The Corps of Discovery Trilogy Box Set: Books 1-3: A multiverse series of alternate history

by James S. Peet

The ambulance crew deemed Drew to be in bad enough shape that, despite his weak protests, they loaded him up in a gurney and wheeled him out the door of the suite. Turning his head, Drew could see the body of Officer Robinson, back arched unnaturally over the broken window of the stairwell door. The officer’s revolver was on the floor, hammer pulled back.

  The ride down the elevator was a quiet one, punctuated only by the sound of background instrumental music coming through speakers set in the ceiling. He knew it was from one of the stations playing a brand called Muzik. Drew always wondered who tuned into those stations. It seems every elevator, lobby, and store with a radio and speakers had Muzik running in the background continuously.

  As they rolled through the lobby, Drew looked but didn’t spot Agent Monk’s body. Officer Frost had already been taken away. The desk clerk was talking with a police officer and a man in plainclothes, probably a detective. The man was holding the ubiquitous notepad in one hand, pen in the other.

  Out the lobby and into a waiting ambulance, then a short ride to Grady Memorial Hospital, where Drew was admitted to the emergency department. A young doctor came in to inspect him, checking his vitals, paying particular attention to Drew’s pupil reactions.

  The doctor was close enough to Drew that he could read his name on the white lab coat.

  “So, Dr. Rosenberg, am I gonna live?”

  Dr. Rosenberg stepped back from examining the CBE agent. “Maybe, maybe not. You’ve got a pretty nasty concussion going on there. Whoever did that to you certainly knew what he was doing. What’d he use, a baseball bat?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t recall any of it.”

  “No doubt. Well, your night of adventure is over. I’m not releasing you until the morning. You’ve got a traumatic brain injury, and the last thing we need is for you to develop a subdural hematoma and die overnight.”

  Drew, with his limited medical knowledge, looked at Rosenberg in confusion. “Sub-what?”

  “Subdural hematoma. It’s when blood vessels in the brain break and leak out all over inside the skull, putting pressure on the brain. It’s possibly life-threatening. You walk out this door with a subdural hematoma, most likely you’d be dead this time tomorrow.”

  That convinced Drew not to fight the medical care. Lying back down on the bed, he asked, “Can I at least make some phone calls? Official CBE business.”

  The look that crossed Rosenberg’s face was one that indicated no love was lost on the CBE, but he relented. “I’ll have a candy striper or a nurse bring you to one, but not until you’re a bit better off, in my professional medical opinion. That means that you won’t pass out when sitting up. Maybe in an hour.”

  Drew knew when he was licked, so he thanked the doctor for his help.

  “Don’t thank me yet. We’re gonna have to check on you every hour to make sure you’re okay. That means you can forget about getting much sleep for the next twelve hours.”

  An hour later, while still not at the top of his game, Drew was feeling well enough to sit in a wheelchair as he was wheeled to the nurse’s station. He called his home office in Montgomery first, not expecting an answer, and getting what he expected. The next call was to the Atlanta office. Again, no answer. Reaching into his coat pocket for his notebook, which had several important phone numbers, he discovered it was no longer in its usual spot. Huh. Must have left it in my car.

  He didn’t have his suitcase with him, as it was still in the trunk of his car parked in front of the Peachtree Palace. That meant that the spare notebook he kept in it with additional contact information was packed away, inaccessible to him at the moment. This also meant he didn’t have the home number for his supervisor, Special Agent in Charge Robert Haussman.

  With nobody to contact, Drew decided to return to his bed and rest. It was going to be a long night.

  Drew was right: it was a long night. Every hour, just as it seemed he dozed off, a nurse or young doctor, most likely fresh out of medical school, would stop by and wake him, making sure he wasn’t bleeding to death inside his own head. The first one who did so made the mistake of shaking his shoulder. That’s when they found out that a cop rudely awakened would usually lash out if disoriented. Fortunately, the only thing that suffered was a bruised ego and a flying bedpan. After that, and at Drew’s recommendation, the usual method of waking him was to tap on the soles of his feet until he became conscious.

  Finally, dawn came, and sunlight entered through the window, striking the wall near Drew’s head. Fortunately, the sun didn’t come directly into his eyes. That would have been too much for the battered agent.

