Breakthrough

by Scott H Washburn

  “Yes,” agreed Thompson. “And thick concrete walls should be able to resist the rays indefinitely. Fortification constructed of concrete should be most effective.”

  It was late afternoon by the time they finished their tests with the concrete and Mr. Harper, manager of the power plant, insisted they cease for the day. Everyone was tired, so there was no argument.

  “A most successful day, Captain,” said Andrew to Thompson. “I’ll be sure to mention your efficiency to my superiors. And you’ll forward your official report as soon as possible?”

  “Certainly, Major, and thank you. And there will be more reports to follow. We need to run more tests under different weather conditions. I suspect the ray will be much less effective in the rain.”

  “Yes, we’ve already received reports to that effect from the front.” He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. “Well, I think I’ll be on my way.”

  “And you will see about getting me some of those Martian power units, won’t you Comstock?” cooed Tesla, smiling the way he did when he wanted something. “I simply must have some of those!”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Andrew, making his escape as quickly as he could. The same driver took him back to the hotel.

  “That’s a helluva thing, ain’t it?” he said. “Watched it from up above. Sure wouldn’t want to get caught by that!”

  “No, you surely wouldn’t,” replied Andrew.

  He slept like the dead that night and was on an early train back to Washington the next morning. He alternated between napping, daydreaming about his fiancé, and working on his own report. At Harrisburg he changed trains and went south through Baltimore, arriving in Washington in the early evening. He’d wired ahead with his arrival time to have a car waiting, so he was surprised to see a carriage waiting, and even more surprised that Victoria was there with it. She ran to him, skirts and curls bouncing. She had an enormous grin on her face. “Oh, Andrew! Andrew! I have the most marvelous news! You’ll never guess! Never!”

  No, I don’t suppose I will,” he said, catching her up in his arms. “What is it?”

  “Oh, Andrew! The President! The President is coming to the wedding!”

  Chapter Three

  July 1909, Near Fort Wingate, New Mexico Territory

  Army nurse Rebecca Harding couldn’t sleep. She should have been exhausted after a long day, but the incessant rumble of the artillery and the flickers of the gun flashes against the canvas of the tent kept her awake. She tossed and turned in her cot, but eventually sat up and ran her hands through her dark blonde hair and rubbed her eyes. Everyone else in the tent seemed to be asleep. She got into her uniform as silently as she could and then slipped outside.

  Technically she was violating orders by being away from her quarters after dark, but it wasn’t the first time. Sometimes after working the night shift she would go off to be by herself for a while. She felt that need again tonight. There was a sentry near the entrance to the nurses’ camp, but since they hadn’t built any sort of fence around the tents, she just went the other direction until she was out of his sight. The sentry was there for the nurses’ protection, but Becca was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Miss Chumley had obtained service revolvers for all the nurses and Becca’s was in her pocket.

  The camp and the field hospital that it served were built near the ruins of Fort Wingate. The Martians had destroyed the place on their first sweep through the area and all that remained were burned piles of debris. Becca turned away from the fort and started to climb a low hill to the west. The hill had once been covered by trees, but the Martians had destroyed them, too. She had been here when that happened. She had been fleeing the Martians with Sergeant Dolfen and a batch of other survivors, and the enemy had tried to kill them by burning down the forest around them. They’d nearly succeeded.

  It was wonderfully cool in the clear night air. Downright chilly even, and she was grateful for the wool uniform that she cursed in the heat of the day. Making her way around the blackened trunks of the trees was difficult in the dark, but eventually she reached a point where she had a clear view of the army’s siege lines around the Martian fortress. Hundreds of campfires stood out against the dark plain; tiny pinpricks of light in an arc that stretched for miles. Beyond them, barely visible in the distance, was a circular ridge from which no lights shone. The Martians had built a high wall all around their base made of piled up stone and dirt. It encircled the place where the town of Gallup had once stood. Not a trace of it remained now. They had devices all along the top of the wall which could fire their dreaded heat rays. No one knew what they were doing inside those damned walls.

