The Great Martian War

by Scott Washburn

  “Wow!” cried Frye. “That got ‘em!”

  * * * * *

  Cycle597,843.6, East of Holdfast 32-1

  Qetjnegartis was looking right at Gndercal’s machine when it exploded. The power cells. Each fighting machine was powered by two enormously efficient power cells. A single charging could power a machine for nearly a quarter of a cycle of normal activity. They had numerous safeguards to harmlessly discharge them into the ground in the event of serious damage. No system was foolproof and if the damage was catastrophic, the cells could discharge instantaneously—causing a massive explosion like had just happened. Not only had Gndercal been vaporized, but Javlnadrap’s machine had been wrecked by the blast. No matter that several of the prey-creatures’ machines and many more of the individual creatures had also been destroyed in the blast, this was still a disaster. With its own machine weaponless and Purlintas’ unable to control its movement, that left only Hlaknadar fit for battle—and its machine was damaged too.

  “This battle is lost, Commander,” said Hlaknadar. “You must escape. We will cover your retreat.”

  “But…”

  “It is the only logical choice! But you must move now!” As if to emphasize the message, another projectile slammed into its machine.

  And there was no denying the logic.

  “Very well. Your memories will be honored.”

  “Go now!”

  Qetjnegartis sent its machine west at maximum speed.

  * * * * *

  March, 1909, West of Prewitt, New Mexico Territory

  Andrew watched as the last tripod collapsed to the ground under the fire of the tanks. Only a single tripod had managed to escape, scuttling over the ridge like some frightened crab. It was far too fast for the tanks to catch—even if they could avoid breaking down.

  The firing slowly died away but the cheers went on and on. The infantry rose up from their hiding places and whooped and tossed their helmets and even their rifles into the air. The tank crewmen climbed out of their metal boxes and stood on top and waved their arms. Only the cavalry seemed to have any business left and several squadrons went over the ridge in pursuit of the lone survivor. Andrew remembered what had happened the last time they thought they’d won a battle, but this time it was really true and the cavalry did not come fleeing back.

  He numbly realized that he did have things he ought to be doing. He needed to secure the wrecked Martian machines and check for any survivors, collect any important wreckage and arrange for its shipment, interview the tank crewmen to get their impressions while they were still fresh… a dozen other things.

  But he was so tired he could barely keep from falling out of the saddle of his requisitioned horse. He couldn’t remember when he had last slept. So he sat there, ignoring Lieutenant Frye’s excited babbling as his eyes kept trying to close of their own accord. He was only able to rouse himself when Sergeant McGill and the rest of his men slowly gathered around. Sergeant Dolfen showed up, too, leading his small band of troopers and civilians. The girl still had her crazy horse, he noted, but Bill White was gone; off to file his story, no doubt. He looked down at his exhausted, filthy men and realized he couldn’t ask any more of them for this day. They had all done enough.

  “Sergeant McGill.”

  “Sir?”

  “Let’s find some food and a place to sleep, shall we?”

  “Very good, sir!”

  Chapter Twelve

  April, 1909, Washington, D.C.

  “So, you are all convinced that this is not some new landing, gentlemen?” asked General Leonard Wood, Chief of Staff of the United States Army. He looked around at the other officers in the meeting room.

  “Yes, sir,” replied his senior aide. “While the cylinder was largely intact, there was damage to the exterior that could not be reconciled with its landing. Some of the scientists are suggesting that it was caused by a collision with a meteorite in space. This may have knocked it into a new elongated orbit which only brought it down in Tennessee. So the consensus is that this is some errant cylinder from the main invasion, not something from a new wave. No other new landings have been reported in that region or anywhere else, sir.”

  “I see. And the contents of the cylinder?”

  “Also largely intact, although all three of the Martians were dead and much of the equipment inside was damaged. Still, our people ought to be able to learn quite a lot from it.”

  “Good, good,” said Wood. “But the main thing is that we don’t have to deal with a new landing. We have a big enough job with the ones we already have.” He sighed and briefly closed his eyes. That was an understatement if ever there was one! While the New Mexico landing seemed to be contained for the moment, the one in Idaho was wreaking havoc in the northern Rockies and there was now no doubt of the existence of the long-suspected one in Alberta. Only one rail connection to the west coast was still open, the Southern Pacific line along the border, and considering the news coming out of Mexico, Wood doubted it would be open much longer. All of Mexico had been overrun except for a few cities along the coasts, and the invaders were moving into Central America. The news from South America wasn’t much better. American troops and ships had secured the Panama Canal construction area, but the place was being overrun by refugees from north and south. Many had been put to work on construction jobs, both for the canal and the new defenses being built, but thousands more were just in the way and they all needed to be fed. Some suggested they be transported to the Caribbean islands, particularly Cuba, but those places were already being deluged by waves of people escaping the mainland in any boats they could find.

