Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)
Page 12
“So what do you want me to do?” Mink asked.
“My dear, I want you to rob a train,” the colonel replied.
“Ha-hah!” Wage gave his trademark crescendo laugh.
“You want me to rob his train?” Mink repeated.
“Well, that is your specialty, Mink,” Wage added.
“Shut up, Wage,” Mink snapped.
“Well, not so much rob as apprehend,” Roosevelt clarified. “We’ve got Delacroix in a confined space. There isn’t much hope of evasion on a moving train. So you will board his train and arrest him. I have the warrant right here.” The colonel withdrew another folded parchment. “Pack your things, Minerva. You and I will leave tonight as well. I wanna be there to see Delacroix’s face when we put him in shackles.” The colonel adjusted his wire-rim frames. “Any questions?”
“Yes,” Tesla replied, raising his hand like a schoolboy. “Why did you call me here?”
Roosevelt sighed. “I have something to share with all of you,” he said before turning to the chalkboard behind him. Picking up a small piece of chalk, he sketched a scale model of Edison’s warmonger machine. He added the dimensions as well. After a few minutes, he set down his chalk and turned back around.
“What the hell is that?” Wage asked.
“This is a machine Edison and the Illuminati currently have in their possession. It’s outfitted with a variety of armaments, not unlike Simon’s wonderarm, only bigger. Much bigger.” Roosevelt continued to tell his story of the demonstration he had seen in the basement of Edison’s laboratory.
“I don’t get it. It’s like a suit of armor, then?” Amber Rose asked.
“It’s an automaton. Only it …thinks,” the colonel said.
Tesla tilted his head at the schematic Roosevelt drew. “This is impossible,” he said.
“It’s not impossible, Nikki. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“You only have one operable eye,” Tesla replied matter-of-factly.
The colonel shook his head. “Dammit, I had a conversation with the thing! It even saluted me. This monstrosity could think for itself. It can speak, hear, and make decisions! And I can personally can attest to its destructive capabilities.”
“This is not possible,” Tesla repeated. “Machines cannot do this.”
“Dammit!” Roosevelt yelled, pounding his fist against the chalkboard. “The Illuminati have created a weapon unlike any the world has ever seen, and I wanna know how they did it. And then, I wanna know how to stop it. Now, how did they do it, Nikki?”
Tesla tilted his head the other way and looked at the schematic once more. “The mechanical systems are decipherable. But the intelligence you say this machine has—this is impossible. It cannot be.”
“Then how’d they do it?” Roosevelt repeated slowly. “Tell me what you need to replicate this … this … artificial intelligence?”
Tesla stood up from his chair. “If I am to find out, I must go to London,” he said.
“London? Is that a joke?” Wage asked.
“This is not joke.”
Estella Blake
January 13, 1915
Waldorf Hotel, Room 212
Manhattan, New York.
Estella executed two long knocks followed by a short one—a code that was prearranged. She unlocked the door with her key and stepped inside.
Within the small furnished room, Mortimer sat by the lone window. His derby hat was pulled low and his fingers tapped the arm of his chair. “Where is Pascal?” he asked.
Quincey Gartrell
January 14, 1915
Pier 7
Port-Au-Prince, Haiti
“Agent Gartrell. I’m Major Butler,” the hardened marine said, extending his hand. He wore a finely pressed khaki uniform and an indented campaign cover that swallowed his head and shielded him from the Caribbean sun. A retinue of enlisted marines stood behind him. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.” The commanding officer had a sincere, almost airy, voice, unfitting for his hardened body and lean frame. He looked like he could punch through a Haitian outhouse as easily as he could sprint up the nearby mountains.
“Well, a battleship isn’t exactly a luxury liner, but it sufficed,” Quincey replied, dropping his duffle bag and gripping the marine’s hand tightly.
“First time in Haiti, agent?” Major Butler asked.
“Second. I hunted wild hog here with my father years ago.” Quincey tucked a hand into the strap that held a Winchester 30-30 rifle to his back.
