Counterattack

by Scott H Washburn

  More good news! The lack of accurate data on this world was a serious handicap. Observations from the Homeworld had given a knowledge of the larger geographical features, continents, major rivers, and cities, but smaller features, and the positions of prey-creature armies, could only be learned by actual scouting. If this device worked, it would be a huge help in planning operations.

  Glangatnar concluded the conference and the communications link was broken. Qetjnegartis reflected that there was much work to do.

  Chapter Four

  November, 1911, southeast of Chepillo Island, Panama

  Lieutenant Commander Drew Harding couldn’t stand it anymore. For six hours he’d been stuck in the plotting room aboard the Minnesota, periodically firing salvos at grid coordinates on a map—and not being able to see a damn thing! He stalked around the compartment and it was clear that his people had everything under control. He turned to his second in command, Lieutenant Buckman, and said: “Take over, I’ll be right back.”

  Buckman looked surprised, but nodded and said: “Yes, sir.”

  Drew climbed up three decks and into a tropical downpour. The rains in this part of the world were incredible and he was soaked to the skin in seconds, but before he was halfway up the mast the rain had stopped and the sun was out again. He reached the observation platform, which was actually a large compartment on top of the lattice mast, and pulled out his binoculars.

  He directed them at the Panamanian coast. To the west he could see Panama City and the vast refugee camps which had grown up all around it. Swinging east he could see some of the fortifications the army had built, which stretched clear across the isthmus. As he watched, there was a flash and a billow of smoke. One of the army’s big guns had just fired. He looked farther to the east but couldn’t see where the shell had landed. There was already so much smoke in that area it just disappeared among the rest.

  A loud rumble from behind him told of one of the other ships in the squadron firing. They were all firing slowly and deliberately at a force of Martians which had come up from the southeast. In the past few weeks, the Martians had been getting bolder and bolder, pushing forces through the thick jungle, and getting closer to the canal. They’d been coming from both the north and the south, too. Technically they were coming from east and west, since that was the way the isthmus ran, but the bottom line was that Martian forces from North America and South America were both converging on Panama.

  Initially, they had tried to approach along the coasts where the terrain was far easier. But the ships of the fleet had punished them so severely in those attempts they had been forced to stay inland and try to push their way through one of the densest and most inhospitable jungles on the planet. It was slow going and the army and navy had been given plenty of warning. Between the clouds of smoke from where the enemy burned the jungle to the swarms of refugees - the last holdouts—fleeing in front of them, it was easy to see where they were.

  Shelling them while they were further away could be done, but without direct observation it used up a lot of ammunition for questionable results. Aircraft from bases near the canal could do some spotting, but it was still pretty inaccurate. Closer to the canal, the army, working with the navy, had set up a very impressive system for calling down fire on an approaching enemy. The whole area was divided up into grid squares and both the army’s fixed guns and the navy’s mobile ones could smother any spot on the grid with heavy shells on command. It was a great system—except that Drew still couldn’t see anything.

  Minnesota let off another salvo shaking the whole ship and surrounding the vessel with a thick cloud of cordite smoke for a few moments until the wind blew it away in a gray cloud that rolled off toward the coast. It blocked his vision and so once again, he couldn’t see the results. Damn.

  He really ought to get back to the plotting room, but he watched a little while longer. The ships and the forts were still firing and maybe he’d see…

  “Wow!”

  He gave off a cry when a there was a bright blue flash from inside the smoke cloud. He knew what that meant: the power units on a Martian tripod had exploded. It happened sometimes. After nearly a minute there was a strange crackling rumble that was different from the normal sounds of a bombardment. He didn’t think the shell which had caused that had come from Minnesota, but it was still satisfying.

  “Commander? Commander Harding?” He turned and saw that it was Seaman Baker, one of his spotters; he was holding a telephone.

  “Yes?”

  “Uh, it’s Lieutenant Buckman, sir. He needs you back in Plot.”

  “Oh, okay, tell him I’m on my way.”

  He went down the ladder as quickly as he could, and then down three more decks to the Plotting Room. While he was on the way, the ship’s gongs rang and the order to stand down from battle stations was given. Had the Martians been beaten back? He hurried into the compartment and looked around, but all seemed in order. His people were securing their equipment. Cromely spotted him and said: “Oh, there you are sir.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing, but the captain was just here and wondered where you were.”

  Shit.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Uh, I wasn’t sure where you went, so I told him I thought you were in the head. It had been six hours and maybe you had to go.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Drew stayed there and made sure everything was secure until the end of his watch, and then went to the officer’s mess room and got his dinner. Most of the other officers were loud and boisterous after the day’s gunnery. A few pessimists were grumbling that they’d no doubt spend the next day restocking the ship’s magazines from a munitions ship. It was true that they’d used up a lot of shells and powder today. Afterward, he went up on deck to watch the sunset. More clouds were drifting in from the Pacific, but it wasn’t raining and there was a pleasant breeze. Panama wasn’t bad in the fall and winter.

  While he was standing at the rail, a yeoman found him and told him to report to the captain’s cabin. Oh crap…

  He quickly found his way to the holy-of-holies on the ship and rapped on the door. “Come in,” came the immediate answer. He went through and saluted Captain Gebhardt.

