The Texas Front: Salient

by Jonathan Cresswell

  “For now,” said Chapa.

  “Yes. For now. There could be another leader in six months. But the neutrality clause still holds in Texas, Francisco, y’hear?”

  “It was my impression,” said Emmet mildly, “that that would be federal law, and federal jurisdiction.”

  “Of course it is. But honestly, Smith, it’s like being between two fires! Washington wants strict neutrality – well, fine. We’ve got Martians to fight already; I’m not invading Mexico with the Guard, and no would-be revolutionary is either! But every mayor along the border wants order as well and wires me to somehow provide it. We’ve got twenty thousand Mexican refugees here that the Martians and the revolution drove north, we’ve got cattle rustlers crossing the Rio Grande every minute, bandits crossing north to raid Texas, filibusterers crossing south to plunder Chihuahua...”

  “And a billion dollars of U.S. investment in the northern states of Mexico,” added Chapa. “Becoming more nervous by the day.”

  Emmet tried to grasp a billion but gave up. “And so you’re expanding the Rangers? What’s the budget this year?”

  Hutchings said, “One hundred and two thousand, four hundred and seven dollars. And twenty-five cents.”

  “But that’s for the Guard as well, you know,” said Colquitt. “It disappeared in a handful of months. We are paying the men in state scrip for now. Washington, bless them, has voted us a plethora of funds – after both General Funston and I spent months begging them for military aid beyond resuscitating his Second Army. They cannot spare what we really need – artillery, shells, tanks, concrete for fortifications, the things that would actually enable my citizens to prevail against Martian tripods – but at least they have thrown us some money, as to an indigent in the gutter.” Colquitt’s voice was genuinely bitter despite his speechifying. “So I will do what I can; yes, I will expand the Rangers. There are bad times ahead. I want men who can shoot, and will shoot – when necessary.”

  “But not shoot too much,” said Chapa. “There are other newspapers. Stories of Anglo lawmen killing Hispanic citizens are not helpful.”

  “The Rangers must be fair,” said Colquitt with intensity. “And seen to be so. Every Texan is looking to me for protection and order, and the military is a clumsy tool for this work. I ran for governor on a platform that would keep the Rangers honest in their dealings with our citizens–”

  Emmet smiled inwardly. To his recollection, that campaign promise had been to keep the Rangers away from citizens. But politics was a flexible line of work.

  “– but they must be effective too.”

  “Are you a shooting man, Smith?” asked Hutchings.

  Emmet regarded the adjutant-general evenly. “From time to time. Once, I went to arrest a Mexican who’d been spotted near El Paso; Hernandez, his name was. Cattle rustler and bandit sort. Bad reputation, so when I found him at a general store in Eagle Pass, I didn’t give him any slack – just drew on him and told him he was under arrest. That’s when I got stabbed.”

  “So now you’ll shoot first?” inquired Chapa.

  “I didn’t say Hernandez stabbed me. Storekeeper behind me did – in the neck with a letter opener. No warning, no reason that I could tell. He wore spectacles,” said Emmet in wonderment. “Hernandez came along peaceably. Maybe the storekeeper had something he didn’t want me to find and mistook what was going on, but I never knew what.”

  “He didn’t say?”

  “I shot him. I was a mite surprised.”

  “I can imagine,” said Colquitt. “Well, that is the stamp of man I am looking for. And you’re satisfied with him, Henry?”

  “Better than most we get,” admitted Hutchings. “Too many men trying to dodge being called up into the Guard to fight Martians; they’d rather bust up a saloon fight.”

  Emmet cocked his head. “If that’s meant as a question as to why I wasn’t in the Guard myself–”

  “Of course not.”

  “That storekeeper had his revenge. Wound got infected, and I spent four months recovering. They passed me over.”

  “Enough of that, Henry. Have you got a posting for him?”

