by Fred Holmes
The novel itself is carried by its large cast of characters, and the interplay of plotting that goes on between them. There are nearly a half-dozen factions at play, each with fairly unique situations and motivations.
I applaud Mr. Holmes’ ambition in balancing these characters; ultimately I appreciate the escalation of tension that occurs with the introduction of new characters, and the way the novel manages to navigate between their desires. With those characters come varied voices, which is something else that Mr. Holmes accomplishes well, balanced with a straightforward and occasionally glib narrator.
Mr. Holmes isn’t afraid to let the voices of those characters come forward, and the result is something that is pleasantly vibrant.
- Shuvam Kubar
Be sure to visit
www.KamelPress.com/Holmes
to see more from this author!
Copyright © 2018 by Fred H. Holmes. All rights reserved.
Proudly prepared for publication by Kamel Press, LLC. v1
This book is a work of fiction. The description of the escape from one of the escapee’s journal was fictionalised and combined with a Dyna-Tyme Genetics Time Travel plot to create this book. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission from the author.
ISBN-13: 978-1-62487-051-4 - Paperback
978-1-62487-052-1 - eBook
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017932871
Published in the USA.
Dedicated
to
Michael “Mouse” Mayes
my
Son-In-Law
A Civil War Buff
whose encouragement kept me going
when I couldn’t go any further.
Introduction
FOUR TO FIVE years is long enough for most wars. Civil or internecine wars, especially, seem to change as time wears on. The American Civil War hardened as it aged. Reports from Union soldiers show trends, some of which are common in all wars.
In the beginning, young Federal recruits signed up and donned their blue uniforms as if going to a party or a baseball game. The green recruits expected to fire a few shots, the Rebels would give up, and the USA would win in ninety days. The fighting would stop, and then the boys in blue would shake hands with the defeated enemy and come home as conquering heroes. A similar attitude, minus the fancy uniforms, also sent the Confederate boys off to war.
Ah, but this is not the way it happened. After the first eighteen months, it was apparent that the Rebels weren’t giving up. In fact, in nearly every battle, the boys in gray were winning. Those pretty blue uniforms, caked with mud and blood, reeked of smoke and rancid sweat. Those boys who expected to be home in ninety days were dying, wounded, or captured far from home. Their bodies rotted in strange places like Bull Run, Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg.
Visions of victory dances turned instead into paralyzing frontal charges leaving gory carnage. Our boys were dying in the mud, blood, and pain. Dying, parched for a sip of water. Dying, crying for loved ones and mothers.
The war continued, weaponry improved, wounds became more severe, and mortality increased. The most damaging change came in the attitude of the soldier. No more banter between pickets. No stopping on holidays to share food. By 1864, into the third year of the American Civil War, it turned ugly. Both sides took steps at all levels to kill, wound, or capture as many of the enemy as possible. In the words of General William T. Sherman, “War is Hell.”
Early in the war, captured combatants received “parole” or the option to quit fighting and go home to the farm. Parole made it easy on both sides. The captured soldier was happy to be out of the fight, and the conqueror didn’t have to imprison, guard, feed, or clothe the prisoner. The parole agent obtained important intelligence information and sent the parolee home, a plus in the win column.
Unfortunately, this system only worked as long as the parolee kept his word, and his unit didn’t redraft him back into service. If caught and identified as a parolee, he could be executed as a traitor. By the third year of the war, the South was running out of soldiers, food, weapons, even clothes. But they still had the will to fight and drafted every available man, regardless of status.
The fact that they wouldn’t give up irritated the North, and, by 1864, the Yankees were running out of patience, desperate to bring the South to its knees. Generals like Grant and Sherman, with the backing of Lincoln and Stanton, increased the pressure.
Even with a nearly three-to-one troop disadvantage, the South wouldn’t quit. By the summer of 1864, with both sides war weary, what had once been differences in political ideology, now turned to hatred of everything the other side represented.
Grant, with the blessings of Lincoln and Stanton, decided to stop giving parole and, instead, interred the captured enemy in Federal prisons. Loss of parole further depleted the already thin manpower available to the Confederate Army. Soon, existing Union prisons filled, and the focus turned to a small western New York town called Elmira.
A state military depot in 1861, a Union draft rendezvous in 1863, and in 1864, Elmira became a prison camp for over twelve thousand Confederate prisoners and continued so through the end of the war.
Elmira Federal Prison, more of a stockade, surrounded the multiple barracks that housed the prisoners. A twelve-foot high wooden fence had guard boxes spaced every fifty feet. A platform four feet below the top of the wall allowed the guards to walk their posts. Forty-one kerosene lamps with large reflectors attached to the fence illuminated the interior of the stockade and prevented any nighttime, over-the-wall, escape attempts.
Designated number three, the original barracks housed three to four thousand prisoners. Sometimes referred to as Camp Chemung, after Chemung County, New York, the stockade had the potential of being a model prison with livable, if not pleasant, conditions.
A few negative factors immediately began to turn this potentially model prison into “the death camp of the North.”
