The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (29 page)

Dr. Lowe took it as a challenge. He wanted me to accompany his
engineers. As always, his solution to the problem was a piece of equipment that
did not exist before he imagined it.

His craftsmen fitted me with a harness. My left leg was strong. That
was all I could offer: one good leg. It was enough for the Protocol's
engineers. The harness held my arm steady. A wire cage covered half my face and
supported my neck. A stiff brace locked my right leg in a bent position to keep
it out of the way. These pieces fused together and provided a frame for a thick
rubber pipe that snaked up the harness. Stubby ends poked out from the pipe
every few inches. Jets of pressurized steam shot from those stubs. The
contraption supported my weight and held me steady. I floated barely an inch
off the floor. By swiping with one leg, I was able to move with frictionless
ease.

The Protocol advanced. Its nine round modules encircled the PWB
dirigible, which shifted position in flight as though trying to find a way of
escaping. There was no one on board, and I left the switchbox with simple
instructions to hold its position, yet it was plainly trying to improvise a
path to get out.

Our boarding party swung into position aboard one of the Protocol's
rotating modules. No sooner did the momentum of the huge array bring us to a
stop then a cable pulley started building the tension required to swing the
module away again. Our window to disembark was narrow. I pushed with the ball
of my foot. The harness carried me off. For a heartbeat, I was suspended over
nothing, coasting between the Protocol and the dirigible. Before I knew enough
to be afraid, I was on board.

My switchbox was still attached to the control panel but it did not
look the way I remembered. Switches bore little resemblance to the neatly
packed bundle I carried with me after my arrest in New York. The switchbox had
morphed into something else. I was tempted to say that the device had evolved.

Overlapping layers of brass switches had come undone. They rolled out
and spread over the control panel like a blanket, connecting at multiple
junctures in completely new combinations. One of Dr. Lowe's engineers swiped a
hand across the surface. Switches rustled under her palm like feathers.

“What is this thing?”

“A counting device,” I answered.

“What is it counting?”

“Options for staying airborne at this location,” I said.

“That isn't counting, Mr. Pinkerton. That is called thinking.”

When I had connected the switchbox initially, I set rough coordinates
for Bull Run as a solution for the device to calculate. Whenever winds blew the
dirigible off course or a change in terrain forced it to change direction, the
switchbox adjusted. It was constantly searching for Bull Run as a kind of
mathematical solution.

In the weeks since, the device had refined its calculation. It added new
inputs, starting with navigation controls then moving to the propulsion engine
and steam chamber. The device took charge of every system on board. It unfolded
itself to reach each of those controls. How did it know to do that?

The engineer lifted a corner of switches away from the panel. The
dirigible bucked as the device recalculated then stabilized again.

“You're going to hurt it,” I said.

The engineer gave me a skeptical look. She laid the corner back down.
The sound of switches reconnecting was like coins jingling in a purse.

“Damage it,” I corrected myself.

Dr. Lowe's team tried to detach the switchbox but the sequence of
connections was too hard to understand. It was based on the device's own trial
and error. Some connections led nowhere. Others were so critical that cutting
them threatened to knock us out of the sky. I hovered behind, pleading with
them to be careful. In the end, engineers decided that the switchbox could not
be removed.

Calipers and pincers were put away. Crow bars and flame torches were
brought in. If they could not remove the switchbox from the control panel, they
could remove the control panel from the dirigible. Dr. Lowe asked me to return
to the Protocol in case the extraction failed. His team could not save me as
well as themselves.

I felt nervous, floating in my harness next to the professor, watching
a warehouse module swing down to envelope the PWB dirigible. I did not want to
lose that switchbox device again. Engineers struggled to keep the smaller
aircraft afloat long enough to complete the extraction. Cables strained and the
pulley system lifted the warehouse module away. As it rose, the PWB dirigible
fell out of control and crashed in the hills at Bull Run. Dr. Lowe and I waited
for a message from his team. I was delighted when the news came.

