Breakthrough

by Scott H Washburn

  “If that’s true, this is excellent,” said Bixby, clearly impressed. “Current fortifications need concrete walls ten or twenty feet thick to resist the impact of heavy shells. But if we could reduce that to five feet or even less it would be a huge saving in time and materials!”

  The discussion went on to cover the sort of guns which would be mounted in the forts. “Disappearing mounts are falling out of favor for coast defense,” said Bixby. “The much longer ranges now possible mean the incoming shells are traveling in a much higher trajectory and could land behind the wall shielding the guns. But if the Martian heat ray travels strictly in a straight line, a disappearing gun might be the ideal weapon. Would you agree, Major?”

  Andrew looked at the diagram Bixby pushed toward him. It showed a typical twelve-inch disappearing gun mount. The idea was very simple: the gun was mounted on a carriage which could raise and lower it using a counterweight. In the lowered position it would be below the top of the fortification’s parapet and safe from enemy fire. The gun could be loaded and even aimed in that position. Then, when all was ready, a lever would release the counterweight; the gun would rise up above the parapet and already be trained on its target. The gun would immediately be fired and the recoil would drive the gun back down into the loading position. The gun would only be exposed for a few seconds.

  At the turn of the century, the range of naval guns had only been a few thousand yards and a shell fired at a coastal fort would travel in almost a straight line. The shell would either hit the face of the fort’s walls or fly over the parapet for long distances and explode harmlessly. Only an incredibly lucky hit against a gun in the firing position would do anything. This made the disappearing mounts very effective. But as Bixby said, recent developments in gunnery had increased the range of guns enormously. Shells flung from twenty thousand yards would come down in a steep arc and could land just behind the parapet, damaging the guns and killing their crews. But the Martian rays…

  “The heat rays travel in a precisely straight line, like light, sir. They do not follow a ballistic path. The disappearing mounts would appear to be an ideal weapon. Of course their black dust projectiles do travel in an arc, but with their wide area of dispersal they would be dangerous even if they traveled in a straight line, too. The gun crews will need dust protection just like the other troops.”

  “Damn uncomfortable in a climate like this!” said General Barry.

  “Pretty damn uncomfortable to have your lungs dissolved, too, General,” said Roosevelt.

  “Very good,” said Bixby. “We’ll employ as many disappearing mounts as possible.”

  They discussed a few more things, like ammunition supply and storage, but by then it was nearly noon and they stopped for lunch. This was served in a dining hall with large, screened-in windows, by white coated stewards. Andrew sat next to Ted.

  “Hope you weren’t bored,” said Andrew

  “Not at all. It was very interesting and it seems like a lot of progress was made.”

  “I suppose. But maps and models won’t stop the Martians. There’s a hell of a lot of work to do to make all this planning a reality.”

  “True. And a lot of folks back home are going to ask why all that work is being done here instead of there?”

  It was an awkward question that Andrew had no intention of trying to answer, so he changed the subject. “Hmmm. I wonder what the Germans want with your father?”

  “I think we’re about to find out. Look.” Ted raised his chin and jerked his head toward the windows.

  Andrew turned to look out and saw several American army officers, and Commander Blue escorting another man in a foreign naval uniform. They hurried up the steps to the building, and a few moments later they entered the dining room. The new man had a mustache and small chin beard and his face was ruddy and sweat-covered. He was brought over to where Roosevelt was seated. He came to attention, clicked his heels together and bowed stiffly from the waist. But before he could say anything, Roosevelt addressed him in fluent German.

  Andrew didn’t know what the President had said, but the man looked surprised, and then smiled and answered in accented, but understandable English. “Thank you, Your Excellency! You are most kind. I am Korvetten-Kapitan Hans Zenker, aide to Vizeadmiral Hubert von Rebeur-Paschwitz, commander of His Imperial Majesty’s Caribbean Squadron.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed the President. “How is old Hubbie? I knew him when he was Willie’s naval attaché back in Washington!”

