“Why so far west?” Braxton asked, but Sherman waved him silent.
He stepped back from the table and began to pace around the pilot house, puffing on his pipe. He made several revolutions around the table as Braxton watched, then sprang forward, unrolling the Alabama map again. Sherman found the bridge over the Tennessee River and traced the rail line north to Kentucky.
“It’s perfect,” he said after a moment.
“I beg your pardon,” Braxton said.
Sherman looked up at him, as if he’d just realized that Braxton was still in the room.
“Captain Wright,” he said, slapping Braxton on the shoulder. “I may have misjudged you and your fool’s errand.”
“Thank you?” Braxton said, not sure what to make of the Marshall’s odd behavior.
“It needs some more work, of course,” Sherman went on, looking back at the map, “but this has real potential.”
“What does?”
“Your mission,” he said, as if that were somehow self-evident. “Let me show you something.” He pulled out the map of the south and pointed to the town of Jackson, Mississippi. “Before Pinkerton shanghaied me for this little package delivery run,” he said, “my fleet and I were bound for Vicksburg.” He traced his finger west to the Mississippi river.
“The trains that supply the Rebel’s entire western line run through Jackson. “If we can take the town, or at least destroy the rails for a few miles, it will cripple the Rebs in Tennessee, Kentucky, and Mississippi. General Hooker is already on his way there with his army.”
“Can’t you just drop me off and then head for Vicksburg?” Braxton asked.
Sherman shook his head and ran his finger from the Gulf of Mexico up the Mississippi River to the Ohio and then over West Virginia.
“The South has a dozen of Bonaparte’s dragons under the command of Stonewall Jackson,” Sherman said. “Normally, Jackson spreads them out all along this route—that way if we attack a part of the western lines, he can have a response there quickly.
“Now the fleet will pick up fuel and water here,” he pointed to Louisville. “From there it’s almost three hundred miles south through Rebel territory to your bridge. Even if we do it at night, there’s a chance we’ll be seen, then every telegraph wire from Baltimore to New Orleans is going to light up with the news. Once that happens, those dragons are going to converge on us like hens on a cockroach. After I drop you off, I’ll have to head due north to have any chance of getting out.”
“Wait a minute,” Braxton said, looking at the map again. “If you’re seen this far into Rebel territory, won’t Jackson call out all his dragons to go after you?”
Sherman nodded. “Probably.”
“Then won’t it be safe for Hooker to attack without you?”
“No,” Sherman said. “The Rebs are dug in pretty deep there. He’ll need some air cover, especially if old Stonewall leaves a dragon or two behind.”
“It seems like it was a good plan,” Braxton said. “I’m sorry my mission derailed it.”
A large, predatory grin spread over Sherman’s face.
“Who says it’s off? I think that with a little creative thought and some daring on your part, we can both accomplish our tasks and get a bonus to boot.”
Braxton felt a chill run up his spine. He was almost certain what Sherman had in mind was likely to get him killed. Sherman pointed back to the map.
“I’m going to follow the Ohio west to the Mississippi, making sure every Reb who’s not blind and stupid sees us.”
“Won’t that just alert Colonel Jackson?” Braxton asked.
Sherman’s smile managed to get even more predatory.
“Exactly,” he said. “I’ll send word to Hooker to make sure he’s seen going north as well. Stonewall Jackson will have no choice but to bring his dragons to protect the town that bears his name. That will give us a window of opportunity. We should reach Mobile by midday tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll have to resupply there. Once night falls, the Jefferson and a few escort ships will cut our engines and let the prevailing winds push us east over the Rebel lines while the rest of the fleet continues south. With luck, we’ll be able to drop you off before sunrise. Once you’re safely on the ground, I’ll head north to this point.”
He indicated a spot near Bowling Green, Kentucky.
“Why stop there?”
“This is where you come in, Captain,” Sherman said, fixing him with an intense stare. “How would you like to steal a Rebel train?”
