The Corps of Discovery Trilogy Box Set: Books 1-3: A multiverse series of alternate history

by James S. Peet

  “What am I supposed to do about my stolen Dixie Flyer and plans?”

  The detective shrugged. “Don’t know. We put a BOLO out on it, so we’ll see if it turn up.”

  The look on Ford’s face was clearly one of confusion. “Bolo?”

  “Yeah, BOLO. Be On the Look Out. It’s a message sent to all law enforcement agencies in Georgia to keep their eye’s peeled in case they see whatever is being sought.”

  “What if they leave the state?”

  “Well, then, you might want to hire a PI or a bounty hunter to get ‘em back. Ain’t a thing we can do, ‘cept put out the BOLO to police departments throughout Georgia, and maybe file a complaint with the German Embassy. A fat lot of good that’ll do ya.”

  He handed Ford a business card. “I’ll call you if we hear anything, but other than maybe a sighting, I doubt that there’s much we’ll be able to do for you.” It was apparent that the detective felt bad about the situation, but was also resigned to it. Then, as if by inspiration, he held up a finger. “Wait a minute. We could try contacting the CBE. They handle cases that threaten our national security, and if diplomats are involved, they might decide to help out. But, don’t get your hopes up. They mainly deal with things like external and internal threats, not common crimes.”

  As the detective, the final police officer on the scene, left, Ford just stood abjectly, looking at the business card. He then looked around at the dried blood on the pavement and the lone Dixie Flyer. His look transformed to one of lost hope as he shoved the card into his coat’s inner pocket. “Well, hell, ain’t much I can do at this point. Ain’t got money for a PI or bounty hunter.”

  Bill thought for a moment, then asked, “Morty, you open for a suggestion?”

  Morty turned. “What’ve you got in mind.”

  Bill took a gamble, not even consulting his teammates. “If we were to get your plans back, would you be willing to give us exclusive rights to produce and sell your electro-magnetic technology throughout the Republic of California?”

  “Hell, you get it back, I’ll even give you rights to sell it in the United States!”

  Bill nodded, seeing the slight glimpse of hope in Ford’s face.

  “If we’re gonna do this, then let’s do it right. Write up a contract giving us exclusive rights to manufacture and distribute throughout the Republic of California, and instead of the United States, we’ll be happy if you include the Kingdom of Hawaii and Deseret. You do that, then we’ll go get your plans.”

  Rhodes, who had yet to leave to check on his partner, chimed in at this point, his clipped not-quite-British accent clearly differentiating him from the others. “If you’re willing to extend those rights to the Commonwealth, I’m sure the British Government would be more than happy to have me help in this endeavor.”

  Ford look shrewdly at Rhodes. Bill could almost read his mind, You were going after it anyhow, why the decisions to seek rights when you can take them?

  Rhodes held his hands out in front of him in a stopping motion. “Yes, I know. I could probably get the plans and give them to His Majesty directly, but I’m not a Heinie. We do believe in fair play.”

  Unless you’re one of the colonial subjected races, that is, Bill thought, unkindly.

  “Awright. But, I’m gonna limit your sales to British holdings. That means no export license outside of the Commonwealth. Got that?”

  Rhodes nodded, clearly pleased with the agreement, as well he should be. The agreement would cover approximately a third of the planet, territory and population-wise.

  When Ford left the small group to write up the agreements, the three Explorers and the British agent sat down at one of the picnic tables to discuss how best to find the Germans.

  “The first thing they’re going to want to do is get out of this country as fast as possible,” Rhodes stated.

  “Think they’ll try to fly all the way to Germany?” Lane asked.

  “Possible, but not likely.” Rhodes stroked his mustache between his index finger and thumb, practically twirling a non-existent handlebar. “Remember, they’ve probably also got this Einstein fellow. And, since they were expecting to all return, my bet is that they’ve got a ship waiting for them at a nearby harbor.”

  Bill couldn’t argue with his logic. With few airplanes, the only real choices for intercontinental travel were ships. “So, what do you think, a port in Georgia, South Carolina, or Florida?”

