Chapters 28, 29 and 30
I enjoy giving characters and locations a credible and amusing background, and here you get the story behind the Blakely River Battery, while Alicia Sonnet is closing in on Christine and her team.
Chapter 28
East Potomac River Park
Washington D.C.
Johnston
Lee Blakely had been possibly the unluckiest – or the dumbest - American sea
captain to ever command a ship…the jury was still out on that dubious
distinction.
The
Potomac River Battery that later bore his name proved to be no exception.
Captain
Blakely’s first commission was the 30-gun frigate Wasp, stationed at Staten Island. His warship’s first mission was
to escort the dreadnought Enterprise
to Bermuda for a goodwill tour in 1810.
Things
didn’t quite go as planned.
Naval
commanders already had a small inkling things weren’t quite right with Blakely
and his crew, but were short on ships and manpower. As it turned out, if
vessels were school-children, the Wasp
would have been the one kid that smelled his own fingers and ate a lot of paste.
The
trouble started before the two vessels even left for their voyage. An
inexperienced sailor failed to properly winch up the starboard anchor, and as
the Wasp backed away from the dock,
the anchor was dragged across the stern of the Enterprise, causing substantial damage. The carnage wasn’t over, as
the tangled ropes and lines snared the two vessels together, resulting in even
more destruction - as well as laughter from the dock.
And they
hadn’t even left port yet.
Halfway
to Bermuda, Captain Blakely ordered a drill to demonstrate effective cover-fire
the Wasp could provide for the Enterprise. Barrage balloons were
raised, and the drill went well, Wasp crew
members fired their cannons and the exercise ended successfully. The next drill
involved the two ships firing harmless grapeshot at one another, perfecting
their aiming techniques.
This was
a mistake.
Someone,
history has forgotten who, forgot to make sure that paste-eating kids on the Wasp had loaded the correct practice
shot. Blakely, unaware of the oversight, ordered his gun crews to fire, and
their aim was very accurate, indeed - as was the near fatal damage to the Enterprise by the paste-eaters. The USS Enterprise, with several holes at her
waterline, a bevy of smashed lifeboats and a missing crewmember, limped back to
New York for repairs.
Wasp sailed on for Bermuda. Upon arrival, the entire crew was
met by Marines, arrested and thrown in the brig. The president intervened;
however, Captain Blakely and the Wasp
were reassigned to Alaska – the dreary and cold Aleutian Islands.
During
their year-long stay, everything went well for Blakely and his crew, at least
until the War of 1812 broke out.
Upon
hearing of the new orders to return to Washington D.C., the entire crew of the Wasp celebrated by firing the warship’s
cannons. Unfortunately, being drunk or stupid - or a tragic combination of the
two - Wasp’s guns managed to
completely destroy the base commander’s home.
Along
with everyone in it.
Understandably,
the reception in Washington was rather cold, even though an investigation
revealed nothing substantial. Wasp
was ordered to sea, northward, to patrol against British ships making way for
Sacket’s Harbor – the heart of American ship construction.
Wasp, living up to her reputation as a troublemaker, mistook the
brig USS Oneida for the HMS Earl of Moira in a heavy fog, firing all
guns. Such a mistake was easy to make, as the Oneida was only twice as big as any British ship in the area, and
was flying a huge American flag.
The Oneida, whose crew probably never
understood why they were being attacked by one of their own, went down quickly
with all hands.
The Wasp was heavily damaged in the
one-sided battle, sinking off the coast with no loss of life. Captain Johnston
Blakely was quietly retired - with full military honors - and the whole mess
was swept under the rug in Washington and soon forgotten.
Until 51
years later.
In 1862,
Congress was searching for a sea veteran to name their brand new Potomac River
Battery after, and finally chose the unlikely Johnston Lee Blakely for their
namesake.
This
would prove to be a very bad choice.
The
Blakely River Battery was intended to protect Washington from naval attack, as
were many sea forts in the area. The Battery was a monstrous octagon of thick
walls armed with 32-pound cannon, built of the southern tip of what is now the
East Potomac Park.
