Breakthrough

by Scott H Washburn

  “We can’t afford pipe dreams, Colonel,” said Crozier. “We need a working vehicle.”

  “Yes, sir. Baldwin is working on it around the clock, but they are having a lot of trouble with how to take the power from the engines and transfer it to the tracks.” Waski paused and took another batch of paper out of his folder. “And we received this the other day from George Westinghouse in Pittsburgh. He’s suggesting a radical alternative where we would eliminate the direct mechanical transfer of power and instead incorporate a set of steam turbines in the main hull which would produce electricity which would then be used to run a set of induction motors in the tracks themselves.”

  “Could that work?”

  “Baldwin is skeptical, but they are looking into it.”

  “Any estimate on when they can have this prototype ready?”

  “They are hoping for the end of 1911, sir.”

  “Two years? That’s much too long. Have them hurry it up.”

  “Yes, sir. Oh, and Baldwin has submitted this proposal for an interim design. They say they could have it working in a year.” Waski slid a sheet of paper across the table to Crozier who looked at it and then passed it around to the others. When it got to Andrew he saw what looked like a miniaturized version of the land ironclad; a single large turret and instead of caterpillar tracks, four huge wheels. “They are calling it ‘Little David’ and it would be a way to deploy a very large mobile gun on the battlefield. They want permission to go ahead.”

  “A year?” asked Crozier. Waski nodded. “All right, tell them to go ahead. But what else is Baldwin up to? Ben?” He looked at Hawthorne.

  “Sir, they are producing the Mark II and Mark III steam tanks on three shifts. They hope to have a working prototype of the Mark IV by early next year. American Locomotive has also begun production of the Mark II. Ford has won a contract to start production on both models, but won’t be able to deliver any until next spring. We have also asked Baldwin to supply designs for other vehicles using the Mark II as a basis. These include self-propelled artillery, ammunition, fuel, and water carriers, and lightly armed transports for infantry. They believe they can meet our needs quickly. They are also working on a design for an armored train.”

  “Good, good. And I understand that the new high-velocity field gun will start deployment this month, correct?”

  “Yes, sir, although on a makeshift carriage. As you know, the one that was designed for it has failed almost every test.”

  “Yes, bad business that. When can we expect a proper carriage?”

  “Probably not for six months, sir.”

  Crozier frowned but didn’t pursue the subject. Instead he turned his eyes on Andrew. “So, Major? What have you to report from our pack of geniuses?”

  “Well, sir, for the most part they are still in the process of absorbing all the information the British gave to us. They have a lot of catching up and cross-checking to do before they can really start moving forward again.”

  “Yes, our British allies should have come forward years ago!”

  “Yes, sir, I surely agree. But it seems that our own scientists anticipated quite a lot of what the British gave us, so the catching up ought to go pretty quickly.”

  “Good! But do any of them anticipate any usable developments in the near-term, Major?”

  “The most concrete development, sir, is that Tesla has four of the captured heat rays functional. As you know, we have captured the remains of seven of the Martian machines. One was completely destroyed in the battle and two more of the heat rays were too badly damaged to function. But the remaining four could be used if given a sufficient power supply. Tesla was working on developing a smaller and more portable power sources, but…”

  “But what?”

  “When he was given his copy of the British records, he, well, he became a bit distracted. He’s easily distracted, sir.”

  “So I’ve heard!” said Crozier. “Well get him undistracted!”

  “We’ll try, sir, but he’s gone back to his Wardenclyffe Tower on Long Island. Claims he’s on to a great discovery. It may be hard to pry him out of there.”

  “Do your best. What about Edison and his crew?”

  “They have high hopes for the special wire from the Martian batteries, sir. They are pursuing quite a few ideas, including our own version of the British coil gun. But I wouldn’t expect anything before next summer. The folks at MIT have pretty much given up on trying to duplicate the Martian metal. Considering that the British haven’t made any real progress on that over a far longer period, that’s not surprising. On the other hand, their ‘sandwich’ armor of steel and asbestos is already in use as a shield on the new high-velocity field guns and they are coming up with other applications.” Andrew paused and looked at Crozier. “And that reminds me, sir, did you get that letter I forwarded from Goddard and Munroe? They buttonholed me up in Boston and I must say their proposals do seem to have some merit.”

  “I glanced at it,” replied Crozier. “Rockets, eh? Might have some use. I sent it on to young Frederick to look it over. That’s his job, after all, to look over crackpot ideas, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Andrew.

  General Crozier leaned back in chair and glanced out the window. It was snowing harder and the light was fading as the short winter day came to an end. “I think that will do it, gentlemen. Good job, all of you. Our next meeting won’t be until after the New Year, so I’ll wish you all a Merry Christmas right now.”

  Everyone returned the gesture and gathered up their papers before leaving. Andrew had a few things he wanted to deal with before he left, so he returned to his office. He actually had a real office! With a real orderly! He sent off some letters and organized a few other things and then sorted through his in-basket. Most of it was routine stuff he could do in the morning, but one letter caught his eye. It was an ordinary envelope, but it was dirty and battered. It was addressed to him, but there were stamps from military post offices in Washington, Chicago, St. Louis, and Santa Fe. It had apparently followed quite a route to get to him. There was no return address.

