The Victorious Opposition

by Harry Turtledove

  “I don’t know,” Morrell answered. “They’ve just sent out an auto to stop the maneuvers.”

  Sergeant Pound’s wide shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. “Maybe the powers that be have gone off the deep end. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit.” Spending his whole adult life in the Army had left him endlessly cynical—not that he didn’t seem to have had a good running start beforehand. But then his green-blue eyes widened. “Or do you suppose—?”

  That same thought had been in Morrell’s mind, too. “It would be sooner than I expected if it is, Sergeant. When was the last time those people up in Pontiac ever turned something out sooner than anyone expected?”

  “I’m afraid that’s much too good a question, sir.” Pound pointed to the hatchway in the top of the commander’s cupola. “Pop your head out and see, though, why don’t you?” He made out sound almost like oat, as a Canadian would have; he came from somewhere up near the border. What used to be the border, Morrell reminded himself.

  No matter what he sounded like, he’d given good advice. Morrell did stand up again in the turret. Any barrel commander worth his salt liked to stick his head out of the machine whenever he could. You could see so much more of the field that way. Of course, everybody on the field could also see you—and shoot at you. During the Great War, Morrell had often been forced back into the hell that was the interior of an old-style barrel by machine-gun fire that would have killed him in moments if he’d kept on looking around.

  By the time he did emerge from the experimental model, the old Ford had come up alongside his barrel. The soldier who’d waved to him—a young lieutenant named Walt Cressy—called, “Sir, you might want to take your machine back to the farm.”

  “Oh? How come?” Morrell asked.

  Lieutenant Cressy grinned. “Just because, sir.”

  That made Morrell grin, too. Maybe they really had been working overtime up in Pontiac. Maybe the combination of war with Japan—not that it was an all-out, no-holds-barred war on either side—and a Democratic administration had got engineers and workers to go at it harder than they were used to doing. “All right, Lieutenant,” Morrell said. “I’ll do that.”

  Sergeant Pound whooped with glee when Morrell gave the order to break off from maneuvers and go back to the farm. “It has to be!” he said. “By God, it has to be.”

  “Nothing has to be anything, Sergeant,” Morrell said. “If we haven’t seen that over the past ten years and more of this business . . .”

  That made even Pound nod thoughtfully. Barrels had probably been the war-winning weapon during the Great War. After the war, they’d been the weapon most cut by budget trimmers in two successive Socialist administrations. No one had wanted to spend the money to improve them, to give them a chance to be the war-winning weapon of the next war. No one wanted to think there might be another big war. Morrell didn’t like contemplating that possibility, either, but not thinking about it wouldn’t make it go away.

  The experimental model easily outdistanced the leftovers from the Great War, though they carried two truck engines apiece and it had only one. It was made from thin, mild steel, enough to give an idea of how it performed but not enough to stand up to bullets. It had plainly outdone everything else in the arsenal, and by a wide margin, too. For more than ten years, nobody’d given a damn. Now . . .

  Now Morrell’s heart beat faster. If he was right, if the powers that be were waking up at last . . . Sergeant Michael Pound said, “Maybe seeing Jake Featherston snorting and stomping the ground down in Richmond put the fear of God into some people, too.”

  “It could be,” Morrell said. “I’ll tell you something, Sergeant: he sure as hell puts the fear of God into me.”

  “He’s a madman.” As usual, everything looked simple to Pound.

  “Maybe. If he is, he’s a clever one,” Morrell said. “And if you put a clever madman in charge of a country that has good reason to hate the United States . . . Well, I don’t like the combination.”

  “If we have to, we’ll squash him.” Pound was confident, too. Morrell wished he shared that confidence.

  Then the experimental model got to the field where the barrels stayed now that they were back in service. Sure enough, a new machine squatted on the track-torn turf. The closer Morrell got, the better it looked. If he’d admired a woman as openly as he ogled that barrel, his wife, Agnes, would have had something sharp to say to him.

