by Thomas Webb
The gun was covered with a protective canvas tarp. A crewman lay next to it. The matrons, busy with the wounded, had passed him over. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, Scarlet reckoned.
“See to him,” she told Abe. “Carefully.”
The gun’s tarp was lashed to the deck with thick hemp rope. While Abe placed the young man’s body gently to the side, Scarlet pulled her saber from its sheath. The razor-sharp blade sliced through the rope like silk, freeing the tarp from its moorings in a single stroke.
With the tarp clear, Scarlet swung herself up into the gunner’s seat. She grabbed ahold of a handle protruding from the back of the weapon and, with a grunt of exertion, yanked it back. There was a satisfying chunk as the well-greased bolt of the weapon slid forward, seating the first in a long string of aether shells.
Abe returned from laying the young soldier’s body aside.
“You ever operated one of these?” she asked him.
Abe shook his head. “Never.”
“It’s easy. When the gun runs dry, all I need you to do is load the string of shells in that crate,” she pointed to a wooden box of ammunition sitting nearby, “right into here.” She indicated an open slot near the handles of the big four-barreled gun. “When the ammunition in the crate starts to get low, run over to the munitions shed and get another one. Got it?”
Abe nodded.
“Also, this gun swivels fast, so if you’re not loading or carrying a crate of shells, then hang on tight. And don’t touch anywhere near those barrels. They’ll melt the flesh from your hand after about a thousand rounds or so.”
“I won’t let you down, Scarlet,” Abe said.
“See that you don’t. One last thing. Try not to get yourself killed.”
Figuring it was the least she could do for someone who might possibly die within the next few minutes, Scarlet leaned down from the gunner’s seat and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“For luck,” she said. “Don’t read too much into it.”
Just then, a massive blast rocked Vindication to its bones.
Abe clung to the gunner’s platform to avoid being thrown. “Christ the Healer!” he shouted.
Scarlet gripped the controls as shockwaves rolled through the vessel. The black airship’s cannon had scored another hit, this time just below the keel only several hundred feet beneath them. It was so close she smelled the acrid scent of the aether. Another fire had broken out below decks. She heard crewmen shouting as they rushed to battle the blaze. Over the side of the airship, she saw the glow of bright orange flames.
“Damn them!” she shouted.
Scarlet spun the wheel that controlled the gun’s yaw. With well-lubricated speed, the big gun swiveled one-hundred eighty degrees. She could only guess the black ship’s speed and direction. With every ounce of battle-honed intuition she could muster, she set the crosshairs to the spot in the sky where instinct told her the ship should be. With a defiant shout, she twisted the weapon’s firing crank.
The platform shook with recoil as the Gatling spat lines of bright blue flame into onyx sky. A shower of spent shell casings rained on the deck, each one seeming to dance about as it landed.
“Did we get them?” Abe asked.
Scarlet fought to control her breathing. “No idea.” She smiled. “But it sure felt good to shoot back, didn’t it?”
Her smile faded. If they kept taking hits like the last one, they’d be lucky if Vindication survived the next turn o’ the clock.
“Abe, I’m going to level with you,” she began. “If we don’t—”
She stopped midsentence. Ueda, who’d been sitting idly by the entire battle, was on the move. The samurai marched straight toward a crewman sitting at the controls of a shell gun.
“If we don’t what, Scarlet?” Abe asked.
“Quiet,” she said.
Abe followed her gaze to the samurai. “What is he doing now?”
Scarlet strained to see. “They’re arguing.”
Ueda said something to the crewman at the launcher controls. The crewman shook his head. Ueda threw the man from his seat and took over.
“Do you think he sees it?” Abe asked. “The enemy airship, I mean?”
Scarlet shook her head. “He can’t have. It’s not possible.”
She remembered what the samurai had said to her less than a half turn o’ the clock past.
When I move from this place, you will do as I do.
