Einstein Must Die! (Fate of Nations Book 1) (34 page)

“I can see that,” said the colonel. “I’m envious, actually. In my profession, success is usually measured in destruction. It would be refreshing to succeed in creating.”

“Of course,” said Edison. “You know, following up on our previous conversation, we may be able to help each other.”

“Is that so?”

“You have retirement coming up later this year, correct?”

“I do.”

“I imagine after a life of service, the thought of retirement is a bit…unsettling?”

“What, you can’t see me playing golf all day and bridge on Wednesdays?”

“I suspect you need more challenge from life than that,” probed Edison.

“I suspect you’re right.”

Edison leaned in and laid out his idea. By the time the Colonel had finished his coffee, he was smiling and nodding along to Edison’s plans.

BAD GUYS CLOSE IN

THE SIEGE OF BOSTON

Tesla crossed the base, eager to thank Bertram, assuming he was awake. The lab director had drifted in and out of consciousness, and was never communicative for more than a few minutes at a time.

He had heard impertinent whispers about Bertram not making it, but he dismissed those as macabre gossip. People do love discussing other’s misfortunes.
Not one of our species’s better traits
, he thought.

As he entered the hospital and turned down the long hallway leading to Bertram’s room, his mood was light. The good news about the award would please Bertram, perhaps even contribute to his recovery. Tesla was eager to get his friend back on his feet. There were many ideas he’d had about ways to improve Beowulf, as well as several unrelated projects he wanted to propose.

He’d never been overly concerned about money, but his lean times at Mrs. Harrison’s house had taught him that when you run out of money, you run out of options. With a safe nest egg, he’d never let himself get back in that unenviable place. As long as you have choices, things can be worked out.

He bounded around the corner and strode into Bertram’s room. “Bertram! You’ll never guess—” he exclaimed.

Three nurses and the attending doctor were crowded around the bed, and they turned to look at him. Their long faces wiped the grin from his face.

“Oh no…Is he…all right?” Tesla asked, already knowing the answer.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Tesla,” Bertram’s doctor said. “We lost him. Just minutes ago.”

The words struck Tesla across the face as if he’d been slapped. His previous lightness evaporated. His hand went to his chest involuntarily, clutching at a tightness that suddenly gripped his heart.

“He can’t be dead,” said Tesla, looking down at the award letter still clutched in his hand. “I had news for him. Very good news.”

Two nurses filed out of the room silently, heads bowed. The third nurse straightened the sheet over Bertram’s body, then followed them out.

“I am so sorry,” said the doctor. “The infection in the lung was just too aggressive. With the lack of oxygen, his body had less ability to heal itself.”

Tesla stood still as a statue, now nervous to approach the bed.

“Was he in pain? Did he say anything?”

The doctor shook his head. “No…no pain. I prescribed morphine to keep him comfortable.”

“At least there was that,” said Tesla, taking a step toward the bed.

“He said nothing while I was here, but as I came in, Nurse Smithfield was leaning over him. If he had any last words, I suspect she heard them.”

Tesla nodded, his body feeling cold and sluggish. He stepped forward to the bed and looked down at his friend.

Like before, Bertram’s face was pale, but now any semblance of life had drained away. His eyes were mercifully closed, and his expression seemed one of surprise as if he’d just been told some unexpected news.

Tesla fidgeted, not knowing what to do, or what to say.

“I’ll give you some time alone with him,” said the doctor. He slipped out into the hallway as Tesla nodded numbly.

Looking down at the former lab director, he said, “Couldn’t have given me ten more minutes, hmm?” He held up the letter. “I think you would have enjoyed this, my friend. I won your award!”

The words felt hollow as he said them, and he no longer cared about the distinction or the money.

He shoved the award letter back in his jacket.

“Damn it all, Bertram,” he said, then turned and shuffled back outside.

He headed back to the lab and delivered the sad news. Everyone grieved in their own way.

Savannah turned and walked away, then sat on the floor, her back against the wall. She stared into space, preferring to be alone.

Sophia fell into George’s arms, crying into his shoulder. He stroked her back, pressing his face into her hair.

Madelaine searched her library for the three chess books, and devoured them in seconds. As her mind filled with gambits and strategies, she spoke aloud.
 

“Goodbye, Bertram”

***

Edison was sitting in the officer’s club, reviewing a report from his Menlo Park lab and sipping a cup of strong black coffee. His latest light bulb design was proving successful, with a 30 percent longer lifespan than the previous model. The lab had been staffing up recently and had added six new researchers.

He found a personal note written into the report then and blanched when he read that his assistant Dally had taken a turn for the worse. There were no details, but Edison made a decision then to get back to the city and see his old apprentice, while there was still time.

“Bad news, Mr. Edison?” said Colonel Oliver.

Startled, he looked up to see the base CO. His expression was not one of happiness.

He nodded. “My oldest apprentice. I fear he’s not doing well. Not at all.”

“Sorry to hear that. And I’m sorry to add to your troubles, Thomas. I just heard. Bertram passed away.”

Edison sighed. “Not a good day.”

“No,” agreed the colonel. “Are you still prepared to go through with this?”

Edison rubbed his forehead. “Prepared? Not especially. But I have no choice.”

