Sure, O’Brien had plenty of reasons to hate the Brits, and he wanted them to pay, but at what cost? How many more had to die?
We would all rather be dead at the hands of the Martians than live under English tyranny.
O’Brien punched the engine room door. “Damn it, Sean!”
He stood there for several minutes, massaging his knuckles and listening to the voices in his head. Convinced the ghosts whispering to him could provide no answers, he closed the engine room door and climbed out of the cockpit.
As he descended the ladder, he saw a lone figure among the towering tripod legs. Lieutenant Shah knelt on a green and gold rug, his forehead touching the ground. O’Brien had seen this ritual once before; the lieutenant was praying. When Shah rose, his eyes met O’Brien’s.
The lieutenant rolled up his rug, tucked it under his arm, and waited for O’Brien to approach. “Are we fit for battle?”
“Would I be comin’ down now if we weren’t?” O’Brien snapped. “Sir.”
Shah shook his head. “No, of course not. Please accept my apology.”
Shah turned to leave. He’d only taken five steps when O’Brien called out, “Why don’t you hate the British?”
Shah turned.
“From what I hear, your people were living in palaces when the Brits were in caves,” O’Brien said, taking two steps toward Shah. “Now you’re a colony. They own your asses and treat you like you were savages.”
Shah smiled. “As Shakespeare said, ‘There is no darkness, but ignorance.’”
“Shakespeare?” O’Brien laughed. “Where’d you learn that?”
“Oxford.”
“How did a wog—” O’Brien stopped himself. “No offense.”
Shah waved the apology away.
“How did you get to Oxford?” O’Brien said.
“I used to be a prince,” Shah replied.
“A prince?”
Shah nodded. “My father disowned me for joining A.R.E.S.”
O’Brien’s shoulders slumped. “I know how that feels. My brother—”
“Wanted you to steal weapons for the Fenians to use against the British?” Shah said.
O’Brien’s eyes widened. “You… you knew?”
“I saw you leave the bar the other night and guessed the rest.”
“You didn’t report me?”
“No. I trusted you,” Shah said. “Then I checked the inventory to see if any weapons were missing.”
O’Brien could only stare.
The lieutenant smiled and turned to leave. “You did the right thing, Patrick.”
O’Brien watched him go. When he was alone, he muttered, “The right thing.”
*****
Wells leaned on the railing surrounding the observation deck, watching the clouds streak past. In the distance, purple lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the outline of the thunderheads.
“Coffee?”
Wells turned. Richthofen walked toward him, clutching two steaming mugs. The flying ace’s trademark grin spread across his face.
“Thanks.” Wells accepted a mug, warming his hands before taking a drink. “What are you smiling about?”
“Tomorrow.”
Wells cocked an eyebrow. “You actually look forward to battle?”
“A four-hundred-knot dive out of the sun… guns blazing at the enemy!” Richthofen laughed. “For me, it is better than sex!”
Wells chuckled and sipped his coffee. “I think you’re a little crazy, Manfred.”
Richthofen winked. “I think I have to be.”
“I wish I were more like you, my friend.”
Richthofen took a drink. “We are not so different, except I carry only my life in my plane. You… you carry the lives of your crew.
Wells sighed. “Don’t remind me.”
Richthofen laid a hand on Wells’ shoulder. “What troubles you, my friend?”
Wells took a deep breath. “When I was ten years old—”
“Your parents,” Richthofen said. “Ja, I know.”
“When the Martians appeared yesterday… when I saw the heat rays… I froze,” Wells said. “I could hear their screams… my parents. If I hadn’t come to my senses—”
“But you did,” said Richthofen. “You faced your fear, and you conquered it. You spat in Death’s face.”
“Maybe,” Wells said. “Or perhaps I just got lucky.”
Richthofen patted Wells’ shoulder and turned to leave. “Get some sleep, my friend. Tomorrow, we find our destiny, ja?”
Wells sipped his coffee and returned to watching the clouds.
