The Great Abraham Lincoln Pocket Watch Conspiracy Read online

  GENTLEMAN FROM BRUSSELS

  EXCELLENT. HOW MANY SURVIVORS? PHILADELPHIA?

  GENTLEMAN FROM PHILADELPHIA

  I RESPECTFULLY DEFER TO THE GENTLEMAN FROM PARIS.

  GENTLEMAN FROM BRUSSELS

  PARIS?

  GENTLEMAN FROM PARIS

  NONE, SIR.

  GENTLEMAN FROM BRUSSELS

  AND THE BODIES?

  GENTLEMAN FROM PARIS

  THEY HAVE ALL BEEN COLLECTED. THEY ARE PERFECTLY PRESERVED FOR RESEARCH.

  GENTLEMAN FROM BRUSSELS

  VERY GOOD. I MUST SAY I AM IMPRESSED WITH YOUR RESULTS, GENTLEMEN.

  GENTLEMAN FROM PHILADELPHIA

  THANK YOU, SIR.

  GENTLEMAN FROM NEW YORK

  THANK YOU.

  GENTLEMAN FROM BRUSSELS

  HOW LONG UNTIL WE CAN BEGIN EXTRACTION?

  GENTLEMAN FROM PHILADELPHIA

  IT HAS ALREADY BEGUN. TRAINS SHOULD START GOING OUT ABOUT ONE YEAR FROM NOW.

  GENTLEMAN FROM BRUSSELS

  PARIS? WILL THIS INTERFERE WITH YOUR OPERATIONS AT BELFAST?

  GENTLEMAN FROM PARIS

  NOT AT ALL. WE ARE CURRENTLY AHEAD OF SCHEDULE.

  GENTLEMAN FROM BRUSSELS

  VERY WELL. I WILL WORK WITH BOMA TO FACILITATE YOUR DELIVERY. WE WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU.

  GENTLEMAN FROM NEW YORK

  THANK YOU.

  GENTLEMAN FROM PARIS

  I BELIEVE THAT IS EVERYTHING IN TODAY’S AGENDA. ARE THERE ANY OBJECTIONS IF WE ADJOURN?

  GENTLEMAN FROM BRUSSELS

  NAY.

  GENTLEMAN FROM NEW YORK

  NAY.

  GENTLEMAN FROM PHILADELPHIA

  NAY.

  GENTLEMAN FROM BOMA

  .

  GENTLEMAN FROM PARIS

  VERY WELL. THAT WILL BE ALL, GENTLEMEN. YOU MAY TAKE FULL PRECAUTIONS.

  An earsplitting screech rang through the office.

  “What the devil was that?” Norton winced as he covered his ears. “Are we under attack?”

  “We’re not under attack, you fool!” Captain Butt shouted. “Everybody be calm!” The captain rushed to Miss Knox’s aid while the rest of the West Wing appeared to descend into chaos.

  “Sir!” shouted an operator once the screeching stopped. “The noise was coming from Dr. Tesla!” Right on cue, the Burry ticker started printing, but any attempt to read it aloud was lost amidst the uproar in the hallway.

  “Quiet, please!” Norton tried to holler over the crowd, but to no avail. “Everyone hush!” faired even worse due to “hush” being such an inherently quiet word.

  With no hope of Secretary Norton quieting the mob, Wilkie drew his pistol and pulled a Morgan silver dollar from his pocket. He flipped the coin in the air and shot it at point-blank range with a .38 Special, causing everyone except Miss Knox and Captain Butt to hit the floor. The coin caught the bullet and imbedded itself in the wireless room’s ceiling, narrowly saving everyone on the hydrogen-filled aircraft from a fiery death. With both the screeching and screaming muzzled, the crowd was controlled.

  “Miss Knox,” Wilkie asked as he tapped the ash from his cigar, “would you please read what the good doctor Tesla just sent us?”

  “Yes, Mr. Wilkie.” Miss Knox walked out of Butt’s embrace and read Nikola Tesla’s message aloud from the Burry:

  TESLA

  I APOLOGIZE FOR MY TEMPORARY LACK OF COMMUNICATION. THERE HAS JUST BEEN AN ATTEMPT ON MY LIFE.

  “His life?” Norton gasped while Wilkie reloaded his revolver.

  Miss Knox continued:

  TESLA

  YES, MY LIFE. DO NOT WORRY. I AM UNHARMED AND MY ATTACKER HAS BEEN NEUTRALIZED. I APOLOGIZE THERE WILL BE NO BODY FOR THE CITY’S CORONERS TO COLLECT, BUT PLEASE ASSURE UNITED STATES ATTORNEY GENERAL WICKERSHAM THAT MY ASSAILANT IS THOROUGHLY DECEASED.

