“Steal some? Sure, Cap. What does it look like?”
“Damn it. I don’t know. Like a spool of barb wire?”
Someone coughed to Lang’s right. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I believe it will appear as a column of gold-colored, very fine wire, about five feet high. If they have removed the outer casing.”
Lang turned. “Burnham! Where did you come from?”
“Yeah, he does that,” said Eddie fondly. “Mr. Burnham’s been sticking with the LRSC for a while now.”
“It really is the most interesting place to be,” said Frederick Burnham. The skin on his face burned by the Martian heat rays had darkened into a deep tan; he seemed indecently cheerful. “And it seems it’s about to get more so.”
“Look,” said Lang, “I don’t want–”
“Oh, I don’t mind if it’s... unofficial. Mr. Painewick can tell you that I’m no stickler for dotting i’s and crossing t’s.”
Lang glanced at Eddie, who nodded. “Okay. Follow me to wherever that agent is driving, and take it from there.”
He rejoined Mulder. “He’ll get right on it. Let’s go.” They proceeded two miles to the southwestern train sidings. Cars were backed in row upon row, overlapped, seemingly blocking out the landscape. A locomotive puffed slowly past; haggard soldiers looked out from windows with dull expressions that Lang knew well enough. Two days wasn’t near enough time to recover from a battle like that. Sometimes two years wasn’t... The train halted in a chuff of steam, leaving a gap that was quickly filled by another.
It looked like a hopeless jam; but Lang knew the priorities, and the switchmen did too. The two other Feds standing flat-footed on guard beside their special train, though, probably didn’t. He noted that the boxcar doors were padlocked – that was bad. Still, not insurmountable. A glance to the north showed the Peerless parked and empty.
“Right,” said Lang. “I’ll go see the yard manager and get this train moving.”
He led Mulder to the nearby shack, told him to wait, and trotted up the stairs to the wide-windowed office. From this height, the cars seemed to stretch on for miles. The manager waddled sideways in his chair and peered at him over tiny glasses. “Yeah? Oh, hello, Captain.”
“Hi, Mick. Can you keep that train, there, can you keep it here for a couple hours?”
“Uh... sure. But I’ll have to hold those two troop trains as well.”
Lang frowned. “Medical trains?”
“Nah, just a bunch of bored soldiers.”
“That’s fine, then. They’d be just as bored somewhere else. Which units?”
Mick flopped open a ledger and ran his finger down the lines. “That one’s the 7th... that one’s the 49th. Says here I’m supposed to keep ’em separated. You know anything about that?”
“It could cause a damn riot, that’s what I was told...” Lang blinked and resisted the urge to grin. “No, that’s ridiculous. We’re all on the same side, after all. If you put them both alongside that special train, it’ll be just what I need.”
“Well, whatever you say, then.”
“Thanks, Mick.” Lang clapped his shoulder and rejoined the agent.
“Well?” snapped Mulder.
“He’s working on it. But there’s been a breakdown in the switchyard, might take an hour or two to resolve that.”
Mulder cursed. “Let’s get back. Too many folk around here for my liking.”
They settled in beside the salvage train. Lang tried to engage all three agents in conversation; it was like talking to lampposts. They kept walking around to check the cars. He needed a distraction, and this was all taking up valuable time... After a while, soldiers began dismounting from the nearest troop train and wandering. Lang wondered where their officers were.
As some drew near, he recognized the 7th Division patches. There weren’t many officers left from that.
A private wandered up to the boxcar, glanced curiously in through a gap in the boards. “Well, that sure looks shiny. What have you fellas got in there?”
“Just step away from the train, soldier.” Mulder was a tall man; he towered over the scruffy private as he moved between him and the car.
The man looked him up and down. “Nice suit, but I don’t see no general’s stars. You got no right -”
Mulder shoved him back. “Just move on, now.”
“Hey!” called out another man. “Who d’you think you are?” He stepped up next to his companion.
