Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s brow furrowed. “Your enemy has a pocket watch just like this?”
“Yes. I saw it,” said the president. “It’s identical to Mr. Lincoln’s in every way, only silver.”
Arthur anxiously rapped his fingers against the table. “That is most interesting, Mr. President. Most interesting.”
“Why?” asked Taft.
“Because silver conducts heat even better than gold. In fact … Please excuse me for a moment.”
Doyle stood up and began to pace the room, puffing his pipe. The Colossus appeared to be in deep thought while the president looked at the men around him.
“Archie, what did I say?” Taft whispered.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Take your sweet time, sir knight,” said Wilkie as he unshelled a hard-boiled egg.
“Arthur?” asked Robert. “Is something wrong?”
The Colossus spun around, his eyes alight with realization. “Mr. President, my dear sirs: Picture, if you will, a gentleman who came across a pocket watch just like this through purely unintentional, but nevertheless completely legal circumstances. He could have found it in a safe, just like Mr. Lincoln did. Or perhaps he purchased its patent. He may have even acquired the store where it was built, containing its designs as well as a prototype. My point is that no matter how he acquired this timepiece, the president of the United States is saying that this gentleman is Basil Zaharoff: the villain you encountered in New Haven. He is a man who has amassed an incalculable fortune by mating weapons with machines, and this pocket watch just might be the first machine in history to harness the radioactive power of uranium. A device such as this could be used as the basis for a most powerful weapon.”
“This weapon exists,” said Major Butt. “We encountered it at Yale and saw the full extent of its destructive power in the Congo. It is quite lethal. Powerful enough to kill all plant and animal life in an enormous radius.”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s pipe began to shake in his mouth. “Mr. Lincoln. How much radioactive material do you think was mined from the Morgan-Guggenheim sites in Alaska?”
“There’s really no way of knowing,” replied Robert. “If this lead cavern the miners found contained uranium, they could have mined all of it out of the mountains by now.”
“And this cesium hydroxide your enemies threatened New Haven with. It was meant to be transmitted using steam. Correct?”
“Yes, it was. Their plan was to use Yale University’s steam tunnels to release it as an aerosol.”
“How expansive are these tunnels? What would it take for them to be mobile?”
Robert’s eyes widened. “Arthur, I don’t think such a weapon could ever be moved. If someone were to duplicate what we encountered at Yale, this weapon would have to be the size of … I don’t know. At least three city blocks!”
“Arthur,” Taft interrupted. “Why are you asking us this?”
The Colossus meditated for a moment. “Mr. Wilkie, what is the shipping company your secret agent is currently working for? The one she suspects our enemies have been using for the bulk of their activities?”
“The White Star Line,” said the chief.
“And where is she at the moment?”
“Belfast.”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle went pale. “Do any of you gentlemen have a copy of this transmission your agent told me you received from Nikola Tesla?”
Wilkie snapped his fingers and pointed to Major Butt, who was guarding a briefcase under the table containing copies of everything the president was prepared to discuss with the Colossus. The major handed a copy of the transmission to Doyle, who carefully looked it over.
GENTLEMAN FROM BRUSSELS
PARIS? WILL THIS INTERFERE WITH YOUR OPERATIONS AT BELFAST?
GENTLEMAN FROM PARIS
NOT AT ALL. WE ARE CURRENTLY AHEAD OF SCHEDULE.
GENTLEMAN FROM BRUSSELS
VERY WELL. I WILL WORK WITH BOMA TO FACILITATE YOUR DELIVERY. WE WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU.
“Could I trouble one of you sirs for a pen and paper?”
“Why?” asked the president.
“Because our enemies will have everything they need in Belfast to make this weapon mobile, which appears to have been their intention from the beginning. My friends,” observed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, “I am sorry to say this, but I think the United Kingdom is currently being held hostage, and the United States is on the verge of an attack of titanic proportions.”