  “Yes. At–”

  “Scratch it out,” said Colquitt cheerfully. “I have been thinking. Between the Bureau of Investigation, the Justice Department, and State, and who knows else, there’s about half a herd of federal agents roaming over Texas nowadays. If they can have them, why can’t I have them? Didn’t you give the other Smith, the Australian, his own company so he could go anywhere?”

  “Yes, Excellency, but we can’t just keep adding companies of one man. There are already eight companies as of this month. The administrative efficiency, well...” Hutchings looked positively pale.

  “Of course. Then we’ll create a new category. A special category. Not assigned to any company or fixed camp. We’ll call them ‘Special Rangers’. How do you like the sound of that, Smith?”

  “Pretty well, Governor.” Emmet mentally tipped his hat to that phantom landlady.

  “Then–” There was a tap at the door; Colquitt turned. A page thrust his head in and said, “General Funston to see you, Governor.”

  “Well timed. Send him in.” Colquitt jumped to his feet. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me? Welcome to the Rangers, Smith.”

  “Thank you, Governor.” Emmet rose, nodded to Chapa, and made for the door. Two men waited outside beside the page, both of them smaller than Colquitt. Emmet was beginning to feel far too noticeable in this company. General Funston looked worn but determined. The young, dark-haired captain beside him was gripping a large leather satchel as though it were a weapon; he had the tight-wound look of a guard dog on a leash. Emmet clapped his hat onto his head, tipped it to them, and followed Hutchings down the hallway.

  April 1911, Austin, Texas

  Lang spared a glance for the blonde, lanky fellow in civvies sauntering behind the adjutant-general, then turned back to the governor’s office entrance. By habit, he preceded General Funston into the room, looking into corners. He’d realized long ago that he was doing this, but the general didn’t seem to mind; besides, it made Lang feel better.

  “General, welcome,” said Colquitt. “Hello, Captain Lang. Can I get you fellows anything?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re easy to please. Now. Can I go before the Senate and honestly tell them that Second Army is ready and able to defend Texas?”

  Lang glanced at Funston. He knew what the general was thinking; he’d grown into that ability by necessity.

  The task of reconstituting Second Army from the beaten remnants that had limped into Texas in spring 1910 had taken more than a year’s work. Lang had learned on the job; as a line tank commander, he’d thought staffers had it easy, and he’d been wrong. The job was Herculean. Coordinating half a dozen railroads to move troops to permanent camps where they could be fed, housed, and reorganized back into coherent fighting units. Transferring in replacements of skilled officers from other divisions or back east – and knowing how to spot the sad-sacks that his opposite number in that division wanted to get rid of.

  And drawing up final casualty lists so the dead could be acknowledged at last, with far too many listed as missing – sometimes a heat ray left nothing to find. Everyone knew now what Martians did to – did with – human prisoners. The family of every missing man dreaded that, and they might never hear otherwise. That had been the worst. A few times he’d changed a ‘missing’ status to ‘dead’ if the battle had been far enough from any Martian base to make capture unlikely. It seemed a small mercy.

  At least they’d filled out the numbers, and Lang thought the temper of the troops was good. He’d recognized his own fury at defeat in many of the men he’d met; the desire to hit back. But he knew what Funston would say.

  “Ready?” mused Funston. “Yes. Absolutely. Able? No.”

  Colquitt digested that for a moment. “But you are at full strength. I’ve read the reports.”


  “There is no difficulty with manpower,” said Funston. “We’re turning fit men away at recruiting stations. I could have rebuilt the 33rd Division from the New Mexico refugees alone... No, Governor, it is the lack of heavy weapons that concerns me. Second Army has been given very little in the way of artillery, and only seven battalions of tanks to spread among fourteen divisions; thus most of those can only be classed as infantry divisions. In practical terms, they have little fighting power against Martian tripods. And I doubt that any more artillery or tanks will be forthcoming. It is clear from my communications with the Chief of Staff and the War Department that they classify Texas as a salient which they will not commit major forces to defend.”

  “I did not think I would live to see the day that Americans would be abandoned by their representatives, by their soldiers.”

