Chapter 598 - 598: 570. Focus Turned To Flight & Private Radio

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"Young and ambitious," Caleb mused, a predatory spark in his eyes. "That makes him dangerous, and easy to recruit. Offer him a massive, fully funded laboratory in Saint Denis. Guarantee him complete, unhindered scientific freedom. Give him the finest equipments to date, a dedicated staff, and a ten year exclusive contract. Pay him double what Pennsylvania is paying him. I want young wolves in my research division."

Vincenzo nodded, laying down another dossier, this one stamped Boston.

"Theobald Smith," Vincenzo read. "This man is a pioneer. His expertise is in bacteriology, pathology, and infectious disease research. He is the one who figured out that ticks transmit Texas cattle fever. He understands how disease moves."

Caleb's pulse quickened. Bacteriology. This was the man. This was the mind he needed to aim at the Penicillium mold.

"I want him," Caleb said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying an tone that shows non negotiable weight. "Whatever it takes, Vincenzo. Offer him the title of Director of Bacteriology. Give him an entire wing of the new laboratory, a dedicated staff of chemists, and bottomless funding to pursue experimental, unorthodox work. Tell him the Thorne Holding Company wants to cure infection itself, and we will back him to the ends of the earth to do it."

Vincenzo quickly jotted down the aggressive terms, then pulled the second to last file from the bag. It bore the heavy, austere seal of the War Department in Washington.

"Major Walter Reed," Vincenzo said, his tone turning cautious. "U.S. Army Medical Corps. He is currently doing groundbreaking work regarding infectious diseases, specifically yellow fever. He is a brilliant physician, but..."

"But he is a serving military officer," Hosea finished the thought, shaking his head. "You can't just buy a commissioned major out of the United States Army, Caleb. Not even with your money. The optics would be terrible, and McKinley would view it as an insult to the War Department."

Caleb stared at the photograph of the stern military doctor. He knew Reed's historical importance. He was the man who would prove mosquitoes transmitted yellow fever. He was a titan of public health.

"You're right, Hosea. We can't buy him as an employee," Caleb conceded, his strategic mind rapidly adapting to the military obstacle. "So, we don't offer him a job. We offer him a sponsorship."

Hosea raised an eyebrow. "A sponsorship?"

"The military budget for medical research is notoriously tight," Caleb explained, a brilliant loophole forming in his mind. "We approach Major Reed not as an employer, but as a philanthropic benefactor. We establish the 'Thorne Medical Foundation.' We offer to completely fund his yellow fever research. We provide the microscopes, the field equipment, and the logistical support for his Army teams, asking nothing in return but the shared data. We establish a deep, unbreakable relationship built on scientific respect. And if the day ever comes when Major Reed decides to retire from military service... the door to a fully funded corner office in Saint Denis will already be wide open."

"A long con," Hosea chuckled, deeply approving of the subtle, psychological manipulation. "You fund the man, you win his loyalty, and you reap the rewards later."

"Exactly," Caleb agreed. "What is the final file, Vincenzo?"

Vincenzo reached into the satchel and pulled out a remarkably thin folder. It didn't bear the seal of a prestigious university or a military command. It was stamped with the grimy, industrial soot of New York City.

"Lillian Wald," Vincenzo said, reading the name with a hint of genuine respect. "She isn't a doctor, Boss. She is a nurse and a social reformer. She runs something called the Henry Street Settlement in the slums of the Lower East Side. She organizes nurses to go directly into the tenements to treat the poor, the immigrants, and the destitute. Our agents were incredibly specific about her, she is absolutely fearless, she is a logistical genius, and she does not care about money or personal wealth in the slightest. If you offer her a massive salary to come work in a fancy private hospital for the rich, she will spit in your face."

Caleb sat back, looking at the photograph of the stern, compassionate woman.

A hospital was only as good as the nurses who ran the wards. Doctors performed the surgeries and diagnosed the diseases, but it was the nurses who monitored the fevers, maintained the agonizingly strict sterilization protocols, and kept the patients alive through the long nights. Caleb knew that to build a medical empire, he didn't just need arrogant, brilliant surgeons; he needed an army of ruthless, organized, deeply compassionate nurses.

