LUSITANIA

BOOK I IN THE GREAT WAR SERIES

Caleb Wilkie

It is 1935. Much time has passed since Europe last shuffled its borders. It is a legacy of the region to do so periodically. Each time there are always the signs: rising tension, secret alliances, conspiracies, and economic woes. Once more, these have been on the rise. Germany is led by Emperor Wilhelm III, son of Wilhelm II. The Austro-Hungarian Empire is ruled by the aged Franz Ferdinand. These are the two great powers of Europe. The third is Great Britain, coruled by Prime Minister Churchill and Queen Elizabeth. Across the ocean is the rising star: America, land of opportunity. President Franklin Roosevelt, ailing from polio, grooms his vice president Maurice Monroe to take over after his death. Strange occurrences have been mounting among the rising tension. Unexplained deaths are rampant, and the scared whispers of the people begin to doubt their leaders. As Mankind continues to march onwards, certain figures cannot deny the signs of the time. War is coming. This war though promises to be different, to be something titanic and powerful. But the world, it seems, ignores the evidence. The people do not see the looming storm on the horizon. Not yet.

Chapter I

A Day of Infamy
It was November 23, 1935, when the bombs first fell on London. A student at Cambridge University, I felt the impacts of those shells. Of course, I did not feel them physically, but the mass panic caused by their arrival surged like a tsunami of terror across her Majesty's kingdom. Classes were canceled for the day after my professor announced what had happened. The rest of the day was spent by all Britons huddled in the living room, listening to the voices waft over the radio. BBC announcers were as implacable as they had been yesterday delivering the

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weatheras always, they neglected to provide an adequate forecast: a heavy downpour of explosives and mass hysteria. The queen had, unsurprisingly, been swiftly extricated from London and placed in the secret bunker beneath Westminster. Even then I questioned why such a facility had been built, before any violence or rebellion had begun. But all these doubts were swept aside by the naked atrocity committed on the innocent people of London. Three days later, another voice rumbled into English living rooms. This one was no BBC newsman. His name was Walter Haywood. A man no one knew on Earth and never cared to understand until his clear, emotionless voice said, I dropped those bombs. In London, Prime Minister Churchill summoned the army to protect further attacks. An intelligent man even then, he called on troops to begin deploying across Great Britain, searching for Mr. Haywood and his revolutionaries (for he promised on the radio that he was not alone). Like a bees' nest trampled by a horse, the British country soon heard the sound of gunfire. Cambridge flowed as it always had however. I attended my classes everyday, trying not to dwell on the radio, awaiting my hand and eager ear, sitting in my flat. In fact, Cambridge resisted all forms of alteration; despite the quick devolution of Great Britain to Great Anarchy, it remained itself. Only after seeing a progression of soldiers pass beneath my window did I truly believe in the revolution. I watched the British Army troops march past the glass. They usually wore long coats and leather boots and gloves. As a ten foot tall war machine, creaking and groaning slowly, waltzed past my window, I pulled the curtain and ignored the sounds of their coming. That evening (two days after London's tragedy), Lydia came banging on my door. I opened it. Her eyes were red from old tears, but she looked as ravishing to me as ever before. I was rather pleased when she settled into my arms. Her breath was taken between sobs. Consoling her, I took her to my couch and quickly cut the radio off. She clutched me tightly. Like every person on the Island of the Mighty, Lydia was afraid. She said she wanted to return home to her parents' house in Wales. I told her the troops were in Wales too. At this, she gave a small cry. For a moment, I consider her physically. She was a goddess, and every look at her made me yearn to surround her. But I knew Lydia would not allow me today, so I contented myself in consoling her. The temptation was manifold when she insisted on staying the night in my flat. Cursing her chastity and my weakness, I allowed it. When Luther returned from rugby (apparently sports are the only immortal part of our culture no matter the disaster), he was fortunately too exhausted to protest her presence. Instead, he and I closed the door to the living room and listened to his radio long into the night. Walter Haywood's second declaration came later that night: his objective. I will not stop until there is a complete and utter dissolution of the throne! Britain must turn away from its royalty and at last be ruled by the Proletariat. The People alone will arise! Luther shook his head, Another Red to add to the Scare. Although I agreed with him, I understood that Haywood was not simply another Communist

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warrior. Something was different about him and this new revolution he had begun. Luther drew from his pipe before grumbling some question about the next target in the Red's attack. We found the answer the next day once more floating on the air waves. Four Dublin train stations were filled to the brim with some powerful flame weapon. The newsman said that it had been in experimental development by the military. How the rebels acquired something like that was anyones guess. Blood hell! Luther cursed as I trudged in the next morning. We had remained awake far too long last night. As always, my flat-mate was about early and energetically before me. Two plates of eggin-a-basket sat on the table. As I made some tea and scooped the eggs to my tongue, Luther dictated from the newspaper in his hands: At 3:00 AM this morning, Dublin became the latest victim in an attack by the Red Hoods, the recently established communist, revolution army. What kind of a name is that? I asked. Robin Hood... Ah, I see. Basterds. The bold headline read, Reds' Inferno Engulfs Ireland. As always and ever, the press dramatized the horrendous act for a few more quid. Luther continued with the violent details before looking up at last at me, Why ever did you come here? It was a legitimate question. I only had lived in Cambridge for the past two years. Born in the United States, I had lived as an orphan after my parents died. My mother died giving birth to me, and my father soon after from polio. Little regret dwelt in my heart. How could there be? I never knew them. When I was five, a wealthy man named Henry Ravenwood adopted me. I suppose it might have been from some bizarre rich mans guilt that caused him to accept me. It was not love that brought me into his ostentatious world. He was an excellent man, but he hefted little genuine affection for me that I could tell. Ravenwood sent me to the finest academies in New England. I followed him to his monolithic workplace in New York City. We watched the Empire State Building's miraculous steel structure form by American sweat. He never brought me to church or to the many academies the churchmen operated. They had declined swiftly in my lifetime. In Europe, especially Germany, scientists were religious men, holding to that archaic methodology, but the US was becoming more a place of reason rather than faith. When I was twenty-one, I flew to Cambridge in particular style. Mr. Ravenwood gave me the most esteemed room on one of his airships. With bombs dropping across England, I suddenly wish I was back on that dirigible, looking safely down from heaven. Education was paltry for me. Most Cambridge scholars slaved the hours away, shackled to their textbooks, bemoaning their servitude to Almighty Academia. I, however, barely touched my texts. My technique was to spend all night at the local bars, swooning the nave girls and drinking toasts to good ole US of A and, subsequently, receiving the highest score on the exam the next day. Even my professors saluted my uncanny talent, while obviously bemoaning my behavior.

