Stalemate: Clockwerk Thriller Book One Read online

  Stalemate

  Clockwerk Thriller Book One

  Thomas Webb

  STALEMATE TEXT COPYRIGHT © 2018 THOMAS WEBB

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  ISBN: 9781947683051

  Cobble Publishing LLC

  Sugar Land, TX

  Contents

  1. Washington, District of Columbia, The Union Capitol, April 1863

  2. Skies above the Atlantic, Near the Coast of New Jersey, April, 1864

  3. 35 miles northeast of Greenville, North Carolina, April 1864

  4. Airship field at Mason’s Island, just outside Washington, D.C., April, 1864

  5. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, The Keystone Bridge Company, April 1864

  6. Richmond, Virginia, Confederate Capitol Building, May 1864

  7. Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, Skies Above the Coastal Forests, May 1864

  8. (Exact Location Redacted), North Carolina, May 1864

  9. Raleigh, North Carolina, Hillsboro Street, June 1864

  10. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the Mint, June 1864

  11. Greenville, North Carolina, Twelve Miles Outside of Town, July 1864

  12. Richmond, Virginia, The Ballard Hotel, July 1864

  13. Washington, D.C., the Capitol Building, July 1864

  14. City of Greenville North Carolina, Near the Tar River, July 1864

  15. Demilitarized Zone, Wastelands South of the Union Border, July 1864

  16. Outside Greenville North Carolina, Smythe’s Mansion at Rosetree, July 1864

  17. Outside Greenville North Carolina, Ballroom of Rosetree Manor, July 1864

  18. Outside Greenville North Carolina, Near Rosetree Estate, July 1864

  19. Outside Greenville North Carolina, Barn Firefight, July 1864

  20. Outside Greenville North Carolina, Barn Firefight, July 1864

  21. Wastelands of the Demilitarized Zone, Old Fairfax Waystation, July 1864

  22. Skies Above Virginia, Outskirts of the Wastelands of the Demilitarized Zone, July 1864

  23. The Demilitarized Zone, Skies Above the Wastelands, July 1864

  24. The Blasted Lands, Altitude: Three-Hundred Feet and Dropping, July 1864

  25. The Blasted Lands, Altitude: Too High to Execute the Buxton Maneuver, July 1864

  26. The Demilitarized Zone, Onboard the 3:00 AM to Washington, July 1864

  27. The Demilitarized Zone, Approaching Washington, D.C., July 1864

  28. Washington D.C., Rock Creek Park, October 1864

  29. Paris, Banks of the Seine, October 1864

  30. Roestree Estate, the Greenhouse, October 1864

  31. Outside Washington, Maryland Wilderness, October 1864

  32. Skies above the Atlantic, Near the Coast of New Jersey, November 1864

  33. Richmond, Virginia, Behind the Writer’s Desk, April 2018

  1 Washington, District of Columbia, The Union Capitol, April 1863

  The eyes of the Confederate clockwerks burned ice blue as they advanced toward the Northern defenses. The battlefield was ripe with the acrid stench of cannon smoke and gunpowder; it stung the eyes and seared the lungs.

  From the far edges of the field, the guns of the Confederate tanks beat out a staccato rhythm. The blasting cannon, the screams of wounded men, the lively music of a far-off fife and drum all combined to create a gory orchestra. Its song was the music of war, and the measured steps of the advancing mechanical soldiers kept the time.

  The men of the 10th Georgia regiment marched doggedly behind their metallic mates. The soldiers’ boots tore at the earth still moist from the spring rain. The rich scent of newly awakened soil rose up to greet them, a welcome change from the stink of machine oil and dying men.

  The rebel soldiers grinned in anticipation as they dreamt of the spoils of war. With surprise on their side, they held the advantage. Their attack, swift and violent, caught the Union soldiers flat-footed.

