Stalemate: Clockwerk Thriller Book One

by Thomas Webb

  The Gambler puffed on his stogie. “DSI wanted to take you out they’d a’ done it, pup. Was something else they was after. Information’d be my guess.” The small man with the thin mustache exhaled, watching the thick gray smoke as it wafted toward the ceiling.

  “Seems they have plenty of information already,” the Pious Man said. “They knew enough to look for you, commander, and they knew exactly where to do the looking. Makes me wonder what else they might know.”

  Horton felt his patience slipping again. He was the appointed leader of the entire Confederate peacekeeping force and the youngest brigadier general in the history of either Union or Confederacy. He was commander of the select group of elite Southern shock troops he’d named the Shadow Army. And, as the congressman was so fond of reminding him whenever they had need of his troops, he was an equal member of the cabal.

  “At this point, we must assume they know everything,” Horton said, adjusting the jacket of his dress uniform. “The scientist. What our plans are. All of it.”

  “And just what in the hell do you propose to do about it?” the Pious Man asked.

  Horton held the Pious Man’s gaze. “It’s simple, Silas. We’ll just have to destroy Washington a bit sooner than we’d planned.”

  10 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the Mint, June 1864

  Abe sat hunched over the old wooden desk, his hand on his forehead and his face buried in financial records. The cramped office, not much bigger than a broom closet, was filled from floor to ceiling with documents. A mass of dark brown hair, damp with perspiration, flopped into Abe’s eyes. He brushed it away.

  “Seems like they might at least provide us with a fan, don’t you think, Garibaldi?”

  The beaten old clockwerk held its peace. They’d loaned Abe the refurbished machine to help him with the investigation. Desperate for company, Abe had quickly given his new friend the name Garibaldi, after the elderly Italian watchmaker who, forty years ago, had invented the clockwerk and changed the world.

  Abe sighed. “You’re right. Too much to ask for, I suppose.”

  Abe leaned back and stretched his long arms as far above his head as he dared. Thanks to the cramped conditions, Abe worked in constant fear of knocking over the stacks of records he’d so painstakingly organized.

  Little air moved between the piles of papers in the small space, and the heat was stifling. While he stretched, Abe noticed wet, gray stains underneath his arms. He stole a glance at Garibaldi to make sure the clockwerk wasn’t looking. Satisfied the secondhand machine wasn’t judging him, Abe took a quick sniff. His regret was instantaneous as his head jerked back in disgust.

  “Ugh, what am I doing here?” he asked, pounding his fist against the desk. The meaty part of his hand turned an angry red and began to throb. “Four weeks into this investigation and still nothing,” he moaned, cradling the bruised flesh at the bottom of his hand.

  After his arrival, it took Abe a full two weeks to review and organize the mountain of documents given to him by Assistant Secretary Field. It took another week to isolate the records he felt warranted closer attention from the ones someone had created specifically to serve as distractions. Once he’d organized it all to his meticulous standards, Abe had gotten down to business.

  He’d started with a thorough evaluation of every statement in every pile, scouring the records for accounting irregularities. He’d scrutinized the ledgers, searching for patterns or anything that looked even the slightest bit out of place.

  “I’ll be done in a few hours. Probably by supper,” he told himself the first day.

  Those few hours had turned into days. Then those days stretched into a week, and that week stretched into two.

  “Must be after midnight,” Abe said with a sigh. If only he had a window or even a clock.

  He rubbed his burning eyes. The hollow rumbling in his belly reminded him he hadn’t eaten in hours. Abe felt drained. He was hungry, and his clothes were soaked through with sweat. Worst of all, he was no closer to finishing this assignment than when he’d began.

  “Maybe I should just give it up,” Abe said to the clockwerk. “Throw in the towel and go back to the Keystone Bridge Company. I know Mr. Carnegie would welcome me back with open arms.”

  Abe smiled. He’d been on a fast track at Keystone, a shoe-in to make partner in only a few years. Old man Carnegie had all but promised it to him.

