Counterattack

by Scott H Washburn

  “Yes, we’ll want them moved to Aberdeen for that. As I understand it, these can be disassembled for transport by rail. Correct?”

  “Yes, Colonel, although I have to tell you it’s a lengthy process both for disassembly and assembly again. It would be far better to put them on barges and ship them by water.”

  Andrew frowned. “That might be possible to get them down to Aberdeen, but I don’t know where they’ll be needed after that. You are going to have to train our men in the procedures.”

  “Yes. And we’ll need you to send us the men you plan to use for the crews as soon as possible. Both for these and the land ironclads. They will have a lot to learn both to operate and maintain them.”

  “I’ll talk to my boss. I understand there’s some controversy about just where these monsters will fall in our organization charts - or who will be supplying the crews.”

  Schmidt snorted. “At least the navy doesn’t have that problem!”

  Yes, that was true. The navy was building its own version of the land ironclads. They were nearly identical to the army’s, but apparently they had reduced the armor thickness and eliminated one of the smaller turrets to lighten the load and improve their sea-keeping characteristics. Andrew had heard that the navy was planning to attach them to their naval squadrons and use them to launch raids against Martian held territory that bordered the sea or large rivers.

  “Oh, and that reminds me,” said Schmidt. “There’s one other thing.”

  “Really? What?”

  “Have you decided what you are going to name these? They really ought to have names.”

  * * * * *

  October, 1911, twelve miles west of Quepos, Costa Rica

  “Main guns stand by, we’re going to try and get a shot at them!”

  Lieutenant Commander Drew Harding, gunnery officer aboard the battleship USS Minnesota, had been hoping to hear that order for over an hour. The Minnesota along with the Connecticut, Virginia, and a few cruisers had been patrolling off the west coast of Costa Rica when a scouting destroyer had reported seeing Martian tripods marching around the Gulf of Nicoya, about forty miles to the northwest. They had immediately changed course to intercept.

  Drew and the squadron had been on a number of patrols since they arrived in Pacific waters back in July, and while they had seen the depredation of the Martians, this was the first time they’d spotted any live ones. Drew - and every man aboard - was itching to take a crack at them. This was especially true because the other half of the Pacific task force, who they alternated patrols with, had managed to engage the Martians twice and killed a few of them both times. They had made full use of their crowing rights in the bars and fleshpots of Panama City, and Drew and his comrades were heartily sick of it. Time to even the score!

  At full speed they had closed the distance quickly, but then the scout reported that the Martians must have spotted their smoke and were now retreating back the way they’d come. It had become a stern chase. Drew was on the forward observation platform, high up on the cage mast. It had the best view on the whole ship and he’d been watching the Martians through a powerful set of binoculars. There looked to be six or eight of them and they were moving along the shoreline with the strange but rapid gait the tripods were capable of. Everyone was worried that they’d turn inland and disappear among the jungles that covered the mountains there. But the tripods didn’t do well in thick jungles - or so they’d been told - and this batch seemed to prefer the much better speed possible along the shore. Mile by mile they had overhauled them and now they were nearly in range of the twelve-inch guns of the battleships. The cruisers could have closed the range faster, but the admiral didn’t want them to spook the game before the big ships could get close.

  And now the order had come to prepare to fire. Reluctantly Drew turned away and headed down the ladder. He enjoyed the status and responsibility of being the ship’s gunnery officer, but there was one thing he hated about it: he couldn’t see what was going on! In the old days, the gunnery officer would be right there alongside the gunners, directing their fire. They could see the target and see the effect of their shots. But these days, it was all different. Spotters up on the platforms would use precision optical instruments to observe the range, bearing, and speed of the target and pass that information down to a heavily protected compartment in the bowels of the ship. This was the Plotting Room and there, Drew and a team of highly trained officers and ratings, would take that information, add in further data about the course and speed of their own ship, and using an amazingly complicated mechanical calculator, rapidly determine exactly where to point the guns and when to fire them. This was sent to the gunners themselves who fired as directed.

  And Drew never got to see a thing.

  Information was already coming in when he arrived in the Plotting Room and his team was processing it and setting up shots even though they were still out of range. Before he could sit down, someone handed him a canvas bag which had the anti-dust mask in it. From time to time the Martians would use their toxic black dust weapon. The vessels had been fitted with shutters to try and keep the deadly stuff out, but on the older ships the attempts had not been entirely satisfactory and crews were given the dust masks just in case. Newer ships were being designed with anti-dust features right from the start. Drew looped the strap on the bag over his shoulder and then observed his people at work.

  The distance was down to about twenty thousand yards and that was at the very edge of extreme range for the big guns. They really ought to try to close to fifteen thousand if they could. Minutes went by with everyone getting more and more anxious. Would they get a chance? They were setting up another shot when the telephone buzzed. Drew immediately grabbed and said: “Plotting Room.”

  It was the first officer. “Guns?” he said, using the traditional nickname for the gunnery officer. “The flagship just signaled commence firing. Give ‘em hell, Drew!”

