“The Martians will pay little attention to this car it if becomes separated,” said Burnham. “It’s the ore they want.”
“We can’t be sure of that!” snapped Idar. “As long as I stay here, they should be safe.”
“Can’t be sure of that either.”
“Look on the bright side,” said Hicks. “We’re gettin’ further away from an artillery zone every minute. That’s no bad thing. Whyn’t we stick with that a bit longer?”
July 1912, Southwest of Hebbronville, Texas
Henri had grown accustomed to the jolting travel of the armored car. The acrid smell of the spent shell casings rolling on the decking was another matter. Their gunner had not claimed any hits from the eight rounds fired so far; but the 118th had pushed north almost to the defensive wall surrounding the Martian base.
The gun crashed out another shot. This time, a whoop of joy followed it. “We’ve knocked out the nearest defense tower,” called out the gunner.
“Well done!” said Colonel Etienne.
“Another message from IX Corps,” said Patton. “Resistance has stopped. The Martians are falling back. Can we observe any movement west of us?”
“If only I knew! Damn these tiny peepholes! They tell me nothing.” Estienne clambered over to the roof hatch, undogged it, and swung it upward. He stepped onto a bracket and thrust his head out.
“Colonel!” cried Henri.
Estienne waved a hand down at him. “Gamelin, there are dozens of them emerging now! And behind, my God, who would have – a train! So General Funston was right after –”
He screamed in agony at the same instant the driver did; a heat ray had swept over the armored car. The vehicle swerved, braked, and stopped.
Estienne banged downward in a jumble of limbs, collapsing to the deck. His hair and a sleeve were burning. The others beat out the flames, leaving him contorted into a fetal position, hands clamped over his eyes. The smell of burnt paint – and flesh – roiled through the open compartment.
“He’s out of action,” growled Patton. He stood up, grabbed the hatch, and swung it shut.
“Colonel, we must get you back to–”
“No!” howled Estienne through his fingers. “Do not – do not stop the attack.”
Patton looked at Henri, then twisted to face forward. “Loader, take over driving! Keep us heading into the base!” The man shifted into the driver’s seat as soon as the gunner dragged his crewmate out of it. He revved the engine and started them moving again.
Henri checked Estienne’s condition; he had fallen unconscious. The burns to his face and arm were severe. The former driver hunched in a corner, not as severely injured, but surely just as blind. Hines tended to him as best he could. It had been his ill luck to have the vision slit line up exactly with the Martian’s heat ray...
Patton was hammering out Morse at the radio. “At least IX Corps knows now. But they’ll never catch a bunch of running tripods.”
“Captain,” said Henri, “you had better signal Major Flambeau to take over command – his vehicle has a radio too.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. But I’ve met the man, and he wants to be the first into that base to beat Funston. The Martians aren’t fighting for that base any more, so why should we when...”
“Sir,” cried the driver, “there is a fortification ahead!”
“Well, drive up it, then!”
They tilted upward; the engine struggled to climb the steep slope, wheels scrabbling for traction. Then the driver braked hard and stopped at what must be the edge.
“Not sticking my damned head out,” muttered Patton. He shifted to peer out of a vision slit with his good eye and cursed inventively in English. “I can hardly see a thing at this angle! But there’s nothing moving.”
Henri tensed, considering the risk – and opened the side hatch. He slipped out onto the rock-strewn slope and dropped to the ground.
“Gamelin! Get back in here!”
Henri crawled up past the armored wheel to the hill’s lip. On the far side, the whole Martian base lay open to view. At other points around the perimeter wall, defense towers were firing their heat rays at their attackers, but two were already destroyed. Within the enclosure, enormous pits gaped open in the ground; machinery hulked nearby, although much of it also appeared to have been destroyed despite the wall’s protection. In fact, it looked... melted. Their weapons, not ours.
A handful of Martian tripods scuttled over the wall to the west as he watched. One swiveled as though to give a parting shot; Henri scrambled back below the lip of the berm. He slipped back into the vehicle.
