Stalemate: Clockwerk Thriller Book One

by Thomas Webb

  Ueda shook his head. “I do not understand this reference.”

  “Never mind, Ueda-san.”

  “You are not focused, Julius. Your mind is not here,” the samurai growled. He pointed to the sword Montclair held. “Again,” Ueda said, slicing his empty hand through the air for emphasis.

  Ueda was right. Montclair’s mind was elsewhere. Montclair had negotiated President Grant’s promise of a reward for saving the city into fourteen days of leave for himself and his crew. Montclair knew exactly where he was going to spend it. He planned to do a lot of staring into a certain pair of golden eyes south of the demilitarized zone. He’d even had Grant agree to look the other way while he snuck across the Mason Dixon. The next two weeks were going to be something. He’d need every bit of it to put the past few months behind him.

  After the events onboard the train, Montclair had woken feeling weak and dizzy. His skull had throbbed at the slightest sound. The whiteness of the hospital walls and linens had hurt his eyes. Just turning his head had been a struggle. When his eyes had finally been able to bear the daylight, Montclair opened them. The sight of Vindication’s Head Matron seated at his bedside greeted him.

  “Decided to rejoin the land of the living?” the head matron asked. She smiled and gave Montclair’s hand a motherly pat. “You lost a lot of blood. Gave us all quite a scare. It was nearly too late when they brought you in. Thank the Healer it wasn’t.”

  Montclair motioned for water, his body so weak he hadn’t yet mustered the energy to speak. The head matron placed the cup to his lips. She sat with Montclair, waiting for his strength to return. Obviously, Washington was still in one piece; Montclair could see the Capitol Building from his hospital window. But as for what unfolded after he’d passed out on the roof of the dining car, he had no idea. Montclair motioned for water again and then somehow found the strength to ask about the passengers onboard the train.

  The light in the head matron’s eyes faded a bit. “Not everyone made it,” she said. “By the time they arrived at the station, it was too late for some of them. Your boarding party saved everyone they could.”

  Montclair closed his eyes. “My crew?” he croaked.

  “All accounted for,” the head matron said, her smile tinged with sorrow, “but not all safe. You know we lost some when the black ship attacked, but it could have been so much worse. There were no more fatalities after that.”

  Montclair sighed in relief and whispered a prayer of thanks.

  “There were some broken bones, mind you,” the head matron said, wagging her finger, “but that’s to be expected. I’ll never know what you were thinking, colonel. Leaping from Vindication on the backs of those accursed mechanical beasts . . . What a foolish thing to do!”

  Montclair smiled. Only the head matron would scold Montclair while he lay at death’s door.

  “Such a lack of regard for your own well-being is due to the company you keep,” she said. “But,” she continued, her tone softening a bit, “they’re also the reason you keep managing to defy the odds.”

  Montclair nodded. “Greg?” he managed.

  “Major Gregory sat in this very spot for four days straight. The president finally ordered him back to the Marine barracks. I’d swear it wasn’t a quarter turn o’ the clock later when the Strategic Intelligence agents showed up. Now, that surprised me.” The head matron shook her head. “You know how I feel about the spymasters, but those two seemed to be. . . different, somehow. They left here not long ago. Called away to do the Healer knows what, I imagine. They asked to be informed as soon as you woke.”

  Three days after his talk with the head matron, Montclair had hobbled through the doors of Armory Hospital on little more than willpower and a hickory cane. He’d collapsed into a waiting steam carriage, soaked with sweat from the effort it had taken to leave the hospital.

  “Take me to my ship,” he told the driver, right before letting his head fall back against the seat and closing his eyes.

  When the driver delivered Montclair to Mason Island, he found Vindication moored and floating idle. With the exception of a skeleton crew, she was deserted.

  “All on furlough, sir,” Montclair’s captain of the guard told him. “By order of the president.”

  As she escorted Montclair to his quarters, the captain of the guard caught Montclair up on everything that passed while he recuperated. Vindication had been placed on temporary assignment to the Washington air commandant. For the time being, they’d been incorporated into the city’s daily sky patrols. As she opened the door to Montclair’s suite, the captain assured Montclair that Major Vincent had done an outstanding job in his absence. Montclair thanked her for her assistance and for a job well done, as well as for her actions onboard the train. She thanked Montclair and then shut his door, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

  Montclair remembered the feeling of sitting in his stateroom the day he had returned. He’d sat in his chair and closed his eyes. Strange as it sounded, he’d wanted a few minutes alone to reacquaint himself with his ship. He’d settled in and breathed deep of the smells of home. Then, he’d dipped his pen into the inkwell and drafted a message to the DSI agent who went by the moniker “Copperhead.”

  Not long after, Montclair had helped his best friend Major Aldan Gregory kill the man responsible for the death of his wife.

