Chapter 595 - 595: 567. Work, Updates, & McKinley Calls

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Caleb walked into his private study and sent for Pierre. Less than an hour later, the young, meticulously dressed chief counsel of the Thorne Holding Company sat across from Caleb's desk. He looked slightly out of breath, having rushed over from the corporate headquarters downtown. Caleb slid the thick, leather-bound folio containing the Wright brothers' contract across the polished mahogany.

"I need this locked into the bedrock of American corporate law, Pierre," Caleb instructed, his voice crisp and authoritative. "Federal filings, state registries, impenetrable non disclosure agreements, and airtight equity structures. The Wright brothers retain fifty percent of the patent, and we retain fifty percent with exclusive commercial and military manufacturing rights. I want this document recognized by the state in such a way that if a rival corporation even attempts to look at it, they end up in a decade of litigation."

Pierre opened the folio, his sharp eyes scanning Hosea's elegant, forged in fire legal framework. The young lawyer's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline as he processed the sheer magnitude of the one hundred thousand dollar capitalization, and the unprecedented nature of the technology being described.

"Powered aerodynamic flight..." Pierre murmured, looking up at Caleb with a mixture of professional awe and sheer disbelief. "You bought a an idea that machine could fly boss?"

"I bought the men who are going to invent it," Caleb corrected. "Are there any loopholes in Hosea's draft?"

"Mr. Matthews is a savant, boss," Pierre said, tapping the parchment. "This is a flawless framework. But I will immediately file the subsidiary structural documents to insulate the Holding Company from any direct liability during their physical testing. If one of these brothers falls out of the sky, we cannot have the federal government freezing our bank accounts."

"Do it," Caleb agreed. He stood up and gestured for the lawyer to follow him. "Come with me. I want you to meet them."

Caleb led Pierre down the hall and out toward the expansive, sunlit conservatory attached to the rear of the mansion. Inside, Wilbur and Orville Wright were sitting at a wrought iron patio table, rapidly sketching diagrams on a piece of drafting paper, entirely oblivious to the lavish exotic plants surrounding them.

"Gentlemen," Caleb called out, drawing their attention. The brothers stood up respectfully. "I would like to introduce you to Pierre. He is the chief legal counsel for the Thorne Holding Company. He will be the man building the fortress around your patents."

Wilbur shook Pierre's hand, his cautious eyes evaluating the sharp young lawyer. "It is a pleasure, Pierre. Mr. Thorne tells us you are the finest legal mind in the South."

"I am the most ruthless, Mr. Wright," Pierre smiled politely, adjusting his spectacles. "Which, in this century, is far more useful. Your intellectual property is safe with us."

With the legal foundation secured, Caleb pivoted his attention back to the current, bleeding edge of his empire. He called for his carriage, collected Nikola Tesla from the swamp laboratory, and rode directly to the newly opened T&T Radio Wave Co. factory on the western edge of the city.

The sprawling brick facility was a cathedral of modern industry. The roar of the polyphase electrical motors, the rhythmic thud of the stamping presses, and the sharp scent of ozone and machine oil filled the air. Hundreds of workers stood along the rigidly partitioned assembly lines, functioning exactly as Caleb had designed, each man performing a single, isolated task, entirely blind to the larger schematic of the machine they were building.

Caleb and Tesla walked the floor, their presence sending a ripple of nervous energy through the foremen.

They were not there for a ceremonial tour. They were there for quality control.

Caleb stopped at the end of the line, where the finished, heavy wooden receiver boxes were being carefully crated for civilian distribution. Without a word, he pulled three boxes entirely at random from the shipping crates, setting them heavily on a testing bench.

Tesla immediately went to work. He didn't just check the exterior finish, he unscrewed the brass faceplates and meticulously inspected the internal copper windings, the vacuum tube seating, and the soldering on the capacitors.

The first two units passed the Serbian genius's agonizingly high standards. But on the third unit, Tesla frowned, pulling a magnifying loupe from his pocket.

