“So you plan to help the Union win the war early, freeing the slaves and probably saving President Lincoln in the process?” Anna asked.
“Yes. That plan got a lot more difficult when Mike made his third time jump in 1834 to save you from the fire.” O’Rourke said, a hint of anger in his voice. “Since you’re here and Liam Keating confirmed that the burned body in Springfield was a living person, not an artifact, I’m guessing it was you that made that jump, not him.”
When Anna didn’t respond, O’Rourke continued.
“Because of that jump, all of our portal generators stopped working, either because there were too many temporal tides for the programming to deal with, or because someone in the 22nd Century decided it was one time jump too many and cut off our access. Now we’ll have to fight the war with whatever army we can build in the present time.”
“Including those nukes in the storage room at the back of the building?” she asked sarcastically.
Fallon and O’Rourke both froze. “How in hell did you know about the nukes?” Fallon demanded. “No one outside the Fallon Party knows!”
“Give me some credit – I used to be a Stasi spy, remember? Which brings us back to the question of what role you want me to play in all this.”
“I’m not sure we want you to play any role,” Fallon said slowly. “It seems pretty clear you made the illicit time jump in 1834, which carries a death sentence.” His words were filled with menace.
“Spare me the dramatics,” Anna shot back. “The future Anna that travelled through time wasn’t me. That Anna died in the fire, saving Jennifer’s new husband, by the way. But you must know that, or you wouldn’t be telling me about the reappearance of the plague.”
O’Rourke and Fallon looked at one another for a moment, then Fallon nodded.
“Okay,” O’Rourke said. “We want you to go to work for ISRM Intelligence. Specifically, we want you to re-establish yourself in Virginia, initially to spy on the state government, then once Virginia secedes, the Confederate government. The Republic won’t openly intervene in the war until after the American President issues an Emancipation Proclamation freeing all the slaves.”
“Most of our current spies in the South are simply observers, not trained covert operators like yourself,” Fallon added. “We can use your skills, once you’ve successfully completed rehab, that is.”
INTERLUDE - LIAM & PETA
Special Operations Craft – Riverine (SOC-R): a thirty-three-foot-long rigid-hull inflatable boat (RHIB) with a nine foot beam, and twin 440 horsepower JEPS-powered water jets. The SOC-R is capable of exceeding forty knots. Each boat is equipped with five weapons stations, mounting an M47 grenade launcher and an M134 Gatling Gun at the bow, one M240 machine gun amidships on each side, and an M2 heavy machine gun at the stern. SOC-R’s are crewed by four Special Operations Combatant Crewman, with space for eight passengers. Glossary, An Illustrated History of the Republic, Helen O’Shea, Ed.
Peta, Jake and Jennifer moved back to Happy Valley Ranch after Jake finished his training in the Republic. The ranch became the hub of ISRM unit training. Both Liam Keating’s Spec Ops team and Jennifer’s Aero-Medical Evacuation platoon were permanently assigned to the ranch.
Most of the trainees and their equipment arrived by air, traveling on the Greyhounds or by heavy lift helicopter. Some vehicles had to be disassembled before shipment, then put back together onsite. Other vehicles, especially the heavy combat systems, had to be shipped overland. Stripped of all weapons systems, and manifested as mining equipment purchased by Riley Dry Goods and Implements, the vehicles hulls travelled by train to Council Bluffs, Iowa. From there, the vehicles were shipped by barge to Happy Valley.
Peta moved in with her adopted father, Dwight, and attended the new Mellissa Carver High School. Like Jennifer, Peta had excelled at sports during her year at John Haines High in the Republic, where she played lacrosse and ice hockey. While numerous intramural sports leagues were developed at the ranch, Peta greatly missed the demanding physical practice routine associated with varsity competition, and began looking for a new challenge. The only thing close was the Spec Ops platoon’s training regimen. Liam Keating trained his men relentlessly. None of the men seemed to mind the fifteen-year-old tagging along on platoon runs and obstacle course training.
