The Great Martian War

by Scott Washburn

  “So what do we do, Major?” Andrew turned and saw that Lieutenant Robert Frye and some of the other men had come up behind him. Frye was part of the little team that had been given to him for this mission. It included an ordnance sergeant named McGill and twenty additional enlisted men. They had easily caught up with the tank convoy and had been accompanying it ever since.

  So what were they going to do? Good question. The information he had was that the expedition assembling at Santa Fe had been put under the command of General Samuel S. Sumner. Sumner had a reputation as a fire-eater and he doubted that he’d delay his advance to wait for the steam tanks. Andrew had been given two missions: observe and report on how the steam tanks performed and also try to salvage any Martian devices that might fall into their hands during the campaign. Clearly, the second part was more important and he had to be there, with Sumner’s force, to do that.

  “Sir?” persisted Frye.

  Okay, you’re a major now! Time to make some decisions, kid!

  “Lieutenant, I am detaching you and two enlisted men to stay with the tanks. You will accompany them wherever they go, making a complete record of any and all problems you observe. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir, but…”

  “I will take Sergeant McGill and the rest of the men ahead to join General Sumner’s force. We will rendezvous there when you arrive with the tanks. Understood?”

  “Y-yes, sir.” Frye didn’t look too happy with his orders, but that was just too damn bad.

  “Good. Sergeant McGill, round up the men. We’re moving out.”

  * * * * *

  December, 1908, Quemado Lake, New Mexico Territory

  The dogs woke her up.

  A half dozen of them were barking madly in the distance and Rebecca jerked awake in her bed. She pushed the curtains on the window aside and looked out. It must be nearly dawn, she thought blearily. The horizon was all streaked with red. Red? But my window looks south! Not east!

  That thought had just penetrated when there was a pounding on her door. Her father shouted through it: “Becca! Get up! Get dressed!” She fell out of her bed and started fumbling for her clothes in the red-tinted light coming through the window. Underthings, shirt, jeans, boots; she pulled on her heavy leather coat and grabbed a hat and then went out the door. Her mother and grandmother were already up with a few lighted lanterns. They were gathering piles of things and setting them on the table. Her father dashed past and out the door with a rifle in his hand. “Get the buckboard loaded! I’ll be back!”

  “Becca!” cried her mother. “Get the horse for the buckboard!”

  Fully awake now, she sprinted for the stables. The dogs were still barking and there were people shouting and the growing sound of frightened cattle and horses. There was a smell of smoke in the air and she realized the red glow was from a fire—a big one. She threw open the doors and grabbed the first horse she came to, an even-tempered roan named Sandy. She led it back to where the women were throwing things into the buckboard. In the distance she heard a rifle shot and then a bunch more. Sandy’s even temper disappeared abruptly and it took all three of the women to get her harnessed up. As soon as they were finished, she ran back to the stables.

  “Becca! Come back!” screamed her mother.

  “I need to get Ninny!” She dashed inside and opened all the stalls she came to until she found Ninny. Fortunately, the saddle and blanket were right there and she threw them up on the horse in one motion. Loud rumbles were coming from outside, followed by shouts that now sounded like screams. She hurried. Ninny was snorting in alarm and trying to follow the other horses out of the stable, but Rebecca kept him under control and got the saddle and tack into place and then led him out.

  The world was on fire.

  The trees on the hill across the lake were burning, the flames reflecting off the water. As she watched in horror, the Jensen place exploded, bits of the house tumbling across the dark sky, leaving fiery tracks. Closer at hand, the roof of the long shed where the hands lived was blazing. Small, dark shapes fled in all directions. The pasture itself seemed to be ablaze. Smoke stung her eyes and her lungs as a terrible roaring filled her ears.

  And in the midst of the fire, tall dark shapes were moving. Nightmare shapes; half ogre and half spider. They strode on long, thin legs with a strange but rapid gait. There was one down the lake by the Jensens’, two more out in the pasture, and maybe another one on the hill. Flames erupted wherever they went.

  Someone, one of the hands, she thought, galloped past, screaming something at the top of his lungs. Horses and cattle, neighing and bellowing, thundered along after him. But where was her father? He’d gone out with his gun, those shots…where was he?

  “Rebecca!”

  A shrill cry pierced the other noise and she saw her mother standing in the buckboard, waving frantically at her. Shaking off her paralysis, she leaped into the saddle and urged Ninny forward. But the horse only went a few paces before it stopped and reared. Another shape had appeared; right on the road leading around the lake—right in path of where they wanted to go! The glowing red eye in the center of its head seemed to be staring right at her.

  A bright light sprang from one of its arms. The light struck the far end of the house, which erupted in flames. The light swept down the length of her home, turning it into an inferno in seconds. But the light didn’t stop there; it swept onward—toward the buckboard and…

  “Ma! Grandma!”

  For an instant the buckboard, the horse, and the two women were silhouetted in flames; then they melted, dissolved into nothing, and only the fire remained.

  Rebecca screamed and screamed.

