Jennifer ran to his side. “Are you okay?”
Shah smiled and wiped the blood from his cheek with his sleeve. “I am unharmed.”
“Thank God,” she said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Shah turned to Douglas. “You heard the lady, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.” Douglas coughed and held out his arms to the little girl watching from the cage. “C’mon, honey. I gotcha. You can jump now.”
The girl nodded, squeezed her eyes shut, and jumped, landing in Douglas’ waiting arms. When she opened her eyes, she gasped and pointed over his shoulder. He turned. Five exoskeletons marched toward them, kicking over piles of bodies in their way.
“Hold tight, darlin’,” Douglas said.
*****
The muscles in Wells’ legs burned. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d pushed himself so hard. O’Brien gasped beside him, struggling to keep up with the smaller, more agile captain. They reached a fork in their path. Catwalks shot off to the left and right. Wells racked his brain, trying to remember the path they’d taken.
O’Brien took advantage of the pause and bent to catch his breath. “Which way?”
Wells looked back and forth, then turned, retracing his steps. He pointed to the right. “This way.”
“Are you sure?”
Wells turned. “You think we should go left?”
O’Brien nodded. “I do.”
“Then we go right.” Wells sprinted down the path.
O’Brien sighed and took off after his superior. “You know, I take back all the nice things I said about you.”
Wells looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Both of them?”
In between breaths, O’Brien laughed.
Their surroundings became more familiar as they ran, and Wells was certain they were going the right way.
O’Brien touched Wells’ shoulder. “You hear that?”
Wells stopped and listened. At first there was only an indistinct echo, which was nothing unusual in this place, but then he heard it clearly. Gunfire.
“This way,” Wells shouted as he broke off to the left. “Follow me.”
O’Brien clamped one gloved hand over his face. “God, what is that smell?”
They stepped through an archway, and Wells immediately saw the source of the gunfire. Lieutenant Carter stood behind a broken, smoking brick wall. Several children and a few ragged adults cowered behind her. She stepped out and fired a short burst from her Thompson. A moment later, the emerald flash of a heat ray struck the wall and Carter ducked behind cover, her back pressed against the crumbling bricks.
Her eyes fell on Wells and O’Brien. “Captain!”
The heat ray struck the wall again, raining dust and pieces of brick down on the refugees. Wells and O’Brien crouched and ran to Carter’s position.
“Where are the others?” Wells said.
“They’re pinned down,” Carter shouted over the din.
O’Brien looked around the wall. “This don’t look good, Cap’n.”
Wells joined O’Brien and cautiously poked his head out from behind the wall. Several yards away, Douglas and Shah crouched by a pile of rubble. Four Martian exoskeletons marched toward them, their tentacles raised high above their cowls. Thin, focused heat rays fired from the tip of each appendage.
Shah stood and fired his Thompson while Douglas pounded on the portable heat ray emitter in his lap. The barrel glowed and the sergeant made a cry of jubilation that was drowned out in the gunfire. He hefted the weapon, leaned to the side to avoid an enemy attack, and fired. The orange beam struck an exoskeleton’s cowl and the machine exploded, sending it crumbling to the ground in a tangled heap of legs and tentacles.
“That Torch isn’t going to last much longer,” O’Brien said. “The sarge is bleeding it dry.”
“I’ll help them,” Wells said. “Help Carter get these people to safety.”
“You’ll need me!”
Wells glared at the Irishman. “Don’t make me tell you again, Corporal.”
O’Brien pressed his lips into a tight, thin line and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Wells turned to Carter. “Get out of here! The whole place is going to blow!”
O’Brien knelt in front of the three smallest children and held out his arms. “Come on,” he said. “Up ye go!”
The children complied. O’Brien lifted them and led the others from the chamber. Carter started to follow, but stopped and looked at Wells. His lips curled into a reassuring smile.
“Get them out, now,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Carter pressed her Thompson against his chest. Wells took it in his left hand. His heart soared and sank simultaneously as he saw the sadness and worry in the lieutenant’s eyes.