“Outstanding. By the way, Colonel Roosevelt said there would be two of you,” the marine yelled over a sudden swell of dockside noises.
Quincey turned back to the recently moored USS Connecticut behind him. Pani appeared on the quarterdeck of the battleship, prowling between sailors. Before she exited on the gangway, she grabbed one man’s white cap and placed it on her own head. She pranced down the wooden pier and eventually stopped next to Quincey. She looked at Major Butler curiously and poorly mimicked a soldier’s salute.
“What the hell is this? Some kind of goddamn joke?” Major Butler asked. “Where’s the other agent?”
“Sir,” Quincey said, “This is Pani. She’ll be assisting on this mission.”
“The hell she will. What’s a woman gonna do that a perfectly capable battalion of marines can’t?” Major Butler spat. Pani narrowed her eyes.
“I assure you, sir, she’s plenty capable,” Quincey responded.
“Corporal!” the major barked. “Escort this woman back to the ship.”
“Yes, sir,” the young marine behind him replied as he snapped to attention. “Let’s go, ma’am.” The corporal grabbed Pani by the wrist. Instinctually, she circled her arm, breaking the marine’s hold and quickly chopped his Adam’s apple with the freed hand. The corporal doubled over on the dock, gasping for air. Pani sidestepped him, but instead of dealing a final blow, she leaned in and smelled deeply. Then, she brought her heel down hard on the man’s foot. The marine hobbled to the side of the pier in retreat, close enough to the water that, with simple kick to his backside, he ended up in the water.
“Staff sergeant!” Major Butler cried. A blockish marine with meaty, tattooed forearms squared off with the feral woman. From a boxer’s stance, he threw a barrage of punches. Pani skirted every one by bobbing her head. Her black, tangled hair whipped about, making it harder for the man to position his punches. The blockish marine finally went for a body blow. Pani stumbled back as the man’s fist careened into her stomach.
“Uh, oh,” Quincey murmured.
Pani growled, showing her teeth. She charged the stout marine as if planning to tackle him. Only instead, she launched herself into the air, simultaneously grabbing the man’s lead arm and throwing both her legs around the man’s neck. She stretched out her legs to perform a flying arm bar, and momentum brought the marine crashing to the pier. Physics and a keen understanding of anatomy, on the other hand, dislocated the man’s shoulder as he fell. Pani swung her legs off the man and jumped to her feet. The staff sergeant groaned and held his arm. Once again, Pani leaned in and smelled the air around him.
Major Butler turned to his retinue again, ready to call another marine forward.
“I wouldn’t bother, sir,” Quincey cautioned.
Major Butler turned back around. Pani was directly in front of him, glaring at him with her yellow eyes and smelling the air around him. The older marine flinched only for a moment before regaining his military bearing.
Quincey continued, “What you have are capable soldiers who just became prey. What I have … is a born predator. Now, if we’re done with this pissing contest, we’d like to see the body of your poisoned lieutenant.”
A canvas-topped flatbed truck delivered them from the pier to the recently commandeered customs office a few blocks away. “You may wanna put this on,” the Major said as he dipped his finger into a tin of menthol and rubbed the substance under his nose. Quincey followed suit, but Pani refused with a shake of her head.
Quincey looked over the body. “During the autopsy, did your doc find any marks or cuts? Something that might have delivered the poison?”
The major stared at his dead lieutenant. “Don’t be fooled, agent. This is no paradise,” he said. “This land is filled with every sort of creature that bites, stings, and scratches. The terrain up in the mountains is harsh, too. Hell, after a week here, we all looked like we fell into a room full of angry cats.”
Pani pushed a dumbfounded Quincey out of the way and performed her own inspection. When she finished she delicately placed her hand on the man’s face. She caressed him slightly, showing rare emotion. She turned to her fellow agent and whistled Brahms’ Hungarian Dance No.5. An uplifting tune given the situation, but it was her signal that she wanted to get moving. That she wanted to hunt. Quincey repeated the tune. Major Butler looked at them oddly. “I need a drink,” he said flatly.