  What defense the bluecoats mounted did little to slow the Southern war machines. Confederate tanks plowed through hastily constructed earthworks, and clockwerk soldiers broke through the split-rail fence as if it were kindling. Even the massive Northern artillery pieces, mounted high on the surrounding hills and firing ‘round the clock, provided little relief to the defenders.

  Fear was the order of the day amongst the Union forces. It hung heavy in the air. Word of the Confederate advance became a contagion, moving through the ranks like wildfire. From commanding generals, resplendent in their finery, to the lowliest private, squatting in the muck of the trenches, none were immune.

  Johnny Reb had come to Washington with plans to ram his clockwerk soldiers straight down the Yankees’ throats. The Confederate Rhino tanks would route the Union forces on the flanks, thrashing and destroying everything in sight like the mythic one-horned beast they were named for. And if God saw fit to leave any Union soldiers alive, the 10th Georgia would come through and finish the job, slaughtering anyone who breathed. When they were done, the Confederates would push east, surrounding the White House and removing any chance of a Union victory.

  The Union army trenches cut square across the eastern end of the National Mall, less than a single mile from the Capitol. A few remaining troops made up the North’s last line of defense, comprising the final barrier between the Union seat of power and complete annihilation at the hands of the rebels.

  Within one such trench, Colonel Julius Montclair of the 21st Union Air Corps and a group of his best men crouched, making themselves as comfortable as they could in the ankle-deep muck. With backs hunched and heads bowed low, they could just as easily have been praying as avoiding enemy fire.

  “They’ll flank us for sure, Colonel, if this don’t work,” a soldier said.

  A mortar exploded just outside the trench, showering them with bits of earth and rock.

  “They will, Sergeant,” Montclair replied, spitting dirt from his mouth. “We don’t reach our objectives, it won’t much matter anyway.”

  Rough-hewn torches spaced evenly along the trench walls crackled and sputtered in an attempt to dispel the dark. The sharp stench of mud and sewage wafted through the Union trenches. The accommodations were far from first class, but they served their purpose of keeping bombs and bullets from bodies.

  Montclair bent over and spread his map onto a makeshift wooden table. The Colonel was tall in stature, broad-chested, and broad-shouldered. A native of the Louisiana territory, his dark eyes and ochre skin marked him as a Creole.

  The rumble of distant Confederate cannon shook the walls, covering everything in a fresh layer of dirt. Holding a torch above the crumpled and yellowing paper, Montclair brushed the surface of the map clean. He smoothed it out as best he could and gestured for the soldiers to gather in close.

  “We’ve been over this, gentlemen, but it bears repeating. I need men here, here, and here,” Montclair said, stabbing at the map for emphasis.

  The thunder of artillery faded into the background as the soldiers hung on his every word.

  “Those men will cover us as we make our way across the field. The Confederates landed their clockwerk troops here,” Montclair directed their attention to a point on the map a half mile from their position, “in the area just west of the construction of President Washington’s monument.”

  General Lee’s surprise attack earlier in the day had sent laborers fleeing, bringing work on the structure to an immediate halt.

  “Sandler and I will lead,” Montclair said. “We’ll take the objective furthest afield, Here, to the northwest,” he pointed to one of a series of ragged X’s drawn on the map, “toward the Washington canal.”

  “Better to die from Johnny Reb’s bullet than fall into that c
esspool,” someone said. “No telling what God-awful pox you might get from that foul water.”

  Montclair chuckled at the joke and leaned in for a closer look at to the map. “Sandler and I will have the most distance to cover, so don’t wait for us before you begin.”

  Montclair exuded an air of calm as he reviewed the map. He studied it with a ferocious intensity as if he could somehow pry the secrets to victory from the discolored scrap of paper.

  He was less than a year into his first full airship command, but Montclair had served onboard the Vindication his entire military career. At this very moment, he found himself sorely missing the feel of her decks beneath his feet. Her forward guns would have been more than welcome in the coming fight. But they’d chosen him, especially, to lead this last, desperate ground defense. Between the Confederate leviathan river-to-air and the rhino tanks, the rebs were blasting anything not flying those damnable stars and bars clean out of the night sky. What he wouldn’t give to be fighting this battle from the helm of his airship, his full crew at his side.

