As they left the store, Lane asked Bill why he bought several maps, especially two of Atlanta.
Bill explained his reasoning, then added, “Jordan gets one. I’ll have him pick the brains of those he’s around on the train to Birmingham and Atlanta. They should have some excellent insight and probably won’t mind helping us.”
Back at the hotel, the two decided to sit on the porch, have a couple of cold drinks, and study the Atlanta map. To Bill’s delight, the ice tea served at the Excelsior was traditional Southern sweet tea with enough sugar to throw a diabetic into a coma.
As they looked over the map, Lane pointed to one section, south of the main part of Atlanta. “Candler Field. It’s about where Hartsfield Airport should be if I recall correctly. Bet it’s the original name.”
“I’m betting you’re right. I don’t see any other airports. Do you?”
Lane studied the map a bit longer.
“Nope. Looks like that’s the only one.” He pointed to another location on the map. “Fort J.E. Brown. Probably a real military base, but I don’t see an airfield on it.”
Bill looked at where Lane was pointing. It was on the northwest side of Atlanta, between a railroad yard and the Chattahoochee River. “Interesting. Close to the rail yards, and since they seem to use trains a lot here, that makes sense.
As they were inspecting the map and sipping tea, Jordan and Matt returned. The day had gotten warmer, and the two of them were visibly sweating. As they joined Bill and Lane, Matt commented on the weather and the stupidity of wearing more than one layer of clothing.
With a deadpan face, Lane asked, “What are you gonna do, strip down to your skivvies?”
Matt looked at him, perplexed.
“Well, you do wear underpants, don’t you?”
Matt nodded.
“Well, that’s one layer. Next layer is your pants. That’s two layers.”
Matt just rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, but it ain’t what you really said,” Lane said, grinning as he did so.
Jordan disappeared for a minute and returned with two iced teas, one of which he handed over to Matt.
Matt nodded his thanks, took a sip of the iced beverage, and sighed. “Now, that’s what I call sweet tea.”
Bill tossed one of the maps to Jordan, who caught it in his free hand.
“Lane and I were looking at that. Looks like there’s only one airport and one military base in the entire Atlanta area. See if you can find out anything.”
Jordan nodded, understanding that what Bill was saying was to ask any of the black people Jordan was interacting with in the bunkhouse and Coloreds dining area. He immediately tucked the map out of sight under his shirt.
“Seems like whitey don’t like us black folk having maps, or even knowing how to read,” he said bitterly when the other three gave him odd looks.
Bill decided to change the topic. “So, what’d you find out about the trains?”
“Pretty much as I expected,” Matt replied. “Gonna take two trains. The leg to Birmingham is an all-day affair. Leave at eight a.m. and arrive at six-thirty p.m. From there to Atlanta, we’ve got two choices: catch the night train when we arrive, or spend the night in Birmingham and catch the morning train. Either way, it’s about a six-hour trip.”
“If we took the night train, what time would we pull into Atlanta?”
Matt pulled a time schedule from his back pocket and perused it. “Schedule says five in the morning. From what I’ve seen, though, I’d hazard a guess that six-thirty is the desired ETA, not what will probably actually happen.”
“How far away is Birmingham?” Lane asked.
“About 550 klicks.”
“Damn. Nine hours just to go that far?”
“Actually, that’s not bad,” Bill said. “I used to ride the train from Seattle to Portland, and if I recall, that was half the distance and still took four hours.”
Lane was slightly mollified, but still not one hundred percent certain that was good time.
“Another thing. The train’s separated between white and colored, as is the waiting area in the station.”
“I suspected as such,” Bill said. “That gives you,” he nodded toward Jordan, “more time to gather intel. Find out where we can stay, and find out as much as you can about the airport, the military base, any other military bases, any aircraft stuff. Y’know, the usual.”
