Rolltown bh-3

by Mack Reynolds

  Bat Hardin paused. The other didn’t look up from his work.

  Bat said, “Ferd, there’s a scrambler on us. All electronic communication devices are disrupted.”

  Ferd looked up, his face registering surprise.

  Bat said, before going on, “I doubt if that bug of yours is operative.”

  Jeff Smith and Al Castro came hurrying up. Smith had a white pillowcase tacked onto a broom handle with thumbtacks.

  The Southerner said, “Any special instructions, Lieutenant?”

  Bat shook his head. “Play it by ear. Tell them we’ll go back. Tell them we pledge not to take any action against them, to the extent we can. Obviously, the Mexican authorities are going to get after them, in view of the casualties both sides have already taken. But so far as we can, we’ll avoid prosecuting. Promise anything. Armanruder offered money, but he’s hysterical. Those men out there aren’t bandits.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jeff said. “Come on, Castro.” The two leaned their guns against a mobile home and stepped out into the open, the improvised white flag held high. For a moment they stood there#longdash#obviously awaiting the impact of slugs before those out beyond could distinguish that they were seeking a conference.

  Bat Hardin, his hands cupped to his mouth, was yelling, “Hold fire, hold fire, everybody!”

  The firing of the defenders fell off. So did that of the attacking force. At least the flag of truce was being recognized. Bat hadn’t been sure it would.

  Smith and Castro began to walk forward. Shortly, down from one of the nearer knolls came two others. Even at this distance, the hair of one was obviously gray.

  “Don Caesar,” Bat muttered. He turned and called to Ferd, “Make the rounds. Get Tom Benton and a couple of the other men to go with you. Round up all the ammo we have, not already loaded into the guns. Take it into the enclosure of the auxiliaries and inventory it. Separate it into piles by caliber and gauge. Also inventory every gun we have, rifle, pistol, shotgun, by caliber and gauge. We’ve got to take rigid steps to conserve our munitions. We’ll dole it out slowly.”

  Dean Armanruder came up, still quaking, his eyes glaring. He said shrilly, “What do you mean? What do you mean? We’re surrendering. We’ll do anything they say. I’ve got money. We can buy them off.”

  Bat ran his eyes over him and said finally, slowly, “Mr. Armanruder, those men out there think they’re fighting for their country, their culture, their women and even their religion. It parlays up to quite a motive for fighting. On top of that, it hasn’t been easy for them to organize this and put it over. They’re not going to have a second chance, and they know it. The Mexican authorities are going to land on them like a ton of bricks. They’ll have to or Uncle Sam will take measures. So they’ve got to put this over this time. Their strategy is obvious. They’re going to make an example of us so frightful that no American mobile home would dream of coming to Mexico, and those already here are going to make a beeline for the border and never return.”

  “You’re insane!”

  “I hope so,” Bat growled.

  Several score of the men, guns in hand, had gathered around to watch after Smith and Castro who had by now met the delegation from the other side.

  Bat said to them, “We’ve got one thing in our favor. They’ve got to finish us quickly. Somehow they’ve blocked the road both in front and behind but they can’t keep that up indefinitely. A police patrol or someone else will stumble on what’s happening. If we can stick it out until morning, we’ll have it made.”

  Art Clarke said, “Great, but when night comes they’re going to bring that bazooka into range, and then we’ve had it.”

  Bat said, half angrily, “That’ll be all, Clarke. Don’t put the damper on morale. They probably only have a few rounds for it. The thing’s an antique. It’s unlikely they could have rounded up more than few charges.”

  “We hope,” Luke Robertson muttered.

  Jeff Smith and Al Castro were on their way back. All stood in silence, waiting. More of those who had been in the foxholes came crowding up.

  The two reentered the perimeter of mobile homes. Both of their faces were strained.

  Bat said, “Well?”

  Jeff Smith looked him in the face. He took a deep breath and said, “They’ll grant no terms. They wouldn’t even allow the women and children to come out under a truce flag. The old one said it was less brutal, in the long run, to make this example so crushing a one that it would be done once and for all.” Smith snorted his disgust. “He sent his apologies, but said there was no alternative.”