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Every generation had some people like me, but what was even more surprising and what raised my eyebrow was that Luther as well possessed intellect beyond the scope of our fellow students. And the similarity had no foundation in a mutual upbringing. My friend was born in Unzhurst, Germany and raised in Baden-Baden. I had never met his parents, but in their tyranny, they hired private tutors to school him. He could speak English like a Brit alright, and knew science like Darwin himself. They loved him, and he loved them. Although their relationship seemed grand, I did not desire the same upbringing Luther had. He shook his head as I shrugged a response. A large, athletic, young man, Luther Cadox could drink like a German and fight like an Irishman. On the rugby field, he was the star beyond any competitor. Outwardly, he fit his part; bushy eyebrows met at a wide nose which sat on a stubbly, broad mug of a chin. His eyes spoke, however, of a kindness only a friend would know. Luther was a pious man, attending every Sunday a local Scottish Presbyterian church. I knew him as a gentle soul who enjoyed venting his frustrations on the athletic field and not on his friends. Luther closed the paper and returned the glass bottle of milk to the cooler. Such a luxury was the product of my sponsor; Mr. Ravenwood paid for the expensive flat in which we lived. It was the second floor of an elderly Jewish couple's Cambridge home. That day, we acquired the usually treatment from our landlords. They gave us several scones and, if I had not already reeked of tea, would have forced a delicious, steaming cup down our throats. We left the house late as usual. Luther jumped into his Volkswagen a moment before I did. The Beatle took us across Cambridge, past King's College. I had never really enjoyed the British winters. Wet, cold, and often groaning under snow, the season made all seek shelter quickly. I may have disliked it, but New England had been similar. As we drove through the slushy streets, I admitted that the omnipresent layer of snow made Cambridge rather handsome. Luther nodded his head. We continued on our journey towards the town when we encountered a stalwart line of police constables. Both military and law enforcement were prevalent now, but this was clearly different. After crossing a cobblestone bridge, a large truck sat next to the road. Barbed wire fencing was stretched by steel posts across the street. Several constables stood on either side. They looked little like any officer I had seen in my time in England. All but one wore gear more suiting to a soldier than a constable. In the place of truncheons, swords or sabres hung on their leather belts. Beneath their shirts were old breastplates, the metal gleaming at their neck. Most carried standard sidearms, but three shouldered long carbines with shining bayonets at their noses. It all seemed out of place with their standard custodian helmets; some even wore the new visors the military was issued. As we approached, their sergeant came forward. He wore a traditional uniform: a long, twelvebuttoned trench coat, and, like his men, a bobby helmet. Luther lowered the window, his wrist, arm, and shoulder making a rhythmic circle as they rotated the handle. Striding forward in a prominent, arrogant fashion, the sergeant thrust his head in front of my companion. I could not keep my eyes from the man's aggravatingly bushy, grey mustache. Despite this large, handlebar of a thing, I was able to notice that he was in his mid-forties perhaps and didn't appear

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too interested in working hard today. This was confirmed by his breath which stank of the tea he was drinking. Good morning, chaps! I'm afraid school's out today. May I ask why, sir? I'm sorry about that. Can't say. I could tell Luther wanted to say more. But I beat him to it. Please, why are you armed like that? The sergeant stared at me with a frown, Best not keep asking questions, lad. These have suddenly become dangerous times. I shared a look with Luther before picking up an innocent, frightened, confused air. My voice became slightly (believably) scared and my eyes shifted with apprehension. All of this was a clever ruse. Will Cambridge be attacked? Sir, I need you not to get jumpy. But they wouldn't come here, would they? Not Cambridge University! The sergeant was already perturbed at my American accent. Luther was a skilled linguist, and he kept his roots wisely obscured with a voice heralding from the moors as pure as the Queen's panties. I, on the other hand, kept my flabbergasted, Yankee self prominent in my accentso prominent it brushed the bristling sergeant's mustache. They would never do that! Now keep your mouth shut, laddie, and stay calm. He withdrew his head for a moment to look back towards the university. Where this exchange was occurring, the streets were beginning to grow close with the ancient houses that created much of Cambridge's atmosphere. The constables were only slightly on alert, trying to show an attitude of confidence in the eyesight of citizens. A moment later, the sergeant's head descended again. I couldn't see what he had been watching, but for the first time this morning a peculiar feeling came over me. I realized that, deep within me, these police officers were causing worry to creep slowly into my spine. Alright, you Yank, have your friend back this thing up and return home. This is not the day for tomfoolery. Luther and I were content at this point that, whatever the occasion, the sergeant was obviously not being dramatic. The constables were anxious. My friend nodded his head and wished our pleasant informant a good day. Walking away, his sabre bouncing with his step, the sergeant returned to his men. Set in reverse, the Volkswagen bounced over the rough cobblestones. I chuckled, A lot that did Everything went dark. My ears were numb. Sound was muffled, distant, gone. I shook my head, and noticed that the car was still moving, but now I was tossed in my seat belt as the Beatle careened backwards over the bridge. Another shake of my head, and I saw that the police officers were covered in a cloud of dirt and grime. The nearest house was obliterated; flames and blackened wood were its only remnants. And then the sound of a cracking explosion registered in my ear drums, and the shockwave