  Becca had very nearly come to know what was going on in there. She and Sergeant Dolfen and a dozen others had been captured by one of the Martian machines and they had been herded toward the fortress. They’d only been a few miles away from it when they were rescued by Major Comstock and his men who destroyed the machine with dynamite bombs. She was so glad she’d never seen the inside of the fortress. There were rumors about what the Martians did with their captives…

  Well, perhaps they would all learn what was going on in there soon - and live to tell about it. A major attack was supposed to start sometime in the coming days. Several batteries of guns were firing at the place—they fired around the clock now. She could see the flashes and hear the reports much more clearly from her vantage point than back in the camp. The explosion of the shells was farther off, but each thump and crump was like music to her. Yes! Hurt them! Hurt the monsters!

  She hated the Martians like she’d never hated anything in her short life. They’d killed her mother and her father and her grandmother and her friend Pepe. They’d burned down her house, destroyed the ranch, her neighbors’ homes, the town. They’d killed so many other people and driven her screaming into the night. They’d destroyed her world and now they were trying to destroy everyone else’s, too. They had to be stopped! And she wanted to help stop them! She clenched her fists and exulted in the sound of the guns. She wished she was one of the people firing those cannons. She wanted to fight! But they didn’t let girls fight. So she’d be a nurse instead. At least it got her near the fighting. Maybe the chance would come. It wasn’t going to come if she was in Santa Fe - or Connecticut!

  Three weeks ago she’d simply waited until her aunt and uncle were asleep and then walked out of the house. She’d gone to the hospital, found a cot to sleep on for a few hours until dawn, and then seen Miss Chumley and volunteered for the forward field hospital. Chumley had seemed surprised, but had accepted her gladly. She’d spent the next few days in terror that her aunt would show up with the sheriff and drag her off, but that hadn’t happened. And then the new unit had moved out on the train and now she was here. Her only real regret was that she’d had to leave her beloved horse, Ninny, back in Santa Fe. Somehow he’d survived all their earlier adventures, but there had been no way to bring him along now. She hoped her uncle would take care of him properly.

  She stood and watched for a while and then found a rock to sit on. It was still a long time until dawn and she felt sleep creeping up on her. She should head back to the camp before someone noticed she wasn’t there…

  “Miss Harding, what are you doing out here?”

  Becca yelped and jumped to her feet. A dark shape had snuck up on her. But the shape’s voice…

  “Miss Ch-Chumley?”

  “Yes. And I ask again: what are you doing out here? You are violating regulation, you know.”

  “I… I couldn’t sleep.”

  “And you felt it necessary to come way out here? Why?”

  “I wanted to see what was happening.” She gestured toward the artillery and then braced herself for the inevitable dressing down that Chumley would give her.

  But to her amazement, Chumley just nodded. “It is quite a thing, isn’t it?”

  “Ma’am? Yes, ma’am.”

  The older woman was silent for a moment and then said:
“I’ve been doing this for over ten years now. I was hired as a civilian nurse for the army back in ’98 during the Spanish War. I figured I would be treating wounded men, but I never saw a one. What I saw instead were men dying from malaria and yellow fever and dysentery. You’re too young to remember, but that was a very bad time. They crowded the volunteers into camps all along the Gulf Coast without a thought about sanitation. Far more men died of disease than from Spanish bullets. It broke my heart to see those boys, so eager to fight, struck down that way. They were so brave… That sort of bravery deserves… I don’t know how to say it. So when they created the Nurse Corps in ’01 I joined up. I wanted to go help the boys fighting the Insurrection in the Philippines, but I got sent to Cuba instead. A lot of sick men there, too. I wanted to help. I needed to help.” She paused and looked straight at Rebecca. “Just like you.” The firing had stopped and it was dead silent on the hilltop.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It seems I was wrong about you, Miss Harding.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “When you first showed up in Santa Fe, I thought you were just some flighty young girl who thought that nursing would be glamorous. So I gave you all the worst jobs thinking you’d give up and run along home. But you didn’t. You did every job well and never complained. And when you volunteered for this posting, again I was expecting you to go running back to your fine house in Santa Fe after a few weeks in a tent. But you surprised me again. You didn’t run, you didn’t complain, and you knew what to do.”