  Funston sighed. “I too am infuriated. But I can see the necessity as well. With the influx of refugees from the west, Texas has perhaps four million people, and little industry useful to war. The states east of the Missisippi, with ten times the population and nearly all our heavy industries, must be protected. Politically, Washington can say they have rebuilt Second Army into a powerful force and it is ready to defend Texas. Militarily, that is not possible.”

  Colquitt walked to his desk, shoulders set tensely. He swept the mass of papers and files aside. “Show me.”

  Lang laid out maps on the cleared space: Texas, northern Mexico, Arkansas, New Mexico. Funston pointed in a wide sweep. “We have a very long line indeed to defend. It stretches from the Mississippi along the Red River, all the way to the Rockies in the middle of New Mexico, a distance of nine hundred miles. Then south along the Rockies to El Paso, and then along the Rio Grande to the Gulf of Mexico. Almost two thousand miles altogether and an impossible distance for any sort of defense we can hope to build. As we saw at Albuquerque, the Martians are able to concentrate tremendous force against a small part of our defenses. Even with earthworks, a division such as, say, the 24th can only hope to hold five or six miles of ground against such an attack. A continuous front is indefensible. There is the possibility of placing defensive forces only to protect key points within the state, such as cities and major rail lines...”

  Colquitt shook his head vigorously. “Then I would be doing to West and North Texas exactly what Washington has done to us. That could only be a last resort. There must be something better! Now, if we cannot defend... Can we attack?”

  Funston frowned. “I... Second Army is not supposed to undertake offensive operations.”

  “I can tell you, sir, that I will use the Guard, the militia, and the Rangers as offensively as I possibly can. Texas will not sit idle... and perhaps Mexico will not either. But I know you are a part of a United States organization and not a Texan one, and I can appreciate your position.”

  “My instructions from the Chief of Staff are quite clear, Governor.”

  “Yes. The question is, will you conform to them?”

  Funston hesitated – rare for him – and looked at Colquitt intently; then his face shifted in the way Lang knew meant he’d made up his mind.

  “Washington is timid and defensive-minded, I believe. If we leave these devils alone, they will simply attack when and where they choose. If I have your support, sir, then I too will strike at them wherever I can and be damned to my instructions.”

  “General, you have yourself a deal.” Colquitt thrust out a hand; Funston shook it. “Now. We know all too well what our limitations presently are. But I can offer something of an alternative to the limit on your own military strength.”

  “That would be welcome news.”

  “I have been exchanging letters with the French Ambassador Jusserand for some time now. While his primary work is in Washington,” – and yours is not in the least, thought Lang – “Senators Bailey and Hudspeth, along with Ed Lasater – he owns half a million acres of ranching – have been arranging to supply beef cattle to feed the French corps at Veracruz for over two years now. That has generated a certain amount of goodwill... and opened the door to other agreements. Cotton’s at a peak price with the disruptions to the Indian trade, and while we can’t ship all that much through minor ports... well, suffice to say that the French government has just proposed to advance us loans for the purchase of military equipment from them.”

  Funston gazed at him intently. “Now, that could be very useful. What sort of–”

  Colquitt lifted a hand. “I am turning that entirely over to you, General. My job is to make sure we are not hornswoggled into handing over half the state; yours is to choose your weapons. Hopefully within the next year they can commence shipments.”

  “Good. However, in the short term, we’re still severely short of material. My subordinate here has been working on a plan.”

  Colquitt turned. Lang cleared his throat. “We have been considering a more mobile unit that might outmaneuver the Martians rather than slug it out with them.” Orange flames gushing from a hatch—

  “Cavalry, you mean?”

  “Er, no, sir. A tripod can run down a horse eventually. We’ve had reports. No, we are in the age of fighting machines, and we are going to have to adapt. An automobile is faster than a tripod, and suitably modified, can be driven where no roads exist – if the terrain allows, of course. While it couldn’t withstand a heat ray much closer than a mile, it could use hills or gullies to stay out of reach of the beam.”

