The Texas Front: Salient

by Jonathan Cresswell

  “Because, Captain, I don’t have enough cars to have half of them fire and the rest wait to cover them while they reload. Slater’s men could have, but he’s gone mad and tried to attack eastward. Those smoke signals over there are what’s left of his tanks. Still, he bought us some time...” He lifted binoculars and panned the horizon. “Yeah, about what I thought. The remaining tripods have massed together and they’re working around to the south of us.”

  “You can’t let them get past out of range–”

  “That’s what I have company COs for,” snapped Plainview without looking away. “There. Two-One and Two-Two just pulled into firing positions. They’re loaded and ready. There’s also nineteen trucks in south Laredo pre-aimed at beaten zones, and I think these tripods’ll cross at least two of the zones on that course.”

  He lowered the binoculars and glanced at Lang. “Can you drive?”

  “Not very well. But I can pull her up to the fire step, if that’s what you need.”

  “Good enough.” He took another look around as fresh rocket trails tore across the landscape. “Dammit, the rest are already reloaded! Stimson!”

  “Almost done, sir!” The freshly-promoted sergeant was fumbling with the last wire connections.

  “If you miss with this one, Sergeant...”

  Lang realized why Stimson looked shaken – not that he needed any particular reason right now. Both he and Plainview ducked as a heat ray snarled nearby. He exchanged a look with the colonel, remembering a young tank loader named Billings, just as green and hesitant, who’d never had a chance to grow any older.

  After a moment, Plainview jerked a nod. He dropped down to the car’s open floor beside the sergeant – the Louisiana mathematician with a sergeant’s rank. “Look, Stimson. Soldiers miss shots. But we’ve only got one of these left, and I want it to connect with one of those tripods over there. Just do what you know how to do. And get that shot. Because otherwise, I will personally kick you out of this outfit.”

  Stimson blinked at him. “Out? Sir? You mean I’m in?”

  “Damn right you are. Palmer can go piss up a tentacle; I’m getting you transferred.”

  “Yes, sir! Ready to launch, sir!”

  “Remember, Stimson. Those tripods are dangerous machines, but inside every one of them, there’s a flabby sack of shit – and that’s what you’re aiming at. Lang! Move her up!”

  Lang settled into the driver’s seat. He started, shifted, and edged the vehicle up the slope until Plainview yelled “Halt! Stimson, rig for launch!”

  Lang switched off and helped Cooter lug the battery and console out of the car and up a few more steps to where they had a view of the battlefield. At least one more tank was burning now, and some of the already-wrecked buildings at the south edge of town were freshly aflame.

  A heat ray sawed close by. He flattened next to Cooter; Plainview crouched to one knee and rasped, “Target, tripod two o’clock, one thousand yards.”

  “I see it,” breathed Cooter. He adjusted his small telescope.

  “Fire when ready!”

  Cooter tapped the firing key without the least hesitation. The rocket roared off the rail, blasting exhaust over them; then it steadied into level flight. Two seconds, three, four...

  Plainview stood up. Lang did too, even though every fiber in his body screamed not to. Half a mile downrange, the tripod swiveled and swung its weapon around toward them – or toward the rocket flying at a level fifty feet, hunting gently under Cooter’s adjustments, merging visually with its target.

  A heartbeat later, it struck.

  The visible explosion was mostly unburnt fuel; but the warhead punched into the tripod’s hull like an assassin’s blade, dead center. The machine remained motionless for a long moment while smoke and fragments billowed outward. Then the legs folded and it collapsed.

  “Hah!” cried Plainview. “That’s more like it!” They dropped down as two other tripods emerged from the smoke three-quarters of a mile off. Lang watched as another rocket trail reached out toward one; this time, the trail wandered into a corkscrew and crashed halfway.

  “They’re learning,” said Plainview grimly. “They’re shooting wild back along the rocket course and blinding the gunner. I bet in an hour they’ll know to cover one another as they advance...”

