manner.
“Aye, sir,” Hughes responded with a salute then turned to the forward control wheel. “Signals! Single up all moorings.”
“Single up all moorings,” the signal officer called through one of the voice pipes.
“Stand by engines,” Hughes called out.
The young officer standing at the engine telegraphs reached up and in a series of swift strokes swung each of the six handles. The engine telegraphs each rang with a double series of bells. “Answering standing by!”
“Cast off,” Hughes called out, still facing forward. “Drop launch ballast.”
“All clear, Lieutenant,” the signal officer responded a moment later.
Braxton held on to the table, expecting the ship to rise suddenly, but the only sensation he had was watching the mooring tower slowly lower from view in front of him. He risked a glance outside the control compartment. Airships were also rising from their moorings eastward in the direction of Fifth Avenue.
“Five degrees rise,” Hughes continued. “Engines ahead slow.”
The engine telegraph chimed again. “Answering ahead slow!”
Braxton felt a slight rumble under the deck as the engines responded. New York began to drift beneath him.
“Maneuvering to cruising altitude,” Hughes called out. “Course due west.”
After a moment, Braxton could feel the upward pressure on his feet as the ship ascended.
“Now, Captain Wright,” Sherman said, weighing down the edges of his chart to keep it from rolling up. “Pinkerton says I’m to drop you off in Alabama, near Decatur. Care to tell me why?”
There was a hard edge in Sherman’s voice that Braxton had been far too occupied to notice till now. He looked at the Air Marshall and found him leaning over the table with his brows furrowed and his teeth clenched tightly on the stem of his pipe.
“Have I offended you in some way, sir?” he asked.
Sherman bit down so hard on his pipe stem that Braxton feared he was going to break it off. After a long, tense moment, Sherman seemed to visibly relax.
“Your boss, Mister Pinkerton, seems to think the army is at his personal beck and call,” Sherman said, the hardness in his voice honed to a razor’s edge. He gestured aft and Braxton looked out through the glass where the airships in the flotilla were beginning to fall in line behind the Jefferson .
“Do you think all these ships were floating around, just waiting to escort you into enemy territory?” he asked. “Do you think those ships out there and the men who crew them are ready to give up their lives just for you? For whatever fool task Pinkerton wants done?”
“Well, sir.” Braxton said, trying to formulate an answer. None of this was his idea, after all. If he’d had things his way, he’d be back at the foundry in Albany helping to churn out new tall guns.
“Well they’re not,” Sherman nearly shouted when Braxton didn’t answer. “Every ship and every man here was getting ready for a major offensive, something that could have broken the back of the Confederates in the west.” He hesitated and seemed to master his anger. “Instead,” he said in a much calmer voice, “we’re going to be risking our lives and our ships dropping a handful of men and explosives into Alabama.”
“This wasn’t my plan, sir,” Braxton said. “I only heard about this an hour ago.”
Sherman glowered at him, as if he could peer through Braxton and see the truth of his words in the depths of his soul. After a moment he leaned back over the map.
“Just show me where we’re going, Captain,” he said with obvious disdain.
Braxton decided not to push the issue. The trip to Alabama would take a few days and then he’d have more pressing problems to worry about. He leaned over the table and surveyed the map following the rail line Pinkerton had indicated, tracing it south to the bridge.
“Here.”
Sherman noted the latitude and longitude in a leather notebook he took from his pocket, then turned his intense gaze back
“Aye, sir,” Hughes responded with a salute then turned to the forward control wheel. “Signals! Single up all moorings.”
“Single up all moorings,” the signal officer called through one of the voice pipes.
“Stand by engines,” Hughes called out.
The young officer standing at the engine telegraphs reached up and in a series of swift strokes swung each of the six handles. The engine telegraphs each rang with a double series of bells. “Answering standing by!”
“Cast off,” Hughes called out, still facing forward. “Drop launch ballast.”
“All clear, Lieutenant,” the signal officer responded a moment later.
Braxton held on to the table, expecting the ship to rise suddenly, but the only sensation he had was watching the mooring tower slowly lower from view in front of him. He risked a glance outside the control compartment. Airships were also rising from their moorings eastward in the direction of Fifth Avenue.
“Five degrees rise,” Hughes continued. “Engines ahead slow.”
The engine telegraph chimed again. “Answering ahead slow!”
Braxton felt a slight rumble under the deck as the engines responded. New York began to drift beneath him.
“Maneuvering to cruising altitude,” Hughes called out. “Course due west.”
After a moment, Braxton could feel the upward pressure on his feet as the ship ascended.
“Now, Captain Wright,” Sherman said, weighing down the edges of his chart to keep it from rolling up. “Pinkerton says I’m to drop you off in Alabama, near Decatur. Care to tell me why?”
There was a hard edge in Sherman’s voice that Braxton had been far too occupied to notice till now. He looked at the Air Marshall and found him leaning over the table with his brows furrowed and his teeth clenched tightly on the stem of his pipe.
“Have I offended you in some way, sir?” he asked.
Sherman bit down so hard on his pipe stem that Braxton feared he was going to break it off. After a long, tense moment, Sherman seemed to visibly relax.
“Your boss, Mister Pinkerton, seems to think the army is at his personal beck and call,” Sherman said, the hardness in his voice honed to a razor’s edge. He gestured aft and Braxton looked out through the glass where the airships in the flotilla were beginning to fall in line behind the Jefferson .
“Do you think all these ships were floating around, just waiting to escort you into enemy territory?” he asked. “Do you think those ships out there and the men who crew them are ready to give up their lives just for you? For whatever fool task Pinkerton wants done?”
“Well, sir.” Braxton said, trying to formulate an answer. None of this was his idea, after all. If he’d had things his way, he’d be back at the foundry in Albany helping to churn out new tall guns.
“Well they’re not,” Sherman nearly shouted when Braxton didn’t answer. “Every ship and every man here was getting ready for a major offensive, something that could have broken the back of the Confederates in the west.” He hesitated and seemed to master his anger. “Instead,” he said in a much calmer voice, “we’re going to be risking our lives and our ships dropping a handful of men and explosives into Alabama.”
“This wasn’t my plan, sir,” Braxton said. “I only heard about this an hour ago.”
Sherman glowered at him, as if he could peer through Braxton and see the truth of his words in the depths of his soul. After a moment he leaned back over the map.
“Just show me where we’re going, Captain,” he said with obvious disdain.
Braxton decided not to push the issue. The trip to Alabama would take a few days and then he’d have more pressing problems to worry about. He leaned over the table and surveyed the map following the rail line Pinkerton had indicated, tracing it south to the bridge.
“Here.”
Sherman noted the latitude and longitude in a leather notebook he took from his pocket, then turned his intense gaze back
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