The Great Martian War

by Scott Washburn

  “Six eruptions in only an hour?” exclaimed the admiral incredulously. “My God! The first time there was a full day between them!”

  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid so, sir.”

  A long silence enveloped the other group that was eventually broken by Colonel Hawthorne:

  “It would appear that the Martians have not been idle, either, sir.”

  Chapter Two

  January 1908, Washington, DC

  “Well, Theodore, I have to admit that I wish I hadn’t convinced you to delay the announcement as Cortelyou asked me to,” said Leonard Wood. “If we’d done this in October, like you wanted, you’d look like a genuine soothsayer now.”

  “Now, now, Leonard,” said the President, grinning ear to ear, “if people start to believe I can predict the future, they’ll expect me to do it every time! But if the prospects weren’t so dire, I’d almost want to thank the Martians for the timing. At least this came soon enough for me to cancel the battle fleet’s cruise around the world; would have been damned embarrassing to have them halfway to Japan.”

  Wood nodded. “Your reelection is almost guaranteed now. If all you were facing was the robber barons and the problems with the Canal, some people might balk at giving you a third term. But with war on the horizon, there’s no one the people would rather see in the White House than you.”

  “Assuming the Martians show up on time. We’re going to look damn silly if they don’t, after all the fuss we’re making.”

  “And when are they expected?”

  Roosevelt scratched at his mustache. “That’s the big question and unfortunately, I’m getting a lot of different answers. The so-called experts can’t seem to make up their minds. The last time, the gas eruptions preceded the arrival of the cylinders by four months. But things seem to be different this time.”

  “The newspapers are predicting everything from next year to about five minutes from right now. But you are saying it won’t be four months like last time?”

  “I’m not saying anything. But the experts have been telling me all sorts of things.” He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a sheaf of papers which he spread out on the polished desktop. Some sheets were covered with mathematical equations and others had drawings and diagrams. He found one particular sheet and picked it up. “With the first invasion, the gas eruptions were spotted about two months prior to the closest approach at opposition with Mars and the cylinders began falling two months after the opposition. Apparently the Martians were firing ahead of us, leading us like a man shooting at a grouse with a shotgun, so that the cylinders would intersect the Earth as we caught up and passed them in our faster orbit.”

  “That makes sense,” said Wood. “But they are saying they didn’t do that this time?”

  “No, this time, the eruptions were seen almost four months after the opposition, after we’d already gone by.”

  “Well, that seems odd—not that I can claim to know anything about such things. What do they think that means?”

  “There’s no consensus there. Some seem to think that the Martians aren’t coming here at all. That they’re headed for Venus or even Mercury. Maybe they’ve decided that Earth is a bad deal and they are trying somewhere else.”

  “They are sending, what? Two hundred cylinders this time?”

  Roosevelt nodded. “That’s the best guess. We couldn’t keep them under continuous observation, but it appears they launched ten times each day for twenty days.”

  “Then I’d consider it a relief if they weren’t coming here—even though it would be politically embarrassing for us.”

  “I’ll swallow all the embarrassment in the world if it would spare our country the horrors of an invasion,” said Roosevelt firmly.

  “Certainly, certainly. But you were saying, not all agree they aren’t coming here?”

  “No, the majority still think they are on their way to Earth.” He picked up another paper. It was larger than a normal sheet of paper and had elaborate calligraphy on it and it didn’t appear to be written in English.

  “Is that… Russian?” asked Wood.

  “Yes, their ambassador delivered it on Tuesday—fortunately he also brought a translation. Direct from the Tsar. It seems he feels he still owes us for helping settle his war with Japan. He sent a report from one of their scientists, a man named… Tsiolkovsky, apparently a renowned expert in this sort of thing. He has calculated that if the cylinders were launched with a lesser force than last time, they would fall in toward the sun slowly and still intersect with Earth in about nine months—this coming September. In other words, the Martians are still leading us, except they are waiting for us to come around the sun again. I showed all this to the captain up at the observatory and he agrees that it might be so.”

  “But why would they do that? Why deliberately make it a longer trip?” demanded Wood.

  “A fine question. They are only of two minds on that question, which is better than on most of the other questions. The first possibility is that if they are using the same sort of launching gun, then a slower velocity would allow them to fire a bigger cylinder with a bigger crew and more cargo.”

  “Good God, and there are two hundred of them on their way.”

  “Yes, and the other possibility isn’t much more comforting. This Tsiolkovsky fellow points out that with the oppositions about twenty-six months apart, if the Martians launched their cylinders like they did the first time, that is, two months prior to the opposition, then it would, naturally, be twenty-six months between salvos, as it were. But by doing it this way, that is, delaying the arrival of the first salvo, and then launching the next one as they first did, then it will only be about fifteen months between arrivals. Maybe the Martians don’t want to wait so long for reinforcements.”

  “This is all… very disturbing, Theodore. But perhaps these new invaders will just die off like the last batch.”

  “A lot of people are hoping that, but I wouldn’t count on that, Leonard. They clearly aren’t stupid creatures. If they have some sort of long-range wireless transmitters, then the first batch may have warned their fellows back on Mars just what was killing them. We poor, stupid Earthlings have managed to figure out how to inoculate ourselves against certain diseases; we must assume the Martians can do the same.”

