August 1909, North of Fort Wingate, New Mexico Territory
First Sergeant Frank Dolfen was riding north in the darkness when he suddenly saw his own shadow flickering on the ground in front of him. Twisting around in his saddle, he looked back and saw the southern sky lit up with an amazing glow. Without a word of command, the entire troop came to a halt. After many long seconds a low rumble rolled across the prairie like distant thunder—except once started it never stopped.
“God!” exclaimed Corporal Urbaniak. “Will you look at that!”
“Really pulling out all the stops, ain’t they?” said Private Cordwainer. “Damn! Wish they’d let us stay back there so’s we could watch!” Some of the new recruits were chattering excitedly in Polish or Hungarian.
“All right! All right! Quit gawking and move out!” said Dolfen. “We’ve got a job to do!” The column lurched back into motion.
In truth, Dolfen was wishing the same thing as Private Cordwainer. The big attack was finally underway and here they were being sent off in the opposite direction! But orders were orders. A few frantic refugees had come into the camps yesterday babbling about Martian machines off to the north. The army had been scouting in all directions, of course, but none of the patrols had reported anything. But apparently the refugees had been convincing enough that the generals wanted to be sure. So the 5th had been ordered out. They had left in the middle of the night and were already fifteen miles north of where Gallup had once stood, passing through the tiny towns of Gamerco and Ya-Ta-Hay. Twin Lakes was just ahead. The aptly named Big Rock Hill was looming off to the right and Chuska Peak, barely visible in the dark, off to the left. They were to push north all the way to Newcomb, another thirty-five miles.
The regiment was following what passed for a road in these parts and it led steadily upward to a high plateau. Dolfen snuck a few looks back to watch the bombardment. It still seemed as intense as ever, although the flashes were being washed out by the growing dawn. Surely we’ll win this time!
The last attack had nearly worked from what he’d heard and this attack was going to be a lot stronger. The trains had been bringing in more big guns and ammunition week after week. He’d heard some officer say that it was going to be the heaviest bombardment ever fired in North America, outdoing anything in the Civil War. From what he was seeing and hearing, he could believe it.
But he wished he could be there to see it close up. The Martian stronghold ringed what had once been Gallup, New Mexico. It was the nearest town to Fort Wingate, where he’d been stationed before this all began. There’d been a bar in the town… a woman who ran it. What had become of her? From what he’d seen when he climbed the wall that had been raised, there was nothing left of the town, not a stick left standing—not even any ruins. But what had happened to the people? Had any gotten away? Had any been captured? Were any left alive there inside the enemy fortress? He wanted to find out. Well, maybe he’d get the chance later, after they took the place.
The column passed through Twin Lakes, but the two-dozen adobe houses were dark and empty. At this point the regiment started to split up. The second squadron veered east and the third west, while Dolfen, with the first squadron and the regimental headquarters, stayed on the road north. This would allow them to scout the widest possible front. The 5th had done a similar thing off to the south back when they weren’t sure if any Martians had even landed. He didn’t like to think about how that had turned out.
It was full light now and they were on the flat plateau. The battle around Gallup was lost to sight except for the cloud of dust and smoke hanging overhead, although they could still hear it. He looked around, gauging wind and sky. There was a line of clouds off to the west and he suspected they might get a storm by afternoon. A flash of red on the ground caught Dolfen’s eye in the bright morning sunshine. He looked closer and cursed. It was a small patch of that stuff, the ‘Red Weed’. Back during the first invasion, the one in England, huge clumps of it had grown up and then mostly died off again. The experts said it was some sort of plant native to Mars which had come along with the invaders. No one knew if it was a deliberate thing or if it had come accidentally with the Martians. In any case, it was an invader, too.
The stuff had been showing up here and there recently. It didn’t seem to grow nearly so fast in New Mexico’s climate as it had in England, but the order had gone out to destroy it wherever it was found. The areas around the army’s encampment had been pretty well scoured, the weed ripped up and burned—and oh how it stank! Farther out, ranchers said that their livestock wouldn’t eat it or even go near it, but they feared it might crowd out the native grass they depended on. They were doing what they could to get rid of it, but how could they clean up hundreds of thousands of square miles? Dolfen suspected that once the army destroyed all the Martians, they might still be facing years of ‘weed patrol’.