The
Blakely’s coverage was two-fold, where the Anacostia and Potomac Rivers met. By
1865, several fatal accidents had earned the river battery an unsavory
reputation, and – following the Civil War - the 34-acre complex was converted
into an insane asylum by 1870.
The name
Blakely stayed with the former river battery, though, for better or for worse.
By 1894,
the Blakely Lunatic Asylum had become a huge, sprawling complex that housed
3,500 patients. On January 5th that year, the southern block - known
as X Ward 6 - suffered a boiler explosion, resulting in a blaze that spread
through the ward like a runaway train, fanned by a freezing breeze from the
Potomac.
The
flames soon engulfed X Ward 5, which melted the corrugated metal roof, causing
it to collapse. X Ward housed women at the time, and 566 female prisoners
burned to death before firefighters arrived, and took control of the situation.
The fire
hazards were far from over. In 1903, a fire broke out in a two-story wooden
outbuilding constructed on the side of the male common dormitory. Staff members
noticed the smoke and sounded the alarm, but the keys to the dormitory were
lost in the confusion. The flames consumed the building, with 41 male patients
trapped inside.
The fun
didn’t end there.
The
Blakely Lunatic Asylum was completely rebuilt by FDR’s ‘New Deal’ dollars
during the depression. The facility continued to operate and eventually housed
an average of 4,300 patients by 1935 - roughly 1,800 above capacity…and the
facility’s troubles weren’t over just
yet.
On April
21st, 1939 a fire began at the northwest corner of Z Ward, possibly
set by an inmate. The flames spread through the wooden rafters with remarkable
speed, alerting the guards and staff.
The asylum
warden – Thomas Preston - didn’t believe there was any danger, assuming
incorrectly the patients were staging an escape. By the time the fire
department and Coast Guard were notified, 129 male patients had burned alive in
their dormitory cells.
The Blakely
Lunatic Asylum finally closed its doors amidst public outcry.
And
reopened two years later.
Of
course, this was because of Pearl Harbor and the panic that ensued immediately
afterwards. And to be fair, the Second World War had the entire East Coast scared
out of their wits concerning German or Japanese sabotage.
The
Blakely Lunatic Asylum became the Blakely River Battery once again, although
the ancient cannons were replaced by modern antiaircraft guns. Seven huge
stilted 300-ton antiaircraft stations were built out of steel over the water,
connected to the River Battery by a series of narrow metal catwalks. The giant
gun platforms were manned 24-7 in case of an aerial attack against the American
government, and could put up a literal wall of scorching metal in the sky with
their weapons.
This was
deemed…not good enough.
In 1943,
two full years after Pearl Harbor, there were two types of politicians in
Washington…the type that got things done, and the type that talked about getting things done. The
first type – and FDR was a perfect example - could be considered policy-makers.
Unfortunately,
there was also the second type – such as Republican Senator Charles Rosewood,
who had a reputation for never accomplishing anything but a decent bowel
movement.
The
political talker-types usually had a hugely overvalued and exaggerated sense of
their own importance – like Rosewood. And it was Rosewood that publically
funded a heavily fortified flak tower constructed right at the Potomac’s edge,
becoming an integral part of the Blakely River Battery.
This was
no ordinary flak tower. It hovered menacingly over the entire complex, and was
built entirely of reinforced concrete. It was designed to be totally
autonomous, with its own electricity and water, housing several hundred
military personnel.
It was
also completely useless.
Flak
batteries were hidden by camouflage netting and other means for an important
reason. Enemy pilots had an aversion to being shot down, and would avoid
exposed ack-ack guns like the plague – much less a giant tower bristling with
weapons. Not that any German or Japanese planes ever flew over American soil,
it was the principal of the thing that counted.
Of
course, after the war certain politicians- again, like Rosewood - wanted the
flak tower taken down as soon as possible – and who could blame them? The tower
was a twenty-million-dollar reminder to taxpayers that their elected officials
sometimes made very poor decisions.