Chapter Twelve
New Mexico - 100 miles north of Albuquerque
Collette bounced over the rocky terrain. With every bump, the sidecar’s hard seat pounded Gracen’s aching tailbone. He braced his elbows against the sides and raised his bruised backside, but a stone in the bike’s path sent new waves of pain through his body.
“Watch where you’re going!” he shouted.
If Byrnes heard him over the engine, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, the bike seemed to surge faster across the desert floor. The sky to the east took on a pinkish hue while the surrounding stars faded.
They’d stopped four times already to check the phone lines, but each instance had resulted in failure. The farther they rode from base, the deeper Gracen’s heart sank. Had the Martians hit Albuquerque? Could that be the reason for the ominous silence that awaited him every time he spliced in?
And what about Maria?
He shook his head. There was no time to think about that now. Sheriff Chavez would take care of her. Right now, Gracen had a job to do; he’d taken the oath, and he intended to honor it. Only then could he help Maria.
The telephone poles flew past one after another, until suddenly, Gracen noticed a break in the pattern. He looked up. One post stood only half as tall as those to either side of it, and telephone wires trailed onto the ground, broken and singed.
“Adrian!” Gracen slapped his partner on the arm. “Stop! Stop here!”
Byrnes nodded, and Collette came to a skidding halt. Dust billowed around the bike as Gracen climbed out of the sidecar and sprinted toward the broken pole. The splintered wood was blackened, and wisps of smoke curled from it. The post tilted slightly, and there was no sign of the top half.
Byrnes ran to his side. “Looks like we’ve found the problem. What do you think happened to it?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Gracen returned to the motorcycle and retrieved the field telephone, a coil of wire, and a bundle of leather belts and straps. He tossed the rigging to Byrnes and pointed to the first intact pole to the south.
“Shimmy up that pole and splice in,” he said. “I’ll make the call.”
Byrnes slung the wire over his shoulder and nodded.
A few minutes later, Byrnes tossed the wire down, and Gracen connected it to the field phone. He laid the launcher on the ground beside him, crouched over the wooden box, and held his breath as he turned the crank and lifted the handset. At first, he heard nothing, but he turned it again. After a long pause, a loud click issued from the receiver, and a tinny voice said, “Number, please.”
Gracen’s face split into a grin. He turned to Byrnes and gave him a thumbs-up. “I got through!”
Byrnes cheered and climbed down the pole.
“Number, please,” the voice repeated impatiently.
“Hello,” Gracen shouted. “Hello, Central! I need you to connect me to the A.R.E.S. HQ in Albuquerque. It’s an emergency.”
“One moment, sir.”
“Hurry, please.” Gracen bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet. He glanced over his shoulder. Byrnes stood by Collette, scanning the rocks for any sign of the invaders.
Finally there was a click over the line, and a male voice said, “A.R.E.S. Command, Albuquerque. This is Sergeant Jackson. To whom am I speaking?”
“Albuquerque,” Gracen shouted, “this is Radar Station 42. Three Martian cylinders spotted
to the south. All communications disrupted. Temporary communications camp established fifty miles south of station.”
He waited, wondering if he should repeat the message, but then Jackson replied, “Acknowledged, 42. Confirm three cylinders landed. You’re not the first, son. We’re getting reports from all over. They’re everywhere.”
Gracen’s heart jumped. “Everywhere?”
“Affirmative,” the sergeant said. “Stand by for orders.”
“Standing by, HQ,” Gracen replied.
“What’d they say?” Byrnes called.
Gracen cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s not just us. The damn things are falling everywhere.”
Byrnes gaped. “What do you mean ‘everywhere’?”
The receiver crackled in Gracen’s ear. “42?”
“Quiet,” Gracen hissed. “Go ahead, HQ.”
“Your orders are to assemble all personnel and report to Albuquerque.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me, 42,” the sergeant snapped. “Get your asses down here. We need all the men we can get. I’m up to my ass in tripo—”
The receiver emitted a short burst of static, and then the line went dead.