  “Yes, I suppose…”

  “And even if they do die off like last time, we saw how much damage only ten cylinders were able to do in the short time they had. We can’t just stand by and let them devastate our cities while we wait. We must be prepared to fight them!”

  “Of course, of course; the preparations must go on.”

  “So!” Roosevelt slapped his large hands on the desk, scattering some of the papers. “Whenever they arrive we have to be ready for the rascals! And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes! I’m going to replace Taft as Secretary of War. He’s a capable administrator in peacetime, but I need someone with fire in his belly to run a real war. He has quite the belly, but no fire that I can see. Hate to say that; we’ve been friends for a long time, but there it is.” Roosevelt frowned. “And I don’t know that I can work with him anymore. He’s not happy with me running again. He really had his heart set on being the next president. Or perhaps I should say that his wife had set his heart on being the next president.”

  “Yes, she’s quite a determined lady. Well, the good of the country comes before his—or her—personal ambition.”

  “Well, he’s always wanted a spot on the Supreme Court, so I may be able to soften the blow.”

  “Yes, that would do it. Who did you have in mind to replace him?”

  “My first choice would be Root. He’s done it before and I trust him completely. But he’s already begged off. Claims he’s more valuable where he is as Secretary of State, and that he doesn’t have the energy to be War Secretary.”

  “It’s hard to argue with that. Someone younger might be a better choice.”

 
“Who? Do you have any ideas? Unless you want the job.”

  “No thank you!” Wood thought for a moment. “How about Henry Stimson? He’s a protégé of Root, as I recall.”

  “Yes… yes! He might do! I’ll have a talk with him.”

  “But Theodore,” said Wood, “no matter who you decide on, the task is enormous. Do you think we can be ready?”

  “We must be! I’ve got all our best people working on it night and day.”

  * * * * *

  March, 1908, Shoreham, Long Island, NY

  The wind blowing off Long Island Sound cut right through Andrew Comstock despite several layers of heavy wool. Why do they always do these things in the coldest weather? He’d never liked the cold and some of his fondest memories of his childhood were from when his father was stationed at Fort Sam Houston in Texas. But this bleak stretch of coastline was a long way from sunny Texas.

  In front of him stood a tall metal tower which for some reason was called Wardenclyffe. It rose from a low brick building and looked to be nearly a hundred feet high and was made entirely of iron struts and girders. The lower portion looked rather like an oil-drilling derrick, but the upper part was an open dome, bristling with metal tubes and rods. It looked, he suddenly realized, like one of the Martian fighting machines—except with far too many legs. Another, much thinner tower, was about fifty yards away.

  Andrew was there with Colonel Hawthorne and another man, Nikola Tesla. The famous—and notoriously eccentric—scientist, engineer, and inventor did not appear to be bothered by the cold at all. He was tall, very thin, and his deep-set eyes fairly blazed with enthusiasm as he described the tower in front of them. The man had come to America from Hungary or Serbia or some such place and still spoke with a noticeable accent.

  “This was originally built to transmit wireless messages across the Atlantic,” he explained. “But as I worked, I became convinced that in addition to messages, it would be possible to transmit electrical power over long distances without the use of wires. Naturally, my original intentions were that these transmissions would be for peaceful purposes, to provide electricity to all.” He waved an arm around in a broad arc, nearly slapping Andrew, who took a step sideways. “But then in the aftermath of the first Martian invasion, I came to realize that my device could also have military potential.”

  “Yes, Mr. Tesla, we are aware of that,” said Colonel Hawthorne patiently. “You also convinced influential people in the government of that potential. You have been contracted to turn that potential into reality and we are here today to observe what progress you have made.”

  “Of course! Of course!” said Tesla. “I only wanted to be sure you understood the genesis of my creation.”

  “I think we do, sir. But it is rather cold out here today. Can we get on with the demonstration?”

  “Certainly, certainly! I will start the generators. Excuse me, please.” Tesla walked off toward the building with long strides.

  “What’s going to happen, sir?” asked Andrew.

  “I guess we’ll find out shortly.”

  “They say Mr. Tesla is a genius.”

  “Perhaps. Others say he’d make the world’s greatest snake-oil salesman. Genius or not, he has a flair for salesmanship. He failed to mention that John Jacob Astor and J. P. Morgan sunk close to a quarter million dollars into this thing when he was still trying to build a transoceanic wireless transmitter. When Marconi beat him to the punch, he was left with this tower and a lot of empty promises.”

  Tesla reappeared from the building and hastened to rejoin them. He wasn’t even wearing a hat and Andrew shivered at the thought of going bareheaded in this weather. “All right,” he declared, “the generators are building up the charge. Direct your attention to the space between the Wardenclyffe tower and the smaller one over there.” They did as instructed, but nothing was happening that Andrew could see. A minute or more went by.

  “What are we supposed to be seeing?” asked Hawthorne.

  “Patience, Colonel, patience. Just a few more seconds.”