From 1947
to 1953, the Army Corps of Engineers tried to demolish the unsightly flak
tower, but after eight tries over six years, the high-explosives only managed
to break a few windows.
They
decided that it looked great right where it was.
The
Blakely River Battery flak tower was the first thing Christine saw from the
backseat of the Tahoe. Phillips was driving, with Pine Coffin Hardy sitting
next to him.
The SUV
was on its last legs as they rolled through the front gate of the facility.
Most of the asylum buildings were Victorian, overgrown with vines and falling
in on themselves. The driveway turned into a rutted track as they wound around
the property to the river’s edge.
Christine
stared up at the rusty antiaircraft emplacements jutting from the murky water,
and the huge assortment of half-sunk Navy vessels tied up on the cracked and
chipped quay. Flaky, creaking catwalks soared overhead, connected to bomb-proof
doors embedded into the side of the flak tower. The theme seemed to be rust and
neglect.
“What is
this place?”
“Your
safe house” Harry said. “We’ve been using the Blakely for a long time.”
“I feel
like I need a tetanus shot just being here.”
“Like in
all things, Christine, looks can sometimes be deceiving.”
Chapter 29
St. Christopher’s School
Embassy Row
Josh
Pembroke and Alicia Sonnet got out of the unmarked Crown Vic and looked around.
Several police cars had cordoned off the street near the German embassy.
A news
van had extended it antenna as a reporter stared at a camera and spoke in
hushed tones of the dire occurrence on the plush street. Onlookers speculated
to each other about the likelihood the incident was connected to the bus
bombings. Schoolchildren and bystanders were being interviewed as a tow truck
arrived for the crushed Saab.
“Call
Walker, Alicia.” Pembroke said. “Have him pull up all of the traffic cam
footage. Then go and see if St. Christopher’s had any cameras covering the
street.”
“You got
it.”
She almost regretted pulling the John Jacob
stunt on the blonde in the Tahoe, because the woman was obviously very
important to Pembroke. He’d been deeply subdued ever since the incident in the
Command Center. Sonnet pulled out her phone and started toward the private
school. Her path was soon blocked by an overweight irate man.
“I take
it you are an FBI agent?”
“Special
Agent Sonnet, sir, with Homeland Security.”
“Hmmph.”
The man said. “I certainly don’t feel very secure. You must start earning your
wages. He was one of our most trusted employees…and now this.”
Sonnet
stared at the well-dressed man, who was a good fifty pounds past his prime.
Good food and easy living - if these idiots only knew what awaited them on the
other side. She could read people fairly quickly, and the gentleman gave off
all of the signs of a pompous ass. Right down to the elbow-patches on his
corduroy jacket.
“Who are
you, sir?”
“Willard
Quincy…Principal Willard Quincy, of St. Christopher’s.”
“I see.
Who are you referring to, Mr. Quincy?”
“Why, Mr.
Hardy, of course.” Quincy replied. “He’s been here for years…but to bring that…element…near our children. The sheer
insanity of it all.”
“What -
element, exactly, sir?”
“The
cowboy showdown right here!” Quincy said loudly. “What element do you think I’m
talking about? A bunch of idiots on mangy horses were shooting guns right out there in the street! We
at St. Christopher’s pride ourselves on the safety of our school. The next
leaders of this nation attend this very establishment.”
Sonnet
smiled to herself. Willard Quincy was referring to the Irregulars, but he
didn’t know that. As for the future leaders of America, well, the country was
in deep crap. Sonnet only really cared if John Jacob had done his job, though,
not about a bunch of snot-nosed spoiled children. She was still unsure if
calling in the Irregulars had been effective.
“Can you
tell me what happened to the…cowboys, sir?”
“Well,
Mr. Hardy dispatched them. In a most gruesome fashion, I might add. I don’t
know where they came from, but Hardy and his friends….blew them up. I can’t
really describe it any other way. To think that Mr. Hardy would associate with
such riff-raff, well…it’s simply unthinkable.”
“Thank
you for your help, sir.”
