The Texas Front: Salient Read online

  “We engaged three tripods, General. Knocked one out, and I think we hit another. Both our tanks were destroyed.”

  “Both? You had only two?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I was told ‘elements of the 304th’ were available,” grumbled Funston. “Didn’t think it was two tanks! You did well with that little, Lieutenant. But there’s still two more out there? What are they doing?”

  “That’s just it, sir. One seemed to pick up the... pilot... creature, from the downed tripod. I think it went back north with it. The other, it went west.”

  “But it was coming south initially?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then it’s on its way here,” said Funston grimly. “We’ve got to get moving. Finish loading the wounded immediately; you can triage on board the cars. This train has to be moving at the soonest it can!”

  The officers scattered. Funston was turning away when Lang asked, “General? Is there anyone from the 304th I can join with?”

  Funston regarded him silently for a moment. “No. I don’t think there is anyone else, Lieutenant. Walk with me a while. Tell me more about what you saw them doing.”

  They began walking down the row of train cars. Lang kept his voice flat as he spoke to the man who had flung his crew away so casually that he hadn’t even known how many tanks he’d sent. “Well, sir, I did see the second tripod pick up something. I’m just assuming it was holding the first one’s pilot. I’m pretty sure the Judge – the other tank – hit the third one. But that’s what’s odd; you’d think they would send the one already damaged back, and instead that’s the one that pressed on. I also think–”

  A man ran down the rail line toward them. “General! We’ve spotted one of ’em, to the west!”

  “Dammit!” Funston broke into a run; Lang did likewise. A few moments brought them to one of the freight cars; Funston, already panting, leaped up onto the steps, then began to clamber up the side ladder. Lang stayed close behind, so when Funston’s grasp slipped and the general skidded down a rung, Lang spared a hand to brace him; it took little effort. Was he just a uniform full of bluster, then?

  Funston staggered up onto the car’s sloped roof, stooped, and gasped for a moment. He spared a wry glance up at Lang. “Malaria, in Cuba. Shot through both lungs – in the Philippines. Not much at – obstacle courses any more.” He straightened, lifting his binoculars. Lang echoed him.

  Two miles to the west, a lone tripod stalked along. Lang held his breath, straining to see. There it was; the scorch mark of the Judge’s hit. You hurt them, Baker. Rest easy. He turned back to Funston.

  “We’ve got two working guns,” said Funston tightly without lowering his own glasses. He swayed on his feet; Lang instinctively braced him, thinking of the limping Eddie, of Carson...

  “Two more to throw away, General?” He’d lifted milk cans that weighed more. A terrible rage was boiling up inside him.

  Funston grunted and snapped his head around as Lang’s grip tightened. Something glinted deep in his eyes. “So that’s it. You presumptuous sprat! D’you think no one else lost a crew? Most of my colonels are dead. Most of my damned army is gone. They beat me and I know it! We salvage what we can and fight on. Now either throw me off this roof, or get to work. We’re short on everything, time included.”

  On everything. Suddenly it made sense. Lang opened his hands. “General, you need to know this. All the tripods were only firing as much as necessary, not waving the beams around like I’ve seen. And it’s the damaged one that’s still coming on. I think... they’re running out of something as well. I don’t know what, but just maybe that’s why it’s not run over here and finished us. It’s the only one that can keep advancing, but it doesn’t want to risk another hit. So perhaps– ”

  “We can bluff it,” said Funston. “Perhaps.” He turned to the two staff officers who had appeared at the top of the ladder and were staring at the tableau before them. “Lieutenant Willard Lang. You will go with these officers and follow their instructions.”

  I’ve just assaulted the general commanding Second Army. Court-martial. Leavenworth. Lang slumped and stepped forward.

  “They will explain to you the duties of an officer on my staff.”

  He gaped. “General?”

  “You can use your eyes and think. You can command a tank. That’ll do until someone better comes along. Oh, and Lang... if you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll hang you.”

  “Understood, sir.” He followed this pint-sized fire-eater down the ladder, with one last glance at the tripod that still kept its distance. On the ground, the two officers waited.

