Conquistadors!, page 12
“You’d think they’d attack us,” Joyce said, as they neared the edge of town. The tanks and defence platforms had been carefully positioned to meet any attackers, backed up by armoured infantry and flyers. “Don’t they know we’re here?”
Martín shrugged. In truth, he’d expected to be attacked too. The locals weren’t dependent on horsemen to carry messages from one part of the kingdom to another, unlike Timelines C and D. Their arrival would have set off alarm bells right around the world ... it had, if the latest briefing was accurate. And yet, no attack had materialised. Timeline D, at least, had tried to put up a fight, even though it had devolved into one-sided slaughter. This timeline had done nothing.
They seem to be keeping their distance, he thought, as he peered north. The enemy troops were massing, preparing themselves for ... what? The Protectorate would have plenty of warning, if the enemy came out of their trenches and advanced towards the occupied town. If Martín had been in charge, he would have massed his troops much closer to Flint and harassed the occupiers until he was ready to launch a major offensive. Don’t they realise their best chance of victory is slipping away?
“I guess they’re afraid to confront us,” Footman Pringle, the third member of their squad, said. “We’re the PEF, not some bunch of morons who don’t know which end of the rifle to point at the enemy.”
Martín sighed inwardly. The Protectorate had always told itself that its enemies were idiots who couldn’t count past ten without taking off their socks, but he knew better. Pringle should have known better too. Primals might be primitive, yet that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. These people might be far more dangerous, based on what he’d seen in the streets. If Flint – a strange mixture of astonishing wealth and shocking poverty – was one of their poorer towns ... who knew what they could do?
“Or they’re assembling their hammer, before they drop it on us,” he said. It wasn’t that easy to move heavy troops from their base to the front lines, particularly without warning. “We’re not that far from their border.”
“From degenerates,” Joyce said. “It seems nothing ever changes, does it? Central America is full of degenerates.”
Martín bit his lip. The client states of Central Mexico weren’t degenerate. They were just ... different. But there was no point in arguing. Joyce had grown up on stories of libertines, of men who drank and brawled and women who were always lusty ... nonsense, of course, but nonsense that had taken root. He sometimes thought the Protectorate was little better than the priest who loudly condemned sinful behaviour, at least until he was caught in a whorehouse or drunk as a lord or ... he shook his head. There was no point in calling the Protectorate out for hypocrisy. They’d just ignore him, at best, or send him to a penal unit.
I have to see if there are other options here, he told himself. And then decide if there’s anything I can do with them.
“We have to return home,” Pringle said. Martín was almost relieved. “The locals are sending a diplomat and we have to put on a show.”
“A diplomat,” Joyce mocked. “We invade their land and they send a diplomat? What sort of idiots are these people?”
Martín winced, inwardly. He feared Joyce was right.
Chapter Twelve: Flint, Texas, North America, Timeline F (OTL)
“You understand your orders?”
Sheriff Callam Boone nodded, curtly. He’d felt completely useless over the last two days, following Major Hammond around like a dog following its master as the major organised the military units surrounding Flint and briefed an ever-growing number of commanding officers on what little they knew of their new enemies. Callam had recited his story time and time again, ignoring snide questions about why he hadn’t stayed in the town and fought to the last, then watched and listened as the defences were organised. Major Hammond was a good organiser, Callam decided, although he wasn’t being as aggressive as Callam thought Hammond should be. Giving the invaders – and he refused to think of them as anything other than invaders – time to deploy was just asking for trouble.
He sighed, inwardly. The White House’s orders were clear – they were not to patrol too close to Flint – but SEALs and Green Berets had been sneaking closer to the line and noting more and more enemy units deployed on the edge of town. It was hard to be sure they weren’t being conned – it was quite possible the enemy were playing a shell game, moving a handful of tanks around to convince observers there were actually hundreds of tanks – yet Callam had a nasty feeling they were only seeing the tip of the iceberg. If the invaders had brought a fortress large enough to pass for a military base, what else had they brought?
“Keep my eyes open, and keep my mouth shut,” he said. “Let Ambassador Hutchinson do the talking.”
Major Hammond nodded, curtly. “And don’t draw your pistol either,” he added. “The White House doesn’t want any ... incidents.”
Callam bit down the urge to point out there had already been an incident. The invaders had attacked a town and taken the entire population prisoner ... there was no way in hell that was a friendly act. It reminded him of the times military formations had accidentally driven across the border during the Cold War, but those incidents had always been marked with frantic apologies and career-ending repercussions ... not silence. Callam knew how he’d have reacted if a Warsaw Pact formation drove across the border into a German town, took possession and refused to drive out again; he had no doubt the Russians would have felt exactly the same way. Here ... his instincts told him the invaders were just buying time. And the White House was giving it to them.
“Yes, sir,” he said, finally. If nothing else, he’d have a chance to see what the enemy had done to Flint. Major Hammond had recommended him for the escort duty because he knew the town, pointing out that he might learn something useful. Callam hoped the diplomat didn’t expect Callam to defend him with his life, not under enemy guns. A lone bodyguard would be worse than useless if the shit hit the fan. “I won’t let you down.”
