Читать книгу Raiders of the Red Death - Emile C. Tepperman - Страница 8

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TEXAS dust swirled fitfully about the small group of temporary buildings comprising Provisional Headquarters of the Third Army, covering the Eighth Corps Area along the southern frontier of the United States.

Within the large, frame building which had only been completed an hour or so before dusk, a dozen executive officers sat at a long table. A gray-haired, haggard-featured man in uniform presided. His shoulder straps bore four silver stars—the insignia of a commanding general.

Outside, constant streams of infantry and artillery plodded by, the enlisted men—entirely unaware that they were marching to almost certain death. The officers at that table in Provisional Headquarters, however, knew it only too well...

They talked in low, grim tones. There was a strange expression in the eyes of all of them—the look of brave men who know Death waits for them, yet who cannot understand its nature. Most men are willing to fight for a righteous cause against a known force. But it takes brave men indeed to face death in a horrible, unknown manner...

The man at the head of the table was addressing the others: "Gentlemen," he said in weary tones, "I have just had a report from the front. The Aztecs are advancing across the border. Major-General Oppington reports that he has lost five hundred troops without being able to strike a blow. The artillery cannot be brought into action—each gun crew that approaches a piece of ordnance immediately explodes into bits—as if by a time bomb. Our planes go up, and then seem to set a direct course for Mexico. Not one of them returns. Whole squads of men defending our positions are suddenly exploded, and the Aztecs march ahead without opposition. Gentlemen—" The general arose at the head of the table. His eyes lowered before the gaze of the assembled officers. "I have ordered Major-General Oppington to fall back!"

A stocky, bullet-headed colonel of Intelligence leaped to his feet at the opposite end of the table "Do you mean to say, sir, that you ordered a retreat? We have thirty thousand men in this corps area; are we to run away from a rabble of peons and mestizos led by a madman who has named himself an emperor?"

The general sighed wearily. "Why not, Colonel? We are faced by some mysterious force that we cannot understand. Our men explode from within—as if they had swallowed dynamite. Do you expect me to send more of our boys out to be slaughtered in the same way? God, man—" the general's face was twisted with passion—"it—it's uncanny, gruesome; like marching against eternity. I won't do it, I tell you! I won't sacrifice any more lives!"

"But, sir," the colonel protested, "if Major—General Oppington retreats, it will leave no opposition between the Aztecs and Fort Sam Houston. If the Aztecs take Houston, they'll have a solid footing in the United States!"

The general shrugged. "Let them take it, Colonel Lacon. I'll order Houston evacuated. The Aztecs will have to hold up their advance there for at least a day in order to organize their position and bring up provisions. It'll give us a breathing spell—"

He stopped as a second lieutenant entered, saluted and said: "Colonel Grant's respects, sir. The Fifty-sixth Regiment is ready to be reviewed, sir, before marching."

The general nodded and the lieutenant left. The staff officers all gazed at their commander gravely. He turned from the table said slowly: "I'll review them, anyway. But I'm going to countermand their marching orders."

The officers followed him out into the night. Flares lighted the entire field. Regimental bands were playing as men marched by. A whole regiment of United States infantry—a powerful, almost invincible fighting machine, stepping as one man; fifteen hundred men, comprising a unit of military strength that could have routed a dozen Roman legions.

The general sighed as he and his staff saluted the passing colors. "I wish," he murmured to his aide, "that the man they're sending from Washington would come soon. It'll be a relief to turn over the responsibility for all these men to someone else." He gulped, as his aide eyed him sympathetically. "God! I have never shirked responsibility before in my life. But this—"

HIS words were drowned by the sudden thunderous explosion that seemed to roll over the field of marching men. Suddenly all those uniformed men seemed to disintegrate before the very eyes of the general and his staff. Individual explosions followed each other with crackling rapidity as if an immense hand were sweeping over the field and touching a match to groups of firecrackers, one after the other.

Bits of flesh and bone, bits of torn clothing, filled the air, rained down upon the heads of the transfixed staff. The air grew stifling, hard to breathe, filled with the stench of scorched flesh. A haze gathered over the field through which it was difficult to see.

And abruptly as it had come, the holocaust passed. The air cleared slightly. And the general and his staff stared with dread-filled eyes at that field. Not a single man of that marching regiment was left alive. The ground was strewn with blood and bits of flesh and torn clothing. In the space of one minute an entire regiment had been annihilated as by a breath from some unseen god!