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washed over my body. I felt something wet on my face. My hand came away dripping with blood. Then I noticed that my window was shattered. Next to me, I heard a loud clamor like a symphony miserably out of tune. I turned and saw it was coming from Luther. His face was distorted into a crazed look. He alternated from looking to me and looking at the road behind the car. I muttered something which I could not hear. Just as we bounced over the last of the bridge, I spotted the bloody bodies of the police officers. And then suddenly Luther gunned the Volkswagen forward and away. The wind lapped at my face. Jacob! Come on! He slapped me. Everything was clear. All too clear. The explosion destroyed the house, the force and shrapnel killing the policemen almost instantaneouslymaybe they weren't dead yet. Luther, we have to go back! They might be alive! As the car raced through the streets, I saw people peering from windows and suddenly dart inside again. I realized why a second later. I could hear gunfire nearby. They're dead! And we will be too if we don't get out of here! I was thrown onto the broken window as Luther spun the car around the next corner. My common sense returned enough at that point to instruct me to check my wounds. My head was tender, but it was a cut from the glass, nothing fatal. Still, the blood disturbed me, and it was with shaking hands that I found a towel to press on my forehead. As I did so, the pain began its assault. I gasped and applied more pressure in some primitive attempt to staunch the flow of agony. Several moments later, however, I was used to the pain. Are you alright? Yeah! I yelled, What happened? I don't know! A cannon maybe? Dynamite? I shook my heada mistake. A headache quickly began to develop on my head, and I did my best to stabilize myself as Luther sent the Beatle sailing down the streets of Cambridge. Where are you bloody going, mate? Home. We need to get out of here! The military will be here soon and they're going to get the job done alright. We'll head towards Oxford, and try to get on an airship out of here. Wait, wait, wait...you mean out of England? Luther took a deep breath, We have to. The car screeched into the driveway. It seemed Luther teleported to the door he was out so quickly. Wounded as I was, I collapsed out of the car. In the momentary solitude and silence, the images of the eviscerated constables came to my eye. The blood covered them head to toe, and I imagined them wailing in pain even now. With this in my head coupled with Luther's extravagant driving, I retched, breakfast plummeting to the driveway. It didnt look nearly as appetizing half digested.

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Immediately, I felt better. Ignoring my vomit, I stumbled into the house. The owners gaped at my wound. Sit down! Let me see it. Mrs. Finch, please... She suffered none of my protestations. A moment later I was sitting at the kitchen table, blood soaking onto the tablecloth. She wrapped a bandage on my head, and I welcomed its embrace. Luther descended the stairs with three suitcases and my satchel. Clothes were peeking out of each of the stuffed bags. He took them to the car and came running back. It was then that I noticed he nursed his own wound on his shoulder. We need to clean ourselves up. They won't let us board like this. I nodded slowly. Disappearing upstairs, he went to wash the blood off and change into something presentable. My wound feeling better by the second, I went to the washroom and soaked my head. The water stung horribly, and I felt tears in my eyes by the time I finished. Applying a fresh bandage, I found my appearance to be haggard, broken, and twisted with a scowl. What a marvel, considering ten minutes before I had been smiling and eating my egg-in-a-basket and draining a glass of milk. The bandage was impossible to hide... Smiling weakly, I ran upstairs, ignoring my sore limbs. I dressed and found a hat that had always been slightly big for me. It fit perfectly now. At Luthers behest, we dressed in suits. He insisted that the more presentable we appeared, the more likely the policemen at the airfield would receive our passports. I marveled at his ingenuity. That morning we had sat eating breakfast and grunted about the news. In a jiffy, he had become a veritable captain, taking command and maintaining order. We met in the downstairs kitchen. He wore a grey suit, while I was pinstriped. I procured the necessary money from the safe in my room. At last, my senses had returned. Alright, Luther, where are we going? Germany, to my parents. I snorted, Oh, I always wanted to meet them. Even his face smiled a little. He packed a few remaining items in a bag: soap, a razora book? You planning on having some extra time, mate? He shook his head, You never know. My father told me ever since I was a boy: Son, always bring a book. Here A book was tossed my direction, you should enjoy this. The HobbitJ.R.R. Tolkien? What the hell kind of name is that? Read it and find out. Walking quickly to the car, he stuffed this last item in the trunk. We bade farewell to our hosts who had never ceased their well-wishing. Luther warned them that they needed to leave, but we both knew they were committed to Cambridge. Therefore, we were off a minute later. All the way to Oxford, I couldnt take my eye away from my cracked window. It looked rather like a spiders web. Hard tendrils jutted towards the window edges from its center. Between these were faults where the glass was cracked.

