Smith's Monthly #6

by Smith, Dean Wesley

  “Santa Anna, in our timeline, had thousands of troops,” Holcomb asked. “How many is the Aztec going to bring against the Alamo?”

  “The War Chief will lead four to five thousand warriors,” Kontar said with a straight face.

  DeWitt just snorted.

  Holcomb laughed. “You expect less than two hundred men to stop five thousand Aztec warriors?”

  “No, I don’t, actually. But with a few modern weapons to help out, you can slow them down and do some real damage, enough so that Houston and his men, with a little help as well, can stop them.”

  DeWitt shrugged and glanced at Holcomb. “We’re both dead anyway in a few months, better to go out fighting for our country, even though this isn’t really our country.”

  Holcomb nodded. DeWitt was right. It was much better than sitting in a hospice drooling on a bib waiting to die, or standing in a bathtub with a gun in his mouth.

  Besides, he had always wanted to see the Alamo, ever since he was a kid. Looked like he was going to get a real close look at it.

  FIVE

  February 28, 1836

  Alamo Compound, Bexar, Republic of Texas

  THE COLD NIGHT had broken into a warm day, letting the dust and the dry wind swirl through the large compound. In the distance, the sounds of thousands of Aztec warriors chanting and moving equipment echoed over the rolling hills. Travis reported to everyone that the Aztec numbers were still under two thousand, but growing by the day.

  And the great Aztec War Chief was still a few days from the Rio Grande. He would have thousands of warriors with him.

  Kontar had told him and DeWitt the Aztec War Chief’s name, but Holcomb had forgotten it at once, since it was long and had more consonants in it than vowels by a margin of five to one. He’d never been that good in school with the English language, so learning Aztec names in a few days time just didn’t seem to be worth the effort in his final weeks alive.

  He was just glad that the Spanish had gone into Florida and across into Texas and Southern California when defeated by the Aztec and Inca nations. Otherwise, the Alamo would have had some other strange name as well.

  Holcomb was now very sure, after five days in the Alamo, that there were numbers of other teams from the future inside the Alamo. He and DeWitt had been given permission by Travis to fire when a target was clear, since more than enough ammunition and food had somehow managed to be brought to the fort, both from outside supplies coming in from Sam Houston and the Texas government, and also from missions outside the walls searching surrounding buildings now abandoned by the settlers of the area.

  So all night and all day, the sporadic sounds of gunfire cut through the air.

  The number of men inside the walls still numbered less than one hundred and sixty, but with enough food and firepower, spirits were high at the moment.

  Holcomb and DeWitt had both kept any Aztec warrior from poking his head up within hundreds of yards of the Alamo west wall. The two Aztec cannon placements on the mounds in the town were nothing more than a killing field for the two men. Aztec warriors would rush up onto the platforms to try to load the cannons, or even move the cannons off the platforms, and DeWitt or Holcomb or both of them would make the warriors pay with their lives.

  Other teams down the wall and on both end walls had been doing the same to the other Aztec cannon emplacements, so unlike the history that Holcomb had studied of the Alamo in his timeline, this time around the constant cannon bombardment of the walls of the Alamo wasn’t happening. That allowed the men inside to be more rested and since they had better food and lots of water, they were going to put up one very nasty fight when the time came.

  Also, the fort walls were not beaten down by the week of bombardment, meaning that it would be a lot harder for the Aztec warriors to get inside.

  One day, while walking the west wall, Travis had noticed their accuracy and asked them about it. Holcomb had simply said, “Kentucky practice. I can knock the left eye out of a squirrel at two hundred paces.”

  DeWitt laughed. “And I can knock the right one out at the same time from three hundred.”

  Travis had just laughed and moved on. The kid was smart enough to not question his luck. Holcomb wished a few lieutenants back in Nam had been that smart. They and a lot of their men would still be alive.

  Well, actually, they hadn’t been born yet, since this was 1836, and in a different world where Aztecs were a powerful nation. Holcomb just shook his head at the thought. All of this was just confusing.