  Refugees were starting to be a problem here at home, too. People from Idaho, Montana, and the Dakotas, as well as Wyoming and Utah were starting to drift east. It was only a trickle, so far, but unless a solid line of defense could be established, the trickle could quickly become a flood. And creating that defense line wasn’t going to be easy.

  Huge numbers of newly drafted men were reporting to the training camps and many thousands had already passed through those camps and reported to their units. Wood had close to half a million men ready or nearly ready to deploy. But they were terribly short of heavy weapons and the recent battles had shown that men without those weapons were useless against the Martians. And even if they had the weapons, the problem was getting them to where the Martians were. The vast regions of the American West had few roads worthy of the name and only a few navigable rivers. Transporting and supplying armies could only be done where there were railroads. And the Martians were destroying the railroads wherever they went.

  There was some debate about whether this was a deliberate strategy or whether the enemy was using the metal in the rails as a source of raw material. But whatever the case was, it made operations against the Martians incredibly difficult. Funston had tried to follow up his recent victory, but the ‘tanks’ which were so vital could only move short distances without rail transport. Funston had tried to attack the Martian fortress without them and had been bloodily repulsed. He was now waiting on crews of railroad men to repair the tracks, but the civilian workers were leery of getting too close to the Martian stronghold. In fact, the railroad men were turning out to be a damn uncooperative bunch. Roosevelt was considering reinitiating the US Military Railroad system which had worked so well during the Civil War, but it hadn’t happened yet.

  So Funston was stuck and the other forces which had been sent west had accomplished very little, and the Martians from the Idaho landing were getting bolder and bolder, sending a raiding force as far east as Rawlins. Wood was beginning to think that he would have to form his defensive lines in Nebraska—or even farther east. That would not sit well with a lot of people!

  He checked his pocket watch and saw that he was due at another meeting. He dismissed his staff and headed for another part of the huge State, War, & Navy Building. He had only gone a few steps down the hall when his left knee nearly buckled. Damn! Fortunately, there was no one close by
to see. Pulling himself upright, he backtracked to the small washroom attached to his office. Alone, he pulled a small bottle of chloroform out of his pocket and dabbed a small amount on a handkerchief and inhaled the fumes for a moment. The dizziness this produced passed quickly, but unfortunately the numbness in his leg was almost unaffected. Cursing again he put the bottle away. One day someone is going to catch me. The symptoms were getting worse and the chloroform treatments weren’t working anymore. He needed the operation, but when could he possibly have it done? He had a war to fight! If he became incapacitated, even his friendship with Roosevelt couldn’t prevent him from being replaced.

  Splashing some water on his face he drew himself up and slowly but deliberately made his way to the next conference. This was to hear a report from the Ordnance Department. Entering the large conference room, he was cheered by the conspicuous absence of Fred Ainsworth. The former Adjutant General was finally gone. Or almost gone. He was still hanging around Washington, agitating with political enemies of Wood’s trying to get his old position and power back. But while that might have borne him some fruit in peacetime, in wartime, few people had the patience for it. Ainsworth wouldn’t be back.

  All the officers present rose to their feet at his arrival and he shook hands with the ordnance chief, William Crozier. “Well, Bill, I understand you have quite a little tale to present to me today!”

  “Yes, sir, quite a tale indeed! But I won’t be doing the telling. It’s Major Comstock’s story and I’ll let him tell it!” He gestured forward a very young man wearing major’s leaves who came to attention and saluted.

  “At ease, Major, at ease.” He shook the man’s hand. “Let’s all sit down and hear this story.”

  The man looked nervous, but sat and began to speak. He had a stack of notes with him, but didn’t seem to be referring to them. “I had been sent west to join General Sumner’s army to observe the Martian machines and also the performance of our new tanks. When the battle near Thoreau began I was behind the center of our lines and…” Wood leaned back in his chair and listened as the young man’s story unfolded. He had read a short summary, so this wasn’t entirely new, but even so, he was amazed and impressed with what he heard. It took nearly half an hour, with no interruptions, for Comstock to finish. “After that, I returned to Washington, arriving yesterday.”

  “Well!” said Wood clearing his throat. “That’s extraordinary! Well done, Major, well done!” The young man blushed and mumbled his thanks. “I’m very impressed that after the battle was lost you decided to press on with your mission instead of retreat. That sort of gumption and initiative is all too rare.”

  “Thank you, sir, but honestly, there didn’t seem to be much choice. The area to the rear was swarming with the Martians. Going back seemed more dangerous than going ahead. And once we spotted the prisoners… well, turning back just didn’t seem right.”

  “But a dozen of you taking on—and destroying!—one of the enemy machines,” Wood shook his head. “The idea of the dynamite bombs was sheer genius; General Crozier, we must take thought about arming all of our infantry with such weapons! Right now they aren’t even cannon fodder, but with something like this, they could be effective again!”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Crozier. “We are already working on it. We ought to have something in a few months.”

  “Why so long? We have dynamite in abundance, don’t we?”

  “Yes, we do, sir, but the crude dynamite bombs that Major Comstock and his men made could be just as dangerous to our own men as the Martians, right, Major?”