  One of the telegraphs sparked eerily as Miss Knox read that last part.

  TESLA

  PLEASE KNOW THAT I TOOK THE LIBERTY TO WIRE SOME OF THE REPEATER STATIONS USED THROUGHOUT THIS COMMUNICATION. I REGRET TO SAY THAT ALL THEIR LINES ARE DEAD. I AM AFRAID YOU MIGHT HAVE A MASS MURDER ON YOUR HANDS, SPANNED ACROSS SEVERAL COUNTRIES.

  AND LASTLY, WHILE I IMAGINE THIS IS OF LITTLE IMPORT, IT MAY INTEREST YOU TO KNOW THAT THE KEYWORD TO THE CIPHER I DECRYPTED WAS “ALIENS.”

  Miss Knox looked up from the ribbon. “And that’s all he wrote,” she said.

  Without saying a word, Secretary Norton filled his arms with the heap of ticker tape on the floor and leaped out of the office, colliding with two stewards carrying a large wicker basket and some coffee in the hallway. Now covered in equal amounts of Bavarian cream, cigarette ash, Belgian chocolate, coffee, Limburger, and flowers, Norton threw his tape into the steward’s basket and rushed to the Oval Office. He kicked open the door to find President Taft at his desk with Robert Todd Lincoln standing in front of him, and with a gold pocket watch on the table. Robert coolly pocketed the timepiece just as Norton delivered the overflowing pile of paperwork to the president.

  “Mr. President!” Norton gasped as half the West Wing peered in from the hallway. “Aliens!”

  Taft took one look at the mound of paper on his desk and then turned back to Robert.

  “I don’t like the sound of that, Bob.”

  “Me neither,” said Robert.

  However, the assortment of cheese and sausages in the basket looked first-rate to the president.

  Chapter V

  “Hail to the Chief!”

  … our invincible commandant.

  Hail to the Chief! He hath bested one and all. [In combat!]

  Hail to the Chief twice as strong as Andrew Jackson.

  Here comes the President William Howard Taft!

  Airship One moored over Washington’s National Park to the surprise and delight of all in attendance. The Cleveland Naps were playing the Nationals, it was the bottom of the ninth, and Cy Young was just three outs away from making major-league history.7 It was a great day for baseball, but President Taft stole the show by eclipsing the sun with his spectacular zeppelin. The ivory airship was dressed vibrantly in fluttering banners and flags, and its windows rained a patriotic downpour of ticker tape in red, white, and blue. The president received wave after wave of applause as he strutted onto the ball field to the ruffle of drums and the flourish of trumpets. Never before had a president demonstrated such open love for the sport, and the response from the grandstand to the bleachers was euphoric. Taft had the vox populi in his back pocket and the best damned recording of “Hail to the Chief” blasting down from the airship’s loudspeakers.

  Like a Greek god, he looms o’er our mighty nation

  From Airship One, Earth’s most awesome machine! [An aircraft!]

  Down on our knees, we acclaim in adulation:

  “Hail to the Chief of Chiefs, President Taft!”

  “I love baseball,” Taft sighed as he waved to the fans. “Such a good, clean, straight game. Such a healthy amusement.”

  “That’s beautiful,” cooed Wilkie. “I’m sure it’ll go great with our pictures in tomorrow’s newspapers.” The president’s staff was mortified by the spectacle Taft was forcing them into.

  “Who wrote those lyrics?” asked Captain Butt as he looked up at the airship.

  “Do you like them?” Taft grinned. “I had Nora Bayes write and record everything with the Marine band. With some creative input from yours truly, of course.” Taft ran his thumbs down his jacket’s lapels as if they were the enormous suspenders holding up his trousers.

  “Will, why is Nora Bayes recording songs for the U.S. government?” asked Attorney General Wickersham.

  “It’s funny you of all people should ask!” Taft laughed. “I got the idea from a letter a constituent in New York sent me.”

  “The kid with the ice cream?”

  “No, this one was a teenager. Same sack of mail, though. He said he and his brothers are coconuts about baseball and could not be happier with my support of the sport! A
s a sign of thanks, they suggested I dress up ‘Hail to the Chief’ the next time I attended a game. I thought it was a fantastic idea. Nora and I even used some of their lyrics!”

  “Great. I’m sure they’re laughing it up in a pool room right now,” growled the Secret Service director.