  As the morning progressed, a slew of doctors came by and checked on him, the older quizzing the younger doctors. Drew figured out that this was “rounds” as he had heard on the radio show “Donald Westby, MD.” The young doctors tried to figure out what was wrong with the CBE agent, while the older doctor picked on them.

  It seemed that his TBI (traumatic brain injury) wasn’t sufficient to warrant further review, as he had survived the night. The recommendation was to discharge him with the caveat that he get some bedrest in a dark room for the next five to seven days and to not get involved in any physical activity for the next two to four weeks. This was clearly not medical advice Drew was going to take.

  A candy striper brought him his clothing, which had been removed and replaced with the revealing gown that all hospital patients admitted overnight are required to wear. She then pulled the curtain around the bed to provide Drew with some privacy. It took him longer than expected to get changed, forcing him to recognize the fact that he definitely was not on the top of his game.

  Before he could leave, he was forced to see another doctor for a post-visit follow-up. While waiting for the doctor, he was served a simple breakfast of orange juice, eggs, bacon, and grits. It seemed that coffee was on the no-no list. After breakfast was cleared by the same candy striper who had brought him his clothes, the doctor arrived, this one older than Dr. Rosenberg.

  “Had the whole gang checking you out on rounds, did they?” he started with a chuckle. Drew only nodded. The doctor, who introduced himself as Dr. Rushford, did a quick, but thorough evaluation of Drew, eventually declaring him fit enough to leave.

  “Looks like you got the short end of the stick last night. You get into another ruckus like this one, it’d like to kill you.”

  Drew could only agree having recognized during his time in the hospital that he’d had a major whoopin’. The worst part was, he was feeling the effects of survivor’s guilt, being the only CBE agent to survive the encounter.

  After the doctor cleared him, Drew made his way back to the nurse’s station where he borrowed the phone once again. After dialing the number by memory, he waited until he heard his supervisor’s voice come on the line.

  “Haussman here.”

  “Sir, it’s Agent Peters.”

  “Peters? What the hell have you been up to, boy? I’ve got two dead agents in Atlanta and a pack of reporters hounding me like a treed coon. Where are you?”

  “In a hospital in Atlanta, sir. It appears those Californians aren’t exactly what they claim to be.” Drew explained the situation and what he had learned to date, including how he lost his weapon and badge, and how the two CBE agents and the police officer were killed.

  “You certainly got yourself a situation there, along with a string of dead cops.” The voice coming across the tinny line certainly sounded less than encouraging to Drew. “How do you plan on catching them?”

  Drew was flummoxed. He had no idea where the suspects were, how they got there, or what they were doing. “Honestly, sir, I haven’t a clue. I’ve been in the hospital all night, and haven’t seen hide nor hair of Atlanta PD. I don’t know if they found the suspects or if they’re even looking for them.”

  “Yeah, they’re looking. Only in Georgia, though. I put the word out to all CBE offices to keep an eye out for these guys. ‘Course, we ain’t got as many agents as we need, so they’re focusin
g mainly on train stations. I figure, if they’re running, the most likely way they can get out is by train, so we’re checking all trains leaving Atlanta.”

  Drew thought for a moment, recalling the prior day’s conversation with the APD detective.

  “Sir, we may be thinking about this wrong.” In just a couple of minutes, Drew explained about the Germans and the flying cars.

  “So, they could be heading for a seaport, one that has German shipping?” Haussman asked, less a question than a statement.

  “Yessir.”

  A brief silence on the other end of the line.

  “Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Get in your car and head on out to the coast. Start in Savannah and work your way down to Saint Augustine. Take a couple of agents from the Atlanta office with you. Find out if any German vessels are in port or recently sailed. We might catch ‘em there.” Another brief pause. “And let me know what you find, or what you don’t find. That’s just as important. I’ll contact the South Carolina, Florida, and Louisiana offices and have them start a search, too.” As each field office was in the capital of the state, Drew suspected it would be several hours before any agents would be able to make it to the coast.

  He agreed, and after a couple of more minutes on the phone, hung up. Drew forgot to mention anything about the British agents to Haussman, a decision that would come back to haunt him later.