  Curious, he opened it up and started in surprise. He read it through—three times. After sitting and thinking for a good five minutes he got up and walked next door to Colonel Hawthorne’s office and poked his head in. “Sir? Have you got a minute?”

  “Sure, come on in Andy,” said his father-in-law.

  He did so and shut the door behind him. “Thank you, sir. I just got a rather…”

  “Andy, you know when we’re alone, you can call me Ben - or even ‘Dad’ if you prefer.”

  “That’s going to take some getting used to, si - er, Ben,” said Andrew with an awkward grin.

  “Work on it. But sit down. What’s on your mind? That was a good report you gave the general, by the way.”

  “Thank you… But the reason I came over is that I just received a rather strange letter. Do you remember that girl in my report? The one who was with the group of people we rescued from the Martians?”

  “The spitfire with the rifle? Hard to forget her!”

  “Yes, sir, that’s the one. Well, she’s an army nurse now in Santa Fe. She was with Funston’s army during the recent defeat at Gallup.”

  “Indeed? She seems to have knack for getting into tight places! But she obviously got out all right.”

  “Yes, she did. But in her letter she told me that when our people broke into the Martian fortress some of them actually got down into the underground areas and…”

  “Really? She said that?” interrupted Hawthorne. “How does she know? We got some reports to that effect, but no one who was actually in there has turned up. If it really happened, they must not have survived the retreat.”

  “I guess not, Ben, but Miss Harding says that during the fighting there was a man who was delivered to her hospital unit who had been a prisoner inside the fortress.”

  “What? Someone from General Sumner’s army?”

  “Yes, or I suppose it m
ight have been someone who was at Fort Wingate.”

  “Didn’t she ask? And why hasn’t this man come forward? He might be able to tell us a lot!”

  “Well, you see, sir, that’s the whole point of Miss Harding’s letter. Apparently this man—she doesn’t give a name - has recovered physically, but she says that he’s very ‘skittish’ and nervous. Doesn’t want to talk about what happened to him.”

  “Understandable; it must have been awful. But if we could get him back here I’m sure we could…”

  “That’s the thing: he won’t come back here. Harding says he’s convinced that if we get hold of him we’ll lock him away because of what he knows.”

  “That’s ridiculous! And in any case this man is still a soldier and he has a duty to talk to us! We need to wire Funston and have him send a provost detail to secure this man!”

  “Uh… Ben, it might be hard to find him. Miss Harding didn’t precisely say so in her letter, but it sounded to me as though this man is on a hair-trigger and could run for it if he even suspects we might try something like that. And it also sounded like she’d help him get away.”

  “Well, then why the devil did she even bother writing to you?” Hawthorne was visibly angry.

  “She says that she’s convinced this man that I am someone who can be trusted. She suggests that if I go out there alone she can set up an interview with him where he’ll tell me everything he knows. I have to agree to not try and take him away afterward.”

  Hawthorne frowned and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Don’t like it. But I suppose we’ll get more out of him if he does it willingly.” He frowned for a while longer and then stood up. “Let’s go talk to the general.”

  * * * * *

  Cycle 597,844.0, Holdfast 32-1

  Qetjnegartis opened its eyes. It had not expected to have another awakening so soon. Little more than a cycle had passed since its last one. It regarded its old body with something like regret. Not that it was anything more than dead organic material now, but there were no outward signs of the contagion which had forced it to abandon it so soon. Well, what was done was done.

  It went through the same routine it always did after an awakening, exercising its limbs, checking the internal organs, and exploring the depths of its memory. All seemed to be in order, although its limbs seemed stronger than normal; an adaptation to this world’s gravity?

  “Progenitor? Are you functional?”

  Davnitargus was looking at it. The bud had not witnessed an awakening before and had expressed much interest in the process. Remembering an earlier, and alarming, conversation with the bud it now turned its thoughts to the chain of dominance and subordination which it had always had since its first awakening. Had anything changed?

  No… no… all seemed to be as it was. Valprandar was in command and it must be obeyed. The Clan elders on the Homeworld… Yes, everything was in order. Then a new thought struck and it looked at Davnitargus. “Am I still your progenitor?”

  “Yes.” The bud seemed surprised.

  “And you will obey me?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask such a question?”

  “Never mind. Come, let us return to our work.”

  * * * * *

  December, 1909, Albuquerque, New Mexico Territory

  “Merry Christmas, Lieutenant!”

  Lieutenant Frank Dolfen turned and saw Sergeant Jason Urbaniak and a half-dozen other NCOs from the squadron staggering down the street. They’d clearly been drinking for a while, and there was nothing Frank would have liked better than to join them. But he couldn’t. He was an officer now and it just wasn’t done. He was with a few officers, himself, looking for just the right Albuquerque establishment for a Christmas celebration.