  “What was the boy’s name?” asked Wickersham.

  Taft had to think for a minute. “Groucho. Strange name for a youth. I think he comes from a family of Italian Jews.”

  “It’s nice to know you have that voting bloc locked up,” Wilkie scoffed as he lit a cigar.

  “John, you should be enjoying this more than anyone!” Taft chided. “Teddy never took you out to the ball game, did he?”

  “Colonel Roosevelt preferred football,” Wilkie grumbled as the president shook hands with the athletes.

  None of this political banter reached Norton. The overworked secretary groaned loudly as the president exchanged handshakes with Deacon McGuire and Loafer McAleer. Norton had no idea how he was going to keep such a huge appearance a secret, never mind the even worse disaster unfolding at the executive mansion. “Mr. President, may we please leave? We are urgently needed at the White House!”

  “Go home? We just got here!—Oh, thank you!” The president caught a five-cent bag of peanuts lobbed at him from the stands. “Hey, can someone throw me a hot dog and a pop!”

  “Will…” the attorney general urged.

  “Oh, and an ice cream?”

  “Norton’s right,” said Wickersham. “We need to leave. That military hardware in the air is supposed to be a national secret.”

  “Relax! Just say it’s a hot-air balloon, or a weather experiment.”

  “Yeah, some sort of gasbag,” Wilkie ragged.

  “Mr. Wilkie, don’t be cruel,” Taft tut-tutted as he daintily flicked an empty peanut shell at the Secret Service chief’s face.

  “Mr. President, I agree with the attorney general. Expedience is advisable,” advised Butt. “Also, please remember our conversation from earlier. It’s Tuesday. Haven’t we caused enough damage already?”

  “All right, all right. This one’s for you, Archie.” Taft handed Norton his bag of peanuts and made a beeline to home plate, where a podium with fan flags had been hastily assembled. On his way, Taft shook hands and chatted with his home state’s star player, Cy Young. “I hope I am not a hoodoo!” Taft joked as he lightheartedly punched the pitcher in his right shoulder. As the president took the podium, several teammates rushed to Cy’s aid. The man was holding his right arm and doubled over in pain.

  “Hello!” Taft greeted his overjoyed audience. Everyone in the stadium was cheering, eager to hear what their president had to say after such an extravagant entrance. “I must be going.”

  And on that note, Taft left.

  Unprepared for the president’s abrupt departure, the airship crew cranked a hurried “Hail to the Chief” on the Victrola as Taft punched Cy Young one last time on the shoulder. Taft’s secretaries then whisked the president out of the park, leaving the stadium speechless and wondering what on Earth had just happened during the last several minutes.

  “Good speech,” said Robert, who had watched the spectacle unfold from the side lot. “My father always liked keeping things short.”

  “I’m flattered by the comparison, Mr. Lincoln. Too bad you couldn’t join us.”

  Robert shook his head. “It’s for your own safety, Mr. President. There is a certain fatality about presidential functions I attend.”

  “Too true, too true.” Taft turned to Butt. “Is the car ready?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Very good. Let’s skiddoo.”

  Outside National Park, White House chauffeur George Robinson leaned in full uniform against the president’s forty-horsepower 1909 White Model M steam touring car. The emerald green, three-thousand-dollar auto sported brass fixtures, an open top, and a carmine leather interior as lush as any Airship One sofa. Its tall, barrel-chested custodian, while not the friendliest person in Washington, enjoyed the reputation of a daredevil behind the wheel.8 He was the best driver in the War Department and a modern-day poet in the timeless art of profanity. With his hat tipped and arms folded, he looked like he had been waiting all day for someone to snap a picture of him in front of the fine vehicle.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. President.” Robinson saluted. “Welcome back.”

  “Hello, George. I’m afraid I have some bad news: You’re fired.”

  The chauffeur took his termination without protest. “If you wanted to drive, Mr. President, all you had to do was ask nicely.”

  “Sorry, George. We don’t have the time to play countess. I’m about to break every speed limit in this city, and I don’t think your chauffeur’s license can handle that kind of abuse.”

  “If you insist, Mr. President.” Robinson kicked himself up from the car’s running board and stepped aside. “Since we’re being curt, Mr. President, you should know that your double is on a goddamn rampage through the mansion.”

  “How bad is it?” Robert asked as the chauffeur helped shove the enormous president into the driver’s seat.

  “Let me put it this way, Mr. Lincoln: I’m glad I got all the cars into the garage.”

  “And the horses?” asked Butt.

