The Texas Front: Salient

by Jonathan Cresswell

  In the moment of quiet, Emmet could hear other machine guns firing in the distance. “Did you hit one, Burnham?”

  “A few times,” said the civilian. His face was turning beet red; a heat ray had brushed him and inflicted a nasty burn, even at over a mile. “Now it’s up to these fellows.” He looked over to where Villa’s gunners manned their piece with silent intent: a four-man crew.

  Emmet stood up to get a line of sight over the wash’s peak. A tripod stalked toward them over the far ridgeline. He ducked back as it opened up with its heat ray, but it had mistaken one of the decoy guns for its target. To his surprise, an explosion thudded.

  “What was that?”

  “Probably some dynamite tucked under the wheels,” said Burnham. “That ought to divert them further.”

  A second decoy exploded to the north. Moments later, the artillery piece fired, recoiled, and slammed back into position. Emmet sneaked a look as the team reloaded it. The tripod hadn’t been hit.

  Another explosion. “They’ll figure this out any moment...”

  “Be ready, Mr. Painewick,” said Burnham intently. The car’s engine revved as though it had heard him and not its driver.

  The gun fired, recoiled, and the crew busied to load it. Emmet stayed low, estimating the tripod’s speed. They needed to go now...

  The instant that the crew finished loading, the gun’s captain – a fat man with a red sash – shoved two of them away from the gun. “Get in the car, all of you!” he shouted. After a moment’s hesitation, they and a third man dashed the few feet to the tourer and climbed aboard. Emmet locked eyes with the gun captain for a moment; the man gave a wistful smile and turned back to the breech.

  The scrub along the rocks burst into flame as the heat ray screamed out. The gun captain groped for the lanyard; his clothes were burning.

  “Go!” yelled Burnham. They tore into motion, lurching around the foothill, accelerating toward a gap in the rocks scouted early that morning. Behind, the gun blasted out one more round. The car shot through the gap and jolted into another wash, heading for their escape route. There was nothing to do now but run.

  June 1912, Northern Mexico

  Gorman stared at Mendez. The engineer seemed unhurt – the blood on his face and arms wasn’t his – but he’d dragged the limp body of the other man back the entire two hundred yards they’d started toward the broken track, to drop it at Gorman’s feet.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked. “The Masters are already fed.”

  “I don’t know,” said Mendez. He wiped at his face. “I suppose we’ll need another man now. To help me.”

  To the west, Gorman could hear the rasp of the Masters’ weapons, and gunfire. They would drive off their tormentors soon enough. But even half a mile away, that barrage had been shocking. New weapons. Didn’t people understand when they were beaten?

  “They killed him,” added Mendez stupidly. “Alberto. Our own kind – humans.”

  “That troubles you?”

  “They should have killed me.”

  “Just find the tools and I’ll send another man with you.” Gorman studied him for a moment. He would need to be watched.

  June 1912, Coahuila Province, Mexico

  Emmet Smith didn’t want to be the skeleton at the feast. But while everyone else – Mexican and American – seemed jubilant over a victory that had claimed at least one Martian tripod, he kept thinking about the fifty or sixty of them still holding their grip on Texas. And a certain promise he’d made. In hindsight, it seemed awfully rash, even irresponsible; but he’d made it.

  Burnham and Painewick too seemed less excited as they drove up to the encampment of Villa’s battalion at dusk, but they’d been in battles before and likely felt that it was winning the war that mattered. Once they’d dropped off young Cooter, Emmet broached an idea. “Could you fellows help me look someone up among the auxiliaries, the soldaderas? Her name’s Jovita Idar, she’s an American.”

  “They don’t seem like an approachable group, from what I’ve seen,” said Burnham. “Well, apart from a few who seem... professional company.”

  “That’s not it,” said Emmet. “She was at that Martian base when we broke out.”

  “Oh. Now, that could be interesting. Mr. Painewick, shall we swing around the north side of the camp and pay our respects? A nice car always gets one noticed.”