  “But what would my father think, Garibaldi? A veteran of the War Between the States would never abide his son quitting government service. And what about my mother, Lord rest her soul? Would she approve?”

  The dilapidated machine sat in the corner, quiet. One of its eyes burned a bright, fierce blue. The other remained dark, its bulb long since burnt out.

  “Nothing to add, eh?” Abe leaned back in his chair again. “Can’t say I blame you. I envy you, my friend. You have it easy. Just sitting there all day and night, the light shining from your one remaining eye. The light,” Abe repeated, lost in his thoughts. “The light shining . . . a shining light.”

  Suddenly, it came to him.

  Abe flailed in his chair, nearly falling over. Several stacks of his precious files tumbled to the floor, knocked aside in his haste to grab ahold of on the ones he needed. A turn o’ the clock later, Abe stood leaning over the old wooden desk, admiring what he’d accomplished. Drenched in sweat and exhausted, he stood above his work and grinned like a drunken idiot.

  “Garibaldi, you’re a genius.” He laughed.

  Twelve stacks of documents, spaced and aligned with military precision, lay in front of him.

  “Jesus Christ the Healer,” Abe swore, too excited about his discovery to even notice he’d taken the Lord’s name in vain.

  11 Greenville, North Carolina, Twelve Miles Outside of Town, July 1864

  Smythe and Wallace sipped glasses of French wine as the steam carriage chugged along. They hadn’t seen a single soul since the outskirts of Greenville.

  “You’re certain Mr. Wagstaff knows where we’re going?” Wally asked.

  Outside the window, men with expensive suits, watchful eyes, and precision rifles rode guard next to the carriage.

  “I’m certain.” Smythe leaned back into the plush velvet cushion of his seat. “This isn’t our first trip.”

  Gravel crunched beneath the carriage’s wheels as they turned off onto a small, easily overlooked side road. The well-maintained thoroughfare gave way to a narrow, rutted strip of dirt that most would be hard-pressed to call a road.

  The carriage rocked and shook as they wound their way through the pine forest. Wine sloshed over Wallace’s glass as the carriage slammed into a particularly nasty rut in the trail. He raised an eyebrow at Smythe.

  “Relax. We left the first mile of road this way on purpose. Anyone who stumbles onto it will think it’s nothing more than a hunting path.”

  Wallace wiped the wine from his jacket as best he could. “Every hunting path I’ve ever been down was in much better shape than this.”

  “The road will improve, Wally. The surprise I have to show you is well worth a bit of discomfort.”

  True to Smythe’s word, the rough road soon gave way to smooth, level ground. Smythe flipped a switch near his armrest. A small fan in the ceiling activated, and cool air flowed into the cabin.

  “You’ve come quite a ways since Scotland County,” Wallace said, admiring the cabin’s blood-red velvet and polished oak.

  “And I don’t ever plan on going back.” Smythe closed his eyes and reclined in his seat. “Sometimes, if I try hard enough, I’m able to convince myself that my childhood in Kentucky never happened. I make myself believe it was all just a dream or that it happened to someone else.”

  “Now, James, I know a thing or two about lying to yourself and lying to others about yourself. I don’t know why your history troubles you so. Your mother did the best she could, the Healer rest her soul. Especially considering she had no one after your father ran off. If she hadn’t met Colonel Smythe. . . well,
you owe the man a great debt is all I can say.”

  Smythe plucked several grapes from a nearby bowl and popped them into his mouth. “Why don’t you tell me more about this new suitor you seem so taken with? I assume he’ll be at my fundraising gala?”

  “Speaking with your mouth full is bad manners, James.”

  “So is changing the subject. I haven’t seen you this excited about someone in years. Let’s hear it.”

  “Well, to begin with, he is very handsome,” declared Wallace, a trill of excitement lacing his voice.

  “Of course he is. And younger as well, I imagine?”

  “Stop teasing, James. He is quite a bit younger than I am, but you’re one to talk. Your current wife is number, what, three? And each one younger than the last.”

  “Yes, all taken before their time. God’s will, I suppose.”