  “Yes, sir!” He slammed down the phone and turned to his crew. “Stand by to fire! A Turret make ready!” Only the forward turret could be brought to bear with them chasing the enemy. Its two twelve-inch guns were already loaded and they’d been continuously aiming the guns based on the information being sent to them. All they needed was the command to fire.

  Drew watched as the latest sightings were fed into the mechanical calculating machine and produced the new aiming directions. This was automatically relayed to the turret. He kept his eyes on the pitch and roll indicator and positioned his hand over the firing button. A green light burned next to it indicating the loaded status of the guns. The button would turn on a similar light in the turret and the commander there would pull the trigger. At just the right moment Drew pressed it.

  Almost instantly a strong shudder passed through the ship. He couldn’t hear the guns, but he could certainly feel them! A couple of the men gave a cheer before quickly going back to work. Drew picked up a different telephone and waited.

  “Two hundred left, three hundred short,” said a voice.

  “Two hundred left! Three hundred short!” he shouted. His men fed those corrections into the machine. A new firing solution was produced and passed on. A few seconds later the green light went on and after a final check Drew pushed the firing button. Again the ship shuddered as another salvo was sent off.

  “A hundred right, a hundred over,” reported the lookout.

  They had over-corrected. Drew passed on the new data and forty-five seconds later fired again. More corrections, more shots. But were they hitting anything? This went on for about ten minutes and then the order came to cease fire.

  “Well?” he said to the observer. “Did we get any hits?”

  “Hard to say, sir,” came the reply. “A lot of shells fell right in their vicinity, but they’ve retreated into the jungle and we can’t see them now.”

  “Damn.”

  A half hour went by and they were released from battle stations. Drew climbed back up to the observation platform and scanned t
he coastline with his binoculars. The squadron was circling off shore from the point of action. One of the destroyers got as close in as it dared while the rest stood by to support it if the Martians suddenly reappeared.

  But they did not and the destroyer couldn’t report any conclusive sign of damage to the enemy. The squadron drew off, feeling content with their actions, but disappointed by the results. When Drew came off watch he found his roommate, Hank Coleman, in their compartment. “Hey there, Guns! Get anything today?”

  “Who knows? Don’t think so. Scared the bastards though.”

  “Well, we’ll get them next time.”

  “I hope so.”

  * * * * *

  October, 1911, Washington D.C.

  Lieutenant General Leonard Wood found the President in his office having a shave. Roosevelt had the odd habit of shaving in the afternoon, after lunch. He said it just seemed like the best time to do it and Wood had never tried to argue the point. He was leaning back in his large desk chair, with a cloth covering him up to his chin and lather on much of his face. His barber was hovering over him, but when Roosevelt caught sight of Wood, he boomed out: “Leonard! Good to see you!” The barber stepped back with a snort of exasperation.

  “Mr. President, I nearly cut you! Please stay still!”

  “Sorry, sorry. But Leonard, sit down. Tell me what’s happening while I stay still.”

  Wood nodded to Roosevelt’s aide, Major Butt, and took a seat where Roosevelt could see him around the barber. “So, good news first or bad, sir?”

  “Oh, the good to start! Tony, here, doesn’t want me frowning!”

  “Very well then. Good news. The lull in Martian attacks has allowed us to really build up our strength along the Mississippi. We’re pouring concrete in record amounts and mounting dozens of large guns every month. There are scores of monitors and gunboats on call to move to danger points. We’ve got reserves on the east shore with large numbers of the steam tanks and armored trains. Many sections we can tentatively call secure from attack, allowing us to shift our mobile forces elsewhere.”

  “Nothing’s ever really secure, Leonard. Funston thought his lines around Albuquerque and Santa Fe were secure and look what happened there.”

  “True, but we have to make some decisions about what we can live with. We’ve got over thirteen hundred miles to defend and we have to take some risks. We’ve fortified our most vital areas to withstand what we calculate as a worst case attack and are now working on less critical areas. I’m particularly pleased with what we’ve accomplished on the Superior Switch.” He got up and walked over to the big wall map and traced his finger on a line from Minneapolis to Lake Superior. “This is what I’ve been losing sleep over the most for the last year. The line along the river has natural strength, but the gap between it and the lake was wide open to be turned. If the Martians got around the river’s headwaters to the north and flanked us, the whole line would have been in danger.”

  “But they didn’t do that,” said Roosevelt. “Glad I talked you out of building the line from Davenport to Milwaukee and abandoning the whole state of Wisconsin. We’ve given up too many states already.”

  “Yes we have, sir. But the Switch Line is very strong now and I’m no more worried about it than any other section. Currently 1st Army is holding the line from the lake to Davenport, 3rd Army has from Davenport to Memphis, and 4th Army the rest of the way to the Gulf. We’ve been adding divisions to each army as they arrive, but that’s far too much territory for each of them, so I’m planning to split them in half to create three new armies and insert them into the line between the others. Each will have ten to twelve divisions, which is about the proper size.”

  “Sixty divisions, by God,” said Roosevelt. “Over a million men.”

  “And that doesn’t even include all the corps and army assets. Closer to two million right now.”

