Stalemate: Clockwerk Thriller Book One

by Thomas Webb

  The food arrived just as the men and women began filing in. After they’d all had their fill of roast venison, herbed vegetables, hot baked bread, and fresh brewed beer, Montclair pulled out the encoded telegraph message.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve received new orders from Washington.”

  “I knew it,” one of the Marines, a blonde-haired corporal, said with a grin. “Giving us vittles that good, something had to be up.”

  Greg sat off to the side in a Louis XVII chair, a toothpick in his mouth. “Keep the comments to yourselves and let the colonel finish.”

  Montclair held up the pages. “You all know from our earlier briefing that we’ll be attending Smythe’s gala. What you haven’t heard is that the scope of our assignment has changed. We’ll be doing more than just observing, according to these.”

  “Any chance those orders say we’ll see some action, sir?” one of the soldiers, a slightly built female corporal from the Vindication, asked.

  “It’s a possibility,” Montclair said, favoring her with a smile. “So we’ll need to be ready.”

  “Changes in assignments, colonel?” asked a grizzled old Marine.

  “A few, gunnery sergeant, but not for everyone. If you were assigned concealed overwatch position, then your orders are the same. Keep an eye out for trouble, and if you see it, I’ll be expecting quick rounds on targets in large quantities. Confederate peacekeepers will be out in force, but we’ve just received word there may be Shadow Army too.”

  “Shadow Army are some tough sons a’ bitches,” the old Marine grunted. “Nothing we can’t handle, though.”

  The men and women in the room mumbled their agreement.

  “As for everyone else, we’ll need to shuffle you a bit, since we’re now providing material support. Assignments will be finalized this evening. Then, we’ll have one last briefing tomorrow before we move out.”

  “Did I miss something in one of the briefings, colonel?” one of the men asked, looking around. “I don’t recall you mentioning anyone else on this mission, sir. Who will we be supporting?”

  Montclair took a deep breath. “We’ll be supporting DSI. This is their mission now.”

  “I knew there was a catch,” Montclair heard the blonde Marine corporal say, just before the room erupted in shouting.

  15 Demilitarized Zone, Wastelands South of the Union Border, July 1864

  Copperhead removed his wide-brimmed hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Keep up, Mr. Fluvelle. We’ve got a long march ahead of us.”

  Without enough air left in his lungs to reply, Abe only managed a weak nod. He was saving his strength for hiking, not talking. Copperhead followed close behind him, but Scarlet, impatient with their slow progress, ranged far on ahead.

  Less than a week ago, Abe worked for the Union Treasury Department under the direct supervision of the assistant secretary. As a condition of his employment, Assistant Secretary Field gave Abe an impossible task. Wade through a sea of fraudulent financial documents and trace the money back to its original source. No one had expected him to succeed, but he had.

  He’d followed the Confederate money trail all the way back to where it began, a company called the Shining Light Industrial Corporation. Soon after, he discovered Shining Light was owned by a man named Silas Worthington, and that vast sums of Worthington’s illegal money were being routed to a Confederate general by the name of Horton. It turned out Horton was the subject of a second investigation, led by veteran Strategic Intelligence Agent Nathaniel Faraday, a legend in the department who preferred being called by his moniker, “Copperhead”.

  After the department informed him of Copperhead’s work, Abe was immediately reassigned to the old spy’s field operation. Abe thought sending an untrained accounting clerk out to do field work was unusual, so he’d asked about it.

  “Yes, highly unusual,” Assistant Secretary Field said. “I have no idea why they would do such a thing. I mean, you’ve no training for such work.” The assistant secretary wrung his hands and shook his head angrily. “I’ll be certain to file a formal inquiry with the Secretary of the Treasury himself. At our next meeting, of course.”

  Three days later, Abe now found himself with a sixty-pound pack on his back, hiking through the blackened, aether-blasted hills of central Virginia’s demilitarized zone. So much for the assistant secretary’s formal inquiry.

  The sun beat down on onyx-colored sand, turning the desolate valley into an oven. Sweat ran from underneath Abe’s ill-fitting gray hat. He felt the desert heat through his loose clothing and saw it rise in waves from the ground ahead of them.

