Counterattack
Page 39
“I imagine he’ll keep his plans to himself until he finds out what the situation is. We’ve gotten damn little information from the people in Memphis.”
“That’s his prerogative, of course. Wellington - and Good God Kitchener! - always played their cards very close to the vest. A bit hard on their subordinates, of course.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that to the general next I see him,” muttered Andrew. He mentally chided himself for being snippy, but the man just brought that out in him. And, of course, Bridges was right: a commander did need to confide his plans with the men who would carry out the orders he gave. How else could they act intelligently? And that was especially true for the second in command. What the hell would Andrew do if Clopton suddenly dropped dead?
Bridges looked to be about to say something else when Major Stavely joined them in the already crowded platform. He saluted Andrew. “Sir, the engineers who came with the Tesla cannon are asking if they should start charging up their capacitors? I wasn’t sure what to tell them.”
Yes, there was the new experimental lightning gun in the forward turret. They had managed to test it exactly once two days earlier. They had sent a boat ahead with one of the special targets and dropped it in the river, and then they’d fired at it when it drifted past. The gun had worked, sending out a spectacular lightning bolt to vaporize the target, light up a large patch of the river, and kill a few thousand fish which came floating to the surface. The rest of the vessels in the convoy had all signaled their approval with their steam whistles. It was true that the capacitors took several minutes to charge up, but there was no need to do it hours early as far as Andrew knew. Perhaps the engineers were getting anxious about the coming fight, too.
He looked at Stavely. The man was the commander of the ironclad and theoretically it was his decision. He could understand why he might defer to Andrew on the question this experimental weapon—Andrew had been the liaison with Tesla after all—but he seemed to defer to Andrew in an awful lot of other matters, too. Was he that intimidated by Andrew’s rank? That might be possible, he supposed, because for once a junior officer wasn’t years older than him. Stavely didn’t appear any older at all.
“I’d advise them to wait a bit longer, Major. We’re still at least a couple of hours away from the battle.”
“Very good, sir.” He saluted again and left.
“The waiting is always the worst, isn’t it?” said Bridges.
“Yes,” replied Andrew. “The waiting is the worst—except for what comes after.”
* * * * *
July, 1912, Memphis, Tennessee
The ambulance wagon rocked and swayed and rumbled its way down the street. Every jolt seemed to go directly into Drew Harding’s shoulder. He’d never experienced this kind of pain in his life. A dislocated shoulder; he’d heard someone say that. Not all that serious and not all that hard to fix if he remembered correctly. Damnation, how much longer to get to a hospital?
And was there even any hospital to go to? The sounds of combat were growing louder behind him, not fainter. Were the Martians catching up? Maybe it would be better if they did catch me…
The pain in his shoulder was replaced by one in his heart, in his gut. He’d lost his ship. How many of his crew had survived? Surely some must have. Surely. Hinsworth hadn’t. The crew in the forward turret hadn’t. The machine gunners out on the wings… The image of the exploding Santa Fe was burned into his memory as if by a heat ray. It was entirely possible that no one had escaped. No one but him. How did you explain that to a board of inquiry? How did you explain it to the wives and parents of the men who died?
I should have just drowned…
No chance of that now, although the damned wagon might shake him to death, he supposed. His strength was slowly returning after the long time in the water and the death-like lethargy was leaving. Where were they? Somewhere in Memphis, but where? He supposed he ought to check in with someone, let them know he was alive; get word to Commodore Rush somehow. There was a little sliding hatch between the main compartment and the driver up front. Maybe he could ask where they were going.
Wincing with the pain, he slowly turned around, but couldn’t reach the hatch. He’d have to stand up. He pushed himself up and reached for the wooden knob on the hatch. But just then the wagon hit some especially bad bump and he lost his balance. He twisted so as not to land on one of the other wounded men and ended up falling all the way to the floor of the ambulance. A terrible pain shot through his shoulder, but at the same time there was a loud pop, which went all the way through him. He lay there, gritting his teeth and drenched with sweat, but as the pain subsided, he realized that something had happened. His shoulder was back where it belonged! And the pain was not nearly as bad as it had been. It still hurt, but nothing like before. He struggled upright.
“You okay back there?” Drew looked up and saw that the little hatch he’d been trying to reach was now open the driver was looking through it.
“Yeah, yeah, fine. Where are we?”
“Stuck. Streets ahead are jammed with troops and tanks. We might be here a while, so relax.” The hatch slid shut again.
Drew sat there for a minute or two and then got up and shuffled between the stretchers to the back of the wagon and looked out. The rear of the wagon was facing north and the whole sky was covered with black clouds of smoke. It looked like the city was on fire. Closer at hand, it was like the driver had said: the streets were packed with troops and tanks and artillery, trying to get to the fighting.
He flexed his arm and winced. It still hurt and didn’t seem like there was any strength in it, but at least he could move around without the agonizing pain like before. He lowered himself down to the street and looked south, the way the ambulance was trying to go, and saw that there was little hope in getting through any time soon. What to do? He was still very tired, but somehow waiting in the ambulance was intolerable. Looking closer, he recognized where he was. That was Union Street up ahead and that meant that the tall building a few blocks west must be the hotel where MacArthur had his headquarters.
