Precipice

by Thomas Webb

  Scarlet watched the Intrepid zip off to a safe distance. She’d acquired Carlyle’s habit of lashing a pocket watch face onto her wrist, which she glanced at now. The entire maneuver, from eliminating the sentries to boots on deck, had taken less than one-hundred twenty seconds. Less than two minutes and the whole of the assault force was down and ready. So far so good, but now, they were in it. Now, the real work would begin. Covertly clearing the airship all the way down to the cells below decks wouldn’t be easy.

  Like vengeful ghosts, Scarlet and her allies swept silent across the airship’s deck. They stacked up on the lone entry hatch, Scarlet in the lead. Athena moved up from behind and took the breacher’s position. She tried the handle. A shake of her head. Locked. Athena pulled her lockpicking tools from a pouch on her kit and inserted them into the door. Two twists. A click. Her green eyes smiled under golden curls. At Scarlet’s signal, Athena pushed open the door and cleared away from the opening.

  Scarlet peered over the M4’s sights and down the airship’s narrow passageway. The passageways were deceptive. From the airship’s exterior, it looked like plenty of room, but the claustrophobic passageway was designed to both delay attackers and conceal the locations of the cells.

  Two sentries rounded the corner.

  Shit.

  The sentries dropped, twin aether trails from Scarlet’s M4 visible but fading into thin air.

  “We’re blown!” Scarlet shouted. She lowered her rifle, barrel still smoking. The gunfire had given them away far sooner than they’d hoped.

  Scarlet and the rest of the assault force picked up pace. They sped down the corridors, killing guards and clearing each room and space as they went.

  With Scarlet running fixed point position, they fought their way to down to the second deck and into the dark belly of the airship. Rows of cells lined three tiers along both the port and starboard sides. In the center of the square was a massive open space.

  They split into groups, one for each tier of the prison. Scarlet, Athena, and Carlyle’s sailors took the first tier. Major Stevens, her security detail, Abe, and Blackjack took the second. Colonel Gregory and his Marines took the third.

  Scarlet, Athena, and two of Carlyle’s sailors took the starboard side while Carlyle, River, and the rest of his crew took the port. They leapfrogged from darkened iron cell to darkened iron cell, the point person now rotating with each one they cleared.

  In the fifth cell, a guard surprised them right before going down in a hail of blue-traced lead. Moments later, a small group of mercenaries appeared, mounting a last, desperate defense. Carlyle’s sailors chewed through the mercs like a saw through pulpwood. Then they were off again, racing from cell to cell.

  Most were empty, save for bloodstains, filth-encrusted buckets, and thin, soiled mattresses. A few held prisoners, who were quickly searched for weapons and given orders to remain in place. Scarlet recognized one of them as a Union senator who’d gone missing on a hunting trip several months back. His eyes were sunken and dark, and there were bruises all over his body. He was skeletal-thin, but it was him, all right. His daguerreotypes had been in all the papers. If McCormick could keep a missing senator from his own government hidden up here, then who the hell else had he ‘disappeared’ in this prison?

  Halfway down the line of cells, they heard a woman shouting. Athena in the stack behind her, her own rifle leading the way, Scarlet burst into the cell.

  Half a second conveyed the scene. Christ the Healer, the stench inside that cell. Mockingbird was on her knees, wrists bound behind her, a mercenary holding his pistol to her head. A half second more and Scarlet and Athena’s rifles, simultaneous, dropped him.

  Mockingbird was still on her knees, unable to rise. The gray linen shift she wore was tattered, soiled, and torn. No regard had been spared for her modesty, the garment baring slashes of pale white flesh of the thigh, the ribcage under her left breast exposed. Her hair hung in filthy strands, covering her face except for an angry purple welt on her cheek. Her left arm hung at an awkward angle. Bruises covered her wrists and arms, along with most of her exposed skin.

  Mockingbird gritted her teeth against the pain, unable to rise. She was nearly unrecognizable, covered as she was in bruises and filth, but the fire burning in her eyes was unmistakable.

  Athena ran to her minder, already slinging her rifle and going for her medical supplies. “Go!” she shouted back at Scarlet. “I’ve got this! Find Copperhead!”

