The year was 1863, and Engineer Hadley had not slept in three days.
The Confederate locomotive sat dormant on the tracks outside Chattanooga, its wheels cold and still. Hadley's orders were clear: disable the engine before Union forces could seize it and use it to push deeper into Southern territory. Every minute wasted was a minute closer to catastrophe.
He crouched beneath the massive iron body, studying the interlocking gears of the drive mechanism — each cog fitted against the next like teeth in a jaw, turning together as one inseparable whole. To stop the machine, he would need to break that chain at precisely the right point.
His commanding officer had proposed a different arrangement: burn the locomotive entirely and retreat south before dawn. But Hadley refused. Burning would draw Union scouts within the hour.
The incessant hammering of distant artillery made concentration nearly impossible. Each trembling boom rattled the iron plating above him and sent loose gravel skittering across the rail bed. He wiped sweat from his brow and pressed on.
When the wrench slipped and tore the skin from his knuckles for the fourth time, Hadley could not suppress a sharp grunt of vexation. He pressed his bleeding hand against his coat and steadied his breath. Anger would accomplish nothing.
Finally, a deep metallic crack echoed through the undercarriage. The central shaft had split.
Hadley crawled out from beneath the locomotive and stood, looking up at the silent machine against the pale Georgia sky. It would not move again. He turned south and walked into the darkness.