The headline on the paper - as he’d expected - proclaimed: ‘President Defeats Martians in Naval Battle!’ The letters were so big they took up half the front page. Wood smiled and shook his head. Leave it to Theodore to turn an inspection trip into the biggest victory so far won against the invaders! He was going to be absolutely insufferable when he got back. A damn shame that it helped out the Germans more than the Americans. Still, every Martian killed was a gain. And good news - any good news - was big boost for the morale of the country.
And they needed it. The defeat of Funston in New Mexico had come as a huge shock. Everyone was expecting a victory. They had one now, even though it wasn’t the one they’d been expecting, and hopefully it would help calm things down. Putting the newspaper aside, he took up the messages which had arrived overnight. Semancik had already put them in what he thought was order of importance, and he was usually right.
As he’d expected, the first half-dozen in the pile were all from Funston or members of his staff demanding reinforcements and supplies. Wood had been truly relieved that Fred Funston had survived the battle. Even though he’d lost, he still had a better grasp of the situation than anyone who might have replaced him. And he was still a fine commander. He’d made a mistake, no doubt, but he would learn from it and not make the same mistake again.
And he’d managed to salvage most of his army. Most of the men, anyway. He’d lost all his tanks and most of his artillery and a lot of his supplies, but when things had gone to hell, a surprising number of the men had managed to make it out. Funston was assembling them, along with whatever reserves he’d had and reinforcements already en route, into some semblance of order back near Albuquerque. Once again, the Martians had failed to follow up on a victory. But Funston needed a massive influx of weapons and equipment to make his army effective again.
And Wood had nothing to send him.
Oh, the factories were churning out tanks and guns in unprecedented numbers. The Baldwin works were in full production turning out steam tanks, American Locomotive in Schenectady was getting geared up, too, and that Henry Ford fellow out in Michigan claimed he could out-produce both with a new production method. Other arsenals were making cannons, still others aeroplanes. From rifles to belts, blankets, and boots, American industry was producing the sinews of war. Troops were pouring out of the training camps and new regiments and divisions were becoming combat-ready. The army was stronger than ever before.
But Leonard Wood couldn’t send these hosts to Albuquerque. Not for a while, anyway.
The Martians had launched a new wave of cylinders in July and all the experts claimed they would be here sometime in November. Thankfully, there were only half as many as the first time, but just like after the first launch, there was no way of knowing where they would land, so they had to plan for the worst. The worst would be for them to land in the east, where most of the people and most of the factories were located. As long as the factories and mines kept working they could win this war. But if production was disrupted, things could get very bad.
So the east had to be defended, even if that meant hanging the west out to dry. Wood didn’t like it, but there wasn’t any choice. The new formations were being placed in strategic regions east of the Mississippi, locations from which they could quickly reach any new landing area. It was the same strategy they had used back during the first landings. A vast system of observers were in place to watch for falling cylinders. Each lookout post had telephone or telegraph communication to central command centers. If a cylinder was observed falling, it would be reported and, if confirmed, army units could be on the way to the location in a matter of hours.
It took time - days or even weeks - for the Martians to assemble their fearsome war machines after they landed. If troops could reach them before they could do it, they could be wiped out before they became a serious threat. But if they were given the time… That’s what had happened back in ’07. The Martians landed in out of the way places the army couldn’t reach quickly. And while they hadn’t threatened any big cities or mines or factories, they’d been able to assemble their machines and come out fighting. No one knew what they would do this time. Land in the east in hopes that all the troops and guns were out west? Reinforce the Martians in the west? Land in some other place entirely? Until they knew, Wood had no choice but to concentrate his forces in the east.
He had been able to send at least some things Funston’s way. A few guns, a few tanks, ammunition and explosives, but not nearly as much as the man wanted - or needed. If he was attacked again before December he was going to be in trouble. All Wood could tell him was to dig in and wait. That’s what he was telling his other western commanders, too. There was a corps in Wyoming, another in eastern Colorado, and several divisions and brigades posted in the Dakotas, Nebraska, and Kansas. They were short on tanks and heavy artillery, but they all had been preparing to advance when Funston took the Martian fortress at Gallup. Now all they could do was dig in where they were and wait.
Sighing, Wood took out a pen and started writing out quick replies to each of the communiques. Semancik would turn his chicken-scratches into intelligible messages. He sometimes wondered how many messages never even reached his desk. Semancik was very capable.
He worked through the stack as the morning wore away until Semancik stuck his head in the office. “Just wanted to remind you that the British Military Attaché will be here soon, sir.”
“Ah, right. Thank you.” He checked the time and saw that Major Vernon Kell was due in just fifteen minutes and the man was always exactly on time. He got up and stretched, freshened up a bit, and had another cup of coffee. He was curious about what Kell wanted. He’d said it was important but refused to elaborate.
Exactly on the tick of the hour Semancik ushered Major Kell into Wood’s office. The Englishman was a bit younger than Wood, a bit taller, but sported a very similar mustache. He was stylishly dressed in civilian clothes rather than in uniform. They exchanged pleasantries, Kell giving his congratulations on Roosevelt’s victory, and then they sat down. “So what can I do for you, Major?”