  Suddenly, a hundred cattle were all around her, stampeding in terror. Ninny was pulled along with them—right toward the shape! Rebecca, sobbing hysterically, yanked on the reins desperately, trying to get out of the herd, to turn aside before the shape melted her, too! A cow slammed into Ninny’s side and the horse stumbled and nearly fell, but somehow he recovered and they were free of the stampede. The slopes of Escondido Mountain rose up in front of her, seemingly the only thing left in the world that wasn’t on fire. It was steep and rough and no place to take a horse, but there was no choice; no choice at all.

  “Go on!” she cried, digging her heels into the horse’s flanks. Ninny needed no urging; he wanted out as badly as she did. He surged forward and up the slope. Trees closed in around them, blocking out most of the red light from the fire. What did leak through made it harder to see, not easier. Patches of red and inky black shadows, splattered in random shapes like spilled paint, turned the familiar into nightmares. Low branches nearly knocked her out of her saddle more than once, but somehow she hung on and somehow Ninny kept going. The roar of the fire slowly faded, but clouds of choking smoke drifted up the mountainside. The smell… not just burning wood… burning flesh. Rebecca nearly vomited.

  Finally, Ninny came to a halt, wheezing and shaking. Rebecca was shaking, too, her throat raw from the smoke and from her screams. She dared to look back. They were in a small clearing and she could look down the mountain. She was amazed at how high they were. The lake and the valley were far below. She couldn’t see anything much because of the smoke, but the red glow was still there. Swiveling her head around, she could see the first faint traces of the true dawn off to the southeast.

  She was gasping for breath and still crying. Her mother! Grandma! They had… they had burned up! Just like Star! And her father; where was he? Dead like the others? Burned up just like them? The numbing awareness that she was completely alone filled her. Everything, her whole world, was gone.

  “Oh, Ninny, what am I going to do?” she moaned. Ninny didn’t answer. “We have to get away! Away from here!”

  She let Ninny rest for a little while longer and then they headed the only way to go—north.

  * * * * *

  December, 1908, Washington, D.C.

  “Mr. President, the Prime Minister and His Majesty share your concerns, but unti
l the situation becomes clearer, they cannot authorize the release of any forces from the home islands. I’m sorry.”

  Major General Leonard Wood sat in his usual spot in Roosevelt’s office and watched the British ambassador, James Bryce, 1st Viscount Bryce, tell Theodore that he couldn’t have what he wanted—something few people dared to do. But not only did Bryce represent the most powerful empire in the world, he was also an old friend of Roosevelt’s.

  “Damn it, James,” said Roosevelt, clearly annoyed, “there hasn’t been a single landing in the British Isles, have there?”

  “None that we know of, no.”

  “And with that tiny little postage stamp of an island you live on, it’s hard to believe any could have landed without your noticing! Nearly all the scientists agree that there won’t be another wave of cylinders for over a year. England is safe and so is all of Europe from what it seems. You, the French, and the Germans have militaries that dwarf all the rest of the world combined; it makes no sense to have them all sitting idle!”

  “Theodore,” said Bryce, “you have to realize I can’t speak for the French or the Germans. And while Britain has a powerful navy, our army is relatively small. And we already have enormous overseas responsibilities. South Africa, India, and Australia are all in danger, to say nothing of Suez! The canal must be kept open.”

  “Well, what about Canada? You’re responsible for that, too, aren’t you? Our forces are already stretched too thin. We can’t push west and guard our northern flank at the same time. Can’t you send some help to Canada?”

  “There have been no confirmed landings in Canada,” observed Bryce.

  “The railroad and telegraph to the Pacific have been cut, haven’t they?”

  “Could just be the weather. Happens about two winters out of three.”

  “So you’ll do nothing?” demanded Roosevelt, looking angrier than ever. “After all we did to help you after the first invasion?”

  Now Bryce looked peeved. “It’s a little early to be accusing us of ingratitude, Theodore. England owes a debt to America, what with the help you gave us after the first invasion, and we all realize that. But it makes no sense to send our forces haring off around the globe until we are sure where the main threat lies. We have confirmed sightings in Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and Australia. While you aren’t sure if any Martians have even landed in North America yet. The rumors of landings in Central and South America may be nothing more than that: rumors. Perhaps the Martians are ignoring the Western Hemisphere.”

  “We expect to have confirmation of the New Mexico sightings within a few days,” said Wood.

  “And you’ve sent a substantial force to deal with it, I understand.”

  “Hardly substantial!” snapped the President. “A couple of brigades and some artillery; all we could get there quickly in this weather.”

  “Should be enough,” said Bryce with a wave of his hand. The man was in his seventies with thick white hair and a patriarchal air. He was clearly very fond of Roosevelt and respected him, but they were from different generations. “You know, we were horribly unprepared for the first invasion, but in spite of that, we did manage to destroy five of their damned machines before they succumbed to the microbes. Five out of thirty. Our generals have determined that given another month we probably would have gotten them all, germs or no germs. Your forces are vastly better prepared, Theodore, they’ll do fine.” He rose from his chair. “I have to go. But don’t worry, once we have a better picture of what’s happening, His Majesty’s Government will send whatever aid we can.” They shook hands and Bryce left.

  “Well, that was disappointing,” said Roosevelt.

