“Another month or so, sir,” he said to Clopton. “We should have all six ready to head to the front in another month.”
“Well, I hope to God you’re right, Colonel. From what I’m hearing, there is going to be a hell of fight out west this spring and I damn well don’t intend to miss it!” The general turned away and walked aft, surveying what would be his flagship.
Flagship! You’d think we were in the damn navy!
It did seem strange using nautical terms, but there was no denying that the land ironclads were more like ships than vehicles. Each one had a crew of nearly a hundred men and more than half were involved with the boilers, steam turbines, and engines. They’d even recruited some men from the merchant marine with experience in those things to man the engine rooms. The vehicles had a bridge, conning tower, and an observation platform on a tall mast. The gunnery system was an exact copy of that used on navy warships, although the Coast Artillery used a similar system, and they were supplying the gunners.
There were some differences, of course. To avoid wasting space or weight, there were almost no living quarters provided. In the field, the crew would sleep wherever they could on board, or pitch tents on the ground if the ironclad was halted. There was a tiny galley which could provide rudimentary meals in combat, but again, the men were expected to form their own messes most of the time. And each ironclad would have a small fleet of trucks following it to provide supplies, spare parts, and ammunition and rations for the crew.
Just organizing them had forced the army to develop entirely new ways of thinking. Each ironclad was being treated effectively as a battalion and would be
commanded by a major or lieutenant colonel. A hundred men was an awfully small battalion, but considering the firepower involved, it wasn’t an unreasonable decision. The squadron was treated as the equivalent of a brigade, hence Clopton’s exalted rank. Privately, Andrew suspected a bit of one-upmanship with the navy was also involved.
And there was no doubt that a rivalry was developing. The navy was building their own land ironclads and there was competition for funding and resources. Admiral of the Fleet George Dewey, the hero of the Spanish American War, was insisting that the navy ought to have priority, but so far the army was winning that battle, and their ironclads would be in service first. There was even a fight going on over the names of the damn things! The army wanted to name them after some of the cities out west they hoped to liberate, but the navy had already grabbed the most prominent ones for a class of river monitors they were building. His old friend, Drew Harding, had just taken command of the Santa Fe and there was also a Denver, Wichita, and Salt Lake City. The army had put its foot down and demanded - and got - Albuquerque for the USLI-001. But the remaining five were going to be named Billings, Sioux Falls, Omaha, Tulsa, and Springfield. There would even be a christening ceremony in the coming weeks.
Andrew, accompanied by Stavely and Hornbaker, wandered around inside and outside the newly installed turret, looking over the shoulders of the busy workmen, until they were forced to get out of the way as the gun was swung down through the open top. As he emerged, Lieutenant Hornbaker got his attention and said: “Look, sir, isn’t that…?”
“Tesla! What the hell is he doing here?”
There was no mistaking the tall, thin figure of Nikola Tesla. He was standing on the deck and talking in an animated fashion with General Clopton. Andrew hurried over, but as Tesla caught sight of him, he turned his back on Clopton and broke into a huge grin. “Major Comstock! So good to see you again!”
“Good to see you, Doctor, but what brings you here?”
“Ah! I was just explaining to General… uh… General…”
“Clopton,” said the general, frowning.
“Yes! General Clopton, here, I have the most marvelous idea for this amazing colossus you’ve built.”
Andrew’s heart sank. Something new? They had enough new things to deal with. “But… but, Doctor, aren’t you supposed to be working on your new lightning gun?”
“Yes, of course! That’s what I’m talking about!”
“You know Doctor Tesla, Colonel?” demanded Clopton, breaking in.
“Uh, yes, sir, we’ve worked on several different projects in the past…”
“And he’s been an enormous help, General! I hope you realize how fortunate you are to have someone like Comstock here!”
Clopton’s gaze focused on Andrew. “Indeed?”
“Uh, but, Doctor,” said Andrew, “What does your gun have to do with the land ironclads?”
“Why, I want to mount one on them!”
“What?”
“Oh, it’s quite simple, really. The construction of the electric cannon has proceeded splendidly, just splendidly, except for the power supply. The army wants the cannon to be mobile, so it needs to be carried on a vehicle of some sort. But no normal vehicle can also carry a generator which can charge the capacitor quickly enough. They are working on some sort of auxiliary vehicle to carry the generator, but it could be many months before such a thing is ready. I don’t want to wait!”
No, if Andrew had learned anything about Tesla, it was that he didn’t want to wait for anything. “So then you are suggesting…”
“Yes! Exactly! I happened to bump into George Westinghouse last week and he mentioned the electric motors he was providing for the land ironclads. I asked how they were being powered and he said that each one had a steam turbine generator! Exactly what I need! Why in the world didn’t you tell me, Major?”
“Well, I didn’t think…”
“But it’s perfect, can’t you see? You could take the silly primitive cannon out of one of the turrets - maybe the one they are trying to put in right now…” He pointed up at the crane.
“Not the twelve-incher!” cried Clopton.
“Well, one of the other ones then, and you could hook it up to the generator and there you would have it! Perfect! I can have the first one delivered here by next week!”