  Gebhardt returned it from behind a table he was sitting at. “Ah, Harding, sit down.” Drew plunked down on a chair, back ramrod straight. Was he in trouble?

  “Sorry I wasn’t in Plot when you were there, sir,” he blurted. “I… I needed to get some air.”

  Gebhardt looked at him with a piercing gaze, bushy eyebrows arching up. “You happy here, son?”

  Startled, Drew automatically answered: “Yes, sir!”

  The Captain’s mouth drew back in a smirk. “But not as happy as you might be, eh? You’ve done a good job here, Commander. The ship’s gunnery has been excellent and your team is well trained and disciplined.”

  “T-thank you, sir.”

  “But I’ve noticed a certain… restlessness about you, son.”

  “Sorry, sir!”

  Gebhardt, shook his head and made a little waving motion with his hand. “It wasn’t a criticism, just an observation. But tell me: how is Lieutenant Buckman working out?”

  “Sir? Uh, he’s a good officer, sir. He knows the job and the men and…”

  “Could he take over for you, do you think?”

  “Sir? Uh, I suppose he could… but why…?” Drew was getting nervous - more nervous. Was the captain going to fire him? Take the gunnery position away from him? Turn him into the stores officer or something equally awful?

  “Calm down,” said Gebhardt, obviously noticing Drew’s reaction. He picked up a paper from the table and looked it over. “I’ve noticed that you have a certain… itch to close with the enemy. We don’t get many chances to do that here, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. How would you like the chance to do that somewhere else?”

  “Sir? I don’t understand, si
r.”

  “This,” he said holding up the paper, “is an order from the Bureau of Personnel at the Navy Department directing me to give up one of my senior officers and send him to take command of one of the new river monitors that’s being built. Unless you have some serious objection, I’m planning to send you.”

  What?!

  “I… uh… but I’ve never commanded a ship, sir.”

  “Yes, I know, so does the Bureau, but with the enormous expansion of the fleet we simply don’t have enough experienced ship commanders, so we are having to make do. From what I’ve heard, they will probably give you an executive officer with experience on the rivers but little military experience. He should be able to help you over the rough spots. So do you want this assignment, Commander?

  A command of my own! His mouth babbled: “Yes, sir! Uh, what ship, sir?”

  “One of the new Liberation class ships. The Santa Fe. She’s finishing up construction in New Orleans right now. Not a sea-going vessel, but heavily armed. And on the rivers you’ll get close enough to see the red of their eyes. Satisfied?”

  “Yes, sir! Uh, thank you, sir.” He could scarcely believe it.

  “All right then. Get your bags packed and get yourself to New Orleans. Dismissed.”

  * * * * *

  November, 1911, Memphis, Tennessee

  Captain Frank Dolfen led his command across the bridge into Memphis. He was tired and the cold was making his bones ache. He wasn’t a young man anymore. He’d hit the twenty year mark in the army last month and that was when he’d hoped to retire. In addition to all the other stuff they’d done, the Martians had wrecked that plan, too. The bastards really owe me…

  This was their second foray into Martian territory west of the river, but unlike the previous one, they hadn’t accomplished much of anything. Last time they’d come back with two kills to their credit—three if you counted the one the tornado got - and a few hundred refugees returned to safety. This time they hadn’t seen a single Martian and their tally of refugees could be counted on two hands. The lands over there were getting really empty. On the other hand, he hadn’t lost any of his men this time and that was a blessing.

  “Good to be back,” said Major Bridges. The Britisher was still with the squadron and Dolfen was a bit surprised by that. He was attached to observe and learn what he could about American methods - and give advice about British ones - but Dolfen wasn’t sure there was much more for either of them to learn at this point. Oh well, the Limey was a pleasant enough companion on campaign. Sometimes.

  “Yeah,” replied Dolfen, in no mood to chat at the moment. On the east bank, he turned the column north toward where their camp was located. The massive concrete fortifications to the left blocked out the view of the river. The walls were nearly thirty feet high with a ten foot ditch in front of them, and they were steep enough that - hopefully! - no Martian tripod could climb over them. Large guns on disappearing mounts were placed on platforms at intervals. There were metal gates protected by more guns in rotating turrets every block or so to allow access to the waterfront. The gates were set in recesses in the wall and at right angles so there was no direct line of fire at them. It was an amazing effort and stretched for miles north and south of the city. There were similar fortifications around other river cities like Vicksburg and Baton Rouge. And the workers weren’t stopping; they were adding mile after mile of walls spreading north and south of the fortress cities. Dolfen supposed if the war lasted long enough, the walls would stretch the entire length of the Mississippi. The locals were happy to be protected, but they didn’t much like the demolition that had been necessary to do it. Whole blocks of buildings had been leveled. But if nothing else, it gave the city the best protection against flooding it had ever had.

  After going a few miles north through the city, they were met by a small ambulance train. These took charge of the refugees and Dolfen was happy to tell the officer in charge that there were no wounded to treat. He was even happier when he caught sight of Becca Harding. The nurse was there on that fool horse of hers which had somehow survived all of their earlier adventures. She smiled broadly when she caught sight of him and he couldn’t help but smile back. She trotted over to him.