  “Uh, that’s true sir, I very nearly blew myself to bits when we attacked the Martian. It was a miracle none of us were killed.”

  “We are exploring several different approaches which will be safer to use but still effective,” said Crozier.

  “I see. Well, don’t take too long; we will have need of them very shortly. But what was this other thing you said, Major, about ways to make the infantry rifles more effective?”

  “Well, you see, sir, it took about a week to get back to Washington, and I spent a lot of that time examining the remains of the Martian machines we brought with us on the train. The metal protecting their machines seems to consist of millions of tiny pieces of a hexagonal shape. They interlock into a mesh somehow, giving them great strength.” Comstock interlocked the fingers of his hands in demonstration. “I could see from the bullet spalls on the metal that our rifle and machine gun bullets were just bouncing off harmlessly. But in the spots where an artillery projectile had struck, the pattern of the mesh had been broken, which not only gouged out a section of the armor, but weakened the surrounding structure.” He twisted his hands and pulled his fingers apart. “I could see that there were smaller gouges surrounding the main gouge. I believe that these small gouges were caused by rifle fire. It appears that once the armor has been damaged, it becomes vulnerable even to the weaker weapons. Of course, those are just my own observations, sir. I’m sure our experts will have much more to say.”

  “Yes,” continued Crozier. “We are already looking at increasing the power of our rifle cartridges and producing hardened, armor-piercing bullets for our 1903 Springfields. In addition, we are looking into a new type of heavy machine gun with a point-five inch caliber.”

  “That sounds excellent, General,” said Wood. “But hurry it along! We have no time to spare!”

  “Uh, sir?” said Comstock. “I want to reemphasize the danger revealed by what I saw inside the Martian fortress. These construction machines of theirs mean that instead of having to create an entire industrial base from scratch, they’ve brought one ready-made with them! Their ability to increase their strength is far greater than we ever…”

  “Yes, Major,” said Wood, “I fully realize that. And that’s why we have to be able to strike and strike hard at the earliest possible moment!” Without thinking, he made to thump the table with his left fist, but the hand just flopped against the top like a dying fish. None of the others seemed to notice, but Wood twisted his shoulder to drag the hand back under the table. Damn! “Uh, but I’m afraid that’s all I have time for today, gentlemen. General Crozier, if you could have a full report delivered to me as soon as possible.”

  “Certainly, sir, but there were several other items I wanted…”

  “We’ll have to schedule another time, General. Oh, and Major Comstock, let me congratulate you again on your amazing accomplishments. I think there might be a medal in this for you.”

  “Thank you, sir, but…”

  Wood raised his right hand to silence the boy and carefully stood up and walked slowly out of the room, trying not to limp. I’m going to have to talk to Theodore. He’ll understand.

  * * * * *

  April, 1909, Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory

  “What will you do now, Sergeant?”

  Frank Dolfen turned his head to look at the girl walking beside him down the streets of Santa Fe. After the battle he and the other survivors of the 5th had been sent back to Albuquerque and then on to Santa Fe. The girl had somehow managed to come along—even finding space on the train for her horse. The other civilians had remained behind.

  “There’s a camp north of the city I have to report to. They’re sending all the survivors from the first battle there to reorganize. Word is that there are more than they first thought, even more men from the 5th. Don’t know what they’ll do with us. Probably use us as cadre to rebuild the regiments.”

  “What’s a… cadre?”

  “Like a foundation you can build on. Veterans who know how things are done and who can show the new recruits the ropes.”

  “Oh, I see. I bet you will do a great job, Sergeant. None of us would have made it but for you.” A motorcycle roared past them, throwing up dust. “I don’t like those things, they’re so noisy and they scare the horses.”

  Dolfen smiled. “But they don’t get tired or scared, either. Keep ‘em filled with gas and they’ll go on and on. Think how much trouble w
e would have been saved if we’d had motorcycles instead of horses.” Yeah… Motorcycle cavalry…

  “Maybe, but I’ll stick to horses, thank you.”

  “Glad you could keep yours. He seems real attached to you. Hope that livery stable you put him in takes good care of him.”

  “If they don’t, they’ll answer to me!”

  “And considering you’re the only girl in America to have killed a Martian, I can’t imagine they’ll want to get you riled up.”

  “Now you’re makin’ fun of me, Sergeant.”

  “That I am not, young lady! You’re a pistol and that’s for sure!” He paused and looked at her. “You going to be all right here? You still have the money the boys collected for you? You’ve got the address of your aunt and uncle here, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said and sighed. “I’ll go and see them a little later. God only knows what they’ll think, me looking like something the cat dragged in. I just… I just wanted to say good-bye to you first.”

  Dolfen looked at her and sincerely hoped that she wasn’t going to do something stupid like tell him she loved him or something like that. But when she didn’t, he found himself strangely disappointed. Don’t be a fool!

  “Uh… well, you know where I’ll be.”