“Ah, well, General, I hope it is a matter of what we can do for each other,” replied Kell. “I have been directed by His Majesty’s Government to make certain information available to you.”
“Really? Such as?”
“Well, there are several different items. Let’s start with the strategic, shall we?”
“As you please,” said Wood, wondering where this was going.
“Excellent. Several important decisions have been made recently. The first, sad to say, is the decision that Australia cannot be defended and must be considered lost.”
Wood sat forward, startled. “Really? I mean I can understand the decision, but the British position had been so steadfastly in favor of holding onto every bit of the Empire that this comes as quite a surprise.”
“It was not an easy decision, I’m told,” said Kell stiffly. “But as Frederick the Great said: ‘He who tries to defend everything defends nothing.’ The vast distance and the considerable strength of the Martians—we now know that they made at least three and possibly four separate landings there—makes a defense impractical. Our forces in the area are now in the process of evacuating all those we can to India, New Zealand, or Tasmania.”
“Makes sense,” conceded Wood, wondering how this affected the United States.
“In addition, our attempts to counterattack in our South African colony have been suspended. For the immediate future we will restrict our activities there to the defense of the region around Capetown.” Wood nodded, again, this was of no great concern to him. “And finally, the last bit of bad news: the situation in Canada is becoming serious.”
“We were of the opinion that it had been serious right from the start,” said Wood. All right, now this was relevant.
Kell shrugged. “Yes, of course. But now it is more serious. The Martians who landed in Alberta initially moved south where they cut the railway
to the Pacific, but now they have turned east. In addition, we have confirmation of a second landing site on the border with Alaska…”
“We had suspected that,” said Wood.
“Yes, but now they are moving east and south. Lastly, the Danish government has confirmed that there was a landing in Greenland. And our reconnaissance indicates that they may attempt to cross over to the mainland when the Davis Straight freezes over this winter.”
“That makes sense,” said Wood. “There can’t be much to interest them in Greenland. But that means you have three forces converging on eastern Canada.”
“Yes, and just as is the case with your country, the east is what really matters. Nearly all the people and industry are in Ontario and Quebec. The western provinces are virtually uninhabited. Therefore, due to this threat and our lessened commitments in Australia and Africa, the General Staff has concluded that a major expedition be sent to Canada.”
Wood sat up. Now this was important! He and his people had been very worried by the lack of defense to the north. If Canada fell, the Martians would threaten the whole northern border. “When? How large a force? Where do you plan to deploy it?”
“Nothing is going to happen until after the next wave of landings, I’m afraid,” said Kell. “We have to plan for the worst—just as we know you are doing—and not leave the home islands unprotected until we know there will be no landings there. But assuming there are none, come November, we will start moving troops across the Atlantic. Just a few divisions to start, but if all goes well, more will follow. As for where they will go… that’s less certain.” Kell got up and walked over to one of the maps on the wall of Wood’s office. “The layman might well say we should build a line from Lake Superior northeast to Hudson’s Bay. Looks fine on the map, doesn’t it? It seals off all the Martians to the west from coming east. But the reality is that this is all an absolute wilderness. No railroads, no roads of any kind; really, only a scattering of tiny villages. Trying to supply an army in this area—especially in winter—would be utterly impossible. And it wouldn’t even do the job if we could. In winter the Martians could just cross James Bay and outflank the whole line.”
Wood nodded patiently, this was all entirely obvious. “So where…?”
“Initially, we plan to build a line from Georgian Bay across to the St. Lawrence below Kingston.” Kell drew a line on the map with his finger. “That would safeguard London, Toronto, and a good chunk of territory. We’ll also build defenses around Ottawa, Montreal, and Quebec City—and support them with the navy. Eventually, if we’re given the time, we hope to create a continuous line north of the St. Lawrence all the way to the sea. We realize that this plan effectively abandons ninety-five percent of the country, but there’s nothing else we can do.”
Wood studied the map. It probably did make sense, but he couldn’t help but notice the enormous empty space from Lake Superior all the way west to the American units in North Dakota. It was every bit of five hundred miles with nothing to prevent the Martians from sweeping down through Minnesota into the rear. He realized it was unrealistic to expect the British to fill that gap and he was grateful he wouldn’t have to worry about the Martians wading across the St. Lawrence into New York or Vermont, but still…
“It will certainly be good to have you here, Major,” he said. “Frankly, sir, there has been a great deal of grumbling about the lack of English cooperation.”
Major Kell looked like he had swallowed something very sour. But whatever angry reply he might have wanted to make, he swallowed that down, too. “Yes, we are aware of that, General. But we have been quite busy elsewhere, you know. In fact, were it not for several recent successes in Egypt and India which turned back Martian offensives, we wouldn’t be able to even undertake this much. However…” he paused and walked over and opened the office door. “I am pleased to inform you that His Majesty’s Government pledges its full cooperation from this point on.” He gestured with his hand and two men came in, rolling hand trucks stacked high with large leather-bound books.