  Scarlet darted from the room, barely sparing a glace for Carlyle’s two sailors on her six. She ran past empty cell after empty cell, barley taking time to properly clear them, disregarding how her recklessness might get her or someone else killed. All that mattered was finding her minder before it was too late.

  A hundred feet from the last cell — crack. Her heart froze. A second’s pause. Crack. Two shots from a Colt pistol in close proximity.

  No.

  She raced to the last cell, desperate, hoping against hope. The stench struck her like a wall. She exploded around the corner.

  “No!” she screamed.

  Her minder lay in a pool of blood. His mouth and chin dripped, wet with gore. He held a Colt in one hand, smoke curling from the barrel. The other hand clutched his side, trying and failing to stem a rapidly blossoming stain. Two dead mercs lay nearby, one with his throat ripped out. Scarlet scrambled to her minder’s side and collapsed next to him.

  Copperhead looked at the pistol in his hand. “Took it from him,” he managed to say. He dropped the pistol and laughed, the sound more like a gurgle. “Right after I bit his throat out. And after they shot me, of course.”

  Scarlet put her own hand over her minder’s and applied pressure to the gunshot wound. “Help!” she cried. “In here!”

  The sound of intermittent gunfire continued echoing through the prison. By now, the airship would be almost secured. Soon, it would be time to signal the Intrepid.

  Carlyle’s two sailors burst in, delayed by the time it took them to properly clear each cell Scarlet had missed in her haste.

  She vaguely acknowledged the sound of more boots. Then Carlyle and River rushed in. Carlyle assessed the scene in an instant. He ripped open the pouch containing his medical kit. Blackjack and Abe came rushing in next. When they saw the scene, they both pulled up short.

  Scarlet saw Blackjack hold Abe back, whispering something into Abe’s ear. She caught the subtle shake of his head. She looked at the horror on Abe’s face then back to Copperhead. Her eyes flooded with tears.

  “Here now,” Copperhead whispered. He patted her red hair as the sailors worked feverishly to save his life. “What’s all this about, Cecelia? An agent in the field keeps her emotions in check.”

  Scarlet buried her face in her minder’s shoulder as Carlyle and River fought to staunch the bleeding from his side.

  Copperhead’s eyes lit up when he noticed Blackjack.

  “Charles?” Copperhead said. “Is that you, you sonofabitch?”

  Blackjack’s voice quivered, fighting back tears. “It’s me, old man.”

  “Where in hell have you been? And is that Mr. Fluvelle you have there with you?” He beamed up at Abe. “I hardly recognized you. Come quite a long way, haven’t you, son?”

  Scarlet felt the shallow rise and fall of Copperhead’s chest slowing. She glanced up, her face wet from weeping. Carlyle and River had ceased their furious working, his injury past the point of aid. The two sailors looked away.

  Colonel Gregory, a gash across his forehead, face covered in soot, pushed the growing number of bystanders aside and jammed his way into the cell. When he saw Copperhead, he froze in his tracks. He removed his Stetson.

  “Major Gregory,” Copperhead said. He coughed. “Well, this is a surprise. P-pleasure to see you again.”

  Major Gregory smiled. There was sadness in his eyes. “It’s ‘Colonel Gregory’ now, sir.”

  Copperhead grinned. “Ah, so it is. A well-deserved promotion, to be sure. Looks like you’re just
in time—” a gasp of pain, “to say goodbye, I’m afraid. Where’s that Army Air Corps friend of yours?”

  “He’s-he’s out of contact right now,” Colonel Gregory said.

  Copperhead nodded then coughed, a mist of blood accompanying the strained sound. “You’ll give the Hero of the Potomac… my regards?” Copperhead’s breathing was ragged and labored now.

  Colonel Gregory knelt next to the dying man and clasped his hand. “I will, sir.” The colonel stood and backed away.

  Scarlet struggled to get a hold of herself. With every second that passed, her minder, the closest thing she’d ever had to a father, slipped further and further away.