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Anyone who saw us on the road was not convinced by our fancy suits; the broken car saw to that. But as long as we reached the airfield, we could pass as businessmenalbeit young businessmenwho were already on their way when the attack came. My head hurt. Before, the cut had throbbed like when I hit my funny bone except on my head and painful. Each moment it stung now; nothing I couldnt ignore properly. When we stopped at a diner, I surreptitiously went to the bathroom to wash my wound and bind it once again. The place was recently built. New wood paneling lined the walls, and the bathroom faucet was as clean as a Rockefeller house. I wiped my hands on a fresh, soft towel. Just as we were leaving, the owner turned on the radio. The place became a spell-bounded crowd as each customer stared at it on the counter. Luther and I hurried our step to his car. I think we dodged a bullet there. He speared me a quick, calculating glare, Were running out of time He checked his watch, well need to dodge London by a long shot which shouldnt be a problem. The military locked that down a while ago, and it sure wont be better now. Lets get moving. After you. As soon as we were settled in our seats, Luther gunned the Volkswagen onto the road again. Without a word, I snatched a map from the backseat. It took me little time to organize a route through the British country. The summer before, Luther and I spent three weeks exploring England, Wales, and Scotland. We purposefully avoided the major roads, enjoying the sunny panoramas for days on end. That knowledge suddenly had new use today. All of the views lacked luster to me. They hadnt last year, but, after the attacks, the scenery seemed like a ruse. Sweeping green hills should have been bathed in blood. Cottages and homes should have been smoldering, black heaps. The sapphire skies should have roared with airships and the thunder of cannons. Many of the people persisted in their silly lives, despite returning to the radio every evening. They delved into their dinner for solace while simultaneously encouraging their panic with the evening news. I turned my eye from the window. Tilting my hat to shield away the sun, I closed my eyes to sleep away the terrible day. The dead constables returned. Bloody faces stared with closed lids. Each body was locked in that final, limp position, never to move again. Oddly enough, after the initial shock, I felt little remorse. It was this that now plagued me most. I saw the violence, the desolation, but my horrible detachment was the worse crime. And as I began to recall the images and sensations from my memory, I remained frigidly unmoved. Hows the head? Your timing, Luther, is beyond prediction. He was my friend, and I knew him enough to imagine what would happen next: a chuckle and a lame joke. But I took off the hat and saw only Luther, not a single sign of levity on his face, staring at the road. I shook my head and said, Its nothing really. Good.

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Maybe I couldnt always predict him so well. The sun was approaching its peak, and we continued on our way. I knew we were approaching Oxford. The roads were becoming better developed. We saw fewer wagons and more cars. In the distance, the towns were larger and modern. Not a single one was without troops or police of some kind. For the most part, the soldiers let us passwe didnt even show our papers. I suppose the Red Hoods did not tend to travel in Volkswagens. More than a few looks were given to my cracked window, but Luther quieted these suspicions with a new story at every stop. It was another talent of his: deception. Although he found lying distasteful, my friend could spin a fine tale calmly at any moment when the need arose. He never ceased to marvel me. Your papers please, ordered one of the soldiers as the car pulled alongside his guard post. We retrieved our pamphlets and gave him a minute to scan both quickly. His eyes darted across the text. I could not blame the man for lacking interest. I suppose he found his position dull, often looking towards the south, hoping for action. That window thereyou been into trouble? No, sir, Luther replied, neither quickly as with a prepared story nor slowly as if he was hastily concocting an excuse, except if you call those fine lads at home trouble. They fancy throwing rocks at passersby, and we happen to be coming along at the wrong time. Oh yeahwhere are you from, Mr. Cadox? Luther smiled, Germany, sir. In another time, a foreigner might cause alarm, but the British were only suspicious of their own people now. Because the Red Hoods called for the overthrow of the royal family, the common hypothesis was that they were in the United Kingdom. The soldier did not seem to mind Luthers explanation. His vigilance slacked, and he asked us if we had heard of the attack in Cambridge. We heard of it. Thats why were heading away, if you understand me. The soldier grinned, I cant say I blame you. I would if I could as well. I pitied the man. He obviously wanted some company, but we were in a hurry. Excusing us, Luther rolled up the window, and we were off once more. Oxford awaited us down the road. By the time we passed into the town, the winter sun was fading early. Luther groaned something about time running short, but I had confidence no blockade had been made on Oxfords airfield. There were airships outside of Cambridge well enough; however, we were positive that no flights would be allowed today. The military would close the whole town, not allowing any chance for the rebels to escape. We once more showed our papers at the airfield entrance. A moment later and we were allowed to passan excellent sign that we could make a successful escape. Luther parked the car in an available spot. We did not stay to give the keys away to the chauffeur. As we grabbed our bags, Luther said, I hate to leave the car, but its not worth waiting to arrange its transport. What will your parents say? For the first time that day, my friend broke his fast on humor and laughed, Gott im Himmel! You