  So instead of joining the sergeant’s group, he simply nodded in their direction and murmured a ‘Merry Christmas’ in reply and moved on. He knew Urbaniak wouldn’t be offended. He was an old veteran and knew how things worked as well as Frank did.

  The other officers, young lieutenants from the 1st and 2nd squadrons, were an okay bunch. They didn’t seem to resent the fact that he had once been an enlisted man, although they were clearly a little intimidated that he was old enough to be their fathers.

  The streets of Albuquerque were mobbed with soldiers looking for a good time. With the front lines now on the doorstep, there were more troops stationed in the area than ever before, and those businesses which catered to their entertainment had grown enormously. Most of them were in the section known as Old Town and Dolfen imagined that was where Urbaniak and his gang had come from (and probably where they would return), but there were more respectable places in the newer sections of town. More respectable, but still offering the same services if you knew where to look.

  They found one, a place called The Silver Swan, for no reason Dolfen could see, and went inside. It was plush, had a piano and someone who could actually play it, and a number of pretty girls who would serve drinks, dance, and presumably provide other entertainment upstairs. The regiment had just been paid so Dolfen had a pocketful of money, although the crinkling of greenbacks was nowhere near as pleasant as the clink of gold. Just like during the Civil War, the government had run out of cash and was now running on paper money and war bonds. Oh well, they were accepting the greenbacks here so what difference did it make?

  Dolfen found a comfortable chair, paid for a few drinks, listened to the piano, and watched the flames in the fireplace. It was cold outside, but thankfully there hadn’t been much snow yet except up in the mountains. Despite the panic when the second wave of Martian cylinders landed, there hadn’t been any sign of them in weeks. One cavalry patrol had pushed all the way back to the siege lines around Gallup without finding anything. He was glad he hadn’t pulled that duty!

  Some of the officers were dancing with the girls and periodically a pair would disappear upstairs for a while. His thoughts went back to that saloon in Gallup. He’d spent a lot of time there. For the thousandth time he wondered what had happened to Stella. His hopes that she’d somehow escaped had long since faded. She surely would have turned up by now—especially since he owed her money.

  “Merry Christmas, Lieutenant. Care to dance?”

  He looked up from the fire to see a pretty, but overly made-up, woman standing beside his chair. She smiled at him. His immediate impulse was to send her away, but he didn’t. She was being friendly and it was Christmas, and it had been a long time…

  “Sure, why not?”

  * * * * *

  December, 1909, Washington, D.C.

  I should have burned that damn letter!

  Andrew Comstock stood on the train platform with snow swirling around him. He turned up the collar on his greatcoat, but it didn’t seem to do any good; it was still freezing. He stamped his feet and waited for his train to arrive. He was heading west again, to where the war was waiting. General Crozier was determined to get the information out of this mysterious acquaintance of Rebecca Harding and Andrew was the one to do it. He’d agreed not to order any attempt to take the man into custody—technically he was a deserter since he had not tried to rejoin his own unit—unless Andrew became convinced the man was holding back information.

  At least the general had had the charity to allow Andrew to wait until after Christmas, but Victoria had been very unhappy at this sudden separation. Particularly because on Christmas Eve she’d told him that she was expecting a baby. Andrew’s shocked response: ‘What? Already?’ had not done anything to endear him to her. She hadn’t come to the station to see him off and that was probably just as well.

  He wasn’t the only grumpy person on the platform, either. He’d been given permission to take a couple of men with him and he’d managed to pry Sergeant McGill out of his comfortable desk job and Corporal Kennedy to act as his batman. Both had been with him on that first trip out west, and neither one had been the least bit pleased at being dragged out there again during the holidays—or at any other time, he suspected.

&n
bsp; “We goin’ out there lookin’ for souvenirs again… sir?” asked McGill.

  “No, there’s a system in place now where any Martian artifacts which are captured will automatically be shipped to us. We don’t have to try and grab them first anymore.”

  “Then what are we goin’ for?”

  “To observe the new tanks and the new high-velocity gun in the field.” That was the official reason for the trip—and Andrew would, in fact, do that while he was there. He hadn’t mentioned the other reason for going to McGill.

  “And you really need me along to do that?”

  “No, Sergeant,” said Andrew. “You are coming along to keep me out of trouble. The general was so impressed with the job you did last time, he insisted you come again.”

  McGill snorted and then looked thoughtful. “He didn’t really say that, did he, sir?”

  “No, I just made that up.”

  “Thought so.”

  “But you did do a good job and I’m glad to have you along.”

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure, sir!” said the Sergeant, but then he muttered: “My bloody, stinkin’ pleasure.”

  Train whistles cut off any further conversation and a pair of trains chugged into the station. One was the express that Andrew would be taking, but the other was a troop train. Just as it squealed to a halt, a column of soldiers came marching up in formation, obviously destined for that train. Unlike the trio already on the platform, they seemed in high spirits. They were singing a song which had been written years earlier for the war with Spain: