My Girlfriend's IRONCLAD

By James Fairchild

a casual encounter on a california beach restarts a college romance with a beautiful former girlfriend, who happens to have the key to the oldest unsolved mystery of the american civil war.

a missing ironclad, a fortune in silver, sealed orders from an assassinated president, and a family legacy of military service and secrecy begins a search for the truth behind what was supposed to have been the battle that changed the course of the civil war and won the south her independence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Fairchild
• Release date: Jun 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985402334

James Fairchild

James Fairchild is a writer and researcher of espionage and military history. He is from Connecticut and is partial fo fine cigars, single malt Scotch whiskey, and beautiful blondes. His newest novel "My Girlfriend's UFO" is now available at Smashwords.com! Check back at this website for new releases!

Book preview

My Girlfriend's

IRONCLAD

BY

JAMES FAIRCHILD

.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Downfall Press

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN 098540230X

ISBN-13 978-0985402303

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE - THE SOCIALITE

CHAPTER TWO - THE MYSTERY

CHAPTER THREE - THE SPY

CHAPTER FOUR - THE IRONCLAD

CHAPTER FIVE - AIRBORNE

CHAPTER SIX - PHANTOM SHIP

CHAPTER SEVEN - EXECUTIVE ORDERS

CHAPTER EIGHT - EXECUTIVE ACTION

CHAPTER NINE - THE SILVER LODE

CHAPTER TEN - TREASURE SHIP

CHAPTER ELEVEN - EUREKA

CHAPTER TWELVE - KIDNAPPED

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THE TALL SHIP

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - RETRIBUTION

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ENGAGEMENT

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - CHECKMATE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - END GAME

HISTORICAL NOTES

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

THE SOCIALITE

My first thought was, I've seen those breasts before.

It's always awkward running into an ex-girlfriend, but at the top of the awkward list is meeting one at a swimsuit optional beach.

California has a lot of these. The local girls take advantage of this to avoid tan lines, so on any given weekend they're out here relaxing, often, as in this case, without a swimsuit.

I recognized her before she recognized me. Her name was Anne Cortland. We had met years earlier, and although I was frantically trying to remember where, I could not, but I did remember the basic details - we had a summer fling in college, which ended when she had to go back to college on the West Coast and I had to go back to my college back east. A couple of Christmas cards afterwards, and I had not heard from her since.

She looked just as good now as she had then - a mass of long blonde hair drifting over her shoulders, lean legs [she had run track for Stanford] topped by a mini bikini bottom, and, of course, her perfectly formed bust, which today was unencumbered by a bikini top.

I was wearing sunglasses and surfer shorts [I used to surf, the shorts are comfortable and dry quickly] and the sunglasses helped conceal the fact that I was staring directly at her - it was hard not to, with a body like that.

But our paths crossed. As she approached she looked directly at me, and then a flicker of recognition broke into complete surprise.

James Larson! She chirped. I haven't seen you in like, forever! What are you doing here?

Hi, Annie, I replied, using the nickname I had always called her. This is a surprise - great to see you!

Impulsively she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me in a hug. You look great! I've missed you!

Trying hard to ignore the fact that she had given me a hug which crushed her exposed perfect C cups into my chest, I gave her a quick hug back. I noticed her blonde hair was scented with a hint of ocean breeze.

I missed you too, I replied, long time no see. What brings you to California?

She laughed, the wind blowing her hair back. I live here, silly! Don't you remember?

I did remember. She was a native of the city of San Francisco, a socialite, from an old San Francisco family. Still lived there in an old Victorian mansion the last time we had seen each other.

She took off her glasses. I should be asking you - what are you doing in California?

On vacation, I responded. Just taking some time off to...

I stopped, because she reached up to my face, and pulled my sunglasses off. For a moment she looked me over, and then she smiled, which is like watching the sun come out.

Time off for what? she asked, holding my sunglasses in my hands.

For you, I said, laughing. How have you been?

She shook her head, smiling. James Larson, she said. Of all the people to run into. She hooked her arm in mine. Want to walk with me?

Sure. Generally, anytime a topless blonde wants to walk on the beach with me I'm pretty agreeable.

What have you been up to since I last saw you? she asked, as we walked barefoot in the sand along the surf line.