“Listen, all of you!” shouted Mulder. “We are federal agents. This train is the property of the federal government, and we are transporting salvage. Do not interfere or you will be in violation of the War Measures Act!”
“You mean you stole that Martian junk from Hebbronville?”
“Salvaged! Now, beat it!” All three agents had gathered on this side of the cars. More soldiers drifted up; it was becoming a small crowd.
“Do you nice government men have any idea how many of us just died? That stuff doesn’t belong to you! It belongs to us, to Texas!”
“Yeah! Yeah!” A number of cries went up at that. “Washington’s taking everything. They got no right!”
“Well, the 7th got no right either,” shouted a man from Lang’s left. He and others had walked over from the second troop train; they were from the 49th. “Not when you ran away like that!”
“Who said that?”
“Everybody’s sayin’ it!” The two groups converged; men began shoving one another; in moments, the first punch was thrown. The Feds tried to intervene. One was decked immediately.
Another agent pulled a pistol. “Stop this! Stop it now!”
This is getting out of hand. Lang spun and sprinted to the Peerless. He climbed up and flipped off the traveling lock from the loaded cal fifty, racked the bolt. He checked around for a backstop; a pile of railway ties looked fine; he swung the weapon around. Shooting into the air around here might have consequences.
The brawl was becoming nasty. In another moment, the MPs would get here–
A pistol shot cracked out. Men spilled back, opening a gap; a soldier was down, although he was only gripping his arm. Enough.
Lang fired four rounds into the ties. The terrific BAM BAM BAM BAM swung every head, stopped every cocked fist.
“You’re all a shame to General Funston!” he bellowed. “The 7th did all they could and then some! The 49th fought like lunatics! And what the hell d’you want with some Martian junk anyway? Get back to your trains! Now!”
Men slumped, stepped back, let go of collars. The three Feds shuffled back to their boxcar, still with pistols drawn. Two men helped the shot soldier stand up; it didn’t look bad, but this was going to be an ugly incident. Lang waited until the groups had split apart, grumbling, then stowed the machine gun and hopped down. The MPs appeared – at last – and urged the men back to their trains; some took the wounded man off for attention.
The Feds looked shaken when Lang rejoined them. He fixed them with an icy stare, and a tone to match. “Who fired?”
“That’ll be in our report. It’s not your concern.”
“You idiots. You shot one of our men. It damn well is.” But they refused to say anything further. He kept them on that side as long as he could, but soon they remembered their jobs and redeployed on guard. Lang made two more trips to the yard manager’s office, but eventually the train did have to move. The feds swung aboard with ill grace and departed along with it.
Lang walked back to the Peerless; it was empty. A nightjar called from behind a stack of hay bales. He got in, started the car, and backed it up to the bales. “You know, Burnham,” he called out, “there are no nightjars in this part of Texas.”
“Really? Oh, dear.” Between the three of them, they hefted the cylinder into the car. Burnham and Eddie got in.
“Any trouble?” asked Lang.
“It was only a Yale lock. No difficulty.” Burnham looked smug. “That was a marvelous diversion, Captain.”
“I could have done without some of
it.” Lang looked over the cylinder; it was indeed wrapped in fine gold wire, but it seemed... skewed. “Fellas, there’s something wrong with this.”
“Cap, it was the only one without a casing. The others weighed twice as much.”
“I believe that only a discharged coil can be safely exposed like this,” said Burnham. “They had started taking it apart, presumably. I assumed that you might not have the equipment to open a charged coil safely. Did I misjudge?”
Lang glanced after the departing train. “It doesn’t matter now. Let’s get this covered with a tarp and get it started on the way to Dallas.”
* * * * * * *
When Lang returned to the headquarters, he found General Funston slumped at his desk. Funston jerked awake when Lang cleared his throat; he’d been dozing. None of them were getting a lot of sleep. “Where the devil were you?”
“Sorry, sir. I found an opportunity to obtain some of that Martian wire.”
“Hmph. Very well.” Funston rose and beckoned Lang to the main map table. He noticed that the clerks were gone. Privacy?