  “So the admiral said, sir. He hoped you would remember him.”

  “I do! I do! But what brings you here in such a hurry?”

  The German became serious and formal again. “Sir, as you know, the Kaiser has seen fit to land a force in Caracas, Venezuela to save the local people from the depredations of the Martian invaders.”

  Roosevelt’s easy manner dropped away, as well. “Yes, I was aware of that, sir, please go on.”

  “Of course, sir. We have secured the city and beaten back several small attacks by Martians moving up directly from the south. But now our scouts have detected a much stronger force which has descended from the mountains to the coast several hundred miles to the west. We believe they intend to march on Caracas from there. The Admiral plans to intercept them with his squadron two days from now. He has sent me here to inquire if any of your forces would be interested in participating in the operation?”

  The light that appeared on Roosevelt’s face was like a tropical sunrise. He broke out in an enormous grin and slammed his fist on the table. “By thunder we certainly would!” He jumped to his feet and turned to face Bixby and Barry. “Sorry gentlemen, you’ll have to go on with your meeting without me! I need to join Admiral Rodman on his flagship!”

  The German officer’s eyes grew very wide and his ruddy complexion turned pale. “Uh, Your Excellency! Admiral von Rebeur-Paschwitz did not mean that you should come yourself!”

  Somehow the President’s grin grew even wider. “What? And miss out on all the fun? Ted! Andy! Don’t just stand there! Get moving! There’s not a moment to lose!”

  Chapter Seven

  September 1909, five miles South of Curacao Island

  The battleship Michigan rolled gently in the swell as it cut a creamy wake through the calm waters. Just astern of her was the battleship Delaware, and just ahead the armored cruiser Pennsylvania. Two more big cruisers, the North Carolina and Tennessee, trailed behind. Several smaller cruisers prowled on the flanks. They’d lost sight of the speedy Emden the day before as she went ahead to tell her fellows the Americans were coming.

  Major Andrew Comstock stood on one of the platforms that projected off to the side of the main bridge. There was probably some sort of nautical name for it, but he didn’t know what it was. Navy crewmen were moving to and fro or climbing the ladders up through the odd cage-masts to the soaring lookout platforms far overhead. Thick black smoke poured from the funnels of the ships as they tore through the water at nearly their top speeds.

  The American squadron had been charging eastward for almost two days. President Roosevelt had dragged Ted and Andrew away from the conference, down to the harbor, and into a motor launch which took them out to Admiral Rodman’s flagship, pausing only long enough for a steward to transfer a few bags of clothing from the Mayflower. In truth, Andrew was excited about going, he just hoped someone had gotten his message to Victoria - and that she wasn’t too angry with him when they got back.

  The President was tremendously eager to join in the fray and Andrew remembered his earlier words with Ted. Was the President determined to get in another ‘crowded hour’ while he could? Admiral Rodman had seemed reluctant at first, but quickly caught Roosevelt’s enthusiasm, even to the point of leaving the older and slower warships behind.

  They had sailed through one night and then a second. If the Martians were where the Germans said they were, they ought to see them today.

  The President’s arrival had caused more than a little disruption aboa
rd the Michigan. Admiral Rodman had been forced out of his cabin, which forced the ship’s captain out of his, which had forced the first officer out of his… and so on. Andrew and Ted were sharing a cabin formerly occupied by a pair of lieutenants. He didn’t know what had become of them.

  Glancing over his shoulder he noticed the President and his son coming up the ladder. The elder Roosevelt waved a cheery good morning and then went onto the bridge with Ted. Andrew followed. Admiral Rodman was already there. “Good morning, Mr. President,” he said. “I trust you slept well?”

  “Well enough! Well enough! Always a bit restless before a battle. Will it be today, do you think?”

  “It will depend on how fast the Martians have been moving east, sir. The Germans seem to think it will be today, but if the enemy has moved faster than expected, we might not catch up with them until tonight—in which case I’d prefer to wait until tomorrow morning to engage.”

