Chapas shrugged. “The French rule in all but name in Veracruz. Whoever sits in a president’s chair there does not matter. We think Madero may secede the northern Mexican states if he thinks he cannot unite the whole country, and with the Martians keeping it split in half, that may even be best. But that’s up to him.”
“But only if he agrees to Huerta’s proposal,” said Lane Wilson. “Hopkins and I are arranging a meeting in Eagle Pass two weeks from now. We want men there we can trust – and Madero can trust. I’ll admit the governor here has forced our hand somewhat,” he nodded to Colquitt, “but while he’s broken a few rules, what he did makes sense. We must push the Martians back into central Mexico, then ultimately defeat them there. We cannot do that while the Mexicans fight amongst themselves.”
“And I suppose you’d prefer the fighting against the Martians to take place in someone else’s country.”
“Yes,” said Chapas bluntly. “Patriotism aside, there are far fewer people dwelling now in Nuevo Leon than in Texas. Many of them have fled here. Would you wish to see a battle spread onto another of those refugee camps just inside the border?”
“I wouldn’t, no.” Emmet studied Lane Wilson for a moment; the man was no dilettante, certainly. Taut and experienced. If General Huerta was willing to join with Madero, things could change drastically.
“Well, I’m in.”
August 1912, San Antonio, Texas
“This is to be your air base?” asked Henri Gamelin. He glanced around the industrial warehouse; beyond a few stacked crates, it showed no sign of military endeavor.
Colonel Mitchell laughed. “Oh, no. It’s just a temporary spot to position the items your country sends us. And we’re getting in six draftsmen tomorrow to begin copying those.” He gestured to the rolls of drafting paper that Henri had delivered, heaped on a desk.
The third man, a weathered Texan, flipped idly through the sheets. “Doesn’t look easy to build,” he said.
“I can assure you, Mr. Laseter, that it is a proven design. And as least complicated as any flying today.”
“Right,” said the rancher king. “Well, you’ve delivered enough material already that it’d be discourteous to pick at what’s our part to carry out.”
“Yes, both artillery and armor. Given the distances you must deal with here, it is a great advantage to have wheeled fighting vehicles. I ran across a captain in Funston’s army who was wild to get hold of some. He had the look of a man in love.”
“Oh, him,” said Mitchell. “He’s another exile like myself. But I think, after this battle, we’re going to get a better hearing if we stick around. More aircraft for scouting, a lot more – or for attack. Just think, we might one day fit those guided rockets to an aircraft! We could become the hunters for a change, call in a wolf-pack of airplanes to chase down tripods... And we can go outside the military procurement chain. The LRSC proved that well enough! Your friend Colonel Angeles knows a lot of businessmen around here.”
“General Angeles, now. He has been promoted.” Henri smiled at the recollection, but he worried about his friend. If Huerta saw him as a greater rival now... “Some of his business connections are proposing to build the aircraft instruments locally as well.”
“That’s a tall order for one company,” said Lasater.
“He said they are planning a... consortium. They are thinking of calling it Texas Instruments.”
Ed Lasater tapped the blueprints neatly together. “Okay. This is outside my purview anyway. What about the stovepipe deal? I heard from Jusserand that he was approving it, but are your navy brass going to let them go through?”
“Admiral Favereau is sending a squadron for escort. You have another beef shipment to proceed with in any case, Mr. Lasater.”
“Thing is, if I ship beef to Veracruz, it might get stolen or black-marketed, but I don’t worry about someone picking up a steak and beating another fellow to death with it. You start sending weapons into another country... Isn’t this Zapata a rebel?”
“There is nothing left there to rebel against,” said Henri. “I believe that as long as Zapata fights the Martians, the central government – whoever it may be in the next year – is content to let him do so. His men will never have a large number of stovepipes at one time, so it should not give them a major advantage if they choose to fight a human army which has many more targets than a Martian force. That would be more a matter of morale, organization, and the loyalty of the population – and if he gains all those, he may win in any case.”