It was during a tracking exercise that she really caught the men’s attention, however. Peta had been trained to track by a Blackfoot war chieftain, and was far more skilled than the instructor brought in to teach the class. She also knew the land beyond the confines of the ranch better than anyone. Liam began to rely on that knowledge when taking the men on off-site patrols, including mounted patrols in the Geckos, boat patrols in the SOC-R watercraft, insertions by Little Bird helicopter, and foot patrols.
* * *
Happy Valley Ranch, Nebraska Territory, USA, Monday, June 29, 1857
Liam checked his watch. The girl was late, most unlike her. Peta loved going out on the SOC-R boat, and wouldn’t miss a training patrol if she could help it. Just as he was about to give the order to cast off, he heard her calling from the top of the stairs leading down to the docks.
“I’m here, sir,” she yelled as she bounded down the steps.
“I was just about to leave you behind,” Liam told her as she climbed aboard.
“Sorry, no excuse, sir.” She likely did have a good excuse, but she wasn’t the type to make excuses. He grunted and told his skipper to cast off. Roger Volant powered up the engines and they headed upriver, trailed by the second boat.
About an hour into the cruise, Liam spotted a mixed party of whites and Indians on the shore. He noticed that Peta trained a pair of binoculars on them as well. Suddenly, Peta let out a howl and scrambled toward the electrically-operated Gatling gun mounted in the bow. Liam barely managed to cut power to the gun before Peta got to it. Master Sergeant Keefe managed with great difficulty to wrestle her away from the next available weapon. While Keefe held her down, Keating ordered Roger to head upstream at full power.
Peta stopped struggling after a few minutes, so Keefe let her up. It was a mistake; she grabbed her knife and jumped overboard, swimming strongly for the south bank of the river. She couldn’t out swim the boat, but repeated attempts to haul her back aboard were met with a slashing knife. Liam decided to let the crazy girl go. He’d let her reach the shore, then try to subdue her with a Taser, something he didn’t want to do in the water.
As Liam later explained to a furious Lieutenant Colonel Carver, Peta chose her exit point very carefully. She went ashore in a jumble of boulders, and disappeared into the surrounding brush before they could catch her. She eluded their trackers, so Liam ordered the boats back to where they had spotted the group of renegades, and waited.
* * *
The renegades were spread out, foraging for firewood, when Peta got to them. Among the things she had learned training with Spec Ops was that the best way to kill a man silently was to sever his brainstem, not slice his throat. She put that knowledge to good use. Pouncing from behind on the first brave she came across, she clamped her left hand over his mouth and drove the point of the K-Bar fighting knife into the base of his skull, then wiggled it up and down a few times. The next two men, one white, one Indian, died in the same manner. The Indian brave had a hunting bow and a quiver full of arrows.
The next three men were felled with well-placed arrows. Another died by her knife while squatting to take a dump. Of the men who had killed and raped her mother, five still lived.
By this point, they had begun to suspect that something was wrong, and began to call to one another. Getting no response from more than half the group, they gathered at their campsite on the river bank and prepared for a fight. The Spec Ops soldiers watched in amazement as all five fell to arrows whizzing out of the brush.
Due to the need for speed over accuracy, only her first arrow had been immediately fatal, so Peta slit the four wounded men’s throats. She gathered up the horses, mounted the o
ne that had been her father’s, and led the others off into the brush. She left the bodies for the buzzards and coyotes.
* * *
Seeing that she was headed in the general direction of Happy Valley and realizing that the Republic couldn’t be seen as having anything to do with the massacre he had just witnessed, Liam did not pursue her, at least not in the traditional sense. He ordered one of the men to launch a Skyblade UAV to track her, just in case.
Then he noticed Stocaí the sock monkey grinning at him from out of the bag she’d left behind. To no one in particular, he said, “I expect she’ll go back to the ranch – we have us a damn hostage.”