  The two tripods seemed to do just that, striding west untouched for a minute or two. Then a sheaf of rockets tore out from the edge of Laredo, curved over, and detonated in a rush of explosions. When the dust and smoke cleared, one tripod was down and the other retreating back to the east.

  Plainview jumped up onto the car hood and looked around. “I don’t see any others advancing. Lang, I think we stopped them!”

  For now... “Look, Colonel, let’s get your driver to the aid station. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

  “There ought to be,” grumbled Plainview. “In the future, there will be.” But he lent a hand to carrying the equipment – and his wounded driver, another sergeant – back to the car. Lang started up and carefully reversed the vehicle into a turn. “Where to?”

  “Southwest along this road. There’s a sort of HQ four miles downriver. Then we’ll see about getting Sergeant Stimson another rocket.” Plainview barked a laugh. “Officers driving sergeants around! This army’s gone mad. Maybe it needs to.”

  Cycle 597,845.2, West of Minefast 31.01, South Texas

  Taldarnilis monitored several communication links simultaneously. The expedition’s withdrawal from the minefast was beginning in good order. Losses were light, and most of the prey forces had lost contact and been left behind. A few, more mobile, groups continued to harass some trailing elements, swinging south and west of the minefast. Others closed in gradually on the minefast itself. “Raqtinoctil, is your group taking control of the defense towers?”

  “Yes, Commander. We have no targets as yet, but there are prey approaching quickly now that our mobile machines have disengaged. We will engage them at optimum range.”

  “Very good. When –”

  “Commander! Urgent report!”

  “Proceed, Arctilantar.”

  “Our battle group’s attempt to secure the bridge crossing River 3-12 has failed. Prey forces are established in the cover of the habitation center and further east. We have been able to advance two telequel since resistance began, but it is increasing rapidly and consists of varied weapon types. Eight machines lost to this point. We have insufficient force remaining to reach the bridge and secure it.”

  “I concur. Withdraw until our main body arrives.” Taldarnilis kept the link open, even with the awareness that it ought to restrict its attention to its own surroundings. The background link traffic between Arctilantar’s units surged, indicating heavy fighting. “Many fighting groups are on their way. You will not need to fight alone for long.” Why did I repeat redundant information?

  “Fire from the habitation area continue to increase in – Gantaldarjir, move your group immediately south four hundred quel, there is a heavy concentration of prey near to you! Are – Commander, there are incoming propelled projectiles similar to –”

  The communication link ceased abruptly. “Arctilantar, respond.”

  “This is Gantaldarjir of Group One, Commander. Arctilantar’s machine has been struck by projectiles. I am assuming operational command.”

  “Acknowledged. Arctilantar, respond.” Taldarnilis checked its displays. No machines were falling behind as they proceeded westward; every one of them should be at full fighting capability. They would have far more force than needed to brush aside these obstructing prey, once arrived at the watercourse habitation.

  “Arctilantar, respond.”

  Chapter 19

  July 1912, Southwest of Hebbronville, Texas

  Henri Gamelin rode the rickety aircraft like an unruly horse. They had climbed to a great height over the past hour – it seemed a great height to him, at least – and half of Texas appeared to be laid out before him as the day brightened. The M
artian base, perhaps four miles north, had no secrets behind its walls any longer. Quick glances through the binoculars gave enough detail to map their activity. He avoided longer use of them for worry of the monstres’ heat rays. Oddly, he felt no fear of being burned to death or mangled in a crash, but to be blinded... And his only usefulness at the moment was as a pair of working eyes.

  But the battle was his main focus. A group of tripods were collecting to the southwest of the base, like wolves forming a tight pack. Henri set to his Morse key. 9 TRIPODS ADVANCING SW AT 110-340 STOP 8 KM NE YOUR POSITION STOP.

  The 118th could not reply; he had no receiver, nor could they spare weight for one. But that did not matter. As had happened several times over the past hour, soon he would see the unit’s deployment shifting over the ground as Colonel Estienne, forewarned, prepared to receive the attack. Flanking companies would shift into low ground; the main group must align its frontal armor. It would be like watching a pugilist’s fist draw back to deliver a blow, but over the course of many minutes, and it had worked splendidly twice already...