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left the car? Oh, and its very nice to meet you, Jacob. Oh, and you brought our son! The airfield was new and well-maintained. Although it was nothing like the massive sprawls of the Germans Lufthanze, the complex was impressive. A main building salvaged from some old Oxford structure served as a welcoming image for travelers. Its stone patio led to the foyer where we found many other people ready to escape the country. Despite our haste, we could not beat every intelligent Britton. These had read the portents as well and decided it was time to depart. I saw families huddled together; the man of the house would be returning with tickets while the rest warmed themselves with scarves and mittens. I blew on my hands as we stepped inside. As the evening was progressing, the temperature plummeted as usual. I prayed that the dirigibles did not want to do the same. Luther and went to the counter. The signs overhead stated that the last departure of the day would be at 5:15 which was still several hours away. A large airship called the Armada would be our salvation from crumbling England. I wanted to shout a thank you for the luck. I had placed little hope in our chances of escaping, but we were all but secure now. As I was the one with the resources, I purchased the tickets with a check. Oxford to Munich. Our arrival would not be until the afternoon tomorrow. We had only one stop in Amsterdam to waylay us. Airship travel had never been more popular. Although it seemed expensive at first glance, I knew from experience that a train and boat ticket together would trump that. For the most part, dirigibles were innocuous and comfortable. Sure, airplanes were available, but their price made them only good for long distances, and no one seriously believed they were safe. Plus, a balloon was more spacious than any other form of transportation. I always looked forward to a trip on a zeppelin. To pass the time, we both sent telegrams. I wrote one to Henry, informing him that I had left Cambridge and was going to stay with Luthers family to wait for Englands return to stability. My companion sent a message to his mother and father to prepare them for our arrival. By the time that task was finished, we were both feeling a bit tired from fear and vigilance. Luther refused to close his eyes. I, on the other hand, took a quick nap to pass the time. When I awoke, my companion was reading his book. On the cover, underneath the title read An Unexpected Journey. Our departure was imminent. We joined the line of people and exited the building. A biting wind blew through our coats. I held onto my hat and grimaced in the cold. The flat field was lit by lampposts along our route towards the rumbling Armada. Out here, various structures had recently been erected: a barracks for local military, an armory, as well as a retrofitted hangar for the RAF fighters and zeppelins. Only a few soldiers watched us as we walked towards the ramp. The Armadas exterior was lit by three large spot lights which marked out the sweeping red cross of the United Kingdom painted there. Beneath the steel balloon was the gondola. This was two hundred feet long and full of windows for the passengers entertainment. The lights were on and welcoming inside. Nearby, several members of the crew were taking the luggage and hoisting them into the rear of the ship. We thankfully relinquished our heavy bags, and my temper was growing lighter by the second. The landing pad was ten feet off the ground with docking clamps locked onto the Armadas

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gondola. Four thick steel cables stretched taught on either side of the balloon. Each reached up to the top and was affixed to hooks on the airfield. I spotted several crewmen quickly working up and down the ladders that hung on the ships exterior. They made one last sweep, making sure the Armada was prepared for flight. At the rear of the vessel, the engine room hummed and the propellers were spinning slowly. None of the process had lost its magic in my eyes. A staircase was folded out from the door of the ship, and we quickly entered. At the door, a welldressed host with a bowtie welcomed us with a smile and took our coats. Meanwhile, another informed us that dinner was to be served as soon as we were airborne. Luther and I took a table at the diner. My friend stood for a second, glancing around the room warily before, with a heavy, yet satisfied sigh, he collapsed on his seat and closed his eyes.

Chapter II

En Route
I took one look at the menu and ordered coffee immediately. The British and their tea had not nearly conquered a Yankee like me yet. I did enjoy a splendid, hot cup of coffee when I could get one. I told the waiter not to disturb Luther who breathed heavily across the table. The caf was near the front of the ship. A door in the direction I faced led to kitchen and, further along, the bridge. Behind me, the exit faced the cabins and the Armadas rear. Furnished like a fine restaurant, the cafs tables were crowned in white linen, polished silverware, and vases of flowers. Across the starboard wall, a lacquered bar sat with a full array of alcohol behind it. Across from this were lines of tables, including ours which sat next to a window. It was quaint. I liked it. One reason I despised airplanes were the droning, belligerent engines that sounded like a snoring giant. There was no escaping the noiseand the shuddering. Feeling secure on a flight in a plane was essentially impossible. I looked out into the night, glimpsing clouds in the soft light the zeppelin emitted. The airship flew gently. It was large enough for each group of travelers to have their own private cabin. A perfect blend of locomotive and plane, the dirigible was the only method I endorsed. With a sip of my coffee, I could find no reason to change my mind. For myself, I ordered filet mignon. Seeing that Luther still slept, I acquired the same for him. While I waited, I read the newspaper. No headline spoke of Cambridges demise, but I overheard the passengers speaking in polite voices nearby. Most conversation lingered on the attacks. How could they not? From what I learned, many homes and buildings were bombed such as the one I saw that morning. What was different today than the work done in London and Dublin was that the rebels showed themselves openly, engaging in shootouts across the university campus and in the town. Such escalation puzzled me, and I promised myself I would find out more tomorrow.

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After I finished my coffee I moved on to better things. I lifted the sweating glass of dark beer to my lips, milking a satisfying draught from it. Another glass was set in front of Luther. As I suspected, an eye opened suddenly. Is that beer I smell, Jacob? Why dont you wake up and see. I responded, smiling but not withdrawing my gaze from the newspaper. The German woke up quickly when he saw the brown brew on the table. He reached an eager hand to the glass. You know, mate, I began, the Germans invented beerof coursebut the Irish perfected it. Luther paused, the cup inches from his lips. His glare could have burned through steel. Scheie. I laughed, allowing my anxiety to finally escape. Setting the paper on the table next to Luther, I rested my back against the wall. I got you meatsince you can survive no meal without it. For once you have discovered something true, he said, reading the headlines. For the most part, we didnt talk. Neither of us cared to discuss the turmoil on the ground, but at the same time, the calamity kept us from discovering any other viable conversation. I watched our fellow passengers lazily. Several appeared to be wealthy businessmen who were traveling for legitimate reasons. The others were poorer; I suspect that they had spent their pennies to purchase a flight. I did not fault them for their hysteria. We ate after a short wait. Luther put the newspaper down and shook his head, So, assuming that my parents received the telegram, we should be met on our arrival. If not, then well take the train or rent a car. I shrugged, Sounds like perfection itself. Hows the head? Childs play. He pursed his lips, Have you been listening? Yes, I said, leaning forward and lowering my voice, those fellas over there said that the bombings were followed by attacks by the rebels themselves. So soon? Luthers brow furrowed. I cut another bite from my filet and ate. My companion continued: A move like that suggests they are a lot more organized than Parliament would have us suggest. Okayso we know they have manpower, right? Yes. And we heard gunfire this morning? No doubt about it. He paused and looked at me with an intense expression on his face, That would mean they have weapons enough to fight the British army. Which means theyre well-supplied, I finished and then said, But how? Is there anyone who would benefit from a rebellion in England? This was our usual procedure to digest news and events. The fact that we were processing a