His lips twitched as he followed the major towards the jeep, parked outside the entrenchments. The army had been busy, moving tanks and long-range missile launchers into position while waiting for something – anything – to happen. Callam had watched men from a dozen different units band together to prepare the defence lines, speculating frantically on what was happening on the far side; he wondered, numbly, just how many would survive if something went badly wrong The diplomat was already waiting, wearing a suit that wasn’t remotely suited for the hot weather. Callam hid his amusement with an effort as Major Hammond spoke briefly to the man, then motioned Callam forward. The bureaucrat didn’t hesitate to shake Callam’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. He had a mellifluous voice that grated on Callam’s ears. “Are you ready to go?”
Callam nodded, curtly. Ambassador Hutchinson struck him as someone trying – and failing – to pretend to be calm, even as the world fell apart around him. Callam couldn’t blame the man for being nervous, not when he was walking into the unknown, but ... he dismissed the thought as he clambered into the jeep and checked everything quickly. It was rare for career diplomats to be attacked, although some rogue states had crossed the line, yet ... no one knew how the newcomers would react. It was quite possible they’d open fire the moment the jeep came into view, no matter what assurances they’d made over the radio. Or ... he didn’t know. If the invaders really were from an alternate timeline, their thinking might be different from their own, too.
“Let’s go,” Ambassador Hutchinson said.
Before we lose our nerve, Callam added, silently. He supposed the diplomat had more nerve than he’d thought. Flying into a war-torn nation was bad enough, but at least the strength of the American military might deter warlords and terrorists from doing something stupid. Here ... the invaders had already demonstrated their technical superiority. This could end very badly.
He started the engine and drove onto the road, heading down towards Flint. He’d been given specific orders not to drive like the wind, in case the invaders reacted badly to a jeep driving at their lines like a bat out of hell. Callam had seen the aftermath of enough VBIEDs – cars turned into mobile bombs – to be all too aware of the risk of taking rounds from a jumpy defender, even if he was an invader. God alone knew what sort of orders the enemy CO had given his men. Callam understood why his superiors hadn’t wanted American troops to fire on any car that refused to halt, at least without warning shots, but it hadn’t made his life any safer. The terrorists and insurgents had been swift to take advantage of rules of engagement written by politicians who were literally on the other side of the world.
Ambassador Hutchinson said nothing as they drove. Callam wondered what the man was thinking, if indeed he was thinking anything at all, as the seconds ticked away. It felt as if no time at all had passed before the enemy lines came into view. Callam sucked in his breath as he saw the tanks, brooding masses squatting on the roadside, their guns traversing to track the jeep as it drew closer. A shiver ran down his spine. He’d seen tanks from a dozen different nations, but these tanks were different ... the hulls were weirdly smooth; with armour painted white, their guns like something out of a science-fiction nightmare. He shivered at the sheer confidence the enemy was displaying, painting their tanks so brightly. They didn’t seem to see any need for camouflage.
Perhaps we can use it against them, he thought, as a trio of armoured infantrymen waved them to a halt. They might be just a little overconfident.
A man stepped out from behind the lead tank and walked over to join them. “Greetings,” he said, in oddly accented English. Callam couldn’t help thinking of British or Australian soldiers, men who had spoken English ... their version of English, anyway. “If you will allow me, I will lead you to the Captain-General.”
“It would be our pleasure,” Ambassador Hutchinson said. “Please. Lead on.”
Callam kept his thoughts to himself as he followed the ambassador into the enemy camp. There had been no attempt to search them, let alone remove his pistol, something that suggested they’d either scanned them already or simply didn’t think it worth the effort. He dared not assume the latter, yet ... the more he looked around, the more he was grimly aware the invaders were confident of victory. There were at least thirty tanks within eyeshot, bunched together in a manner that would have given any decent CO fits, backed up by armoured infantrymen marching back and forth in a manner that suggested they had nothing to fear. He counted nearly a hundred before losing count ... their armour made it hard to tell them apart, particularly when they moved out of his sight for a few moments before returning. He’d watched the analysts try to calculate how many invaders had arrived, when their fortress had materialised in Flint, but none of their answers had been anything more than guesswork. There was enough data in front of him to tighten up their figures a little ...
He put the thought out of his mind as he neared a pavilion. A lone man sat behind a table, wearing a simple uniform that was, Callam suspected, as much of a message as everything else. The man felt no need to wear a uniform weighed down with medals, to pretend to an importance he didn’t have ... Callam felt an odd twinge of fellow feeling, mingled with fear. The diplomats might think they could work out a diplomatic solution, but ... he knew, now, it was impossible. There would be war.
The man rose and studied them thoughtfully, without making any attempt to shake hands or even offer them a nod. Callam studied him in return, feeling chilled despite the sweat pouring down his back. The man was entirely confident in his position, absolutely convinced he could do as he liked and get away with it. Callam had rarely encountered such confidence in his career, outside a handful of Special Forces troopers he’d met, and even they hadn’t been quite so openly aware of their own superiority.