  “Sure,” said Painewick. He lit the car’s headlights in the evening twilight and drove slowly over the rough ground, watching for people – sometimes swerving around one. Around the campfires, men were shouting and singing. There was already a lengthy ballad about Villa; this raid would probably add a new stanza. He heard, “The machines walked primly / clutching the skirts of their train / Then we asked them to dance...”

  They stopped at a knot of female figures, many in the same rough uniforms as Villa’s men. Although the initial reaction was as flat as Burnham had predicted, the mention of Idar’s name changed that, and they were waved on toward one of the fires. Painewick parked the car; they dismounted and walked toward the glow. Faces turned, hands pointed –

  “Emmet!” shouted one small figure. She jumped up from beside the fire and ran several steps, then slowed abruptly and walked up to them. “I was – They said the LRSC had lost a car to the Martians, but no one seemed to know – that is–” She stopped and took a breath. “I was concerned.”

  “The communication between the units isn’t the best at times,” admitted Emmet. “That was car Three-One – a couple of good men gone, I’m afraid. May we join you?”

  “Yes. Of course. Have you eaten?”

  “Not very well.”

  “They’re roasting a pig.”

  “Top-notch.” Emmet gestured at his companions. “Enough for them too? They did most of the work in that fight, not me.”

  Idar smiled, teeth flashing in the gloom. “If they brought you back in good health, they are welcome.” All of them found spots on the ground near the fire; plates were circulating heaped with food. Emmet snagged one and tore in.

  “Ranger Smith mentions that you’ve seen Martians up close,” said Burnham. He was eating in careful bites, unlike Painewick and Emmet, who were making the best of food far better than what the LRSC cooks dispensed.

  Idar cooled slightly. “Yes, and it was most unpleasant. I really don’t like to talk about that.”

  “Of course; I’m sorry. It’s just that part of my work is finding out all that I can about them. The idea of getting inside one of those bases is... intriguing.”

  Emmet set down a gnawed rib. “Burnham, what is your line of work, exactly?”

  “Much like yours, really. I... scout. The more difficult, the more... exacting the task, the more I enjoy it. And, sometimes, I carry out a small action in the right place and time, and it seems to make a difference. I’m no man for murder, but if one has a choice between a battle that kills a thousand and a single, careful shot that wins the day, surely it’s the right thing to do? Perhaps not the honorable thing, but... Given the scale of this conflict, though, it’s hard to see that happening.”

  “Maybe not,” said Emmet thoughtfully. “Burnham, I figure to get inside that Martian base. Ranger Hicks and I, we... well, we think we have a way to sneak in past the tripods.”

  “Holy cow,” said Painewick.

  “That is... very difficult,” said Burnham with keen interest. “Darkness is no cover, for one. And there are no ordinary humans to slip among, as would be in a human society.”

  “There are. I’ve seen them. Not prisoners... trusties. Roaming freely.”

  Burnham blinked. “You’ve – humans that work for the Martians?”

  “Yes. Killed one of ’em; wouldn’t mind adding a few to that. And there’s prisoners in there, too – innocents kept to be used for food. I doubt they have much more than a few weeks left. IX Corps is working up a full-scale assault, but even if it doesn’t kill them, it could be too late.”

  “Well. What did you have in min
d?”

  “Those human trusties, they wear gadgets that tell the Martian tripods they’re allies.” Emmet glanced at Idar before he said anything further; she hesitated, then nodded. She twisted away from others’ view and unfastened the top button of her dress’ high neck.

  “What do they look like?”

  “Like this, Mr. Burnham,” she said, parting the cloth. Metal gleamed in the hollow of her throat.

  “Extraordinary!” Burnham bent close to peer at it, then abruptly realized the circumstances and recoiled. “Er... terribly sorry. I didn’t...”

  “If we told the Bureau’s agents about this,” said Emmet, “I don’t think it would go well. You see, there’s no way to get that thing off her. They’d haul her off to Washington like... like a laboratory specimen.” He hadn’t realized until he said it how much that troubled him.

  “Every necklace has a clasp,” said Painewick.