  Abe feared the three days of training Copperhead had crammed down his throat before leaving were woefully inadequate. In all likelihood, he’d probably learned just enough to get himself killed. Was this how the department treated all its agents? If so, it was a wonder any of them ever survived.

  Abe had lots of immediate problems, not least of which was his survival, but there was one that was even more pressing than all the rest. One he had no idea how to go about solving. He was completely and utterly in love.

  The second he’d laid eyes on her in the Capitol building’s Grand Rotunda, he’d known. He’d known it as sure as he now knew what she thought of him. When she looked at Abe, it was the same way a person might look at a weight tied around their neck during a long, treacherous swim. Or a heavy rock chained to their ankle as they tried to scale the face of a cliff. She saw him as a liability to her and her minder and nothing more. And he hated himself because of it.

  She looked like a gorgeous, angry goddess waiting at the crest of the dune. Two boulders, cracked apart and melted like candlewax from the extreme heat of the aether munitions, formed a natural passageway. She stood in it tapping her foot. She’d tied her fiery hair up in an ash-colored scarf and tucked it underneath a black Stetson. They all wore shirts and pants of gunmetal gray cotton, dyed with splotches of black to better blend into the barren landscape. Scarlet’s clothing, pressed against her by the wind whipping between the boulders, did little to hide her tantalizing curves.

  “Drink,” she said, tossing him a canteen as he approached.

  Scarlet’s rucksack was just as heavy as his, but she moved as if it weighed little more than a parasol. She leaned back, relaxed, her pack braced against one of the boulders. One foot she’d propped against the opposite wall of the narrow passage, the other she’d planted firmly in the deep black sand. Her magnificent rifle rested easily in the crook of her arm as if it belonged there.

  Distracted by the sight of her, Abe missed the canteen she’d thrown. It landed at his feet, forcing him to reach down to get it. Unable to balance the weight of his heavy pack, Abe tumbled forward and landed face first in the coarse ebony sand. He grasped the canteen and raised his head up slowly, dreading the look of disgust he knew he would see on Scarlet’s face. But the beautiful DSI agent was staring off into the sky. It was robin’s egg blue, with not a cloud to be seen.

  Copperhead walked up behind him. He knelt in the sand next to Abe and placed a hand on his shoulder. “See that range of hills over there, Mr. Fluvelle? The ones far off in the distance?”

  Abe took off his hat, shielding his eyes as he peered off into the distance. Far off to the east, he could just make out the hazy outline of a series of low-lying, jagged black peaks. “I see them. Just barely. They look like the teeth of some beast from a storybook.”

  “Those serrated peaks, Mr. Fluvelle, are the result of a particularly gruesome aether bombing campaign. The Widowed Sisters, they call those hills on account of all the men who died during that battle.”

  “That’s terrible,” Abe said, staring at the small mountain range.

  “That’s war,” Copperhead said. “It’s also quite a sight to see now and as good a place to stop as any.” The old spy stood and then helped Abe get to his feet. “You’ll need to be a bit more vigilant than you have been. If you expect to make it through this, that is.”

  Abe brus
hed black dust from his face and clothes as best he could. He took a long drink from Scarlet’s canteen, secretly thrilled to put his lips in the same place hers had been not so long ago. The tepid water slid down his throat, taking a fair amount of grit from the desert floor along with it. It was the sweetest water he’d ever tasted.

  Scarlet shouldered her rifle and peered through the looking glass. As she surveyed the desolate lands below them, she held out her free hand and motioned for her canteen. Abe threw it back, thankful she didn’t see the bright red color rise to his cheeks. She caught it easily.

  Copperhead pulled a well-worn map from his pack. “Come here for a moment, Mr. Fluvelle.” The old spymaster pointed to the map. “This is our current position, about twenty miles south of the Union border and well into the demilitarized zone. We’re ten miles south of what used to be Fairfax, in the heart of what was once some of the most prized pastureland in Virginia. This was all before the war, of course.”

  “Hard to imagine this place as anything other than desert,” Abe said.