Major Butler splashed warm, spiced rum into three glasses. “I’m not normally a drinker, but the water here is piss and coconut milk makes me shit for days.” He handed the glasses to the agents before sitting at his desk. He took a long sip as he looked out the window overlooking the bay, staring past the reef-fringed island of Gonâve. “So, agents, what’s your plan?” he asked.
“Did Lieutenant Harper ever eat or drink in town?” Quincey asked.
“No,” replied the major. “Seymour only ate with his men or his fellow officers. He only ate the same meals as the rest of us, or his rations that he took on patrol. Rations other men have since eaten. He didn’t drink, either. He is … was a devout Baptist from Atlanta. He never touched the stuff.”
“And your most recent patrols have turned up nothing?” Quincey asked.
“Not a thing, but we are also restricted right now. Sooner or later, President Wilson is going to sanction our use of force against one of the Haitian rebel groups, the Cacos. They roam these mountains to our south. They’re dangerous, and pushing further into the mountains at this point would inevitably lead to conflict. Conflict that we are not currently authorized to have. So I’m in a bind. I got one dead marine. A fine young man. But I can’t tell my superior officers or his family why or how. Nor can I go after the rebels to find answers.”
“What about the rest of the platoon the lieutenant led into the mountains the day before he died. Did they say anything?” Quincey asked.
Major Butler pursed his lips. “The men think it was voodoo.”
Quincey Gartrell
January 14, 1915
USMC Patrol Route
3 Miles West of Furcy, Haiti
For more than three hours, Quincey drove a flatbed truck up a lone dirt road that overlooked the city of Port-au-Prince, rising high into the Haitian mountains. An afternoon rainstorm smoothed out the bumpy road, making the journey relatively calm but occasionally slick. Quincey followed the patrol maps of the deceased lieutenant, eventually coming to a narrowing where downed pine trees blocked the way. This was where the platoon, per the log, decided to march in on foot.
Quincey hiked slowly, his eyes moving from the map to watching for subtle tracks in the soil. Pani didn’t need the map. She could follow the marine patrol route because all the soldiers wore the same government-issued aftershave, the same aftershave she smelled on every one of Major Butler’s men, including the major himself. Two miles into the wilderness, it was Quincey who spotted different tracks. With the forest as dense as it was, most of the tracks were protected from the rainstorm. These new tracks, however, led deeper into the wooded mountainside and were not made by government-issued boots, but rather by a variety of sandals, soft shoes, and bare feet. Barely noticeable, the tracks would have been difficult to spot without a lifetime of tracking God’s creatures through every sort of climate. Pani noted the tracks, too. She knelt down and smelled the ground, crawling on all fours away from the trampled patrol path. Quincey followed as he buttoned his sleeves and collar and tucked his trousers into his boots to cover his exposed skin from mosquitos hungry for a twilight meal.
Less than a mile into their new trail, Pani, finally overcome by mosquitos, stopped by a small pool of stagnant water. She removed her favorite hunting knife and unabashedly stripped off her shirt and pants. Quincey meant to turn to give her privacy, but his curiosity and his appreciation for the human and animal form prevented it. She was indeed a beautiful creature. Long, muscular legs. A lean torso with small round breasts. Athletic, limber arms. All of it was blade-shaven and hairless to combat a recent exposure to body lice. Give her a spear or discus, Quincey thought, and she could have been a Spartan competitor at the Olympic Games of old. One of the many Spartan women that the poor loser Athenians always complained they couldn’t beat and so constantly accused of cheating.
Pani knelt down and plunged her hands into the mud around the pool of water. Systematically, she applied a thick coat of mud to her entire body, even slicking back her thick hair. Quincey watched her slather herself until only two yellow eyes peered at him in the darkness. Quincey could barely see her and mosquitos no longer plagued her. He approached her slowly and knelt down.