“You’d better,” she said.
Wells watched as she took one of the little girls’ hands and ran after O’Brien. Wells tucked the stocks of both machine guns under his arms and ran to where Shah and Douglas stood fighting. He planted his boots in the debris and refuse littering the ground and fired both weapons, peppering the tripods.
“Get out of the building,” he said. “I’ll cover you.”
Both men hesitated.
“That’s an order!” Wells shouted.
Again, Shah and Douglas hesitated. Douglas cursed and slung the Torch. They ran for the exit, heat rays streaking through the air around them.
“No!” Wells shouted. “Look at me, you slimy bastards!”
He fired again, his bullets ricocheting harmlessly off the tripod’s canopies. The Martians broke off their attack and advanced on Wells. He crouched behind the rubble, sidestepping the green, fiery blasts.
Below him, deep within the bowels of the structure, the satchel charge blew, taking thousands of gallons of oil and propane with it. The building shook, and Wells staggered to keep his footing on the debris-strewn floor. The Martians paused, their tentacles still and cold as they turned to look at each other. A roar rising from below grew louder.
Wells’ Thompson clicked empty, followed only seconds later by the one Carter had given him. He threw the spent weapons to the ground and drew his knife. The perplexed Martians turned their gazes back on him. They took one unsteady step forward.
“Come and get it!” Wells bellowed.
The floor beneath the tripods exploded, enveloping the Martians in a blistering fireball that threw Wells into the air. The room spun end over end until he fell to the ground and slid several feet before coming to a stop against a heap of human corpses. He looked at the spot where the invaders had stood. Only a fiery pit now remained.
Wells jumped to his feet and ran for the exit, clearing the archway seconds before a secondary explosion incinerated the rest of the room. Fire licked at his boot heels, and his pulse pounded in his ears. He took the steps up to the ground-level corridor two at a time, afraid he would stumble and be consumed in the hellfire of his own creation.
Chained explosions sounded below, sending fresh plumes of fire and smoke after him. Metal creaked as iron catwalks and stairwells collapsed under the stress. Finally, Wells saw daylight ahead. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and squeezed his last bit of strength into his legs.
As he cleared the doorway, the dry desert wind kissed his sweaty, grime-smeared face. He wanted to stop and catch his breath, but he still felt the heat of the fires at his back. He ran across the bridge, his eyes locked on his teammates waiting on the other side.
“Faster, Eric!” Carter shouted.
Another massive explosion rocked the building. Wells looked back as the windows blew out and pillars of flame shot from the smokestacks. The building blew apart in one massive fireball that extended several stories high. Chunks of flaming masonry flew past and Wells felt the ground fall away from him once again as the blast threw him the last several feet across the bridge. He fell to his knees, peeling several layers of skin from his fingertips as he came to rest on the rocky sand.
He gasped for breath, but Do
uglas scooped him up into a crushing bear hug, forcing the air back out of his lungs.
“Hot damn, kid,” Douglas cheered. “You did it!”
Wells cleared his throat. “Kid?”
Douglas shook his head, regained his usual stoic composure, and placed Wells gently on his feet. He saluted. “I mean… You did it, sir.”
Wells frowned at Douglas, but after a moment, he smirked and slapped the sergeant on the arm. “As you were, Sergeant.”
The other members of Goliath Squad held up their weapons and cheered, along with the dozen rescued men, women, and children, as the power plant burned and collapsed. A dark shadow fell over them, however, and their smiles quickly faded. Wells looked up. A Martian battle tripod—the forgotten sentry—stepped out from a branching canyon and glared down at them.
“Oh, now we’re well and truly cooked,” said O’Brien, raising his Thompson. “It’s an honor to die with you, sir.”
Wells looked up at the tripod and cursed himself for forgetting this one important detail. He’d led his squad and these innocent civilians out of the frying pan and into the fire. At least it would be quick.