But first things first: they needed to destroy the Martians. There was no time for gardening now!
“Come on you lunks! Pick up the pace! We’ve got a long way to go!”
* * * * *
Cycle 597, 843.8, Holdfast 32-1
“Some of them are across the ramparts, Commander.”
“Yes, that was inevitable,” said Qetjnegartis. “More will follow. Zastranvis, direct the secondary line of towers to fire.”
“Yes, Commander, but so far they are making poor targets.”
Qetjnegartis and the others were waiting just behind the defense towers which quickly began firing their heat rays, sweeping them across the face and top of the ramparts. It was hard to see if they were doing any damage. So far only the foot warriors had shown themselves, but their vehicles were sure to follow soon. Enemy projectiles started to fall all around them now. One of the defense towers was hit and stopped firing. One of the spare fighting machines also took damage.
“Perhaps we should fall back,” said Ixmaderna. “Their fire will grow increasingly accurate and we have little opportunity to strike back from here.”
“Yes, soon. Let them waste time aiming their weapons here and then we will move.”
“As you say, Commander.”
Qetjnegartis could not tell if his attempt to appear calm and confident was working, but his subordinates were obeying and that was what mattered. But things were not going well. The prey-creatures’ bombardment had been truly devastating. The line of defense towers on the outer rampart in Sector 9 and the two adjacent sectors had been obliterated in a shockingly short time. Now the fire had shifted to the secondary line of towers inside the ramparts and unlike during previous attacks this was not poorly aimed or sporadic. It was intense and well directed—perhaps by the two flying machines that circled the holdfast. The enemy’s ability to fire in an arc from long range made the standard defensive tactics almost useless. It required a prodigious expenditure of resources, of course, tens of thousands of projectiles were needed, but the prey-creatures seemed to have the resources to spend.
One by one the defense towers were destroyed and when one of the spare fighting machines was crippled Qetjnegartis decided it was time to retreat. In the past few days they had constructed a small redoubt in the center of the holdfast. It was a circular rampart less than half a telequel in diameter with more defense towers on the parapet. The fighting machines quickly made their way there and took refuge inside. Qetjnegartis was pleased at how the buds were able to keep up. They were doing very well in piloting the machines. How they would do in combat remained to be seen. Once inside the redoubt they were free from the bombardment for a while - but the enemy attack continued.
“There are enemy vehicles on top of the outer rampart,” reported Zastranvis. “And more foot warriors inside of it.”
Shortly after that the enemy projectiles began to pummel the redoubt. Only a few at first, but then more and more. One of the spare fighting machines was destroyed and then Namatchgar’s machine was so badly damaged it had to transfer to one of the other spares.
“This is no good,
Commander!” said Ixmaderna. “We’re crammed into this small space and the enemy fire is even more concentrated!”
It was true, instead of the redoubt being a refuge, it was a death trap. But what to do? Help was still at least a tenthday off, maybe more. Commander Braxjandar’s predictions about their arrival time were alarmingly imprecise. Retreating again seemed the only wise choice, but it rankled to be driven like prey! Qetjnegartis longed to strike back, but to attack now into the massed strength of the enemy would be suicide. Each member of the Race was expendable—but only if their death accomplished something!
“The defense towers on the rampart in Sector 4 are still intact, Commander,” said Zastranvis. “Perhaps we could fall back to them.” Yes, the side of the holdfast directly opposite where the enemy attack had been concentrated had not been bombarded at all.
“Very well,” it said. “We will make our stand there and hold until help arrives.” They moved out immediately and quickly fell back to the far side of the redoubt. This appeared to catch the enemy by surprise because once they were out of the deadly trap no more fire bothered them for some time. They reached the rampart in Sector 4 and stopped there to await developments. Unfortunately, something developed almost at once.
“Commander,” said Zastranvis, “I have been monitoring the internal vision pick-ups inside the lower parts of the holdfast.”
“And?”
“Commander, the enemy is inside.”