Andrew felt skeptical; Clopton looked skeptical. “What is this device you are talking about, Doctor?”
Before Tesla could launch into what was sure to be a long and nearly incomprehensible explanation, Andrew jumped in. “It’s a new type of weapon, General, which fires something very much like a lightning bolt. I’ve seen it demonstrated and it does work—very impressively. I know the high command is eager to get it into action. Perhaps it could be mounted in the turret just forward of the twelve-incher…”
“We can’t afford any more delays, Comstock!”
“Well, with Albuquerque almost finished up, we’ll still have the other five to complete and that will take another few months, sir. That might give us time to install one of the cannons here.”
“Yes! Yes!” cried Tesla. “We can certainly do that!”
“We’d need General Crozier’s permission…”
“I’ll get it! Now, I need to see the generator to work out the power runs!”
Andrew looked at Clopton, who shrugged. They found John Schmidt and sent him and Tesla below. When they were gone, Clopton rounded on him. “You really think this can work? I’m aware of Tesla’s reputation; I’m quite an admirer, really, but in person he’s a lot more… more…”
“Intense?”
“Yes, surely that, but also, more well, eccentric, than I was expecting. So, I ask again: can this contraption of his work?”
“It certainly worked in the test I saw, sir. It doesn’t have the range of a conventional gun, but it does have the potential to affect multiple targets at once. It might be a worthwhile tradeoff to lose the forward seven-incher.”
“Huh, and the Staff wants to see the thing in action… All right. Get Crozier’s go-ahead and then go ahead! But I don’t want any delay to prevent us from getting into action!”
“Yes, sir. No, sir, no delays.” Clopton turned and left him. Andrew glanced at Hornbaker. “Well, Jerry, we have another job to do.”
* * * * *
Cycle 597, 845.1,
Holdfast 32-4
“So we will attack?” asked Davnitargus.
“Yes,” replied Qetjnegartis. “The Colonial Conclave has confirmed the orders and we shall commence the offensive in fifteen local days. But come with me and attend the briefing for our own people.” Davnitargus activated its travel chair and fell in beside Qetjnegartis as they moved through the curving corridors of the clan’s newest holdfast. Unlike the first holdfast, this one had been constructed without desperate haste and the corridors were properly tiled and leveled - and the roof did not leak! At least so far. As they moved, Qetjnegartis noticed the bud sack on Davnitargus’s side. Its bud was going to have its own first bud.
“Your bud progresses well?”
“All appears as expected. It is an interesting experience. But you have gone through this many times, Progenitor.”
“Yes, a great many over the long cycles. But only a few times was it for a new being, almost always it was a replacement body for myself.”
“This world provides many opportunities not available on the Homeworld.”
Qetjnegartis focused more attention on its offspring. Was there some subtle message in its statement? But a moment later it removed all doubt.
“It seems illogical for the others to remain on a dying world rather than come here, does it not? I fear I cannot understand this decision.”
“It is not our place to questions the decision of the Council.”
“Why not? If the decision clearly is incorrect, why should we not question it?”
“They are older and more experienced and wiser than we, Davnitargus. There may be more factors in their decisions than we know.”
“Then why not share those factors with us and let us understand their reasoning? Blind obedience seems… illogical.”
Qetjnegartis was becoming alarmed. On the Homeworld, any individual voicing such statements would be facing a quick termination. “Davnitargus… it would be best for you to not say such things.”
“Even to you? I realize that those who have come here from the Homeworld are unsettled by the attitude of we young ones, but can I not discuss my concerns with the one who made me? I depend on you for guidance.”
“And I am pleased to give it. But you must not speak this way in the hearing of others.”
“As you command. I will not speak of this in the presence of those who came from the Homeworld.”
Qetjnegartis halted its travel chair. Was this a deliberate prevarication by Davnitargus? Did it mean that it would discuss these matters with the buds created on this world? It had hinted before that there was some secret congress of the younger buds. But there was no opportunity to demand an explanation because at that moment Tanbradjus overtook them in its own travel chair. “Greeting Commander,” it said. “We make our final attack plans, do we not?”
“Yes,” replied Qetjnegartis. “We were just on our way to the briefing chamber.” It glanced at Davnitargus and said: “we will finish our conversation later.” It then put its chair in motion and they soon arrived where the other battlegroup commanders were waiting. The strength of the clan had grown significantly in the last half-cycle and could now field no less than twelve battlegroups, ten of which would be committed to this offensive - three hundred fighting machines and nearly that number of the new drones. Qetjnegartis relished having such strength and thought back to when the Clan’s survival depended on a mere five machines!
It acknowledged the greetings of its subordinates and then activated a display screen which showed a map of the central portion of Continent Three. “Thanks to the artificial satellite, we now have detailed information on the topography of regions outside our control, as well as intelligence on the location and strength of the enemy forces,” it began. “As you can see, the prey-creatures have set up a fortified line along the large river, which had been designated River 3-1.” With the detailed maps had come the necessity of giving names or numbers to geographical features. For now, they used the number of the continent, as a prefix, and then numbered the features based on their relative size. It was imprecise, of course, but would suffice for now.