It took all of Braxton’s will power to not scream “no” at the top of his lungs. Blowing up the bridge without getting caught was going to be hard enough and now Sherman wanted him to take the train itself.
“I don’t think—” he began, but Sherman cut him off.
“You’re an engineer, right?” he asked. “You know how to operate steam engines. Hell, you build them. Stealing a train shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
“Except for all the soldiers on the train who are going to try to kill me the second they realize something’s wrong.”
Sherman waived his hand derisively, as if shooing a fly.
“That’s not a problem,” he said. “See this?”
He pointed to a symbol on the map just south of the bridge.
“It’s an elevation mark,” Sherman explained. “It means there’s a steep grade here, just before the bridge, that runs for a couple of miles. The train will slow down as it climbs, you and a few of your men can jump on board here. Then you take charge of the engine while one of your boys cuts the troop cars loose.”
“What about the bridge?” Braxton asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
“The rest of your men will stay with the bridge. If you’re successful, signal them with the train’s whistle and they’ll blow the bridge after you’ve crossed.”
“What if I’m not successful?”
Sherman raised his eyebrows and looked directly into Braxton’s eyes.
“Then they blow the bridge with the train on it as originally planned,” he said.
He didn’t have to say that in that event Braxton would be on the train when it went plunging into the river. That or already dead.
Braxton shook his head. “But why do we need the train? What good will it do us?”
“You should have enough coal and water to meet us here,” he said, tapping the map again. “When you get there, we’ll use our hoists to pick up that top secret, all-important Rebel boxcar, and you and your men, and we all go home heroes.”
Braxton looked at the map. The train ran through several towns on its way north, towns that would know instantly that the train had been taken. He wouldn’t be able to stop but he guessed Sherman was right and the water would hold out.
“We’d have to cut the telegraph lines, probably on the north side of the river,” he said. “If word got out about the bridge and the stolen train there’d be whole battalions waiting for us up the line.”
He hated the idea of trying to jump a moving train, but if Sherman was right about the grade, it would be moving pretty slow by the time it got near the top. There wouldn’t be any soldiers in the cab of the engine, so there wouldn’t be any problem taking over.
It was an insane plan. The more Braxton thought about it, however, the more he realized it solved the one problem he’d always had with Pinkerton’s plan—how he and his men were going to get home without being captured. With the train, it would only take them a few hours to reach Sherman and be on their way north. Unless …
“What about Stonewall Jackson and his dragons?” Braxton said. “You won’t know if you’ve been seen until they show up.”
“Once we drop you off, I’ll make sure we’re seen,” Sherman said. “Word will get to Jackson and he’ll send everything he’s got at us.”
Braxton’s mind reeled.
“He’ll be on you before we get out of Alabama,” he protested.
Sherman grinned. It was the kind of grin one might see on a little boy who�
�s discovered an unattended jar of sweets.
“Once Hooker’s scouts see the dragons pull out, he’ll wait half a day, then attack with the remaining air fleet. By the time Jackson lands to water his dragons there’ll be a telegram waiting, calling him back to defend the railhead. He might send one or two dragons after us, but he’ll have to pull the bulk of his strength back. That will give Hooker a full day to hit the rail yard in Jackson before he has to retreat. By the time Jackson gets back, Hooker will be gone, and we’ll be on our way home with the prize.”
Braxton relaxed. Now he understood why Sherman was in charge of the Union’s most expensive and powerful asset. The man was a born schemer. And what a scheme. It was dead simple but elegant and rich at the same time, accomplishing two important objectives and effectively neutralizing the Confederate’s greatest asset at the same time.
“I like it,” Braxton nodded, smiling for the first time, and again extended his hand to the Air Marshall. “Let’s do it.”
This time, Sherman took his hand.