  “Yes, certainly. Better gunnery in daylight,” said the President nodding.

  “We are about twenty miles off the coast of Venezuela right now, sir. I have the Birmingham sailing closer inshore scouting for signs of the Martians.”

  “Bully!” said Roosevelt. He peered out the right-hand windows on the bridge and squinted. There wasn’t anything to be seen.

  “A bit hazy this morning,” said Rodman, “but it will burn off soon. Should have good visibility for shooting, sir.”

  “Good! But tell me, Admiral, at what range were you planning to engage the beasties?”

  Rodman’s eyebrows went up. “That’s a good question, sir, and I’ve been discussing it with my officers. Closer will increase accuracy, but we must consider the safety of the ships—and our passengers.” He stared pointedly at Roosevelt.

  “Ha! It won’t be the first time I’ve been shot at! But seriously, I don’t think you have much to worry about, right Major?” He looked at Andrew.

  “Uh, yes, sir. I mean no, sir, if you keep even a moderate distance you ought to be safe. We did tests of a heat ray against armor plates and at two thousand yards it barely burned the paint off the steel. Flammable items—and people—could be vulnerable out to three thousand. Four thousand for a long exposure.”

  “Four thousand yards? Really?” Rodman snorted. “I doubt I’d risk the ships much closer than that to the shore even without anyone shooting at us! Quite a few rocks along this stretch of coast. At four thousand yards we are going to have a duck-shoot, Mr. President.”

  “I hope so, Admiral, although keep in mind your targets will be smaller than a warship.” Roosevelt stepped out onto the bridge wing—wing! That’s what they were called!—and looked forward and then aft. They all followed him out. “It’s quite a force you have, Admiral, and yet only a small fraction of our navy. When I see our fleet I sometimes wonder what Isaac Hull or Oliver Perry would think if they could see this?”

  Rodman smiled and nodded. “I’ve read your book, sir. It’s required reading at Annapolis now.”

  “The Naval War of 1812? I wrote that when I was younger than Ted, here.”

  “It’s still the standard work on the subject.”

  “I sometimes think I should do a new edition. While it’s fine when it comes to describing the ships and the battles, I realize now—have realized for quite some time—that there’s no context to what I wrote.”

  “Sir?”

  “Context, Admiral! I wrote about ships, the men who manned them, and about the battles they fought. But scarcely a word about the strategic decisions which brought those battles about. I wrote a book about the War of 1812 and never once even mentioned the president or the secretary of the navy!”

  “I... I can’t say I noticed that, sir.”

  “Well, I didn’t either at the time—not having met any presidents or secretaries of the navy yet.”

  “So when you write the history of this war, sir,” said Ted with a strange smile on his face, “what will you say about the strategic decisions which brought about the battle we’ll be fighting today?”

  “What? Do you mean will I include the fact that the President caused it so he could watch a sea battle?”

  “Something like that, sir.”

  They all laughed and then the admiral excused himself to attend to his duties. The three of them, having no duties at the moment, leaned on the rail and watched the ships and the sea. As the admiral had said, the mist disappeared as the sun got higher and the Birmingham and the coast of Venezuela appeared. It was hard to see anything from this far out, but they could tell that some substantial mountains rose up beyond the coastline. They stood in silence for a while and then the President turned to him.

  “So, Major, as our most recent combat veteran and the only man in the fleet who’s seen a live Martian, do you have any advice for dealing with them?”

  Andrew pondered that for a moment and then said: “Hit them with everything we’ve got, sir. Oh, and if they retreat, don’t try to follow them up into those hills.”

  The President laughed. “No, I don’t imagine Rodman will be tempted to make Sumner’s mistake.” He paused and his smile faded. “Not funny, is it? I forgot that you were there with Sumner at Thoreau. Must have been terrible.”

  “I suppose any battle is terrible, sir. But I think the worst was when I realized we’d been beaten and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it.”

  “Praise God that I’ve never had to experience that, Major.”