  XVI

  “So,” Bat said. “A massacre.” He turned to the assembled men. “Return to your positions. So long as they’re still at this distance, restrain your fire. Only veterans and highly experienced marksmen with long-range rifles are to fire at all. Hold your small arms and shotguns until they’re at point-blank range, which possibly won’t come until nightfall.”

  Dean Armanruder shrilled, “No. No, don’t listen to him! Don’t shoot back at them! We’ll all surrender. We’ll go out with our hands up, in a body. They’ll accept our surrender!”

  “Like hell they will,” Bat said in disgust. “Get back to your positions, men.”

  “Shut up, Hardin!” the former magnate yelled at him. “You’re removed from your position as town police officer. I’m in command here!” He began going from group to group, yelling at the men, some of whom looked sheepish now.

  Somebody grumbled, “Maybe he’s right. If we all went out with our hands up…”

  Jeff Smith looked at Bat Hardin.

  Bat said, “Sergeant, put him under arrest and take him into the inner circle. Post a guard over him, one of the older men we can spare from the firing line. If he attempts further to destroy morale, shoot him.”

  Smith said, “Yes, sir.” He turned and grabbed Armanruder by the arm and hustled him away, jerking at the restraint and protesting hysterically.

  The vigilantes were firing again, beginning to edge in again, dashing from one clump of cactus, or other cover, to the next. The circle about the mobile town was slowly narrowing.

  Bat began making the rounds again, encouraging the marksmen, continually urging the conservation of ammunition. “You’ll get your chance soon enough,” he snapped to those with short-range weapons.

  He came to Ferd Zogbaum who was seated nonchalantly in a foxhole, looking out over the field. He held a double-barreled shotgun in his hands but wasn’t firing it.

  Bat said, “See you got yourself a gun.” He began to go on, to resume his constant patrol.

  But Ferd looked at him strangely and said, “Bat, I’ve got a funny feeling.”

  Bat Hardin stopped and squinted at him.

  “How do you mean?”

  Ferd looked out over the field again and said, choosing his words carefully, “I have a premonition that that scrambler, or whatever you called it, is awfully nearby. Well, say within a couple of hundred yards or so.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t. I just have that feeling.”

  Bat went on again, crouching, going from one foxhole to the next.

  He came to Sam Prager who was crouched in a comfortably deep one-man entrenchment. Bat hunkered down on his heels and said, “Sam, tell me something about scramblers.”

  “Not much to tell,” Sam said. “You wouldn’t understand the workings unless you had some background in electronics.”

  “I haven’t. How wide a range does one have?”

  Sam scowled. “According to what kind you have. The military have some real doozies, blanket a wide, wide area.”

  “But would our pals out there be apt to have anything like that?”

  Sam looked up into the sky, scowling still. “Well, no, now that you mention it. And they don’t even have a helicopter.”

  “Why would they need a helicopter?”

  “It’d give them more range. As it is, they’ve probably got it mounted on some high spot out there.”


  Bat took a deep breath. “Aren’t they portable? Can’t they be moving it around?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. They’re pretty delicate mechanisms, Bat. They’d have to get it all set up. If they had to move it, it would be off for the time of moving and until they got it rigged up again.”

  Bat Hardin hissed between his teeth. Then, “Do I understand you that’s it’s got to be within sight of the area that it is blanketing?”

  “Well, more or less. Part of it has to be. The antenna.”

  “So out there, somewhere, within sight, is our scrambler?”

  “It’s got to be.”

  Bat got up. The firing was growing slowly more intense from the other side, falling off on the part of the defenders who were becoming increasingly conscious of their depleted store of ammunition. New Woodstock had not been proceeding with any idea at all of a need for large stocks of cartridges and shells. Some weapons had only a score or so rounds available which was the reason that Bat had pooled their supply. It was now being doled out grudgingly to the best shots.

  Bat Hardin, again bent almost double as he scurried across the open space between the outer ring of vehicles and the inner, sought out Jeff Smith, who was busy supervising the digging of the trench that was to be their last stand, if it came to that.

  Bat said, “Sergeant.”

  The Southerner came over and looked at him questioningly.