  “I’ve been working outdoors my whole life,” said Becca. “I’m not from Santa Fe.”

  “Yes,” said Chumley. “I did some checking, asked a few questions. A friend showed me a newspaper from six months ago. You’ve been here before, haven’t you? And you really killed a Martian? Like the paper said?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Right over there a few miles.” She pointed out to the dark plain where a new battery had just opened fire. “’Course it wasn’t such a big thing. The soldiers had already wrecked its machine.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “Would you have believed me? My aunt and uncle in Santa Fe didn’t.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I would have. Seems pretty incredible.”

  “It seems like a dream now. A nightmare, I guess.”

  “And you want to keep fighting the Martians?”

  “No one will let me fight the Martians!” she said bitterly.

  “We’re all fighting the Martians, Becca. Every one of us. The men manning those cannons, the riflemen in their trenches, the generals back in Washington, the stevedores loading the trains… and us. All of us. Each one doing their part. Not everyone can fire a gun—like you did - but we can all do our bit.”

  “I… I guess I never thought of it that way…”

  “Well you should. You’re doing an excellent job here. Oh…” There was a sound of rustling paper and Chumley held something up. “This arrived today. It’s from the provost officer back in Santa Fe.”

  Becca sucked in her breath.

  “He wants to know if you are here with us. And if you are, he directs that you be sent back to Santa Fe.”

  “I won’t go back!” She retreated a step, but then clenched her fists, and looked defiantly at Chumley.

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “You’re not? But… but the order…”

  “What order?” There was a sound of tearing paper. “You know how unreliable communication with the rear is.”

  “Oh! Oh, yes! Thank you, ma’am!” Becca gasped in relief.

  “You’re welcome. Now come on, we can still get a few hours of sleep before reveille.”

  * * * * *

  July 1909, Baltimore, Maryland

  “Mr. President,” said Leonard Wood. “If… if anything should happen…”

  “Now none of that sort of talk, Leonard!” boomed Roosevelt. “You are going to be fine, just fine! They say that your doctor, this young Cushing fellow, is a genius, an absolute genius. You’ll be up and about and back to work in no time!”

  Wood sighed. Theodore’s enthusiasm and optimism, while heartening, could also be exasperating at times. True, it had been invaluable when he’d finally been forced to tell him about the brain tumor. Roosevelt had never for a moment considered replacing him as Chief of Staff as Wood had feared. No, instead he’d moved heaven and earth to find the very best surgeon and whisk Wood off to the hospital at Johns Hopkins for the operation. So here he was, sitting up in a bed in a rather palatial suite with Roosevelt, his son, Ted, and a half dozen other officers and assistants trying to get a few last things done before the doctors came to get him. With luck, he could be back to work soon, and this Harvey Cushing was supposed to be the best. Still, there was a very real possibility that he wouldn’t wake up from the anesthesia…

  “Theodore, we have to face facts. And the fact is I might not recover. In that case, you must have a replacement ready to step in. There is too much at stake to leave the post vacant for any length of time. Now my staff can keep things going for a couple of weeks, but if it’s any longer, you are going to have to name someone else. Now I’ve given you my list of possible…”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve read it. Now MacArthur might do in the short term, but the last thing I want is another Civil War veteran running the army! Arthur is what, sixty-five? You remember the problems we had with Nelson Miles! That boy of his, though, Douglas, he’s got some potential. We need to find a command for him.”