Making up his mind, he abandoned the ambulance and slowly made his way through the crowds of soldiers. The intersection at Union Street was filled with clanking, smoking steam tanks, and he was obliged to move down an alley between buildings to reach the next block. The rumbles from the north were getting louder. If the Martians arrived before the mob could get itself sorted out, it was going to be a slaughter.
He reached the hotel and saw that the chaos on the streets extended into the building as well. Or perhaps he had it backward; maybe the chaos in the hotel had spilled out onto the streets. Men were clustered around the front doors and being held back by a half-dozen sentries. Men emerged and made their way through the crowd to dash away on whatever mission they had, but no one seemed to be getting in. Drew looked down at himself. Someone had taken off his waterlogged tunic when they’d found him on the shore, and without that, his navy service dress had no rank insignia of any kind. They’d never let him in.
He stood there trying to decide what to do when one of the army officers at the edge of the crowd turned away and stomped in his direction, a look of disgust on his face. As he came up to Drew, he reached out to seize the man’s arm. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
The man, a major, pulled loose, but then paused to stare at Drew in puzzlement. “Who are you?”
“Commander Harding, US Navy. What’s happening?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know! They’re not letting anyone into headquarters and there aren’t any orders coming out! Nothing since that ‘Defense Plan M’ message last night!”
“Yeah, I got that one. But what you mean there aren’t any orders? What’s MacArthur doing?”
“Nothing, apparently. Someone said he’s down in the basement and won’t see anyone!”
“What? So who’s in command?”
The man shrugged. “No one, I guess.”
* * * * *
Qetjnegartis considered the situation. The plan appeared to be succeeding. They had broken through the defenses of the city on a wide front from the north. Two of the fortresses which were part of that line had been overrun and a third would soon fall. The main attacking force was driving through the northern parts of the city causing great destruction. Prey-creature resistance had been tenacious in spots and almost non-existent in others. A number of war machines had been lost and quite a few of the transport pods were now in use with rescued pilots. It might become necessary to set up some secure zone where they could be placed to avoid carrying them along into combat.
The most advanced elements were nearing the center of the city and resistance was stiffening. Enemy reinforcements were crossing the bridge from the western shore despite Tanbradjus’s efforts to keep them occupied with the diversionary attack. But reports indicated that most of these forces were disorganized and not yet deployed for battle. If they could be struck before they were ready, they might be destroyed in detail.
“All units continue the advance,” it commanded. “Drive through to the bridge and secure it. Victory is in our grasp.”
* * * * *
July, 1912, Memphis, Tennessee
“They’re pushing through down that street on the left, Captain!” shouted Lieutenant Lynnbrooke. “If we don’t pull back, they’re gonna flank us!”
Frank Dolfen looked to his left and saw a steam tank at the next intersection on fire and infantry fleeing past it. Damn. After falling back twice, they’d found a good position which looked like they might be able to hold a while. The Martians had tried to break through twice, but three wrecked tripods were now forming a nice roadblock. The spider-machines were forcing their way through the wreckage, but the small machines were nowhere near as hard to kill as the big ones, and a dozen or more of them lay wrecked just beyond their larger brethren. The buildings here were mostly brick and concrete, and while they still had stuff inside which would burn, they were providing better defensive positions than before.
But if the Martians got past them on the left and curved in from behind, they were cooked. “All right, spread the word to pull back. We can move before they hit us again.” Lynnbrooke ran to obey and soon the squadron was starting to move. He wasn’t sure how many men he had left now. Half the armored cars had been lost and most of the men were on foot; horses run off and motorcycles abandoned. But they were still a cohesive combat force and they were fighting hard.
They weren’t alone anymore, either. Fresh troops had come up and they only had to try and defend one street instead of three. But the boys on their left were getting pushed back and there was no choice but to retreat. He looked around and spotted Becca and her girls and waved to them to join the withdrawal. They were fighting hard, too. Or at least as hard as the men would let them. There was a natural instinct to protect them, so the women kept getting pushed back toward the rear and into areas where they would be safer. The women didn’t seem to be all that upset about it, except for Becca who was constantly coming forward to take some pot shots with her Springfield. He thought he’d seen her take down one of the spiders with a great shot.
He was still terrified about the black dust on her. It was an incredibly ghastly way to die and it would only take a single inhaled grain to kill her. Sooner or later she had to get out of the dust gear, and unless she was very careful - and lucky - she would get some of the dust on her or in her.
But there was no time to worry about that now. They had to pull back and do it quickly. He herded the women across the street, onto the next block, and moved them down the sidewalk. One of the buildings was already on fire and they had to detour into the street to get around it. He looked back just in time to see one of the men in the rearguard be incinerated by a heat ray that came from off to the left. Yes, they’d pulled out just in time. Well, almost in time.