Ueda spun the platform up and left. He fired off a shell and then a volley of three more in quick succession. The first rocket continued off into nothingness, impacting somewhere in the vast, empty wastelands of the demilitarized zone. The next two followed suit. To Scarlet’s amazement, the fourth shell found its target. There was an explosion of blue fire like a burst of gas igniting quickly followed by a steadily burning orange flame. In the distance, Scarlet caught sight of the barest glimpse of violet light.
“Get me another crate of those rounds!” Scarlet shouted.
The accounting clerk leapt from the platform and raced across the foredeck to the munitions shed. Scarlet spun the Gatling around with lightning speed, centering the crosshairs on the black shape floating inside a cloud of illuminated gas.
“We’ve got you,” she whispered. She twisted the weapon’s crank.
The sky opened like fireworks. A hail of fire poured from Vindication’s decks. A chorus of guns joined with Ueda’s and Scarlet’s as every weapon in Vindication’s considerable arsenal turned its sights on the sleek black shape gas in the distant night sky, silhouetted against a glowing blue ball of gas.
Several small explosions onboard the enemy ship followed the first. Then, nothing.
Vindication turned and began its approach, and the tiny speck of flame in the distance grew larger. Her engines damaged, without the advantage of stealth, the black airship was no match for them. The crippled enemy vessel’s guns fell silent. Its progress was slowed to a crawl.
The claxons rang out three times, one long burst, one short burst, one long burst. Cheers from the men and women of Vindication’s crew carried upward to Scarlet and Abe.
“What’s happening?” Abe asked, out of breath and still holding the crate of ammunition.
Scarlet slumped back into the seat of the Gatling. “Three blasts of the claxons means secure from General Quarters.”
“Secure from General Quarters?” Abe asked, panting. “What does that mean?”
“It means we won’t be needing that ammunition. We’ve won.”
24 The Blasted Lands, Altitude: Three-Hundred Feet and Dropping, July 1864
Montclair shifted in the saddle. His mount seemed restless, but that was an illusion. The brute beneath him was a machine. But Vindication was a machine, too, wasn’t she? And she was just as alive to Montclair as any flesh and blood horse he’d ever ridden. Much as Montclair hated to admit it, he was avoiding the obvious. The machine wasn’t the restless one.
Montclair sighed. Who under my watch will die today? A few minutes alone with your thoughts was a dangerous thing for a soldier.
Montclair gave the brute’s metallic shoulder a pat. Must be nice, having no responsibility. No one ever looking to you for guidance. Just follow the commands stamped into your punch cards. Montclair’s clockwerk hand flexed open and closed, open and closed.
“You mind not doing that?” Greg asked. His brute stood waiting, shoulder to shoulder with Montclair’s. “With your hand, I mean. The noise grates on my nerves something fierce.”
“Sorry.”
Montclair tried to disguise his embarrassment. He clenched his clockwerk hand into a fist, making a mental note to get his nervous habit under control.
Every man and woman going into battle felt nerves, even the most battle hardened. If they said otherwise, they were either crazy or lying. Montclair had always told his troops that real courage wasn’t the absence of fear but doing right in spite of it. Today, he would strive to practice as he preached.
Muted conversation filled
the darkened cargo hold. Montclair listened, here and there catching fragments—last minute instructions from a veteran soldier to a younger one, an argument over which brothels had the best girls in Washington, another over which tavern served the strongest ale. Montclair even heard a prayer or two.
Everyone onboard had been briefed. They knew today’s actions would determine the fate of thousands of innocent souls. The weight of their task hung heavy in the air, but Montclair’s crew carried it well. For that and so much more, he was proud of them.
To Montclair’s left, Copperhead spoke quietly with his protégé, the flame-haired beauty called Scarlet. They’d proven themselves several times over last night, helping Montclair overcome most of the natural distrust he held for Strategic Intelligence. He was thankful to have them along. They’d left behind the one named Fortenberry, who was by far the least experienced. He hadn’t been too happy about it, but Montclair thought leaving him behind a good call on Copperhead’s part. He wondered how the young agent had even managed to make it through DSI indoctrination, a process legendary for its brutality.