The truth is not much of anything, as I work a lot, but I could hardly say that to her, it would make me look boring. So I lied.

Oh, doing come consulting, keeping up with my friends, still do some surfing now and then. How about you?

Most of that was untrue. I don't remember the last time I had time to talk to one of my friends and I almost never get out to surf anymore.

I work in the city now, she said. It's an easy commute. I get lots of vacation. Have to get up early, though, to keep up with the international markets.

I suddenly remembered. She had been a finance major.

You were at Stanford, right? I asked. She nodded.

And you were back east. She smiled, remembering. Our little summer romance.

Pretty intense romance, I thought. Eight weeks of dancing, beach parties, alcohol and sex. Lots of sex.

And then we were off to our separate worlds.

She turned face me. I involuntarily glanced at her breasts. She followed me gaze and laughed.

Same old James, she said. Some things never change.

Sorry, I said. It's instinct.

Oh come on, she said. You've seen these before. Which is true, but I sure didn't mind seeing them again. I said so.

Hey, she said, as if suddenly remembering something, would you be willing to help me with something?

I had no other plans for the day, so I replied sure, no problem.

What are you doing for dinner tonight? she wanted to know.

Well, my plans included a microwave pizza but I wasn't going to tell her that, so instead I told her I had been thinking about a Greek restaurant on Union Street.

Come to my house, she asserted, I'll make you dinner. I have something I need your help on.

If I had any idea of what I was getting into I would have turned her down immediately, but I cannot resist blondes, never have been able to.

The prospect of work didn't seem appealing, and she saw the look on my face. I have whiskey, she added.

I rapidly reviewed the situation. Dinner prepared by beautiful blonde, with whiskey, at her mansion in San Francisco, as opposed to microwave pizza at my hotel. Seemed an easy decision.

Your place it is, I said. Are you still at that old Victorian?

I am, she said, surprised, you remember!

Of course I remembered. She was born to San Francisco aristocracy, their mansion built before the Gold Rush. An old Dutch family, her family money came from shipping, on which the city was entirely dependent prior to the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad. As I remember, since her parents had died, her job was to manage the family trust with the twin goals of making even more money while simultaneously giving a lot of it away to charity. They had been generous supporters to the foundation of Stanford University, which is why, I suppose, she had gone to school there. Their old Victorian home, while in constant need of repair, was still a very impressive building.

I remembered why I had been so attracted to Anne. She was young, blonde, athletic - she was on the track team - she was smart enough to get a finance degree from Stanford, she liked guns and liked to shoot them [as I remember she had a gun safe with a collection of them], she did consulting work for the Stanford Research Institute and she was sexy as hell on top of all of that. And now she was inviting me to her family's old mansion for dinner.

We had a lot of fun there, I said, mildly amused, I'm not likely to forget it.

You can follow me, she said, turning back toward her towel, Let me get dressed.

We picked up her towel and sunscreen, with Anne pulling her top on so that she wouldn't be arrested for exposure once we were in the parking lot, which was regrettable, since she looked a lot better without it.

She drove a BMW convertible—as she always had—while I was driving a Volvo convertible. She slipped into her elegant car and dropped the convertible top. I did the same in my car, and she led off toward the city.

For a few miles on the sunny, empty California freeway we ran the cars alongside each other, enjoying the sensation of being young and at the wheel of magnificently engineered cars on an open road.

Then we approached the city, where we had to slow down for traffic, threading our way along the back streets until we arrived at her home.

The Cortland Mansion.

CHAPTER TWO

THE MYSTERY

The old Cortland mansion in San Francisco sits near the waterfront near what ultimately became the Golden Gate bridge. It is the original building, although extensively modified and retrofitted for earthquake protection, with a modern wiring harness. Anne had told me once that the principal engineering problem had been putting in modern heat conserving windows.

The stables had been converted into garage spaces for the cars, into which we now pulled. The doors opened automatically as we approached. I followed her carefully, but the garages were brilliantly lit with xenon lighting.

She slid gracefully from her car and watched as I pulled in and killed the engine.

Remember your way around? she said cheerfully.

I have to confess, being in her house and in her presence again made me relaxed and comfortable.

She turned and entered the house through the garage exit. I didn't see a light switch but the lights turned off automatically as I exited.