“HQ?” Gracen tapped the hook and turned the crank. “Hello? Hello, Central? Hello! Shit!”
“What happened? Byrnes called.
“The line went dead,” Gracen snarled. “Climb back up and check the conn—”
Choom!
Gracen froze.
Choom! Choom!
The sound was distant, but soon another followed, and the ground shook. Pebbles danced across the ground with each new impact. The sound grew louder.
Adrian looked around for the source. “What the hell is that noise?”
Choom! Choom!
Gracen’s blood turned to ice. He knew that sound. It haunted his nightmares.
“Tripod!” he shouted.
The fighting machine stepped out from behind a nearby ridge and trumpeted, “Uuuuuuuuulllllaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
It towered over them. Gracen stared. It didn’t look like the one that had murdered his family; it was bigger, leaner. The heat ray fired, and Gracen jumped out of the way before the spot of ground he had just been occupying became a blackened, smoking crater.
As the dust settled, Gracen felt something drip into his eye. He wiped his forehead, coating his fingers in caked blood and grit. The deafening clatter of the M2 mingled with the tripod’s heavy footfalls like an inexperienced drum corps. He stepped from the dust cloud and saw Byrnes sitting in the sidecar, peppering the alien machine with lead.
The tripod stared down at the motorcycle, its tentacles writhing at its side like a gunslinger waiting to draw. Gracen felt for the launcher’s shoulder strap, and then remembered he’d laid it on the ground next to the field phone. The heat ray had destroyed the box, but the launcher lay a few yards away. He ran for it, and when his fingers closed around it, he heard the familiar rumble of Collette’s engine.
Gracen turned. Byrnes had abandoned the fifty-cal and now sat astride the bike. The back tire kicked rock and dust as the motorcycle surged toward the tripod.
“Adrian!” Gracen shouted. “Adrian, no!”
The heat ray glowed, and Byrnes screamed as the bike connected with the Martian machine’s front leg. The emerald beam flashed, and the motorcycle exploded. The blast sent the tripod staggering back into the rocky wall.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” Gracen raised the launcher, and the Martian’s heat ray twitched in his direction. Both combatants fired simultaneously, and the green beam struck the ground at Gracen’s feet, sending him flying. His shot missed the cowl, but struck the wall above it. Rocks cascaded down onto the tripod, crumpling it into a heap on the desert floor, the legs twisted and useless.
Gracen tried to stand, but searing pain shot through his ankle. He pulled up the cuff of his trousers. A dark bruise was already spreading, but there were no obvious signs of a fracture. He slowly got to his feet, using the empty launcher as a crutch as he approached the crippled tripod.
He kicked a smoking scrap of twisted metal, the biggest piece of Collette he could find. There was no sign of Byrnes. The Martian’s heat ray had vaporized him.
“Damn it, Adrian,” he said. “What the hell were you thinking?”
The front of the tripod’s cowl split open with a sharp hiss and jet of steam. Gracen drew his sidearm and took two hobbling steps toward the machine. As the fog cleared, a gray, shapeless mass of glistening flesh slumped forward, its crimson eyes glowering. Gracen leveled his pistol at the gasping beast and cocked back the hammer.
“Damn you,” he said.
As his finger squeezed the trigger, the tripod’s tentacles sprang to life. One of the appendages lashed out and struck him in the gut. He fell back against a boulder and fired, unloading all six shots into the shrieking Martian.
“Die,” Gracen shouted. “Die, you bastard!”
The pistol clicked empty, but Gracen continued to squeeze the trigger until the struggling alien fell still, green blood oozing from its wounds. He stared at the corpse for some time, waiting for it to open its eyes and attack him again, but the Martian never moved. It was dead.
Gracen slumped back against the rock and tossed his empty weapon away. He touched his abdomen, wincing as his fingers came into contact with the wound. Fresh blood oozed onto his fingers. It glistened in the light of the rising sun.
“We did it,” he gasped. “We stopped the Martian.”