  “Interesting,” said Colquitt. “Do you have any?”

  Lang glanced at the general. “Well, no, sir. Other divisions back east have been equipped with armored cars, but we’ve been told to make do with horse cavalry. Still, I don’t think an armored car would do well without a road to drive on. Too heavy. Something would break soon enough. In fact, nothing the army currently has would work. But... well, there are more than twenty thousand private automobiles in Texas. Could you get us, say, forty of the fastest?”

  Colquitt grinned. “Senator Hudspeth has a Peerless tourer that he says will tear up a road and leave it wrapped in a bow. I’ll beard him on the floor of the House about it... Your patriotic contribution, sir! Yes, I think I can do that.”

  “They’d need to be modified, of course. There’s shops in Dallas that do custom work...”

  “Yes, yes. But what weapons can they possibly carry? No artillery, surely.”

  “There are some reports from back east of a Dr. Goddard and his work on military rockets,” said Funston. “They are being coy, but there is obvious potential. Such weapons have no recoil but can hit very hard indeed. They could give this type of unit some real teeth.”

  “But I don’t suppose Washington will be sending you any of the new toys either,” muttered Colquitt. “Not for a long time yet, anyway.”

  “I have to assume not. But, Governor, such rockets do not need to withstand the shock of gunfire. They can be manufactured without the forges or steel lathes that artillery components would need. In essence, they are simple metal tubes.”

  “Tubes,” said Colquitt. He banged a palm on the desk. “Pipes! We make, Texas makes, how many miles of pipeline a year now? It’s here somewhere...” He reached for a file, then thought better of it. “No matter. This is something we can make for ourselves, and we will. Start organizing this long-range scouting group, General. I’ll get you this Dr. Goddard.”

  “Sir, he is working on a top-priority project for the entire War Department!”

  “General, you’re a good man, but you’re not from around here. You have no idea how persuasive a Texan can be.” Colquitt straightened from the desk, walked between the two others, and clapped a hand on each of their shoulders.

  “I think we will get on famously, gentlemen.”

  Chapter 2

  June 1911, Holdfast 31-1, Zacatecas, Central Mexico

  “It’s better to be the right hand of the Devil than to stand in his way!”

  The voice of Ronald Gorman echoed harshly through the large underground chamber as he address
ed the men before him. This place had the touch of the Masters about it; sloped, glassy walls, dim reddish lighting, and incomprehensible machinery in places. It smelt of blood and death. The Devil would be comfortable here.

  Three of his trusted followers stood to one side, two holding ropes tied around the necks of scrawny dun-brown calves that fidgeted constantly. The other eight humans nearby looked as vacant and frightened as the animals. Still, there was hope for them. Gorman had picked them himself, but it was always unpredictable when humans first met Masters.

  It was often unpredictable when the two met at any time. Gorman knew all this could go badly. A man played his chances.

  The man standing apart from the others stared into infinity, as he usually did. de Gama’s rags were his priestly robes. Gorman had tried to change them – the stink was terrible – but de Gama would shriek and claw at him every time; so he let his companion choose his garb. Gorman himself had a fine coat gleaned from a once-haughty haciendado who had not survived a week in this place. In Tennessee, he’d worn bespoke seersucker suits.

  “You are all alive because of me,” Gorman continued. “And my good friend Enrique de Gama, there. It was he who first heard the mind of a Master. He is brilliant, you know, and a scholar, and would have been a priest one day in the old world; but here, his destiny was to feed far greater minds in their work. Yet he did not give up! He scribbled his little markings on the wall of the cell we shared – shapes and lines and numbers – and when a Master noticed, just as he was being taken for food, it reached to him,” Gorman splayed his fingers before his face, “ and caressed him, and somehow it understood that here was another mind, that could learn – that could be useful to it. He says that it ground its mind upon his like a millstone on a kernel of corn... but that stone felt the kernel. A miracle.”

  The men looked at de Gama. He shivered and turned away, mumbling.