  “And you won’t have to today, sir. We’re going to beat them for sure!”

  “That’s the spirit! We’ll beat them here and we’ll beat them everywhere!”

  They parted company and Andrew wandered around the ship for a bit. The admiral had given them a complete tour yesterday, but there were a few places he wanted to look at in closer detail. In particular, he was interested in the system which aimed the big guns. He finally tracked down the assistant gunnery officer, a lieutenant commander named Smith, who was willing to spare him a few minutes to explain it all.

  “Well, believe it or not, as recently as the Spanish War we were still aiming our guns the same way Drake did against the Armada,” said Smith. “We’d peer out along the gun barrel and when we thought it was lined up on the target we’d pull the lanyard and hope for the best. Against a big, slow-moving target we might hit it at two or three thousand yards.” Andrew nodded, he knew that.

  “But in the last few years we’ve made all sorts of advances. Those British fellows, Pollen and Dryer, led the way, but we’re not far behind now. For accurate fire at long ranges you need to know how your own ship is moving, you need to know what direction the enemy is moving and how fast, and above all you need to know the range. Not just the approximate range, but the actual range to within a hundred yards or so or you are going to miss.”

  Smith pointed upward. “So, we have trained men in the flying bridge up there and the other one astern and they have special telescopes and instruments which can tell us all those things. They send all the information down to the plotting room, which is about four decks below us here, where they take it all and come up with a firing solution. That’s sent to the gun turrets and at the proper moment the guns fire.”

  “Interesting. So do you think you’ll be able to hit something the size of a railroad locomotive at four thousand yards?”

  “Ought to be able to get pretty darn close, Major! And we won’t need to score a direct hit; a twelve-inch shell makes a helluva bang!”

  “I bet it does. I’m looking forward to seeing one.” He thanked Smith and went in search of lunch. He’d been dining with the Roosevelts at every meal for days now and he decided to try something a little less frenetic. Some looking led him to a mess compartment for junior officers. It seemed appropriate since his major’s rank was only equivalent to a navy lieutenant commander. The food wasn’t nearly as elaborate as what he’d been getting lately, but it was still good. His army uniform got him some odd looks, but no one spoke to him, which was fine. He needed to think.r />
  Combat. He was going into combat again. As a spectator. Again.

  He hadn’t stayed a spectator very long the first time, but he said a silent prayer that this time would be different. He was a little ashamed of himself for being afraid, but eventually he realized he wasn’t worried about his own safety - well, maybe a little. No, it was like he said to the President: that awful awareness that the battle was lost; he never wanted to experience that again.

  And I won’t! I mean what can go wrong? Aside from a Martian heat ray finding its way into the ship’s magazine and blowing us all to Kingdom Come?

  That seemed very unlikely - unless the Martians had some new trick up their non-existent sleeves. Stop worrying! They’re not omnipotent! No, they weren’t; humans had tricked them and beaten the hell out of them at Prewitt, and they’d do it again today.

  He was just getting up from the table when gongs rang through the ship, calling the men to their battle stations. Andrew hurried up to the bridge and got there just as the Roosevelts arrived. “What’s happening, Admiral?” demanded the President.

  “A signal from the Chester, sir,” said Rodman with a look of satisfaction on his face. He gestured to where the scout cruiser was visible about twelve miles ahead. “They report that they’ve made contact with the German squadron and that Admiral Rebeur-Paschwitz’s flagship is flying the ‘Enemy in Sight’ signal.”

  “Bully!” cried Roosevelt. “So it will be today!”

  “So it would seem, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get things sorted out.”

  But it didn’t appear that very much sorting out was needed. The heavy ships of the squadron were already in a very tidy line-ahead formation, with only the Chester and Birmingham detached as scouts. There was a great deal of rushing around on the bridge with messengers coming and going, but Andrew wasn’t sure what it was all for. Crewmen went around the bridge, unlatching all the windows, so they wouldn’t be shattered by the concussion of the guns.