by Thomas Webb
Abe was powerless to do anything about the instructors’ harsh treatment of him, but he could control his own actions. He’d tried to tell his fellow trainees the truth: how he’d been little more than a hindrance in his first field operation and how he’d very nearly gotten himself killed. Not that they listened. It didn’t help matters that the mission to save Washington last year, along with Abe’s role in it, was still highly classified. Abe was forbidden by law from expounding on the details, as none of his fellow trainees had the proper security clearance. Nor could he explain to them how if it hadn’t been for Scarlet and her minder, Copperhead, he surely would have died — him and a great many others.
Scarlet.
His heart still fluttered at the thought of her, an image of fire-red hair and sapphire-blue eyes burned forever into his mind. He’d thought of her every day of Indoctrination, and of Copperhead, who he’d quickly grown to respect as much as he did his own father. Without those thoughts to keep him going, he never would have made it through the grueling Strategic Intelligence selection process.
But he did make it, and the two of them, Scarlet and Copperhead, had been there at the graduation ceremony. A ritual so private that no one other than the trainees and their instructors were allowed to attend. The two of them broke tradition and showed up for Abe even if only briefly. A few whispered words, a peck on the cheek from Scarlet, and then they were off again, headed the Healer knew where to do only the Healer knew what. But they’d shown up, and that was what mattered. And that peck on the cheek? Abe swore he’d never wash his face again.
The three-month mark since his graduation was only a few days away, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. Almost three months to the day since they’d assigned Abe to a minder. Minders were senior DSI agents, tasked with taking a younger agent under their wing. Kingfish, Abe’s minder, was nothing like Copperhead.
At first, Abe wondered if they’d assigned him to Kingfish as some sort of a punishment. After only two weeks in, Abe discovered quite by accident that Vice Chairman McCormick himself had personally paired the two of them up. Then, it all made sense.
Vice Chairman McCormick hated Copperhead and, by extension, also hated everyone associated with him.
Through no fault of his own, Abe had been ensnared in an inter-departmental rivalry going back decades. That McCormick even assigned Abe as good a minder as Kingfish had been a mercy.
After his discovery, Abe decided the best way to stay alive would be to rely on his training and not on his minder.
Abe’s stomach grumbled, bringing him back to the present. Suddenly, he had an undeniable taste for some jerky. With nothing going on at the ranch below them, he let the rifle rest atop his satchel and crawled over to their field rations.
He felt it before he heard it.
Abe couldn’t put the feeling into words, but it was the same gnawing sensation he’d sometimes get back in his old life as an accounting wunderkind, of knowing something was wrong with a ledger book even before he’d fully reviewed it. Back then, he could tell something in the books felt off, even before he puzzled it out from the numbers. Now, here was that feeling again, only this time there was much more at stake than a simple accounting error. This time, his instincts spelled the difference between life and death.
Abe heard the quiet crunch of dry prairie grass. He completed a split-second calculation, weighing the time it would take him to get to the rifle against how quick he could draw his sidearm. The math moved faster than the speed of conscious thought. Abe spun off his belly and onto his back, Colt out, up, and pointed between bent knees, the barrel leveled at the approaching stranger.
The man placed his hands out, palms up in a gesture of surrender. “Easy there, agent.”
Russet paint covered the stranger’s face. It was the same greasy stuff Abe wore. Underneath the paint, the man’s skin was a much darker shade of brown than Abe’s. A light stubble of salt and pepper beard sprouted from the stranger’s square jaw. He was dressed in buckskin instead of the brown cotton combat shirt and trousers Abe and his minder wore, and moccasins covered the stranger’s feet, unlike the dusty brown boots Abe had on.
The stranger glanced over at Abe’s minder, snoring contentedly next to an empty bottle. The man shook his head and looked back at Abe. There was pity in his eyes. “You the Bookkeeper?”
How did this man know his moniker was “Bookkeeper?” Abe’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”
The man smiled and shook his head again. “Doesn’t matter who I am.” He nodded toward Abe’s drunken boss. “Paired you up with Kingfish, did they? That’s a damned shame, son, you ask me.”
