“The problem’s accuracy,” said Goddard. “With an artillery round, you can control the powder burn to the last grain, all inside the gun tube. But the solid motor casting burns unpredictably and the ballistics are impossible to control. That’s part of the reason I’m looking into liquid fuels. They can be throttled, and if there’s a second stage, it can be controlled precisely enough to place an object in orbit around the Earth – as the Martians have done. Or to intercept that object. We may need to destroy it one day if it turns out to be what some of us think it is.”
Lang shook his head. “The Army’s best photo-reconnaissance experts have spoken on that. Photographing the entire surface of the Earth would take decades! It must be for something else – maybe to do with their cylinders.”
“Maybe,” said Goddard neutrally. “Meantime, aiming a solid-fuel rocket horizontally is still a challenge.”
Woods tugged at Lang’s coat sleeve. “Excuse me. What about sheering vanes? Then it could be sheered t’hit a target.”
Goddard blinked. “Well, yes, certainly. In theory. But I’ve spoken with Tesla on the subject – he’s pioneered some interesting remote-controlled vehicles – and he’s adamant that no radio can fit into a rocket like this, or survive the ride if it could. The Martians have some sort of super-compact radios, but we haven’t been able to figure out anything about those as yet.” He rubbed his chin. “Still, we’re bound to get somewhere eventually. Mr. Woods, would you like to come back to Washington with me? I could use a control systems specialist on my team...”
Lang stared imploringly at Woods. If I let Goddard poach our one inventor back east again, Funston will kill me... But Woods was smiling and shaking his head. “Thank you, Dr. Goddard, that’s ... a compliment. But I think I c’n make progress here.”
“Very well. Major, if you’d have a look...”
Woods smiled at Lang and crooked a finger. Lang stooped close.
“Cap’n, is there any way you could get me a few miles of that Martian wire?”
* * * * *
Lang’s train to Fort Sam Houston was delayed by hours – not uncommon now, with the incessant, mostly military traffic on the railroads – and he arrived very late in the day. General Funston was not in his office; his junior clerk still was; the corporal telephoned the general, spoke for a few moments, hung up, and fixed Lang with a baleful eye. “The general’s compliments, and he requests you present yourself at his house.”
The sun was setting as Lang walked across the neatly groundscaped Quadrangle. Shouted commands and tramping boots echoed; the sunset glinted redly on one of the water towers, looming over the troops in an eerie resemblance to a Martian tripod. Good motivation, thought Lang. Those new recruits weren’t much younger than he was, but he felt a gulf separating him from them. It wasn’t as though Lang came from a military heritage; his family had been farmers for two generations back. They’d wanted better for him, but when recruiters came calling in town in the years before the Martian invasion, promising adventure and patriotic service, Lang had always recalled the words of an old family friend: “There are other paths to adventure, lad, than over the bodies of your fellow men.”
And maybe he’d have found one – the law classes had been going well – but after the invasion, everything changed. Educated men were snatched up and flung down again as lieutenants to face Martian machines within weeks of training. Lang had survived... where some hadn’t. Now he was a staff officer, holding responsibility for thousands of men like these recruits. Strange, perhaps – but how could anything be, compared with Martians landing in America? And if the world had turned a different way, and those thousands of men had been pitted against thousands of other men under other flags, how many more bodies might Lang’s own path have led over? Best not to think too much on that. Lang let his stride settle into the cadence of the troops and set his thoughts to the task at hand.
The commanding general’s house was a two-story frame structure that anchored the row of officer’s housing along the west side. The sentry saluted Lang; he returned the salute and knocked.
Funston opened the door. The general was in shirtsleeves. “Come in,” he said. Within the parlor, his uniform jacket was slung on a chair. Papers filled a desk with a half-eaten meal as paperweight; but it was to the settee that Lang looked, touching his cap automatically, although he hadn’t saluted the out-of-uniform general.