  Stepping outside the hospital (the CBE was picking up the tab on the medical bill), Drew waved a taxi down and had the cabbie take him to the Peachtree Palace.

  His official car wasn’t where he had left it. Damned hotel staff probably had it towed, he thought, climbing the stairs into the hotel.

  But he was mistaken. No hotel employee had had any cars towed, and the desk clerk on duty didn’t recall seeing one when he came to work just an hour ago.

  “Can you call the night clerk? Maybe he knows?” Drew asked.

  The young clerk, a right pretty blonde in her twenties, agreed to. “I do so hope I get him before he’s gone to bed,” she said as she placed the call.

  It wasn’t long before she had him on the line. Drew could only hear her side of the conversation, but he picked up on the fact that the clerk knew nothing about the car, and had not had it towed.

  Where the hell is it?

  “Should I call the police, sir?”

  “No, don’t bother. But, may I use your phone? Official CBE business.” At her look, and realizing that he had no badge or identification to prove who he was, he explained, “I was one of the ones hurt here last night. Spent the night at the hospital.”

  The girl, with a look of sympathy, mixed with a combination of adulation and interest, allowed Drew behind the desk to make his call.

  In a few minutes, he had determined that the Atlanta Police had not towed his car, and nobody even remembered seeing it. It was then he considered that maybe, just maybe, it had been stolen by the suspects. If that was the case, they were definitely better armed now. He was put through to the homicide detective who was the lead investigator on the case, Mark Begrin. After explaining his situation, the detective said, “I sure wish we’d had that information last night. Mighta helped us find them bastards.”

  Begrin took the information on the car, stating he’d have a BOLO put out for it. “Who knows, somebody might even spot it,” he said, clearly not expecting so.

  When Drew hung up, he realized he was in a strange city with no identification, no money, no car, and with several issued weapons missing. He dreaded the next call he needed to make, back to Haussman

  After explaining the situation to Haussman, Drew, feeling like part of his ass was missing, took a taxi to the Atlanta CBE office. He told the driver to bill the CBE.

  It was as depressing as he’d thought it would be. The agents in the office were acting morose, some with red eyes and evidence of fresh tears. The tears weren’t for him; rather, they were for their coworkers, Brown and Monk. The Assistant Special Agent in Charge had just broken the news about the prior night’s events, and the fact that two of their own had been killed. While the radio and newspapers had mentioned several law enforcement officers killed attempting to apprehend some cop-killers, the news had left out the fact that the CBE was involved.

  When the ASAC saw Drew, he waved him over to his desk into the desk-crowded room. None of the typewriters were clacking or dinging, and nobody was on the phone. They were all just standing around.

  Drew shook the man’s extended hand. “How you doing?” Williams asked.

  “I’ll survive. Have the family been notified, yet?”

  “Yeah, I had that pleasure last night. Sorry I couldn’t get to the hospital to see you, but we figured you were alive and probably gonna survive, and those bastards were getting away.”

  “Yeah, ain’t that a fact.”

  “Haussman called and explained the situation. We’re making you up fresh credentials, so you should be good to go in a short bit. We’ll also issue you some firearms. Any preferences?”

  Drew told the ASAC that he would prefer a similar revolver to what he had, along with a submachine gun. “No need for a shotgun. I can only carry so much without a car.”

  “We’ll be providing a car, along with a couple more agents.” At this, Williams gave Drew a hard look. “You find these guys, don’t take any chances. I want you to call in whatever law enforcement you can, and I mean, as much as you can. I don’t know who or what the hell these guys are, but the fact that they killed two experienced CBE agents with their bare hands, and shot a cop who already had his gun out, well, that just scares the bejesus outta me.”

  “Me, too,” Drew replied.

  Looking past Drew’s shoulder, Williams called, “Johnson and Smith, c’mon over.”

  The two agents joined the ASAC and Drew. Williams introduced them as Bill Johnson and Bo Smith. “You two’ll be going with Agent Peters to try and track down these killers. Both of you got your bags packed?”

  The men nodded. It was standard operating procedure in the CBE to always have a bag packed and ready for extended travel, or “out in the field” as they called it.