Abe cocked the colt. “You sure seem to know a lot for someone who says my questions don’t matter.”
“Whoa now,” the stranger said. “Easy, Bookkeeper. Man, they weren’t lying when they said you were a damned firecracker. Can’t for the life of me see why they’d stick you with the likes of Kingfish.”
The stranger paused, as if waiting for a response. When none came, he continued, “Well, anyway, I got a message for you.” He glanced over at Abe’s sleeping minder. “A message for the both of you, I ‘spose.” He looked Abe in the eye. “I just have to pull it from my satchel. I’ll move slow and easy, like.” The stranger grinned. “Just try not to kill me.”
Abe watched the man’s every move, waiting for any tell that would let him know he needed to shoot: an overt reach for a weapon, a twitch of the eye, a wrong move. Anything.
Slowly, the man reached behind him into his satchel, his eyes locked on Abe the entire time. He pulled out an envelope and dropped it where he stood.
“I’ll be taking my leave now, Bookkeeper, but first, can I give you a word of advice? This terrain, you need a pair of these.” He pointed at his hand-stitched moccasin boots. “Standard issue DSI boots like yours make too much noise.” The stranger looked down at Kingfisher and made a disapproving cluck. “Your minder shoulda told you that. You deserve a sight better, son.”
Abe looked away, toward his minder. The man’s hands lay folded over his ample belly as he snored, a line of drool running down his cheek. Abe had so many questions. When he looked back to where the man in buckskin stood, hoping he could answer them, he was gone.
When Abe was satisfied he and his minder were alone again, he de-cocked and holstered his Colt, went over, and picked up the envelope. It bore no address and was secured with an unadorned seal of bright red wax. Abe slid the Bowie knife on his hip from its sheath and cut the envelope open. The note inside was encoded, but Abe had easily mastered the DSI ciphers during his initial training.
He deciphered the message with minimal effort, reading it through twice just to make sure he had it right. Abe frowned, his face twisting into a mask of confusion. The orders were effective immediately. They were crystal clear, but the intent behind them was decidedly less so.
Abe covered his sniper hide well enough that even a prairie dog wouldn’t have known he’d been there and then scooped up his satchel and rifle. He ducked low and moved over to his minder, nudging the older agent with his boot. The effort yielded barely a break in his minder’s snoring, so Abe repeated the action, only this time with a fair amount of force.
“Huh?”
Kingfish woke with a start, hand going for the pistol which was supposed to be on his hip, but that he’d lain aside in order to get more comfortable. He looked up at Abe, eyes glazed over with sleep and strong drink.
“Dammit, boy,” Kingfish said, rubbing his head. He tried to stand, the wobble in his legs forcing him to think better of it. “Woke me from a perfectly fine nap. Better be a damn good reason for it.” Kingfish seemed to remember why they were there in the first place. “The cattle baron taken care of yet?”
“No, sir,” Abe said. He slung his rifle and held it across his chest at the ready position, his finger straight and off the trigger. “New orders. Get yourself together and grab your gear, sir. We’ve been recalled.”
7 Richmond,
Virginia - Confederate White House, September 1866
There was a knock at the doors. Smythe looked up from the decree, yet another of the seemingly endless documents requiring his signature. Who would have thought presidency would prove to be so tedious?
“Come,” Smythe said, grateful for an excuse — any excuse — to stop scribbling his own name.
The doors to the Office of the President of the Confederacy swung open. Smythe sat up straighter in his chair at the sight of the person who strode in. The man didn’t walk so much as he marched across the pine floor, his focus forward and his back ramrod straight. His hair and beard were both snow-white, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Smythe thought his visitor looked out of place in his senator’s suit of clothes, for which he’d only recently exchanged his general’s uniform.
Smythe stood from behind the stack of decrees and extended a pudgy hand. “Welcome, Senator Lee,” he said. Smythe pointed to a velvet cushioned chair in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat. May I get you anything, Robert? You don’t mind if I call you Robert, do you?”