Chapter XXXIV
April 14, 1912
MGY TO MWL
SHUT UP! SHUT UP! I AM BUSY …
Radio officer Cyril Evans turned nervously to his captain, Stanley Lord, in the crowded Marconi Room of the SS Californian. “That was their last reply, sir.”
Captain Lord, who had been on duty for seventeen hours that day, could not have been more distressed with this report.
“Shall I reply using the MSG prefix?” asked Evans.
“No, don’t bother. Monitor all their transmissions to Newfoundland, but otherwise send nothing more.”
“Aye, Captain.” Evans dutifully marked down the time in his logbook as 11:04 P.M.
Captain Lord dabbed the sweat from his face even though it was freezing outside. He turned around and shook his head at Arthur Brooks, who was patiently waiting on the deck in his old National Guard coat.
Brooks bowed his head in response and walked over to the port side of the bow. There was a small cluster of people there guarded by a thick wall of soldiers. Brooks passed through these men to find Attorney General Wickersham engaged in a hushed conversation with Brigadier General Clarence Edwards, Secretary of War Stimson, and British Ambassador James Bryce. Behind these men, Nellie Taft was flanked by two of her sisters, both of whom were armed with shotguns.
Considering the circumstances, Mrs. Taft looked quite regal in her large Merry Widow hat.
“We heard back from the ship,” Brooks reported. “They’re not stopping.”
Nellie looked away from the cold waters. “You’re sure?”
“Positive,” replied Brooks.
If Nellie sighed, her sadness was masked by the determination on her face. “Commence the attack.”
“Yes, Madam President.”
Brooks reported back to the radio room while Nellie set her binoculars once more to the southern horizon.
As she stared into the distance, it never occurred to Nellie or Brooks or anyone onboard the Californian that the Titanic’s Marconi operator, Jack Phillips, was already dead.
* * *
In the First Class Lounge of the RMS Titanic, Archie Butt was playing cards with some of the steamship’s wealthiest passengers. He was wearing his full uniform and appeared to be enjoying himself: He was winning. He had also just returned from a luxurious dinner party and was developing an affinity for the lounge’s lovely Louis XV style. And lastly, seated beside him was the masterful Francis Davis Millet, a gentle man Butt affectionately described in his letters as “my artist friend who lives with me.”
The two were very good friends.
Archie had just won a hand with a pair of aces and eights, all black, when a stewardess approached the table and placed a tall glass of water in front of the officer. Archie, who did not request this, looked up to see a woman with luscious, voluminous hair and blue-gray eyes staring back at him.
A clock chimed.
Miss Knox walked out of the lounge for the promenade deck while Archie took one last look at Francis, who knew what was coming. The two nodded to each other, and Archie excused himself while Millet continued to entertain the ladies and gentlemen at the table. As Archie walked out of the room, he threw his officer’s cape over his shoulders and once more became Major Butt.
When the uniformed major reached the stern of the ship, Miss Knox was already waiting for him. She was standing next to a black rope that appeared to disappear into space. There was a strong steel hook hanging from the end of it.
The officer dutifully unbu
ttoned his jacket. “When did they arrive?” he asked quickly.
“Less than five minutes ago. They dropped Mrs. Taft and the observers on a ship about five to six miles north-northwest from here. The SS Californian.”
“Are they White Star Line?”
“No. Leyland Line. It’s owned by the IMM, but the ship and crew can be trusted.”
“Good for us,” said Major Butt. His jacket was open, revealing a leather harness beneath it.
“Also, there’s something you should know. Archie, two people tried to kill me in my room last night.”
The major’s face filled with worry. “My God … Were you hurt?”
“Of course not! I disposed of them easily. But Archie, there’s something wrong with the crew. Each day, I recognize fewer of them. It’s almost as if they’re disappearing, replaced by people I’ve never seen or worked with before.”
“That’s odd. Does Captain Smith know about this?”