  “Good. Bo, you get Peters a revolver and a submachine gun. Make sure you get plenty of ammo for each. And, make sure you also have lots for yourself. No sense takin’ chances.”

  By the time Drew and his two new compatriots got on the road, another half hour had passed. The reason for the delay was that Drew’s new credentials weren’t ready in the less than five minutes it took the three men to draw his new firearms and ammunition.

  A last check with the Atlanta PD verified that Drew’s car had not been found yet.

  It would be several more hours until the three agents made it to Savannah, so Drew, sitting in the back seat, elected to get some shut-eye. Preferably, uninterrupted for a while.

  72

  Before Bill and Lane’s lunches arrived, Matt, who had finished his sandwich, went into the Colored section of the hotel. He returned a minute later, explaining that he had left a message for “Marty” to meet in front of the hotel at one o’clock.

  Bill and Lane ate quickly once their lunches were delivered. The talk around the table was more in quizzing Ford about Einstein and what type of man he was.

  Along with being brilliant, Einstein was also a bit of an oddball. The only things that seemed to matter to him were figuring out the secrets of the universe, research, and interacting with like-minded individuals.

  “How’d you and Hill hook up with him?” Bill asked.

  “Before we developed the flying car, we were working on aeroplanes. When Einstein first got to Atlanta, he came into our shop and told us of this concept he had that he thought we might be able to take advantage of. So, for the next year, we worked with him on it. He came up with the concept and plans, told us what to do, and next thing you know, we had us a flying car.”

  Bill quizzed him on Einstein’s mental state and temperament, trying to find out if he was the type of man who would actually res
ist and fight for something or just took everything in stride, striving for minimal strife in life. Bill basically wanted to know if Einstein was going to be a help or a hindrance in any potential rescue.

  “Well, I can’t say, but I know he’s not one to take things lying down. If’n those Heinies took him, they either did so by surprise or by force.”

  Lunch over, the four men paid, leaving a nice tip, and stepped out of the hotel lobby onto the busy street. Like cities everywhere, cars and people were rushing by, the noise, heat, and humidity hitting them all at once. Glancing about, Bill didn’t recognize any threats. But that doesn’t mean anything. No saber-tooth cats here, just a deadlier predator.

  Glancing over to the Colored entrance, Bill could see Jordan and Summer standing near it, ostensibly engaged in conversation. It was clear Jordan was waiting for them, as he briefly nodded when he saw Bill look at him.

  “Right. This way then,” Rhodes said. “We’re only a couple of blocks from where our waterborne chariot awaits.”

  As they passed the black couple, Bill made a “follow us” gesture with his head.

  As they walked, Matt brought up the question about Customs, and if they needed an exit visa or anything. Bill and Lane just laughed.

  “Yeah, considering our situation, I think we ought to avoid such things,” Bill replied. At the other men’s glance, he continued, “Let’s just say we had a bit of a problem and had to get out of Topeka fast.” Hefting the gun bag in his hand to emphasize it, he said, “Guy who had this before me probably wants it back, if he’s still alive. So, no exit visas, no government, nothing. Let’s just get on the boat and get the hell out of here. I’ll explain later.”

  The walk down Calhoun Street put them at the waterfront in less than ten minutes. Along the way, when no Confederates were in earshot, Bill briefly explained the run-in with the CBE to Matt and Rhodes, and the fact that there was most likely a manhunt underway for them.

  At the waterfront was clearly a working wharf, though not quite the cargo port Bill was used to seeing. There were no container ships and no tankers. There were several vessels, most the fishing trawler variety, much like what he was used to seeing at Fisherman’s Terminal in Seattle before crossover. One was a large, nicely built luxury motor yacht, about sixty feet long, with the name Enigma painted across the stern. There appeared to be sufficient room on the aft deck for the car, and if set down just right, enough room on the bow for the other one. Bill recalled that the back deck was called a quarterdeck. The space looked more like a party deck. Had this been Earth, there likely would have been a helicopter pad there. A really small helicopter pad with a really small helicopter. But here, helicopters didn’t exist, and airplanes were still in their relative infancy, referred to as aeroplanes.