Bill turned back to Matt. “Go back to the station and make arrangements through to Atlanta, leaving tomorrow. I’ve got no desire to stay in Birmingham, so get us on the night train. Also, while you’re at it, find out, if you can, where we might be able to all stay when we get there.”
“Will do.”
Matt then turned to Jordan. “You might want to come with me, just in case there’re any problems with me getting you a ticket.”
“Also,” Bill said, “see what the protocol is on whites being allowed in the black cars. No sense leaving Jordan hanging if we don’t have to.”
“Yeah, that might not be a good idea,” Jordan said as he sipped his tea. “White people show up in a black area makes the blacks nervous. Last thing I need is to have people think I’m a snitch or something.”
“Good point,” Lane agreed. The others had to agree, as well.
Bill turned back toward Jordan. “So how do you want to handle it?”
“I ride alone in the colored section, and you guys don’t try to contact me. No sweat. I’ll find out what we need to know, either on the train to Birmingham or the one to Atlanta. If I find out anything useful on the way to Birmingham, I’ll let you know in the station before we board for Atlanta. Otherwise, we meet back up in Atlanta.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Bill turned to the others. “Any input from you guys?”
Matt shook his head. “Nope.”
“None from me.”
“Okay. It’s a go. You two get the tickets, and Lane and I’ll try to find out some more about Atlanta from the staff here.
After Jordan and Matt had left, Bill went back into the hotel to talk with the clerk while Lane remained on the porch. The conversation was less than enlightening, as the clerk had never been to Atlanta, and knew very little about anywhere outside of Memphis.
Bill learned more from Uncle Joe. Joe was another who had been born and raised in Memphis and never left, but he listened to those who traveled and remembered what they said. It seemed the fort they found on the map was one of the larger military bases in the Confederacy. Most bases were small and either in the north, near the Mason-Dixon line, or along the coasts. They were geared toward keeping the United States from doing anything stupid, such as invading or helping blacks escape the Confederacy.
“Course, ain’t nobody gonna help a colored man outta the Confederacy,” the old man lamented quietly. He had already picked up on the small group’s sympathy for the underdog, and Bill thought he appeared a bit more willing to speak to them than he normally would to other whites.
“So, what’s the military situation like here?” Lane asked.
“Ain’t much of one.” Uncle Joe shrugged. “Other than the occasional border skirmish, usually between the Confederacy and Franklin, not much need for a military. Europeans keep to themselves, so it’s mostly for keeping us down,” he said, referring to his race.
Bill looked around the bar, ensuring it was empty other than Uncle Joe, Lane, and himself. “We noticed coloreds aren’t particularly welcome in the United States. What’s up with that?”
Uncle Joe also verified the room was empty, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and poured the two Hayekers each a finger’s worth, then set the bottle down. Placing both palms down on the bar, he leaned forward while the two men picked up their glasses.
In a low voice, almost a whisper, Uncle Joe explained, “Ever since the Confederacy seceded, the U.S. has blamed colored folk for it. Said it if weren’t for the slaves, there’d still be a United States stretching from sea to shining sea. But, becau
se of us, the US became fractured. Ain’t no colored folk welcome up north. Or most places. About the only place I hear tell that we’s even tolerated is in that there Republic of California. Seems like they’s okay with colored folk, Chinee, and the like.”
“What about Europe?”
Uncle Joe looked at Lane. “Europe? Hell, them’s all for taking over the world. Took over all of Africa, except one little country set up by freed slaves back in the day. Ain’t got no use for us, other than for workin’ they’s plantations and mines, from what I hear.
“I knows you is from out West, sir, but where exactly you gentlemen from, not knowin’ all this?”
“Well, I’m from California,” Bill answered, “and he’s from the Kingdom of Hawaii, where things are a bit different.”
“Figgers,” the old man said, nodding.
