“The same distance at night?”
Slater rubbed his jaw. “Uh, I suppose so. We don’t get too close at night; they can surprise you awful fast. They see just as well as in daytime.”
“Yes. General, IX Corps will be attacking the main Martian base at Hebbronville tomorrow morning...”
“Yeah. They told us, for what that’s worth.”
Plainview nodded. “The LRSC will retake Laredo and attempt to hold it as a blocking position.”
“Well, seeing as General Funston didn’t see fit to assign all these new weapons to the 3rd, I can’t do much but wave as you go by. Best of luck, though.”
“Sir, these rockets can’t just be worked into an existing unit without–”
“I’m sure the general knows that, Daniel.” Lang turned from Plainview’s startled expression to face Slater again. “Sir, do you have any telephones? And how much wire for them?”
“I got maybe three in the regimental HQs. They’re wired into the line running to Piedras Negras; the Martians tore down all the lines at Laredo, they know about them. Couple miles’ worth for each. What are you thinking, Captain?”
Lang glanced at Plainview, who looked intrigued. “Well, sir, we could attack this afternoon, but we’ve only got a few hours’ daylight, and the Martians will have all night to react to us – when they fight best. My intention is rather to infiltrate scouts late tonight and into the early morning, locate as many tripods as possible, then move up the rocket trucks into range and use telephone links and runners to relay the target positions. We’ll attack just before dawn, engage the survivors independently, then once we’ve destroyed or driven them out, we can move in our supply trains.”
“Ever tried to hit a tripod in the dark?” asked Slater.
“The rockets are fired in mass launches, sir. It’s not a precise task like aiming a tank cannon.”
Plainview shifted. “Are you sure about this? Men don’t function well in those early hours. Just driving a truck over rough ground is problematic.”
“Yes, it will be slow going. We’ll have to tiptoe up...”
“Look, now,” snapped Slater. “Funston can send you whiz kids through here if he wants, but I’m telling you, sparring with a few tripods in Mexico and runnin’ away isn’t the same as fighting them in a stand-up match to take ground. Fancy ideas and tactics won’t get you far. This is the real war, Captain, and we’ve been fighting it since March. If you have some clever scheme, you can damn well carry it out on your own.”
Lang drew breath to announce his authority – and paused. He could order any man in this encampment to do his bidding, even Slater. He could send them out while he stayed here with the maps and reports and requisitioned telephones.
But he couldn’t. “General, I was not clear. I will be leading one of the scouting parties myself.”
“Will you, now.” Slater studied him. “Know the ground around here much?”
“No, sir, I just know the rockets. I’ll need someone from the 3rd to guide me. In fact, we could use guides for all the scouting parties.”
“You’re either damned cocky, Captain, or you know what you’re doing.” Slater looked closely at Lang, as though he could see which it was.
“I had a Mark II at Albuquerque, General. I’ve seen the real war too. When a tank meets a tripod, it’s ugly. When a tripod meets a sheaf of rockets... I like those odds better. And I’m willing to take risks to get there.”
“Alright,” said Slater slowly. “The 209th Infantry has been patrolling outside Laredo since April. I think I can find you a few men who know the ground. Let’s talk some, Captain...”
By midnight, Lang’s plan was underway. The scout parties were only two or three men each; Lang didn’t want riflemen making noise who would only give away the infiltration attempt if they fired. He warned them not to hurry, then assigned them a route on the map toward likely positions. They all knew about the small spiders that the Martians used. There weren’t a large number of them known to be at Laredo, but they did have some sort of mechanical eyes and they were bound to be in use for sneaky patrolling.
Nearby, a dozen mechanics from the LRSC were working on some of the scout cars by lantern light, attaching a single rocket rail aimed forward to each car. It looked risky to Lang compared to the bigger Wichita trucks with their protected cabs. The car’s crew would bail before launching, but there was sure going to be some scorched upholstery; and even with the cal fifty removed, the cars would wallow under the extra weight until one rocket was gone...
He’d supervised the organization and departure of six scout parties when Slater’s man showed up.