The Chemung River bordered the camp on two sides. Inside the camp, Foster’s Pond sat parallel to the South side of the river. Most of the time, the pond had no outlet and quickly became a breeding ground for the germs that caused dysentery, pneumonia, diarrhea, and cholera. Due to neglect and conflicting orders, a drainage system was postponed for several months, resulting in the loss of many lives. Prisoner privies, constructed so they dumped into the pond, increased the miasma.
Nine wells drilled to a depth of fifteen to twenty-two feet furnished the camp’s drinking water. Contamination of these shallow, surface water wells soon became another source of disease.
Lack of medical personal and supplies exacerbated the widespread disease. Reports of exchanged Yankee prisoners, littered with a few facts, convinced Federal high command all the way up to the cabinet that Confederate guards were intentionally maltreating the Union prisoners in their charge. They suspected the Confederates of intentionally reducing rations and neglecting the welfare, health, clothing, and quarters of the prisoners. Union high command believed widespread intolerable conditions existed for the Union prisoners. Particularly singled-out as the main culprit was Camp Sumter, commonly referred to as Andersonville.
This belief, true
or not, spawned a program of retaliation instituted in Camp Chemung. Official documents were scarce. Reports available came from prison gossip; those were thin on facts and sorely lacked veracity. In any case, the program of retaliation, semi-officially sanctioned, resulted in a twenty percent cut in rations.
Minimal attention to adequate clothing and a lack of blankets soon became a huge issue as fall approached in Western New York, followed by the icy winds of winter. Whether this retaliation was officially ordered or instituted in a more subtle manner, the effect was the same.
Barracks number three, originally designed to house three to four thousand prisoners, filled quickly. Additional tents erected outside the barracks soon exceeded capacity. The combination of overcrowding, unsanitary conditions, lack of proper medical personnel and supplies, and a prevailing attitude of retaliation soon turned Camp Chemung into “Helmira, the death camp of the North.”
Fred H. Holmes
Chapter 1
RUMFELD “Rummy” Dixon was slowly dying. Dying on a bed of filthy straw. His stomach rumbled and seconds later, his gut was wracked with the horrible wrenching of cramps, followed by the voiding of stinking excrement. The physical pain was excruciating, but nothing compared to the angst of not knowing where he was or how he had arrived there. He looked around.
He was in a tent. Soon, two men in gray uniforms entered. If you could call the ragged, dirty clothes draped from their skeletal bodies uniforms, then they must belong to a sad, sad army.
The two soldiers approached him, and he heard one remark that it looked like he was coming around. What were they saying? What did they have to do with me? I’m the CEO of Dyna-Tyme Genetics! So what am I doing in this stinking tent?
Then the pieces began to fit. Time Travel. DNA. Bits and pieces. He remembered a little more. Ralph. Ralph Bailey. After all I did for him.
Once Ralph isolated the DNA that clocked our life and kept track of our location., the rest was easy, or relatively easy, compared to this …
“Prisoners, fall in.” Then, “Count off.” He heard them count off. I’ll be, he thought, these are soldiers in roll call. He dragged himself up and peered out of the tent. Sure enough, the men in gray were lined up in a ragged formation. Soldiers in dark blue jackets over light blue pants conducted the roll call. Then, he recognized the caps. They wore Kepis. It hit him so hard that he sat down in his mess.
It appeared to be a Union prison for Confederate Prisoners of War. Somehow, he was in a POW camp during the American Civil War. The combination of diarrhea and the realization of his location were too much for Rummy. He fainted, collapsing on his straw pallet.
Chapter 2
LIDA MITUSHI sat at her desk, crossed one arm over the other, and laid her head where her two wrists met. Her black hair cascaded down her neck, over her shoulders and lay softly on her arms. Relaxed somewhat, she breathed a long sigh and then sobbed.
She missed Rummy. Rumfeld Dixon was her lover, her co-conspirator in the ill-fated trip back in time that resulted in a disastrous attempt to change the world. He had nearly succeeded. But ultimately, he was trapped in time by his own greed. Only smooth talking and a superb “penitent woman” act saved her from severe punishment. An occasional intimacy kept mouths zipped. Lida was a master at covering her tracks. Her intercom buzzed.
“Lida, this is Ralph.”
“How can I help you, Ralph?”
“I hired a Chief of Security, and I’d like you to go over the system, especially the firewalls and our encryption system. His name is Mike Beasley, ex-FBI, with top secret clearance.”
“No problem, I’ll take care of Mr. Beasley. Anything else I can do?”
“No. We beefed up the sign-in system for accessing the actual codes identifying the ancient DNA samples. To access them, you’ll have to sign in with either me or our new security chief. Everybody does, except Mike and I, as administrators.”
“What happened to the outside security company, Securadat? Weren’t they doing the job?”
“They were okay, but their company was growing. Too many people with access to our system. Also, some hackers recently attempted to break into that same system, and I thought Securadat were slow in responding.