Chapter Five
Fire in the Sky
Lieutenant Marcus Burnside clung to the dragon saddle, hunching low as a hard rain pelted him. His fingers ached from cold inside his sodden gauntlets and a steady stream of water got past his broad-brimmed cavalry hat to run down the inside of his great coat. He was cold, tired, sore, and late, and to top it all off, he had absolutely no idea where he was.
He wiped the moisture from his goggles and squinted into the rain-swept darkness. There just wasn’t anything to see through the clouds and the gloom.
If there had only been a moon.
He cursed his ill luck. How could he have been so foolish?
It wasn’t really his fault, he reminded himself. The letter from Annabelle had come last week. What was a person supposed to do when his girl spurned him to marry his brother?
“Not get drunk for three days straight,” he said to the empty night.
Below him Genevieve snorted. He wasn’t sure if the dragon could understand him and was offering her derision, or if she just responded to his words. It really didn’t matter since it wasn’t her that would have his spurs and summarily drum him out of the Southern Knights. That would be Colonel Jackson.
Two days ago a large fleet of Union airships had been seen moving south. The colonel had summoned all riders to the Mississippi town of Jackson, just like his name, to protect the rail lines. By now all Marcus’s fellow riders would be there. He could claim he got lost, that was true enough, but that wouldn’t explain his being two days late. He doubted “sleeping off a three-day bender” would work as an acceptable excuse, either.
Lightning flashed nearby. Marcus could feel the static electricity in the air tug at his beard and raise the hair on his arm. Below, the flash had revealed a dense carpet of trees, their greenery forming peaks and valleys like a roiling sea. Riders were forbidden to fly at night unless directly ordered to do so, and then only on clear nights with a good moon. Without sufficient light to follow the landmarks, it was just too easy to get lost. Every now and then a dragon would get confused, and slam into the ground, rider and all. When Marcus had realized how late he was, he’d decided to risk it. Now he was somewhere over Alabama with no idea if he was even flying the right way. He squinted down at the compass mounted into Genevieve’s control collar, but it was simply too dark to see it.
Genevieve’s breathing grew labored and she stretched her wings out into a glide. Rain slid off her scales in great sheets, driven into torrents by the headwind. She chuffed irritably.
“All right, girl,” Andrew said, patting the base of her long, serpentine neck. “We’ve done enough for one night. Let’s find a good place to—”
He was going to say “land,” but the word was ripped from his mouth as something came hurtling at him from out of the darkness. It was huge, like a flying mountain, and as he and Genevieve shot by, he could see frames of iron and glass clinging to its underside and the glint of polished guns jutting out from its canvas hide.
Genevieve lurched sideways and Marcus had to hang on to the saddle as she passed so close to a churning propeller that he could feel the pressure from its blades. Not for the first time he thanked God for the dragon’s instincts.
As quickly as the airship had appeared, it vanished into the inky blackness. Andrew gripped the control collar and pulled back, coaxing Genevieve into a steep climb. His hands trembled as the dragon rolled over and leveled off again. This was his chance. Somehow the Yanks had slipped an airship behind their lines. If he could take it down, Colonel Jackson would call him a hero.
He almost thought better of it. Federal airships bristled with guns that could cut a rider out of the saddle with ease and they never went anywhere alone. Still Marcus Burnside was not a man to sit reading in the parlor while opportunity knocked.
“Okay, girl,” he said to Genevieve. “Time to go to war.”
The dragon snorted, blowing out a puff of smoke that smelled of brimstone. She was as eager as he.
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” he said. “Fire!”
At the command, Genevieve let out a roar and a great gout of flame that lit up the sky. Below them he could see several airships stretching out across the darkness and heading east. Without hesitation, he pushed forward on Genevieve’s collar, and dragon and rider dove down to attack.
O O O
Braxton sat nervously on the plain wooden bench in the mess hall, nursing a cup of coffee. He’d checked the clock twice in the last ten minutes but he did it again anyway.
Thirty-eight minutes past three.