  “Not this one,” said Idar. Her face contorted. “It is their work, like a living creature. Horrible, like all else they do. There is a machine that takes it off, and nothing else can.”

  “Quite the shine. Is it gold?”

  Burnham chuckled. “Mr. Painewick, that alloy is probably worth far more than gold.”

  “It’s the first Martian thing I’ve seen that was... portable.” The gleam in Painewick’s eye was brighter than the pendant’s.

  “If you’re thinking of traveling back into Texas,” said Burnham, “the quickest way is by car. But you would need an excellent driver.”

  Painewick grimaced at him. “No need to butter me up, Mr. Burnham. If you can swing it, I’m in. But I want you to provide me one of those gewgaws afterward, fair and square. It’s only stealing if an enlisted man does it.”

  Emmet opened his mouth; Burnham gestured subtly. Instead, Emmet said, “Well, thanks. Be glad to have you. But I don’t think Major Plainview is going to just give us one of his fighting cars. And he’d sure notice if one went missing.”

  “Two cars, ideally,” said Burnham. “One to tow the other if it breaks down. Let me see what I can do, Mr. Smith. There are... favors owed. Forgive me if I’m not more specific.”

  “No need,” said Emmet. He glanced up; people nearby were turning their heads southward, and several rose to their feet, murmuring. A solidly built figure shifted past them, turning to speak and gesture as he went. He picked up a plate of food, bowed thanks, and moved toward their group.

  “Good evening, General,” said Emmet. As a civilian, even one who’d fought under Villa’s command, he did not salute, but he noticed few others had either as Villa settled to the ground, placing his plate carefully in his lap. There was little spit and polish in this army.

  “Good evening. And it was a good day! I am grateful to you, Mr. Smith. The rockets brought by your compatriots have proven very useful. I hope we will see more of them.”

  “I do too, General. I’ve heard that sometimes it takes the loss of a regiment to take down a tripod in open fighting. That’s a cruel rate of exchange; this attack turned out much better.”

  “It is only the little war – the guerilla. I would rather lead the entire Division del Norte against a Martian horde – or General Huerta’s dogs! But it helps the morale of my army and my people to strike a blow, and the diablos will need to send many of their machines after me if they wish to keep using this route. That may weaken them in Texas as well.”

  Emmet thought that not many men would be this sanguine with a bunch of Martian tripods hunting them. “General, I may need to go back to Texas soon myself. But I wouldn’t want you to think that I was sliding out on you – or anyone else who might go along with me. Do I have your permission? I can promise you that it’s to fight the same bunch of Martians that you just did.”

  Villa nodded. “I have always held that any man who fights for me can leave at his own will – unless it is during a battle. Then it is desertion. So you have nothing to worry about from me, Smith. It is your own officers who may present the problem. But I leave that to you.” Villa had finished eating as he spoke; he rose, handed the plate to a man next to him, and sauntered off through the camp.

  June 1912, IX Corps HQ, Alice, Texas

  Lang looked up from his desk, blinked, and rose to his feet. “Governor! What brings you here?”

  “Not a favorable errand,” said Oscar Colquitt. He pulled off his hat and knocked it against his leg; road dust puffed away. His suit was filthy. “Not at all, Captain. I need to see General Funston immediately.”

  “He’s in conference with Major Prendergast. They are planning–”

  “Immediately, Captain. I have driven here from Austin and I will not be kept waiting.”

  “I... I understand, sir. Just a moment.” Lang walked into the back corridor and knocked at the left door.

  “Away with you!” called Prendergast.

  “Sorry, Otto. General, it’s the governor, and he needs to see you immediately.”

  After a moment, the door opened and Funston stepped out. “I see,” he said in a flat tone. “You’d better dismiss the clerks, Willard. I think I know what this is about.”

  Lang nodded. “I too, sir.” He trotted back to the main area and yelled, “Everyone out! Clear the room!”