“What’s all this?”
Kell picked up one of the volumes which was at least two inches thick and obviously quite heavy and put it down on Wood’s desk. He flipped open the pages and Wood saw that it was crowded with text, mathematical equations, and engineering diagrams. “These sir, are the complete collection of everything our scientists have discovered from the Martian devices we captured after the first invasion. We are confident you will find them useful.”
* * * * *
September, 1909, Albuquerque, New Mexico Territory
First Sergeant Frank Dolfen’s horse splashed across the Rio Grande and then struggled up the far bank. The town of Albuquerque lay just ahead. There was a bridge over the river, but it was jammed with wagons and he was in no mood to wait. The long retreat from Gallup was nearly at an end—or at least he certainly hoped so. They hadn’t seen any sign of the Martians since the day of the battle and that was a damn good thing. The mass of refugees which escaped the disaster had eventually sorted themselves out into some semblance of an army, but without artillery or tanks they would have been helpless if attacked. The cavalry, as always, was tasked with covering the retreat - not that they could have done a blessed thing if the Martians had showed up.
The retreat had been all of a hundred and fifty miles and he swore he could feel every inch of it in his aching arms, legs, and backside. Of course he should feel grateful he didn’t have to march the whole way like the infantry, but in fact, most of the infantry got picked up by trains as they retreated. The railroad was still working along the whole route and several times a day there would be a train there to deliver food and pick up people and what little equipment that had been salvaged. The army shrank and shrank as it retreated - but the cavalry still had to cover whatever was left. And what was left was a large mass of wagons and horses; slow and vulnerable but too valuable to simply abandon.
The only bright spot in the whole mess was that his friend, Becca Harding, was driving one of those wagons. Somehow in the rush to escape she’d ended up with a wagonload of wounded. Those in her care had eventually been transferred to a train, but she’d volunteered to continue with the army to help any men who’d become sick or injured on the way. Dolfen had found excuses to check on her frequently during the march. She was up on the bridge right now with her rig and he waved to her and she waved back. He didn’t know if he’d have a chance to see her again and that saddened him. She was a great kid - and a good friend.
A provost officer was directing traffic up ahead. “What unit?” he demanded as Dolfen and his following troopers approached.
“5th Cavalry.”
The man checked a sheet of paper and then pointed. “Your camp’s up that way, about two miles.”
“Right. All right, you lunks! Almost there! Follow me!” He turned them north along the river, and the depth of their weariness could be gauged by the fact that there were hardly any answering comments, complaints, or jokes. Everyone was beat. Except for Jason Urbaniak, of course. The man seemed capable of talking no matter how tired he was. Now he moved up next to Dolfen.
“So whaddya think’s gonna happen now, Sarge?”
“Looks like we’re digging in,” he said, pointing to groups of men who were working with picks and shovels on trenches on the east side of the river. “Guess that means we’ll be stayin’ a while.”
“Sure hope you’re right! I could use a rest!”
“Yeah. And we need to get the regiment organized again. A lotta boys still missing and I don’t think they were all killed.” The 5th had been badly scattered on the day of the fight and Dolfen hadn’t seen more than a hundred or so during the retreat. But they couldn’t all be dead.
“Still no sign of the captain,” said Urbaniak.
“Probably up ahead at the camp they’ve set for us.”
“Hope they got tents and gear for us.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
As they rode along
, they did see quite a few proper camps with the tents set in a regulation pattern. But as Dolfen had feared, the camp for the 5th was little more than a dusty rectangle marked in the dirt. There were a few dog tents already there and a heartening number of horses in a roped off area, but not much more. A corporal met them and directed them to their spot, assuring them that tents and supplies were on the way. They stiffly dismounted and saw to their horses.
“Oh, brother,” said Urbaniak. “They better get us our stuff quick or there’s gonna be hell to pay!”
“What do you mean?”
“Look who our neighbors are.”
Dolfen glanced where Urbaniak was pointing and stiffened. Next door was a very proper and well-equipped cavalry camp. But the troopers…
“10th Cavalry,” said Dolfen. “Yeah that could be awkward.” The 10th was one of the army’s colored regiments. They were good troops, no doubt, and most of the white regiments didn’t give them any trouble—as long as they kept their distance. But to have them right there, with all the stuff the 5th lacked, oh yeah, that was sure to lead to trouble! “I better go find the captain and have a word with him.”
But the captain was nowhere to be found and no one had seen him since the fight near Gallup. That was not good. Eventually he found the regimental adjutant, a first lieutenant named Siganuk, sitting under a tent fly. “Ah! Frank! I was just going to send for you!” he said.
“Really, sir? Have you seen Captain DeBrosse?”
“No, and no one else has seen him, either. I’m afraid we’re going to have to assume he was killed. A damn shame.”
“He was a good man,” agreed Doflen. “So who has the squadron now, sir?”
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