  “I’m a chauffeur, not a squire, Captain.” Robinson opened the side doors for Wilkie, Wickersham, and three Secret Service agents as he spoke. “Last I saw, the palfreys looked pretty spooked.” Robinson turned to Taft. “I hope you’re ready for war, Mr. President.”

  “Don’t worry,” Taft boasted. “I’m confident I can handle myself in a fight.”

  “I was referring to Madam President, Mr. President.” Robinson slammed the car door, having wiped the wide smile from the president’s face.

  “Woah! Where do you think you’re going?” Taft hollered as Norton approached the car.

  The secretary froze. “Mr. President, I thought I was coming?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. Mr. Lincoln’s riding shotgun. You’re flying home on the hydrogen helicopter. Same as you, Mr. Robinson, I’m sorry to say.”

  “No need to apologize, sir. You’re the one I feel sorry for.” The chauffeur stood at full attention. “Mr. President.” Taft smirked as his chauffeur and Norton walked back to the airship.

  “Archie.” Taft addressed Captain Butt. “I want you to have the airship refueled and ready to depart by nightfall. You’re taking Mr. Lincoln to Alaska on a scientific excursion. Pick up John Hays Hammond and meet us at the White House. Come in through the roof if you need to.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “And Archie”—Taft moved in close—“I want you to know it’s not your fault that we floated in late. Just because you know both sides of the shield doesn’t mean I get to use you as one.”

  The captain bowed his head. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “See you soon, Archie.” Taft smiled. The captain marched back to his airship as the president blasted some steam from the auto. Its busy engine was hissing like a train at a station.

  “That propels it,” Robert pointed out.

  “I know that!” Taft touted. “And this controls it!” The president sat proudly behind the steering wheel until he felt something sticking into his backside. He felt around with his hand and pulled up a pair of driving goggles. “Do you want these?” he offered.

  “No thank you,” said Robert. “I think my spectacles will suffice.”

  “Well, if you insist…” Taft put on the goggles and grinned brightly. “Hold on to your hats, gentlemen! It’s a bumpy road to the White House!”

  Taft stomped on the pedal and sent the car speeding, its driver’s-side wheel gasping for air the whole ride.

  Chapter VI

  “So, What Do We Know About Aliens?”

  The president shouted over the White Model M’s screaming steam engine. The car was racing southwest down Vermont Avenue well over the speed limit for Washington, DC.

  “Will, t
here’s no need to shout!” Robert shouted over the whinnies of panicking horses. “Besides, are you sure you want to talk about this in the auto?”

  “RELAX! I RIDE THIS THING ALL THE TIME! NO ONE IN THE BACK CAN HEAR US!”

  In the backseat, the attorney general gave Wilkie a confused look. “I can hear everything,” said Wickersham. The Secret Service chief responded by brushing his forefinger against his nose. Secret Service Agents Sloan, Jervis, and Wheeler nodded in agreement. Wilkie lit himself a new cigar as the eavesdropping began.

  “LET’S START WITH THE OBVIOUS CANDIDATES, BOB. MARTIANS! DO THEY EXIST?”

  Robert looked over his right shoulder, and then asked: “Do you mean empirically or hypothetically?”

  “JUST TELL ME IF THERE ARE ANY LITTLE GREEN MEN IN ALASKA!”

  The five men in the back shared uneasy glances with one another. Even Wilkie was caught by surprise. His cigar fell out of his mouth and onto his lap.

  “I thought they were talking about foreigners,” Wickersham whispered.

  “So did I!” said Wilkie. He hurriedly brushed cigar ash from his crotch as the conversation in the front seats continued.

  “Green-skinned Martians come from a story called ‘The Green Boy from Hurrah.’ It’s children’s literature,” explained Robert. “There’s nothing scientific about it.”

  Taft laughed heartily. “I THOUGHT YOU READ THOSE TYPES OF BOOKS ALL THE TIME!”

  Robert watched the street with concern as pedestrians leaped away from the auto. “Some books make for better research than others. Jonathan Swift correctly predicted Mars had two moons in Gulliver’s Travels.”

  “REALLY?”

  “Yes. Phobos and Deimos. ‘Fear’ and ‘Terror.’”

  Lovely names, thought the president.

  “Mr. President, the road!” the attorney general shouted.

  “WOAH!” Taft stomped on his horn and swerved past an empty public school wagon. “HEY, LOBCOCK! SCHOOL’S OUT!” shouted the twenty-seventh president of the United States to a bewildered public school wagon driver.