Sonnet
walked away from Quincy and took a good look at the area. The only evidence
anything at all had happened was a crushed Saab and a downed power pole. She
supposed that was something. The Irregulars hadn’t lived up to their hype one bit,
but that was all right. At least a clear message had been sent to whoever these
bozos were. Her phone chirped.
“Hello?”
“Alicia,
it’s Frank. You really screwed the pooch this time.”
“Oh,
really? Why do you say that?”
Sonnet
walked across the street, away from the other investigators. They were
concentrating their search for clues near the fallen light pole and the scorch
marks on the pavement. She poked into the bushes at the edge of the sidewalk as
Frank Juno went on.
“Those
weren’t just ESG agents…you attacked Harry Moss and his second in command. Do
you have any idea how serious this is?”
Whoa,
Sonnet stopped short and thought fast. That was interesting. Harry Moss, one of
God’s closest friends. No wonder Juno was so agitated. It was generally a bad
idea to go after God’s favorites. A glint caught her eye. She held the phone
with her shoulder and snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
Sonnet
breathed evenly, reaching into the shrubbery. “Well, we’ll just have to be more
careful next time.”
“There
isn’t going to be a next time!” Juno was practically hyperventilating. “Don’t
you get it? The entire timetable has just changed because you stirred up a
hornet’s nest. Meet me tonight at our usual place. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”
Sonnet
put her phone away and gazed up at the blue sky for a moment, then picked up
the item in the bushes that had caught her attention.
A human
arm.
Nice.
A naval
gunnery ring, awarded to officers in British service perhaps 150 years ago, was
still on one of the fingers.
John
Jacob, maybe? Those Irregulars really were a bunch of losers. Sonnet sighed,
holding up the arm to the other agents.
“Can one
of you guys come over here and give me a hand?”
Chapter 30
Blakely River Battery
East Potomac River Park
A 25-foot
high bay door had been built into the side north side of the concrete flak
tower, just off of the rutted track. Phillips parked in front of the gaping
maw, then got out, opened the tailgate of the SUV and started handing out
weapons.
“You guys
will need these more than me. Take whatever you want.”
Harry
grabbed an armload of shotguns, while Pine Coffin took a bag of automatic
handguns and tactical gear. Christine peered into the Tahoe and retrieved what
was left, happy as a clam.
“Do you
know how to use an RPG?” Phillips asked.
Christine
giggled. “I don’t even know what RPG means. But it’s big and it probably blows
stuff up, right?”
“Err…right.”
“Good
enough for me.”
The
ground level roll-up door of was open, letting in fresh air and light. Christine
gazed upward as she entered the cavern-like building. Sunlight wasn’t helping
matters a bit. The interior of the flak tower was dark, water-stained and
dreary. Quentin Phillips waved as he puttered away in the damaged Tahoe.
“I think
Parker Noble has already arrived.” Pine Coffin said over shoulder. “Have you
met him?”
“Unfortunately.”
Christine answered. “I found him to be rude, dirty and a complete ass. I didn’t
like him one bit.”
“Sounds
like Parker.”
Christine
followed Harry and Pine Coffin up a metal spiral staircase to a large landing
constructed of rusty grating. Beyond that, though, a modern open apartment had
been built into the facility.
Dirty
skylights glowed overhead, making the space warm and inviting, although the
interior decorator had obviously been a man…probably Pine Coffin, by the look
of things. The walls were a lurid testament to Pine Coffin Hardy’s boxing
career in larger-than-life greatness.
Christine
gaped at the audaciousness. Every available space was covered with turn-of-the-century
photos that had been transformed into giant posters – all of Pine Coffin from
his fighting days. Each was a close-up of his winning smile, his sparkling
eyes…his sheer love of himself.
Christine
cradled her RPG, bile rising in her throat. “Bloody Nora…welcome to the museum
of testosterone.”
Pine
Coffin posed in front a particularly obnoxious five-foot picture of himself.
“Fantastic, isn’t it?”
“No, Pine
Coffin.” Christine said. “It’s like Mike Tyson and Sylvester Stallone had a
love child.”