“Idiot,” growled Patton. “What did you see?”
“Captain, they have left!”
“Are you sure?”
“I cannot be. But they have destroyed their own facility to deny it to us! Er, spiked their guns, yes? Why else but to leave?”
“Then I say we don’t tell Flambeau. Not yet – until we go after the last of the tripods. If we can’t catch them, we can at least drive them right out of Texas.”
Henri shook his head. “That is very irregular. Neither of us are in this chain of command, Captain.”
“This is the only force with enough mobility to chase these bastards down. You want to waste it occupying a fortress they’ve already abandoned?”
“But you must notify Flambeau!” Still, Henri agreed with the American’s assessment of the man. Would he give up his own desire in favor of theirs?
“The only must is the destruction of the enemy. And when your enemy turns and runs, Gamelin, you put a knife in his back!” Patton reached into the shelf holding the flares, drew out a binder, flipped pages. “Here it is. General pursuit, west. Green, green, green. Figures. Well, Gamelin – are you with me?”
It is elan that wins the day. “Yes. Let us strike!”
“Damn right!” Patton loaded the flare guns, opened the hatch, and loosed off the flares. Henri looked up at the soaring colors. This one would make a fine Gascon.
“Let’s move out! Gamelin, can you load?”
He looked at the breech mechanism – it wasn’t much different from what he was used to aboard ship – and nodded. “I... I think so.”
“Fixed shell casing, it’s simple. Just keep your goddamn fingers clear.”
They jolted back down the slope, turned, and headed due west in pursuit of the Martian force at the head of the 118th.
July 1912, East of Laredo, Texas
They’d knocked a gap through the train car’s planking with rifle butts. Emmet leaned out through it. “Cavalry? Where are they?”
“Over there!” cried Burnham. He pointed northwest and offered his binoculars. Emmet took them and glassed the horizon. He glimpsed pennants, coal smoke, glints of metal in plumes of dust – a few vehicles, towed guns, and yes, cavalry; an army on the move.
The sort of army that didn’t stand a chance against Martians. “That must be the 1st Texas!”
“I thought they’d gone to guarding ammo dumps and such,” said Hicks.
“Not all of ’em. The A-G kept a bunch in these parts in case... oh, Hutchings, why’re you doing this? You’re just gonna get a whole lot of men killed...”
“They may inflict some damage,” said Burnham dispassionately. “Meanwhile, the Martians seem to be taking more interest in them than in us.” He pointed out the nine tripods fanning out to the north, obviously intending to keep the Texan force well away from their precious train. That left none immediately around them.
“Yeah. And it might give us a chance to make our move... Alright, keep an eye out for a culvert or something for cover.” Emmet turned back to the survivors grouped – huddled – in one corner of the car. “Listen, my friends. We are looking for a safe place for you to hide out until the Martians have left the area. You have the rest of our water. Señor Burnham will stay with you until help can arrive.”
He quirked a smile at Antonio Targas. “I apologize if some of them are from a government.”
&
nbsp; Something flickered in Targas’ drawn face that might have been answering humor. “Perhaps I will feel strong enough to debate with them.”
“I’m sorry,” said another man, “but I don’t think I can jump from a train.” He could scarcely hold his head up, but he was clearly trying.
“You won’t have to. We will uncouple this car and it will coast to a halt. But you must slip out as quickly as you can and find cover, in case the Martians approach. Most likely they will just keep going west. There is a whole army chasing them!” He scanned the group. “Anything else?”
“I suppose, well...” The man hacked a cough. “Thank you. All of you. For a handful of lives in the... midst of all this madness.” Others murmured agreement.
“Ah. Right. We’d best be getting ready ourselves.” Emmet turned away. “Burnham, we’ll leave you our rifles; this’ll be close work.” He tossed his own Winchester to Hicks. “Give me a hand here.”
They unbolted and rolled open the big side door. Straw whirled in the breeze as the clean air rushed through. A few of the survivors lifted faces to the sunlight. Emmet took a moment to fix the image in his memory. He might get himself shot in the next while... and even those who lived to a ripe old age sometimes had bad nights when they wondered what good did I ever do?