He grabbed a handful of slimy mud and coated his own neck with it. He finally stood, and smiled. A pearl smile flashed briefly beneath the glowing citrine orbs. That’s when they heard a roar of drums in the distance. Pani crouched, grabbed her hunting knife, and curtly whistled the beginning of Grieg’s Hall of the Mountain King. The command to follow.
Quincey lost his partner in a matter of seconds, but navigating only by moonlight, he continued to trek up the terrain. His legs burned as his heavy boots stomped out a new switchback up the mountain side. When he finally crested the ridge, he noticed a large clearing below him. A white-washed manor with stone pillars sat to the corner of a barren plantation. A group of windows glowed orange and pulsated with the drum beat as shadowed figures passed in front of the light source. He could hear singing and clapping now, as well as something else that accompanied the drumming. It was an almost atonal screeching that rose above the singing. Quincey readied his 30-30 rifle and tucked it into his shoulder. He took a moment to catch his breath and see if he could spot his partner. He couldn’t.
He walked down the ridge toward the plantation house, walking as softly as he could. He made very little noise until he stepped onto the massive porch. The old, uncared-for wood creaked with nearly every step. Luckily the sound of the dancing and the occupants’ stomping feet inside muffled his own steps. Looking about, Quincey also noticed the chipping paint and deteriorating mortar, and it became clear that this plantation estate had long been abandoned by its original owner. Quincey decided to peek in the broken window at the current squatters.
Some men and women stood to one side of a burning brazier, their eyes fluttering in trance-like states. Others danced around them and the nearby altar, whipping white sheets around, singing and yelling in French. Quincey’s French wasn’t great, but it was good enough to know that the participants were inviting someone, or something, into their ritual. His eyes moved to the candlelit altar littered with skulls, bottles of rum, cigars, a top hat, flowers, silver pieces, and bread. What Quincey did not spy was a rifle or gun of any kind. So with his rifle at the ready, he entered the house.
Inside the small foyer, a cobwebbed staircase lay in front of him alongside a narrow hallway. To his right was an unlit den riddled with dusty bookcases and cracked leather tomes. The great-room-turned-voodoo-temple was to his left. Walking through the door frame, he approached the ceremony.
“Hey,” Quincey called. “Hey! I need to ask you folks a few questions! DO YOU HEAR ME?” No one
seemed alarmed at his presence. Quincey considered firing a round through the ceiling to get their attention. That always seemed to work for Colonel Roosevelt.
An older woman with a tall, colorful headdress and sweat covering her ebony face danced by him holding a limp chicken by the head—its throat was slit. She tore the head from the chicken and shook the separated body at him. Chicken blood streaked his face and stung his eyes. “Son of a—” Quincey cursed as he dropped his rifle, the sling suspending it about his waist. He backed up and rubbed both eyes with his hands. The ceremony continued without interruption.
“Let me guess,” a refined British voice said from atop the stairs. “You’re here about that poisoned soldier, chap?”
Quincey caught a foot on a dilapidated floorboard and fell halfway into the den, landing on his rifle. After clearing his eyes he noticed a Haitian man standing above him in the den. The man’s eyes were rolled so far back that all Quincey saw were two white beads. He also saw a double-barreled shotgun only inches from his face.
“Who the hell are you?” Quincey asked, raising one hand off the floor and subtly moving the other toward the hunting knife inside his belt. The man atop the stairs struck a match and lit his pipe. The flash of light revealed his face—the face of the man from Simon’s sketch. He was an older gentlemen. Sinewy. Balding with a laurel crown of gray hair. He wore shirtsleeves and wool trousers held up by leather suspenders, and fine Italian loafers.
“My name is Dr. Victor Mamba,” the man said, puffing on his pipe.
“Witchdoctor,” Quincey muttered.
“Ahh,” Dr. Mamba replied. “I see you are familiar with me?”
“More familiar with you work.”
Dr. Mamba leaned against the railing at the top of the stairs. “Oh, you don’t understand my work. Not at all. But you will … soon.”