Counterattack

by Scott H Washburn

  “Uh… nothing, sir.”

  Dolfen turned and made his way up out of the basement and then gave his eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness before making his way across the street to the remains of the town’s small library where they’d put their medical section. The stairway down had two sets of blankets rigged to prevent any light from leaking out. As he passed the first one, he heard a child crying and a woman’s voice trying to calm it. He paused for a moment. For some reason the voice sounded familiar…

  He pulled aside the second curtain and looked around. Yes, there were about a dozen civilians here, and there were two medics, but who was that other soldier? Someone in a greatcoat was kneeling next to the child who was crying. He was a bit smaller than your average trooper and his hair, peeking out from under a cap, was definitely longer than regulation. He turned his head and…

  “Becca!”

  * * * * *

  March, 1912, southeast of La Harpe, Kansas

  “So, did everyone in the squadron know except for me?”

  “Not everyone, I don’t think,” said Rebecca Harding, trying hard not to smile. She was riding beside Frank Dolfen as the squadron headed south, back to Memphis. The relieving column had arrived the day before and they could go home.

  “Well, those two blasted medics knew! And I’ll eat my hat if Lynnbrooke didn’t know, too! The way he was trying to keep me from going to see the refugees! He knew you were there!”

  “Well, I guess there were probably a few…” She shrugged.

  “What the devil were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that I could be more use here than back at the hospital.” She carefully kept her voice level. There was no point in getting into a shouting match.

  “Well you’re …!” Frank stopped himself in mid-shout. Then he stared at her, snorted, and shook his head. “You’re really something, y’know that, girl?”

  Now she did smile and quirked an eyebrow.

  “Guess it wouldn’t do any good for me chew you out, would it?”

  “Not one bit. If Miss Chumley can’t scare me no more, no way you can, either, Mister Captain, sir.”

  They rode in silence for a while. There was a warm breeze coming up from the southwest. It would probably bring rain tomorrow, but right now it felt nice. Spring coming at last.

  “I don’t want you gettin’ hurt,” said Frank after a while.

  “Doin’ m’best not to.”

  “You know what I mean! It’s dangerous out here!”

  “I reckon I’m aware of that. I kinda figured it out when the Martians killed my friend… and my pa… and my ma… and my grandma… and tried to kill me a time or two. I’d a’ thought you’d have figured it out when they killed all your friends the day after you found me.” She let her voice go cold.

  “Becca…”

  “Frank?”

  He snorted again and looked away. “Never mind.”

  She stared at him and wondered what he’d been about to say. But he spurred his horse to a trot and went to the head of the column. Blast the man! She had no doubt that he cared for her - just like she cared for him. Why couldn’t he say it? You haven’t said it either, girl. No she hadn’t, had she? Why not? And why was she out here? To fight Martians like she’d always said? Or because of Frank? Did she love him? She wasn’t sure. She was eighteen and most girls her age were already married or at least betrothed. But that was in a world where the parents arranged such things and good girls didn’t go chasing after soldiers. That was in a normal world that hadn’t been invaded by Martians. That world didn’t exist anymore.

  After a while he dropped back and she nudged Ninny up beside his horse. “So I guess you won’t let me do this again, huh?”

  “I didn’t let you do it this time, but that didn’t stop you.”

  “But you’ll be lookin’ for me the next time you go out. What’ll you do if you catch me?”

  “Damn it! I did talk to the colonel and he said he wasn’t sending any nurses out here! And he’s right! This is no place for women!”

  “No place for men neither, but you go.”

  “I have to! You don’t!”

  “Yeah, you’re ordered out here, so you go. But you can’t tell me you don’t want to be out here, fighting back. I do, too.”

  Frank scowled and didn’t say anything for a while. But he didn’t ride off this time. After a while he said: “Becca?”

  “Yes, Frank?”

  “You might want to spend more time with those sharpshooters of yours.”

  She snorted. “Why? What use are they?”

  “Because we saw almost two hundred Martian tripods back at that fortress.”

  “Two hundred!” That was far more than she’d ever seen or what had fought in the big battles in 1910 from what she’d been told. “What are they doing?”

  “They didn’t tell me. But if they’re massing like that, it must be for an attack. Kansas City, maybe even St. Louis. And I can’t believe they’ll leave Memphis alone for long. There’s no need for you to come out here lookin’ for a fight.” He stared right at her.

  “The fight’s coming to you.”

  * * * * *

  March, 1912, Washington, D.C.

  “Mr. President, I think the lull is over. They’re preparing for a major attack,” said Leonard Wood.

  Theodore Roosevelt walked over to the huge map table and nodded. They were in the large situation room in the bowels of the War and Navy Building, which had become Wood’s second home the last few years. Dozens of officers and men bustled about, but they gave the President and his Chief of Staff a little bubble of privacy. “Their new cylinders have arrived and now they go on the offensive again. Just like the last time. Are we ready for them?”

  “I believe we are, sir. Our defenses along the Mississippi are very strong and getting stronger every day. But I’m concerned about Kansas City and Little Rock.” He grabbed up a pointer and tapped it down near the two fortified cities well beyond the main lines of defense. “The reports from cavalry scouts and aircraft indicate that the main concentrations of the enemy are near to both of those places. They may try to wipe them out before attacking our main lines.”