  Montclair had lost no sleep over agent Kincaid’s killing. If anyone had it coming, it had been Kincaid, but there was a definitive line between soldier and assassin. In taking his revenge on Kincaid, Aldan Gregory had not only crossed that line, but he had taken Montclair with him. That had been only two days ago, but worrying about Greg was eating Montclair alive.

  Before cutting Montclair and his crew loose, President Grant had asked for one last thing, for Vindication to deliver Telacivic to Watervliet Armory in New York State. An easy enough assignment. Montclair had decided to use the time to continue his training under Kenshin Ueda. If not for Ueda’s tutelage, Montclair would have died at Horton’s hands. Who knew what might have happened then?

  “Again,” Ueda said, bringing Montclair back to the present. Sometime during Montclair’s training session, a black bank of clouds rolled in from the east. The sky darkened as Montclair’s blade sliced through the air.

  President Grant’s orders to Montclair were clear. Keep the events of the past several months secret. Montclair reasoned that the president felt secrecy was in the country’s best interest, and Montclair readily agreed. To make it all public knowledge would tip their hand to Smythe, or worse yet, upset the stalemate. Renewed war was something neither Union nor Confederacy could afford.

  And so, peace, fragile as it was, prevailed. At least for the time being.

  A far-off flash of lightning caught Montclair’s eye. A crack of thunder followed quickly.

  Ueda looked up at the sky. “Enough for today,” he said.

  Montclair sheathed his sword and bowed. “Thank you, Ueda-san.”

  Ueda returned Montclair’s bow and was gone. Montclair picked up an old rag and wiped the sweat from his face, arms, and chest. They needed to fly clear of this storm or else get the ship bedded down someplace before the lightning reached them.

  Montclair frowned. There was an uneasiness in the air, and it wasn’t just the weather. Smythe was still out there, planning the Healer knew what. His presidential campaign was still going strong, and from all indications, he would likely win. The fierce Northmen still threatened the Union’s border with British Canada. And then there was Telacivic's device. Montclair feared for a world where such weapons were available to men like Horton.

  Montclair dressed as he walked. He pushed away thoughts of all the threats to his country, instead running through a mental checklist of the airship’s foul weather procedures. He would control what he could and trusted the Healer to take care of the rest.

  Lightning flashed again, this time closer than before. Montclair froze, staring east. A heartbeat later, a thunderclap cracked the sky. M
ontclair turned up the collar of his coat and hurried toward the bridge.

  A storm was coming, and it was headed right for them.

  33 Richmond, Virginia, Behind the Writer’s Desk, April 2018

  It was Charles Dudley Warner - essayist, novelist, and Mark Twain collaborator - who first uttered these famous words:

  “Everybody complains about the weather, but nobody does anything about it. “

  I've read countless incredible stories written by some amazing authors. And I've also read others that were maybe not so amazing. In those times, I'd often think to myself how, for some reason or another, the story was just not satisfying. In those times, I'd be sad that someone had gone and wasted a great concept, and that if the story would have just gone in a slightly different direction, it could have been way cooler. I'd never really thought to myself that I could do better . . . still don't, actually. But this thing you're holding in your hands or reading on your screen?

  Well . . . it's just my attempt at doing something about the weather.

  My thanks to my wife and my kids, without whom this book would not have been possible (and by that I mean thank you for leaving me alone long enough to write it!). I love y'all so much.

  To the fine folks at Cobble Publishing: thanks for taking a shot on a total rookie/noob like me.

  Oh - and before it slips away from the old memory banks - please go check out my website www.thomaswebbbooks.com. Sign up for my newsletter. There may be a FREE gift in it for you (hell-there may even be two . . . sometimes I just feel crazy like that!). Seriously, though - the newsletter's a great way to hear about things like contests and giveaways, what's going on in pop culture, other awesome authors, general coolness, and, of course, my new releases (of which there will be a-plenty, don't you worry). You can also hit me up on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ThomasWebbbooks. I love meeting and talking to new people, and I do my level-best to get back to everyone who comments, messages, or emails. So don't be shy!

  Wow-that was a lot of thank you's and words, wasn't it? Oh wait - what's that you say? Y'all thought I forgot . . . didn’t you?

  My biggest, most sincere thanks I reserve for you - the readers. Without you, I'd just be a dude sitting alone for hours and hours. Typing. For no reason. And that would just be weird. So thank you for not making me (too) weird.

  And thank you for coming along on this carnival ride I drug, kicking and screaming, from my imagination. But it's not just my imagination anymore. A part of this world now belongs to you, doesn’t it? And I hope you find something within it that resonates. Until next time, my friends.

  Wishing you all the very best of everything,

  -Thomas Webb