Page 66 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm (An Isaac Bell Adventure #15)

F ear gripped the residents of New York City in a paralyzing stranglehold.

Rumors ran like wildfire that German troops had landed on Long Island and were marching toward the city.

Sidewalk whispers claimed an entire fleet of the Kaiser’s battlewagons were steaming toward New York Harbor to finish leveling Manhattan.

Woodrow Wilson rushed to the city by private railcar the very next day, in order to both quell the rumors and to see for himself the damage done by the rogue dreadnought.

Seven eleven-inch naval shells had ultimately been fired at Manhattan, six high explosive and one armor piercing.

Despite the onslaught, the city had been relatively lucky.

The explosive shell aimed at Penn Station following the armor-piercing ranging shot had fallen short of the building and hit a streetcar on the north side of Thirty-Third Street.

It had killed ten people, but would have killed far more had it struck the station.

The later shells Rath had ordered Pesha Orsos to fire landed in Midtown.

One destroyed a pair of brownstone row houses, while another flattened a merchant bank building.

Out of a city of over two million people, forty-eight lost their lives that fateful day, with several dozen more injured in some way. All knew it could have been much worse.

Repairs were already underway at Penn Station when President Wilson and his entourage took a quick walking tour of the building.

Initial wreckage had been cleared away and the station was operating at a limited capacity.

City road crews had repaired the blast holes left on the surrounding streets and sidewalks and there were plans being discussed to put up a memorial of some sort in nearby Bryant Park commemorating the victims of the attack.

Of course, there were no survivors of the explosion of the battleship Admiral Joaquim Lisboa nee Saarland.

There weren’t really any remains either.

The Navy was already negotiating with a local salvage company to remove the ship’s gutted carcass, once investigators had completed their examination of the remains that were above water, and hardhat divers had explored the sunken portion of the wreck.

After meeting with families of the victims and then speaking with reporters to allay fears about a further attack, the President entered the New York Yacht Club building in Midtown Manhattan.

He was there for a private meeting with Bell arranged by Franklin Roosevelt, who was a member of the club.

Bell was waiting at a corner table in the downstairs lounge when Wilson entered.

The President waved off his assistants and approached alone.

“Mr. Bell,” Wilson said as Bell stood and offered his right hand in greeting.

“I’ve heard from Joe Van Dorn about what you did to save New York City, and what you’ve endured on my behalf the last few weeks.

Had I known the toll it would take”—he pointed to Bell’s left hand, wrapped in a bandage the size of a boxing glove—“I never would have asked you to be my eyes and ears on the battlefront.”

Bell had known this meeting was coming and had taken as small a dose of painkiller as he could, but he still felt its effects and so spoke slowly and with great deliberation.

“Mr. President, I assure you that my sacrifice and that of all the others who I have encountered was well worth my involvement.”

“Our nation owes you a heartfelt thanks. And the City of New York an extra debt of gratitude. While I am eager to hear how you disabled the dreadnought, I am more interested in your visit to the front lines in Europe.”

Bell relayed his overseas exploits, providing an unvarnished description of the horrors he witnessed at the front. He spoke of the unfailing bravery of the men he fought with, and of the higher vision that men like Winston Churchill saw of the critical nature of the war’s outcome.

Wilson stared at him for a moment. “Are you saying this is a just war and we should do our part?”

“No, Mr. President. There is no such thing as a just war. But this is one we must fight if for no other reason than to bring it to a swift end. During our Civil War, the average soldier could fire his musket four times in a minute. In just three days at Gettysburg there were over fifty thousand casualties. Today that same average soldier can fire between twenty and thirty rounds a minute if you factor in all the machine guns. The Allies and Central Powers have already slaughtered millions of men with no end in sight. If they keep at each other, Europe’s population will simply collapse and the remaining people will be driven back to the Dark Ages.

“And there’s something more. Without our involvement in the fighting, we won’t have a say in the peace accords that follow.

The Europeans need our leadership on this front if they are to break their generational cycle of war.

By us fighting on the Allied side, we can ensure a lasting peace.

You have an opportunity to make certain that this is the war that H.

G. Wells said would finally end all war. ”

Wilson quietly repeated Bell’s last words, then grew silent and reflective.

“I have always been committed to peace,” he said after a few moments.

“Germany’s unrestricted submarine warfare has placed our ships in harm’s way.

The news of this letter from Zimmerman to Mexico, seeking their aid to Germany in exchange for our southwestern states, is a further offense.

Yet I still had hopes of a peaceful resolution.

” He gave a deep resigned sigh. “I can see from your report that we can no longer remain neutral.”

“From what I saw, an Allied victory is essential for democracy and self-determination to survive. Not to mention a lasting peace. The impact, I believe, will go well beyond Europe.”

“Then I suppose war it must be,” Wilson replied with a heavy heart. He stood to leave.

“I have been made to understand that this attack on New York was not made by Germany, but by a group of independent anarchists.”

“Yes. They wished to draw us into the war to help elevate their goal of chaos and destruction.”

“A second enemy?”

Bell drew silent in thought. He recalled something Karl Rath had said just before his death that dovetailed with a comment Magdalena had made back in her father’s tavern.

Rath had claimed there were other men who would prevail.

He’d mumbled something about fulcrum, a seemingly nonsensical comment, but now Bell was certain it meant more.