INTERLUDE - WORTHINGTON & CORCORAN
Harold Worthington IV, or people that worked for him, interviewed almost everyone that spent time in the Republic of Indian Stream. From these interviews, and his own observations, he learned that the Republic’s population continued to grow, the infrastructure continued to expand, and BLE’s profits continued to rise. The sale of non-military hardware and construction materials to distributors in the United States and British Canada brought the Republic wealth and influence. BLE mills turned out high-strength steel and aluminum girders, parts, and tools, as well as copper tubing, pipes, and wire, all without polluting the environment. There was inevitable technology leakage to the United States and Canada, but the Republic’s leaders managed to keep advanced weaponry out of the hands of either country.
One thing the Republic didn’t try to protect was medical knowledge. St. Patrick’s Hospital became a magnet for clinical internships for doctors and nurses from around the world. They learned a great deal about diagnostics, wound care, physical therapy, and most especially, infection and sterility. Worthington’s team debriefed them all.
* * *
Alexandria, Virginia, USA, Sunday, February 7, 1858
Worthington sat with his back to the western wall of Gadsby’s Tavern, his eyes fixed on the door located across the public room. Established in 1749, the tavern was older than the Nation, and served as the center of social and political discourse in Alexandria, but there were few patrons around on an early Sunday morning. Worthington sipped at a large mug of ale, careful not to drink too much. Some might construe the purpose of his visit to the Tavern as high treason, and he needed to keep his wits about him.
Worthington had almost decided his old friend wasn’t going to show up, when Thomas Jordan walked through the door. Although still a Captain in the U.S. Army, Jordan wore civilian clothes today. He had filled out and grown a full beard since Worthington first met him in Mexico during the Mexican-American War. Jordan had elected to remain in the Army after the war, while Worthington had moved on to more secretive, and lucrative, endeavors.
“Thomas, over here.” He waved his arm to catch Jordan’s attention.
The soldier strode across the room, then slid into a chair at Worthington’s table. “Good morning, Harry,” he said. “It’s been a long time. How’s the ale here?”
“Passable,” Worthington replied, then signaled for the serving girl to fetch Jordan a mug similar to his own. “How long are you home for?”
“I’ve two weeks leave before heading back to California.” Jordan’s ale arrived and he took a healthy swig. “That’s good stuff,” he said, “much better than the horse piss available in Los Angeles.” Jordan looked around to ensure no one was close enough to overhear their conversation, then said, “How long before you head back to the Great White North?”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Worthington said. “I can take the cold, it’s the fucking abolitionists that will be the end of me. Barbarians.”
“Sanctimonious bastards, the lot of them. Any luck finding that bitch that killed my brother and his posse?” Jordan asked.
“If Anna Carlton is in the Republic, she’s changed both her name and appearance,” Worthington replied. “I’ve questioned dozens of people, mostly doctors, who’ve spent time in the Republic at the medical school. None of them recognized the sketch you got from the constable in Mercersburg, nor had any heard her name. I’ll keep looking though.”
“Thanks. Speaking of abolitionists, what do you think of the brawl in Congress last Friday night?”
“I think it means the slave states will eventually have to part ways with the free-soilers. They simply can’t be trusted to hold up their end of any compromise.” Worthington took another sip of his ale, then glanced around the room before continuing. Only one table was occupied, where a middle-aged woman was reading a newspaper. “And if that happens, I want somebody I trust to know everything I know about the Republic, just in case something happens to me.”
Jordan nodded, but said nothing.
“I’ve kept a copy of every report I filed on the Republic for the War and State Departments, everything from troop strength to street maps. We’ve learned a lot about their capabilities. Once every three months there’s a meeting at State to go over everything we know about their capabilities and politics. Did you know they even let women vote up there?”
“Yeah, I read that somewhere,” Jordan said. “Folly, to be sure.”
“Anyway, I had one of Father’s slaves who could read and write make a second copy of everything.”
“I’m surprised your Father tolerated a slave that could read,” Jordan said.
“He didn’t know, but I figured it out. Of course, once he completed the copy I killed him, then sold his mate to a plantation down south. No loose ends.”