  Twenty paces to their right, three men laughed and Holcomb watched as they worked to raise a cannon a precise amount, using some sort of measuring device that didn’t look like it belonged to this period of time.

  After a moment, they looked pleased and called Travis to watch, having him focus on one of the cannon placements in Bexar that Holcomb and DeWitt had been guarding.

  As one man signaled to fire, Holcomb covered his ears. The old cannons were amazingly loud. The explosion still rocked him and sent dust swirling in all directions.

  DeWitt coughed a few times, hard, but then recovered. That cough wasn’t sounding good.

  Travis didn’t seem to mind the sound of the explosion, and neither did Crockett on the other side of the cannon. Both just stood their ground and stared at the intended target.

  Holcomb followed their gaze and a moment later one of the Aztec cannons just exploded, flipping over backwards and flying into a hundred pieces.

  The three men manning the cannon cheered, as did all the men up and down the wall who had been watching.

  “I didn’t know those old things could be that accurate,” DeWitt said, shaking his head in amazement.

  “They can’t,” Holcomb said, laughing.

  DeWitt stared at him for a moment, then laughed as well. “Nice to know old Kontar and his people are covering all the bases. Maybe we’re going to have a fighting chance here.”

  “Well, we’ll be fighting, that’s for sure,” Holcomb said. He had no illusion that they had any chance of surviving.

  SIX

  Unknown Date, 2300

  Cuzco, Inca Nation

  HOLCOMB STOOD AT A TABLE in an indoor firing range and studied the fake antique gun in his hands. It looked old, right out of the eighteen hundreds, modeled after the type of long rifle you saw Davy Crockett carrying.

  It was a Kentucky rifle with brass inlays on the long butt and along the wood under the barrel. It even had marks and wear, making it seem like it had been used a great deal and carried in a saddle holster.

  But this rifle, under the disguise was far, far more.

  Even though it looked like it fired the old style ammunition, it didn’t. Hidden in the long stock was a clip that held fifty high-powered rounds. The used shells were stored in the long wood area under the barrel until removed. The rounds looked no bigger than a 22 caliber, but Kontar assured him that the small shells and tips had more length and velocity than a sniper rifle of Holcomb’s time.

  And even more amazing, when fired, the gun spit out the same smoke and smell that a Kentucky rifle did when fired.

  The only problem would be carrying the amount of ammunition they would need, reloading the clips into the butts of the rifle, and hiding the spent shells. That would be hard, at times, but workable, Holcomb was sure.

  In the service, both Holcomb and DeWitt had been top marksmen, but Holcomb just couldn’t believe he would be able to hit the side of a large building from a hundred yards with the fake old gun, even though it felt a lot lighter than it looked and balanced perfectly in his hands.

  “Try it,” was all Kontar said, smiling at both DeWitt and Holcomb.

  “Too stupid for words,” DeWitt said. “We’re all going to die, why worry about pretending to be from the time period.”

  “Because the Aztecs of this world have time travel as well,” Kontar said.

  That fact stunned Holcomb right to his core and made his stomach twist. It hadn’t occurred to him that the two sides
would be evenly matched.

  “So we’re not so worried about hiding your presence from the locals inside the fort,” Kontar said, “but from the Aztecs outside the fort who are from our time period. If they can’t tell who our plants are, if any in the timeline you are going to, and who are just locals, you’ll live longer.”

  “Super,” DeWitt said, shaking his head. “We’re not only fighting five thousand Aztec warriors in 1836, but Aztec agents from the future? What’s the point? Just shoot us now.”

  “The point is,” Kontar said, looking first at DeWitt, then focusing on Holcomb as if he was going to understand more than DeWitt, “that we don’t know which way this timeline will fall. We do know that much of the outcome will come down to this one battle, and we’re hoping the Aztec do not know that as firmly as we do, and once they discover that fact, we will already have won the day.”

  “So this is the first timeline your two people have fought over?”