  “Yes, you’re right. But we have more urgent matters to deal with. Funston will be launching his final assault very soon. If it succeeds as he’s promised, you can’t let him rest on his laurels. We need to turn him north and see if he can do to the same thing to any Martian fortresses in Idaho—or wherever else they might have built them. We need to keep pushing and…”

  “We will, Leonard, we will,” assured Roosevelt. “But what do you think of this latest proposal by the Germans? First they were just talking about landing a corps at Caracas in Venezuela, but now they want to land what sounds like a whole army in Brazil!”

  “Well, they do have some legitimate concerns in Brazil. Over 300,000 Germans live there. Or lived there. God knows what’s going on there now. But there’s no way we can send an expedition, so we should be glad they are willing to.”

  “Yes, I suppose. I hate to toss the Monroe Doctrine out the window, but if this gets the Germans into the fight, I suppose it’s worth it. We might have the Devil’s own time getting them out again once this is all over, though!”

  Wood smiled in spite of himself. Leave it to Theodore to be thinking about afterward. Privately Wood doubted whether either of them would live to see an afterward. This was going to be a very long war, he feared. “And the French are landing their own corps at Veracruz next month?”

  “So Ambassador Jusserand says. And in this case I’ll welcome them with open arms! If the Martians come boiling up out of Mexico, we’ve got almost nothing to stop them. The Rio Grande line only exists on paper and Governor Campbell has been screaming his head off for troops.”

  “He’s got troops, what he doesn’t have is equipment - just like everyone else. With no industry at all down there - they have to import small arms ammunition, for God’s sake—there’s no hope of them making artillery or tanks. It all has to come from back east and there is too much demand elsewhere.”

  “True, but we need to do something. Right now the only rail connection we have with the west coast, the Southern Pacific line, runs through Texas and we need to keep it open. If we lose that, California, Oregon, and Washington will be in peril.”

  Wood couldn’t argue with that, but as a general and as a former surgeon he knew that sometimes you had to make difficult choices. Roosevelt was in love with the American West. After the death of his first wife he had spent several years ranching in the badlands of the Dakotas and he often talked about how the experience had transformed him. Ever since, he made periodic trips to the we
st for his health, both physical and mental. He would never voluntarily abandon the land or its people to the Martians. But sentimentality didn’t win wars. The hard truth was that in this war the west didn’t matter that much. Nearly all the country’s industry was in the east. The coal fields, the iron mines, even most of the oil was in the eastern states. Industrial production, making the guns and tanks, was going to be the key to winning. Defending the production centers had to take top priority. Which reminded him…

  “Mr. President, if those astronomers are right, then we need to start forming a reserve in case…”

  The door to the suite opened before he could continue and a small mob of doctors, orderlies, and nurses swarmed into the room. “Oh dear, already?” said Roosevelt. “Well, Leonard, I will see you later, God bless you.” The President and the other military men withdrew, leaving Wood facing a far more formidable host.

  * * * * *

  Cycle 597,843.8, Holdfast 32-1

  Qetjnegartis helped Davnitargus into the control cabin of the fighting machine. The bud was maturing rapidly but was still too small to reach the grab bars on either side of the hatch. Once it had hold of them, however, it pulled itself the rest of the way with no problem. It seemed unusually strong for its size and age, perhaps an adaption to the stronger gravity of the target world? The ability of the Race to make changes to their bodies in response to environmental conditions was not entirely voluntary or deliberate. Unexpected things did sometimes occur.

  Before following inside, Qetjnegartis looked down the long row of gleaming fighting machines parked in the hanger. They would be more than enough to drive off the enemy besieging the holdfast if only they had the people to pilot them. Reinforcements were due to be launched from the Homeworld very soon, but they could not possibly arrive in time. So there was no choice but to instruct the buds how to operate them, even though they were not ready for such a challenge. No, no choice at all. It heaved itself into the cramped space behind the pilot’s position.