"The gauge tolerance on this induction coil is unacceptable," Tesla stated sharply, holding the copper spool up to the factory light. "The winding is loose by a fraction of a millimeter. It will function, but the resonance will drift as the copper heats up. It will cause static on the receiving end."

Caleb didn't hesitate. He looked at the floor manager, a seasoned veteran he had poached from a massive Pittsburgh steel firm.

"Scrap the entire batch," Caleb ordered, his voice cold enough to freeze water. "Tear them down, melt the copper, and rebuild them. This company does not sell static. The standard is absolute perfection, or it does not leave this floor."

The floor manager swallowed hard, nodding vigorously. "Yes, Mr. Thorne. Immediately."

As the workers scrambled to dismantle the crates, the floor manager hesitated, looking around nervously before stepping closer to Caleb, lowering his voice.

"Mr. Thorne... if I may have a word in private?" the manager asked, sweat beading on his forehead despite the draft in the factory.

Caleb narrowed his eyes, sensing the tension. He signaled to Tesla to continue the inspections and led the manager into a soundproofed glass office overlooking the factory floor.

"Speak," Caleb commanded.

"It's the security protocols, sir," the manager whispered, looking genuinely rattled. "The compartmentalization is working, but... human greed is a powerful thing. Two nights ago, the perimeter guards caught three assembly line workers. They had managed to steal scraps of drafting paper and were trying to piece together the wiring schematics for the civilian receiver. We caught them before they left the grounds."

Caleb's expression did not change, though the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "And?"

"And that isn't the worst of it," the manager continued, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. "Last night, around 2:00 AM, the capos caught two men trying to pry open the loading dock doors with crowbars. They weren't locals. They were professionals. Well dressed, carrying lockpicks and small, concealed revolvers. They were trying to get inside to steal a completed prototype."

Caleb stood perfectly still, his mind instantly analyzing the threat. The intellectual property war had officially begun. Rival corporations, perhaps Edison, perhaps Westinghouse, perhaps independent spies working for foreign governments, were already probing the perimeter.

"Where are they?" Caleb asked quietly.

"We have the three workers locked in a storage room, and the two infiltrators are chained to a steam pipe in the basement under guard," the manager replied.

"The workers violated an ironclad non disclosure agreement and attempted corporate espionage," Caleb decreed, his voice devoid of any mercy. "Turn them over to the Saint Denis police. Have Pierre file the maximum federal charges for breach of contract and theft. Bury them in litigation. Make sure every other worker on this floor sees them leave in handcuffs."

"And the two intruders, sir?"

Caleb looked out the glass window at the humming factory. He lifted his hand, making a slow, deliberate twisting gesture with his fingers.

"The intruders do not go to the police," Caleb said, his voice dropping into a lethal, terrifying register. "Turn them over to Vincenzo's capos. I want to know exactly who paid them. I want to know what city they came from, what train they took, and who signed their checks. Tell the capos to extract the information by whatever means they deem necessary. And when they finally talk..."

Caleb met the manager's terrified gaze.

"...make sure they are never found."

The manager turned pale, but he nodded sharply, fully understanding the brutal reality of working for the Thorne syndicate. "Yes, Mr. Thorne."

With the espionage handled, Caleb and Tesla retreated to a highly secure, restricted annex attached to the rear of the factory. This was where the true magic happened. This was where they were building the secure military lines for the United States government.

They spent hours hunched over workbenches, machining the precise, acoustic tuning forks that would serve as mechanical bandpass filters. It was exhausting, agonizingly precise work. The technology of the era simply did not support digital frequency hopping, so Caleb and Tesla had to rely on sheer mechanical perfection, carving brass and steel until it vibrated at exact, microscopic frequencies that would physically lock out any civilian receiver.

"The Navy will require a lower frequency band to penetrate the atmospheric interference over the open ocean," Tesla muttered, checking the calibration of a fork under a microscope. "While the War Department will require a higher, tighter band for land based artillery coordination. We must cast at least five distinct mechanical keys."

"We will forge ten, just to be safe," Caleb replied, wiping machine oil from his hands.