“While the pause in our operations has allowed us to build up our strength, it has also allowed the prey to do the same. This river defense line must be breached before it can be made even more formidable. However, before launching the main assault, there are two enemy fortress-cities west of the river which must be eradicated. One, City 3-20, is in the territory of Group 33 to the north, and the other is in our territory.” The display zoomed in on the fortress-city which had so-far resisted all attempts to destroy it. The city was designated 3-118 and it lay along River 3-1.4, being a tributary of the large river.
“At the designated time, we will launch our full strength against 3-118 and destroy all defenders. From there we will move east to prepare for the assault across the river against City 3-37. Once we have a secure hold on the east bank, we can spread out to destroy the enemy’s production facilities.”
“Commander, will we employ the new drones in this attack?” asked Kantangnar, the leader of Battlegroup 32-4. “I had heard… rumors that they would be withheld.”
“It had been proposed to withhold them until the primary attack across the river to achieve maximum surprise, but Group 33 wishes to use them in its attack on City 3-20. Also, Group 31 to our south has already deployed them recently, so the surprise value will soon be lost. Therefore we will use them in the assault on 3-118 to keep our losses to a minimum. Each group will have one of the controller machines and ten of the drones. With this added strength and flexibility, we should be able to overwhelm the defenders very quickly. From there we can move against the main objective along the river.
“Our attack will commence at night to reduce the effectiveness of the prey’s weapons. The creatures have begun to use artificial illumination techniques to reduce their disadvantage, but it still exists and we will make use of that. Our main axis of attack will lie along this line…”
Qetjnegartis reviewed the battle plan and its subordinates asked their questions or made suggestions, and the plan was amended as necessary. Finally, all was arranged and it concluded the briefing:
“This stronghold must be destroyed quickly so that our larger operations can proceed. We will have one hundred spare fighting machines held in reserve. Each of our machines carries an emergency transport pod to rescue those whose machines are disabled. Those who are not injured will return to the battle as quickly as possible. There can be no acceptable outcome but complete success. Is this understood?”
“Yes, Commander!”
* * * * *
March, 1912, Memphis, Tennessee
Spring had finally arrived in Memphis. A warm wind from the southwest had driven away the last of the chill and the locals were certain that it would not return. Some of the trees were already in blossom and flowers were opening up in gardens. Becca Harding breathed in the fragrances as she walked up the drive of the huge Oswald estate.
“Jiminy! Willya lookit the size of this place!” exclaimed the man walking next to her. “The cap’in said it was the house of some rich old lady, but he didn’t say how rich! Hooee!” He whistled.
“Uh, yeah, the Oswalds seem pretty well heeled,” said Becca. She regarded the man. His name was Leonidas Polk Smith, although he went by ‘Leo’. He was wearing a not-quite regulation army uniform with sergeant’s chevrons on the sleeve. Above the chevrons there was a shoulder patch announcing that he was part of the Memphis Volunteer Militia. With the new Conscription Act, most men not doing absolutely vital jobs were being swept up - or in most cases shamed into enlisting—into the army. But there were some men who did have vital jobs who still wanted to serve. Smith, from what Becca was able to decipher through his thick southern drawl, worked at the local electrical generating plant when he wasn’t with his militia company.
“And all the women in this here group of yours, are they rich, too?”
“Most of ‘em seem to be. And it’s not really my
group.”
“Heck! Shame I’m already married!” cackled Smith. “But if you ain’t in charge, how come I was sent to see you about this company of wimmen?”
“Don’t know,” she said shrugging. It had come as a surprise to her when Smith had shown up at the hospital with an order signed by the adjutant of Memphis’ garrison commander. It simply authorized the integration of the Memphis Women’s Volunteer Sharpshooters into the city militia, and named her, Rebecca Harding, as the official liaison! She suspected that Mrs. Oswald, the group’s leader, had somehow used her husband’s political pull to get this to happen, but why had she been made the liaison instead of Oswald? Theories had swirled in her head, but the leading one was that Frank had been involved somehow. He knew she wanted to be more active in the war, but he didn’t want her going out on his scouting missions - he was out there right now, blast him! - so maybe he’d pulled some strings to try and convert the Women Sharpshooters and Quilting Society (as Becca privately referred to it) into something more resembling an actual military unit. Just to please her? Or keep her out of trouble?
Or maybe Frank had nothing to do with it. As he’d warned her, the war seemed to be coming out of its long lull. Rumors were flying through the city and the army camps that a major battle was brewing. Everyone had their own prediction on what would happen: Memphis was the enemy’s main target; no, they were going after St. Louis; no, they would attack Vicksburg just like the Yankees did in the Civil War; no they’d surely want New Orleans to block the whole river. It was the major topic of conversation in the mess tent at the hospital. The only thing that was certain was that the high command was putting everyone on alert and making every effort to bolster the city’s defenses. Something was surely going to happen and maybe they even wanted the Women’s Sharpshooters mobilized.
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