“I guess I won’t worry about southern Mexico,” said Lasater. “Our concerns are in the north, and we’d best get busy on ’em.” He stuck out a hand to Henri, who took it. “I do like your style, son. Come on up to one of my ranches some time, I’ll show you around. But we’ll need to get you a proper hat!”
Cycle 597,845.3, Holdfast 31.2, Northern Mexico
Taldarnilis backed its machine away from the storage depot – the heap of compound 92-12 that had been deposited at the northern holdfast – to allow the heavy transport better access. The heap was diminishing by the day... “You may proceed,” it signaled.
The two escorting fighting machines stood aside as the hauler settled into position and began ingesting the compound. One swiveled toward Taldarnilis’ machine and sent a query signal. Taldarnilis accepted the link. “Yes?”
“Greetings, Taldarnilis.”
“Group Leader!” This was entirely unexpected. “My full report will be –”
“Will be studied in due course. I wished to see the northern holdfast for myself. This will be the last transfer of energetic compound to 31.1; the rest will be needed here.”
“Clarify.”
“We shall build a new reactor at this holdfast to replace the one sent south in its support role. It will require fuel.”
Taldarnilis blinked. “Group Leader, it was anticipated that without a reactor, this holdfast would be withdrawn.”
“Was it? I do not recall specific instructions to that from the Conclave. I believe that Group 31 – what remains of Group 31 – was expected to wither passively away. After seeing your efforts and others’, Taldarnilis, I see the matter differently.”
Taldarnilis mentally set aside the curious change in the group leader’s outlook. “But there are no prebuilt components available to construct a reactor here.”
“That is correct. I understand that Arctilantar was lost on the expedition, but perhaps young Raqtinoctil will have some ideas on the matter. Improvisations and simplifications may be possible, even to a statistically significant risk of malfunction. Recall and impress on others that with this world no longer being a colony, we have no requirement to observe the same care with it that the Homeworld demanded over millennia. For example, I no longer see any need to be concerned with waste processing into neutral elements... Do you intend to resume operations involving the goodprey?”
“That is not yet a priority beyond quadruped nutrition sources, but Raqtinoctil did report that one equipped with a tracking device has returned on its own initiative.”
“How intriguing. Can we rebuild that resource to use here?”
Taldarnilis recalled the unique flavor of that prey’s mind. “I believe so, Group Leader. It has proven to be a useful adaptation.”
The Group Leader skittered its machine in a clumsy gesture of respect – or admonition. “Adaptation, yes! Hold nothing back, Taldarnilis! This is a new era. Other groups which have been dominant due to their successes are now encountering some sharp reversals. No attention is spared for us. Perhaps it is time we exploited that fact.”
Chapter 21
September 1912, Eagle Pass, Texas
The Grande Hotel seemed an empty shell as Emmet Smith walked its hallways to check them. There were no cheering crowds this time; even most of the hotel staff had been cleared out. Ambassador Lane Wilson insisted that this agreement be private; on the train journey that morning, he’d expressed concern that General Huerta might reconsider if pr
essed – or bolt. “There are a great many American interests at stake here, Smith. This must go as planned.”
Wilson had brought a plainclothes agent of his own, a sallow, taciturn man named Saunders; Emmet didn’t like him. He’d have preferred Hicks by far to a stranger he’d never worked with, but Hicks would be a while yet recovering.
At least some men he knew. He turned the last corner to the meeting room door and nodded to the little man waiting there. “All clear, Maximo.”
“Very well. I’ll go fetch him. I’ll be in the outer chamber, with that Saunders fellow.”
“I’ll take the interior room.” Emmet walked through the small antechamber with its desk and chairs, nodded to Saunders, passed through the wide doorway, and entered the meeting room. It was high-ceilinged, paneled, and held two large oak tables and several men.
“The President will be here shortly, gentlemen,” he said.
“Good,” said General Huerta without quibbling over ‘provisional’. He ushered his two aides – a Mexican Army major and a civilian – toward the larger table. They filed onto the far side, but remained standing as they waited.
