Einstein Must Die! (Fate of Nations Book 1) (6 page)

Mrs. Harrison stood, arms crossed, seeing the man’s plight. He was no doubt brilliant, but was also probably lonely and certainly poor at looking after himself. Seeing the result of this combination of traits in one man made her sad. If she could, she’d have let him stay for free, at least until his fortunes improved. But she had four little ones to think of, and giving away rooms meant taking food off their table. Still, the man seemed to have such promise.

“So the work for Mr. Edison did not pan out as planned,” she offered.

“The work, yes. The payment, no.” He hung his head, staring at the floor.

“I see. And what will you do now?” she asked, coming to him and crouching low to see his downturned face.
 

Tesla thought about that for a hard minute. “I will have a whiskey,” he said, holding up one finger. “But only one. As a tonic. And then I will continue my work. And I will succeed.”

Mrs. Harrison patted his knee, and he did not shy from her touch. “A simple plan,” she said. “But one I hope you see to fruition, Mr. Tesla.”

She stood and headed back to the door. “For my part, I can give you four more days to work your plan. But this Saturday at noon, I will either have my rent, or you must be gone from this room. I hope you understand.”

Tesla nodded. “I do. And thank you.”

“All right then.” She let herself out, closing the door softly behind her.

He sat, unmoving, for an hour. Then he stood and found his whiskey. He poured a small glass and crossed to the table that held the mechanical brain.
 

He sipped his whiskey slowly as he opened the box’s top and studied the insides. Two dozen mechanical relay switches were bolted to the box’s floor, connected to each other by a flurry of thin wires.
 

He traced a bundle of hairlike wires that led to the large glass lens, which stared outward like a baleful eye. Another single wire led out of the box to a teletype machine. The paper strip fed into it showed the message previously generated: “IVBSRTH.”

He frowned, set down his glass, and returned to his overcoat. The apple was still in the pocket, forgotten. He set the apple in front of the glass lens. Then he turned on the device’s power switch. A low hum filled the room, and the smell of ozone wafted up from the box. The relay switches came to life, many snapping from one position to the other. Then the teletype sprang to action, clacking out letters on the paper strip. When it stopped, he read the strip: “DSSCV”

Tesla turned the power back off and began pulling wires from the box. Looking around the room, he found a long coil of thinner wire, and began snipping off short lengths of it, then stripping the ends.
 

Two hours later he had a thick bundle of replacement wiring and an empty whiskey glass. He took a bite from the apple, then replaced it before the lens.

He slowly, carefully, replaced the wires that ran to and fro across the relay switches. Taking a screwdriver, he dialed a thick copper screw, and the heavy twin blades of the power amplifier shifted position, edging slightly closer to each other.

Satisfied, he flipped the switch back on, and the machine snapped awake again.
 

The relays worked, and the teletype banged out its message: “APPLE.”

THE ELSTREE AERODROME

ELSTREE, ENGLAND

The Elstree Aerodrome was a sprawling complex of huge grass airfields, hangars, and administrative buildings. Along with the Borehamwood facility, it was tasked with building the king’s zeppelin fleet, and work never stopped. Day and night, rotating shifts of engineers, fitters, carpenters, and electricians struggled to create the massive floating airships.
 

Within the zeppelin HMS
Artemis
, Albert Einstein lay on his back, peering up at the intricate workings of the bomb rack. His specifications had called for a design that would safely deliver nine of his new generation bombs across the ocean to America, then drop them precisely on command. What he saw above him was not satisfactory.

“Johan!” he yelled at the crew chief. “I scarcely know where to begin. The release catch is undersized. Each of my bombs weighs thirty-four-hundred pounds. I doubt this latch will hold them securely. The storage shelf isn’t welded to the main frame. Bolts are not sufficient. It needs a full weld. And here, the drop guide rails are not a uniform curve.” He banged a wrench against the rail for added emphasis. “You don’t want one of my presents getting jammed in the rail, I can assure you.” He slid out from under the machinery and stood, wiping grease from his hands with a rag.
 

With tired, heavy eyelids, Johan watched the scientist.
An intellectual with dirty hands
, he thought.
Like seeing a leprechaun riding a unicorn
. The thought made him chuckle, and he checked his clipboard to hide the reaction.

“Laugh now,” said Einstein. “But I’ve just returned from Borehamwood Aerodrome, and their zeppelin is weeks ahead of you. Proper welds and all.”

The crew chief yawned, not bothering to cover his gaping mouth. “We will be ready, Professor. Have no concerns of that.”

Einstein had many concerns, but saw no reason to berate the man further. “Very well. Why don’t you get an hour’s rest, then we shall regroup, yes?”

Johan nodded. “Thank you, Professor. I have a cot in the hangar, and I’ve seen precious little of it this week.”

Einstein clapped the man on the shoulder and saw the captain approaching them.
 
“Go then. One hour, no more.”

Johan nodded and made his exit as the captain joined them. “Captain,” Johan said, slipping past him in the narrow corridor.

Captain Stevens watched the man go. “He’s exhausted.”

“They all are. The king’s schedule has been… aggressive.”

“Aye, that’s one word for it,” he said.