Mrs. Eda Funston nodded to him, placing her teacup onto a side table. “Hello, Willard. Please, sit down. I haven’t seen you in a long time. Has Frederick been sending you to the corners of the earth?”
“Only to the corners of a trench today, Mrs. Funston. We were observing rocket trials. I hope I see you well?”
“Very well, thank you. Rockets? That sounds exciting.”
Lang smiled. “I think Dr. Goddard found it so. We may actually be able to hit something with them one day... Sir, he’ll have a proper report and recommendations to improve the production rockets by the end of this week, he said. But I have an... odd request. From Granville Woods.”
Mrs. Funston titled her head in inquiry. “Our Texan Edison,” said Funston aside. “What is it? Why didn’t he just add it to the report?”
“I think it’s unofficial. He wants us to get him some of that Martian power cell wire. A few... miles, he said.”
“Oh, wonderful,” said Funston. “The Bureau’s men in gray won’t agree to that. Do you think he’s on to something?”
“That notebook of his is like hieroglyphics to me. But right now, he’s all we have.”
“Yes. Well, officially, we’d have to ask for it, and we’d be refused. Of course, if some happened to fall off the back of a truck, that’s different. Do whatever you need to, but don’t get caught... You didn’t hear that, Eda.”
“Of course not, dear.” Mrs. Funston dimpled when she smiled.
“What else... Oh, I had a request from Leonard Wood to find a fighting command for a Captain Patton. He’s another tanker, so see what you can get for him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Good.” Funston hesitated, oddly for him, and chafed one hand in the other. “Lang, I have something else I’d like you to take care of for me. For... us. Given the situation... the potential situation... I want you to arrange for Mrs. Funston to travel back east and set up in Philadelphia with my boys.”
Eda Funston twisted to look at him. “Frederick! You never mentioned this.”
“I have been thinking very hard about it. And it’s a difficult decision, but...”
“It is my decision too.”
“Not when it concerns your safety.”
Lang felt the same sinking feeling he’d once had after answering back to a drill sergeant. He tried to meld with the furnishings.
“Am I in danger?”
Funston reached a hand out. “No, of course not. Not now. But, Eda, you haven’t seen how quickly those things can advance. They can cross half of Texas in a day if they break through our defenses. We are a salient, and this base is in their path. If... I... I simply can’t consider it. I want you back east, behind the real defenses.”
Red spots had appeared on Mrs. Funston’s cheeks; she sat very straight. “And if I go east, and the other officers’ wives do not, what then? Or will you and I start a stampede of all of us? Then the enlisted families, will they go – or just watch the officers’ families heading east, and wonder why? Frederick, you can do this if you choose to, but think of what others will feel. How much hope they might lose. The boys are children, our children, so yes, they should stay where they are – and so should I.”
“The men are my responsibility. And – well, yes, I see what you mean. But you’re my wife.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Funston. She rose gracefully and smoothed her skirts. “I am a general’s wife. Cora is a colonel’s wife... Mary is a first sergeant’s wife. We can all board a train, harness a cart, drive a car, run on foot if we have to. But for now, we have our place, and it’s here.” She t
urned and smiled shakily at Lang. “Willard. I haven’t offered you tea; please forgive me. I’ll be right back.”
She strode into the hallway. Lang and Funston sat in silence for a few moments.
“I sometimes forget,” said Funston slowly, “how fortunate I am. Lang, if you marry, don’t settle for just anyone.”
Lang rose. “Yes, sir. If I may–”
Funston pointed a finger. “You’re not going anywhere until you’ve had your tea, son. Now sit down.”
Chapter 9
January 1912, Dallas, Texas
“I don’t know whether to call this a conspiracy, or just a whole lot of initiative in one place,” said Oscar Colquitt as he sat down.
Lang smiled. This was hardly the place for skulking: the drawing room of the Governor’s private home in Dallas, with a fire crackling in the hearth to ease a chilly afternoon. He shed his uniform coat to join the other three men in chairs around the fireplace.