The general staggered backward, leaned against the wall of his headquarters for support. Suddenly he had become an old man. He tried to speak, but no words came from his lips. He could only gaze in stupefaction at his officers.

And from far above to the north, there came to their ears the drone of a plane. The colonel of Intelligence gulped, said: "T-that must be the man from Washington, sir. My God! He's come just in time to see death and destruction!"

The general pulled himself together. "This is the end!" he grated hoarsely. "We can't fight a thing like this. When that plane lands, I'm going to turn over—"

"Wait, sir!" the colonel of Intelligence exclaimed. "His motor's cut out. He's coming from the north, with the wind. He couldn't be landing that way. He's out of control!"

Indeed, the heavy army transport seemed to be acting erratically above that field of carnage. It swooped low over the heads of the staff officers, with the motor dead; then once more they heard it cough, burst into its droning roar. It was working again. They watched the pilot climb, try to bank, and once more they strained eagerly as they heard the engine go dead.

Again and again, white stretcher bearers patrolled the field in a vain search for a single living man, the general and his aides watched that plane try to veer into the wind for a landing; and each time they heard the engine die.

The colonel of Intelligence exclaimed: "He can't make it, sir. His motor is all right, but there's some sort of air pocket up there that cuts it off. What?"

He ceased talking, watched intently as a small figure legged over the side of the plane, hurtled toward them. A parachute billowed out, the sudden drop of the figure was broken, and they all ran toward the spot where he would fall.

Before they got there, the figure landed. Several enlisted men helped him out of his parachute harness, and he stood erect just as General Everard and his staff came running up.

The general came to a halt, staring in amazement, as did the other officers, at the freckle-faced, tough-looking Irish lad who faced them.

General Everard demanded: "Who in tarnation are you? How did you get into that army plane?"

But the boy paid him no attention for the moment. He was gazing upward anxiously, watching the transport. It was now a good distance away, winging its way southward. His lips moved, and he said under his breath, with his eyes still on the plane: "Good luck to you, Jimmy! I wish—" his lips trembled, and he gulped a little—"that you'd let me go along!"

Abruptly the boy turned, drew from his pocket a slip of paper.

"General Everard?" he asked, eyeing the four silver stars on that officer's uniform. The general nodded, puzzlement and irritation showing in his seamed face. "This message is for you, general, from Operator 5—the man you were expecting from Washington. He wrote it up there in the plane when he found we couldn't land."

The general took the slip of paper, growled: "I don't understand this. Instead of a man they send me a boy—!" His words trailed off as he read the note by the glare of one of the flares:

To General Everard, Commanding Third Army:

Impossible to land due to mysterious atmospheric conditions. We are being compelled, by some strong power, to fly south toward the area under occupation by the Aztecs. Our radio sending-set does not function. Apparently the Aztecs plan to force us to land within their lines and to capture us. I shall do so in hope of securing valuable information. In the meantime, would advise you retreat upon Fort Sam Houston. The bearer of this note is Tim Donovan, my unofficial assistant. Keep him close to you, as any messages I may be able to send will be in code which he can easily read.

Operator 5.

General Everard glanced up from the strange note, written hastily in pencil, eyed the boy. "How do I know," he demanded, "that this is authentic? How do I know that the man who wrote this note is really Operator 5? How do I know that your name is—" he looked at the paper—"Tim Donovan?"

Tim Donovan said quietly: "That is easily proved, sir." He glanced at the colonel of Intelligence, raised his right hand. Upon his finger there gleamed a ring with a death's-head skull, peculiarly fashioned. "You are an Intelligence officer, sir," he said. "Do you recognize this ring?"

The colonel took the boy's hand in his own, studied the ring. Then he nodded. "This is the ring, General Everard. All Intelligence officers have been instructed. There is a certain mark on it that identifies it as authentic. This boy is really Tim Donovan, who has been assisting Operator 5 remarkably well for some time. This lad is too young to be admitted to the Secret Service yet, but—"

Tim Donovan said urgently: "If you're satisfied about me, general, let's get to a wireless receiving-set as quickly as possible. Ji—I mean—Operator 5, may send through a message at any moment."

The general nodded. "All right. Operator 5 is our only hope now. The Aztecs seem to be able to annihilate our entire forces at will. Guns are no good against them!"