Sherman had told him it would be at least four a.m. before they would be over the bridge. Braxton fidgeted with his cup before taking another drink. The coffee did nothing to calm him.
He got up and started pacing.
“Take it easy, Captain,” a young voice admonished him. It belonged to Corporal Davis, the demolition expert on his team. Braxton could scarcely believe it since Davis didn’t look a day over twenty. He had pale skin and a wispy blond beard that appeared to not have been grown on purpose, but rather the simple after-effects of forgetting to shave.
“They’ll be plenty of time for walkin’ once we hit the ground,” Davis said. “Best rest up now, try to sleep.”
Clearly Davis wasn’t sane because only a crazy man would be able to sleep at a time like this. That didn’t bode well for the rest of Braxton’s team, since half of them were blissfully stretched out on the benches and empty tables around him. They were a motley assortment of men, all from different backgrounds. Braxton found it peculiar that none had served together before this mission. Not only did he not know them, they didn’t know each other.
Braxton was no West Pointer, but he figured that for something this risky it would be better to have men that knew and trusted each other. It didn’t seem right.
“You sure all the gear is stowed in the lifeboat?” Braxton asked for the seventh time.
“Yep,” replied Sergeant Young, his Alabama native guide. Young was a grizzled man in his thirties with the bearing and manners of a mule teamster. “Just like you ordered.”
They hadn’t been Braxton’s orders. Once the airships had passed the Rebel lines, Sherman had ordered Braxton to have all the team’s gear moved to one of the Jefferson’s many lifeboats. If there was any sign of trouble, Braxton was to take his men and the lifeboat and make landfall.
Lifeboats were small, much smaller even than the launch, and lacked any means of propulsion. All they could do was drift with the wind and land by means of a valve that slowly let the hydrogen out of their gasbag.
Braxton wasn’t looking forward to that trip.
He went back to his bench and sat back down, but before he could pick up his coffee, a steam whistle sounded, long and shrill. It was followed almost immediately by the sounds of shouting and running feet.
“Is that gunfire?” Davis asked as a syncopated popping noise filled the mess hall.
“
Gatling guns,” Braxton said. “Everyone up!”
Motley or not, his men understood an order when they heard one and leapt to their feet.
“Move to the lifeboat,” Braxton ordered. “I’m going to find out what’s going on. Do not cast off without me.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Unless you have to,” he added.
“You heard the man,” Sergeant Young barked with a grin. “Get your sorry hides to the lifeboat, and no deserting.”
Braxton ignored this, making his way forward to the pilot house.
O O O
“Where did he go?” Sherman was yelling at the lookouts.
“Port side aft,” the lookout yelled back.
“How many?”
“Just the one, I think,” the lookout responded.
“Captain Wright,” Sherman barked as Braxton stepped off the iron staircase. “I thought I told you to leave if there was trouble.”
“Just making sure this was trouble,” Braxton said.
“A dragon rider found us,” Sherman said. “I don’t know if he was lucky or if we’ve got a spy on board. You’d better go before reinforcements arrive.”
Braxton didn’t have to be told twice; he saluted and turned back to the stairs.
“Good luck, Captain,” Sherman called after him.
O O O
Braxton ran back along the narrow passage. When he reached the catwalk, a sudden burst of light tore through the dark sky. He looked up in time to see a line of fire cut into the side of an airship above them. Mortars from the airship’s tops exploded in the air like fireworks and Braxton saw the long, pale form of the dragon as it passed the burning vessel. Its white body gleamed like silver in the ruddy light, with a dark patch on its shoulders where the neck joined the body; that would be the rider’s saddle.
As Braxton watched, the fire burned through the canvas covering of the airship and it seemed to suddenly sag. Then the fire reached the hydrogen and the bag popped, sending a gout of fire shooting into the sky. Even at this distance, Braxton felt the heat on his face. Flames engulfed the ship in seconds and it folded in the middle as it sank down toward the ground far below.
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