  Colquitt pointed at Lang as he walked after the scurrying clerks. “Not you, Lang. You were present at our first meeting, and you’ll stay for this.” Prendergast shot him a worried look as he left; they’d known this was coming.

  Funston settled into a chair. He’d known too, of course. “Yes, Governor?”

  “Leonard Wood’s office has informed me that the Martians have taken Little Rock and have advanced nearly to Memphis. Were you aware of this, General?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Martian forces are advancing rapidly down the Mississippi’s western bank. They have cut off our rail connections with all eastern and northern states. Second Army divisions that were meant to protect those areas... have not. They appear to be absent altogether. General, I demand an explanation.”

  “I have already explained my plan of attack, Governor. It is to drive out the Martians in this state as soon as feasible, and it is proceeding.”

  “Did you move those units that Wood’s office was asking about – redeploy them against Hebbronville?”

  “Elements of the 78th and 5th Texas divisions...” offered Lang. Colquitt looked at him; he shut up.

  “Yes. As Second Army’s commander, that is my responsibility, and I am carrying it out. Once the Martians are defeated here, those divisions will be shifted north again. By July, at the latest.”

  “But you must shift them now!”

  “Order, counterorder, disorder,” recited Funston. “One does not turn a division around on a dime, Governor. General Wood has access to far more resources than we do here. He is closer to the situation, and he knows his work. He’ll deal with that incursion. We must deal with ours.”

  “I cannot believe this. Those are our fellow Americans in the path of those – those things! You have shirked your responsibilities, sir!”

  Funston flushed darkly. “Hold your tongue! I have never shirked a duty in my life!”

  Colquitt paced away a few steps, and turned. “Very well, I misspoke. But I take grave exception to your judgment in this matter. The rail connection is vital. Even if the Martian forces are repelled quickly, they may well have destroyed so much track that it will take months to repair. And if they realize how thinly defended – how wide open – Texas is from the north, we’ll have two incursions. And the French have supplied us no weapons or assistance as yet. There’s no guarantee they ever will. To make an enemy of the United States Chief of Staff...”

  “I have no hostility toward Leonard Wood. He’s a good man. But just as he understood that Texas is a salient which he could not fully defend, he will have to understand that this incursion is for the armies of the eastern states to handle. They have sixty divisions, Governor! They have hordes of tanks, they are building giant landships! W
hat good would two puny divisions do, even if they were available in time and good order? At least here, they can smash a Martian base. The news of that is bound to help morale all over the United States. In these military matters, you, you must...” Funston strove visibly for calm. “Governor, in these matters, you must leave all judgment to me. We agreed once that Washington was defensive-minded; well, then, this is their hour. They must defend. We must attack!”

  “But at what cost, sir?”

  “At any cost. This is war to the death, Governor. If I were to send those divisions back now... we might lose. And they would win nothing for it. We are committed, and I accept full responsibility for that. Second Army’s task is to destroy that base, and we will carry it out.”

  “Hudspeth will have a field day with this,” muttered Colquitt. “General, I don’t think you grasp the political aspect of your actions. The impact of those actions.”

  “Are you concerned about your political enemies, Governor?”

  “More about my allies. There are some that are all but calling for secession. They’ll blame Washington for the loss of the rail connection, and I can hardly hold up your leadership as a counter-example, now can I? It’s all right, boys, we did it ourselves... Fuel to the fire.”

  “A victory will shut up the naysayers. It always does.”

  Colquitt carefully picked up his hat from the desk and brushed it. “I hope so. Good day to you, General.” He walked to the front door, paused, and turned. “The Martians may have crossed the Arkansas, General, but I fear we have crossed the Rubicon.”

  The door thumped shut behind him. Neither Lang nor Funston spoke for nearly a minute. Then the general levered himself to his feet. “Lang... the governor is right. We have... I have... crossed a sort of threshold.” He raised his voice. “Otto! Get everyone back to work, then join us in the conference room!”

  Lang followed the general to the back room, noting how his usual bouncing stride had become a shuffle. Once Prendergast had chivved the clerks back to place and joined them, though, Funston revived to his usual energy.