“We do need a genuine victory. I am confident that we have sufficient force assembled to assault the base at Hebbronville. And the French and Mexican units that have joined us seem like they can fight. General Huerta is very touchy, but he seems to know his trade – still, we have enough artillery of our own to supply, so once he’s fired off what he has brought with him, I don’t much care what he does. I’ve assigned a liaison to the French armored unit, ah, Captain, ah...”
Prendergast did not need to flip open the ledger before him. “George Patton, sir.”
“Yes. They’re far more mobile, so if that radio they left out there actually works, we may be able to coordinate a pursuit of some kind. But all that is not to be of much use if the Martians choose to retreat and outpace us. I want that base, but I also want them to pay the kind of price we’ve been paying. But I dare not split off part of IX Corps to encircle the base and invite defeat in detail.”
“And without that, those tripods can retreat in a dozen directions and break through our lines where they please,” agreed Lang.
“That’s what we thought until this morning,” said Prendergast.
“What?”
“We’ve received intelligence that the real purpose of the Martian base is to dig up and extract a mineral, and they have been using a stolen freight train to ship it back to their main base in Mexico.”
Lang recalled the bizarre telegram report of a train with the Martian invasion. “Who’s the source? The 3rd Volunteer Division?”
“No, they’ve been kept well outside of Laredo since March. The report came from some Texas Rangers.” Prendergast grinned at Lang’s bewilderment. “They’d reported from Mexico by telephone to the Adjutant-General, but Hutchings seems to have ignored it. I heard rumors via the LRSC last week, so I telephoned back and eventually got hold of them. All the details match, Willard. That’s why they stopped so quickly once they got into Texas; they’d found whatever they wanted and got to digging. They could have rolled over San Antonio or Houston easily enough if they’d wanted to.”
“When was the last train?”
“About six weeks ago.”
Lang shook his head. “All that for – But, hang on. If they’re still digging–”
“They’re not done.”
“And that is the key,” put in Funston. “I don’t know what they’ll do when we attack, but if they do retreat, they’ll surely want to bring back another trainload. And the only route to do so is through Laredo. The Martian force will head right down that rail line.”
“Then that’s why they secured the town to begin with. Not a supply line... a getaway plan.”
“Yes. And that is why you are going to take it back.”
“Sir?”
“I’m not leaving IX Corps headquarters until that base is taken or destroyed. Certainly not now. If the governor tries to pull out those divisions...” Funston flicked his hand angrily. “But the 3rd Volunteer is simply not up to the task of blocking the entire Martian force long enough for us to catch them. Harlan Slater’s a brave man, but his division’s been frittered away in small attacks. I understand their need to hit back, but if I send him more forces, I can’t trust him to use them in the right way, at the right time. I’m sending you, Willard. I trust you to know when to fight... or to hold your fire to the last moment. I haven’t forgotten your last stand at Albuquerque, you know.” Funston smiled wanly. “Maybe I haven’t forgiven... You’ll have my full authority behind you. Take Laredo back from them, and hold. I’ll drive them into you. If there are too many of them... don’t throw away your men. Hurt them as best you can as they pass through. But if there’s any real chance, you must stop them.”
“Right,” said Lang absently. “Sir. I could blow the bridge as well–”
“No!” said Prendergast. “That’s the only thing keeping them on that path. Don’t even scratch it.”
“So I’ll hold it hostage, then, and they must come and pay the toll.” Carson. Billings. Jed Gillray. I said you wouldn’t come cheap. Lang felt cold and clear; the accumulated fatigue of weeks of work seemed to drop away. “Very good. What do I have, and how do I get it there?”
“We’re still working on that,” said Funston. “It’s too far to drive tanks even if we could pass near Hebbronville, and the Martians control the other rail lines near Laredo. But the LRSC is being recalled from Mexico, and they’ve proven these rocket trucks do work. And they’ve fought alongside Madero’s generals. We have a new batch of rockets and trucks available now – it’s too open country here and they’d be wiped out in an assault, but in an ambush, they can have a good chance. We’re going to send them well around the Martians, down into Mexico, and you can slip them back across at Laredo and surprise the Martian garrison there.”