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violent terrorist attack that had claimed numerous lives near our home failed to change our habits. Luther and I were intelligent men and were as good as Detective Sherlock Holmes when it came to deduction. I wouldnt think so. Maybe the Ivans? I shook my head, The Russians might, but theres no way theyve gotten a stomach like that all of a sudden. The French? Luther snorted, Not even on Judgement Day. The Italians? No. The Americans? The Yanks certainly would have the resources, but why would they finance a revolution? And a communist one at that? It doesnt make sense. With a cruel smile, I fired back, You would be surprised. Being with Ravenwood, Ive seen the government changing. The Federal Reserve Bank regulates commercethats a few cents shy of a capitalist dollar if you ask me. Luther pondered this and conceded a moment later with a nod. Then who? Who the hell knows. A waiter walked to our table then and asked, his voice humble yet melodious, Can I provide dessert, gentlemen? I smiled, Most certainly, Ill have the raspberry crepe please. And you, sir? The same please. Luther replied. As we sat in silence, a record began to play a soft, old melody. The passionate voice of a woman wafted into our ears. We waited for dessert once more in silence. One thing for sure, my friend said suddenly, Ill be glad to be in Germany again and away from this madness. Luther, how long do you think it will be, honestly, until we come back? He shook his head, Not any time soon. Im afraid its only downhill from here. We know good ole Winston will bring in more troops. And I dont blame him, but I doubt theyll do much good. If those Red Hoods are getting supplies from somewhere (which they are), then itll take an act of God to get them out. On that, my friend, we can agree. We were brought our crepes. As I was putting the first bite in my mouth, I raised my hand towards Luther. Lets not dwell any more on this. Fine with you? Luther shook his head and presented me with a rueful smile as he said, I couldnt agree more. So, tell me about Munich. Ive only visited. My family moved there after I came to Cambridge. Well, you grew up in Baden-Baden. Tell me about that then. When I said this, I saw a peculiar change come over Luther. He smiled immediately, his face

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losing the vigilance it so often wore. In that moment, I observed my friend as he really was: a man in search of peace, a man who valued virtue and family, a man who wished for simplicity and serenity. In our virtues, my companion and I were no longer similar, but I could not fault Luther for his pursuit of happiness. His eyes glazed over as he described the German country. Much of what he said I already knew from previous conversation, but I listened, enjoying the sanctuary forming in my mind. Simon Cadox had been a mechanic, learning as most Germans did: directly from a master. This had been in Baden-Baden, the largest town outside Strasbourg. By twenty-one, he had surpassed his mentor and was renown for his work on engines of all kinds. He built an automobile for himself, and it was this that caught the eye of Karl Heigel who would become his partner. Luther smiled as he talked. We were off topic now, but neither of us cared. When they were hired by Bayerische Moteren Werke, my father married my mother. Soon after that, he started doing their design work. So thats how youre affording Cambridge, huh? We both laughed. What can I say? Both of us seem to be content milking our fathers pockets. All too true, I raised my hands in defeat, But how did he end up in Munich? By the time my sister was born, my father was already becoming pressured to join the company headquarters. It would have tripled his pay and given him access to the corporation, but he was determined not to take my sister and me outside of our home. Youre quite the expensive addition, Herr Cadox. Luther chuckled, We were just an excuse. My father and mother adored Baden-Baden, and they still own a house there for when Mnchen becomes too taxing. One thing Ive always wondered: how did you end up with a Volkswagen? My friend shook his head, grinning. He ate several bites of his crepe before he wiped his mouth and said, Well, my father didnt think I should be driving a BMW in Cambridgeespecially after I told him about the imp the university gave me for a flat-mate. I winked, but before I could respond, Luther raised a finger and pointed over my shoulder. When I turned, I saw that the bartender was cleaning the screen of a television set behind the counter. They have a television. Hot damn, I said, rotating my seat to see as the bartender flipped the switch, I suppose we can catch the news then. Several moments passed as the screen was filled with angry static. White, black, and grey lines wavered across the box until the crewman adjusted the antennas. A man in a dignified business suit sat at a desk. His hair was combed; his chin was freshly shaven. Shifting some papers in front of him, he looked up at the camera. He spoke. His voice was without emotion, but firm and uncompromising like the facts he was reporting. And he was German. Guten Abend, Frauen und Herren I glanced back at Luther for an explanation.