This’d do.
“Culvert coming up, a mile ahead,” called out Burnham.
“Let’s go, then.” Idar joined him and Hicks at the front passenger door; they pushed through, crowding the tiny connecting platform. The two of them climbed up onto the adjacent ore car, freeing up room for Burnham to emerge. Impulsively, Emmet shook his hand. “The Guard’ll mop up through here at some point later on today. Whatever’s left of ’em. If we run into ’em further west, we’ll let them know to come get your people.”
“Right! Well, good hunting!” Burnham dropped down in three careful lunges to the car coupling, got a solid grip on the pin, and peered over the side, waiting.
Emmet tipped his hat to the scout, grabbed the metal of the ore car’s lip, and awkwardly hoisted himself up. With Hicks and Idar flanking him, he set out along the heaped yellow granules, which had settled already to a smoother shape. A few cautious steps proved it to be surprisingly solid underfoot.
A glance back showed the cattle car dropping back as it slowed. “Good luck to ’em. Come on, let’s bust that pendant loose and get out of here!”
July 1912, Laredo, Texas
The sun was high enough now to warm the roof’s surface. Lang could smell charred asphalt and old smoke as he stood on it. To the east, the sun no longer hid anything in its glare; he could easily make out the horizon filled with the glinting dots of moving – advancing – Martian tripods.
The sun couldn’t warm him. Lang felt like ice. There were at least twenty tripods in clear sight, and hints of more moving in the far distance. They were all headed this way. The LRSC had redeployed ten Coyotes, but most of those only carried a single rocket. Plainview had ordered them to run for it as soon as they launched and either hit or missed their target. A mile’s head start wasn’t much of a margin.
He made his way down the ladder – his legs didn’t seem to work smoothly – and joined General Villa in the store. “They’ll be here in a quarter of an hour, General. Better get your courier ready.”
“I agree.” Villa ducked outside and returned in a few minutes. “It is all arranged. The máquina loca is standing by just north of the bridge; that will give it a good run through the town to work up speed.”
“Good.” Lang turned to the signals clerk at the telephones. “Get me A Company, will you?” After a couple of minutes’ fussing, he offered the headset to Lang.
“Stivers here.”
“Lang. They’re coming straight on from the east. Do you have them in sight yet?”
“Yes, sir. I can see four of ’em look like they’re swinging northward, we may get a shot at them first. The colonel, he’s gone up to the firing line to – Shit! Billy – spiders, over there!”
“What? How many?”
“Look out!” Gunshots sounded over the phone line.
“Stivers! Stivers! Corporal, can you raise them again?”
The clerk shook his head. “Line’s dead, sir.”
Lang slumped against the counter and tossed the headset onto the phone. “They sent in the spiders first.”
“They are afraid of our weapons,” said Villa. “So they are attacking the men who aim them. It was wise to put infantry with the rocket trucks, but they may not be able to protect them all.”
“Or any.”
“I got C Company on the other line,” said the clerk. Heavily reinforced, that company had been tasked with defending the direct eastern approach.
“Henderson! Are you there?”
“Yes, sir. Six targets. Almost in range.”
“Watch out for the spiders! They’re using them as sappers.”
“No sign of ’em yet, sir. Ah, the tripods are splitting up, but First Platoon’ll get a shot at the leading ones for –” A musical roaring overprinted his voice, sounding a few seconds later through the open windowframe of the store. “Yeah, that’s it! Now if – Goddamn it!”
“Henderson?” More rocket fire sounded from the north as well as the east.
“I can see crews bailing. Those sons-of-bitches haven’t fired yet! Sir, I gotta go. Maybe we can shift those trucks and still get a shot in. Then –” An explosion sounded, flatter and harsher. “Oh, shit. Third Platoon lost two trucks. Sir, they’re in among us now! I’m going to try and swing one truck around.”