Senator Lee placed his hat on Smythe’s desk and sat, crossing one long leg over the other. “No thank you, Mr. President. And ‘Robert’ will do just fine.” Senator Lee glanced over at Primm, who stood beside Smythe’s desk. Lee eyed the young man with suspicion. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure, Mister…”
“Primm,” Smythe’s aide said. “Trevor Primm.” Neither man made a move to shake hands. “I’m the personal aide to President Smythe, General. May I say it is an honor to meet you, the man responsible for the Stalemate, in person.”
The former general’s eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to determine whether he was being congratulated or admonished. “Plenty more than me are responsible for this predicament we’ve created, Mr. Primm, and lest you forget, I’m also responsible for leading our forces up the Potomac that fateful afternoon. Our defeat at the battle of the Potomac led to the Stalemate as much as any of our victories against the north. People tend to gloss over that part.”
Primm shrugged. “As you say, General.”
Lee fixed Primm with a piercing gaze. “Not ‘General’ anymore, son. It’s just ‘Senator’ nowadays.”
Smythe sensed the tension mounting and moved to defuse it. “What can I do for you this afternoon, Robert?” He favored Senator Lee with his best campaign smile.
Lee stared at Smythe for an uncomfortable moment, his face unreadable. Lee’s eyes flickered to the stack of papers on Smythe’s desk. “About all these new decrees you’ve been issuing, Mr. President…”
“Ah,” Smythe replied. He held up a hand. “Say no more, Robert.”
“Well, that’s just it, Mr. President. I must say more.” Lee’s eyes narrowed. “These decrees — the new ordinances on taxes and levees, the changes to what constitutes treason, our dealings with the Louisiana Territories — it’s all too much. Too much, too fast. We can hardly institute one decree before another comes rolling along right on the heels of the first. We barely have time to ensure the decrees are practical, much less constitutional. My colleagues and I have some very grave concerns.”
Lee reminded Smythe of his adopted father, who’d also been an army man. When the old colonel had been especially angry with his adopted son, he’d taken on the exact same tone that Lee used. Smythe remembered, with great satisfaction, how his cunning won out over that military discipline in the end.
“Grave concerns, eh?” Smythe resisted the urge to laugh. “This is nothing new, Senator. I’ve already been through this with several of those same colleagues you just mentioned.”
“Yes,” Lee said. “Oddly enough, the ones who helped sweep you into power are the only ones who seem to agree with the way you’ve chosen to exercise it.”
Smythe maintained his practiced pleasant countenance. This bastard was going to be a thorn in his side, he could already tell.
“I’ve been through this, Robert,” Smythe said, “but it bears repeating. The Confederacy is under severe threat from both the Union and the Empire of Mexico. We must collect the new taxes to fund our defense efforts, and we must afford the Louisiana Territories special privileges. They and the Republic of Texas are the only barrier between us and Maximillian’s empire to the south.” Smythe shrugged. “If not appeased, they will secede, and they cannot be allowed to do that.”
“I suppose I can see a twisted sort of logic in some of that,” Lee said. “That’s what makes it so dangerous. Men can justify outrageous actions with something disguised as common sense. The threat of secession sounds foolish to me, James, given that we as a nation only just seceded ourselves. But this fight you seem determined to pick with the Union… it’s a quarrel we have no need of. Grant has maintained the sanctity of the Stalemate as strongly as we have, if not more so. And while Mexico does loom, we cannot allow the Louisiana Territories to use the threat of secession to extort us for special favors. Especially not at the expense of the people, for the Healer’s sake. Especially not with resources so strained. You may not see it from where you’re sitting, Mr. President, but outside, people are starving in the streets.”
“Would you have us also ignore the threats of the allied Freedmen and the Croatan nation, General?” Primm inquired, injecting himself into the discussion. “Do you expect if we do ignore them, they’ll both simply disappear and go away satisfied?”