“I’d favor the latter,” said General Funston, clearly not liking the first term. He looked over to Lieutenant-General William Wright. “Look, Bill, we may as well face it: what we’re going to do is not conducive to one’s career. Any or all of us may be cashiered afterward. And you are one of the few lieutenant-generals we have with extensive fighting experience against the Martians. So it’s not just a matter of your own ambition; if the repercussions of this mean that you do not gain an army command one day – possibly mine – then we all lose out. Are you quite sure?”
Wright knuckled his big hands together. “Yes, General, I am. Whatever you’re proposing, I’ll be part of it.”
“Then we’re agreed,” said Colquitt with finality. Lang noted wryly that no one had asked him, but he could always claim he was just following orders...
Funston settled back. “Bill, you’ve already noticed we have been transferring quite a few tank battalions to III Corps over the past two months. You’re getting the best men, too. And the train shipments of artillery and shells from out east went right on to you, not VIII Corps. Almost all of them.”
“How did you manage that, sir?” asked Wright. “General Dickerson must have been furious.”
Colquitt grinned. “General Wright, I used to be the railroad commissioner of this state. I still know quite a few people. I’m sure there were a few puzzled clerks when the trains went by that they’d been expecting, but there’s been no real stink raised as yet.”
“However, I do not expect any more forces, weapons, or fungible goods to be made available from back east for a long time,” said Funston. “And that’s the nub of it. The Martians have a great advantage logistically: whatever technology allows them to do it, they can simply build war machines continuously, directly within their military bases – and we know they breed rapidly as well. They will become stronger with each passing month, and at some point, they will inevitably attack... and roll right over us.”
“But if we attack them now...” said Colquitt.
“Yes. We will have our best chance. Bill, I want you to plan and carry out an attack on the Martian base they’ve set up near Santa Fe. Your objective is to destroy it.”
Wright flicked his gaze over to the governor, who nodded agreement. He looked back to Funston. “Uh... yes, sir.”
“I know this might seem like a wild gamble, Bill, but I’ve had men scouting the place for over a year. They can look right down into it from the mountains. They say that periodically a swarm of tripods leave the place and head east, but no significant number come back. This fortress is clearly building tripods for their main force facing our Mississippi line, but the Martians consider it a rear area. I’m betting that it isn’t strongly garrisoned, and a sudden attack could catch them unprepared.”
“If you say so, sir,” said Wright.
“How are your men at night fighting?”
“We’ve improved. The starshells help, and if we can get infantry close enough with those stovepipe launchers, they know to aim for the eye. But it’s still not much good for the regular artillery batteries. Their effective range is at least halved. And the tanks have a bad habit of driving into obstacles they would have seen in daylight. I have men with flashlights leading them like cows.”
“I think,” said Funston, “that if we choose the time and place of battle, we can force a day action. I suggest moving up forces at night and attacking at dawn after a short preparatory bombardment. Infantry won’t stand much of a chance in the open against one of their bases, but if they dig in well, perhaps the tanks can fall back if hard-pressed and draw the Martians across the entrenchments where the stovepipes are.”
Wright looked thoughtful. “Might work, sir. And once a few of their machines are knocked out that way, they might get more cautious about just punching through our lines. But, sir... if we attack in a few weeks’ time, we’ll have eleven hours of daylight at most. If the initial assault does not breach the base, they’re bound to counterattack at nightfall.”
“Then we’ll fall back and bleed them as best we can, and attack again the next morning with fresh units... and the next, if we have to. If we can’t crack at least one of their bases – get back the initiative somehow – then we have all but lost!” Funston was growing flushed; he caught his breath and turned. “Sorry, Governor, but the logic is inescapable.”
Lang knew how badly the general’s failure to take the fortress at Gallup in 1908 still gnawed at him. Still, he’s right. If we do nothing but defend, we lose.