At the smaller table, Ambassador Lane Wilson was already seated. He gestured sharply at Emmet to join him. Emmet swung around the table, drew out a chair, and sat beside Wilson where he could see the room.
In a few minutes, Madero arrived. Castillo escorted him inside, nodded once to Emmet, and withdrew, closing the big doors together behind him.
“Welcome, Mr. President,” said Huerta. His aides bowed deeper than he did; Madero returned the gesture. “Please, sit, we have much to discuss. Carra has many details already worked out to show you, but of course we may resolve those as we proceed. First, there is a guarantee of–”
As the men spoke, Lane Wilson leaned over to Emmet. “Smith,” he said softly. “This is no place for cowboys. Take off that gunbelt and put it on the table over here.”
“Now, why would I want to do that?”
“Because they’ll be jumpy. This cannot go wrong. Madero has his own bodyguard – we can’t be seen as partisan. That’s an order, now, Smith.”
“I understand,” said Emmet. He moved slowly, easily, unbuckling the scout belt – nothing any cowboy would be wearing, but Lane Wilson hardly knew that – and gathering it up in a bundle that he placed onto the tabletop and pushed out of easy reach. The chattering leaders and subordinates didn’t react – or notice. If Wilson was right, it’d help things along.
If he was wrong – well, it might still help.
The discussion of leaders continued. Madero seemed calm, as Emmet usually found him, and Huerta showed only the intentness of a poker champion in his greatest game of all. The two aides grew increasingly tense, though. Emmet wondered how much they’d staked in this, and their plans if Huerta failed and they all returned to face an angry President Diaz...
Voices sounded from outside the doors. Lane Wilson grabbed Emmet’s shoulder. “Do not interfere,” he hissed. “This is an internal Mex–”
Three gunshots echoed through the doors in close succession, pistol and a flatter rifle shot, then a fourth. Madero pushed back from the table; Huerta’s civilian aide drew a pistol.
“Not on American soil!” snapped Lane Wilson.
“Of course, my friend,” said Huerta, placing a calming hand on his aide’s arm. “The proprieties must be observed... Mister President,” he added to Madero, “our agreement does not appear to be viable. You will accompany us to Nuevo Leon, where we can settle it properly.”
“Oh,” said Madero. “I had hoped – You know Diaz cannot rule in the north.”
“I can,” said Huerta. “In this world, only the strongest can.”
“If that is so, we have no greater claim to it than the Martians have.”
There was that about Madero – he was not an imposing man, but people tended to look at him. And at that moment, no one was looking at Emmet when he leaned forward and drew the Colt automatic from the small of his back. He took a careful moment to cock the unfamiliar hammer, then shot the armed aide turning toward the sound, once, then again as the man tried to bring his own weapon around. He collapsed. The major jumped up from the table, knocking over his chair and grabbing at his dress holster. Emmet fired at him, missed, and hit with his next shot; the major stumbled into Huerta and fell.
Huerta clawed free of him and looked up at Emmet with his pale eyes. Emmet placed a careful shot into the general’s chest. “Sir, get down!” he shouted to Madero. His ears rang as everyone else’s would, but Madero crouched down beside the table. No other movement.
Emmet had lost track of how many shots he’d just fired; his conscious mind still hadn’t caught up to the unfolding treachery. He dropped the weapon, pushed aside the ambassador, and snatched up his holstered revolver. He slid it free just as the doors banged open and a soldier in uniform burst in, shouting something. Emmmet fired twice and felled the man.
Nothing stirred or sounded for a moment in the meeting room except swirling powder smoke and a liquid rattle from Huerta’s civilian aide. Emmet spared a glance for Lane Wilson; he was white-faced and frozen, unlikely to snatch up a weapon and take action. The thought to make sure of that crossed Emmet’s mind; he rejected it, and instead moved in a fast lope to the doorway, snatched a glimpse around, and entered the antechamber.