“The equipment is intact. We are transferring it to the laboratory.”

By the time I arrived, Dr. Lowe's people were already at work. There
was no telling whether the switchbox could be reassembled in its original form.
I doubted it. The shape did not matter. All I wanted was for the device to
retain its function. No, that was not the right word. Papa might use that sort
of word. Function was not the issue. I wanted the device to retain its
character.          

I spent hours in the lab. I wanted to help but mostly got in the way.
While I busied myself with scientists trying to make sense of the switchbox,
Dr. Lowe guided the Protocol away from Bull Run and toward the canal route.

As President Lincoln had requested, we were looking for signs of rebel
encampments, or sabotage, or anything to suggest that transporting slaves to
Washington along that route might pose a threat. Dr. Lowe predicted we would
find nothing. That is what we found.

When we reached the coast, the Protocol rose to a higher altitude and
we headed out to sea. The professor wanted to see the flotilla of slave ships
for himself. I was busy trying to help free the switchbox from the control
panel and so barely noticed when Dr. Lowe welcomed a visitor to the Protocol.
If my attention had not been distracted, everything might have turned out
differently.

Word was sent down to the workshop that Dr. Lowe and his guest wanted
to see me in the control module. It took me a while to make my way over to meet
them. As I waited for the array to align so I could move between modules, it
struck me as odd that the visitor had been able to board so quickly. How did
this person know where to find us? Was this not a secret mission on behalf of
the President?

These questions troubled me more as I got closer to the control module
and saw that a military airship was docked to the exterior housing behind the
Protocol array. Someone had come up from behind, docked and boarded without
alerting the crew inside. It was a Union vessel, equipped with a custom brace
to connect with the Protocol.

My sense of mild concern disappeared when I reached the control deck.
It was replaced by outright panic when I saw Major Robert Anderson standing
next to Dr. Lowe.

Injuries he suffered at Fort Sumter made it difficult for Anderson to
shift his head. Skin and muscles around his neck were fused into the same thick
callous that made his face an expressionless mask. He turned his whole body to
look at me.

Dr. Lowe recorded our exchange. Given what has happened since, we both
felt obliged to preserve it as an official record.

“I am pleased to meet you, Detective. In a sense, this is our second
meeting. If I understand correctly, you and I both attacked the rebels at Bull
Run at almost the same time.”

“Dr. Lowe, call security!”

“Robert, please. Major Anderson is my guest. The President granted him
command of the USS Cumberland after Fort Sumter was destroyed. He is testing
steam technologies that may end this war. His use of sound transmitters
underwater has proven very promising.”

“This is the most wanted criminal in America! He betrayed the Union and
stole the Cumberland before murdering every living soul at Chesapeake Bay.”

“Nonsense. Major Anderson, please explain to Robert that you did no
such thing.”

“The boy is right, Thaddeus. If your airship ever landed, you would
read as much in the newspapers.”

“This is an outrage, sir. What do you mean boarding my vessel under
these false pretenses? I demand that you disembark.”

“I will, Dr. Lowe. There is no need for hysterics. I have a message to
deliver. That is all. I would like Robert to pass it on to his father.”

“I am not one of your recruits, Anderson.”

“But you are a loyal northerner. You would rather see the United States
survive this war, would you not?”

“Do not play on my patriotism. You are a traitor!”

“That may be. But rebels who desert their posts trade everything they
know for a place in my ranks. I know what the southern radicals are up to. We
have to sink that flotilla of slave ships then move all our forces up to New
York.”

“Every slave in the flotilla would die. Why would we do that?”

“The rebels want Lincoln to bring those slaves north. They are counting
on it. The whole lot is infected with yellow fever. While Lincoln and his army
try to deal with an outbreak in Washington, New York will be attacked.”

Despite the obvious danger to himself and his crew posed by having
Major Anderson on board, Dr. Lowe spoke with complete authority. It made me
proud to hear his stout conviction in the face of the monstrous vigilante
standing in front of us.