  “And all of them sitting on the defensive.”

  Wood restrained a sigh, knowing where Roosevelt was about to go with this. Fortunately, the barber was finishing up and plunked a hot towel over his face, cutting off anything further. Wood took advantage and plowed on with the news.

  “We’ve got the defenses of St. Louis in good order. Seeing as how it’s the largest bastion we still have on the west side of the river, we’ve put special emphasis there. In addition to regular artillery, we’ve installed all five of the captured heat rays that Tesla got working for us.”

  “Mmmph!” said Roosevelt, nodding his head.

  “And speaking of Tesla, I’ve gotten a report from the Ordnance Department, young Comstock - you remember him - and he says that Tesla has really come up with something. A lightning gun of some sort which he thinks has real potential to be an effective weapon. I’ve given orders to proceed with development. We’ve also gone into full production of the new small rocket launchers. We’ll be getting them to our infantry as soon as possible. We’re hoping they will make a real difference. The land ironclads are in their final tests, and the Little Davids will be shipped to the front soon. I haven’t decided where I’ll station them, but I plan to keep them in reserve for now.”

  The barber removed the towel and smeared some scented lotion on the President’s face.

  “In other good news, the British defenses in Canada are shaping up well. They’ve repulsed a few probes near Montreal and Quebec, and their line from Georgian Bay across to the St Lawrence is a reality rather than just a line on the map. With luck, they’ll secure our northern border.”

  “Oh, that reminds me Leonard,” said Roosevelt, shooing away the barber and rubbing at his chin. “Bryce, asked me the other day if it would be possible for them to buy some of our steam tanks.”

  “What for? They make their own tanks. Probably better ones than ours.”

  “Well, he was saying that nearly all their tank production is going out to their regular forces. But the Canadians are raising a lot of provisional units and they don’t have enough tanks to supply them, too. I was thinking that it might be a gesture of solidarity and good will. And it would strengthen our northern defenses.”

  “Hmmm, it might be possible. Production has been expanded enormously. I suppose we could divert some from the Ford plant in Michigan without causing any real problems. I’ll have my staff look into it.”

  “Good! So, any more good news?”

  “Not… really. We launched some bombing raids against several Martian fortresses, but the results have been minimal as far as we can tell. I don’t think air attacks are going to accomplish much on their own.”

  “I got a letter from some lieutenant colonel in the Signal Corps the other day claiming exactly the opposite. He says we need more bombers, a lot more.”

  “What was his name?” asked Wood, scowling.

  “Uh, Morgan? No, Mitchell, yes, that was it.”

  “Damn, I thought so. William Mitchell, he’s made a pest of himself to me as well. Always demanding we build more planes - as if we didn’t have enough demands on our resources. But blast the man! He had no business writing directly to you! He’s a loose cannon.”

  “He also wrote that the air services ought have their own separate branch of the military.”

  “Yes, that’s a hobby horse of his, too. I think he sees himself as the head of that new branch. Well, if he doesn’t behave himself, he’s going to find himself the head of some outpost in the Aleutians!”

  “He’s got spirit,” said Roosevelt. “Got to hand him that. We need spirit.”

  “Yes, that’s true. And aircraft have proven themselves useful. Just the other day a group of them helped destroy two tripods that were attacking a cavalry detachment in Arkansas.”

  “Bully! Well done!” The President shifted himself in his chair and put on his pince-nez glasses. “So what else have you got for me?”

  Wood glanced at his notes. “Uh, work continues on the canal defenses. They are firming up. The navy reports that they are seeing more and more Martian scouting forces in the regio
n, both north and south of the canal. They may be preparing for an attack.”

  “The canal must be defended,” said Roosevelt sharply.

  “And it will be, Theodore, it will be. Our defenses are already very strong and they get stronger every day. My analysts think that the German enclave in Venezuela and the French one in Mexico are proving to be real distractions to the Martians in those areas. They will siphon off strength from any attack on the canal.”

  “Well, that’s good. The French and Germans surely haven’t been much help otherwise!”

  “We can use any help we can get. And I have to wonder if the French aren’t doing more good than any of us suspect.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I can’t think of any other reason why the Martians down in Mexico haven’t created more trouble for us in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. We are still wide open down there against a serious attack - which I guess brings us to the top of the ‘bad news’ list.”

  “Yes,” said Roosevelt, nodding. “I’m getting telegrams almost every day from Governor Colquitt in Texas, and messages from their senators and most of their congressmen every week demanding more forces for Texas. I wish we could send more, Leonard.”

  “I wish we could, too. I’m meeting with General Funston later today. He’s come up from Houston to plead his case. Uh… do you want to see him?”

  The President frowned and shook his head. “No, you can handle him. I have meetings with the governors of Iowa and Kansas today wanting to know when in hell they can get their states back.” He fixed his gaze on Wood. “What should I tell them Leonard?”

  Now Wood did sigh. This was the perpetual question: when can we stop being on the defensive and start driving the invader back? “Mr. President, after our defeats last year, our priority has been to establish a secure line of defense for the eastern states…”