  Copperhead nodded. “A tragic side-effect of modern warfare. Now from here,” he said, turning his attention back to the map, “we head south until we hit what remains of Fredericksburg. There's a DSI outpost there. We’ll pick up horses and fresh provisions when we arrive.”

  “Brutes, sir? Or live horseflesh?”

  “Living, breathing horseflesh, Mr. Fluvelle. I know you can’t ride a clockwerk. It said as much in your file. We couldn’t afford to be spotted riding through the demilitarized zone on horseback. No matter, though.” Copperhead waved it away as if the hellish hike through the wastes was little more than a Sunday stroll. “From Fredericksburg, we’ll ride south until we cross the Virginia - North Carolina border,” Copperhead traced his finger down the map. “Then, we’ll make our way onto the town of Rocky Mount.”

  Abe took off his hat, wiping as much of the sweat and coal-colored sand from his face as he could. He ran his hand through the mop of soaked brown hair on his head and sighed.

  Copperhead nodded toward Scarlet. “Looks as though my protégé isn’t ready to leave yet. To tell the truth, I could use a bit more of a break myself.”

  The redheaded agent had taken a knee but still had her rifle trained on the valley below. Copperhead was right. She didn’t appear to be in any hurry to get going, and Abe was in no hurry to take his eyes off her.

  “How about we go over our cover stories one more time?” Copperhead asked, somehow making it sound more like an order than a suggestion. He folded the map and put it away. “Let’s begin with your name.”

  “Trevor Fortenberry,” Abe said. “I’m traveling with my older cousin Mr. Arthur Hargrave and his daughter, Amelia.”

  Copperhead nodded. “Very good. Continue.”

  “Cousin Arthur is a wealthy plantation owner. He has a vast property in our home state of Kentucky.”

  Copperhead pulled a leather-bound book from his pack and began scribbling notes. “And what are you and your cousins doing in Greenville, Mr. Fortenberry?”

  “We’re in town to attend Congressman Smythe’s fundraising gala. My cousins and I are staunch supporters of the congressman. We strongly believe he’ll be the next President of the Confederacy.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Fluvelle. For a cover to work, you have to know it front to back, through and through. You have to believe you really are the person you’re making yourself out to be. Anything less could get you killed and Scarlet and I right along with you.”

  Of all the lessons they’d pressed on him before they left Washington, the cover story was the only one Abe felt like he’d really been able to grasp.

  “I know we’ve thrown a lot at you in a very short time, Mr. Fluvelle, but we—”

  “I’ll say you have,” Abe said, suddenly frustrated. “Why was I even sent on this assignment in the first place? A week ago, I was perfectly content, reviewing ledgers and doing the kind of work I’m comfortable doing. The next thing I know,” Abe continued, his voice beginning to rise, “I’m ordered to Washington, assigned to you, and now, I’m stuck out here in the middle of this Healer-forsaken wasteland. Granted, I’m with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, but I’ve absolutely no business being in the field!” Abe realized he’d been shouting.

  Scarlet took a step toward them, looking as if she were about to speak. Copperhead put up his hand, and she returned to watching the valley below.

  “I-I apologize, sir,” Abe said. The young clerk placed his head in his hands. “It’s not like me to yell.”

  For several minutes, Copperhead said nothing. Tattered clouds, driven by the hot desert wind, moved across the sky. It was an uncomfortable breeze, but it was still a breeze.

  “None of this is your fault, Mr. Fluvelle.” Copperhead looked off into the distance. “There are . . . circumstances which are beyond your control. Some are beyond my and my protégé’s control as well. Truth is, you’ve been caught up in something much larger than yourself. Something that could prove very dangerous, I’m afraid. For that, it is I who must apologize to you.”

  “Is this all just a game to someone sitting up on high someplace?” Abe asked, wishing he could rinse the grit from his mouth. “Are we all just pawns in it?”

  Copperhead put his hand on Abe’s shoulder. “You’re a perceptive young man, Mr. Fluvelle. I know you didn’t ask for any of this, but I promise you that if you follow my and my protégé’s instructions, we’ll get you out of it alive. We may be pawns in a game, Abercrombie, but even a pawn can take an enemy’s king if he moves wisely.”