I'm going to shower and get the beach sand off, you know where the guest bedroom is, she said, as she peeled off her clothes, leaving a trail of her towel, her beach wrap, her sandals and her bikini as she headed into her bedroom.

I did know where the guest bedroom was although I usually had slept in her bed, but this time I was a guest and not as her date, so I went up the stairs to the second floor and let myself in to the guest room.

The mansion itself was constructed of brick and paneled in teak and mahogany. The guest bedroom was spacious, quiet, and elegantly furnished.

More importantly, the bathroom had been upgraded to modern fixtures, so I was able to step into a jet of warm water and begin to clean the beach sand off.

I was about in the middle of this when the curtains parted, and young Miss Cortland stepped in. Anne did an actual towel drop to reveal that perfect California body.

I decided I wanted company, she explained, as she put her hair up.

With some hesitation, I began to apply soap to her body. In response, she put her hands on top of her head to allow me full access.

Make sure you get all the beach sand off, she said.

So I did. And that is how our college romance got suddenly updated. Slowly and very carefully, so as not to slip and break my neck in the shower, we had passionate sex in the water. It was as good as I remembered in college, making it all the better with all the good memories thrown in.

Afterward we had to actually clean and wash our hair. She ran her hands over my body appreciatively.

You are still exercising, she said happily.

I run the beach now and then, which was a partially true explanation, since the drive which powered my exercise program was for a mental need to get over my last relationship, but I wasn't going to tell her that.

She gave me a lingering kiss, and for a moment I just sat there and let her kiss me with the hot water running over us.

But eventually we had to get out of the shower, so I toweled her dry like I had when we were young and innocent and energetic and oversexed.

She pulled her mini robe on, which I loved because it was too short and showed her bun cheeks, and headed out of the bedroom.

Jim, when you get dressed, will you join me in the library? I need your help.

I would join her anywhere, on the floor, in the office, on the stairs, but the library seemed ok to me, especially since we'd just had sex.

I had no clean clothes other than my sand soaked beach shorts, but there was another robe there, so I put that on and headed into the library.

The library was an impressive affair. Floor to ceiling bookshelves, with a simply massive bay window overlooking San Francisco Bay, and a massive oak table with very comfortable chairs.

Anne was sitting in a chair overlooking the bay, with her feet up [I noticed she had a French pedicure] and on the table, an aged manila folder stuffed with documents. This caught my attention and intrigued me immediately.

So what's this all about? I asked her, sitting next to her at the table. Where do I come in?

She leaned forward, her robe falling open. I concentrated on what she was saying as she had asked for my help.

Do you remember how we met? she asked.

No, I did not remember. I did not remember most of that year, my junior year in college. I hesitated.

She saw this immediately, and smiled. You don't remember, do you?

I admitted I did not.

She put her hand on my knee. Do you remember the Civil War roundtable at the Presidio?

The Presidio is the oldest active military post west of the Mississippi river. Originally built by the Spanish, it is located in San Francisco overlooking the bay. It's a fairly large complex, and when we had been dating it had hosted a series of conferences on the American Civil War.

It came back to me. The conference had discussed the role of the state of California in the Civil War. Of course, if you asked me now, I have no idea whatsoever of what California did in the Civil War. All I remembered it, that I had met Anne Cortland there, that we went on to have a passionate affair, and that now she was sitting in front of me years later. I remarked on this.

The Civil War series...something about what went on in California...that's about all I remember.

She adjusted the manila folder, and pulled it closer to her. That's correct....and do you remember how we met?

This I did remember. You were wearing a blue sundress....you had a blue ribbon in your hair....

She cut me off. No, not what I was wearing.....how we met.

It clicked. The Union Navy.

I looked at her. Your great great grandfather was a captain or something in the Union Navy.....

She finished for me. And your great great granduncle was also in the Union Navy.

That's right, that was how it had happened. I had gone out of curiosity, since my great great grand uncle on my mother's side, Robert Fletcher, was the only one to serve in the Navy, not the Army, during the Civil War.

At any rate I had gone there, listened to the lecture, and afterward there was a Q & A session. Whatever questions I had, I had completely forgotten, because that was the first time I had ever seen Anne Cortland, in her blue sundress and blonde hair, she made an immediate impact.

I mentioned this to Anne.