  “Probably the closest.” Rhodes pulled a map out of his inner coat pocket and flattened it on the picnic table. The slight breeze threatened to pull up the corners, so Lane grabbed a couple of rocks and put them on the corners on the windward side.

  Matt pointed out that the Dixie Flyer was last seen heading east, so the four began looking for ports to the east.

  “I’m betting they’re heading for South Carolina,” Lane opined. “I mean, you go straight east from Atlanta, and pretty soon you’re in South Carolina.”

  “If we consider only Georgia, we’re looking at Savannah or Brunswick,” Matt said. “But if we include South Carolina, then we’ve got to cover Charleston, Port Royal, and Georgetown. Either way, we’ve got to find the right port and right vessel, or this ain’t gonna work.”

  “There is that,” Bill concurred.

  Placing his finger as a pointer on the symbol for Charleston, Rhodes said, “I’m betting on a South Carolina port.”

  “Why’s that?” Matt asked.

  “Simple logic, my dear Southern friend. Do you recall what that detective said?”

  Bill picked up on what Rhodes was saying before the other two did. “You’re right. They’re putting a BOLO out through the state, but it’s probably not something that’s gonna cross state lines.”

  “Exactly! And I bet the Heinies know this as well. So, instead of staying in this state, where they might be identified, they leave it immediately. Hence, South Carolina.”

  Bill contemplated the map. “If we can talk Ford into lending us his remaining Dixie Flyer we could be there in a couple of hours.”

  The four men turned to look at the lone vehicle, reminding them all that it only sat two.

  “So, who goes, if he agrees?” Rhodes asked.

  “I’m thinking Matt, definitely,” Bill said. “And I’m betting you probably want to be the other.”

  Rhodes smiled slightly. “You’ve got that right.”

  Ford soon returned with the two rapidly drafted contracts, and Rhodes and Bill laid out their suggested plan of action. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You guys want to take my one remaining Dixie Flyer and chase off after the Hun? Without me?” The laugh was more a snort than a laugh.

  “Yeah, like I fell off the cotton bale yesterday. Ain’t no how I’m letting that car outta my sight until we either get the plans or Einstein back.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he silently challenged the two men.

  Rhodes glanced over at the car, and his brow furrowed a bit. Turning back to Ford, he raised a finger. “Here’s a thought. How about we remove the boot lid and one of us rides there?”

  “Boot lid? What boot?”

  Bill immediately picked up on what Rhodes was thinking. “I believe he means the trunk.” Bill looked over at the car, appraising it. “Yeah, I think that would work. We could easily fit a third person, and we’ll definitely want more than two of us when we catch up to the Heinies.” He turned back to Ford, who was also looking at the vehicle in contemplation.

  “You’re right. Let’s do it.”

  Within ten minutes, Ford had managed to remove the bolts holding the trunk lid to the liftgate, and Bill and Matt had lifted the trunk lid off and set it on the ground. Meanwhile, Matt and Rhodes had signed their respective contracts, each keeping a copy.

  A quick plan was developed with everyone agreeing to meet in Charleston. As Ford was the only one with any knowledge of Charleston, and that spartan at best, he suggested meeting at the Francis Marion Hotel. “It’s not the oldest hotel in Charleston, but it’s certainl
y the tallest. I hear it went through a renovation a few years back, so it should be okay.”

  Bill agreed to gather Matt’s pack and other gear and to swing by the hospital and get word to Hill and Klopper. He also learned Klopper’s first name was Ben and was given the phone number to the British Consulate in Atlanta, whom Rhodes asked to call and explain the situation to a Mr. Smith. “He’s the only Mr. Smith there, so no need to worry about getting the right one,” Rhodes explained.

  “We’ll meet you there either later today or tomorrow. If you don’t find them, leave us a note at the hotel and check out another port. We’ve got to find those guys!”

  With that, the three men boarded the car, Ford driving, Rhodes in the passenger seat, and Matt riding uncomfortably in the now-lidless trunk. He was facing backward and waved at Bill and Lane as the Dixie Flyer headed up and east.