“By ‘batch’, the general means eighty-two trucks,” said Prendergast. “Fully loaded.”
Lang digested this. “Sir, there isn’t enough logistics support in Nuevo Leon for anything much beyond cavalry. One battle, and we'll be done.”
“I know. That is why you must drive out the Martian presence in Laredo – I won’t say retake the town, as there’s little of it left. But push them back long enough to bring in trains from El Paso, and you will be able to reinforce the defenses with fresh rockets, fuel, and ammunition.”
“How many more munitions are staging through there?”
“Two hundred and twenty of the four-inch rockets, and forty-three guided versions,” said Prendergast.
“Forty– Where did you get that much wire? Did you get more than forty girls working after all?”
“They’ve got one hundred and seventeen there in Dallas. They’re pulling out miles of it a day, working three shifts. Glenda – the supervisor – she says she has to force them to take breaks.”
“They’re that good at sewing?”
“About half the ones that stick have a relative or boyfriend in IX Corps.”
“And it won’t hurt to put you as far away from James Wade’s attention as possible,” added Funston. “He’s heading up a Congressional committee looking into officers who haven’t performed to their expectations, and he’ll be looking very closely here. I’m sure he remembers you from his... superannuation.”
“Can I go too?” said Prendergast.
“You’ll survive anything, Otto.”
“Other than my hurt feelings, yes.” Prendergast turned to Lang. “Come on, Willard, we’ll get you on your way to getting across the hawse of Martians instead of politicians.”
Cycle 597,845.2, Minefast 31.01, South Texas
“Define nearly completed,” said Group Leader Vantarsilas.
Taldarnilis regarded the communication screen impassively. “The third movement of the prey transport system will commence in approximately ten days, according to Raqtinoctil’s estimate. It is nearly loaded with compound 92-12, but every day allows more to be loaded for the final passage.”
“But that also increases the risk. You were attacked while returning to the minefast, so the prey are aware of our use of their transport system.”
“The prey do not coordinate as we do. The group of them that bombarded us to the southwest during our passage, in all likelihood, are not part of the much larger force besieging us from the east.”
“How can you be certain?”
“I cannot. However, if the large group did know, they would surely have encircled the minefast to cut off our passage. Instead, they fear our concentrating on a small part of their force, and so keep it in a single location. I have found that prey may be manipulated by a mere threat as readily as by applied force.”
“Your newfound knowledge is sure to be of vast use,” said Vantarsilas, “if you survive to return with it. The Conclave, though, seems to not grasp your value. Your claim of navigational error has been denied, and Group 31 has been proscribed for violating Group 32’s territory. Without an elder to speak for us –”
“Pardon, Group Leader, but if you inquire again, I believe you will f
ind that our operation is taking place to the south of the large watercourse, not the north. It is actually in our own territory.”
“Nonsense! Taldarnilis, are you–”
“The accusation was based on flawed imaging from the satellite – an error in processing. Arctilantar has... corrected it. We no longer have access to its data flow, but no one can now be certain exactly what occurred, or more importantly, where. Our own fighting machines’ logs indicate we are well to the south of the watercourse. Each group may claim what they wish, but in any case, Group 32 has its attention fully upon their offensive to the east. Territorial quibbles must wait until a future time.”
“Taldarnilis, we have very little of that remaining!”
“Have the initial loads of 92-12 been processed successfully into energetic fuel?”
Vantarsilas blinked. “Yes. The holdfast reactor has been fully refueled, and stocks prepared to last two local cycles.”
“That is gratifying, even if we do not survive. With a successful third transport, though, Group 31 will have enough fuel to last more than three cycles. And a great deal can occur in that much time, Group Leader.”