  “No,” Kontar said, shaking his head. “We are fighting across many, many timelines at once, actually. We have turned the tide in other timelines by helping Sam Houston, by winning at the battle of New Orleans against the Aztec, by driving them back with surprise attacks out of Georgia, but never once have we tried to stop them at the Alamo before.”

  “How do you keep all this straight?” DeWitt asked a moment before Holcomb could ask the same question.

  “It isn’t easy,” Kontar said. “But this timeline is the one I focus on, that I am in charge of.”

  Holcomb was shocked. “You’re telling me that the fate of millions of people and your very culture’s existence rests on your shoulders alone?”

  “No, my culture is right here,” Kontar said, indicating the building and the firing range around them. “I’m just trying to help other timelines follow this culture, to get the chance to develop to this point.”

  Holcomb could feel his head wanting to explode again. “So tell me, how many timelines that you know about developed to this point without outside help?”

  “None,” Holcomb said. “We had help in our past as well in the form of a very special gift from someone far, far into our future. But we’re not allowed to talk about that.”

  Holcomb just shook his head and tried to focus again on the fake antique rifle in his hands. He knew guns. Guns he understood. Time travel just gave him a headache.

  “Ahh, well,” DeWitt said, picking up the rifle and taking a stance aiming down the range at a human-shaped target one hundred yards away. “I’m going to die soon anyway. This way might just be fun.”

  He pulled the trigger and the loud sound filled the range at the same moment as a perfectly shaped hole appeared where the middle of the nose of the target figure would be.

  DeWitt turned and smiled. “I’ll be go to hell, this thing actually works.”

  Kontar nodded. “Wait until you see what the pistols and the grenades shaped as rifle rounds will do.”

  Holcomb held the perfectly balanced gun in his hands. At least in this war, he was going in well armed. Outmanned, but with real fire power.

  SEVEN

  March 1, 1836

  Alamo Compound, Bexar, Republic of Texas

  HOLCOMB WATCHED from his normal spot on the west wall as over thirty troops arrived, riding through the covering fire and into the compound.

  “Part of Gonzales’ ranging company,” DeWitt said. “If I remember my history correctly, those are the last reinforcements we’re going to get.”

  “Unless Kontar changes the history,” Holcomb said.

  “Oh, yeah, forgot about that part. We can only hope.”

  At that moment the boom of an Aztec cannon filled the air.

  Holcomb glanced up, waiting and watching for the flaming fireball coming at them. The Aztec had brought in more cannons and were now firing what Kontar, in a briefing, called “Flaming Arrows” from a greater distance and hidden from direct line of sight behind buildings.

  It took exactly three shots for the cannon crew down the wall to narrow in on an exact location and destroy the cannon every time an Aztec cannon started firing, but in the meantime, when the Flaming Arrows landed, they seemed to catch anything near them on fire. Holcomb figured they were more annoying then damaging, since there wasn’t that much besides staircases and window frames made of wood inside the big compound. All the rest was thick rock and mud walls.

  This shot landed short of the wall and caused no damage at all in the hard surface.

  Very few Aztec cannon shots had hit the thick walls, so the fort didn’t look much worse for wear than when Holcomb had arrived.

  He and DeWitt had just kept knocking down any warrior out there that moved within range. And the accurate range of the fake rifles they had in their hands was almost frightening. They seldom missed, and it seemed neither did the other few sharp-shooting crews from the future placed along the walls. That kept the Aztec warriors a great distance away.

  The great War Chief couldn’t be very happy about his troops not getting close to the fort. He and the main band of warriors still hadn’t arrived yet, even though they had crossed the Rio Grande three days before. Holcomb and DeWitt had talked a lot about what they thought the War Chief would do when he arrived. The only conclusion they had was that he would send his men in a full assault against the walls, just as Santa Anna had done.

  It would cost him hundreds and hundreds of lives, but it would get the job done fairly quickly, even against weapons from the future.