  “Can they hold?”

  “I don’t know. It will all depend on how big a force they throw at them. I wish we could reinforce both those places but…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, there’s a limit to how big a force we can keep supplied out there. And every man we send is one less we have to defend the main line. And… well, to put it bluntly, sir, if they are overrun, there’s little hope for any sort of orderly retreat. Those garrisons would probably be annihilated and I don’t want to send any more men than I have to into what might be death traps.” Wood paused and looked at Roosevelt. “Unless we want to evacuate…”

  “Can’t do it, Leonard. We just can’t do it. I agreed to let you abandon Sioux City and Omaha already, but no more! We’ve evacuated nearly all the civilians from Kansas City and Little Rock, but we can’t abandon the cities themselves. No more than we can abandon Texas. It might make sense militarily, but there’s a lot more to it than that.”

  Like your political future? The thought came to Wood instantly. He was being unfair to Roosevelt, but he couldn’t help it. There was still a lingering bitterness about his refusal to allow him to pull back from the Rockies in 1910 because of political considerations. They’d lost a hundred thousand men and nearly the whole war when everything went to hell. But at the same time, Roosevelt was right. The string of defeats, the retreats, and the loss of the whole middle of the country had been a huge blow to the morale of the nation. To give up even more… no, it was time to make a stand!

  And politics was important. In spite of the mistakes he’d made, Roosevelt was still the best man to lead the country; of that, Wood had no doubt. The opposition, led by Nelson Miles, was already campaigning fiercely in anticipation of the November election. The main plank of their platform was all that l
ost ground and the administration’s failure to take any of it back. Yes, as cynical as it might seem, politics did matter.

  “Well,” said Wood, dragging his thoughts back to the problem at hand. “At the very least, Kansas City and Little Rock can act as advanced posts, breakwaters to blunt and disrupt the Martian attacks. Blood them as much as we can.”

  Roosevelt frowned. “What’s the proper military term? A Forlorn Hope?”

  Wood sighed. “Yes, I guess that’s it. But I’ll send them what help we can. Fortunately, we’re right at the spring thaw and the rivers will be up. We can send gunboats and monitors to both places. And maybe other boats and barges in case we do need to make a run for it.”

  Roosevelt turned away suddenly and marched across the room and back again, his hands clasped behind his back. When he returned, he thumped a fist on the edge of the map table, making some of the wooden blocks on it jump. “What else?”

  “Assuming they do make it past Kansas City and Little Rock, then we need to think about where they will go next. St. Louis and Memphis are the obvious targets. I plan to send most of our reserves to those areas.”

  “What about the rest of the line?” asked the President, sweeping his arm to indicate the entire vast stretch of the Mississippi defenses. “Any threats elsewhere?”

  “Nothing that we’ve detected. Of course that could change on short notice considering how fast the damn Martians can move. They did try some probes around Lake Superior when parts of it was frozen during the winter, but they seemed to give up on the idea when we dumped a few tripods through the ice with artillery fire.”

  Roosevelt laughed. “Yes! They don’t like the water - thank God!”

  “Oh, and I got a report from Funston - not a demand for more equipment for once - saying that he’s gotten word from the French down in Veracruz that the Martians there are using some sort of new machine. No real details other than it is a lot smaller than their tripods. We haven’t seen any sign of such a thing around here yet, but I’ve sent out word to be prepared.”

  “I suppose it’s inevitable that the Martians will invent new weapons just as we have. But what the devil is Funston doing dealing directly with the French? Why didn’t this come through our normal liaisons?”

  Wood shrugged. “You know Funston. But he is sort of dangling on his own down there. Oh, and the British are reporting activity on their front in Canada. But we are going to have to trust that they can deal with it. As for elsewhere… things on the west coast remain quiet, and we’ve beaten off every probe they’ve made toward the canal. General Barry is convinced that a major attack is brewing, but we’re already giving him everything he can use and he should be able hold - although the refugee problem is becoming a real crisis.”

  “Yes, I know, I know…” Roosevelt’s brow was creased in worry. He had a lot more than just the military situation to deal with. The international situation, the domestic situation, taxes, war bonds, finances, labor problems, food shortages, the list went on and on and mostly things Wood didn’t have to deal with at all. He could see the toll this was taking on the man. Wrinkles on wrinkles and his hair and mustache all gray now with many white strands evident. Just like you? Take a look in the mirror old man!

  “Those are all the main issues, Mr. President.”

  “Very good. Well, I have to go. Have to meet with Cortelyou about the damn campaign. Good God, but I hate politics!”

  Wood smiled. That was like a fish saying it hated water. “Have a good afternoon, Mr. President.”

  Roosevelt left accompanied by the ubiquitous Major Butt, his military aide.

  “That went pretty well, I thought, sir,” said Colonel Drum coming up to Wood. His assistant had watched the whole interchange from a safe distance.

  “Yes, I guess it did. But we have a hell of a fight coming up, Hugh. And this one we have to win!”

  “Yes, sir.” Drum gazed at the map. “St. Louis, sir. We must hold St. Louis.”