“You’re Captain Lang?” The soldier was a solid, weathered man in a worn uniform; he gave a sloppy salute. “Private Jenkins, reporting for scout duty.” West Texas accent.
“Yep. Where are you from?” Lang passed over the map; Jenkins studied it.
“Amarillo. You?”
“Wichita Falls.”
Jenkins grinned up at him. “Figures they’d send an Easterner. Sir. Well, I’ll take the wire spool, I guess.”
“No, I want you unencumbered, Private.” Lang hefted the last wire reel one-handed – just barely. “We’ll get as far as we can until this runs out, set up the phone in cover, and keep going.”
He regretted the decision as soon as they’d left the forward post and begun climbing slowly toward the east bank. The reel wasn’t that heavy, but it was terribly clumsy to walk in a crouch and unwind it, and his hands were cramping after a hundred yards. He refused to order Jenkins to take over, although the bigger man would have an easier task of it. His dad had diagnosed a bad case of Little Guy Syndrome for Lang years ago; it seemed to be progressing.
Low scrub and brush began to give way to larger trees as they worked their way eastward and up out of the river floodplain. A half moon threw enough light to walk now that they’d left the lantern light behind, and Lang’s eyes had adjusted. At least the reel was getting lighter; and after half a mile, it ran out.
Jenkins, who hadn’t spoken since they started out, doubled back when Lang halted. They settled the telephone amongst some bushes, scuffed dirt over the wire for a ways, and set out again. Jenkins was heading toward a small forested hill that loomed as a slightly darker edge to the horizon, another half-mile east. He moved slowly, looking where he stepped and scanning around, gliding from cover to cover when possible. Lang mimicked his every step.
Near the top of the hill, they stepped into an abrupt depression, then another a few yards onward. The irregular shapes were difficult to make out in the moonlight; with a cold realization, Lang recognized a tripod’s footprints. They were crossing a patrol route –
Jenkins tapped his arm and dropped into one of the prints. Lang shifted left hastily and found another, managed to squirm fairly deep despite the hole’s taper. He waited without asking. After a few moments’ silence, he heard a scuffing rustle of foliage and a sort of liquid purr unlike anything he’d ever heard in his life.
One of the Martian spiders was crossing below the hilltop, perhaps twenty feet away.
Lang stayed frozen in his footprint, which felt about an inch deep right then. A flicker of red light showed through the grass stalks at the top of the ground, swept away, and the noises faded off.
They stayed that way for almost five minutes, until Lang’s leg was cramping under him; but he did not shift until Jenkins very slowly rose up and looked around. Then he rolled off his leg and hunched upright, ignoring the spasms. They crawled the rest of the way up the hill and slid between two trees.
Somehow, Lang had been expecting Laredo to be illuminated. It was utterly dark; what outlines of buildings he could make out against the sky were irregular, like crumbled black bone. Gone. He slid out his binoculars and set to a careful search across the field of view. Jenkins was keeping his own watch for that spider; Lang’s skin crawled at the thought that it was still creeping about somewhere nearby, but he studied every bit of ground with great
care.
There. Two glinting curves, nothing of human manufacture, nestled in a swale another half mile east. They did not move as he watched; Lang resumed his search, but after fifteen more minutes he decided those were the only targets in his view. Hopefully, others were noting their own.
He tapped Jenkins’ leg, backed away over the hilltop, and rose to study the ground back along the way they’d covered. Assuming those stationary tripods didn’t move – a necessary risk – there were at least two good firing positions in rocket range and hull-down from them.
They crept back downhill without incident, set up the telephone, and cranked it. Lang picked up the receiver; his hand was shaking. He forced it to stillness and began issuing orders.
It was four o’clock by Lang’s watch when the first Wichita truck grunted its slow lurching way up the slope. Two more followed close behind. He made his way downhill to meet the figure walking ahead of them as a guide; it proved to be a lieutenant from the 3rd who didn’t look old enough to shave yet. The moon was setting and Lang could barely make out that the lead truck was one from the Mexico expedition rather than the new batch. He waved it over to the launch spot and stepped aside as it halted. An awkward-looking pintle mount was welded on the passenger-side cab door; Lang recognized the bearded corporal at the cal fifty from the LRSC, but the driver was a Mexican soldier in their off-white uniform. “How come you’re not driving, Steadley?”