Good, she said, this is good, because that's what this is all about. Read this.

She passed over a simple white envelope, looked government issue. I picked it up.

It was from the Department of the Navy, addressed directly to Anne at her San Francisco address.

The contents were very simple. It asked her if she had any information regarding the service records of her relative, Augustus van Cortland, in the Civil War, for the purpose of contributing to a history of the Union Navy. A return envelope was enclosed.

Who is Augustus van Cortland? I asked.

My great great great grandfather, she replied.

Van Cortland? I asked

That's our family name, she sighed, we dropped the Van years ago. It's Dutch.

This is interesting, I said, because it was, why on earth would the Navy Department be contacting a civilian for records? Aren't those records on file somewhere in Washington?

Apparently there was a fire in the 1970s, and a number of military records were destroyed....his was among them. She sighed.

That made sense as to why they needed the records, but no sense whatsoever as to why the Navy was writing a book on Navy history while simultaneously fighting three wars, which was America's current military status.

A faint chill rang up my spine. There had to be a fairly substantial reason why the Navy had initiated this inquiry, otherwise it would not merit this type of effort on their behalf. I became immediately wary.

Anne was pouring a glass of 12 year old whiskey into a glass which she set before me. She caught my expression of concern.

What is it? she wanted to know.

So I told her. The country was fighting wars in three separate countries and every single solder, sailor, marine and airman was needed; it made no sense whatsoever that someone would be using their time to write a book on Navy history.

I took a sip of the whiskey, took a look at my beautiful blonde girlfriend, and thought for a minute. There's more to this than a request for records, take my word for it, something else is up.

She watched me carefully. What should I do?

Send them copies of whatever records you have, and don't make any inquiries as to why they need it, and you should be all right. This will also be a help to your country, although I have no idea as to why after a hundred and sixty years they have to have this information immediately.

And so, I thought, that was all that was needed. I imagined that my opinion on this letter was all that she needed from me, and that my involvement in this would now be concluded, and that would be that.

Ha.

Does that help? I asked. Is that what you needed to consult me on?

She crossed and uncrossed her legs, which she always did when she was worried, and I could see she was completely shaved. I enjoyed looking at her legs, but I was also worried as to why she was concerned.

Not exactly, she said. It's a bit more complicated that that.

Yes, it certainly was, it turned out to be a whole lot more complicated than that.

The problem, she began, is that I don't have any family records from the Civil War on my great great grandfather.

That's impossible, I said, you've got records going back to the Revolution."

I knew this because when we were having our affair in college, she had inherited the entire Cortland fortune: the trust, the mansion, the business, the foundation. I had helped her pack and reorganize the mansion, and I distinctly remember boxes and boxes of genealogical, military and property records.

She stood and walked over to the window and looked over San Francisco Bay.

Not on Augustus van Cortland, she said. There are no military records on his service for any time during the Civil War. She gestured at the old manila folder on the desk. There's nothing there.

That's impossible, I said. He had to have kept copies of his officer's commission and his discharge orders at the very least.

Nothing, she said, turning to me, her robe falling open, nothing at all.

Again I felt a chill, stronger this time. This was more concerning because I was looking at a beautiful woman while feeling very worried - it was an incongruous sensation.

Thank God for the whiskey. I sipped at my glass, staring at Anne's open robe.

She put her hair up and let it fall down in a long blonde waterfall, which she knows drives me completely crazy. That and her open robe made for a perfect picture. It's how I always remember her, on that day in that pose.

Help me, James, she asked earnestly, you are my best hope.

I was both puzzled and aroused. As casual as I am about Anne's beauty, no matter how many times we are together, seeing her au natural always turns me on, making it very difficult to concentrate.

I looked at her carefully, not understanding. How can I help you, Anne? I've given you my best advice - what else can I do?

She did the thing with her hair again, pulling a wisp of her hair across her face. Your relative, she said, its how we met, don't you remember? You relative, Robert Fletcher, served under Augustus Cortland in the Civil War. You must have his records, don't you?

I had completely forgotten. This is understandable, since when I see Anne I pretty much forget everything else, but she was right.

The Civil War roundtable at the Presidio of San Francisco, all the way back in my college years. The Union Navy in California. I had gone to gather information on Robert Fletcher, my great great