  Wallace snorted. “‘God’s will,’ eh? I’ve known you for far too long, James.”

  “You have, haven’t you, Wally? I apologize. I’ve repeated that so many times it’s become second nature. But what can I say?” Smythe shrugged. “I tire of them so quickly.”

  “Well, I rather like Christina. Could you please see that she doesn’t meet with anything too unfortunate . . . at least in the near future?”

  “She hasn’t begun to bore me yet, so that’s something. Ah, here we are.”

  Smythe watched through the window as the steam carriage rolled to a stop. The end of the road opened to a wide clearing surrounded by forest on three sides. Smythe’s hired guns had the area searched and secured by the time he and Wally grunted their way down the carriage stepladder. The setting sun glowed a final, fiery orange before it dipped below the treetops and out of sight.

  Wally looked up at the tremendous structure, its roof higher than the surrounding trees. “My Lord, James. That has got to be the biggest damn barn I’ve ever seen.”

  The diminutive congressman tilted his head back to get a better look up at the structure. The barn was built of logs and earth, covered over with wood plank. Two massive barn doors, each wide enough to accommodate a locomotive, dominated the front of the building. Behind the barn were several acres of recently mowed fields. The evening breeze carried with it the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass.

  “What on earth would you need with a barn that size?” Wallace asked.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Smythe said.

  The two congressmen and their security detail walked down toward the gigantic building. Never far from Smythe’s side, Wagstaff followed close behind.

  Within the leftmost barn door was a smaller, normal-sized entrance. One of the hired men slung his rifle and pounded the small door with his fist. Smythe had just enough time to admire the first of the evening’s stars before the entrance swung open. The Shadow Army soldier standing behind it lowered his weapon.

  “General’s been expecting, y’all,” the soldier said.

  “My God,” Wallace uttered, craning his neck toward the roof as they entered.

  Smythe chuckled. “Astounding, isn’t she, Wally?”

  Aether lamps hung from the ceiling, filling the cavernous space with bright white light. The sleek airship floated several feet above a sawdust-covered floor. Her hull ran the length of the enormous barn. Smythe judged it to be at least five-hundred feet if it was an inch.

  The most striking thing about the vessel was its color. From the top of the control room to the bottom of her envelope, the ship was as black as a moonless night.

  White-orange sparks flew as men welded high above them. Clockwerks labored at ropes and pulleys, hoisting heavy iron beams and setting them into place. The air was thick with the smell of machine oil and hot ore. Groups of Shadow Army soldiers, their rifles slung, stood talking as they smoked tobacco and gnawed strips of jerky.

  “We call her the Raven,” General Horton said.

  Smythe startled. He hadn’t even heard him approach. He introduced the congressman and the general.

  “Magnificent,” Wallace said as he shook Horton’s hand. “I’ve never seen her like.”

  “There are none like her,” Horton said. “You know much about airships, Congressman Wallace?”

  Wallace admitted he didn’t.

  “Look up there, congressman.” Horton pointed to the airship's curved envelope. “The Raven is specially designed for speed and agility. She can turn on a dime and will outrun anything else in the sky. And there,” Horton said, directing the congressman’s eyes toward the long gun barrels on the airship's deck, “she carries eight long cannons capable of firing three thirty-two pounders a minute. She’s got four shell guns and four Gatlings, two apiece, fore and aft. Takes a crew of one-hundred twenty to run her, but in a pinch, fifty can get her where she needs to go.”

  “Remarkable,” Wallace said.

  “A wonder,” Smythe agreed.

  Horton nodded. “The hull, the envelope, the screw blades, all are brand new designs, years beyond anything flying today. But the most amazing thing about her is—well, gentlemen, if you’ll be so kind as to follow me, I’ll show you.”

  The general led them toward the rear of the barn. By the time they reached the opposite end of the airship, Smythe’s face was beet-red and soaked with sweat.

  “Are these the engines you mentioned last time we spoke?” Smythe asked.

  “They are,” Horton said. “Weren’t completed last time we spoke.”