As they moved, the block was shaken by several explosions and debris rained down around them. It wasn’t the Martians, it was ‘friendly’ artillery. Batteries from all over the Memphis area were being trained on the invaders, and some had either bad aim or bad spotters. Errant rounds kept falling among the troops. It was to be expected, and losing the occasional man was far, far better than having no artillery support. The big guns probably killed more of the enemy than any other weapon. Without them, they would have been overrun long ago.
They reached the end of the block and Dolfen was met by a major with engineer tabs. “Captain, pull back another block. We’re going to bring down these buildings here to form a roadblock.” He pointed at several tall buildings just to the south.
“All right, but they’re coming down on the flanks.” Dolfen pointed to the next street over.
“I know, but we’ve got teams over there, too. All along this line actually. We’re gonna try to hold them here for a while.”
“Sounds good, sir. We’ll pull back.” He waved to Lynnbrooke and got the men moving again. Looking back north, he saw that the Martians were now getting past the tangle of wrecked machines. It wouldn’t be long before they were here. “Come on! I know you’re tired, but keep moving!”
They made it to the next intersection and he was heartened to find three steam tanks waiting there, just out of sight around the corner. Some of the heavy stuff from across the river was finally getting through. He deployed his troopers into the buildings on either side of the street and put the armored cars in ambush just like the tanks. Becca and her sharpshooters slumped down on the sidewalk across from them.
He found a spot where he could see around the corner in relative safety. The enemy was coming on again. A half dozen of the tripods and a swarm of the spiders were at the end of the block, spraying the buildings on each side with their heat rays. The two buildings the major had pointed out were already in flames. He hoped the explosives and the detonator wires were somewhere they wouldn’t burn.
Artillery fire started falling around the tripods and that got them moving forward. The spiders came first and then one tripod with the others following at intervals. He spotted the engineer on the other side, peering intently down the street. He slowly raised his hand.
The spiders and the lead tripod reached the buildings and Dolfen braced himself for the explosion, but it didn’t come. Had it misfired? No, the major still had his hand raised. What was he waiting for? Come on! Do it!
But he waited a little longer, until the second tripod was between the buildings. Then he dropped his hand. Dust and smoke erupted from the base of both buildings almost simultaneously. The structures were five or six stories tall and they slowly bowed in toward the street. Then they were falling and disintegrated in a huge cloud of dust which enveloped everything, including the tripod in the lead. More explosions rumbled in the distance and he saw other dust clouds billowing up on the blocks to the north and south.
Moments later, the steam tanks started to move and they clattered, squeaked, and groaned their way around the corner to face down the street. The smoke and dust slowly cleared, and as soon as the lead tripod became visible the tanks opened fire. Two of the armored cars managed to find a spot where they could get a clear shot and joined in as well. Beyond the tripod, the street was blocked with a mound of rubble thirty feet high. Dolfen hoped that there was another tripod underneath it.
He ducked back behind cover as a heat ray swept across the steam tanks. Their armor started to glow red, but they fired off another volley of shots and the ray abruptly blinked out. Daring to look, he saw that the Martian machine had toppled backward against the piled rubble, a gaping hole in the front of the head.
A dozen or so of the spider-machines were in the street, but they were motionless. He’d seen that happen several times before that day. The spiders would be moving and firing and then suddenly freeze in place. Sometimes for just a few seconds and sometimes for longer. His troopers in the buildings wasted no time in taking advantage. Fire ripped at the spiders, puncturing bodies or bl
asting off limbs. A few shots from the tanks completed the destruction.
After a minute or two, a tripod’s head appeared above the mound of rubble and it seemed to be trying to climb over the obstruction. But when a four-inch round from one of the tanks caromed off its armor, the thing disappeared again. Artillery continued to fall, and when some aircraft - finally! - appeared, their attacks and the answering heat rays looked to be several blocks further north.
“Have they given up, do you think, sir?” asked Lynnbrooke.
“I doubt it. But it may be a while before they attack again. Make sure the men take the opportunity to resupply with ammo. See if you can scrounge up any more bombs or stovepipe rockets. We’re nearly out.”
“Yes, sir.” Lynnbrooke moved off. Dolfen pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face.
“Frank? Frank?”
He turned and saw that Becca had come up behind him. “Are you all right?”
“Frank, can you help me take off this mask?” her hand came up to touch her dust mask.
“Becca, you’ve still got dust on you! You could die.”
“I will die unless I get this damn thing off! I’m melting in here and I’ve got to have some water.” She was swaying on her feet and grabbed a lamp post to keep from falling. Yeah, it was hot as blazes today and it must have been absolute hell under that mask. She had to take it off sooner or later. “Frank, please.”
“All right, all right. Come over here. Let’s take this real slow and careful.” He moved her into the doorway of a tobacco shop and looked her over. There were still some dust specks on her, but not nearly as many as when he first saw her. The ridiculous buckskin uniform she had complained to him about was finally proving its worth. The smooth, tanned leather provided little for the grains of dust to cling too. Unlike the wool uniforms the soldiers wore where the dust grains would get caught in the weave.