“No. The entire chain of command is intact. However, I know for sure that several hundred crewmen are completely unaccounted for at the moment. Maybe even more than half of them.”
“That could be a problem,” said the major as he hooked the line to his harness. “A big problem. And our targets?”
“They’re all here.” Miss Knox assisted the officer with his straps. “I know they said J. P. Morgan did not board, but I found a trunk containing a set of his clothing and … something else. Some sort of strange equipment I’ve never seen before.”
The major raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’ll make sure to notify Mr. Lincoln.” Fastened safely in his harness, the soldier breathed heavily and gave Miss Knox a long look. “You have your weapons?”
“Yes, major.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“No, major.”
“All right.” Archie looked into the night sky. Just as he hoped, there was only darkness above them.
“Please make sure Francis leaves safely.”
“I will, major.”
Major Butt smiled softly, and Miss Knox smiled back. It was always so adorable, she thought, to see him so proud in his cape.
But then the soldier turned skyward and to the matter at hand. He pulled on his rope and disappeared like a bat into the dark night above.
It was 11:40 P.M., Titanic time.
Chapter XXXV
“Welcome aboard.”
“Mr. President.” The major saluted.
President Taft, Robert Todd Lincoln, and a smoking Chief Wilkie were surrounded by a wall of Secret Service agents and more than one hundred of the best soldiers in the United States military. Although comprised primarily of the Ninth Cavalry, this was a special unit assembled after more than a month of intensive training and planning. They were men of every race, background, and belief. They were the soldiers, sailors, and U.S. Marines chosen to commandeer the Titanic. And above all else, they were sons, brothers, fathers, husbands, countrymen, and Americans.
Taft looked over the soldiers, every one of them awaiting his order. “You can go now.”
“Go!” shouted Captain Young.
In a military maneuver as carefully choreographed as a symphony, the soldiers leaped out of the zeppelin and descended upon the Titanic from black ropes. Major Butt and Captain Young saluted each other and parted ways: the former to the bridge and the latter to the sharpshooters on the promenade. After Wilkie and his Secret Service agents slid down their lines, Taft turned to Robert Todd Lincoln, who was holding the electric rifle he and Dr. Tesla designed.
“You know the drill, Bob. Once the passengers are off safely, come down and help me put this ship out of commission.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Robert extended his hand, exposing the gold pocket watch he was wearing beneath his thick winter coat.
Taft shook his friend’s hand, smiled, and then slid down his special extra-thick rope. The president hit the deck with a “Ha-ha!” as if he had just swung in on a chandelier.
Chapter XXXVI
“What the bloody hell is this?”
“You First Officer Murdoch?”
“Yes, I am!”
“Smashing.” Wilkie smirked as he took out his badge. “I’m John Wilkie, United States Treasury. Chief of Secret Service Division. I need you to step back and surrender this ship.”
“Bollocks!” Murdoch barked back.
“Don’t worry. We’re not taking it for free.” Wilkie put his badge in his coat and then produced something else. “Here. Have a cigar.” The outraged lieutenant looked down at the offering and immediately smacked it out of the chief’s hand.
“What’s the situation, Wilkie?” asked Taft as he entered the bridge. He left Agent Sloan behind him to guard the door.
First Officer Murdoch looked at the enormous president with the same shock as if he had just seen an iceberg. “You’re the American!” he gasped. “The president!”
“Yes, I am. I need you to summon Captain Smith to the bridge.”
“What is this mutiny?” a voice shouted. “Who are you?” The fur-clad president turned around to see Captain Edward James Smith, the white-bearded captain of the Titanic, standing beside Agent Sloan. His collar was undone and he was not wearing his jacket. The captain was shivering, possibly due to the cold, but the president assumed it could just as well be out of anger. Or fear.
“Captain Smith,” said Taft, extending his hand. “I am William Howard Taft, president of the United States, but you may call me Will.”
The stunned captain shook the president’s hand feebly. “What’s going on here? How did you board this ship?”