  Bat pointed with his finger, swept it around the horizon. He said, “According to Sam Prager, the scrambler is somewhere out there in an elevated position. Probably on one of those knolls. We could make a sortie and destroy it.”

  “Yeah,” the other said disgustedly. “But which knoll?”

  Bat called over to Luke Robertson, “Luke, locate us a couple of pair of the strongest binoculars in town.” Then he turned back to Jeff Smith.

  “It seems that it takes a bit of time to set a scrambler up. Very delicate. And if you want to keep it in action, you can’t move it. It’s got to just sit there. Now our friend, Don Caesar, is no fool. He’s figured out this raid to the last detail. He knows that our only chance is to get that scrambler and wreck it. He also knows that we have some four hundred armed and desperate men on hand for a sortie. So what does he do?”

  Smith’s forehead was wrinkled. “I’m not following you, Lieutenant.”

  “If one of those knolls out there was more strongly defended than any other, what would you suspect?”

  “That’s where the scrambler was.”

  “And if one knoll had no men around it all…”

  Smith got it. “You mean the old bastard is trying to fox us by having that damn thing stuck up somewhere with nobody at all in the vicinity?”

  “It’s worth thinking about.”

  Luke came up with the glasses and handed them to Smith and Bat. They began to scan the vicinity slowly, carefully.

  Bat murmured, “It would probably be one of the higher knolls, and one not too very far away. They planned this down to the last detail. They maneuvered us out into this field, as though we were sheep. They knew exactly where we’d have to go. And that scrambler was all set up and waiting for us when we arrived.”

  Jeff Smith said, “There it is, Lieutenant.” He pointed. “I can just barely make out an antenna, or whatever it is.”

  Bat Hardin directed his glasses. “You’re right. Okay, Sergeant. It’s you and me.”

  Smith looked at him. “Just the two of us? Wouldn’t it make more sense if we took a hundred of the best men and headed for that knoll on the double?”

  Bat shook his head. “My converted police car is the only armored vehicle in town and it’s a two-seater. We have, in short, the equivalent of a tank. Can you operate an Am-8?”

  “The Chinese automatic? Sure, why not?”

  “Get Art Clarke’s from him and both clips of ammo. I’ll meet you at my car.”

  Jeff Smith took off and Bat Hardin called to Al Castro, “Al, let me have your Gyro-jet pistol.”

  Al handed it over. Bat Hardin checked the magazine, jacked a 9mm rocket cartridge into the barrel. He stuck the gun in his belt, then brought forth his own identical weapon and checked and loaded it. Then he went over to his car, located spare 9mm rocket shells and dropped them into his side pocket. He took up his carbine and filled the magazine to capacity.

  “Jesus,” Al said. “You look like Billy the Kid with all that artillery.”

  Bat said, “Al, get together our best half dozen marksmen. That knoll out there looks as though nobody at all is around. There’s nobody firing from the top or anything. However, I’ll bet my left arm that they’ve got a sizable defending force behind it, keeping hidden. Jeff and I are going to need all the covering fire we can get.”

  “Got you,” Al said, moving off.

  A dozen of the men who had been digging now stood around, popeyed at what Bat was planning.

  Manuel Chauvez, shovel in hand, said, “Mr. Hardin, for sure, you are not going out there into all that fire?”

  “Somebody’s got to go, or we’ll unlikely see tomorrow,” Bat growled to the Armanruder’s servant. “Come on, Sergeant. The delta was never like this.”

  “Thank the good Lord,” Jeff Smith muttered. “It was bad enough.” He had Art Clarke’s automatic rifle under his arm and was stuffing the spare magazine into a side pocket. He climbed into the seat next to Bat’s driver position.

  Smith looked out over the terrain unhappily and said, “You think you can make it over that? You’d need at least a four-wheel drive.”

  Bat grinned. “I’ve got secrets in this buggy.” He dropped the conversion lever, activated the air cushion and the vehicle rose a foot off the ground. He recessed the wheels and yelled out the window, “Luke, get that crate of yours out of the way.”

  “I’ll be damned; a little old hover-car,” Smith said.

  Bat nodded while Luke hurried to get his electro-steamer and mobile home out of the way so that the two volunteers could leave the perimeter.