  “But not really unexpected,” replied Wood. “And he does have a point: until we know where they really are and what they’re threatening, it’s risky to deploy forces.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, and I shouldn’t have expected too much. And it’s true the British Army isn’t much bigger than our own—if you discount their colonial troops. The ones we really need to help are the French and Germans!”

  “Have you talked to their ambassadors?”

  “Root did. And they were the same charming fellows they always are. They did offer to help, but I don’t know if we can trust them.”

  “The Caribbean?”

  “Yes, and Mexico, damn them. Jusserand says that France might be willing to send an expedition to Mexico to ‘shore up our southern flank’. Von Bernstorff was practically drooling over the prospect of sending troops to Venezuela. We almost went to war with the Germans in ‘02 over Venezuela! And now they want us to invite them back!”

  “We may have to take them up on it, Theodore. I can’t see us having the resources to send armies to South America. Not for a long time, anyway. There might be a few hard years coming up for the Monroe Doctrine.” Wood stopped and then laughed. “Ha! I hadn’t thought of that: the Martians are clearly in violation of the Monroe Doctrine!”

  Roosevelt laughed, too. “Yes! The rascals are in real trouble now!” The President quickly became serious again. “French and German help would be wonderful, but I wish we could get them to commit their strength somewhere else.”

  “Like where?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Africa, the Middle East; somewhere that would free up British resources. I’d feel a lot better about the British coming west than them.”

  “Ah, so you’d rather they threaten British interests?”

  “Of course.” Roosevelt smiled. “But as for us sending forces south, I’m afraid that we will have to send some. There is one absolutely vital spot that we must hold on to down there.”

  “Panama?”

  “Yes. If the Martians are landing in our heartland, we have to face the prospect that they could cut the east-west rail lines. If that happens, we must have the canal.”

  “Theodore, it’s not finished yet. It’s got what? Another five years by the schedule?”

  “We are going to get it done in three, Leonard. The war funding bill I’ve sent to Congress doubles expenditures on the canal. It is a vital war resource. And we must protect the site in the meantime. I’m ordering the Navy to send its biggest ships—the ones that will be of no use on the rivers—down there. Once we have ships on both sides, their guns can control practically the entire length. We’ll be sending more troops, as well. And guns. We’ll fortify the whole region.”

  Wood raised his eyebrows. “Will Congress approve something that ambitious? They’re still balking at any sort of conscription act. I mean, there hasn’t been a shot fired yet.”

  Roosevelt walked over to one of the huge maps that covered one wall of his office. He put his finger on a part of New Mexico.

  “The shooting is going to start very soon.”

  * * * * *

  December, 1908, San Lorenzo, New Mexico Territory

  The bugle woke up Sergeant Frank Dolfen. He groaned and painfully crawled out of his tiny dog tent. He’d pitched it on the lee side of the old mission where they’d halted the day before, so he’d had some protection from the wind, but he was still thoroughly chilled. He stood up, shivering, and stamped his feet and flapped his arms to try and warm up. It didn’t work. He shuffled over to one of the fires and tried to absorb some of the heat. That didn’t work, either. Damn, it was cold! There was frost on the ground and it covered the tents. More men began clustering around the fires and they scrounged for firewood to build them up higher. Coffee was soon boiling and Dolfen got his tin cup and filled it with the scalding black liquid. Ah! Now that helped a bit! The warmth travelled out from his belly and he stopped shivering. He let the men warm up and then had them fall in for morning roll call. With numb fingers he filled in the roster book with a pencil. He reported the results to the orderly sergeant, who would fill out the morning report for the troop and give it to the adjutant. It was a routine they’d all done thousands of times before and it didn’t change even when hunting Martians.

  They’d been moving too fast for cook wagons to f
ollow, so they were left to their own devices for cooking meals. Hard tack and some bacon had to do for breakfast. When he’d first joined the army, the veterans joked that the cracker-like hard tack was left-over from the Civil War. Sometimes Dolfen thought that was still the case. A man could break a tooth on some of that stuff. They had some of the new canned rations, but they usually saved those for supper. They were a little better, but not much.

  He had just finished a visit to the hastily dug sinks when the bugler sounded Sergeants Call, and he hurried over to the squadron command tent. Captain Bonilla was there with all the 1st Squadron’s officers and he led the whole lot of them to the regimental headquarters where all the officers and sergeants of the 2nd Squadron were assembling, too. The colonel had them gather around so they could all hear. “Morning gentlemen.”

  “Morning, sir!”

  “All right, the easy part is over. From this point, heading south, we will be entering the area where the experts think the Martians may have landed. We are going to have to spread out to cover the widest front that we can manage. So, starting today, the 1st Squadron will deploy to the east, and the 2nd Squadron to the west. I want about a mile between each squad, so the squads near the end of the line will have the most riding to do. Each morning we will stretch out the line and each afternoon we will pull it back in again. Each troop will form its own camp. With the extension and contractions, we’ll probably only advance about fifteen miles a day. Regimental headquarters will be in the center and I’ll expect to receive reports from each troop each day. Understood?” Everyone made affirmative noises.