  The veteran spymaster favored Abe with a smile, looking for all the world like nothing more than a kindly old man, albeit a very physically fit, frightening one. Abe smiled back, hopeful for the first time since they’d met.

  “It’s time, sir,” Scarlet said from right behind him. Abe hadn’t even heard her approach.

  The Union spymaster stood, extending his hand and helping Abe to his feet. “Come along, Mr. Fluvelle. What do you say we get out of this damned desert?”

  16 Outside Greenville North Carolina, Smythe’s Mansion at Rosetree, July 1864

  Smythe and his wife stood behind the balcony double doors in the south wing of Rosetree Manor. “You’ve outdone yourself preparing for this,” he told her. “I’ve never seen the manor look so lovely.”

  Just outside the doors, an entire ballroom of people stood below them, waiting for Smythe to make his entrance. The air seemed to crackle in anticipation.

  He kissed the back of his wife’s hand. “Still not nearly as lovely as you, though, my dove.”

  Christina Smythe was stunning, with more grace and charm than a woman of only twenty-four years had any right to. She turned, looked down at her husband as she stood a full head taller than Smythe, and reached down to adjust his waistcoat and tie. “I wanted everything to be perfect for you, James,” she said. “As perfect as the next President of the Confederate States deserves.”

  Christina wore a handmade ball gown of the palest pink silk. Carat-sized jewels adorned each of her ears, and around her neck was a matching string of diamonds worth more money than several plots of good farmland. The necklace sparkled in the low lamplight of the hallway, the diamonds falling in a “V” shape and resting between a perfect pair of melon-sized breasts.

  Christina was the congressman’s fourth marriage. He was her second.

  Through the thick oak of the double doors, Smythe heard himself being introduced. His wife gripped his arm and gave it a squeeze, and they strolled out onto the ballroom’s second floor landing as the band in the orchestra pit played “Dixie”. Hundreds of guests stood assembled beneath them, all of them clapping and cheering. Smythe and his wife stood at the balcony’s iron railing, waving and soaking in the accolades of the crowd.

  Carefully, Smythe escorted Christina down the long marble staircase to the ballroom floor. At the bottom, they posed for a daguerreotype before wading into the crowd of enthusiastic admirers. The ball
room looked like something from a child’s storybook. A chandelier the size of a steam carriage hung from the domed ceiling, filling the cavernous space with light. A massive wooden clock, its minute hand as long as a man was tall, dominated the wall above the entrance. Banners of sunset orange and indigo, the Confederate colors, hung from the balcony, which ran the circumference of the structure. Guests danced on a polished marble floor as the band switched from “Dixie” to an up-tempo waltz.

  Smythe held court in a circle of supporters, his arm wrapped around his wife’s slim waist. He leaned in close when he spoke, his voice loud over the clinking of glasses and the murmur of a hundred party conversations.

  Smythe and his wife circulated throughout the vast ballroom, greeting guests and shaking hands. As they made their way through the crowd, Smythe turned and saw that at some point Wagstaff had materialized behind him. The Confederate soldier-turned-head of security was doing an excellent job. Smythe made a metal note to give the giant of a man a raise. A full turn o’ the clock flew by, and Smythe barely noticed. He was a master at working a room, and he was in his element.

  “Enough, James!” Christina said after another quarter turn o’ the clock. “If I don’t eat something soon, I'll simply lie down and die.”

  “Of course, my dear. My apologies.”

  Smythe excused himself from a group of bankers he’d been delighting with stories of political scandal and escorted his wife to the buffet. Wagstaff followed behind them, as close and quiet as a shadow.

  Christina Smythe had planned a table fit for a king. Smythe helped himself to oysters on the half shell, pulled from the sea that morning and kept cool on a bed of high mountain ice and crushed rock salt. He piled his platter with shrimp from the Atlantic and bitter salad greens, fresh from his own Rosetree estate gardens and drowned in a delicate sauce made from pomegranate and vinegar. He scooped up several spoonfuls of imported caviar from a silver serving bowl, packaged and delivered via airship from the Tsardom of Russia.