He coughed, and tasted the metallic tang of blood.
“Got the… message through to A.R.E.S,” he said. “Warned… Albuquerque.”
He reached into his jacket and retrieved the letter, his clumsy fingers staining the pristine white paper as he unfolded it. The words were indistinct, fuzzy. Soon, he could not make them out at all.
“Maria… I honored… my… oath,” he said as his eyelids grew heavy. “Maria… Maria… I….”
The paper fell from his limp fingers.
Chapter Thirteen
New Mexico
The storms had moved on, leaving the sky a serene light blue. Thick, white cumulonimbus clouds drifted all around the Leviathan. Kushnirov watched the sky from his position on the observation deck. He didn’t like it. It was too calm.
At the front of the bridge, a radar technician called over his shoulder, “General!”
Kushnirov turned.
“We have contact,” the man reported. “Nine Martian aircraft bearing sixty degrees north-by-northwest. A hundred twenty-five miles out and closing! Fast!”
Kushnirov gripped the railing. “Battle stations! Launch all fighters!”
An alarm siren sounded, reverberating throughout the entire ship.
*****
Wells sat on the edge of his bunk, cinching the laces on his boot when the alarm sounded. He jumped to his feet, forgetting about his laces, and bolted for the door. When he stepped into the hallway, he was met with utter chaos. A throng of men and women ran aft, pulling on jackets and aviator caps as they ran. One man hobbled along on one foot with a piece of toast in his mouth while trying to pull on his boot.
“What’s going on?” Wells shouted.
His query went unheeded as the pilots surged past. Finally, he saw a familiar face in the crowd.
“Manfred!”
Richthofen turned.
Wells cupped his hands around his mouth. “What’s happening?”
A grin split Richthofen’s face. “It is my turn,” he said.
*****
Richthofen watched as the last of his squadron lifted off. He taxied his Valkyrie fighter into position and waited while the crew primed the steam catapult. The Leviathan’s deck was too short for the aircrafts to launch under their own power, making the device necessary.
Soon the crewmen scurried away, crouching low and clutching their safety lines to fight the violent wind tearing at them. The marshaller waved at Richthofen, and the pilot gave him a thumbs-up. When he receive
d the signal for takeoff, Richthofen lowered his goggles and opened the throttle.
The Valkyrie surged forward, throwing Richtofen back against his seat as the steam catapult hurled his plane down the length of the deck. When the Valkyrie reached the end of the track, he eased the stick back and grinned as the fighter’s wheels lifted. This was where he was most at home. Most men could not relate; they preferred to feel terra firma under their feet, but Richthofen preferred to soar. He liked to tempt fate and taunt God. Only then did he feel alive!
In less than a minute, he caught up with his squadron. The white Valkyries flew in formation, an open spot at the front of the pack for their commander. Richthofen eased into the opening from below. They maintained formation until the smaller Storm Crow-class bi-planes fell in behind them in three tight groupings of six.
Richthofen keyed his microphone. “Storm Crows, head twenty-six degrees north-northwest. The enemy is fifty knots and closing. Engage at will.
“We must protect the Leviathan. Nothing gets through us. Remember, your heat rays will need a three-minute recharge after firing, so rely on your rockets and machine guns. Good hunting!”
The Storm Crows banked, adjusting their heading as per Richthofen’s orders. One by one, doors in the fighters’ bellies opened, and light heat ray cannons swung down into position.
“Valkyries, on me!” Richthofen shouted. He thumbed a red button on his stick and the afterburner kicked like a mule, sending the bright red Valkyrie screaming into a steep climb. The tri-planes disappeared into the clouds, leaving the Storm Crows to fend for themselves.
*****
Captain Chamberlin’s eyes flicked back and forth, scanning the sky for any sign of the enemy. He tapped the button on the side of his headset and opened the channel to his flight.
“Nephilim,” he said, “this is Archangel. Stay sharp and maintain forma—”
War of the Worlds Page 12