“More has occurred than you know.”
Taldarnilis suppressed its reaction. “I request clarification, Group Leader.”
“The Conclave has announced that this world is no longer to receive emigrants of the Race. Instead, its resources will be exploited and transported back to the Homeworld, to support civilization there in its true and highest form.” Vantarsilas seemed wistful as it spoke.
“But... we were to build a new civilization here! For all the Race to thrive within!” Taldarnilis’ mind whirled. “The technical and resource cost of moving materials between planets will consume almost all that we create. We will require a hundredfold more resources to support a member of the Race living on the Homeworld, compared to here. Can they really mean to... lay waste this rich, rich world?”
“It appears so.” Vantarsilas drew itself up. “At the moment, what matters is that you need not trouble to safely process the wastes from the mine in the normal fashion any longer. Abandon whatever is not to be used.”
“But that is... irresponsible! It may be Group 32’s territory, but no clan should treat its surroundings in such–”
“No. Leave the minefast the instant the maximum amount of 92-12 is extracted. This world is no longer to be colonized, Taldarnilis. It is to be consumed.”
July 1912, East of Alice, Texas
“You and I both look ahead to the future, I sense,” said General Victoriano Huerta.
“Yes, General,” said Lieutenant Henri Gamelin, rather than nodding. Huerta’s cataracts made it difficult to gesture to him in a conversation. He would never drive an automobile; the staff car that Henri rode in was being driven by a Mexican Army major. Another staff officer rode in the front seat, leaving the two of them to share the back. Luxurious and powerful, the American touring car did not keep out a speck of the road dust with its top down, but the view of the military convoy was impressive: lines of trucks, ranks of cavalry, trundling towed artillery. With the rail lines from Corpus Christi overloaded by three divisions’ worth of traffic from the combined expedition, the road received the overflow, and Huerta had chosen to pace his soldiers here – and he had invited Henri.
“Once these Martian invaders within Texas are defeated, our work will not end, will it?”
“I do have further work in America,” said Henri in a neutral tone. “I have heard that you will press on into northern Mexico.”
“Yes. But that mission will not be one of war or extermination – rather one of peace. I will exhaust all means of resolving this... sorrowful situation, in order to cure these social wounds.” Huerta paused as the car swerved past a slower vehicle; they had passed many such during the morning’s drive. “Not the unsheathed sword of the avenger, but the extended hand, the desire to bring together all good citizens. Our country has been divided for too long in the face of this Martian horror.”
“You have seen much of that, I understand.”
“Indeed! My very homeland, Monterrey, was obliterated by one of their strongholds. I had just retired, you know – laid down my sword for a peaceful career.”
“Something more constructive?”
“You might say that. I became a paving engineer.” Huerta waved over the side of the car. “This road is terrible. But it must serve... So did I, again, after the Martians attacked and our country went mad with revolution. My wife came with me to Mexico City and within a year had to flee from there as well. France has been fortunate to avoid such a fate.”
“There are some Frenchmen who think they are immune,” said Henri. “I do not, and so I will go wherever the fight is. Better than to wait until it comes to me.”
“Well said. And here, just ahead, are many more just like you!” Huerta gestured. Perhaps he could not see the details of the vehicles they were coming up on, but the hulking mass of them – and the distinct rumble of their wheels – were unmistakable. The 118th Striking Vehicle Battalion comprised more than forty vehicles; each one was slung between six huge wheels, well armored – against heat rays, at least – and fitted with a rotating turret holding a 90mm gun. The metal discs that would shield their tires in combat were stowed on the decks for travel.
“I lust after these,” said Huerta cheerfully. “Tanks break down so quickly, but these can travel a hundred miles or more and arrive ready to fight! That could give a Martian a real surprise, eh?”
