Einstein Must Die! (Fate of Nations Book 1) (4 page)

The general’s craggy face grew dour.

“Radiological? You mean he has bombs that generate radiation?” Roosevelt asked.

Bertram nodded. “I do. The destructive force could be many times what we have seen so far, but worse, the radiation would contaminate the area for decades. And we know their zeppelins have the range to reach our shores. A few of these bombs dropped on a major city could render it uninhabitable.”

Roosevelt’s face blanched. “Dear God in heaven,” he whispered.

Edison began to speak, but held himself still.

Roosevelt noticed. “What do you think, Mr. Edison?”

“Sir, I have no doubt that Bertram means well, but I find it extremely unlikely that any bomb can be made as he describes.”

“I don’t have the luxury in letting it go at ‘unlikely.’”

“Of course not, sir. I’m just saying we should balance our concern against what is most probable. For example, in my military work, I’ve focused on the need for a telegraph network. If implemented, a network spanning the Eastern Seaboard could give us rapid news of enemy landings, and allow for coordinated counterattacks. This sort of development will bear more fruit than experiments into radiation.”

Bertram frowned. Did Edison not understand the looming danger such technology presented?

Roosevelt thought about that. He realized Edison was speaking from passion, but these new technological dangers on the horizon were too great to dismiss. He’d rather be seen as too aggressive and proven wrong than the alternative.

“Thank you, Mr. Edison, for your perspective. I count myself as a fan of your work. Bertram, get him into your lab too. But we are not speaking of research. We need to cut the head from the snake.”

General Houston nodded gravely. The drumbeat of war always reached this moment, when momentous decisions were made. “We have a three-person team trained for missions like this. They can be underway within a day. Of course, there is no formal declaration of war with England, as of yet…”

President Roosevelt pulled a document from the desk drawer. “There is now,” he said, handing it to the general.
 

He scanned the paper, and his lips parted as he read aloud.

“The first duty of the United States Government remains what it has always been: to protect the American people and American interests. It is an enduring American principle that this duty obligates the government to anticipate and counter threats, using all elements of national power, before the threats can do grave damage. The greater the threat, the greater is the risk of inaction – and the more compelling the case for taking anticipatory action to defend ourselves, even if uncertainty remains as to the time and place of the enemy’s attack.”

The general set the paper down and considered his next words.

“Mr. President, are you considering a preemptive attack?”

“Those bombs represent a clear and present danger to this country, General. We need a new policy, and this is it. Call it the Roosevelt Doctrine.”

General Houston nodded, deeply mindful of the consequences of this moment in time. “Is the order given, Mr. President?”

Roosevelt leaned back and steepled his hands under his chin. Sitting behind the heavy Resolute desk, he often felt like the lonely captain of a vast ship. The desk was a gift to the Americans from Queen Victoria, made from timbers recovered from a British arctic explorer. A gift made in another time, before American riches created British envy. Before a time when death could rain from the sky.

“The order is given,” President Roosevelt said. “Declare war against England. And assassinate Albert Einstein.”

MAJOR ARCHIBALD THOMAS

Forty days at sea is not good for men
, thought Major Archibald Thomas. His hawkish, attractive face wore a frown, etched deeper than usual. He stood on the upper deck of the HMS
Glasgow
, one hand on the railing for support against the heaving motion of the churning ocean. Overhead, the sky was darkening, threatening more rain.

One of the new steam-powered ironclads could make the journey from Portsmouth to America in twelve days, but those were all being retrofitted in secrecy. Still, the
Glasgow
was a ship of the line. Five decks, seventy-two guns and a crew of two hundred and twenty made a fearsome predator, even if she was a bit slow.

The king’s orders had been specific in their hostility. Lead a battalion of seven hundred soldiers to New Haven, Connecticut, and kill anyone who prevents capturing the port there. Then march north and meet up with reinforcements to take Boston. A formal declaration of war would be made immediately before the attack.

He welcomed the thrill of combat, especially on foreign land. It had been three years since he’d been to America. His lips curled, thinking of the uncouth colonists. Red Bank, Pennsylvania. By the time he was done, the town was aptly named. He’d run many of them through and would have killed many more, but for the sudden signing of the Armistice.

Thankfully, things were now set right, and he’d have the chance to finish what he started. Loyalty was all, especially to the Crown. Those who wavered deserved what they got.
 

He’d had to pull strings with the king for this assignment. A battalion was typically commanded by a lieutenant colonel, but after the major explained his reasons for wanting the job, the king understood and made an exception.

Nearby, Captain Douglas checked his navigation. “Helmsman, make your course two-two-seven.”

The young midshipman responded instantly. “Making course two-two-seven, aye.” He leaned on the massive ship’s wheel, and it shifted position slightly.

“Another day, perhaps two,” said the captain. “We’ll come in at night, and the moon will be a waning crescent. Good for landing.”

Major Thomas nodded. “My men are damned unhappy belowdecks. They’ll be pleased to have mud under them again.”

The captain laughed. “I’m sure. The lower decks are awash in vomit.”

“They are soldiers, Captain. Not sailors.”

“Very true!” he said, chuckling again.

“Ship sighted!” yelled a lookout. He held an arm out, rigid, pointing at the horizon.

Major Thomas looked off the left side of the ship, but saw nothing.

The captain had a spyglass to his face, scanning for the new arrival.

“Yes… I see you,” he said. “And you have a friend too.”

He snapped the glass down. “American frigate and a smaller boat. Privateer maybe, or a packet ship hauling mail.”

“Will you engage?” asked the major.

The captain scrubbed at his face, rolling the variables through his mind. He leaned over the railing and watched the white tips of the waves’ crests. The wind was blowing from the direction of the enemy ships.