  “Stay safe out there,” he said. Bill could hardly hear the old Explorer parting, but he shouted it back to Bill.

  Bill told Lane to head back to the hotel to notify Jordan and get ready to travel while he went to the hospital to check on Hill and Klopper. “Also, find out when the next train is to Charleston. I want to be out of here ASAP.”

  A quick look at the map showed the hospital to be downtown, about a half-hour’s walking distance. Not being familiar with the streetcar system, and not seeing any taxis both men took off on foot to their respective destinations.

  When Bill arrived at the hospital, he was amazed at how old and run-down it was. He had expected a more modern looking hospital, considering it was probably the best trauma center in the area. Hirsch Hall. I wonder who that was? Well, it certainly ain’t Harborview or even the trauma center on base. He wasn’t surprised to find the hospital was segregated, and so he made his way to the white section.

  He found a reception desk where he inquired about the two men. Hill was already in a room, expected to be released in the morning, but Klopper was in the ICU, having undergone several surgeries.

  “It seems we don’t know much about Mr. Klopper. Can you tell us anything for our records?” the pretty young nurse at the desk asked.

  “Not much, just that he works for the British government. You might want to give their consulate a call. Can you tell me how he is?”

  “I can’t, but let me call the doctor for you.” She turned to a telephone, and rather than dialing a number, picked up the handset and spoke into it after a brief pause. “Hi Dorothy, can you put me through to the ICU? A young man is here about that Mr. Klopper gentleman.”

  After another short pause, she spoke again. “Good evening Dr. Rosenberg, it’s Jane, at the front desk. I’ve got a young man here inquiring about Mr. Klopper.” She paused, then said, “Yessir. I’ll send him right on up.”

  After hanging up the telephone, Jane gave Bill directions to the ICU waiting area. “Dr. Rosenberg said he’ll be waiting for you there.”

  By the time Bill made his way to the ICU waiting room, he found a young man, barely older than Bill, in a white lab coat waiting. “Dr. Rosenberg?”

  The man nodded, came to Bill with a slight limp, and extended his hand. The name on the lab coat read “J. Rosenberg.” “Yep. And you are?”

  “Bill. Bill Clark. I was at the shooting, and since neither of the two men’s friends could make it, I said I’d check up on them. How’s Klopper?”

  “He’ll live. Lost a lot of blood, but it would’ve been a lot worse had he hadn’t had his wounds taken care of in time. Whoever put that cellophane over the sucking chest wound saved his life.”

  “Better saving a life than taking it,” Bill said.

  “You the one who put the dressings on?”

  Bill shook his head. “No, I only helped with one. His partner dressed that sucking chest wound, I did the other chest wound, and a buddy of mine did the leg. His partner’s the one wanted me to check in on him and see how he’s doing.”

  “Why isn’t he here asking his ownself?”

  “Long story, but he’s apparently a British agent trying to stop a kidnapping and theft by some German agents. They got into a shootout, and Klopper and another guy were wounded. He’s still after the remaining kidnappers.”

  Rosenberg nodded in understanding. This version of the South was a lot different than the one Bill knew on his timeline.

  “Like I said, he’ll live. Gonna be a bit for recovery, though. His primary problem, other than loss of blood, was the traumatic pneumothorax that he developed after he got shot in the chest. We’ve inserted a couple of chest tubes, so he’s gonna be here at least three or four days.

  “The other chest wound was pretty minor. The bullet skipped off a rib, causing a closed simple fracture. Luckily it didn’t puncture the lung. That’ll be quite a bruise. We found a bullet lodged in his back. Not life-threatening, more annoying than anything.

  “The leg wound was also pretty superficial. Fortunately, it missed both the femur and the femoral artery. It was a relatively clean wound, as far as gunshot wounds go, so it should heal up all right. I doubt that he’ll even limp once he’s fully recovered. Your friend give you any information on who we can contact?”

  “Supposed to be a Mr. Smith at the British Consulate. I’ve got to call him, anyhow. You want me to ask him to come on down?”