  Andrew was thinking about several snake-oil salesmen he’d seen during his life when he realized that something was happening. He felt a tingling and prickling all over his skin and scalp. Tesla’s thick, dark hair was actually standing straight up! A strange humming, like some gigantic bumblebee, was filling the air.

  “Watch!”

  Sparks began jumping between the rods and tubes on top of the big tower and a blue nimbus shimmered around them. Suddenly, a dazzlingly bright light, like a lightning bolt, jumped from the large tower to the smaller one. An ear-splitting thunderclap rent the air. The light twisted and writhed like a dying snake and then a new bolt branched off to strike a nearby tree and then a smaller one leaped to a workman’s wheelbarrow a dozen yards further on. Both the tree and the barrow burst into flames.

  As quick as it came, the lighting vanished, although a bright afterimage was left in Andrew’s eyes. The thunder rolled and reverberated across Long Island Sound before slowly fading away.

  “Wow!” he cried, rubbing at his eyes. Both the tree and the wheelbarrow were still burning, and the smaller tower had partially melted and was leaning drunkenly to one side. Tesla was grinning like a maniac and fairly bouncing up and down on his feet.

  “See? Did you see?”

  “Yes, we did,” said Hawthorne. “That was… that was most impressive, Mr. Tesla. What sort of range do you estimate this device to have?”

  Tesla’s enthusiasm abated somewhat. “Well, right now it is about… about what you see here.”

  “Two hundred feet? The Martian heat rays are effective for a mile or more, Mr. Tesla. You are going to have to do better than that!”

  “Yes, yes, I know that, of course! There is still much work to do, but for an entirely new type of weapon, that is to be expected. The range will improve!”

  “I hope so. And the power source? Am I to understand that the generators required fill that large building there?”

  “Not entirely, no. But yes, they are bulky. That needs to be worked upon, too!” Telsa’s enthusiasm was giving way to irritation, it seemed to Andrew. “More compact power sources will be needed. Such as the Martians themselves use. I have requested repeatedly that I be allowed to examine some of the samples the British possess.” Andrew stiffened at the mention of those murderous devices.

  “Yes, I know,” said Hawthorne. “You and about a thousand other people. The British have refused. They claim they are too dangerous.” Hawthorne glanced at Andrew.

  “Ah!” spat Tesla. “To them, maybe! What do the British know about physics? Give one to me and I will learn its secrets!”

  “We may have all the samples you could want before too much longer.”

  “Uh, how do you aim your weapon, sir?” asked Andrew.

  Tesla stared at him like he’d never seen him before. “Well, uh, you see, the bolt travels from the greater potential to the lesser, naturally, and the target tower, being the nearest tall object with a clear grounding path, becomes the most attractive target…”

  “Sir, are you saying that if there had been a second tower, an equal distance away, that the bolt might have jumped there just as easily as to the first?”

  “Uh, well, that would be a possibility…”

  “So when the bolt jumped from the tower to the tree and then to the wheelbarrow, you didn’t intend for that to happen?”

  “Not precisely, no…”

  “So you are saying,” said Hawthorne, jumping in, “you can’t aim the blasted thing at all?”

  “Such refinements will come as I further develop the device, Colonel! We are in uncharted waters!” Tesla was becoming angry and Hawthorne managed to calm him down before they left. They walked back to the local station and caught the train to New York City.

  They rode in silence for quite a while before Hawthorne said: “Good job catching the aiming problem, Andy. I must admit I hadn’t even thought about that. I just assumed the bolt went where Tesla
wanted it.”

  “I did, too, at first, sir. The thought just stuck me.”

  “Well, it was a good thought.” Hawthorne laughed. “And here I was worried about the range! If he can’t aim the damn thing, it’s just as well that it will only go two hundred feet! Imagine the havoc it could do with a longer range!” He looked out the train window and pointed. They were just passing the Oyster Bay station. “He might have set fire to the President’s home on Sagamore Hill!”

  “Wouldn’t that have taken the cake, sir? But what are you going to recommend about Mr. Tesla’s machine? It might still have some value.”

  “Yes, it might, I suppose.”

  “When they first invented gunpowder, they must have had all sorts of problems making it an effective weapon.”

  “True. Well, I’ll tell the general what we saw today. He can decide if we keep funding it.”

  “Mr. Tesla’s device might not be practical out in the field, but maybe it could be installed as part of some permanent defenses, sir. That way it could draw its power from some big generator.”

  “Yes, that’s a possibility.” Hawthorne looked at him. “So how do you like being a first lieutenant, Andy?”

  “Sir? It’s great, sir, thanks for putting it through.” It was rather nice. He was quite proud of those silver bars on his uniform. The extra pay was very nice, too. Hawthorne was sporting new insignia of his own: the eagles of a full colonel.

  With the threat of a new invasion, the President’s Preparedness Movement had roared back to life. Congress had authorized an expansion of the Regular Army and the mobilization of the National Guard along with the funds to train and equip them. This had led to a wave of promotions throughout the army to provide the officers needed for the new formations, but that was not enough and many more officers would be needed. A large training camp had been constructed in Plattsburg, New York to train new officers. It had been set up by private individuals, but the army had agreed to make use of what it turned out. Two of President Roosevelt’s own sons were currently there.