“Not enough of us to do everything,” grumbled the corporal. “Sir, I got a spare tripod for this. Where do you want it?”
“Upslope, where you can cover everyone.” Except you.
“Sir, how’m I gonna see to shoot if I got to?”
Lang grinned tightly. “One good thing, the 3rd has some starshells. They’re going to put them up at five o’clock to start things off, and then keep them going until they run out.” He walked over to the other trucks which were just getting into their proper firing positions. The crews were already cranking the launch rails into place and checking inclinometers. A scout crouched over a lantern-lit map, passing his information to the launch sergeant who worked out the coordinates and calculated the firing angle and azimuth. A couple of trucks began backing and nudging to get lined up. The whole process worried Lang; it seemed even slower than a conventional artillery battery preparing for indirect fire. We’ve got to speed this up somehow.
Lang went back upslope to the phone, managed to get a connection with Plainview, and confirmed that all the trucks were in place. Two had gotten bogged near the river, but there were enough of them to fill every spot with plenty left over. Once fired, the empty trucks could be reloaded later in the day... if they survived.
He realized he hadn’t seen Jenkins for some time, but guessed where the scout might be. If so, they both had the same wish. Half an hour to firing time, and Lang had nothing left to carry out. He made his careful way uphill to the crest and crawled between the trees to find Jenkins there, watching the two motionless tripods.
The fellow didn’t talk much; that suited Lang, Nervous chatter would have prolonged an already ghastly wait. Nothing moved or sounded. The moon was down by now, and only starlight glittered over a black landscape...
Artillery fire rumbled to the south. Lang swallowed a sour taste of tension; then the starshell burst into hard blue-white light overhead. A thundering roar behind them, and a gout of fire that threw a shadow into the grass ahead of him, shifting as the rockets trails tore out, rippling overhead, burning out within a few moments, leaving him almost blinded.
Reacting instantly, the Martian tripods rose up on their legs, lurching into motion; but eighteen rockets scythed downward and landed in a series of strikes that sounded as one continuous hammering explosion. Lang closed his eyes to block the flares. When the sounds ceased, he looked again. Other rocket trails drew blazing arcs all over the landscape as laggards fired. Burning brush illuminated a cratered area across their own impact zone. Wreckage lay there. He threw the glasses to his eyes and scanned it; nothing moved, and the sheer amount of it must add to two tripods’ worth.
Jubilant, he nudged Jenkins and twisted to head back downslope just as the spider burst out of the nearby darkness and scuttled toward the trucks.
Jenkins aimed his rifle and fired a shot; it may have hit, but it also warned the crews downslope – and Steadley. The LRSC man opened up with the fifty at the furtive shape; other shots flickered and hammered from the trucks.
Grass burst afire in a sweeping arc that reached upslope. Lang and Jenkins flattened; the fifty’s fire stopped. Lang looked again. The spider was moving erratically, some of its legs damaged, but it fired its small heat ray at the remaining machine gun on another truck until that too stopped firing. They know! Jenkins cracked out another shot; other rifles joined his, but the spider was almost on top of the trucks now.
The LRSC truck’s engine roared and it jerked forward, swinging into a turn. The burning grass near the spider illuminated it more than the waning starshell did. It spun and fired at the truck, but the vehicle’s rumbling acceleration closed the distance in moments. Gouting flame and steam from front bumper to hood, it rolled over the spider, jumbled and bounced on the rough ground, stopped... and reversed, rolling back down the hillside and crunching over the spider again before grinding to a halt as the radiator exploded. The cab was engulfed in flame by now; men ran to the vehicle. Others stood and snapped shots into what looked like a stepped-on cockroach.