  “Major Otto Prendergast,” said the one with the eye bandage. He was as drawn as the others, but the visible eye twinkled. “You’ve made an impression, young Willard. He’s never threatened to hang me. I’m quite jealous.”

  Willard shook his head, bemused. “So he was kidding, then?”

  The twinkle vanished. “No. Do not make that mistake. General Funston is a very serious man.”

  They loaded the wounded. They loaded the ammunition. And by three o’clock, they loaded two working 4.7-inch field guns onto the only clear space on a flatcar, discarding the carriage wheels. The barrels poked threateningly over the side, but the Lord only knew what would happen if they fired. Probably land somewhere in Arizona, thought Lang.

  Funston’s command post was set up in the front end of a boxcar; holes chopped in the wooden sides gave a view to both sides and ahead overseeing the gun crews manning the pieces, which had been braced in position with baulks of timber as best they could be. At five o’clock the train hooted and grunted into motion, the clunk of the rail joints sounding much more slowly than Lang was accustomed to, as the train paced the marching soldiers beside it, trudging along the eastern side in the dubious shelter of wooden rail cars. Just as the lone tripod paced them all in turn.

  And at five-thirty, it began to close in, slanting gradually toward them.

  “What range d’you make it?” shouted Prendergast forward.

  “Twenty-four hundred yards, sir!”

  Funston nodded to Prendergast, who replied, “Commence tracking your target!”

  The gun barrels hunted around, then steadied.

  “That’s the one card we can turn over,” muttered Prendergast to Lang. “The rest stay down. But will they call it?”

  “Twenty-two hundred yards, sir!”

  The taller of the two staff officers – Walters – shifted nervously. “General, they’ll open up somewhere under two thousand yards. We should shoot first.”

  “Those guns will jump like mules. Probably kill the gunners. We’ll wait a bit.”

  Lang cleared his throat. “Uh, we fired at four hundred, sir, and hit twice. But these guns are bigger – and look bigger. For whatever that’s worth.”

  “Two thousand yards, sir!”

  “If I could get my hands on that thing over there,” snarled Funston, “I’d cut it up to see what makes it tick. Is it just watching – gloating? Frog-marching us all south for a while?” He glared out through the splintered wood with incandescent hatred.

  Lang could understand that. He wished he was looking through a piece’s sights himself. And if the recoil killed him when he fired? A hit would be worth that; worth anything.

  “Eighteen hundred yards, sir!”

  Prendergast’s eye was expressionless. Walter’s faced worked. “Sir, the cars are tinderboxes! If we went at full speed–”

  “We’d leave nearly a thousand men to that thing’s mercies. If we run, it will know it can burn them with impunity. No, sir. We’ll stare it down together, or burn together, but I will not run.” Funston leaned out the forward gap and shouted, “Clear away all crews but the gunners! Stand by to fire on my order!”

  He flicked a glance to Prendergast. “It has to be on my order, Otto.”

  “The gun layers are staying put as well,” said Prendergast without looking away from ahead.

  “They’re w
hat? Why, I’ll –” Funston grimaced. “We’ll settle it when this is over. They know their work.”

  “Sixteen hundred yards, sir!”

  Funston looked at Lang. “Do you think–” The long-range rasp of a heat ray cut him off. Two cars ahead, flame sprang up from wood and paintwork; the firing cut off.

  “Test shot,” rasped Lang. Prendergast nodded. Men clambered out on the car roofs, hurling water buckets; brave men, and it was working, but it would be like pissing on a blowtorch at closer range.

  “Fourteen hundred yards, sir!”

  “That shambling son of a bitch,” said Funston softly. “It just has to know.” He leaned out forward. “Fire when ready!”

  For a few moments, there was only the chuntering of the train; then both guns went off within a second of each other, a stunning twin concussion. Through the driving smoke, Lang saw dirt spout upward just short of the tripod, and just to the left beyond it.

  He looked forward; the guns were still aboard, but several of the timber baulks had disintegrated under the recoil, sending splinters in a vicious pattern. Two men picked their way through the wreckage; two more lay bloodied and still. If the surviving crews could load, they might get one more round off from each gun...

  “Sir, look! It’s turning away!”