He came to believe Rath was bragging about being part of a globe-spanning collective of anarchy cells that would outlast him, which he called Fulcrum.

“Yes,” Bell replied to the President. “A second enemy that may very well still exist.”

“If that’s the case, Mr. Bell, I trust that I can rely on your help in defeating them, as well as the Germans.”

Wilson turned and strode from the lounge before Bell could respond, already knowing the answer.

—

I t had been a month of healing and reflection.

Things were finally getting back to normal, with one notable difference.

Upon hearing how her fiancé had put himself at risk following her boss on another of his harebrained adventures, Helen Mills demanded an immediate wedding.

Joe Marchetti’s long engagement came to an abrupt end three weeks after the incident.

The wedding had taken place at the nearby Holy Cross Church and now the wedding party was enjoying predinner drinks in the Knickerbocker Hotel’s sumptuous main ballroom.

Isaac Bell’s left hand was still in a cast. The Harvard doctor who’d set it had studied in Vienna under the famed surgeon Carl Nicoladoni.

It had taken four excruciating hours of meticulous work to manipulate the broken bones into their proper alignment before he immobilized Bell’s hand in plaster.

The doctor was very optimistic, but it would be another month before the cast came off and Bell would know if he had two fully functioning hands.

With one hand in a cast, the other was around a crystal flute of champagne.

With him were some of the principals from the office, Archie and James Dashwood, Grady Forrer, the head of the research department, as well as bulldog-faced Eddie Tobin.

In the aftermath of the bombardment, Archie and James had needed stitches for their wounds and were prescribed a steady diet of liver and spinach to help replace lost blood, but otherwise they were fine.

Hanzi Muntean had also made a full recovery and was currently awaiting trial in the city prison known as the Tombs.

Hanna had come to accept her brother’s fate when Bell had made her a promise that he would help get him a sentence in proportion to his crime rather than be scapegoated for the entire attack.

Joseph Van Dorn was also at the wedding reception, having come up from the Washington office. He was nursing his standard Bushmills Manhattan. This last-minute reception was his gift to the newlyweds.

The groom, looking sharp in his black dress uniform, and the bride’s father, Army Brigadier General G. Tannenbaum Mills, rounded out the little group. Marion and Archie’s wife, Lillian, along with James’s date, Hanna Muntean, were in the ladies’ room helping Helen with a dress emergency.

A band played softly in the background.

Bell had just finished telling his cohorts all about his escape from the German intelligence headquarters.

Archie added to the group, “For anyone keeping score, we can now add a tank to a locomotive and a whaling ship on the list of Isaac’s stolen vehicles.”

“And that’s not including all the cars and trucks he’s ‘borrowed’ over the years,” James teased.

“I gave most of them back,” Bell protested.

“Hard to believe it was all for nothing,” Grady mused.

“What was all for nothing?” Lillian Abbott asked as she and the other ladies returned from the restroom.

“That Isaac’s entire mission for President Wilson was a needless exercise,” Archie replied. “The release of the telegram sent by German Foreign Secretary Zimmerman to entice Mexico into attacking us forced Wilson’s hand to ask for a declaration of war.”

Bell and Joseph exchanged a look. They were the only two who knew that Isaac had met secretly with President Wilson when he’d rushed to New York on the day after the attack. Only they were aware that it was Bell’s report and opinion that had actually persuaded Wilson to declare war.

Bell smiled now as the newly crowned Helen Marchetti put her hands on her hips and said, “The heck you say. Issac and my Joe stopping the city from being reduced to rubble isn’t what I would call a waste of time.”

“Well said,” Bell agreed.

“How do you feel about your mission to the front?” General Mills asked.

Bell paused, mulling his answer, before he said, “Though it may seem it, I don’t have a death wish and so obviously I didn’t enjoy nearly being blown up, shot down, or burned alive.

On the other hand, I have a far better understanding of what our men are going to face.

It will be far different than how the jingoistic press presents it as all glory and honor, as if those things actually have meaning on a modern battlefield.

“To show my esteem to them, and the sacrifices they are about to make, the answer is yes, it was worth it for no other reason than my personal solidarity with the men. It allows me to salute Helen, Lillian, Marion, and Hanna, and the other women who will all be making their own sacrifices in the months ahead.”

“And our prospects for winning the war, Mr. Bell?”

“I firmly believe the twentieth century is going to be our century, General, and the next thing we’re going to do is crush the Kaiser’s Second Reich so badly there will never be a Third.”

“Here, here,” Eddie Toban said. He raised a glass. “A toast—”

Bell cut him off, “No more talk of war or politics. A toast to the groom, the luckiest man to ever walk down the aisle, and the bride for being the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, Marion and myself excluded, of course.

To the very best thing that resulted from this debacle, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Marchetti. ”

As the champagne flutes tinkled, the band took up a dance tune. Bell hooked Marion around the waist with his clubbed hand and escorted her onto the dance floor.

“A swell wedding,” she said. “Helen and Joe look very happy.”

Bell gazed into his wife’s eyes, instantly forgetting the fatigue of the last few weeks and the uneasy prospect of war on the horizon. “I’m happy, too,” he said, giving her a desirous look and pulling her close.

“Isaac Bell, you are the most dangerous man in the world with two hands,” she said, melting into his arms. “What on earth are you going to do with one?”

He whispered into her ear. “Try me.”