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Back home, we have daily broadcasts to those with televisions. The British dont have enough televisions to make it worth the effortarent there televised news broadcasts in America? Thats what Ravenwood says, but thats a recent development. Anyways, whats he saying? Luther finished his dessert and began to translate the newsmans report. I caught some of the German, but I required my friends input to decipher all the sentences. He says theres been a series of tragic events in Europe There have been multiple attacks then? Nohe mentioned Cambridge, but said, after their early success, the Red Hoods quickly retreatedwith no trace of their whereabouts. But now hes talking about something that happened in Austria My interest aroused, I waited patiently as Luther continued to stare at the television, listening before translating to me: Emperor Franz Ferdinand has been shot apparently. What? I asked, with wide eyes, Again? The emperor was confronted publicly by an assassin immediately after his speech in Vienna. The shooter drew his weapon and fired once. The bullet killed the emperor immediately. His bodyguards drew their arms as well, but were unable to apprehend the assassin as he fled into the crowd I felt my face twist quizzically. Wait, they didnt catch him? Wasnt he right there? He says that they have footage. Luther responded, pointing to the television again. On the screen, a hazy scene of the emperor appeared as he began to leave the podium. Just as he turned away, a man appeared from the crowd. I had never seen anything like him before. The assassin was hooded like a monk but wore tall black boots often used in the military. A leather belt was buckled over his long trench coat; not a single bit of his skin was visible to my eye. As I watched, Ferdinand suddenly looked at his shooter. I couldnt tell because the televisions sound was poor, but I thought the assassin shouted his name. Just as the emperor looked, the mysterious man drew a revolver and fired. Luther leaned close, The footage may be alarming. I smiled grimly. The bullet slammed into Franz Ferdinands forehead and exited in a black spray on his bodyguards. Screams erupted across the crowd. People scattered, and the assassin disappeared. Armed soldiers charged into the maelstrom, but even I saw that the shooter was nowhere to be found. Despite his odd garb, he had melted into the mob. The footage stopped, and the screen returned to the announcer. I glanced at Luther and then pointed at the television with a quick nod of my head. He began to translate again. Kaiser Wilhelm III, despite his frequent differences with Emperor Ferdinand, has made a public outcry against the assassin, promising German troops to aid in his capture. The German Reichkongress has already sent a Luftwarde air ship to support the Austrian police force. My friend stroked his chin for a moment before explaining to me, This is a German broadcastI guess theyre focusing on our response. Anything else important?

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Says that President Roosevelt has also promised his supportwhat idiocy; every leader will call for the shooters head obviously. Roosevelt? I snorted, Hes still alive? The president of the United States had been diagnosed with polio shortly after arriving in office. Nevertheless, Roosevelt had pursued his agenda tirelessly. A liberal through and through, he strengthened the government and made reforms across the nation. He was accused of being a communistwhich was ridiculous. A socialist, yes! But not a communist. Roosevelts condition had been waning. Increasingly, he had groomed Vice President Monroe for his office. The vice president was a clone of his mentor politically, and I imagined America would continue to place more power in the government in the years ahead. But I didnt care much anymore. I lived in Cambridge (or did until that morning) which was across the Atlantic Ocean, let alone in a different country. Ravenwood had been a republican, so I suppose I was at home in the United Kingdom. I suppose he is still. Luthers response brought my thoughts back to the issue on the television. Why do you think he was shot? Franz Ferdinand? Im not surewhen he was shot in 14 he seemed to start listening to the Serbs. Austro-Hungary is as liberal as they come now. Unlike me, Luther was politically healthy. Raised by his Lutheran parents into a conservative mindset, he had approved of the Empires slow movement to republic. Formed under the eye of Emperor William ten years ago, the Reichkongress had quickly taken over the German government. Although Willie still was in power by a long shot, the senate kept him in check. I pursed my lips, thinking for several moments, before I added, So, mate, you wouldnt think it was the Reds. They only seemed to support him after that. You wouldnt think so, no, but theyre radicalsthey could shoot someone for spitting on the Constitution. Thats true. As we sat in a moment of silence, our waiter retrieved our plates and offered us anything to top off our stomachs. Two beers please, sir. Of course, gentlemen! We waited for him to dart away from the table before continuing our conversation. Luther and I were private when we desired. In public, we usually kept to each other not out of timidity but because of security; we were intelligent enough to keep volatile subjects like politics from escaping our table. Not the commies then? Luther shook his head, No, I wouldnt leave them out just yet, Jacob. In a golf game, they keep insanity right next to the driveryou never know what their plan is. Huh, thats where I keep it too. But I dont know of anyone, my companion continued, ignoring my jest, besides the Reds who would be assassinating a member of any royal family.

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Do you think it could be connected to whats happening in England? Im afraid its all too likely. I shook my head, Going back to what we said earlier, if the Reds are being funded then it would have to be a powerful nation to back up operations in Britain and Austria. Not to mention that that assassin was armed with some piece of firepower. So, you saw that gun? Hell yeah, I did. That was more than a revolver. Luthers brow was as wavy as the Baltic. It certainly wasnt designed by Samuel Colt. The server arrived with our beers in sweating glasses. We both wetted our lips, the beer rescuing our beleaguered tongues from our talk. I watched the night sky outside the window scroll gently past us. The engines hummed in the distance. The report on the television ended with a Guten Nacht, and most of the passengers departed for their cabins. Several stayed, including Luther and me. We sipped our beers and talked about when we landed in Amsterdam. The Armada would require an hour to refuel and check all its systems before making the final push across Germany to Munich. I was determined to spend as little time in Amsterdam as possible. Now that we were well on our way to our destination, I found delays irritating. By the time we finished our drinks, the clocks hands had run to 9:00. We went to our cabin where our bags were neatly stowed. The Amsterdam was not a luxury flight, but the room had a bench on either wall long enough for us to lift our legs and sleep. And sleep we did. I dreamt that night. I usually didnt, but that dream was more vivid than any I have ever experienced. Somehow, I was flyingno, I was standing on something in the sky. The wind howled around me, tearing at my clothes, trying to toss me to my doom. I was aware of someone else there. It was a man dressed in some costume: black cloak, a helmet. What caught my eye was his pointed yellow shield which carried some dark motif on it. I tried to ascertain what this was just as he swung at me. The shield caught my chin, and I fell backwards Down through the clouds. When I woke up, I was surprised to see Luther still asleep. Peaking out of the curtain, I saw daylight outside and the land coming up towards the ship. I checked my watch after winding it. We landed in twenty minutes. I left our cabin and went to the bathroom. My wound felt much better, and I applied a new bandage. With nothing else to do, I returned to my bench and found the book Luther had given me yesterday morning. I was not far into it when Luther awoke. Morning, my cheery Kraut. He shook the drowsiness away before he replied, How long until we land? Ten minutes. I dont feel so well today. When we land, well get some breakfast. Thats my solution. True to form, we did just that when the Armada sank slowly to the airfield in Amsterdam. We