  Copperhead reached up, lifting her chin and looking into her eyes. Already, his were beginning to lose focus. “I shouldn’t have gotten close,” he said, “back when I pulled you off the street. Tried not to.” He coughed. “You were… more like a daughter to Estelle and I… than anything else. W-we… we always wanted better for you.” He glanced at Abe then back at her. “This life we’ve chosen… it-it can be cruel… forces us to be cruel. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Don’t…” Copperhead fought valiantly for his next breath but lost. He laid his head back in Scarlet’s lap and smiled up at her one last time before he closed his eyes.

  29 Richmond, Virginia - Office of the President, December, 1866

  Fat beads of sweat pooled atop Smythe’s bald pate in direct defiance of the Virginia winter and the aether-powered fans overhead. He fidgeted, shifting his considerable bulk in the leather-bound chair. He glanced at the seal on his desk which marked the office as belonging to the President of the Confederate States. The Confederate States — a country which very well might hang him if the true nature of his plans ever came to light. He wiped his head and face with a sweat-soaked handkerchief.

  "You have to calm down, Mr. President,” Primm said. Even Primm, who never seem ruffled in the slightest, had a sheen of perspiration on his smooth upper lip. “There’s your health to worry about. Surely things aren’t as bad as they seem.”

  “Not as bad as they seem?” Smythe shouted, spittle flying. “Are you mad, Primm? All our plans are in shambles! Worthington is dead, you fool! The Gambler is in northern custody, probably singing his black heart out even as we speak.” Smythe wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Maurice always did know when to fold a bad hand.” He clenched his fist. “No, Primm, this part of the game has ended. It’s only a matter of time before they come for us.”

  There was a knock at the office door. Wagstaff, already posted at the entrance, opened it a crack and peeked out. One of several clockwerks posted outside the president’s door handed through a telegram. Wagstaff took it and shut the door. He covered the length of the office in five long strides to pass the telegram into Smythe’s outstretched hand.

  Smythe looked down at the envelope, the outside stamped “confidential”. He tore open the wax seal. His eyes darted back and forth as he devoured the information inside. He groaned.

  “What is it, sir?” Primm asked.

  Smythe handed the letter to his assistant, who read it aloud.

  “From: A. Smith,” Primm began. “The snake in the henhouse is dead. Stop. Chicken dinner on the menu. Stop. Red Robin to carry out sentence. Stop. Bird has flown the coop. Stop.” Primm clenched his lips tight. “Oh my.”

  “Exactly,” Smythe said. “Copperhead is dead. The Oversight Committee’s issued a sanction on McCormick, and Copperhead’s redheaded trollop of a protégé has claimed the right to carry it out.”

  “But it says McCormick is on the run?, Primm said. “You know tactical matters were never my area of expertise, Mr. President, but him running is a good thing, isn’t it? The man is a trained DSI agent, after all. He’ll be difficult if not impossible to find. It’s one of the reasons he made such an excellent Confederate spy.”

  Smythe shook his head. “Scarlet is good, one of the best Strategic Intelligence has. I saw her work firsthand last year, when she stood as close to me as you are now, and we had no idea who she was. No, Mr. Primm, McCormick is responsible for Copperhead’s death. He killed that girl’s minder as sure as if he’d tied the rope or pulled the trigger himself. She won’t stop until she finds him. It’s only a matter of time."

  Primm nodded. "Mr. President, I think it’s time we initiated our contingency stratagem.”

  Smythe pondered for a moment then turned to his bodyguard. “Mr. Wagstaff, Primm isn’t an expert in tactical matters, but you are, correct? Do you agree with Mr. Primm’s assessment? Is it time for our contingency?”

  Wagstaff and Primm exchanged looks before Wagstaff spoke. “I do, sir, and it is.”

  Smythe wasn’t sure what troubled him more: the current predicament he found himself in or the fact that Wagstaff and Primm agreed on something.

  “I see,” Smythe said. He looked from Wagstaff to Primm. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s too late. Every asset at the Union’s disposal, official or unofficial, will soon be after us next. And that’s if the Confederate Congress doesn’t get to us first.” Smythe held up the envelope. “I was lucky to receive even the advanced notice of this telegram. It’ll be all over the wires soon if it isn’t already. By this time tomorrow, I'll be on the front page of every paper in the Union and the Confederacy. I’ll be surprised if we can even get out of the White House today.”