  “We have to hold everywhere. Any breach of the Mississippi would be a disaster, but, yes, you are right: St. Louis is the linchpin. We need to form a reserve behind the river at that point.”

  “Yes, sir. And it’s a great location in any case. From there we could quickly reinforce the whole northern half of the line if they do strike elsewhere.”

  “True. But my gut tells me that the main blow will fall on St. Louis. I want more tanks in that area and I want every one of those Little David machines sent there.”

  “All of them, sir?”

  “Yes, all of them. If we are going to use them, I don’t want them wasted in penny-packets. If they hit us there, we’ll hit back hard!”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Wood got up, stretched, and walked around the room, looking over people’s shoulders and making them nervous. He was tired, but restless. Damn, he’d been cooped up in this tomb for too long! He spun about. “Colonel!”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s about time I made an inspection trip. I’ve had enough of maps and wooden blocks! I want to see what’s really going on out there!”

  “Uh, yes, sir,” said Drum, startled. “Where do you plan to go?”

  He pointed at the map.

  “St. Louis.”

  Chapter Seven

  March, 1912, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  “Lower away!” The cry rang through the dry dock at the William Cramp & Sons shipyard in south Philadelphia. Andrew Comstock looked up at the huge crane and the metal cylinder hanging from it which was almost directly overhead.

  “Sure hope they know what they’re doing,” said Jerry Hornbaker from beside him.

  “They build battleships here, Lieutenant. This is nothing new for them,” replied Andrew, but privately he echoed his aide’s sentiments. Considering how many things had gone wrong so far with this project, it wouldn’t really surprise him if the crane failed and the main turret of the land ironclad came crashing down to crush everything.

  But inch by inch, the turret, which was close to twenty feet in diameter and ten feet high, came down and down and eventually fit into the circular mounting ring on the deck as neatly as you please. The work crew gave a cheer and then began unfastening the hooks on the end of the chains. The crane drew them up and then swung around to pick up the twelve-inch gun which would fit inside the turret. Another team was already at work inside the turret hooking up the traversing and elevating controls.

  “That went well,” said a voice. “Starting to look like something at last.”

  Andrew turned and saw that Brigadier General William Clopton had come aboard without him noticing. Another officer, a major, was with him; he was looking around the ironclad with an inquiring eye.

  “Yes, sir, we’re making some real progress now.”

  “About time. I was afraid I was going to get stuck commanding a bunch of very expensive white elephants. Might still happen, I suppose. Oh, by the way, this is Major Harold Stavely, he’ll be taking command of this contraption once it’s finished. I’ll expect you to familiarize him with things.”

  Andrew shook his hand and said: “Welcome aboard, Major, I’ll help you out however I can.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. I commanded a steam tank company out west, so I have some experience with steam powered vehicles - but nothing on this scale. Quite a thing, isn’t it?”

  “The other five commanders will be here within the week,” said Clopton. “You’ll be expected to help all of them, Comstock.”

  Andrew nodded. “Yes, sir.” Clopton had been put in command of the 1st Land Ironclad Squadron and it didn’t seem to him that the man was all that happy about it. Well, you aren’t all that happy about being here either, are you?

  He’d only been ‘permanently’ attached to the squadron for about three months, but it seemed much longer. He was working very long days, pretty much seven days a week. He’d only managed one quick visit to Victoria during that time and he missed her and his son terribly. But they had made progress. The first land
ironclad had been repaired and the leaking problem had been solved - they hoped! - by sealing all the seams with electric arc welding. The Baldwin people had felt that just doing it on the four compartments housing the motors for the tracks would be enough, but Andrew had insisted - and General Crozier had gratifyingly backed him up - on welding every single seam which would be under water when the ironclads were afloat. It had taken a month, and they were still working on the last two of the squadron, but the next time they drove out into the river, there hadn’t been a drop of leakage. So one problem solved.

  The next problem had occurred less than an hour later.

  They attached the flotation module without a hitch and the USLI-001 had become a ship. Andrew had been most worried about that, but it had gone as smooth as silk. Then, when they engaged the screw propeller and moved out onto the Delaware for the trip up the river to the shipyard, they discovered that the propeller simply wasn’t big enough to move the ship against the current of the river; not with the huge amount of drag created by the caterpillar tracks. They had sat there, chugging away like mad, but all they could do was maintain their position against the flow. They had called for a large tug to help tow them, but by the time it had arrived, the Delaware, which was a tidal river, had shifted its direction and was now helping them upstream instead of pushing them down. So they made it to the dry dock, but it was clear that for any long-distance travel by water, each ironclad was going to need a large ship to tow it.

  And those were just the big problems. There were dozens of smaller problems plaguing the unique machines. Andrew had followed John Schmidt, the chief engineer, from top to bottom and front to back into every space, large and tiny, to track down troubles and get them fixed. Andrew had taken a few engineering courses at West Point, which had always emphasized the subject, but they had mostly dealt with civil and military engineering. Now he found himself becoming, if not an expert, at least very familiar with mechanical and electrical engineering. In the last few weeks he was fixing problems on his own without Schmidt’s help.