He kicked off the wall just as the timer hit zero. The explosion wasn't a bang; it was a silent, crushing implosion that folded the spire in on itself.

Hours later, the world was a blur of freezing wind and steel. B.J. didn't use the front door; he dropped from a stolen jump-jet, crashing through the skylight of the research spire. He landed in a crouch, the glass shattering like diamonds around his heavy boots.

B.J. didn't waste breath on a retort. He yanked a hatchet from his belt, felt the familiar weight of it, and hurled it with the precision of a man who had nothing left to lose but his chains. It didn't hit the Kommandant; it hit the containment release for the gravity well.

B.J. stood up, his massive frame nearly touching the ceiling. "Then we don't let them finish it."

The air inside the U-boat, Eva’s Hammer , always smelled of stale grease and desperation, but today it felt heavier. B.J. Blazkowicz sat on the edge of his cot, the mechanical joints of his Da’at Yichud power suit whirring softly as he tightened a bolt on his prosthetic limb. "Hey, Terror-Billy," a voice rasped.

The world turned inside out. Gravity flickered. B.J. felt his feet leave the floor as the room began to pull itself toward the orb. He grabbed a railing, his metal fingers denting the steel. With his free hand, he pulled a pack of explosives from his rig and jammed them into the orb’s housing.

B.J. plummeted through the clouds, the wind roaring in his ears. For a second, looking down at the scarred earth of America, he saw it not as it was, but as it could be. Then, his parachute jerked open, and the long walk back to the fire began.