“The Protocol will not be used in that way.”

“You do not have to do the killing, Doctor. You only need to stay out
of my way.”

“I will do neither.”

Dr. Lowe sent a series of emergency orders that brought his airship
down. We descended so fast that the ocean surface rushing toward us made me
feel nauseous. The flotilla of slave ships came into view on the choppy
Atlantic waters. It was surrounded by Union vessels commanded by newly
appointed General McClellan.

President Lincoln's plan to lead the boats inland and ship the slaves
by canal was progressing smoothly. From our height, we could see further out to
sea than McClellan. The Cumberland was rounding into position. Anderson's
renegade warship was taking aim. So was a short range bomber that launched from
Cumberland's port. Both were targeting the flotilla.

Anderson had hedged his bets. In the event Dr. Lowe refused to
cooperate, he planned to attack the flotilla from two directions at once. The
Protocol would be helpless to intervene.

There were two things Major Anderson did not anticipate. First, he did
not think Dr. Lowe's mind was nimble enough to improvise a geometric miracle.
Second, Anderson did not imagine we would sacrifice ourselves to save a few
boatloads of fever infected slaves.

Dr. Lowe positioned us inside the Cumberland's firing trajectory.
Always holding that critical angle, he and the Protocol navigators then shifted
the array so that modules swung under the bomber's drop zone as well. It was a
complicated dance. I watched in awe as they made minuscule adjustments based on
split second calculations. Hundreds of lives hung in the balance below. They
held the Protocol in the line of fire. Major Anderson seemed amused. He did not
act like his plan had been thwarted.

“Do you really think my troops will spare your ship? They are on orders
to blow you out of the sky.”

“I do not doubt it, Major. However, the real question is this: do you
think your army of deserters will sacrifice your life just to follow your
orders? They would not dare kill you. They have invested every hope in you.
Watch, gentlemen. We are going to learn something about the mentality of a
turncoat today.”

“Are you willing to risk your life on this theory?”

“Yes.”

I doubt my response would have rung as true. We waited. After a time,
soldiers on the Cumberland and pilots in the bomber accepted that they could
not outmaneuver us. They had to shoot us down. To follow Anderson's orders,
they would have to kill him. The recruits did what Dr. Lowe expected. Nothing
happened. It was a stalemate.

If Anderson was angry, his impairments prevented it from showing. He
stood by as the minutes passed and the flotilla ferried toward the canals for
the journey north. The final ships lined up in the canal bays. The Union navy
had its hands full.

At that point, with the entire Union force occupied, a pair of boats
from the slave flotilla broke away without warning. They moved fast, headed
north along the coast.

“There it is. Robert. Dr. Lowe. You have done your country a great
disservice today. Those boats are headed to New York City.”

We did not understand. Only Anderson saw the complete sweep of events
in real time. He disembarked. We were not equipped to seize or hold him. As we
watched his airship depart, I turned over what he said about an attack against
New York. It was likely to be true. The flotilla was a trap. I floated in my
harness, feeling pathetic and helpless.

“What should we do, Dr. Lowe?”

 “We had better retrieve your father and get to Manhattan, wouldn't you
say? On the way, I have a notion of how we might put that switchbox of yours to
use.”

*   *   *

Kate Warne, Detective
December, 1861

Nate Drysdale told me a worrisome story. The night he tried to kill me
at the bank, he followed me back to my Wilmington apartment and admitted to
murdering his best friend, George Gordon. He said it happened in a dream. That
is how it seemed to him. The murder took place while he was asleep.

My first impulse was to suspect him of lying. Good liars first convince
themselves that their tales are true. After that, convincing other people
becomes easy. Nate Drysdale did not give the impression of being a good liar.
For one thing, he was barely able to stay awake. For another, he was
distraught. Most liars get so caught up in their story that they forget to be
upset about its abhorrent details. Drysdale faced the ghastly truth of what he
did without trying to gloss it over.