’s parking lot. No sirens pursued him. So far, so good. Ten minutes later, Gina was serving him lunch at the bar. As he gazed at her, Mike felt guilty. Was he really that fickle? Was the memory of his beloved Gloria so easily replaced by this new vision of female perfection? What was he doing here anyway? He was wasting time. He should be in Pasadena, waiting for Horst and Huber to make contact.
The nation’s future might be in the balance. But here he was, sitting on his old barstool.
Gina asked Mike if he wanted dessert. He ordered a slice of pecan pie and told her he had to go to Cal Tech. She showed him how to “MapQuest” the quickest route from Zack’s to Cal Tech. Factoring traffic, he was about 90 minutes away. Mike had to get going, but it was hard to tear himself away from Gina. They were still huddled over Mike’s iPhone when Gina’s grandmother came out from the back room.
She saw Mike and froze.
She was stunned to see the spitting image of her old flame, Mike Delaney, sitting at her bar, chatting up her granddaughter.
It was impossible. Was this the same guy who ran out on her fifty-seven years ago — on the day she accepted his marriage proposal? Was he the faithless fiancé who disappeared without a trace? Had he been here before and she didn’t notice? How long had Gina known him? Her heart was beating fast. Could this guy be her long-lost Mike? Or did he just look like Mike? Hell, he was wearing the same suit Mike always wore. The only suit he owned.
77-year-old Gloria fingered the vintage ring around her neck and wondered whether she was losing her mind.
It was 1:30 pm. Mike had to go, or he’d be cutting it way too close. He devoured his pecan pie and went out the door in a hurry. Gloria watched him from the window as he fired up an old Impala and drove out of the parking lot.
“Who is that guy, Gina?”
“Which guy?”
“The one you were just talking with at the bar. The one in the dirty suit.”
“Oh, him. That’s Mike. He’s new. Came in here last night for the first time.”
“Did you catch his last name?”
“No, just Mike. He’s kind of funny. He’s got an iPhone and he barely knows how to use it. I was just showing him how to use MapQuest. He’s worse than you with technology.”
“You sure he came in here for the first time last night?”
“Yeah. First time I ever saw him here.”
Gloria glanced at the calendar hanging over the bar. It was December 13th. Last night was the 12th – fifty-seven years to the day since Mike Delaney vanished. She’d worn his ring ever since. The memory of him haunted her to this day.
Ten years after Mike disappeared, Gloria married — but the guy wound up being a jerk, and their brief, unhappy union produced nothing more than Gina’s mother.
For more than five decades, Gloria carried a torch for the man that went away. Could this young guy somehow be that man? It was a crazy thought, she told herself. But, as she cleaned up after the lunch crowd, it was a thought she couldn’t put away.
Mike was making good time as he exited the 210 Freeway at Hill Street, headed for the Cal Tech campus in Pasadena. He drove down Hill Street and approached the intersection with Colorado Boulevard. He held the iPhone close to his face. It was hard to see the directions with the glare from the sunlight hitting the glass face of the phone.
As he went through the intersection, Mike heard what sounded like a short blast of a police siren. Looking in his rearview mirror, he saw he was being pulled over by Pasadena’s finest. Damn. This was going to be a problem for a whole host of reasons. How could he save American democracy while in prison for grand theft auto?
As a cop, Mike had made a lot of traffic stops in his time. He knew the drill. And he knew he’d be screwed as soon as they asked for his driver’s license — the one with an expiration date in 1952! He pulled over and weighed his options. They were all bad. The cops got out of their squad car and started walking toward him with their hands on their holsters. Were they worried he was a violent felon? Of course, they were. He was driving a stolen car.
The cop on the driver’s side tapped the window. Mike rolled it down. He knew the best thing to do was to be polite and comply with the officer’s directions.
“Hey, buddy,” the cop said with the same false friendliness Mike always employed in such stops when he was a cop. “You are aware that, since July of this year, it’s been illegal to use a hand-held cell phone while driving in California?”