Lang stumbled over to Steadley’s gun position. Even in the dimness, one glance told him the man was a charred corpse. The gun might be salvageable. He made his way downhill, told off two men to go check the weapon, and slouched over to the burning truck. Three men were slapping at the driver’s smoldering clothing, but the high-pitched laughter coming from under their blows sounded lively enough. And peculiar... Lang came closer.
The driver rolled upright and spat rapid Spanish, scrubbing with one hand at the burned hair falling over her forehead. Lang recoiled in surprise. It was one of Villa’s soldaderas. “What’s she saying?” he asked.
An LRSC sergeant with a better command of the language said, “Her brother told her it was too dangerous to learn to drive in Chihuahua City.”
“All right,” yelled Lang. “Leave this truck, it’s a bonfire and a damn fine target! Get back downhill now! You’ve got two tripods to your credit!”
A few men cheered as they mounted up; the ones carrying back the cal fifty didn’t. Lang swung onto a turning truck, clung on as it bounced downslope, and jumped off as it passed the telephone station. He’d been enough of a spectator this morning. Still, he wondered as he cranked the phone: how did that spider know the machine guns were its chief threat if there was no Martian inside?
Plainview had a report for Lang within minutes. “We’ve hit ’em hard, Captain! One or two tripods are still fighting, but we’re driving them back.”
“They’re retreating?”
“Yeah! They sure don’t like the rockets. It’s been a long time since I saw a tripod run away!” Plainview sounded jubilant even over the terrible connection.
“There’s a lot to do yet, Colonel.”
“I know. The 3rd is moving infantry up into the western edge of Laredo. I’ve got men out scouting routes to shift the bulk of our trucks and, ah, Coyotes into the town by daylight.”
“Casualties?”
“Not too bad. Five trucks gone for sure. One of the scouting parties, I think. I don’t know about the 3rd, but we pasted most of those tripods before they got a shot off.”
Lang braced a hand on the phone case, legs suddenly weak. He hadn’t slept in a day and a half or eaten in ten hours. It would get harder yet... “That’s good! That’s good. But they’ll be back soon enough, Colonel. We’ve got to be ready for them. The 3rd can deploy well to the north and south along the river to warn us if the Martians try and flank around very far, but they can’t possibly hold east of the town. That’s all up to us. I’m going to hang up now and contact the
supply trains to move in, then I’ll get up to the railyard and supervise that – you deploy your brigade as best you see fit.” He paused.
“I think the 3rd can rustle up a couple of field kitchens, so try and get all the men fed. It’s going to be a very long day, Colonel.”
Chapter 17
Cycle 597,845.2, Minefast 31.01, South Texas
Arctilantar’s priority signal had summarized an unexpected attack that had destroyed at least six fighting machines at the river crossing – and then the signal had stopped. A significant time passed before Taldarnilis’ repeated efforts could contact Arctilantar again. Its thoughts were becoming... less organized. At last the link was reestablished.
“Report!”
“I am withdrawing eastward from the crossing area, Expedition Leader. Prey vehicles employing accelerated projectiles advanced close to the area during the night and struck at all stationary machines. The number destroyed is now confirmed at seven. These weapons strike a considerable area at once and are extremely dangerous to any machine not moving rapidly and constantly. One patrol machine counterattacked and had some success before close-range accelerated projectiles destroyed it. ”
“Your action is correct. Continue to withdraw. Is the transport system bridge still intact?”
“To my knowledge.”
“Are there any drone assets remaining?”
“Yes, Expedition Leader, there are four. I have withdrawn them as well, but only two telequel to the southeast.”
“Good. They may be useful to confirm its status. Arctilantar, another and much larger prey attack is about to commence at the minefast.”
“Will you withdraw westward?”
“Not immediately. The mine operation must be shut down and the transport unit prepared to move. We will fight a delaying action during the first part of this day. In the meantime, I am dispatching a force of twelve machines to join you and resecure the crossing area. It is leaving now at maximum speed. You are to take command of the force, probe into the habitation center, and attack only if the crossing point is still intact. Use only drones near that point in case of damage to it.”
The Texas Front: Salient Page 28