“Good. Where’s the copy?” Jordan asked.
“Not here,” Worthington replied. “Right now, as far as anyone else is concerned, we’re just two war buddies catching up in a public house. Let’s meet tonight at Jones Point. Say 10 pm?”
“Agreed.” The two men finished their drinks and left the tavern.
* * *
Republic of Indian Stream, Monday, February 8, 1858
“What do we know about the other fellow?” Corcoran held up a photo of Harold Worthington IV and another man.
“Thomas Jordan,” Megan replied. “He’s an Army Captain with a spotless record. Served as Winfield Scott’s Quartermaster in the Mexican-American War.”
“Doesn’t seem like the sort to be committing treason,” Corcoran said. “Anything in the archives.”
“Oh yeah,” said Brian. “In the original history, Thomas Jordan went on to become a rebel General and leader of the Confederate Secret Service Bureau. Redeemed himself after the war and became a newspaper editor.”
“Ah, that explains a lot,” Corcoran said. “Okay, I’ve had about enough of Mr. Worthington’s spying. Megan, I assume that in addition to the audio recording of their meeting in the tavern, we got pictures of the handoff at Jones Point?” When she nodded, he continued, “Then let’s see if we can’t end his career at the State Department and get him shipped home to Richmond permanently.”
INTERLUDE – ANNA & WORTHINGTON
The American Civil War began in September 1861, then proceeded pretty much as it is described in the original history books, although with a six month long delay in the timeline. In the east, a series of inconclusive battles took place around the Potomac and Rappahannock Rivers. Tactically, the Confederates won most of the battles, but gained little strategic advantage. In the west, the Union fared better, but failed to dislodge the Confederates from key positions along the Tennessee and Mississippi rivers.
Richmond, Virginia, Confederate States of America (CSA), Friday, February 21, 1862
Anna finished the last morsel of her evening meal and pushed back from the table. The fare had been meager, owning to the Union blockade and the commissary requirements of the Confederate States Army. Nevertheless, she complimented the boarding house’s proprietor, Mrs. Winslow, before leaving for an evening stroll, parasol in hand.
Two weeks earlier, Anna had learned the address of Mr. Harold Worthington the Fourth, who lived several blocks west of Winslow House. She’d watched him for several days and learned the man liked to stop for a pint or tw
o at a local tavern on the way home each evening from his job at the Confederate War Department. She contrived to fall in step beside him as he left the tavern.
“Good evening, madam.” Worthington was a singularly unattractive man, large of girth and short of stature, with the flushed complexion and red nose of an alcoholic. Which probably explained why he had been raping the help.
“Good evening sir,” she replied, suppressing what little was left of her German accent. “I seem to be a bit lost. Can you point me in the direction of Franklin Street?”
“Certainly. In fact, I’d be happy to escort you to the next corner where Franklin intersects 8th Street. We’re on 8th now,” he said helpfully.
“Oh thank you so much.” She beamed her best smile at him. But when they got to the corner, she stumbled. The tip of her umbrella jabbed his calf. He yelped in pain.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” While he bent to examine his leg, she discreetly jabbed the parasol into the pavement, breaking off the hypodermic needle that protruded from the tip.
“Just a sharp pain for a moment. I’m sure I’ll be all right.”
“Well, I’m truly sorry. Thanks so much for giving me directions. Maybe I’ll see you again someday when I’m out on my stroll. Good evening.”
“You’re most welcome. Good bye.”
She returned to Winslow House and went up to her room, smiling to herself. If she ever saw Mister Worthington again, he’d probably look more like Miss Worthington, once the pink nanites had their way with his DNA.
* * *
Worthington’s calf still hurt as he made his way back to the Mechanics Institute Building, which served as headquarters for the Confederate War and Naval departments. Thomas Jordan was waiting in his basement office for him. “Well, was it her,” he asked before Worthington could even take off his coat.
“Almost certainly,” Worthington said. “Bitch stabbed me with her umbrella.”
The Legend of Indian Stream Page 21