Einstein waved toward the bomb rack. “There are numerous problems. Some can be easily fixed, but some not so. The drop guide rails must be removed and replaced.”

“Yes, I know. But otherwise, we are not so bad off. The hydrogen cells are filled, and holding.”

“And the Blaugas?”

“Also safely stored under pressure. No leaks.”

“That is good. That is very good.”

“Our flight test today should be smooth. We’re not ready for war, but it should be a lovely tour around the countryside. I expect we will have no water pressure, so no toilet service. But we will survive that, won’t we, Professor?”

Einstein grinned. “Yes, I believe we shall.”

***

Just as at Borehamwood, security at the Elstree facility was tight. Royal Marines patrolled the grounds regularly, all deliveries to the base were thoroughly searched, and every person through the gate was checked, both against a list of approved persons and to verify they carried a bronze security medallion. Specially made for the construction of the zeppelins, it was stamped with the royal seal and bore the name of the facility the worker was assigned to.

Crouched within the tree line, Lucas pondered their plan to slip inside. Lean and wiry, he had the look of a runner.

A scientist named Einstein was in there, and today was his last day on earth. Lucas didn’t know what the man had done to be marked for such a mission, but he didn’t need to know. Despite his misgivings about assassinations, he only had to see it done.

He, Morgan, and Eliza had waited hours for the right time to approach the gate. The agency had given them the proper uniforms. Maroon coveralls with a black stripe along the legs. A long night at the nearby tavern provided the names and medallions they’d need. The three workers they’d killed were scheduled for work today. Now it came time for the deed itself. They either made it onto the base now, or the three workers would be missed from their sign-in, and a search would turn up a disturbing tale of three disappearances.

He brought the spyglass to his eye and watched the main gate. He counted five Royal Marines, but there were bound to be more within the guardhouse. As workers approached the gate, they were stopped. The list was checked, as were the medallions, and they were allowed to pass through. The marines stood out easily, with their scarlet jackets and white chest bands. They looked tired, but they were professionals and carried out their duties crisply, without the casual indolence a repetitive job can create.

“They’re overworked, but paying attention,” he said, handing the glass to Morgan beside him. Morgan raised the glass with beefy arms and took his own look. “Yeah… looks that way.”

“What about guns?” asked Eliza, bending low and retying her boot lacings. Her years of gymnastics showed in her easy flexibility as she cinched them hard.

Morgan counted. “Handguns on all of them. Knives. Three have submachine guns. Look like Vickers.”

“They are,” confirmed Lucas. “Sustained rate of five hundred rounds a minute. And they never jam.”

“Sounds like a party,” quipped Eliza, tying her hair back.

Lucas grunted. “Truly. Well, let’s go show our invitations. Ready?”

Morgan closed the glass and stowed it in his pack. “Ready.”

Eliza touched her two blade handles with her fingertips, confirming they were in place. “I’m ready.”

Lucas stood. “All right. Let’s head out.”
 

The group threaded their way through the foliage back to the main road, around a bend from the gate. They waited for a group of four workers to pass by and gain some distance, then they stepped out of the tree line onto the road and followed the group toward the main gate.

The three adopted the relaxed demeanor expected of workers off to the job. Fragments of a loud conversation drifted back to them from the workers up ahead. A friendly, but heated, discussion about cricket. The merits of overarm bowling versus round-arm. The three listened carefully, memorizing the useful trivia.

A few minutes later, and they were at the gate, with more information about cricket than they ever desired. The workers ahead of them were checked and waved through. Lucas fixed a dour scowl on his face, and turned to Morgan as they approached the gate lieutenant. He affected an English accent. “All I mean is, first we get these damned flannel caps, now round-arm bowling? The MCC should stop mucking with things.”

Morgan opened his mouth, realized he had nothing to say, and closed it.

Lucas turned to the gate lieutenant. “Am I right? I think I’m right.”

“Name?” the lieutenant asked, ignoring the question.

“Ashdown. Walter Ashdown,” said Lucas, studying the clouds above.

Morgan and Eliza took note of the marines around them. Eight total, with three Vickers guns between them. The black barrels could spit enough lead to cut them in two where they stood.
 

The lieutenant found the name and checked the time of expected sign-in. It matched, so he marked the name off.
 

“Medallion?” he asked, extending a black-gloved hand.

“Ah, right.” Lucas dug in his pocket and handed it over.

The lieutenant verified the Elstree Aerodrome inscription, then flipped it back.

The process was repeated with Morgan and Eliza, and they were inside the base. The three walked on casually, but deliberately gained distance away from the gate.

“That was pleasantly non-painful,” Eliza said, wiping sweat from her forehead.

Morgan playfully shoved her, knocking her out of step. “I’m a fan of luck, myself.”

Lucas kept his head forward, but his eyes scanned the base. “We’re not done yet. Let’s keep the luck going, shall we?” He nodded toward a large hangar. “That’s it. The
Artemis
should be inside there.” He checked his watch. “Our spy said Einstein is scheduled to take it up for a test flight in three hours.”

“Then we’ll make sure he never comes back down,” said Eliza.

Lucas nodded and led the group toward the hangar.

CATALYST

SAVANNAH BROWNING