Or a revolutionary column, thought Henri; but he said nothing. Huerta was a difficult man to read. His reputation was not pleasant, but then, neither was Mangin’s. It was true that these vehicles were deployed outside of France not only because of their limited mobility in wet conditions as opposed to the North African desert, but their usefulness in maintaining order within colonies. Plentiful oil in Mexico had become part of that; the 118th would never go thirsty as long as Tampico stayed out of Martian hands. But what did Huerta really think of France’s meddling in his country?
The major in the front seat twisted to look behind them. “General! The column has halted!”
“What is it?” Huerta peered back as well. A large gap had opened up.
“Some sort of accident...”
“Well, then, go back and see what it is!” The car swung into a tight turn. Huerta glanced wistfully toward the wheeled tanks; then they drove back until Mexican vehicles appeared and pulled up. Two trucks had collided, spilling cargo – and soldiers. Figures clustered around one truck’s back wheels.
“I don’t see any damage to the vehicles... It looks as though they’re waiting for something,” said the major.
“There is no time to wait,” said Huerta. He climbed out of the car and strode to the truck’s side. For a few moments, he gestured and shouted; then he spun on his heel and walked back to the staff car.
“Drive on!”
They swung about; Henri glimpsed the trucks edging apart and getting under way. “What was wrong, General?”
“Some fool soldier fell under the wheels,” grumbled Huerta. “They didn’t want to move the vehicles until a surgeon arrived – as though he could do anything useful. There is no time to waste.”
“Is he still alive?” asked Henri.
“It does not matter now.” Huerta craned his neck to look ahead for the wheeled tanks as the staff car accelerated.
The general said little more as they traveled for another two hours; perhaps he’d realized his friendly affectation would no longer work or simply couldn’t think of anything but the marvelous wheeled tanks he could not have. At one point, the column slowed to pass through a small settlement, vehicles crowded closely along the narrow street, and the inhabitants clustered about in handfuls to cheer this advancing army. Their faces changed when they saw the French and Mexican flags fluttering over the tanks and cars – some looked astonished – but when Henri turned to look behind, the cheers had resumed. Yes, we are strangers, but we
are here to fight your enemies, and we travel toward the sound of the guns.
After another hour, they arrived at the combined staging area. Once Huerta’s car had forced itself through the mass of vehicles thronging the town of Alice and reached the headquarters building for IX Corps, he bade a quick goodbye to Henri, dismounted, and strode to the building’s side entrance. Henri glanced over as he got down; another man in civilian clothes was greeting the general. They turned and went inside.
Henri shrugged and waved farewell to the staff major, then walked into the HQ. It was bustling with activity like a disturbed hive. Dozens of clerks seemed to be playing musical chairs with the stools at the telegraph stations along one wall. He looked about for General Funston, head of IX Corps, but did not see any such rank. All seemed to dash about intently, and short of tripping one and sitting on him, Henri could get nowhere.
Another figure detached from the military mob and moved to meet him. “Now tell me, what kind of uniform is that?”
Henri managed to smile. He’d gotten used to this. “Marine Nationale. Lieutenant Henri Gamelin, on detached duty from the 12th Division in Veracruz – I am a naval liaison for them.”
“Long way from here! I’m Bill Mitchell, colonel of not much at all.” They shook hands. “Do you happen to have an appointment with the general?”
“General Funston? I was hoping perhaps you did.” Henri noted that Mitchell’s uniform, while not standing out as much as his own, was not standard for the American army either. Something odd about the collar...
“Not by a long shot! The last time we spoke, he told me, ‘You should have come to me six months ago, Mitchell. I know where the damn Martians are now!’” The colonel grinned wryly. “Everyone tells me it’s not the right time. But they’re wrong.”
“Time for what?”
“Aircraft. Not the toys they have now, but something bigger, more advanced. The sort of heavy bomber that can hit the enemy hard, move faster than a tripod can, concentrate on a base in hours instead of months.”
The Texas Front: Salient Page 26