Lee looked at Primm as if only just noticing he was there, the way he might look at a dog that suddenly stood from his master’s feet and began to speak. “I do not,” Lee replied, “but that is a problem of our own making. We could appease both the Freedmen and the Croatan if we wanted. They ask only for what’s fair and just: some lands of their own. The elimination of the problem in exchange for a few acres of swampland would be a bargain in my opinion, but the threat they pose is insignificant compared to the danger of a fledgling nation collapsing from within.” Lee looked at Smythe. “If the people go hungry and are taxed beyond reason, they will turn on us, just as we did with the Union.”
“I’m afraid we have a fundamental difference of opinion, General,” Primm said. He looked at Smythe. “One for which we’ll have to turn to the president’s leadership.”
Lee stared at Primm, his eyes cold and black. “I don’t recall asking your opinion, Mr. Primm, and I do not expect I’ll have to hear it again.”
The comment had the unmistakable air of an order.
Smythe could almost feel Primm smirking behind him. Smythe got to his feet. “I appreciate your candor, Senator Lee, and I can assure you that my office will take your concerns into the utmost consideration.”
Lee stood as well. The corners of his mouth turned down into a deep frown. “All right, Mr. President. I’ve led enough men and women to recognize a dismissal when I see one.”
Lee snatched up his hat and left.
After the soldiers closed the doors behind Lee, Primm spoke up. “He’s suspicious of us, sir.”
Smythe nodded in agreement. “I assumed he’d be out of my hair after I won the election, an assumption I now see was in error.”
“Perhaps that was a miscalculation, Mr. President,” Primm conceded, “but it doesn’t have to be a critical one. It’s still not too late to implement my suggestion from earlier this year.”
“No,” Smythe said. “Lee’s death would draw too much attention right now.” The President of the Confederacy’s eyes narrowed. “But from now on, I want him kept under tight surveillance.”
8 A Deciduous Forest - Location Unknown, September 1866
Scarlet woke to the warmth on her face. She regretted it right away. Her head felt as if there was a man inside with a pick, trying feverishly to mine his way out. She welcomed the pain. Pain meant one thing. She was alive.
Scarlet rubbed her eyes and blinked, her natural tears washing away the last of the gunk that glued them together. She kept her eyes closed against the pain of the light, waiting for them to adjust before opening them. When she did, the image of a
sun-dappled grove of trees materialized before her. She inhaled. The aroma of honeysuckle, sweet and sharp, infused the grove. It soothed her, so much so that the throbbing in her head seemed to ease. Scarlet lay where she was and did not move. She listened. Birds chirped. Wind ruffled the branches of the trees. Somewhere above her, a squirrel’s claws skittered across the rough surface of tree bark. She detected nothing that would indicate she wasn’t completely and utterly alone.
Scarlet tried to sit up, falling back to the ground when a white-hot flash of pain assaulted her. She grabbed the sides of her head and screwed her eyes shut. She sat that way for some time, waiting for the waves of pain to subside. She'd really managed to piss off that little man in her skull with the pickaxe. She smirked darkly at the image.
Several minutes passed before she dared try to open her eyes again. A few minutes more and she was able to stand. She steadied herself and took one deep breath then another. When her breathing slowed to its normal cadence, she decided it was time to take stock of her surroundings.
The brute lay several yards away, right where it had broken down, collapsing in a heap and throwing her in the process. She put hesitant fingertips to the knot on her head, hissed in pain, and snatched her hand away. The spot would be tender for several days at least. The impact had knocked her out cold.
She looked around at the forest floor - a few scattered stones here and there. Blind luck she hadn’t banged her head on one of those.
Scarlet gazed up through the tree branches. The leaves, still green for the most part but tinged with shades of crimson and gold, parted in several places, through which she glimpsed patches of cloudless, azure-blue sky. The sun hung just past its zenith. She judged the time at somewhere close to midafternoon. Had it really only been a few hours? They’d scheduled the meeting with the Vice Chairman for ten o’ the clock that morning. Or was this even that same day? How long had she been out? The possibility occurred to Scarlet that she may have been out for days, not hours. She had no way of knowing.