  Funston did not look away from the flatcar.

  “It’s running! We did it!”

  “They did it,” muttered Funston. He scrubbed at his face. “Alright! Get those guns repositioned in case it comes back. Lang, can you handle a 4.7?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Funston looked him full in the face. “Willing to man one?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Good. Get down there and sort things out.”

  Carson. Billings. Young Jed Gillray.

  He’d nearly thrown away his career for them, but there were better ways to honor them. And to get payment for them. Because the Sow would never come cheap.

  Chapter 1

  April 1911, Austin, Texas

  Emmet O. Smith ducked through the side doorway of the adjutant-general’s offices. He doffed his Stetson hat left-handed by habit; as usual when in town, he wore a jacket and trousers to blend in, but even a job interview couldn't part him from the hat and his well-worn boots. His right hand held a leather pouch of letters at his side. Two clerks looked up from their counter with bovine incuriosity; he settled on the nearer. “Afternoon. I’m Smith, here about my Ranger application.”

  The clerk brightened. “You’re Australian Billy? Well, now, I always– ”

  “No. Emmet Oswald Smith.”

  “Oh. Well, let’s see, here.” The clerk shuffled out the papers. “Lot of applications right now, you know. Texas is stepping up to the plate.”

  Emmet said nothing, waiting to see if this was a bid for a bribe. That wouldn’t go well. He’d gotten pretty good in the past at declining such offers without riling anyone, but this was more important than, say, a rancher asking him to wink at a wrong cattle brand.

  “Hang on... Jerry, wasn’t there a notice on him?” said the other clerk.

  A look of enlightenment crossed the man’s face, and he grabbed another paper off his desk. “Damn right there is! Says here the A-G wants to see him soon as he gets here. Mister, could you please wait in the side office? He’ll be right down.”

  Emmet took the untouched papers back, followed the clerk into the office, and commenced cooling his heels. Within half an hour – lightning-fast by Austin standards – a moustache barged into the room, with a lean, pinch-faced man behind it. “You picked a fine time to get here!” he snapped.

  “How’s that, sir?” Emmet recognized the spanking new adjutant-general easily enough: Henry Hutchings, late forties, brigadier-general in the Texas National Guard, and in practical terms, the man who would be his boss. Emmet rose and offered a hand; Hutchings shook it.

  “His Excellency is upstairs, and I made the mistake of mentioning why I was called away. Now he wants to see you too... Let’s see your application.” He snatched it from Emmet’s hand and hummed over it. “Seems to be in order. You’ve been around some. Not too old for this work, are you?”

  “I’m thirty-four. I figure I can keep up with the young’uns.”

  “Former Ranger 1903-1905 in A Company under John Hughes... that’s good... worked as detective for the Northern Railroad Company 1906-7, brand inspector West Texas 1908, then joined the Thiel Detective Agency in El Paso 1909-10. Speaks fluent Spanish. Border man, huh?”

  “I grew up in El Paso,” agreed Emmet.

  “That’s a hot spot these days. Well, Smith, if the governor asked for you, that pretty much makes you a Ranger. I’ll fill out your certificate and sign it. Just remember who you answer to, alright? I’ll decide where you go and what you do, based on what he asks to have done. Probably put you at the Kenedy camp – Company B under Captain Sanders.”

  Emmet knew what a ‘Ranger camp’ generally meant – a rented house stinking with hard-traveled men, and a crabby landlady slamming a plate of beans on a table – but he hadn’t joined for luxury even in ’03. “Will do, sir.”

  “You’ll still need to provide your own horse and saddle, but we have arrangements now with all major railroads for passes. You’ll know people at the Northern line, anyway... You can pick up a scout belt at the arsenal in the cellar. Try not to wear it in town; it draws attention. Now, I have standardized what was a terrible arrangement prior. You’ll draw a Winchester chambered for .30-06, so we can share shells with the army.”

  “Oh, good, sir. I’d not want to face a Martian tripod with only a sidearm.”

  “We’ll also issue you a better sense of humor. As for sidearms... I don’t see one?”

  Emmet shrugged. “Never felt the need to be heeled in Austin. I have a Navy Colt .38.”