“I’ll
take it.” Pine Coffin nodded happily, then ambled over to a small kitchen, and
started rummaging through the fridge.
Christine
noticed a familiar figure hunched over a large assortment of computer equipment
on a worktable, running cables under a partition. The man stood up, and
Christine, for the first time in decades, was rendered speechless - relatively
speaking.
“Parker?”
Dr.
Parker Noble smiled distantly, still bringing up displays and programs. She was
astounded by the change in his appearance - he was clean-shaven, and his hair
was trimmed short and neat. The straw cowboy hat was gone - as were the
ridiculous clothes.
Parker
Noble wore cargo pants and a khaki safari shirt with the sleeves rolled up,
revealing heavily-muscled forearms. Sweaty, edible forearms. She shuddered for
a moment. Christine was reminded of a young Brendan Fraser from The Mummy, except that Noble was much
better looking.
“Hey,
Pumpkin,” Parker said. “Heard you had a bitch of a day.”
“Uh-huh.”
Christine held up her prize from the Tahoe. “But look what I got now.”
Parker
snorted. “A rocket-propelled grenade? What are you going to do with that?”
“Whatever
the hell I want.”
Christine
watched as Pine Coffin settled in comfortably with a beverage and giant
sandwich. Harry looked around, finally focusing on the drink cup that Pine
Coffin was nursing.
“Hit me.”
Harry said to Pine Coffin. The huge black man handed over another 44-ounce foam
cup, which Harry took with a smile of thanks. “Give her one, too. It’s been a
rough day.”
Pine Coffin
passed a cup to Christine and she took a swallow, then gagged. “That’s 90
percent scotch!”
“Yep.”
Pine Coffin grumbled. “Cutty Sark and Coke…light on the Coke.”
Christine
drained the cup, then held it out. “Uno mas?”
Harry and
Pine Coffin laughed.
Christine
accepted her refill and sat down in an ancient office chair. She thought for a
moment, looking up at Harry. “That attack….just what was that? Those demon
cowboys knew where we were. How is that possible?”
“Think
about it, sweetheart.” Harry said. “Somebody was tracking us. Somebody with a
whole lot of influence.”
“I don’t
understand….who?”
Pine
Coffin cleared his throat. “Not a who….a what.”
“He’s
right, Christine.” Harry agreed. “We need to find out who exactly is
responsible – and powerful enough – for sending the Scinde Irregulars after us.
Whoever it is, that person has heavy influence in a high-profile government
agency.”
Christine’s
eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“Don’t
act so surprised, dear. This is serious business. James Hallstatt blew himself
up for a reason….and his daughter is next on their list.”
“You
mean…”
Harry
nodded. “Yeah. King Brian and his brother Ulf are behind the curtains here –
the only types of individuals that pack that kind of punch…Beyond-Salvage
demons. But we need to know who their representative here in Washington is.”
“I
thought Beyond-Salvage demons were stuck in the Oubliette.”
Harry
shook his head. “Not all the time. Souls always manage to fall through the
cracks, one way or another. It goes deeper than that, however, mainly because
there are two separate issues at play here. So we’re talking about a
Beyond-Salvage demon that is living here on
Earth…and has been for a very long time.”
“Why do
you say that?”
“Simple.
It’s a matter deduction. Only the federal government has the resources to track
people down using traffic cameras and hacked email accounts. So it stands to
reason the demon that we seemed to have irritated has infiltrated an agency
such as the FBI. Getting away with a stunt like that requires decades of patiently
building an identity.”
“Decades?”
Harry
nodded. “Absolutely. I’m willing to bet that we’re up against a demon that has
gotten very good at fitting into human society. Unfortunately, a computerized
record search won’t help us. More than likely this Beyond-Salvage demon stole
the identity they are using now long before accurate records were being kept.”
Christine
sagged. “What do we do then?”
“Well,
there is one important clue.” Harry said.
“And that
is?”
“You, of
course.”
“Me?”
Pine
Coffin nodded. “Yep. The Irregulars wanted
you, Christine.”
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