  “Welcome back, Frank!”

  “Howdy, Becca.”

  “No casualties?”

  “Nary a one. We were lucky.”

  “Glad you’re back safe.”

  “Me, too. How you been?”

  “Oh, about the same. Not too much work these days, although there was a boatload of wounded that came in from Little Rock a week ago.”

  “Still working with your sharpshooters?”

  Becca grimmaced. “Tryin’ to. Pretty hopeless.”

  Dolfen forced himself not to smile. Becca desperately wanted to fight the Martians and the Memphis Lady Sharpshooters organization was about the closest she could get.

  “But I’ve been thinkin’…”

  Uh oh…

  “’Bout what?”

  “Well, when you fellows go out on these long scouting missions, you could use some medical people to go along with you, couldn’t you?”

  “We do have a couple of medics…”

  “Which won’t be nearly enough if you get into a serious fight! They weren’t near enough after that last fight of yours, I hear. And then there are those civilians you keep picking up. Some of them need medical care, too. Women and kids. What you need is a team with a real doctor and some nurses!”

  He couldn’t deny it, but Becca was so obviously hinting that she wanted to go along, that he forced his face into complete immobility. “I have no authority to create anything like that,” he said stiffly. The last thing he wanted was her out there in the same danger he had to deal with.

  “I know that,” she said. “But if someone else did, you wouldn’t object, would you?”

  He felt like he was facing a Martian heat ray. If he said that he did object, she’d get angry. But if he said he didn’t…

  “Some of the French regiments have women attached to them like that,” said Bridges suddenly. Dolfen had forgotten he was even there. “Vivandières they call them, I think. They carry water, tend the wounded, things like that.”

  “Yes, exactly!” cried Becca.

  Dolfen glared at Bridges and said: “Well, I don’t know…”

  “Couldn’t you ask your superiors, Frank?” asked Becca. Her desires were so sincere and deep-felt there was no way he could bring himself to dash them.

  “I’ll… I’ll talk to the colonel.”

  “Oh, thank you!” she squealed, face bright and smiling. He forced himself to smile, too. Hell, he’d ask Colonel Schumacher and that would be the last anyone would hear of the matter. The 5th’s new colonel was a pretty good officer, but he didn’t like disruption to the routine. He’d be as happy to have women attached to his command as he would to have an outbreak of hoof-and-mouth disease! It would be all right.

  Becca babbled on for a few minutes, but then the ambulance train moved out and she was forced to say goodbye. His troops hadn’t stopped when they dropped off the civilians, so he broke into a trot to catch up to the head of the column; Bridges paced him.

  “Quite a lassie, that one,” said Bridges. “A real spitfire.”

  “That she is,” replied Dolfen, “that she is.”

  * * * * *

  November, 1911, Memphis, Tennessee

  Rebecca Harding looked over her shoulder, but Frank was already riding off at a brisk pace and didn’t look her way again. That was all right, he had so many responsibilities. But he’d said he would talk to his colonel! She realized it was a long shot that anything would be done and a longer one that she’d be allowed to go even if the idea was approved, but at least it was a chance. She tried not to get her hopes too high, but it was hard not to. She was getting so bored with her routine at the hospital. She felt guilty thinking that way; tending the wounded and sick was an important and honorable job. She should be glad she was able to
do that much to help in the fight against the Martians.

  She thought back to when it seemed like she wouldn’t even be allowed to do that much. After fleeing from her home, her mother and father and grandmother killed by the Martians, she’d ended up in Santa Fe and technically the ward of her mother’s sister and husband. They’d tried to bundle her off to a school for girls in Connecticut, but she’d escaped into the nurse corps, despite not being of legal age. Well, she was eighteen now and no one could tell her what she had to do.

  And there probably wasn’t anyone left alive who would even try. Had her aunt and uncle escaped from Santa Fe as she’d urged? She’d had no word from them since the city fell. If they did make it out, they would have had to go south into Texas. Was there any way she could find out about them? Did she even want to? She had no affection for them, but as far as she knew, they were the only family she had left in the world.

  No, no one could tell her what she had to do - except for Chief Nurse Chumley, all the doctors, and any officers she met, of course - but there were still plenty of people who could tell her what she couldn’t do. She couldn’t be in the real army, she couldn’t take up a weapon, and she couldn’t fight Martians. And that’s the one thing she really wanted to do!

  The lady sharpshooter organization was better than nothing, but only just. It did allow her to do some shooting and even feel a little bit important. The group recently elected officers and NCOs. Mrs. Oswald, the organizer of the group, had been elected captain, of course, but to her surprise, the ladies had elected her to be the company’s drill sergeant. She supposed it was an honor. They’d even tried to get her to wear one of their ridiculous uniforms, but she’d begged off.

  The little convoy reached the hospital area and the refugees were turned over to the officer in charge of dealing with them. Some of the children were crying and they all wanted to know what was going to happen to them now. You’ll be given a job! These days, everyone has to have a job!