"Hosea," Caleb said softly. "You know people like this. How do you recruit a saint?"

"You don't offer a saint money, Caleb," Hosea answered quietly, leaning forward. "You offer them scale. People like Lillian Wald are drowning. They are trying to empty the ocean with a teacup. They spend every day watching people die because they don't have enough bandages, enough clean water, or enough medicine. You don't offer her a salary. You offer her the power to save everyone."

Caleb's eyes widened slightly as the perfection of the pitch crystallized in his mind.

"Vincenzo," Caleb ordered, his voice ringing with absolute, visionary clarity. "Draft a letter to Miss Wald. Do not offer her a job. Offer her a blank check. Tell her I want to establish the largest, most advanced public health nursing organization in the history of the South, based right here in Saint Denis."

Caleb stood up, pacing behind his desk, the adrenaline of the massive logistical undertaking fueling him.

"Tell her she will have absolute authority over its operation," Caleb continued, dictating the terms of surrender for a woman of unshakeable morals. "Tell her the Thorne Holding Company will provide the physical buildings, the pristine medical equipment, a fleet of private transport carriages for her nurses, and an unlimited operational budget. She will have the resources to expand her work on an unprecedented, city wide scale. She won't be fighting for scraps in a tenement anymore. She will have an army."

Vincenzo wrote furiously, capturing every word of the masterclass pitch.

"Send the agents back out," Caleb finalized the orders, looking between Hosea and Vincenzo. "I want the letters hand delivered. I want the meetings conducted in absolute secrecy. Start the domino effect at Hopkins, lock down the researchers in Boston and Philadelphia, sponsor the Army, and give the nurse the keys to the city."

"It's going to cost a fortune, Caleb," Hosea warned mildly, though he was already smiling at the sheer audacity of the plan.

Caleb looked out the window of his study, toward the distant, glowing lights of the sprawling Saint Denis factories. He thought of Mary-Beth, resting safely in the other wing of the mansion, and the child growing inside her.

"I don't care what it costs, Hosea," Caleb said softly, the cold, ruthless industrialist entirely united with the fiercely protective husband. "I am going to drag this century out of the dark ages, whether it wants to come or not."

The morning after his discussion with Hosea and Vincenzo, Caleb Thorne sat in his carriage as it rattled down the dusty, sun baked roads leading out of Saint Denis. He watched the sprawling cityscape give way to the dense, hanging Spanish moss of the swamps, and eventually to the wide, wind swept coastal plains of Lemoyne.

Now, his focus had to shift back to the physical expansion of his empire.

The carriage turned off the main road, navigating a freshly flattened dirt path that led toward the isolated coastline. Rising from the tall, swaying sea grass was a massive structure that looked entirely alien to the southern landscape. It was a cavernous wooden hangar, flanked by a newly constructed machine shop and a long, elevated wooden rail that stretched out toward the ocean breeze.

This was the Thorne Aviation Testing Grounds.

As Caleb's carriage pulled to a halt, the sound of a sputtering, coughing mechanical engine echoed across the plains. Caleb stepped down, flanked by his capos, and walked into the massive hangar.

The interior smelled sharply of high octane petroleum, sawdust, and hot metal. Wilbur and Orville Wright were huddled over a heavy wooden workbench, their sleeves rolled up, hands coated in black grease. Resting on a reinforced steel mount in the center of the hangar was the machine.

It was no longer just a canvas kite.

It was a staggering leap forward. The Wright brothers had mounted a custom-forged, lightweight aluminum-alloy engine block, cast to their exact specifications by the Thorne-Marlin metallurgists, directly onto the lower wing of the flyer. Heavy bicycle chains ran from the sputtering engine block to a pair of beautifully carved, counter-rotating wooden propellers mounted at the rear of the wings.

"Cut the fuel mixture!" Wilbur shouted over the deafening clatter of the engine.

Orville turned a small brass valve, and the engine coughed, sputtered, and finally died, leaving a ringing silence in the cavernous hangar.