  The clouds of dust and turbid shell bursts sometimes obscured his view as IX Corps’ attack pressed on toward the fortifications, but the air at this height was clear and cold as promised. He could see another handful of the Martian tripods emerging from their base. He watched carefully to see which way they would advance; instead, they proceeded due west. In the far distance, others involved in the fighting began to drop back as well. From his vantage point far above the furious combat, a picture became clear that no one at ground level could see.

  Everywhere that he looked, tripods were flowing westward. This was no redeployment; it must be a retreat.

  A glance at the ground nearby showed no change in the 118th’s dispositions. That was odd. And that group of tripods were not fleeing west, but continued to close on them... Henri had a chilling thought. He twisted far enough to see the small gauge on the electric cell’s top. The needle was at zero.

  Henri turned the other way and waved to get Hines’ attention. “The transmitter does not work any longer! I need to warn them! Can you land in the field?”

  “Maybe! Hell, we’re short of fuel anyway!” Hines banked the Curtiss in a sickening lurch. The ground wheeled beneath them, then Hines got the aircraft level again.

  “You got a preference where to land, Gamelin? Other than away from Martians?”

  He pointed northward. “There! That group of vehicles!”

  They turned again and began to descend rapidly. The 118th was traveling northwest, but slowly; they came up on the unit in a few minutes, dropping onto it. The landscape, although flat, began to look anything but smooth as they got lower. Everything seemed to happen very quickly. Hines sawed the aircraft into a couple of quick turns, perhaps aiming for a track along the ground; dry brown shrubs and soil seemed to blur past, an armored vehicle loomed up and flashed by. The wheels settled, punched at the ground, and yanked at Henri with a rattling and snapping racket; then the aircraft overturned and flung him hard sideways, hanging precariously by his death grip on the seat which was now above him.

  Suddenly it was very quiet. Henri gasped a breath and fumbled at his seat belt, dropped loose awkwardly onto the ground – that lovely, solid, stable ground – and managed to twist upright. He turned to see Hines also untangling from the aircraft; flames were gushing from the engine. They scrambled away, taking a few stumbling steps. Henri tried to regain his composure; he needed to speak calmly. He looked around and spotted the larger bulk of Colonel Estienne’s command vehicle approaching; their arrival had been noticed. A plume of smoke did have that effect. The aircraft’s doped fabric roared into flame as they watched and was consumed in moments.

  “I am so sorry, Captain Hines,” said Henri. He set a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. They studied the wreck of his Curtiss; the fire was dying down already. “I thought it was not a bad landing, myself. Like falling off a horse.”

  “Any one you walk away from, I guess.” Hines sighed. “I sure hope we did some good up there. Well, one thing about a biffy when you’re almost out of fuel – the bonfire’s not that big. I think you can get your transmitter out now, if you want.”

  “Yes.” Henri walked up to the wreck and beat out a stray flame with his gloved hands. He extracted the transmitter and slung it over his shoulder; the battery cell was not worth recovering.

  The command vehicle pulled up nearby. As Henri walked over on shaky legs, the side hatch swung open and an American officer stuck out his head.

  “Well, get in,” he rasped in English. “It’s a damn jamboree in here anyway, what’s two more?”

  Henri set his foot onto the metal step and hopped up into the hatchway. The vehicle’s interior was a cramped metal cave whose white paint could not make any larger, although the custom-built, boxy hull at the rear did give more room than a regular fighting vehicle. That held a radio and space for its operator and Colonel Estienne. Henri saluted him, banging his fingers on a metal rail just above. The American squeezed back against the bulkhead to give room for the two newcomers. Hines closed the hatch and the vehicle lurched into motion. Its gasoline engine roared from the midsection, much noisier than steam, but powerful enough to accelerate the big vehicle rapidly.