  He climbed out through the hatch in the cupola and descended from the experimental model before it stopped moving. Sergeant Pound let out a piteous howl from inside the barrel. “Don’t eat your heart out, Sergeant,” Morrell said. “You can come have a look, too.”

  He didn’t wait for Pound to emerge, though. He hurried over to the new barrel. His leg twinged under him. He’d been shot in the early days of the Great War. He still had a slight limp almost twenty years later. The leg did what he needed, though. If it pained him now and again . . . then it did, that was all.

  “Bully,” he said softly as he came up to the new barrel. That marked him as an old-fashioned man; people who’d grown up after the Great War commonly said swell at such times. He knew exactly what he meant, though. He looked from the new machine to the experimental model and back again. A broad grin found room on his narrow face. It was like seeing a child and the man he had become there side by side.

  The experimental model was soft-skinned, thin-skinned. One truck engine powered it, because it wasn’t very heavy. The cannon in its turret was a one-pounder, a popgun that couldn’t damage anything tougher than a truck.

  Here, though, here was the machine of which its predecessor had been the model. Morrell set a hand on its green-gray flank. Armor plate felt no different from mild steel under his palm. He knew the difference was there, though. Up at the bow and on the front of the turret, two inches of hardened steel warded the barrel’s vitals. The armor on the sides and back was thinner, but it was there.

  A long-barreled two-inch gun jutted from the turret, a machine gun beside it. He knew of no barrel anywhere in the world with a better main armament. The suspension was beefed up. So was the engine at the rear. It was supposed to push this barrel along even faster than the experimental model could do.

  Sergeant Pound came up behind him. So did the other crewmen from the experimental model: the loader, the bow machine-gunner, the wireless operator, and the driver. Pound said, “It’s quite something, sir. It’s a good thing we’ve got it. It would have been even better if we’d had it ten years ago.”

  “Yes.” Morrell wished the sergeant hadn’t pointed that out, no matter how obvious a truth it was. “If we’d built this ten years ago, what would we have now? That’s what eats at me.”

  “I don’t blame you a bit, sir,” Pound said. “What happened to the barrel program was a shame, a disgrace, and an embarrassment. And if the Japs hadn’t gone and embarrassed us, too, it never would have started up again.”

  “I know.” Morrell couldn’t wait any more. He climbed up onto the new barrel, opened the hatch at the top of the commander’s cupola, and slid down into the turret.

  It didn’t smell right. He noticed that first. All it smelled of was paint and leather and gasoline: fresh smells, new smells. It might have been a Chevrolet in a showroom. The old machines and the experimental model stank of cordite fumes and sweat, odors Morrell had taken for granted till he found himself in a barrel without them. He sat down in the commander’s seat. Before long, this beast would smell the way it was supposed to.

  Clankings from up above said somebody else wanted to investigate the new barrel, too. Michael Pound’s voice came in through the open hatch: “If you don’t get out of the way, I’m going to squash you . . . sir.” Morrell moved. Pound slithered down—his stocky frame barely fit through the opening—and settled himself behind the gun. He peered through the sights, then nodded. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  “No, not bad at all,” Morrell agreed. “They’re going to name the production model after Gene
ral Custer.”

  “That’s fitting. It’s a pity they fiddled around too long to let him see them,” Pound said, and Morrell nodded. The gunner asked, “How many are they going to make?”

  “I don’t know that yet,” Morrell answered. “What they think they can afford, I suppose. That’s how it usually works.” He scowled.

  So did Sergeant Pound. “They’d better make lots if they name them after Custer. He believed in great swarms of barrels. Anyone with sense does, of course.” Having served with Custer, Morrell knew he’d often been anything but sensible. He also knew Pound meant anyone who agrees with me by anyone with sense. Even so, he nodded again.

  Colonel Abner Dowling opened the Salt Lake City Bee. The Army published the paper. It put out what the U.S. authorities occupying Utah wanted the people there to see. As commander of the occupying authorities in Salt Lake City, Dowling knew that did only so much good. The locals got plenty of news the paper didn’t print and the town wireless outlets didn’t broadcast. Still, if you didn’t try to keep a lid on things, what was the point of occupying at all?