  “We do not issue that caliber. You’ll need to buy your own shells.” Hutchings seemed pleased by that; a penny saved. “Some of the men are carrying automatics now. Much lighter.”

  “A Colt’s no bad weight if you need to bend it over a fellow’s head. It can avoid an argument.”

  Hutchings smirked. “Indeed.” He produced a pocket watch and glanced at it. “Right, let’s go attend upon His Excellency.”

  They snaked through stairs and hallways; the building had hundreds of rooms. Hutchings opened the door to a well-appointed one and ushered Smith in: carpeting, a teak desk a mile wide, and two men in thick-upholstered chairs. The governor rose, smiling. “Well, hello! I’m Oscar Colquitt.” He looked up at Emmet unselfconsciously as he shook his hand; a strong grip for such a small man. He turned and gestured. “This is my good friend Francisco Chapa, one of my personal staff. Excuse the glamorous suit; he’s just been on a troop review in the National Guard.”

  Chapa was thick-set and olive-skinned; his colonel’s uniform dripped gold lace. He nodded to Emmet without getting up. “I would not try to impress you with a costume, Mr. Smith. I’m really just a newspaperman – the El Impartial de Texas.”

  “I’ve read that. Do you write for it?”

  “I own it.”

  “And he says positively splendid things about me,” put in Colquitt. “He’s very persuasive, especially around election time. Carries about half of Spanish-speaking South Texas. Have a seat, Mr. Smith, Henry.” When they’d settled, Colquitt continued. “The reason I flagged your name, Smith, is that you worked for the Thiel Agency recently. I’m keenly interested in one of your clients.”

  “Which one would that be, sir?”

  “The Provisional President of Mexico. Francisco Madero.”

  “Ah.” Smith shifted in his chair. “Well, I can’t discuss any business that–”

  “No, no. Of course not. I mean, what sort of a man is he?”

  Chapa snorted. “A little man.”

  Colquitt shot him a wry glance. “Careful there.”

  “I mean, a weak man. Not a military man at all. That is –”

  “You’re not getting any further out of
that puddle, man,” muttered Colquitt, who’d never worn a uniform, gaudy or otherwise. “Come on, Smith.”

  “Well. Madero’s family was in Nuevo Leon, very well off. When President Diaz finally offered to hold presidential elections back in 1909, Madero ran as a candidate. Looked like he might win. The Martians sure messed that up. Once they came boiling out of central Mexico and smashed the federal army, Diaz called off all elections. But losing to the Martians made him look too weak to keep a lid on things. Now they’ve got two revolutions going at once, one in the north, one in the south. Madero, he was living in San Antonio until March this year, but he’s crossed into Mexico now. He’s pretty much in charge in the north – Chihuahua and Coahuila states especially. The federals mostly gave up when the Martians cut them off from their bases.”

  “A pity they all did not drop their quarrels and unite against the Martians,” said Chapa.

  “Y’know,” said Emmet thoughtfully, “if anyone would, it’d be Madero. He doesn’t much care for killing. More of a builder, if you follow. But those ‘quarrels’ run deep, Mr. Chapa. Why, you’ve written about them yourself.”

  “Endlessly,” said Colquitt. “Can Madero be trusted?”

  “I’d say so, yes. There are revolutionaries everywhere you look in Mexico – hell, in San Antonio – but he believes in what he’s doing.”

  “And he believes in spiritualism too,” put in Chapa. He rapped his fist under the table next to him. “Ooooh! The spirits are here. They are troubled.”

  “I can’t speak to that,” said Emmet. “But if it’s my opinion you want, it’s a good one.”

  “Well, thank you.” Colquitt rubbed his chin. “The Mexican situation does keep me up some nights. With the Martians having split the country in half, President Diaz has no power in the northern states, and if all order fails, there’s nothing between those Martians to the south and us except a rabble. I can’t have General Funston looking over his shoulder to the south when he needs to protect us to the north! Until their revolution is resolved, our southern flank is hanging in thin air. Francisco here keeps clamoring for General Reyes to step in, but I like to get a wide picture... At any rate, looks like we’ll have to work with Madero to get much of anything done about the border situation.”