“Please, be seated,” the man said. His accent was slightly less noticeable than their escort’s. “I am Captain-General James Montrose of the Protectorate.”
“Ambassador Asa Hutchinson, representing the United States of America,” Hutchinson said. He sounded like a man who was trying to be calm and not succeeding. “The President has dispatched me to discover your intentions and work out a peaceful solution.”
Callam groaned, inwardly. Could Hutchinson’s opening words be any weaker?
“We arrived here by accident,” Montrose said. Callam was sure he was lying. He just wasn’t sure how to put it into words. Perhaps it was Montrose’s tone of bland indifference ... perhaps it was just the attack on the town, a deployment that had happened too quickly for him to think it was anything other than pre-planned. “We were testing an experimental device that somehow teleported us into your world.”
Ambassador Hutchinson leaned forward. “And why did you attack our town?”
“We were caught by surprise and took steps to secure our position,” Montrose said. “It wasn’t until sunrise that we realised we’d actually fallen into a different world.”
Callam had to fight to keep his mouth closed. He knew it was a lie. What the hell had they been doing that had accidentally landed them in another world? He’d read a book once in which a naval fleet escorting a research vessel had been teleported back to the past, but that had been an accident. What sort of idiot experimented with advanced technology in the middle of a military base? And why launch an offensive at once if you didn’t know where you were ...?
“We understand that you arrived by accident,” Ambassador Hutchinson said, smoothly. Callam couldn’t tell if the ambassador believed what he was saying. “However, we have very real concerns about your arrival within our borders, and about your treatment of our people.”
“Your people are currently fine, just held for their own safety,” Montrose said, blandly. “We have no hostile intentions towards you and will return to our own world as soon as possible.”
Hutchinson seemed unimpressed. “And when will it be possible?”
“We are currently working on the problem,” Montrose said. There was ... something ... in his tone that bugged Callam, something that suggested Montrose wasn’t invested in returning home. “Rest assured, we will depart as soon as possible.”
“That’s good to hear,” Hutchinson said. “However, we must insist on you allowing our inspectors to enter your base and determine what, if any, threat you pose to us.”
“That would have to be cleared by my superiors,” Montrose said. “Please, could you wait until I hear from them?”
Callam frowned. It didn’t sound like a question.
“And how long,” Hutchinson asked, “will it take to receive answers from your superiors?”
“We are currently working on the problem,” Montrose said, echoing his earlier words. “When we make contact, my superiors will open communications with you. I have no doubt they will pay recompense for our actions.”
Callam groaned, inwardly. Montrose was stalling for time. Callam had seen it before, in Iraq, except the Iraqi insurgents hadn’t had the firepower to challenge the US military openly and Montrose did. He was just buying time to get his troops into position before starting a general offensive. Hutchinson wasn't pushing Montrose anywhere near hard enough, not when he needed to demand immediate access to Flint and the Protectorate base.
But the prospect of open communications with a more advanced society is very tempting, Callam thought, numbly. Montrose is offering them something they want, desperately, to buy time.
He shuddered. He’d known a young girl who’d had dreams of becoming a writer ... and fallen into the clutches of a predator who had drained her savings, always promising a big payday that had never materialised. Montrose might be doing the same, only worse ... he’d invaded the country and he needed to be stopped before he had a chance to deploy his troops. Attacking his base now would be costly, but letting him deploy might be worse ... Callam’s mind drifted back to The War of the Worlds. If the British had blown up the cylinders before the aliens could get out, the war would have been over very quickly.
The discussion went on and on, but it rapidly became clear they were going in circles. Montrose was not going to allow inspectors into the occupied zone and he was not going to allow the townspeople a chance to leave, even though it was unlikely they knew anything useful. No, they were far better used as human shields ... Callam suspected, from what he’d heard, that the factions who wanted to mount an immediate attack on the town were only deterred by the prospect of civilian casualties. He could understand their thinking, and the townspeople were his people, but ... they were staring at an enemy beachhead, for God’s sake. It needed to be destroyed before it was too late.
It might be too late already, he thought, numbly.
“We cannot allow you to come within the town, until my superiors clear it,” Montrose said. Callam would have bet half his savings, such as they were, that a man like Montrose wouldn’t feel the urge to consult with any superiors if he could avoid it. Montrose might well be completely on his own if there was no way to contact his homeworld. “But we pose no threat to you.”
“I will consult with my superiors,” Hutchinson said. He stood. “They will decide how best to respond to you.”
“Of course,” Montrose said, genially. “It is our hope that peaceful relations can be established.”
Callam disobeyed orders. “What will you do if you can’t get home?”
Montrose looked at him thoughtfully. “We will deal with that situation when it comes,” he said. Callam couldn’t help thinking that, under other circumstances, he would have followed Montrose to the ends of the earth. He was one of the rare commanding officers who inspired complete trust in his men ... Callam would have respected him more, if he hadn’t been so sure Montrose was an invader. “Until then, we will do our best to get home.”