While they worked, Caleb's logistical mind continued to organize the empire. He dispatched John Marston and a crew of surveyors to the isolated coastline of Lemoyne, far from the prying eyes of Saint Denis.

He gave them a massive budget and explicit instructions, find a flat, windcswept expanse of land. Build a massive wooden hangar, a barracks, and a state of the art wind tunnel to the exact specifications the Wright brothers required. Once it was built, it was to be guarded with the same lethal, uncompromising force as Tesla's laboratory.

Days bled into weeks. The factory churned, the Wright brothers settled into the mansion and began refining their aerodynamic tables in a temporary workshop, and Mary-Beth's pregnancy progressed smoothly under the watchful eyes of Caleb's highly paid, sanitized medical staff.

Late one evening, Caleb was sitting in his study, reviewing the blueprints for the Lemoyne aviation hangar, when the secure military receiver on his desk hummed to life.

The vacuum tubes glowed hot orange, and the specialized brass dial locked into place.

"Saint Denis, this is the Executive Mansion," the radio crackled.

Caleb immediately set down his pen and picked up the heavy microphone. "This is Thorne. Good evening, Mr. President. I trust the second shipment of receivers arrived securely?"

"They arrived flawlessly, Caleb," President McKinley's voice echoed through the wooden box, sounding clear but heavily burdened. "The Navy has already installed them on the flagship cruisers. The admirals are astounded. But I am not calling to discuss the radios."

Caleb leaned forward, sensing the shift in tone. "How can I help you, sir?"

"I raised your proposal regarding the Secret Service with Secretary Root and the Treasury Department," McKinley said, his voice laced with a weary, political frustration. "We debated it at length. The consensus is unanimous, Caleb. They feel it is entirely unnecessary."

Caleb closed his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

"The military and the local police provide more than adequate security for presidential movements," McKinley continued, repeating the fatal logic of his advisors. "They argue that surrounding the President of the United States with a permanent, armed cadre of federal agents looks entirely too monarchical. It projects fear. It distances the office from the American people. I am sorry, Caleb, but the Secret Service will remain focused on counterfeiting."

Caleb gripped the microphone tightly. The year 1901 was rapidly approaching. The Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York, was already being planned. Leon Czolgosz, the anarchist who would alter American history with a concealed revolver, was out there.

If Caleb couldn't change the federal bureaucracy, he was going to have to bypass it entirely.

"I understand the political optics, Mr. President," Caleb said smoothly, rapidly pivoting his strategy. "If you cannot surround yourself with a wall of armed men, I accept that. But I have a very bad feeling regarding the unrest in the labor sectors and the anarchist movements bleeding over from Europe. If you won't take the Secret Service... I want you to take one of my people."

McKinley chuckled, a dry, static laced sound. "Caleb, I cannot have a Pinkerton or a heavily armed corporate enforcer looming over my shoulder at public events. The press would have a field day."

"It won't be a heavily armed enforcer, sir," Caleb replied, his voice dropping into a calm, persuasive rhythm. "I want to send you a woman."

The radio was completely silent for five seconds.

"...A woman?" McKinley asked, genuinely baffled. "You want to assign a woman as a presidential bodyguard?"

"I want to assign a highly capable, exceptionally intelligent woman to join your immediate staff as an 'administrative assistant' or a social aide," Caleb corrected flawlessly. "Think of the optics, Mr. President. She will wear a fine dress. She will carry a parasol. The press will not bat an eye, and the public will simply view her as a secretary. She will project absolutely zero threat. No one takes a woman standing near the President seriously."

Caleb leaned closer to the microphone, his voice turning deadly serious. "But the woman I am sending you is named Sadie Adler. She has more combat experience than half the men in your War Department. Her instincts are razor sharp, and she is the most terrifying and vigilant person I have ever met. When an anarchist or a madman approaches you in a crowd, they will look right past her, assuming she is insignificant and harmless, someone that will not cause any worries for them. That will be their biggest mistake in their life. Because before they even clear their weapon or do something that could risk your life, she will put a bullet directly between their eyes."