Bodies lay about the room in a tableau that resolved as a coldly rational sequence. Saunders – face-down with an exit wound in his back – drew on Castillo. Castillo – toppled over a chair, shot multiple times – fired back, but was hit again, then shot at the second soldier who had burst in from the hallway once Saunders began shooting. That man lay curled around a belly wound, groaning. His rifle was close by. Emmet shot him in the chest to make certain, quite dispassionately; he wasn’t riled. Just careful, as Maximo Castillo had always been.
He knelt by Castillo’s side and shifted the chair from under him, settled him on the floor. The fancy carpeting was soaked with blood. Castillo was breathing in shallow wheezes, but those holes weren’t going to heal. He was unconscious. There wouldn’t have been anything useful to say anyway. Emmet kept trying to think of a next step, of getting Madero out safely...
Did it matter if you died doing a job as best you could, or betraying someone for sheer ambition? Castillo would have said to keep at his own job, to work, to move. Instead, Emmet stayed put until the wheezing stopped. He knelt in a room of dead men, the old Colt heavy in his hand.
“Oh, Maximo,” said a familiar voice behind him. Madero shuffled up and crouched beside Emmet. “He is gone, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. We should get moving.”
“I shouldn’t have come here. Perhaps it was vanity. I really thought...”
“We all did. Most of us did. Well, come on.”
“Smith!” cried Ambassador Lane Wilson. “What the devil have you done?”
Emmet turned, part of him hoping that Wilson had picked up a gun; but the ambassador stood open-handed, shaking visibly, in the doorway. “You knew,” Emmet said.
“Well, of course! For God’s sake, man, do you really think this, this pissant can lead a war against Martians? Huerta was our best chance! Now their strongest general is dead! All of northern Mexico is wide open, all our investments... you...”
Madero stooped and picked up the soldier’s rifle, worked the bolt. “I am no pistoleer,” he said. “But I suppose I can aim this. What do we do?”
“Get a car, head over that bridge.”
“Get back here!” screamed Wilson. “You’re going to jail for this! Insubordination – murder – assassination –”
“I don’t work for you, Ambassador,” said Emmet. His hearing was coming back; he didn’t bother to shout. “I work for Texas.”
He set off with the President of Mexico to steal a car.
Epilogue
October 1912, Sabinas, Northern Mexico
Felix Sommerfeld settled into a chair within the telephone exchange and extended a hand. The te
lephone clerk placed an earpiece into it. Sommerfeld lifted it to his ear to hear the familiar crackle of Madero’s telephone line through the wiretap.
Sommerfeld had been operating within Madero’s administration for several months now and had followed him to Sabinas. Other German agents were in place at Veracruz and considered to be more important there than his own role; but he was beginning to think they had underestimated Madero. He had survived an assassination attempt; he had gathered an army...
And allies. There had been many calls like this one to a location in Austin, Texas. By now, the telephone clerk, Ricardo, was Sommerfeld’s creature; his sexual tastes had provided the initial lever, and once he’d begun passing information about Madero to German intelligence, the hook had been fully set. Sommerfeld laid out his encrypted notebook and a pencil, and waited. In a few moments, a familiar voice came over the earpiece – the American policeman in a nearby room. “Hello, Hicks, is that you? How’s the wound?”
“Yeah. Healing pretty well. I’m a captain, would you believe that? But what about you, Emmet?”
“I’m staying put here for now. There’s a lot of heat in the States after... after Huerta.”
Hicks chuckled. “You mean you fled to Mexico to escape the authorities? Ain’t you usually on the other end of that story?”
“Very funny. What are the authorities doing?”
Hicks’ voice changed. “It’s secession. The governor tried to stop it when the Senate voted, but it was like waving your arms at a stampede. No one knows what that really means as yet. We’re just not taking any orders from Washington any more. General Funston got cashiered, and a bunch of his officers too – but even some of the ones that weren’t still joined him.”
“Joined him in what?”
“They’re callin’ it the Texas Army. Funston’s leading it. But there’s Mexican soldiers joining as well, and French tanks, and... there’s some kinda alliance. France, Texas, and Mexico Norte. It doesn’t make much sense to me, but all they want to do is go after Martians, so I guess it’s not complicated.”
The Texas Front: Salient Page 35