"Gentlemen," Caleb announced his presence, walking into the sunlight streaming through the open hangar doors.

Both brothers snapped their heads up. The exhaustion on their faces was instantly replaced by a fierce, undeniable pride. Orville grabbed a rag, wiping the grease from his hands as he hurried over.

"Caleb!" Orville grinned, gesturing wildly to the machine. "You are just in time. The timing on the magneto ignition is holding perfectly. The engine block your foundries cast for us is a miracle. It is generating twelve horsepower, and it weighs less than two hundred pounds!"

Wilbur walked over, his usual stoic demeanor cracking into a rare, genuine smile. "We were running the calculations this morning, Caleb. The thrust generated by the counter rotating propellers, combined with the new camber curve Mr. Tesla suggested... it crosses the threshold. We have the power-to-weight ratio."

Caleb walked around the flyer, his eyes tracing the elegant, lethal lines of the canvas wings. "When are you testing it?"

"If the coastal winds hold steady, we are going to attempt the first powered, tethered tests by the end of the week," Wilbur said, crossing his arms, looking at his life's work. "We are going to lock it to the launching rail, fire the engine, and see if the thrust can overcome the drag coefficients. If the lift is up to par with our wind-tunnel models... we can move to untethered, manned flight within the month."

Orville looked at Caleb, his expression sobering into deep, profound gratitude. "We were looking at our old notebooks last night, Caleb. Before you arrived on that beach in Kitty Hawk, we were estimating it would take us another three to four years just to afford the materials for an aluminum engine, let alone the time to trial the aerodynamic flaws. You and Mr. Tesla have accelerated our timeline by half a decade. You gave us the tools to catch the wind."

"I merely provided the hammer, Orville. You two are swinging it," Caleb smiled, placing a hand on the wooden wing strut. "But you are right. We are accelerating history. When that machine lifts off the ground, it will not just be a scientific novelty. It will be a paradigm shift. Just as the steam engine triggered the Industrial Revolution and reshaped the entire global economy, this machine will shrink the earth. It will change how wars are fought, how cargo is moved, and how borders are drawn. I love to help, gentlemen, but I love it even more when we drag the world into a new age."

The brothers nodded, completely united in the visionary zeal.

"We are having an issue with the sprocket alignment on the chain drive, however," Wilbur admitted, gesturing toward the rear of the flyer. "The torque from the engine is causing the chain to skip on the right propeller shaft. We've tried tightening the tensioners, but the vibration is throwing it out of true."

"Let me see it," Caleb said, stripping off his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

He walked over to the greasy chain drive, his Max Level Crafting skill instantly analyzing the mechanical friction. The Wrights were using standard bicycle sprockets, which were designed for the steady, even pressure of a human leg, not the violent, explosive torque of an internal combustion engine.

"The teeth on the sprocket are too shallow for the RPMs you are generating," Caleb explained, grabbing a heavy metal file from the workbench. "The chain is riding up on the edges during the combustion stroke. We need to deepen the grooves and slightly bevel the entry angle of the teeth so the chain seats itself automatically under tension."

For the next two hours, the rich industrialist stood shoulder to shoulder with the Ohio mechanics. Caleb used his unnatural precision to manually file the heavy steel sprockets, altering their geometry until they locked perfectly into the heavy drive chains. When Orville spun the propellers by hand, the movement was flawlessly smooth, the terrifying skip entirely eliminated.

"Incredible," Wilbur muttered, inspecting the altered sprockets. "You have the hands of a master machinist, Caleb."

"I've spent my fair share of time in the foundries," Caleb wiped his hands on a rag, retrieving his jacket. "Keep me updated on the weather patterns. The moment you are ready for the tethered test, send a rider to the mansion. I want to be here."

"You will be the first to know," Orville promised.

Leaving the aviation pioneers to their preparations, Caleb boarded his carriage and ordered the driver to head directly to the western edge of the swamps.

The air grew thick and heavy as they approached the towering, electrified perimeter of Nikola Tesla's private laboratory. Inside, the massive warehouse was illuminated by the harsh, brilliant glare of arc lamps and the occasional, terrifying crackle of purple electricity jumping between giant copper coils.