  On page three was a picture of a very modern-looking barrel—certainly one that seemed ready to blow any number of hulking Great War machines to hell and gone. NEW CUSTER BARREL PUT THROUGH PACES IN KANSAS, the headline read. The story below praised the new model to the skies.

  “Custer,” Dowling muttered—half prayer, half curse. He’d been Custer’s adjutant for a long time—and it had often seemed much longer. Naming a machine intended to smash straight through everything in its path after George Armstrong Custer did seem to fit. Dowling couldn’t deny that.

  He went through the rest of the paper in a hurry—there wasn’t much real news in it, as he had reason to know. Then he pushed his swivel chair back from his desk and strode out of the office. He was a hulking machine himself, and built rather like the desk. Custer had been in the habit of twitting him about his heft. Custer hadn’t been skinny himself, but Dowling hadn’t lost any weight since they finally forced the old boy into retirement. On the contrary.

  It’s good, healthy flesh, he told himself. Plenty of people had worse vices than getting up from the supper table a little later than they might have. Take Custer, for instance. Dowling’s jowls wobbled as he shook his head. He’d escaped Custer more than ten years before, but couldn’t get him out of his mind.

  That’s how people will remember me a hundred years from now, he thought, not for the first time. In biographies of Custer, I’ll have half a dozen index entries as his adjutant. Immortality—the tradesman’s entrance.

  But that wasn’t necessarily so, as he knew too well. People might remember him forever—if Utah blew up in his face. Even back as far as the trouble it caused in the Second Mexican War in the early 1880s, Custer had wanted to lay it waste. Abner Dowling shook his head. Enough of Custer.

  These days, Dowling had an adjutant of his own, a bright young captain called Isidore Lefkowitz. He looked up from his desk in the outer office as Dowling emerged from his sanctum. “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked, his accent purest New York.

  “Mr. Young is due here in ten minutes, isn’t that right?” Dowling said.

  “Yes, sir, at three o’clock sharp,” Lefkowitz replied. “I expect him to be right on time, too. You could set your watch by him.”

  Dowling’s nod also made his chins dance. “Oh, yes.” Heber Young was a man of thoroughgoing rectitude. Mischief in his eye, he asked, “How does it feel, Captain, to be a gentile in Utah?”

  Captain Lefkowitz rolled his eyes. “I should care what these Mormon mamzrim think.” He didn’t translate the word. Even so, Dowling had no trouble figuring out it was less than complimentary.

  He said, “The Mormons are convinced they’re persecuted the way Jews used to be in the old days.”

  “What do you mean, used to be?” Lefkowitz said. “Tsar Michael turned the Black Hundreds loose on us just a couple of years ago. If the peasants and workers go after Jews, they don’t have to worry about whether they might have done better throwing out Michael’s brother Nicholas and going Red. There are pogroms in the Kingdom of Poland, too.”

  “People over there use Jews for whipping boys, the same way the Confederates use their Negroes,” Dowling said.

  Lefkowitz started to answer, stopped, and gave Dowling an odd look. “That’s . . . very perceptive, sir,” he said, as if Dowling had no business being any such thing. “I never thought I had much in common with a shvartzer”—another untranslated word Dowling had little trouble figuring out—“but maybe I was wrong.”

  Before Dowling could answer, he heard footsteps coming down the hall. A soldier led a tall, handsome man in somber civilian clothes into the outer office. “Here’s Heber Young, sir,” the man in green-gray said. “He’s been searched.”

  Dowling didn’t think Brigham Young’s grandson was personally dangerous to him. He didn’t think so, but he hadn’t rescinded the order that all Mormons be searched before entering U.S. military headquarters. He’d been in the office with General Pershing when the then-commander of occupation forces was assassinated. The sniper had never been caught, either.