“How you holding up, colonel?” Copperhead asked. The agent favored Montclair with a smile. He reminded Montclair of a kindly old uncle, provided that kindly uncle was a highly trained assassin who worked for the Union government.
Montclair shrugged. “Could be worse, considering the circumstances.”
The old man laughed. “Horse shit. We’re all dead tired, colonel. Understandable after last night.”
Copperhead was right. Montclair felt like he’d been rode hard and put away wet. Between the gala, the battle outside the barn, and then defeating and capturing the airship they’d later found out was called the Raven, it was a wonder they had energy enough to stand, let alone fight. Montclair decided then and there that if they made it through this, he was going to approve so much crew leave he’d probably be court martialed.
“My crew will hold up,” he told the spymaster.
Copperhead nodded. “I know they will. This your first drop?”
“My third,” Montclair said. “Bull Run, Antietam, now here. You?”
“Scarlet and I have executed the Buxton maneuver several times. Nothing I’m at liberty to discuss, though.”
Montclair shrugged. “Classified, I suppose? Not surprising.”
Copperhead looked at Greg. “What about you, major? This your first time? You’re looking kind of green around the gills.”
“No need to worry on my account, spymaster,” Greg said through gritted teeth. Beads of sweat sat on Greg’s brow and upper lip. He removed his cavalry Stetson and wiped his face.
“It’s all right, son,” Copperhead said. “We were all virgins once. I am surprised, though. You rode with Buxton, didn’t you? Figured you’d have done this before.”
Greg swallowed hard. “I’m not your son,” he said.
Montclair noticed Greg did look a little nauseated.
“Strategic Intelligence doesn’t have the best reputation,” Montclair said to the agents, “and it’s not entirely undeserved.”
Montclair cast a sympathetic glance at Greg. He couldn’t imagine how hard it was for his friend, who was probably even now thinking of the woman he’d lost in Cuba.
“That being said,” Montclair continued, “the information you uncovered last night will save a lot of lives. Given my past experience with the department, this is hard for me to say. . .” Montclair looked down at the saddle of his brute. “You’re both a credit to your country, Copperhead, you and Scarlet. If fortune doesn’t allow me to say it later, it’s been an honor to ride with you.”
“What we do is only in service to the Union,” Copperhead said. “Nothing more. But to ride next to the hero of the Battle of the Potomac? Well, sir, I have to say that the honor is ours.”
Montclair shook his head. “I’m no hero.”
“Pardon me, Colonel ‘I’m no hero,’” Scarlet interrupted, “but if you’re both done kissing each other’s asses, we should probably get ready for the drop.”
Montclair looked where the agent with the fiery hair and matching disposition pointed. Off in the distance, he spotted a thin trail of smoke. The 3:00 AM train, bound for Washington, was running right on time.
The bombing campaign responsible for creating the demilitarized zone had left great gaping holes in the earth. The damage in some places was so extensive the tracks had to be rerouted, resulting in an enormous half-moon shaped detour. The rail workers had taken to calling the curved length of track “the Crescent Run,” and it was the only chance Vindication had of catching the powerful Baldwin locomotive.
“Guess we’d best get to it then,” Montclair said.
Two crewmen stood ready at the far end of the cargo hold. Montclair gave them a nod, and they activated the cranks that controlled the aft door. Like a great gaping maw, the top and bottom halves of the door yawned open.
Montclair gave the signal to move. “Forward!” he bellowed.
Twenty-one brutes moved their mechanical legs toward the rear of the cargo bay, the men and women at the controls directing them to step gingerly out onto the lowered platform.
Wind whipped Montclair’s face as a panoramic view of the demilitarized zone spread out beneath him. The moon had shifted from its hiding place behind the clouds, and by its cold light, he witnessed the emptiness of the wastelands. Shadowed craters, like pockmarks on an old man’s face, marked the impact of thousands of aether rockets. To the east lay the dark, still waters of the Chesapeake Bay. To the west, the 3:00 AM to Washington screamed down the tracks at breakneck speed.