  The men and women of his crew knew Montclair. They had watched him grow from a green lieutenant all the way up through the ranks, earning their loyalty and respect as he progressed. Montclair had handpicked several of them for this evening’s mission. He’d need their hard-earned loyalty and trust if the Union were to survive the night.

  “The next two men, you two,” Montclair pointed at two ragtag soldiers whose unit had been wiped out earlier in the day, “you’ll follow right on our heels. Your objective lies in the area just past the Smithsonian.” Montclair placed a hand on each man’s shoulder. “Reaching it won’t bring back the men you lost today, but you’ll honor them with every rebel you kill.”

  Montclair repeated every man’s assignment from memory, looking them in the eye as he spoke. The group of soldiers was a mishmash made up of Montclair’s own men, the remaining troops from several other units who’d been decimated while defending the Capitol, and whomever else they could find along the way who was fit to carry a rifle. They weren’t the elite soldiers Montclair would have selected for such a mission, but they were the ones he had.

  Montclair pulled a battered pocket watch from his uniform jacket and held it up to the nearest torch. “Four minutes, gentlemen,” he said. He inserted a fresh magazine into his repeater and chambered a round.

  Sounds of gunfire and exploding artillery filled the night. A light rain began to fall. Montclair closed his eyes and lifted his face to a sky obscured by clouds and gun smoke. The feel of the rain was like a lover’s caress. It cooled his fevered skin, washing away a little of the dirt, soot, and blood of the day. Montclair breathed in one last moment of peace, savoring the scent of moist earth.

  “Will you speak before we go, sir?” a young private asked. He was one of Montclair’s, a soldier on board the Vindication. Only seventeen years old if Montclair remembered correctly. He hoped the boy would live through the night.

  “You all know me,” Montclair said, standing next to the boy. “I’m not one to speechify nor tell tales. What I say to you now is God’s honest truth. Our President governs a besieged city, and our nation stands divided. We are outnumbered. We are outmanned. We are outgunned. Our foe is powerful, and he moves against us decisively.”

  Montclair looked at the men, seeing the fear in the eyes of most. On the determined faces of his own crew, there was no fear.

  “We don’t have the numbers our enemy does,” Montclair continued, “but we do have one thing they don’t. While they fight only to conquer and vanquish, we fight to re-forge our broken nation. Our Capitol is a stone’s throw from where we now stand,” he said, pointing to the domed building behind them, “but the enemy will not take it. We will not allow them to.”

  One of the Montclair’s soldiers, a Freedman from South Carolina with skin the color of strong coffee, gave a shout of encouragement. Several others followed suit, and soon, all the men were cheering.

  “We have a plan,” Montclair said, favoring the Freedman from his crew with a nod of gratitude. “Each man here knows his part in it. And we will not fail. We cannot fail.”

  Montclair waited until the cheering died down.

  “I can’t promise that any of us will live to see the next sunrise,” he said. At this the men grew silent. “But if we do not, know that it has been my honor and privilege to serve with you. Know also that you will not be forgotten.”

  In a motion as natural to him as breathing, Montclair bowed his head and made the sign of the cross. When he looked up from blessing himself, there was a grin on his face. The time had come to do what he did best.

  Paying no heed to the bullets passing above, Montclair leapt up onto the table. His cavalry saber rasped from its sheath.

  “There stands our enemy,” he said, his eyes blazing. He pointed the tip of his blade toward the approaching mechanical army. “What say we go and meet them?”

  With cries of war, Montclair and his men clawed their way from the trenches and burst through the slim partitions of the earthworks. Rifles with fixed bayonets in hand and loaded pistols at their sides, twelve pairs of soldiers dashed onto the National Mall and ran right into the teeth of the enemy’s fire.