McKinley listened to the pitch, the brilliant and unorthodox idea that was pitched to him catched him off guard. A hidden blade. A protector disguised by the societal prejudices of the era becoming his shield.

"You are a remarkably persistent man, Caleb Thorne," McKinley finally sighed, though a hint of amused respect laced his words. "And form this conversation, I can see that you possess a rather grim view of the American public."

"I possess a realistic view of desperate men, Mr. President," Caleb countered softly. "Please humor me at least. Let her carry your schedule and fetch your coffee. If in two year everything passes without incident, I will gladly admit I was wrong and have her return back here."

"Very well," McKinley conceded, the trust Caleb had built during their geopolitical summit ultimately tipping the scales. "Send Mrs. Adler to Washington. We will find a suitable administrative position for her on my immediate personal staff. But God help us if she actually has to shoot someone in front of the press corps, the public, and the upper echelons of the rich and influential."

"If she shoots someone, Mr. President, they deserved it," Caleb promised. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Caleb."

Caleb cut the connection. He stood up, walked to the heavy oak door of his study, and opened it.

"Vincenzo," Caleb called out to the underboss standing guard in the hall. "Send someone to fetch Sadie. Wake her up if you have to. I need her in my study immediately."

Fifteen minutes later, Sadie Adler walked into the room, wearing a heavy riding coat over her clothes, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid. She looked alert, her hand resting casually on the butt of the Schofield revolver strapped to her hip.

"You rang, Caleb?" Sadie asked, dropping into a leather armchair across from his desk. "It's the first time to disturb my sleep since we knew each other, tell me, do someone need shooting in the middle of the night?"

"Not tonight, Sadie," Caleb smiled, sitting down and pouring two glasses of bourbon, sliding one across the desk to her.

He looked at the fierce, unbroken woman who had survived the absolute worst of the frontier, a woman who had forged herself into one of the deadliest enforcers in his empire.

"Pack your bags, Sadie," Caleb said quietly, his eyes locking onto hers. "You are going to Washington."

Sadie frowned, taking a sip of the bourbon. "Washington? To do what? Rough up some politicians? Kidnap some rich boy or girl? Infiltrate some secret and restricted area?"

"No," Caleb replied, his expression turning deadly serious. "You are going to become an administrative assistant to President William McKinley. You are going to wear a nice dress, you are going to stand behind him at every public event he goes to, with him at all work event, and also you have to smile at the crowds."

Sadie stared at him, convinced he had lost his mind. "Caleb, I ain't a damn secretary."

"I know you aren't," Caleb said softly. "But the men who are going to try and kill him won't know that."

Sadie's eyes widened slightly as the true nature of the assignment clicked into place. The annoyance vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating focus of a predator.

"They won't look at you twice, Sadie," Caleb explained, leaning forward. "They will see a woman, and they will dismiss you. They will walk right up to him, thinking they are safe. Your only job, your absolute priority... is to see them before they see you. If anyone pulls a weapon near the President or planned to do immediate, you either kill them or talk with me first on how to handle the ones plotting. No hesitation. No warning."

...

Name: Caleb Thorne

Age: 23

Body Attributes:

- Strength: 8/10

- Agility: 8/10

- Perception: 9/10

- Stamina: 8/10

- Charm: 8/10

- Luck: 9/10

Skills:

- Handgun (Lvl MAX)

- Rifle (Lvl MAX)

- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)

- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)

- Knife (Lvl MAX)

- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)

- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)

- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)

- Poker (Lvl MAX)

- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)

- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)

- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)

- Bow (Lvl MAX)

- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)

- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)

- Crafting (Lvl MAX)

- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)

- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)

- Cooking (Lvl MAX)

- Teaching (Lvl MAX)

- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)

- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)

- Acting (Lvl MAX)

- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)

- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)

- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)

- Business (Lvl MAX)

- Leadership (Lvl MAX)

Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents

Inventory: 283,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall

Bank: -