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waited until the cables were attached and a crewman called for the passengers to disembark. Exiting the plane, we found the Netherlands greeting us with a sunny dawn. Although the temperature was still chilly, I found the sun refreshing, and Luther seemed invigorated by the sight of it. With fair spirits, we crossed the busy airfield and into the large building on the other side. This was not as new as the complex we saw in Oxford. Nevertheless, it was clean and bustling. Amsterdam was an important port by ship and air, and we found the nearest caf packed with customers. Finding an empty table was impossible, so we decided to join another traveler. He looked up from his coffee as I asked, May we sit with you, sir? A man in his thirties, he looked accustomed to moderating his appearance. Even though it was early in the day, he was dressed in a striped suit and a ready smile. A set of round spectacles sat on his nose, and he read from a book. He looked very much like a librarian or a professor. He didnt respond to my question for a moment as he translated it, but he quickly smiled and offered us the chairs next to him. When he spoke, his accent was thick and German. He frequently stuttered and was more than comfortable serving us a cocktail of English and German; although, it all seemed foreign in his pronunciation. I am Claus Manheim. Good morning! Jacob Marcellus. I shook his hand, enjoying his pleasantness at such an early hour. Luther shook as well, and gave his name. We ordered breakfast. Our new companion took off his glasses and surprised us by asking, You said your name was Luther Cadox, ja? My friend nodded. I know this is silly to ask, but are you in any way related to Simon Cadox, the designer. I only wondered because you were traveling to Mnchen, and that is where Bayerische Moteren Werke is. Luther took his time to chew and swallow. Only I noticed his caution in answering. Herr Manheim seemed honest enough, but Luther glanced over him nonetheless, suspicious of such an inference coming from a stranger. Despite his prudence, Luther answered with a quick, charming smile, Actually I am. I am his son. Oh! Wirklich? I own a BMW motorcycle, you see, and am such a big fan of his work. As Manheim continued, he devolved into German, and Luther obliged him. They chattered in their native tongue, while I scanned the caf absentmindedly. I could see no evidence here in Amsterdam that any event out of the ordinary had occurred yesterday. Both the Dutch and the foreigners were content to read their papers, eat their waffles, and eye the time. It seemed it would take more than a few bombings and killings to terrify the whole world. When I turned back to my companions, Manheim asked me, And you are a student as well? Yes, Ive been at Cambridge for two years now. Ah, wunderbar. Luther shifted his seat closer to the table and said, Now, what is it that you do, Herr Manheim? Oh, I am a Priestera, ah, priest, for the church. This caught Luthers attention. In Deutschland? Yes.

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What do you do for the church? Oh, I serve as a minister and a biologist as well. I was just in Oxford giving a seminar yesterday. When I heard about the attacks, I hurried home. I often forgot that the German clergy were trained in theology and science simultaneously. It was an archaic system that clashed with the American way too often. Sure, genetics had been crafted by Gregor Mendel, but Charles Darwin had lacked seminary. In my mind, the latter had shown us the future of science. And what kind of biology do you study? Manheim smiled. Well, recently, I've been doing medicinal research for the Order. The Order? I intruded. Why yesdie Deutsche Ritter. After a look towards Luther, I made my confusion apparent. My friend waved an open hand at me as if he was offering his knowledge as a gift. He's talking about the Teutonic Knights. If you've opened a history book (which I know you have), you would know about them In the Crusades. I finished, Well, I do apologize. Please continue. That is the...uh, essence of it, really. As knights, they are always interested in the most advanced medicine we can get. I wouldn't want to bother you with the details. I ordered some coffee while Luther asked our new companion where his home lay. Finishing my breakfast, I heard Manheim say that he worked in the Teutonic Order's Hamburg district but was headed for Munich for various reasons. He must have been a busy man and well-acclaimed to be traveling immediately from a conference in Oxford to business in Munich. But he spoke confidently about his work, never going into much detail; despite his difficulty with English, he communicated easily with us. Are you a knight? Nein. I can't say that I am. They recruited me to work for them however, which is why I am always goinghow do you sayto and fro. Now, you, he turned to me with an excited smile, you are from America it sounds like, yes? I laughed, Is it that apparent? I've worked with plenty of Englnder but only a few Americans. What's it like? This was the constant question from every European, but I recited my usual response: I know New England very well. That's the area around Massachusetts, ConnecticutNew York, mainly. I've only traveled around the rest of the country. It's quite large compared to Germany or the Netherlands as I'm sure you've heard. Aha, ja, I have heard that. Opening my mouth to continue, I stopped when I saw our German friend look at his watch abruptly. Sorry, my friends, but I must go now. I must call a friend to tell him I am coming home today. No worry, Herr Manheim, Luther replied, shaking his hand again, I hope you get home safely. I smiled as I shook as well. Auf Wiedersehen. He gathered his items. It was then that I looked at his book then. Something about it seemed out of place to my eye, but, before I could dwell too long on it, the German bid us adieu and walked towards

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the phone booths. We watched him as he departed. Luther, did you see what he was reading? Yes. I raised an eyebrow at my friend. Do you think Hemingway is an appropriate author for a man who can barely speak English? No. I would say our dear friend is certainly not German. Luthers eyes stared intensely at the strangers retreating back, and he said, He isnt, and his name certainly isnt Claus Manheim. We need to leave.

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