“I agree,” said Colquitt. “But perhaps we can give the boys a better chance when the days get a mite longer? If they can do it in one go, it would mean a lot... It would mean fewer casualties, yes?”
“They would be better trained by, say, April,” admitted Wright.
Funston pondered a few moments. “Yes. But no later. It is imperative that we strike first.”
“Yes, sir.” Wright couldn’t be said to look enthusiastic, but he did seem determined.
Colquitt frowned. “General Funston, your point about the relative strengths of men and Martians is well taken. I wish that I could offer imported arms from France, as we’ve discussed in the past... but although I’ve forwarded your requests verbatim to the French government, and spoken to Ambassador Jusserand repeatedly, I’ve seen no results.”
Funston nodded impassively; Lang shifted in his chair. That was a bad blow to their planning. About the only thing that could hurt a tripod was an artillery piece; one wrapped in tank armor would be ideal, but even horse-drawn artillery counted for a lot.
“Why is that?” asked Funston in a controlled tone.
“My opinion is that isolationist elements within the French government are stalling the arms sales. We’ve certainly seen no progress in several months. But there may be an alternative. It is apparent to me from the negotiations that there is more than one political faction vying for power in France. The government is mostly in the hands of what they term ‘republicans’ – supporters of the recent French Republic – but many of the high military officers are monarchists – Royalists – who favor a return of power entirely to the throne, regaining old French glory and rallying the populace to this great...” He cleared his throat. “Pardon, I’m not making a speech here! But I believe much of their foreign policy depends on who will benefit at home from it. Some admirals and generals may welcome an opportunity to fight a victorious battle against the Martians, despite what their political masters would wish.”
“Interesting, Governor. But that’s of little use if they are overridden by Paris before they can proceed,” said Funston.
Colquitt smiled. “Texan pride isn’t so different from French pride, General. I can see them going along if ‘the honor of the nation’ is at stake. Especially if very little else is. If we lose, it isn’t as though a French colony will be overrun by the Martians.”
“So we could still obtain French guns, provided that Frenchmen fire them,” said Funston.
“Perhaps. The Mexican federal army seems able to stand on its ow
n feet today without direct French help. The French may have strength to spare now. I take it you’ve no objection to them sending any aid or force we can get?”
“None at all, Governor.” Funston managed a smile. “It would not be the first time, after all.”
“Hah! That’s very true. I’ll see to it, then.” Colquitt looked at Lang. “Oh, Captain. I do hope that Senator Hudspeth’s fine automobile is being treated well and giving of good service?”
“Oh, yes, Governor.” Lang swallowed. “Two new coats of paint already. We’re keeping her in prime shape. General Wright, have you received any allocation of requisitioned automobiles?” Help me out here, General.
“Not that I know of,” said Wright in puzzlement. “But I can ask my staff to check and reply to you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Colquitt looked at Lang, then shrugged and rose to his feet. “Then I think we have made our intentions clear to one another, gentlemen. Thank you for being my guests this evening. If–” He turned to the footsteps from the interior hallway. “Alice! Why didn’t you come in earlier?”
“I didn’t wish to interrupt your work, gentlemen.” All three officers stood up as Alice Colquitt entered the drawing room and graced them all with her smile. “But if you are finished – Oscar, I need an immediate answer... I have a telephone call in to San Antonio with the Daughters. Did the House approve a budget for household supplies in the ‘White Star’ program today?”
“They did,” said Colquitt with obvious pride. “Nine thousand dollars’ worth. And it was a pleasure seeing some of ’em do it, too. Call me ‘Beer-Barrel Governor’, will they?”
“Get me their names,” said Mrs. Colquitt flatly. “I’ll speak with their wives... or have them spoken to.” She blossomed again in a smile. “I’m sorry, I must dash – musn’t tie up the nation’s telephone lines. Good afternoon, gentlemen!”
The Texas Front: Salient Page 12