“It will take many weeks to rebuild these two divisions properly,” said Funston. “And time is of the essence. Those Martians will be building up their strength every day – I don’t know how long it takes them to create their manufacturing system, but I don’t suppose it’s any less potent than their weapons.
“Given that, I have decided to shift some of our forces south temporarily from the Arkansas River line where there’s the least chance of an attack. The 78th and the 5th Texas are mostly infantry, but we’ll need a lot more men. There have been so many lost already...” He looked away from the map into a far distance. “But they won’t have died for nothing. They will not. That base will be crushed.”
Lang checked. “So, from the 78th Division and the 5th Texas... how many of their attached tanks and artillery are coming with them, sir?”
“All of them.”
“All... very good, sir.”
“It’s too far to shift Bill Wright’s reinforcements back here – too long. But we’ll have to take some of his munition stocks. More artillery will need more shells to feed them.”
Lang made notes. “That won’t leave much around Little Rock and points east, sir.”
“I don’t–” Funston paused. “I understand your concern, Lang. But we cannot be strong everywhere. And there are plenty of Federal forces–” Lang blinked at the term from a man who was in Federal uniform – “positioned in fortifications near there. They can surely handle anything that the Martians might throw at them, especially given how much warning time they ought to have. Do you know they have aircraft now?”
“Yes, sir. We sure could use some of those.”
“I’m telling you, they have written us off like a banker’s bad investment... Get on the train scheduling right away. Today if you can.”
“The easiest route is to go via Dallas...”
Funston lifted a hand. “I’d prefer to keep the trains out of the bigger cities. They might be noticed... Stage them through Shreveport instead, or perhaps the Houston & Texas Central line. And try to make it look like routine movement. I’ve been given a pretty free hand so far, but Leonard Wood might start looking over my shoulder. He’s got his own concerns; we do not need to worry him with this. And in a month, once that base is destroyed, they’ll be back on the Arkansas River, and with some fighting experience to boot.”
“Yes, sir.”
April 1912, Houston Rocket Center, Texas
“That wire is downright useless!” said Major Palmer. He downshifted angrily into second gear and swerved left at the ‘intersection’ of two dusty tracks outside of the rocket center’s main building. The official direction signs pointing to RANGE – 1 MI. and BUNKER – 500 YD had been augmented by a hand-painted one reading MARS – 35,430,153 MI.
Willard Lang sighed. “Look, sir, I know it was a damaged coil–”
“It’s a Gordian knot, is what it is! Something – or some fool – tugged on just the wrong place, and now every loop seems to be linked into every other one! Corporal Stimson is fascinated by it – he says he can publish a paper on the topology – but I have three clerks working to extract the wire, and it’s taken them days just to get a couple thousand yards pulled out and spooled. Then that Woods inventor showed up and took all of it.”
“He did have authorization from the general,” pointed out Lang.
“Sure, or I’d never have let him... Lang, this is crazy. Back east, they’ve got Edison and Tesla and labs full of workers to exploit the Martian technology. We’ve got one sickly Negro. How can we expect to get anywhere?”
“I guess he’s not telling you much.”
“Nope! Just to set up for a test firing today. That’s why I called you. I want another witness when he falls flat on his face.” Palmer braked hard at the range border and shut off the car’s engine. Several other cars and trucks were parked alongside. Lang climbed out and began walking toward the firing trench.
He noted that on the launching frames, a rocket lay horizontally on a firing rail. A few yards to one side, a table and several chairs were protected by sandbags; a sort of radio console rested on it, wired up to a couple of car batteries. Two men sat at the table; one was Granville Woods.
Palmer pushed past Lang. “Corporal Stimson, what are you doing here?”
“I have been requisitioned,” said the narrow-shouldered, freckled corporal in a Louisiana accent. “Mister Woods needs an operator for the test.”
Woods nodded to Lang. “Afternoon, Cap’n.”
“Hello, Mr. Woods. I see you’ve modified one of the stock four-inch rockets there.”