Tesla was standing at a heavy iron workbench, wearing a thick rubber apron and heavy insulating gloves. Resting on the table were three identical, heavy wooden receiver boxes and a single, massive transmitter unit.

"Nikola!" Caleb shouted over the hum of the transformers.

Tesla turned, his eyes wide and manic, immediately stripping off his rubber gloves. "Caleb! You are exactly on time. We have perfected the mechanical acoustic locks."

Caleb walked over to the bench. Tesla had disassembled the faceplate of the transmitter. Inside, instead of a standard variable capacitor, was a beautifully machined, heavy brass tuning fork, wired directly into the oscillation circuit.

"I have forged the forks to vibrate at exactly 8.4 kilohertz," Tesla explained rapidly. "It is a frequency completely inaccessible to the civilian dials we are manufacturing. But the true genius is the mechanical lock. If the receiver does not possess a mathematically identical brass fork to complete the physical circuit, the electromagnetic wave simply passes through the machine unrecognized."

"Show me," Caleb ordered.

Tesla powered up the transmitter. He walked over to the first receiver, a standard civilian model currently being sold by the thousands to the public. He turned the dial across the entire spectrum. The box produced nothing but a faint, hissing static. It was completely blind to the transmission.

Then, Tesla walked over to the second receiver, the secure military prototype. He didn't even have to turn a dial. The moment he engaged the power, a loud, clear, rhythmic clicking sound, the test pulse from the transmitter, echoed through the acoustic cone.

"The War Department's private line," Caleb murmured, deeply satisfied. The encrypted communications network was a reality.

"I want the factory floor manager notified immediately," Caleb said, pulling out a notebook to draft the order. "We are retooling fifty percent of the assembly lines at the T&T facility starting tomorrow morning. Half the factory will continue to produce the civilian models for the public. The other half will be dedicated entirely to mass producing these secure units for the Army and the Navy. I want them crated, sealed, and shipped to Washington as fast as we can pour the brass."

"It is done, Caleb," Tesla smiled, looking at his perfected invention.

But the smile faded slightly, replaced by a sudden, nervous hesitation. The brilliant inventor looked down at the workbench, shifting his weight.

"Caleb..." Tesla began, his voice dropping into a rare, serious tone. "The radio is a magnificent achievement. It will fund our operations indefinitely. But... you and I both know it is merely a byproduct of the true science."

Caleb stopped writing, looking up at the towering Serbian. He knew exactly what was coming.

Tesla reached under the workbench and pulled out a massive, highly detailed blueprint. He unrolled it across the table, weighting the corners with heavy iron tools.

It was a schematic for a tower. Not a simple radio mast, but a towering, bulbous, terrifyingly complex structure that looked like a giant metallic mushroom. It was the conceptual blueprint for what history would have known as the Wardenclyffe Tower.

"The transmission of mere voices through the ether is a parlor trick compared to what the earth is truly capable of," Tesla said, his voice trembling with visionary passion. "The earth itself is a giant conductor, Caleb. The ionosphere is brimming with electrical potential. If we build a magnifying transmitter large enough, a tower capable of pumping millions of volts directly into the ground at the resonant frequency of the planet, we can create a standing global wave."

Tesla looked at Caleb, his eyes burning with the purest, most innocent scientific idealism.

"We wouldn't just transmit information, Caleb. We would transmit power. Pure, unadulterated electrical energy, traveling invisibly across the globe. A man in the middle of the Sahara Desert could stick a simple copper rod into the ground and draw enough electricity to light his home and run his machines. We could power the entire world. Energy for free, Caleb. We could liberate humanity from the physical tether of coal and oil."

Caleb stared at the blueprint. The sheer, staggering brilliance of the concept was undeniable. But Caleb was a man who understood the brutal bloody soaked mechanics of global power better than anyone alive. He looked up at Tesla, his expression utterly devoid of the romanticism the inventor was hoping for. "Nikola," Caleb said softly, his voice carrying a heavy, chilling gravity. "If you ever utter the phrase 'energy for free' outside of this laboratory, you will be a dead man before the month is out."

...

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: -