They’d flown overland as fast as they could, bisecting the Crescent Run in hopes of nullifying the massive steam engine’s speed. If they’d calculated correctly, there was a tiny window during which they matched the locomotive’s pace. They only had one chance, and that was where the brutes came in.
The crewman at the door wheel held his pocket watch high. “One minute, colonel!” he shouted.
Montclair gave him a thumbs up.
There was sudden lurch as Vindication dropped altitude. Montclair’s stomach jumped into his throat. Standing orders for Union Army Air Corps vessels were quite clear. No one was to execute the Buxton maneuver from a height of more than twenty feet. Anything higher was too dangerous.
Montclair had absolute confidence in his pilot, but the Buxton maneuver had never been attempted from an Eagle class airship. Flying something so big only twenty feet above uneven terrain was suicide. Montclair ordered the pilot to get only as close to the ground as he could, which by Montclair’s estimate was about thirty-five feet. Casualties were a near guarantee.
Vindication flew fast and low. Her engines, already pushed past capacity, screamed in protest as Chief Maddern squeezed them for every ounce of power he could get. The pilot’s instructions were to slow only a split second before Montclair’s signal. Otherwise, the locomotive would outrun them. The timing had to be perfect.
Montclair raised his hand as the airship came about. “Steady,” he commanded.
A hollow pit formed in Montclair’s gut, and his heart threatened to beat from his chest. His human hand was slick with sweat inside his glove. His clockwerk hand flexed open and closed. Vindication dipped, beginning her final descent.
Montclair crossed himself the way he’d been taught so many years ago in the Catholic churches of Orleans Parrish. How long has it been since I last confessed my sins? He laughed to himself. Too late now.
Montclair leaned forward in the saddle and looked to his right, checking on Greg one last time. The beads of sweat on the Marine’s face had become rivulets. Greg’s eyes were shut so tight the skin around them had gone from red to white.
“Gentlemen,” Montclair said. “And ladies,” he added, bowing slightly to Scarlet and the several female soldiers behind him, “I believe we have a train to catch.”
Montclair walked his brute to the edge of the platform. Behind him, twenty mounted fighters followed in unison. Thirty-
five feet beneath Montclair, the earth sped by in a blur. On Vindication’s port side, the locomotive surged ahead, beginning its wide arcing run around the set of low, jagged mountains known as The Widowed Sisters. They’d plotted Vindication’s infiltration route on the eastern side of the peaks for a twofold purpose. By placing the Sisters between the airship and the locomotive, the crags provided natural cover for their descent. And by inserting at the point where the tracks circled around the unnatural rock formations and forced the train to slow, they gained precious seconds that Montclair and company needed for their brutes to overtake the engine on the other side.
The powerful engine disappeared behind the cruel peaks as they descended, but they were close enough to the tail end now that Montclair could just make out the silhouette of a passenger walking through the aisle. With every passing second, the train grew closer, its details more distinct. Montclair saw the rich wood paneling of the cabin walls, the dull red rug which ran the length of the aisle, even the elegant lettering on the side of the train, warning passengers to watch their step when boarding. Through a lit window, he spotted an old woman. She read by lamplight, oblivious to the airship approaching from across the plains.
Only seconds now.
“Steady,” Montclair said. “On my mark. . .”
Montclair’s hand dropped, giving the signal. Then, his brute lunged forward, and together, they plummeted into yawning, empty space.
25 The Blasted Lands, Altitude: Too High to Execute the Buxton Maneuver, July 1864
The brute hit the ground running, impacting with teeth-clacking force and knocking the wind from Montclair’s lungs. The landing was far from his best, but he’d made it. Before Montclair could fully catch his breath, he was thundering headlong across the plains.
Montclair stole a glance to the rear to watch as Greg landed safely. Copperhead, a determined look on his face, hit next. The spymaster’s protégé, Scarlet, followed him. Montclair’s own captain of the ship’s guard, her close-cropped blonde hair in stark contrast to the darkened landscape, landed behind Scarlet. Montclair didn’t have time to confirm anyone else safe on deck before the cry of the locomotive’s whistle pulled him back on task.