“Yes. It’s guided now.”
“Guided?” Lang gaped at the rocket. True, it now sported an extra pair of horizontal fins at the midsection – or were they wings? “But surely there’s no room in there for that sort of gear. Radios, and motors, and, and... Unless you sacrificed something else? Not the warhead...”
“No, I only added two solenoids to move the sheering vanes. Every’hing else is there.” Woods gestured shakily toward the console. It was only then that Lang noticed the small telescope on a swivel... and the two very fine wires attached to contact posts.
Corporal Stimson patted the console fondly. “Yeah, sure is something when you get hold of Martian wire. No transmission losses, even over a mile of it; there’s just no resistance at all that we can even detect. Big ol’ lead-acid batteries, valves, they all stay here, driving the solenoids on the rocket. I just have to tell it to go up, down, left, or right with those knobs.”
“Cooter’s my right and lef’ hand man,” said Woods.
“Been practicing by sliding a model down a wire cable and steering it. I have gotten moderately good at it.” To one side, Major Palmer shook his head in disgust. “Care to join us?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Lang said and took one of the extra chairs. He peered downrange; nearly a mile distant, someone had dragged a small shack into place that was roughly the size of a Martian tripod. It looked awfully small from here. “How fast can you set all this gear up, Corporal?”
“Oh, maybe fifteen minutes to unload it all off the car and connect everything.”
Lang blinked, glanced at the parked Ford, then back to the table. “Could you leave it on a car?”
“I guess. If it could take the launch rail. Like those Wichita Six-Shooters we’ve been making.”
“I thought those had eight rails?”
“Too crowded. We cut it down to six. And besides, who ever heard of an eight-shooter?”
“Can we just get this over with?” said Palmer.
Stimson looked at Woods, who nodded. “Whenever you’re ready, Cooter. Major, it’s your call.”
“Fire in the hole,” said Palmer with ill grace.
Stimson tapped the firing key; the four-inch rocket roared off its launch rail in a terrific blast of dust and a haze of smoke. They hunched under the blast for a moment; Stimson stayed i
n that pose, peering through his telescope. His fingers twiddled gently at two knobs on the console – particularly the right one. “She’s wantin’ to sink...”
“Motor’sh out. Nose her up.”
Lang could see the dot of the rocket’s tail jinking over the landscape. He counted by habit; seven, eight, nine –
The shack disappeared in an explosion; the boom reached them moments later.
“Holy cow,” said Stimson. “I hit that thing. I really hit it!” Beside him, Grantville Woods smiled without speaking.
“It appears you did,” said Palmer in a tone of distaste. “As to whether that’s repeatable in the field, well...”
“We’ll need more trials,” said Lang. “Under field conditions, too. And I’m really interested in vehicle mounting these... Impressive work, Mr. Woods. And, Major, thank you for including me in this. I know that General Funston will be excited to hear about this, and Major Plainview over with the LRSC... well, excited doesn’t cover it; he might just fall flat on his face.”
* * * * *
An overnight train got Lang to Fort Sam Houston by midmorning. Funston was at his house again; Lang couldn’t blame him for being sick of the office. Things were moving maddeningly slowly for reinforcing IX Corps – as he knew in grim detail. Although there were some disturbing telegrams about a Martian attack on Little Rock that looked to be on a scale beyond anything a single corps could handle... He accepted the inevitable tea.
“The bottleneck is definitely that wire,” he said after carefully describing the test. “It’s incredible stuff, all right – thin as thread, strong as steel, and they were able to push a control current through a mile of it, just as Woods said. But what we have is hopelessly tangled. Stimson said it was driving men mad to tease it out, and we’ll need hundreds of miles of it to build any significant number of these weapons.”
“Is this about the project that I officially haven’t heard of?” said Mrs. Funston, adding sugar to her own cup.
“Just so. If we can’t get enough of that wire untangled, we’re stuck. And Washington’s being of no help at all.”
The Texas Front: Salient Page 20