  Officially, of course, the church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints remained forbidden in Utah. Officially, Heber Young had no special status whatever. But, as often happened, the official and the real had only a nodding acquaintance with each other. “Come in, Mr. Young,” Dowling said, gesturing toward his own office. “Can we get you some lemonade?” He couldn’t very well ask a pious (if unofficial) Mormon if he wanted a drink, or even a cup of coffee.

  “No, thank you,” Young said, accompanying him into the private office. Dowling closed the door behind them. He waved Young to a seat. With a murmured, “Thank you, Colonel,” the local sat down.

  So did Abner Dowling. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Young?” he inquired. He was always scrupulously polite to the man who headed a church that did not officially exist. Despite half a century of government persecution and almost twenty years of outright suppression, that church still counted for more than anything else in Utah.

  “You will remember, Colonel, that I spoke to you this past fall about the possibility of programs that would give work to some of the men here who need it so badly.” Young was painfully polite to him, too. The diplomats called this sort of atmosphere “correct,” which meant two sides hated each other but neither showed what it was feeling.

  “Yes, sir, I do remember,” Dowling replied. “And, I trust, you will recall I told you President Hoover disapproved of such programs. The president’s views have not changed. That means my hands are tied.”

  “The problem is worse here than it was last fall,” Heber Young said. “Some people grow impatient. Their impatience could prove a problem.”

  “Are you threatening me with an uprising, Mr. Young?” Dowling didn’t shout it. He didn’t bluster. He simply asked, as he had asked if Young wanted lemonade.

  And the Mormons’ unofficial leader shook his head. “Of course not, Colonel. That would be seditious, and I am loyal to the government of the United States.”

  Dowling didn’t laugh in his face, a measure of the respect he had for him. But he didn’t believe that bold assertion, either. “Are you also loyal to the state of Deseret?” he asked.

  “How can I be, when there is no state of Deseret?” Young asked calmly. “What happened here during the Great War made that plain.”

  “A thing may be very plain, and yet people will not want to believe it,” Dowling said.

  “True,” Heber Young agreed. “May I give you an example?”

  “Please do,” Dowling said, as he was no doubt supposed to.

  “Thank you.” Yes, Young was nothing if not courteous. “That many people in Utah were not happy with the repression and persecution they received at the hands of the government of the United States must have been obvious to anyone who looked at the matter, and yet the rebellion that broke out here in 1915 seems to have come as a complete
and utter shock to that government. If you despise people on account of what they are, can you be surprised when they in turn fail to love you?”

  “I was in Kentucky at the time. I was certainly surprised, Mr. Young,” Dowling answered. Custer had been more than surprised. He’d been furious. A couple of divisions had been detached from First Army and sent west to deal with the Mormon revolt. That had scotched an offensive he’d planned. The offensive probably would have failed, and certainly would have caused a gruesome casualty list. Of course, fighting the Mormons had caused a gruesome casualty list, too.

  Young said, “My grandfather came to Utah to go beyond the reach of the United States. All we ever asked was to be left alone.”

  “That was Jefferson Davis’ war cry, too,” Dowling said. “Things are never so simple as slogans make them sound. If you live at the heart of the continent, you cannot pretend that no one will notice you are here. For better or worse, Utah is part of the United States. It will go on being part of the United States. People who live here had better get used to it.”

  “Then treat us like any other part of the United States,” Young said. “Send your soldiers home. Open the borders. Let us practice our religion.”

  How many wives did Brigham Young have? Which one of them was your grandmother? Dowling wondered. Aloud, he said, “Mr. Young, I am a soldier. I do not make policy. I only carry it out. In my opinion, though, your people were well on the way to getting what you ask for . . . until that assassin murdered General Pershing. After your revolt in 1881, after the uprising in 1915, that set back your cause more than I can say.”

  “I understand as much,” Young said. “Do you understand the desperation that made that assassin pick up a rifle?”

  “I don’t know.” Dowling had no interest in understanding the assassin. He suddenly shook his head. That wasn’t quite true. Understanding the Mormon might make him easier to catch, and might make other murderers easier to thwart. Dowling doubted that was what Heber Young had in mind.