“Alright, but – Alright.” Lang hung up. More explosions were sounding almost continuously now. Most weren’t outgoing rockets.
The LRSC couldn’t hold them. There weren’t enough experienced crews to recalculate target zones on the fly. They’d bulked up the unit too quickly, pushed the vehicles and men too hard getting back to Texas – there were limits, and they’d reached them. And the rest of the tripods were still coming on from their base, no more than a quarter-hour behind these ones...
“General, send out your crazy machine. We’ve got nothing else at this point.”
“Very well.” Villa strode to the doorway and waved. “Hermos! Ride!” In the street, a horse curveted and lunged into a gallop, spraying gravel from its hooves. Villa laughed aloud at the sight. “Ride!”
Now they could hear the snarl of heat rays along with the explosions. A Coyote, its launch rail empty, roared through the street outside, withdrawing west. Fleeing west. It only took a few more minutes for the telephones and runners to inform Lang that most of the LRSC was either overrun, retreating, or expended. He shouted into a phone, cursed an exhausted runner, and finally went up the ladder again and burst out onto the roof, despite the risk.
Smoke boiled from burning wreckage to the southeast – Wichita trucks. Across the street, a building gouted flame; a tripod strode behind it, firing to the south. Ruined buildings that had long since burned out on their own now broke out in fresh fires under the rays as the advance force pushed further into Laredo. More smoke rolled toward the Rio Grande valley and the rail bridge, dissipating – and there. A low dark shape tore through it, traveling east out of Laredo at what looked like forty miles an hour with its own black smoke streaming behind. Maybe A Company’s done it, and the rest of us as well. In four square miles of mayhem, who’ll even notice a runaway locomotive? But it isn’t worth it!
Despite Lang’s misgivings, at least two advancing tripods pivoted and fired on the locomotive. It began streaming grey smoke from onboard fires as well as the black plume from its stack. Death rode a dappled horse today. It was almost clear of the immediate fighting already, and there was a chance it might actually work, but – God, yes. Let them shoot at that, not at living men.
July 1912, East of Laredo, Texas
Yellow powder crunched under Emmet’s boots as he leaped into the next ore car.
They’d begun by climbing between the cars along the couplings, t
hen back up to the next, but it was tedious and the sense of being exposed out here was becoming nerve-wracking. There was no reason for anyone to look through that last passenger car’s door window back along the line of ore cars... but there was no reason not to. They’d be picked off like flies on a sunflower...
He turned and braced Hicks as he landed; then the two spread their arms to give a safe berth for Jovita Idar as she jumped. It was hardly safe, but nothing about this was.
They jogged along the shifting surface to reach the last remaining ore car. Emmet pointed. “Go left when we reach the Pullman platform. Stay out of sight from the window and we’ll figure it from there.”
They leaped, sprinted, and scrambled their way onto the tiny balcony. Emmet clung to the car’s roof ladder to give enough room for the others. They took a moment to catch their breath. He could hear shouting and laughter from inside, then the crash of a bottle.
“Think they’re celebrating?” said Hicks.
“Sounds like it – a lot of ’em, though. Maybe we can bypass ’em.” He climbed up the ladder, peeked over the roof edge. “Okay, come on. Stay in the middle where it’s flat.” They clambered up and walked forward with exceeding care; the rocking of the car was amplified at this height, and the stately progress of a loaded freight still gave quite a headwind. At least there were no tripods close enough to notice beetles crawling on their biscuit.
There was no leaping from one car’s roof to another – apart from the chance of skidding off, it would be too noisy. Instead they clambered down and up to bypass the next passenger car in turn.
At the forward lip of the roof, Emmet stood and studied the foremost passenger car, the fancy one. “Where’s the machine that you need?”
“Just inside the vestibule, at the back end. It is... about ten feet from us.” Idar’s hair whipped about her face in stray strands.
“Good. We’ll go in first, but if we don’t run into anyone right away, we’ll stick close, cover you while you work. Still got that Browning?”
The Texas Front: Salient Page 32