  “I remember you,” said the officer – Patton, that was his name. He’d switched to French. He appeared to be acting as the radio operator as well as liaison. In a sense, Henri had been ‘speaking’ to him all morning.

  “Hello, Captain. Colonel, my transmitter has failed. A group of nine tripods approaches you from the northeast.”

  “Very good. Captain?”

  “Yeah. Green, white, green, right?” Patton reached across the compartment and took down three Very pistols from a rack. He opened the roof hatch and extended his arm up through the opening with one pistol, fired it, and exchanged it for another, then the third.

  “Jules, turn northeast!” called out Estienne. The car rumbled into a turn.

  “There is more, Colonel,” said Henri. “I have observed Martian tripods heading westward across the entire field of battle. I believe they are carrying out a retreat.”

  “How many?”

  “Perhaps twenty-two.”

  “Then there are still more fighting to defend their base. The Americans and Mexicans are pushing up from the east. Captain Patton, when do you think they could enter the base itself, now that the Martians are withdrawing at least part of their strength?”

  “At least two hours,” said Patton. “Our steam tanks can’t move as fast as these armored cars. Mexican artillery’s horse-drawn.”

  “I thought so. We can press closely from the southern flank, then.”

  Patton snorted. “I thought you were relying on all this mobility? Getting in that close, they might just jump on you from their base if you piss them off too much.” For all his grating American accent, Patton had a very fluent grasp of French.

  “We can withdraw to the east if we must. We can get much closer. But first, we have to see to this present attack. Galere! Open fire at eight hundred yards, target by company as before!”

  The gunner barked acknowledgment. They continued to rumble toward the oncoming tripods – and the base further distant.

  July 1912, Martian Base near Hebbronville, Texas

  Emmet had pulled out every canteen they’d brought by now. They’d tended the survivors for the better part of an hour while trading ideas on what their course of action should be. The fighting to the east intensified – as far as its distant thunder communicated. Burnham was adamant that the base would soon become too dangerous to leave the people within. “There’s no cover to speak of. One stray shell and they’d be wiped out.”

  “We could dig a trench. When the infantry gets inside, they’ll see to them. Sure can’t mistake ’em for Martians!”

  “It’s more overhead cover they’d need, Mr. Hicks. We have no material for that. But we could sling the healthiest four or five of them under the ore cars, so that
...”

  He was interrupted by a gentle lurch that made two people stumble. “Aw, hell,” said Emmet.

  Hicks tensed. “Train’s moving out. We bailing?”

  Emmet locked eyes with Idar where she was tending to the sole woman among the survivors. “Can’t do that, Hicks.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  Burnham cleared his throat in an oddly civilized interruption. “I did have an opportunity to observe the open area of the base in detail. There were no structures as have been described in other bases – only the mining operation. Even the defensive berm is incomplete. I don’t think this was meant to be a full-fledged base at all. And that artillery fire is getting closer quite rapidly.”

  Hicks nodded. “I heard that in the big fight in April, it took Funston all day just to push up fifteen miles.”

  “Then – they’re leaving without a real fight.” Emmet looked at Burnham blankly. “Have Martians ever done that before? Just skedaddled?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Hicks snickered. “Maybe we got ’em demoralized.”

  “Well, this train is nearly filled with ore,” said Burnham. “Probably their mission is completed. Where does that leave ours?”

  “Going west at a good clip already.”

  Emmet stepped in. “Along with what we came here for. Most of us. Burnham, you staying aboard?”

  The scout smiled wryly. “I suppose so. You are the most interesting place, right now. Will it be the same route that we drove?”

  “No, the line runs a bit north of that. Right past where the 1st Texas Division is deployed.”

  Hicks cursed. “They may not be tooled up to fight dozens of tripods, but they can sure-hell go after a train. All it takes is one shell.”

  “Then we need to get the hell off this train.” Emmet turned to Idar. “But first, we need to get that damn thing off you.”

  “God, I hate it.” Idar hooked her fingers through the pendant as though she could pull it loose. “Still, it has worked so far. What if we need it again to get these people out?”