Fingers slipped between his, and Lieutenant Carter appeared at his side, her sidearm clasped in her other hand. She looked up at him, her blue eyes sad, yet accepting.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Tears welled in Carter’s eyes. “Don’t be.”
The Martian’s heat ray glowed, ready to fire. A dark shape overhead blotted out the sun, and a bright orange flash lit the area. The beam struck the tripod, and it exploded. Wells turned away from the blast.
When he opened his eyes, the Martian was nothing more than a pile of twisted, burning wreckage. Above them, the Leviathan hovered. Its belly lay open, and the massive crane arms lowered a battalion of Achilles and Spartan tripods to the canyon floor. Wells grinned and sat on the rocky ground. He laughed, finally allowing himself a well-deserved moment of triumph.
Chapter Seventeen
Kushnirov stood on the Leviathan’s bridge, looking over the observation deck. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, stopping only when the metallic tang of his own blood filled his mouth. He rubbed the sore spot with his tongue as the communications officer stood from her station and approached.
“Report,” Kushnirov said.
“All tripods loaded and secured, General,” she said. “Engineering reports engines operating at ninety-seven percent efficiency. Full power at your discretion.”
Kushnirov dismissed her with a nod. “Helmsman, set a course for New York. Maximum speed.”
“Yes, sir!” the helmsman called.
He pulled the lever on the engine telegraph. The device rang as the order was relayed to the engineering deck. Kushnirov shifted his feet to maintain his balance as the Leviathan surged forward. He swayed slightly and gripped the iron railing as the zeppelin climbed and turned.
“Sir,” a voice behind him said, “you wanted to see me?”
Kushnirov turned. Captain Wells looked like walking death. His soot-blackened uniform was in tatters; the left sleeve hung by a few stretched threads, exposing the red undershirt beneath. His fingertips were crusted with black, dried blood, and his knees were slick with a fetid slime. Despite his ragged appearance, Wells stood straight and saluted.
“At ease, Captain,” Kushnirov said. “Your team performed remarkably well against incredible odds. I congratulate you. There will be the appropriate medals, of course.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Wells said. “I hear the battle for Albuquerque went well.”
Kushnirov raised an eyebrow. “Was that Richthofen’s assessment?”
Wells didn’t answer.
“We lost forty percent of our men, thirty percent of our aircraft, and half of our tripods.” Kushnirov sighed and turned to grip the railing. “Whenever someone asks me if I believe in heaven and hell, I tell them I don’t know about heaven, but on hell… I’m an expert.”
The general twisted his hands around the unyielding metal. His fingers ached. He winced and loosened his grip.
Kushnirov looked over his shoulder. “How’s your crew?”
Wells joined him by the railing, leaning against it. Kushnirov wondered if the Captain would collapse without its support.
“Bruised and battered,” Wells replied. “A few days of R&R and they and the Goliath will be fine.”
“I wish I could give it to you.”
Wells looked at him. “But… we won, sir.”
Kushnirov took a deep breath. “Montreal, New Orleans, and New Mexico were distractions. Feints to lure the majority of our forces out of New York. They’ve surrounded Manhattan. We’ve won nothing. Prepare your crew, Captain. We will meet our enemy in fifteen hours. Dismissed.”
Wells sighed. He did not salute, but turned and walked toward the lift, his boots dragging slightly. To the casual observer, Wells’ fatigue might have gone unnoticed. Kushnirov knew the war-weary posture well, having worn the same look countless times himself, which was why he let the captain’s atypical lapse in etiquette pass.
He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a gold locket. He thumbed the clasp, and three smiling faces stared back at him. His wife, Katya, and their children.
Ghosts. Ghosts that whispered to him in the dark when all other voices were silenced.
He snapped the locket closed and curled his fingers around it. His eyes lingered on the helmsman below him for a moment before he lifted his gaze to the forward windows… toward Manhattan.