62
The four men arrived at the train station by seven-thirty the next morning, tickets to Birmingham in hand, and packs slung over backs. Jordan and Matt had been unable to secure tickets through to Atlanta, but they would be easy to get once in Birmingham. Bill was beginning to get used to the 1940s feel that this Earth evoked. As with the stations in the Republic of California and the Independent States of Franklin, the building was cavernous but antiquated. Wooden benches occupied the center, with clear demarcations between whites and non-whites. Once again, there were no public televisions. It seemed television either didn’t exist in the Confederacy or it wasn’t common.
Nor was there any air conditioning. Fans hung from long shafts, lazily pushing the smoky, humid air around, providing little relief in the morning heat. Most of the men were smoking something, either a cigar or cigarette. Long, thin cigars seemed to be the bronchial poison of choice. Bill spotted the occasional corncob pipe, usually shoved under a thick walrus-mustache of an old man wearing coveralls, a sweat-stained, straw field hat, and who was clearly from the country.
Several boys, mostly pre-teens, were hawking newspapers, each one trying to outshout the other on the news of the day.
Several men were carrying what appeared to be gun cases or gun bags, but nobody was even raising an eyebrow. Had this been his original Earth, the police would have been all over those guys, carrying guns in a public transport area was considered a big no-no. Clearly, that was not the case here.
Matt pointed out the track for their train, so they headed in that direction. Once they got on the platform, they saw the train wasn’t in yet. A lot of people were waiting, some sitting, but most standing. Lane spotted a man who looked like he worked in the station and suggested Matt talk to him to find out what the situation was.
A couple of minutes later, Matt was back with information. “Turns out the train’s running late. They expect it here in another hour, so until then, we wait.”
By that time, Bill noticed that others were staring at them. It was only then that he realized that Jordan was the only black person on the platform.
“Uh, hey Jordan, we may have a problem.”
“What’s this ‘we’ stuff Kemosabe? Only black person here is me.”
“Exactly. Where are all the others?”
The four looked around, and then Lane spotted it — a small section at the head of the platform with a sign above it that said “Colored Waiting Area.” He pointed it out to Jordan. Jordan took one look and with shoulders slumping, said, “See you soon,” and headed over to it.
Before he could get to safety, though, he was accosted by a pair of police officers. One was a grizzled old-timer, with a potbelly that came from too much Southern fried food. The other was smaller, slender, and younger, with a wisp of a mustache over his lip.
Bill watched the exchange and saw Jordan pull out his passport and hand it to one of the officers. The officer briefly glanced at it, shoved it into a back pocket, and nodded to the other officer. Before Jordan could do anything, the two officers had grabbed him by the arms and pulled his hands behind him. The first officer slapped a pair of cuffs on Jordan, who, by this time, was loudly arguing with the officer.
Bill divested himself of his pack and handed it to Matt. “Here, watch this.”
As he started to head in Jordan’s direction, he heard Matt talking to Lane. “Hold mine, too. We’ll be back soon.” Bill was glad to have the backup.
The two cops dragged/pulled Jordan from the platform and out a door on the side of the building. Bill was surprised that they weren’t heading through the main terminal.
The door had barely shut when the two Hayekers got to it. Bill looked around to see who was watching, if anyone. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to them, especially the black travelers who were closest. They were studiously ignoring the entire event.
Bill opened the door a crack, just in time to hear one of the officers say, “So, think you’re as good as a white man, do ya, boy?”
As he pushed the door open even more, he could see Jordan facing him, hands cuffed in front of him, facing the two white police officers. The three were in a small, dark alley, galvanized garbage cans lining one side. The reek of stale urine and rotting garbage assaulted Bill’s nose. It was the old officer talking. Just as Bill was about to step through the door, the older officer punched Jordan in the gut, causing him to double over with a “whoof.”