“Understood. I’ll meet you in the radio room then? Ten minutes?”

Edison nodded. “That will be fine, thank you.”

“See you there,” he said and walked out.

***

BOSTON, MA, USA

“They are well dug in,” said the British captain, surveying the American forces encamped within the Boston Common.

Colonel Thomas nodded, sitting tall in the saddle of his horse. His men had moved into South Boston without resistance, and he now saw why. They had marched up Commonwealth Avenue easily, but as they neared the wide-open clearing of the Common, they saw the Americans had chosen to concentrate their strength there.

The colonel scanned the line of defensive encampments along the expanse of green field. The Common was about 1,200 feet wide here, and General Houston had laid out a steady line of riflemen the entire length, many hunkered down within hastily dug trenches. Behind them a cluster of cannons had been set up every two hundred feet down the line. And behind those were the support troops, efficiently arranged to resupply the forward line.

“Yes, they are,” the colonel agreed with a tone of annoyance. “This commander knows what he’s doing.” He nudged his horse forward, slowly taking in the field of battle.
We can take him, but it will cost us something
.

Barely a half mile behind the Common lay Boston Harbor and their true goal: the deepwater port. He knew large reinforcements were waiting offshore. Within an hour of taking the port, those men could begin off-loading into the city, strengthening his hold.
So close
.

He turned and pointed to his right. “What’s the situation to the east?”

“The Chinatown district,” replied the captain. “Also well manned, but the uniforms are not army. I believe they have armed the city’s police force.”

“Interesting.” His men would have the advantage against police, as they weren’t trained or accustomed to field warfare. And yet the streets to the east were more narrow, and filled with turns. His visibility would be sharply reduced, and maneuverability would be cut in half.

“Shall we push into the police force, sir?” the captain asked, reading his commander’s thoughts.

Thomas shook his head. “Tempting, but no. Once we got ensnarled in the tight streets, the enemy could flank us with these troops,” he said, waving toward the Common. “We’d be trapped in a pincer.”

The captain nodded. “Agreed. So make our assault here then.”

“We assault here. It will be bloody, but we have the space here to fight. Tell the company commanders. We attack in ten minutes.”

The captain saluted. “Yes, sir,” he said, wheeling his horse around. He raced away, spreading the word to the sub-commanders.

Thomas watched him go.
I’ve crossed the Rubicon now. Tonight I’ll either be celebrating or dead
. He breathed deep, forcing his tense muscles to relax. The butterflies in his stomach told him things were about to get intense, in the way that only battle against an enemy can be.

He knew the nerves were a perfectly normal response to the situation. Any soldier who denied fear on the eve of battle was a fool or a liar. Rather than feel shame, he’d learned to accept the failings of his human body and move past them toward victory.

He turned and looked back at his army. Four thousand British Redcoats made a formidable sight. A sea of red and white uniforms, well armed and teeming with sharp bayonets. Their appearance, combined with the famous discipline of the British troops, had struck fear into the armies of many countries, and ultimately added them to the growing British realm.
Today will be no different. The empire conquers, and grows stronger.

As he waited for the men to make final preparations, he thought of the needs of the flesh and reached into his saddlebag. He found a chunk of hard jerky and used his teeth to rip off a piece. Slowly chewing the tough, dried flesh, he made final decisions about the target of his attack.

Minutes later, when the captain rode back to him, the colonel had the battle plan settled in his mind.

“All ready for your lead, Colonel!”

“Excellent, Captain. Here’s what I want.” He pointed to an area ahead and to their left. “Cannon fire on that location, a dozen shots. Also, the same barrage over there,” he said, pointing to the right.

“They won’t know which side we’re softening up for the real attack,” said the captain.

“Exactly. After the cannon we will rush into the left encampment. I want four companies of infantry in there immediately.”

“Very good, sir. And the cavalry?”

He had two companies, or about four hundred mounted shock troops. They were fast, highly maneuverable, and powerful. No infantryman wanted to see mounted troops bearing down on him, and many a defensive line had crumbled at the intimidating sight.

“Once I see how the infantry perform, I’ll decide where the cavalry strikes.”

“Understood.”

***

“The British are massing, sir,” said Lieutenant Terry. “I think it’s time.” He stood in the entry of the general’s command tent, folding the canvas flap aside and peeking in. General Houston was sitting at his field table, writing.

General Houston looked up from the letter he’d just finished. It was an old habit, writing to his son before a battle. While his rank usually kept him away from the front lines, war was an unpredictable business, and death didn’t respect seniority. Putting his words down on paper for his son helped the general clear his mind and focus on the task at hand.

“Thank you, Lieutenant, I’ll be right there.” He folded the letter, slid it inside an envelope, and sealed it. Across the front, he wrote “For Matthew Houston” in a broad, flowing script. He propped the letter against the brass candle holder, satisfied it would be quickly found should he not return from the day’s events.

He stepped outside, joining the lieutenant. He’d had his tent placed at the far side of the Common. Two hundred feet away, he saw their defensive line. Beyond them the British were indeed assembling and organizing.
The lieutenant’s right. They’ll make their move here very soon
.

The general strode forward, confident in their preparations. The men were well prepared, and a solid sense of good morale was in the air. He extended his hand, and the lieutenant snapped a pair of binoculars into it.