  Bat was saying, “They’ve got a lot of shortcomings but for certain specialized uses you can’t beat the air cushion. Ordinarily they aren’t practical for a vehicle of this size. Too small. Consume power like crazy. Can’t propel them very fast, either, or your vehicle will over-run your air cushion. It’s got to have time to get out in front of the skirt, or the whole shebang starts nosing in.”

  Luke yelled, “Okay, Bat!”

  The police car, now air-cushion borne, flowed ahead. Immediately, slugs began to bounce off in screaming ricochet.

  “Holy smokes,” Bat bit out. “You’d think they were waiting for us. Keep your window up until we get on the scene. Bulletproof glass. They’d have to have anti-tank shells to knock us off.”

  Smith said, “They don’t need anti-tank shells, they’ve got that goddamned bazooka.”

  “Ummm,” Bat said distastefully, beginning to zig and zag in evasive action. “But I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that the boys operating it aren’t exactly crackshots. Who in the hell knows how to fire a bazooka in this day and age? It’s one thing sitting pat and directing it at something as big as New Woodstock. But a target this small and on the move?”

  “I hope you’re right, Lieutenant,” the other said dryly.

  The knoll was perhaps three hundred meters away. Al’s marksmen were going to have to be on their merit to do much in the way of covering. However, any fire at all was better than none, just so it didn’t hit Bat or Jeff Smith.

  Bat kept the car at as high a speed as was consistent with the terrain and their air cushions, but they were doing fifty kilometers an hour at best. Occasional bullets continued to rain off their armor but thus far there had been no stirring of opponents on the knoll which was their destination. Bat began to wonder if they had guessed wrong. But no, it was more than a guess, the closer they got the more obvious was the antenna, stretching its evil feelers up into the sky, robbing them of contact with the outside world.

  As they got nearer it became obv
ious that the car would never make it up to the summit.

  Bat groaned, “These things are impossible on non-horizontal surfaces. They slip off in every direction except the one you want to go.”

  Jeff Smith bit out, “Get as far up as you can and then cover me. I’ll make a run for it.”

  “Why not me?”

  Smith said, “Because you know how to drive this contraption and I don’t.”

  “All right.”

  Just as they hit the bottom of the slope, a half dozen Mexicans materialized at the summit and began firing down at them in great excitement.

  Smith muttered, “Amateurs!” and activated the window. He steadied the Chinese automatic rifle on the sill and let loose a sweeping burst. Several went down, screaming pain, the others ducked for cover.

  Jeff Smith was out of the car, gun in hand and. zigzagging up to the crest.

  “Go it!” Bat yelled. He popped from the side of the car, both Gyro-jet pistols in his hands.

  Jeff Smith scrambled, slid, fell, was on his feet again. Up he went.

  At the top, one of the Mexicans who had fallen got to his knees. He was holding some sort of automatic weapon with which Bat Hardin was unfamiliar. It stuttered and Jeff Smith fell off to the side and to the ground.

  Bat fired twice and brought the gunner down. He started up the hill after his companion. From the perimeter of the mobile homes came a hail of supporting fire, sweeping the top of the small mesa.

  Bat Hardin went to the smaller man. He jammed his pistols into his belt, swearing uncontrollably. “Bad?” he snapped, reaching down.

  Jeff Smith groaned, “Yeah. Nailed me at least twice. Belly.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Bat groaned. He hiked the other up over his shoulder, reached down and swept up the automatic and started staggering and stumbling down the hill.

  A blow struck him in the right hip and he all but fell.

  “Hit?” Jeff Smith groaned.

  “Yeah.”

  He continued on, stumbling. He could feel the blood running down his leg.

  They got to the car, on Smith’s side. Bat dumped him in, tossed the Chinese weapon in after him, then hurried around the car, limping, dragging his leg, to his own side. He lifted his right leg by grabbing hold of the cloth of his pants and swung it into the cab. He wedged himself in, pulled Smith to a position so that he could close the door on that side. He swerved the car and headed back. He would have liked to make his own try for the crest but he doubted that his leg would allow him and, besides, Jeff Smith had to be gotten back to Doc Smith soonest. The Southerner was bleeding like a stuck pig.