  DeWitt nudged Holcomb and got him to turn away from staring out over the empty and silent town of Bexar that would be San Antonio in his timeline. “We got company.”

  A man with a long moustache and carrying a rifle and a large knapsack was coming up the wooden stairs toward them. He looked to be tall, maybe six foot and then some, with large arms and a slight limp on his right side. He had a cowboy hat pulled down low over his eyes to shade from the bright sun.

  Both Holcomb and DeWitt started to stand, but the man signaled they stay in position behind the wall and then knelt in front of them, pushing his hat back.

  “Stacy,” the guy said, sticking out his hand.

  “Sergeant Ben Stacy, from California?” DeWitt asked, taking the guy’s hand and pumping it like it was old home week. “I’ll be go-to-hell. What are you doing here?”

  “Same damn thing you are, it seems,” Stacy said, smiling. “Committing suicide by Aztec. I was hoping you were still alive when I got here. Kontar said you most likely would be.

  “Fit as a fiddle,” DeWitt said, lying.

  Stacy laughed. “Yeah, me too.” He glanced around. “So this is what the Alamo looks like. Bigger than I expected.”

  “Me too,” DeWitt said, then broke into a coughing fit before he could say another word.

  “He gets all choked up seeing old friends,” Holcomb said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Holcomb. Snatched right out of 1981. Lung cancer, about a month left if I survive this.”

  Stacy smiled and took his hand. “1986. Prostate cancer, don’t want to think about spending that much time left. Riding a damn horse was painful enough.”

  “Yeah, understand that,” Holcomb said, trying not to laugh. “Welcome to the fight.”

  Stacy dropped the leather satchel and waited until DeWitt’s coughing fit passed with a little help from an inhaler he kept hidden in his shirt pocket.

  “This is from Kontar,” Stacy said, indicating the leather pouch. “I told Travis down there it was personal stuff from your family. It’s actually more clips, hidden in the shirts, and about fifty small grenades with six-second delays once you twist the caps.”

  “How is our old friend Kontar?” Holcomb asked. “He have any idea how things are shifting in the fight?”

  “Haven’t seen him since you have,” Stacy said. “I was put in with those men down there three weeks ago so I could get in here and deliver this and help you two in the fight.

  “Before he recruited me?” DeWitt asked, looking puzzled.
<
br />   Holcomb just patted DeWitt’s arm. “Time travel, remember? Don’t worry about it.”

  “Gives me a headache just thinking about it,” Stacy said.

  “Me too,” both Holcomb and DeWitt said at the same time.

  All three men laughed and then Stacy took up a position on the wall beside them.

  It felt good to have another fighter with them, another Nam vet. Holcomb had no doubt he was going to die in the coming fight. But he didn’t mind so much and wasn’t afraid of it at all. There were a lot worse ways to go.

  EIGHT

  May 20, 1981

  Portland, Oregon, USA

  KONTAR HAD SPENT THE AFTERNOON trying to explain everything, then left, giving Holcomb two days to decide and get his affairs in order if he decided to go.

  After the strange man with the white teeth left, Holcomb had gone back to the park, sitting and thinking about how crazy it all seemed, yet how right it was as well. He had watched kids playing in the grass, a couple kissing on another bench, a boat going past with a woman sunning herself in a bikini on the bow.

  In other words, a normal spring day in the park.

  He had figured, just as his father had said, that this world was worth fighting for. That’s why he signed up for Vietnam. But coming back, it had gotten so confusing. Nothing was as black and white as his father had explained it to be.

  But now Kontar had given him straight black and white talk. He needed Holcomb’s help in a fight to help the United States to even exist in a different timeline. Aztecs were a warrior race that still believed in human sacrifice, even into the 23rd century when Kontar was from. The United States and the Inca Nation were the beacons of freedom of human rights and freedoms in Kontar’s time. And the survival of one depended on the survival of the other, it seemed.

  Holcomb didn’t pretend to understand, and Kontar promised to explain even more before the mission started.