  Rosenberg nodded. “That’d probably be a good idea.” He then looked a bit more closely at Bill. “Clearly, y’all ain’t from around here.” The question of where Bill was from was left hanging.

  Bill simply said, “No. No, I’m not,” and left it at that.

  Understanding, Rosenberg nodded and held out his hand. “Well, you let that Mr. Smith know that we’re taking good care of his boy, and to come on down when he can.”

  Taking the doctor’s outstretched hand, Bill thanked him and said he would contact the British Consulate.

  After the doctor returned to the ICU, Bill went to the telephone he’d spotted in the corner of the ICU waiting room. Attached by a chain under the phone was a thick book with light green pages. It reminded Bill of the Yellow Pages books he had seen in old movies. Growing up in a digital age, where all data was kept online, the concept of a book just for phone numbers was an anachronism.

  Flipping the book open, Bill saw it was, indeed, this world’s version of the Yellow Pages. It only took a moment to find the number for the local Consulate of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the Commonwealth of Colonies.

  The phone required five Confederate cents to place the call. Luckily, Bill had it and was soon connected with the operator at the consulate. Upon requesting to speak with Mr. Smith, Bill was placed on hold for several minutes. Finally, a cultivated British voice came over the other line. “This is Mr. Smith. And, with whom am I speaking?”

  Bill explained who he was and why he was calling.

  “You’re sure Mr. Klopper will be fine?”

  “That’s what the doctor says.”

  “Very well. Thank you for letting me know Mr. Clark, and please let Mr. Rhodes know you told me and that he has my utmost confidence in this matter.”

  “I’ll do so.”

  When Bill had entered the hospital, it had been late afternoon, with the long shadows of the taller buildings creating a patchwork of dark and light on the street. When he stepped out of the hospital, it was fully dark, with the streets lit up by lamps and the signs and display window lights of street-level stores. The lights created a different patchwork.

  He began the relatively short walk to the Peachtree Palace, enjoying the balmy evening and taking in the sights, much like a yokel would on his first time in the big city. For Bill, that was almost true. Despite having visited multiple cities, both large and small, on three parallel Earths, it was still thrilling for him to be walking among a new environment and applying his cultural geographer training to interpret the landscape. He was still struck with how this Earth appeared stuck in the time period that would have been in the early 1900s on his Earth. A lot of the advances brought about by the va
rious world wars and space race on his Earth never happened here, so it was understandable why. Of course, Hayek was a lot more advanced, too, but that was mainly due to the fact that it was founded by immigrants of his Earth.

  It wasn’t long before he walked up the front steps of the Peachtree Palace and rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Not having a key, he knocked on the door, which was quickly answered by Lane. Stepping into the small suite, he asked “All packed and ready?”

  Lane nodded, holding up two of the three packs in the room. “Yep.” He set the packs down. “I also checked on times at the train station. There’s a train leaving for Columbia, South Carolina, in two hours. From there, we can hop another train to Charleston.”

  “Nothing direct?”

  Lane spread his arms. “Hey, this is the Confederacy. We’re lucky that they even have trains running to where we need to go.”

  Bill had to smile at that, along with agreeing. “Okay. Well, is Jordan aware?”

  “Yeah. Said he’d wait for us in the colored lobby.”

  “Okay.” Bill picked up his own pack. It was light enough that it wasn’t worth putting on his back for the trip down to the ground floor in the cramped elevator.

  Just as he was stepping toward the door, there was a knock. Bill looked back at Lane. “Expecting anyone?”

  Lane just shook his head and dropped the two packs he had just picked up.

  68

  Drew awoke early the next morning, feeling a combination of refreshed and run over by a truck. His mind was the part feeling refreshed, while his body, having spent all day yesterday in constant motion, felt run over.

  Rolling over, he saw that it was barely six o’clock. Then the reason for his awaking became apparent, as the shrill ringing of the telephone ruptured the quiet once again. With a small bit of effort, Drew lifted the heavy Bakelite handle from the telephone base’s cradle and drew it to his ear.

  “Peters here.”

  “Special Agent Peters?”