  Two massive cylinders were attached to the base of the Raven’s envelope. Rows of evenly spaced slits ran the circumference of each. Horton waved to a man perched high up on one of the engines. The man waved back and disappeared into the side of the airship’s envelope. A few seconds later, the ship gave a low rumble. The vessel’s cylindrical motor housing shook and whined as the engine’s blades began to spin. Purple light bled from the slits in the housing. The light glowed bright and then faded, glowed bright and then faded, over and over in a pulsating pattern like the beating of a human heart.

  “Hear the sound of that engine, Wally?” Smythe asked.

  Wallace stared at the strange light. “Just barely.”

  “Exactly,” Horton said. “The Raven’s near on invisible at night, and with these engines, she’s as quiet as the grave.”

  “You must be a genius to have created such a thing,” Wallace said.

  Horton laughed. “Afraid I can’t take any of the credit.”

  “My apologies, general,” Wallace said, looking back and forth between Horton and Smythe. “I just naturally assumed . . . If you didn’t build this magnificent airship, general, then who did?”

  “The gentleman we contracted with to design and build the Raven is currently on other business,” Smythe said.

  Wallace squinted up at the bright work lights. “Did I ever tell you, James, that I find the sciences extremely fascinating? I follow all the periodicals. What is the gentleman’s name? It may be I’ve heard of him.”

  Horton stood behind Wallace and shook his head.

  Smythe understood what the general was saying. Wallace can’t find out.

  “Sorry, Wally. One of the terms of the gentleman’s contract was anonymity. If we violate any of his terms, he’ll refuse to return and complete the work.”

  “Perhaps another time then,” Wallace said, unaware of how close he’d come to the business end of Horton’s revolver.

  Smythe breathed an inward sigh of relief. “Perhaps.”

  Horton’s hand, having found its way down toward his holster, withdrew. A tense Wagstaff relaxed visibly.

  “My God, James,” Wallace said. “The heat doesn’t agree with you at all. You’re sweating like a pig. Here.” He handed Smythe a handkerchief.

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Congressman Wallace,” Horton said, smiling. “But if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have some things I need to tend to.”

  Horton shook hands with the two Congressmen and tipped his hat to Wagstaff. The big Georgian quickly ushered Smythe and Wallace from the barn and into the w
aiting steam carriage.

  “What are you up to, James?” Wallace asked once the carriage was moving. Wallace poured them both a glass of wine. Remembering the bumpy stretch of road, he was careful not to fill them completely.

  “Not sure I follow?”

  “I’m not old yet, James, but I wasn’t born yesterday either. The general asked me if I was familiar with airships. I’m not, but I do know that one done completely in black is a direct violation of international law.”

  Smythe sipped his wine and looked out at the blackness of the passing forest.

  “Who did you hire to build the Raven, James?”

  “It’s difficult to explain.”

  “We’ve known each another for many years, James, but I’m beginning to lose my patience. Are we or are we not partners?”

  Smythe didn’t respond.

  “All right,” Wallace said, his face reddening. “If you won’t answer my questions, perhaps you’ll at least be able to shed some light on one thing. Those engines, they weren’t fueled by aether, were they? If I didn’t know better, I’d say that unnatural glow was caused by dark aether. But I do know better, James. If the Alchemist’s Guild ever found out we had anything to do with dark aether, we’d be tried for blasphemy and hanged. I know you aren’t that foolish.”

  “They won’t find out.”

  “Christ the Healer!” Wallace swore, spilling his wine. “So it’s true then? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  Smythe handed Wallace a handkerchief. “We have every idea what we’ve done.”

  “By ‘we,’ you mean you and Horton, don’t you?” Wally stabbed at the spilled wine with Smythe’s handkerchief. “Just how long do you think that partnership will last? The man’s a cold-blooded killer, James. How can you even trust him?”

  “Killers have their uses. Don’t you trust me, Wally?”

  “Don’t try to turn this around on me, James.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Of course I trust you, you old fool! You’re one of the few people in this world I do trust.”