  Montclair glimpsed the men as they disappeared into the chaos and smoke. He had absolute confidence in his own troops but knew next to nothing about how the stragglers they’d picked up along the way would acquit themselves.

  Montclair had paired himself with Sergeant James Sandler of Easton, Pennsylvania. Sandler was the best of Montclair’s best, a crack shot, unbeatable with knife or saber, and tough as iron nails. Sandler was husband to a loving wife and father to three beautiful daughters. Montclair had promised them he would bring their father home, and it was a promise he aimed to keep.

  “Stay low and keep moving!” Montclair shouted as they ran.

  They moved in a crouch, dashing low and fast to avoid the hail of bullets. They cut across the battlefield at an angle, returning fire and trying to give as well as they got.

  The Confederate clockwerks marched toward them, relentless in their attack, the ground shaking with each step they took. Montclair gauged their distance at fifty yards. He could almost smell the sour stench of the 10th Regiment veterans, marching in lock step a fair distance behind the mechanical vanguard.

  “Iron bastards are tough,” Sandler panted as they ran. “Sure don’t shoot worth a shit, though.”

  “Our one saving grace,” Montclair replied between gasping breaths.

  The two Union soldiers slid to a halt, coming to rest behind the husk of a bombed-out artillery piece. Montclair rose to one knee and fired three quick shots into the chest of the nearest clockwerk. He watched with satisfaction as the mechanical soldier’s engine compartment exploded in a ball of blue fire, the reflection of the flames dancing on the polished surface of his bayonet.

  But there was no time to enjoy the small victory. Rounds were already beginning to strike the ground at their feet.

  “Yep. Can’t shoot for nothin’,” Sandler shouted. “Make up for it in volume, though.”

  Montclair nodded his agreement, his attention already turning toward a new threat. He’d detected the droning of aether-powered engines to the south. The sound was faint but growing louder with each passing second.

  “Confederate Rhinos are closing in, sir,” Sandler warned. He’d heard it too. Both men hunkered down lower. “Damn Confederate tanks are hammerin’ us near to death, Colonel. We’re runnin’ outta time.”

  As if to emphasize Sandler’s point, a Rhino shell hit near their position, peppering the twisted metal they’d sheltered behind with shrapnel.

  “Nearest fuse is dead ahead, sir,” Sandler said, pointing. “It’s a bit farther than I’m wanting to go without cover.”

  Montclair squinted, his eyes piercing the darkness and smoke. He focused on the dark patch of ground where Sandler pointed, but it was some time before he spied what the sergeant’s sharp eyes had already picked out. Thi
rty yards away lay the pitch-covered fuse.

  Thirty yards, is it? Montclair thought. May as well be thirty miles.

  Not that the distance mattered. The fuse would be lit, even if it meant walking through a storm of lead to see it done.

  “Cover or no cover,” Montclair said, “makes no difference either way.” He took a deep breath. “You ready?” he asked.

  Sandler nodded.

  At Montclair’s signal, they took off, both racing toward the fuse at a dead sprint. Montclair heard it before he saw it. The telltale shriek of incoming artillery was like the whistle of a lustful demon. He tried to warn Sandler.

  “Sergeant!” Montclair shouted. “Take cov—”

  Too late. The night exploded in a sea of bright orange. Breath rushed from Montclair’s lungs as the blast lifted him off his feet. Adrenaline surged through his body, his arms and legs flailing as he flew backward through the air. The choking stench of smoke and burned flesh seared his nostrils. Montclair slammed into the ground. Everything went black.

  Bits of dirt and debris rained down on Montclair’s face, bringing him back from unconsciousness. He opened his eyes. Groaning with effort, he willed his body up. Somehow, he’d kept hold of his rifle, which he now used as a crutch to get to his feet.

  Couldn’t have been out more than a few seconds.

  He’d woken to a high-pitched whining noise.

  Temporary deafness caused by the blast.

  He shook his head as if that might help speed the recovery of his hearing. His shoulders sagged with relief when he detected the sound of guns again.