“Now, we have our own Chief of Security. Mike is good. He not only has FBI experience, but his last job was with a big hospital that contracts with us to use RTSL. Of course, they have no need for the time travel module. Instead, they’re developing some significant medical applications for RTSL, and Mike thwarted several attempts to hack their system.”
“I guess the recent leak and publicity of RTSL hasn’t helped.”
“No, it hasn’t. We don’t need any more press. I’ve put out a gag order on all employees. As I mentioned, we are also tightening up the login system. Anyone wanting access to the ancient DNA will need a good reason and they’ll have to clear it with Mike or I.”
“Does it still work the same way?”
“Slightly different. The first time you enter the system, you’ll take a swab out of a sterile packet and swab your mouth. Mike or I will do the same and drop the swabs in the tray. It closes and you enter your personal PIN. Then, we enter ours. The system grants entry when the data matches. Complex, but only takes about two minutes. We have the fastest DNA analyzer in existence. Once you’re in the system, you won’t need Mike or me except for what we deem critical areas. Mike and I are not necessary to exit the system. You just log out with your PIN.”
“That sounds like a great improvement. Who checks you?”
He laughed. “We’ve already checked each other. RTSL will loosen up as Mike installs more automatic security systems.”
“By the way, Ralph, even though it’s been a long time since that mess with Rummy, I still appreciate your going to bat for me. I’ll be working late tonight. Do you want to stop by so I can show you the new firewall codes?”
“Probably not a good idea. “Ginger has been on my case since the last time we worked late.”
“Yes, that was pretty close. I guess that’s what you get when you marry the boss.”
When Rummy was sent back in time to Elmira prison and kept there by a programming loop, his wife, Ginger, inherited the company, married Ralph, and took Dyna-Tyme Genetics by storm.
“We have to be careful Lida,” Ralph said. “We don’t want Ginger dabbling in the scientific side, or security. She’s happy taking care of the finances. So let’s leave it that way.”
“Mike will be contacting you after he settles in. He’s familiar with our system and won’t need much help. You’ll like him. He’s a cool guy.” Ralph hung up.
Lida slumped back in her chair, and then sat upright, curled her dainty hand into a white-knuckled fist, and pumped her arm in the air. Now, all she needed to complete her plan was DNA from Ralph or this new guy Mike Beasley, and a time traveler that she could trust or coerce to travel back and bring Rummy home.
The pieces were falling into place, and not a second too soon for her.
* * * * *
Lida was second generation Japanese and represented the ultimate in Caucasian-Oriental beauty. Although her build was slight, it was perfectly formed: from the top of her jet black hair, through her sensual body, to the tips of her dainty feet. Lida was the dream of many a man, and the slightest opportunity to fulfill these dreams caused men to act abnormally. She specialized in making it seem as if their dreams would come true, but mostly left the carrot just out of reach.
“Miss Mitushi? Miss …” Mike Beasley stood at her door. “Miss Mitushi, I’m Mike Beasley.”
“I heard you, Mike. Call me Lida.”
He shifted his weight from foot-to-foot and tried to take some of his two-hundred and fifteen pounds off his sore ankles. He wore a tie-dye shirt with a peace symbol partially obscured by his long blond curly hair. The finishing touch was a graying soul patch beneath an impish grin.
“What can I do for you?” She pulled out a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “Darn allergies.”
M
ike said, “I can identify with that. I have allergies as well. Especially lately. We need to buy stock in the tissue companies. I use a box a day.”
She smiled.
“That’s not why I’m here, though. I have a little problem in RTSL. It seems that somebody is trying to hack into the system. They’re good at it, too. I didn’t catch them until they breached the second firewall. The encrypted passcodes sent me a code hitch, and when we booted them out, they pulled the hitch back with them. Then, the hitch reversed and pulled their basic info back.”
“Who … who was it? “Lida asked
“I don’t have all the data decoded yet, but the company is SS&G, out of Trenton.”
“Trenton? Is that Trenton, New Jersey?”
“Yup, Trenton, New Joisey.” Mike laughed.
Lida glared at him. “Not funny. Then she softened. “That’s quite an outfit you’re wearing. No one would ever take you for a security expert.”
“Sometimes, what you see is a whole lot less than what you get. Besides, if I don’t look like a Chief, it lowers the level of scrutiny. When asked, I just say that I work downstairs. I like the rule ‘don’t tell the whole story when the title will suffice.’”
He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “I make a habit of taking photographs of key employees. Keeps my file up-to-date. Do you mind?”
“No problem. How do you want it?”
“At your desk is fine.”
He took the photo, thanked her, and put the phone away.
She shut down her computer, turned, and started to leave the office. She looked around and realized that Mike Beasley was nowhere in sight. Spooky.
“Hmm,” she said, then left her office and took the elevator to the third floor where the president of Dyna-Tyme, Ralph Bailey, had his office.
The door opened to the third floor but instead of getting off, Lida stopped and let the door close. Deep in thought, she returned to the second floor and found Mike eating a sub.