  Primm grinned. “As I said, Mr. President, I’m practically useless when it comes to tactical matters, but political strategy and forecasting outcomes? That is my specialty. You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, but I’ve already taken the liberty of initiating the stratagem.” Primm pulled out a golden pocket watch and checked the time. “The airship should be here for us any minute now.”

  Smythe looked up at Primm, the urge to wrap his arms around the young man and shout with joy almost overwhelming. “Good man, Mr. Primm! Oh, and Christina and the children?” Smythe added, almost as an afterthought.

  "Already fetched, sir. Earlier this morning. It was just a precautionary step at the time, but I’m pleased to say it was the right one to take. Rest assured, Mr. President, everything pertaining to your exit has been arranged."

  “You’ll be adequately rewarded, Primm. Make no mistake about that.” Smythe grinned, his day suddenly very much improved. “I knew there was a reason I hired you.”

  Smythe listened to a sudden commotion outside the office doors. A moment of quiet followed then a loud knocking.

  “Another telegram?” Primm asked.

  Wagstaff moved to the door, drawing his pistol. He stepped outside then quickly stepped back in and shut the door behind him. ”It’s Gen—I mean, Senator Lee, sir. He’s demanding you order the clockwerks aside and let him in to speak with you.”

  “Is he alone?” Smythe asked.

  Wagstaff shook his head. “No, sir. He has men with him. Confederate regulars.”

  Smythe swore. “Word travels fast, I see.” Smythe took a second to think. “Do as he says and have the clockwerks step aside. Let the senator in but only the senator.”

  Wagstaff stepped outside and did as he was told. No sooner had Wagstaff stepped back in the president’s office than Senator Robert Lee marched in. The former general’s jaw was set, his dark brows hovering over angry eyes like storm clouds over the sea. Lee stood in the center of the office, glaring at Smythe.

  For several long seconds, no one moved. No one spoke.

  “Robert,” Smythe finally said. He did not stand or extend his hand for Senator Lee to shake. “So good to see you again. Can I offer you anything? Water? Tea? Whiskey?”

  Lee stood unmoving. He still did not speak. Smythe understood, but he had to play the game.

  Smythe smiled the smile he reserved for fundraising dinners. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your visit, Robert?”

  “I’ve been looking into you for months now,” Senator Lee growled. “Do I even need to go into detail about what all I've discovered?”

  Smythe remained cool and impassive. “I
assure you, Robert, I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re getting at.”

  “Let’s drop the charade, James. What I’m ‘getting at’, as you so lightly put it, is high treason, and that’s just the beginning. You connived to gain office then sold this country out for profit and power at every turn. And that’s only what I have hard evidence of.”

  Smythe watched as Lee waited for his response. He decided he’d let this play out.

  “I can’t prove it,” Lee continued, “but I suspect you had a hand in Davis’ assassination last year.” Lee let the weight of his statement settle on the room. His eyes narrowed before he dropped a second bombshell. “If you didn’t plan it outright, that is.”

  Smythe glanced over at Wagstaff then back to Senator Lee. He folded his hands on his desk. “That’s quite a list of accusations, Robert.”

  Lee stood tall in the center of President Smythe’s office. “Do you deny any of it?”

  “I deny all of it, Robert. Unequivocally.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Lee sneered. “My investigation has yielded more than more than enough to impeach you ten times over, James. in the interest of the stability of this country, I’m giving you a chance to resign your presidency and turn yourself in. In spite of the things you’ve done, I’m allowing you the opportunity to behave honorably. Surrender, James.”

  Smythe remained stone-faced. “And If I choose not to?”

  “Nothing you’ve done up to this point indicates to me you have the merest inkling of what ‘honor’ even means,” Lee said. “Let me be perfectly clear, James. We have every exit to this building sealed. There’s nowhere you can go. Save what little self-respect you have, man, and just give yourself up! As poor as it might look in the papers, as hurtful as it might be to the country… I have no compunctions against dragging you out of here in chains if I have to. Please, don’t make me.”