The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle by David Luchuk

of surprise. It would do no good to be seen climbing off a Union warship.
    This would be my first case since Robert and I saved President Lincoln. Mr. Pinkerton told anyone who would listen that I had refused a series of assignments after coming home. The truth is that no client would let the Agency to put me on their file.
    Mr. Pinkerton was happy to offer me the Anderson case. I took it just to get away.
    I emptied equipment from my locker. The iron lung, blast vest and explosive charges each used a separate steam canister. Before climbing into the wooden box I intended to blow up, I made sure the kit was in order.
    The Cumberland set its sights on a blockade runner approaching from the ocean. A row of corkscrewing torpedoes was mounted on our port side. Fired in a tight pattern, these would attach to an enemy hull without grinding it to bits. Cables trailing behind could then be used to draw it in under control.
    The boat kicked as torpedoes were launched. I heard a cheer that left little doubt we had caught the smaller vessel.
    I put the blast vest on first. It ran from my thighs, past vials on my belt and over my chest. It was too tight to be comfortable. The protection it provided when inflated, and a thin pocket of air separated my body from whatever might crash into me, was a comfort.
    I pulled the iron lung’s headpiece down to my shoulders. It was heavier than I expected. The neck guard slid over the lip of the blast vest. I was covered.
    Outside, sailors from the Cumberland boarded the captured vessel and unloaded its cargo. Under normal circumstances, the ship would have been stripped then sunk. In this case, one of the crates was carried to the back of the ship while the rest were inspected.
    The breathing apparatus locked into the neck guard. An air filter cupped over my nose and mouth. Goggles slid over my eyes. Ambient air was sucked out. For a moment, I was suffocating. Once the seal was established, oxygen filled the head piece. The iron lung could keep me alive for hours.
    The Lieutenant entered my room again and led me down to the deck. The crate had been emptied, its goods replaced with ballast and lined with canvas cushioning.
    I climbed inside. The lid was fastened. With me laying flat among the canvas rolls, the crate was carried back to the seized vessel.
    I got to work, attaching explosive vials to the corners of the crate from inside. Cumberland ’s officers let the blockade runner proceed to Chesapeake Bay after the mock inspection. Merchants would be surprised but happy not to lose their ship.
    For me, inside the crate, some painful crashing about was expected. This was the most dangerous part of the mission. I had no control.
    Cumberland ’s bomber was to continue firing into the jumble of boats, trying to make it look like they were clearing a path for the mother ship. In fact, this would provide passage for the blockade runner. Once I was on shore, assuming I wasn’t blown to bits by stray cannon fire, the bomber was supposed to track my movements and intervene if things went wrong.
    There was no way for me to know if the plan was working. The worst case scenario would be for the vessel to be struck before reaching the docks. If water penetrated the crate, I would blow the lid and take my chances.
    The boat rocked at wild angles. I felt the concussion of cannon fire all around. There were moments when I felt I might lose consciousness.
    It was so peaceful. I felt erased.
    Maybe I wouldn’t fire the charges at the first sign of trouble. Maybe I would let the water rise around me and sink with the rest of the cargo. At the bottom of the Atlantic, I would spend a few hours in total quiet, taking calm breaths until the oxygen ran out.
    My sense of time was gone. The run to shore seemed to go on forever.
    Without knowing for sure when it happened, I became aware that the rollicking had stopped. Everything was still. Either I was dead or we had docked.
    I blew the charges. The vest