*****
The Goliath hung suspended from its loading crane. Its legs dangled, toes mere feet from the cargo bay floor. A cable-fed gantry dangled from the crane’s central track. The dull roar of an acetylene torch and off-key singing echoed throughout the otherwise empty cargo bay as two lonely laborers worked on the platform.
“Oh la de lie, oh la de lay,” O’Brien sang as he turned a wrench longer than his forearm. “When I get back to New York, I’m going to drink five beers and make love to three women!”
Beside him, Douglas grunted. Smoke rose between them as Douglas welded a new panel of metal sheeting on the Goliath’s center leg. The shiny plate contrasted sharply with the tripod’s black, battle-scarred paint.
“No,” O’Brien said, “make that three beers and five women!”
Douglas laughed and lifted his goggles to inspect his handiwork. “Me, I just want to hold my girls.”
“You worried about ‘em, Sarge?”
Douglas’ smile faded. “I try not to think about it.”
“Must be hard being away from your family.”
“It is,” Douglas said. “But they’re the reason I do this. I fight, hoping they’ll never have to.”
O’Brien nodded.
“What about you, O’Brien? You got family?”
O’Brien sighed and threaded a new bolt by hand. “I don’t know anymore, Sarge.”
“What do you mean?”
O’Brien shook his head and slipped the wrench onto the bolt. He turned it with a grimace. “Nothin’. Forget it.”
Douglas shrugged and lowered his goggles. He ignited the torch and turned his attention back to the crude patch.
A few minutes later, Douglas heard the thump of boots ascending the ladder and doused his flame. Wells’ head popped up alongside the platform. He looked worried.
“How go the repairs?”
“Fine.” Douglas lifted his goggles. “A few days, and the Goliath will be good as new.”
“You’ve got fifteen hours,” Wells said. “They’re moving on New York.”
Douglas’ face went slack with shock. “Sir?”
Wells shook his head. “I’m sorry, Abe.”
Douglas watched the captain ascend the ladder toward the Goliath’s cockpit. His knees felt weak. He grabbed the railing for support. O’Brien appeared at his side and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“My girls,” Douglas said.
*****
Wells wiped the seat of his command c
hair. Fine, red dust covered every surface inside the Goliath’s cockpit, a memento of their brush with death in the canyon. He slapped his thigh to clean his glove, sneezed, and fanned away the resulting cloud. The chair creaked under his weight as he sat, much like his aching bones.
His eyes burned, and he squeezed them shut for a moment to clear his vision. He needed sleep, as did everyone else aboard, but who knew when they’d get their next opportunity? If ever.
The sounds of O’Brien and Douglas’ labors reverberated through the floor. Once, following a loud bang, he thought he heard the Irishman’s muffled curses.
The terror on O’Brien’s face when he’d drawn his sidearm on him earlier in the canyon haunted him. Wells sighed. He couldn’t decide who’d been more frightened at that moment, the man staring down the barrel or the one staring down the sights. Pain in the ass that he was, O’Brien had come through today. Whatever chip had been firmly planted on the corporal’s shoulder the past few months seemed to have crumbled a bit while they were in that Martian hellhole.
Even worse was the look in Douglas’ eyes. O’Brien’s fear might have been motivated by his self-preservation instinct, but poor Abe faced something far greater—the fear of losing his family. Douglas didn’t belong here with the others who had nobody to lose. Wells and the rest of the crew could afford to make the ultimate sacrifice, but a family man like Douglas—
Wells shook his head. He didn't have time for this.
He looked around the cockpit. It was a mess. O’Brien’s toolbox lay open a few feet away. Loose panels leaned against the walls or lay on the floor. Everywhere Wells looked, he saw exposed machinery and wiring. Fifteen hours? It would take at least that long just for O’Brien to put the cockpit back in order. Kushnirov expected the impossible.
The toe of Wells’ boot bumped an object on the floor, and he bent to retrieve it. The small, square box was connected to three cables that trailed into the mess. It regulated the timing of Goliath’s legs, keeping them from moving out of sync and toppling the massive machine.
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