Without hesitation, Bill rushed through the door. He could feel Matt close behind him. Within a few short steps, he was behind the older officer, who had his arm raised to punch Jordan again, this time in the face. The younger officer had his thumbs hooked in his belt, watching the action. Neither was aware that two men were behind them until Bill, fists held up in front of him, elbows bent so his forearms were parallel with his torso as he was trained, slammed into the older officer. Bill could feel the force of the impact transmit from his forearms to his biceps and then into his chest, like a wave cresting the beach. The officer, taken completely by surprise, was knocked to the ground. As he turned and reached for his holstered pistol, Bill kicked him in the face, slamming the man’s head against the brick wall of the train terminal. As Bill took a second to gather in the fact that the older man was definitely out for the count, he turned and saw the other police officer down, too. Matt was already removing the officer’s handcuffs from the case on his belt.
Bill looked over at Jordan, who was still puffing and attempting to stand straight. “You okay?”
Jordan nodded, then wheezed, “I’ll be fine in a moment.”
Bill turned his attention back to the downed officer and searched his pockets until he found a handcuff key. “Lift your arms.”
Jordan did, and Bill unlocked the cuffs. As Jordan began rubbing his wrist, Bill, handcuffs in one hand, rolled the police officer over onto his stomach, then handcuffed him.
“Stuff a sock in his mouth,” Bill heard. Looking over, he saw Matt doing that to the younger officer, who was now shoeless, and sockless on one foot.
Bill followed suit. As he did, he noticed the officer wasn’t breathing. It was then he noticed the blood slowly seeping along the pavement under the officer’s head. Bill, fearing the worst, placed his two fingers on the carotid artery of the downed man, feeling for a pulse. The skin was warm to the touch, but Bill wasn’t able to find a pulse.
“We got a problem.”
The others could tell from Bill’s voice that it was more than just a little problem.
Looking at the other two, Bill explained. “This guy’s not breathing and he doesn’t have a pulse.”
Matt was probably the most sanguine of the trio, returning to the task of trussing his victim. “Sucks to be him. Gag and hogtie him, anyhow. If he ain’t dead, we don’t need him raising a ruckus until we’re well and truly gone.”
The two Hayekers further bound the police officers with the officers’ own Sam Browne belts, ensuring they were hogtied and unable to move. Jordan made sure to retrieve his passport, picking it up off the grungy alley floor. The three men then moved some garbage cans and placed the officers behind them, ensuring no passersby would be
able to see them at a casual glance. Matt decided to go a step further, relieving the officers of their wallets and pistols. He and Bill tucked the extra pistols in their belts at the small of their backs, hiding them, and then Lane extracted all the money from the wallets, before wiping the wallets clean and tossing them into a garbage can.
“Make sure anything you touched, you wipe off,” Jordan said. “Fingerprints.”
Bill pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped off the handcuffs he had touched, then the handcuffs Matt had touched, and finally the Sam Browne belts of each officer.
Once the men were hidden, guns and money taken, and everything wiped clean of prints, Bill looked over at Jordan. “You good to go?”
The black man nodded. “Yeah. First things first, take this.”
Bill accepted the offered passport. “Why? You’re gonna need this.”
“Naw, got some fake ID. These asshats never saw it.”
“Same name?”
“Naw. Chose a different one. One nobody’s heard of around here. You and Massa Matt can now just call me Marty.”
“Marty?”
“Yeah, Marty King.”
It took Bill a second before he realized who Jordan had chosen as his alias. “Okay, Reverend King. Let’s head back in, but let’s go through the front entrance, separately. That way nobody’ll be able to link us to this, hopefully. First, change your shirt to a different one. That might throw off any initial search if they come looking for us. Then go shave. That should help, too. We’ll meet up outside the train station in Birmingham.”
“Good thing they don’t have video cameras here,” Matt said, as they walked toward the mouth of the alley. “Now if only that train’ll get here before those two are missed.”
Bill and Matt followed Jordan back through the front doors of the train station, keeping a discreet distance behind the former Californian, and a wary eye out for anyone who might show a special interest in the black Explorer. Fortunately, nobody did.
The Corps of Discovery Trilogy Box Set: Books 1-3: A multiverse series of alternate history Page 69