“Wind isn’t favorable. They have the weather gage.”

“How many guns on an American frigate?”

“Forty-four, but they’re a tough hull. Admiralty frowns on engagement at less than two-to-one advantage.” He mulled it over, rubbing his chin.

“Your decision, Captain,” said Major Thomas. “I command only the army belowdecks, the ship is yours.”

Captain Douglas craned his neck up to inspect his current set of sail.

“Of course,” continued the major. “I’d hate for word of your timidness to spread.”

The captain’s head snapped back, but the major’s grin told him he only meant to jest. He scanned the darkening sky. Heavy, steel-gray clouds hung low and imposing.
 

The major followed his gaze, not liking the look of the weather.
 

But the captain smiled. “I have an idea,” he said, buttoning up his foul weather coat. “Beat to quarters!” he called out in a booming command voice.
 

A junior officer sprinted to the ship’s bell. “Beat to quarter’s, aye!” He rang the bell hard, five times, quickly. He paused, then repeated the alarm.

The crew sprang to their battle roles, clearing the decks of extraneous gear and equipment, securing it below. Down on the gun decks, crews primed the cannons with powder and loaded round shot into the hulking guns.

The captain nodded, pleased with his crew’s efficiency. “Port guns, prepare to run out! Helm, make your course one-nine-oh!”

He turned to the major beside him. “We’ll take them on, Major. And give your boys something to forget their seasickness.”

***

Aboard the USS
Lexington
, Captain Franklin Jones studied the British ship through his glass.

“Ship of the line. Big bastard. Lot of guns.” He handed the glass to Lieutenant Wilson, who eagerly took a look.

“Yes, sir,” the junior man agreed, straining to make out details. “But she’s got no copper.”

No copper sheathing on the hull meant less protection from barnacles and weeds, which grew on a ship’s timbers and produced drag in the water.

“A fair bet she’s out of Portsmouth,” said the captain.

“Which means a month of growth, at least.”

The captain nodded. “Good for a knot or so. Good man,” he said, clapping the young sailor on the shoulder. “We have the wind. Let’s go get him. Signal the packet ship to hold back.”

“Aye, sir.”

Captain Jones turned and called out, “Starboard guns, make ready! Helm, three-three-five. Chase that Imperial bastard down!”

The
Lexington
turned and put on speed, cutting forward through the heavy swells.

***

Major Thomas watched the
Lexington
turn and gain speed. Behind it, the smaller ship was falling back. It didn’t have the guns or the strength to join this fight.

The
Lexington
surged toward them, and the major counted twenty-two gunports along the side. Twenty-two timber panels that would be thrown open at the right moment, revealing two-ton cannons, each one capable of sending a thirty-six pound cannonball through their hull. The thought gave the major pause.

“Captain, I am no sailor, but doesn’t the American have the superior position here?”

 
Captain Douglas was watching the
Lexington
maneuver intently. “Aye, that he does. With the wind behind him, he can press the attack, or move away.”

“Well, he’s certainly pressing,” he said, watching the frigate quickly growing larger. Around its bow, white foam rose and churned as the ship cut through the rough, building waves.

“Steady, soldier. Watch and learn some navy tricks.”

***

On the
Lexington
, Captain Jones gauged the distance to the enemy at four hundred feet and closing. Still too far for an accurate shot.

His lieutenant was studying them again through the glass. “She’s got smashers,” he said. The note of apprehension carried over the howling wind. “Three. On the forecastle.”

The three carronades were high-efficiency cannons, designed for short-range fire. With a lower muzzle velocity, the shot created more wooden splinters when it hit, which often were more deadly than the ball itself. Their nickname was well earned.

“Not to worry, we’re going for their rear. They won’t get a chance to use ‘em.”

The captain could see the downwind
Glasgow
well now, even without a glass. She was heeled over against the wind, which brought her exposed flank up out of the water. A shot there, where the hull normally rested below the waterline, could be fatal.

The bucking waves were now pounding them hard. He held onto the railing and pointed as they gained ground.

“I want a shot there, below their line. Punch a hole in them low. When they change tack, they’ll take on water, and slow more.”

“Aye, sir!” called the lieutenant and shouted orders to the gun crews.

***

The
Glasgow
was big, but she was slow. The American ship was within firing distance now, and the major turned to Captain Douglas, expecting action. Surely, it was time for an attack or an evasive maneuver?

But the old sailor was content to wait and watch as a wicked smile began to form on his lips.

***

The
Lexington
pulled alongside the British warship, and Captain Jones gave the order. “Starboard guns, run out!”

The order was relayed to the gundeck below, and crews leaped to unlock the gunports and haul up the heavy panels.
 

But as they did, water roared into the gundeck. With the
Lexington
heeled over in chase, its attacking side was riding low. The weather had worsened considerably since they began their run, and the waves were crashing higher now, flooding into the ship.

Men were washed back away from the open ports, smashing into their mates who came forward to help. The chaos rose quickly as the foaming ocean rushed in, racing along the gundeck. Screams of anger and fear cut through the sound of raging water.

“Why haven’t we fired?” yelled the captain. He ran to the railing, and looked over it. The ports were open, but then he saw the incoming water.

“Oh God.”

***

“And there you have it,” said Captain Douglas. “The weather has picked up, and he wasn’t paying attention. Now he’s in a pickle, all right.”

He turned to his second-in-command. “Port guns, run out and fire!”

The order was yelled below, and moments later, thirty-six gunports sprang open. Crews hauled on ropes with pulleys, and the two-ton cannons were thrust forward. The
Glasgow
now had teeth.