“From a flying machine. Captain Smith…” The president walked with the captain into the bridge. “I’m afraid I have some bad news: Your ship contains a terrible weapon that could potentially kill everyone in and around New York Harbor. I have a letter here signed by the prime minister, Secretary of State Knox, Ambassador James Bryce, and myself authorizing that you turn command of this vessel over to the United States military. We will unload passengers onto two steamships that are racing here as we speak, arrest those we deem criminal, and then scuttle the ship. I am sorry, sir,” Taft sighed, “but we may need to sink the Titanic.”
Captain Smith’s sad eyes were watering. They looked to First Officer Murdoch and then helplessly at the ship’s wheel.
“Captain?” asked the president.
A low gasp came from Captain Smith’s lips.
“What the hell?” asked Wilkie as he looked out the window. There was shouting and gunfire outside.
Airship One blasted its horn, awaking everyone on the Titanic.
“What’s going on out there?” Taft thundered.
Captain Smith collapsed to the floor with a throwing knife in his back.
Wilkie drew his pistol. “Who the devil—!” Two columns of armed men came charging into the bridge, overwhelming its hapless defenders. Wilkie fired four shots at the thugs, killing four men, but there were far too many for his six-chambered revolver. The brutes overpowered Taft’s bodyguard and pinned him to the floor with two rifles pressed against his chest.
“No!” Taft shouted as more men rushed onto the bridge. Agents Sloan, Wheeler, Jervis, and the remaining officers on the Titanic surrounded the president, but they did not shoot their pistols. They were surrounded by Belgian Mausers aimed for the president’s head.
Outside of the bridge, the president’s men could hear screaming.
And then, thumping. A deep, ominous din that shook the floor beneath them.
Two men walked into the bridge. One was J. P. Morgan, who, oddly, was not wearing a coat and appeared to move somewhat rigidly. The other was a tall, impossibly thin man wearing a black suit and sporting a short white beard. He’d had it trimmed since his cruel reign as king of the Belgians.
“Leopold…” sneered the president.
Chapter XXXVII
Midnight
“You’re not dead at all,” Taft surmised. “Your state funeral was an elaborate hoa
x.”
“It was not that elaborate,” said the once-King Leopold II in a deep, ancient voice. “My coffin was spit upon by my own countrymen as it was carried through Brussels. My own kin abandoned me in disgrace. If I had enough bullets, I would have killed every one of them myself.”
A livid president shook his head at the villain. “After what you did to the Congo, I should not be surprised.”
“Yes, Mr. Rom has a unique passion for his work. He always has.”
“Leon Rom is dead. My airship crew killed him.”
Leopold smirked. “Good. That means I don’t need to take care of him as well.”
As Leopold said this, an entire army of stowaways flooded the decks of the Titanic. The sporadic shooting outside the bridge exploded into full war.
The president’s men were outnumbered.
* * *
Aboard Airship One, Major Butt blasted the zeppelin’s mighty horn a third time. But alas, it appeared Basil Zaharoff knew his Homer. The enemy soldiers storming the Titanic were wearing earplugs to protect against sirens.
“Who are these people?” shouted Corporal Winnie “Mike” Williams.
The major studied their clothing through his binoculars. “Pirates,” he said. “Southeast Asian. There must be hundreds of them on the ship.”
“Major!” cried Captain Young. “The enemies have the president surrounded!”
Major Butt turned his attention to the dire situation in the bridge. “Take us down to fifty feet!” he ordered. “Get us along the port side!” The major looked to Captain Young. “We can’t use our sirens. Have the sharpshooters fire at will.”
“Aye, sir!” Captain Young hurried back to the airship’s main deck, where Robert Todd Lincoln was waiting for him. “I think you better stay in your cabin,” said the captain.
Robert did not agree or disagree. Instead, he looked out the windows of the zeppelin and made calculations.
The Great Abraham Lincoln Pocket Watch Conspiracy: A Novel Page 26