“Yeah,” Mike lied. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t see the directions.”
“Distracted driving can get you killed, buddy – and others along with you. I’m going to have to write you a ticket.”
For a split second, Mike felt a wave of relief. They weren’t aware he’d stolen the car. Yet he knew all hell would break loose with the officer’s next question.
“Can I see your driver’s license?”
With that, Mike gunned his engine, burning rubber, and accelerating as fast as a 1962 Impala could go. The cops were caught flat-footed. Why would anyone in his right mind flee a traffic ticket? They ran back to their squad car, hit the siren, lights flashing, and followed in pursuit. Mike was already out of sight, but he knew exactly what they’d be saying as they radioed for backup. “Be on the lookout for a red, early-60’s Chevy Impala sedan. Driver is wanted for using a hand-held cell phone while driving. Suspect he may be guilty of something worse…”
Mike’s adrenaline was racing as fast as his stolen car. When the cops ran his plates, they’d be thrown off course. That gave him some comfort. And some more time. He could no longer hear any sirens as he took a winding course through side streets before pulling into an alley behind one of the more nondescript buildings on the Cal Tech campus. He parked the car out of sight behind a large trash bin. There was no one around. According to MapQuest, he was within blocks of Horst Mueller’s office in the Applied Physics and Materials Science Department.
It was now 3:00 — an hour before Horst was scheduled to be in his office.
Mike proceeded on foot to Horst’s office building, taking care to use a less-traveled path through alleys, behind buildings, dumpsters, and bushes. He strode calmly and casually to attract as little attention as possible. It appeared that most of the students were indoors now. It figured, Mike thought. It’s cold outside, and most of these Cal Tech eggheads were probably in the library, in class, or in their dorm rooms studying. That’s not how Mike approached his studies at UCLA. Rare were the days when he didn’t swap his homework for a game of pickup basketball or a movie at The Fox in Westwood.
Mike found a safe spot in the shadows directly across from the Applied Physics and Materials Science building. It was 3:20. Horst could be arriving anytime. So, too, might his old mentor, Dr. Huber. Mike settled in for the stakeout. The sun was sinking. He wished he had his overcoat. He really needed to do something about his clothes. He was, he had to admit, a mess. He needed a shave. And he smelled awful again.
A short time later, Mike watched as a black Mercedes Benz sedan pulled up in front of Horst’s building. A uniformed driver got out and opened the rear passenger door facing the curb. He helped an elderly man out of the car and up onto the sidewalk. The old guy walked with a cane, but he was nimble enough to manage the fifty or so feet to the front door of the building. Mike wished he had a pair of binoculars. He was doing a lot of wishing lately.
The sun had dropped behind the building at this point, casting a shadow on the sidewalk, so Mike moved up behind a tree to get a closer look at the old man before he went inside. He was Horst Mueller alright. A half-century older, but definitely Mike’s man.
Horst’s driver waited in the car out front. Mike concluded the old man wasn’t planning to stay in his office very long. Hopefully he was waiting for Dr. Huber to arrive and then they’d both travel to the time portal – or wherever else they planned to go. As long as Horst’s car was parked right where Mike could see it, he figured it was best to stay put and see what developed. But Jesus, it was getting cold.
It was a few degrees colder by 4:45. The sun was setting when Mike caught sight of Dr. Otto Huber in the glow of a streetlight, headed toward Horst’s office. Mike watched Dr. Huber walk in and out of the darkness as he passed under several streetlights before reaching Horst’s car. The driver came out to greet him, opened the door to the back seat, and helped the old Nazi inside. Huber was surely waiting for Horst to come out of his office. Then Mike would trail the two conspirators as they proceeded to do whatever they planned to do next.
It was weird, thought Mike, that Dr. Huber was now at least twenty years younger than his protégé.
Then again, what about this situation wasn’t weird?
Paul's Voyage of Discovery & Etc. 