* * * * *
August 1909, North of Fort Wingate, New Mexico Territory
The noise of the battle could still be clearly heard even though they were almost thirty miles away now. Dolfen remembered talking with a Civil War veteran when he was a new recruit; the man had told him that he’d been able to hear the great bombardment before Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg while he was in Lancaster - over fifty miles away. They can probably hear this in Albuquerque!
The column was just north of Tohatchi, a village that was part of the Navaho reservation. They were passing small groups of Indians fleeing south. When asked what they were running from, they just said trouble. The answers sent a chill through Dolfen. They’d gotten exactly the same answers from the Indians they’d encountered in that disastrous expedition south last fall. He exchanged looks with Corporal Urbaniak—he’d been there, too.
“Got a bad feelin’ about this, Sarge.”
“Yeah.” He nudged his horse into a faster pace and caught up with Captain DeBrosse. “Captain? If we do run into those bastards—and it seems like we might—we gotta be ready.”
“We will be,” replied DeBrosse immediately. But then he paused, looked uncertain, and said: “Uh, do you have any suggestions, First Sergeant?”
“If there are a lot of them we need to be ready to run and run fast, sir. Their damn machines aren’t quite as fast as a horse, but they don’t get tired. Given time, they can run us down. Our horses are already tired and…”
“Our job is to scout, First Sergeant. If a strong enemy force is moving against General Funston’s flank, he needs to be warned.”
“I understand that, sir, and it was a good idea of the colonel’s to drop off squads along the way behind us to rest their horses so they can relay messages back at a gallop, but that won’t do the rest of us any good if we’re caught out here.”
The captain was silent for a few moments. “What can we do that we’re not already?”
“We should stop the squadron here and let our scouts get farther ahead, sir. With the pace we’ve been pushing, they’re scarcely a mile in front of us—hell, I can see them from here! We need to rest our horses a bit so if we have to run we can do it.”
“I… I’ll suggest that to the colonel. Thank you, First Sergeant.”
“But…”
“Thank you, First Sergeant.”
Dolfen realized there was no point in arguing further. He nodded to DeBrosse and then fell back.
“Well?” asked Urbaniak when he drew abreast.
“The Young Napoleon is gonna talk with the colonel.”
Urbaniak snorted and then spat. “Think he’ll listen?”
“He might.” The colonel of the regiment was new, too, but at least he was a regular. As he watched, DeBrosse rode to where the colonel and his staff were clustered. They appeared to be talking, but there was no way to tell what was being said. But after a minute or two a bugler sounded the halt.
“Well I’ll be damned,” said Urbaniak.
“Yeah. I’m surprised that… hey… wait…” There was a sudden flurry of activity around the command group. What was going on…?
“Sarge!” cried Urbaniak. “Look out there! To the right of those cliffs! Are those…?”
“Oh, hell!” Some objects had moved into view from around the edge of Chuska Ridge. They looked way too familiar. Dolfen fumbled out a pair of field glasses he’d bought for himself when he became first sergeant. He trained them, focused them, looked. “Hell!” he said again.
“Martians?”
“Yeah.” He licked his suddenly dry lips and resisted the urge to reach for his canteen—or the flask he always carried.
“How many?”
He was counting. Seven, eight, nine…
“Fifteen.”
“Oh, shit!”
* * * * *
August 1909, Near Fort Wingate, New Mexico Territory
“It’s just some cracked ribs, Private,” said Rebecca Harding. “You’re going to be fine. We’ll get you wrapped up. How’d this happen?”
“Ooh,” groaned the soldier. “M’own damn fault, miss, didn’t get out of the way quick enough and the recoil caught me.”
“Artillery?”
“Yeah, 104th Field Artillery. Damn, what a stupid thing t’do! Beggin’ your pardon, miss.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Becca. She wrapped the bandages around the man’s torso and then sent him off to one of the wards. She looked around for new patients, but there weren’t any at present. So far things had been pretty quiet in the hospital. The guns continued to roar in the distance, but casualties had been light and almost entirely accidents involving the artillery. The men tried to fire the big guns so quickly—sometimes too quickly. Aside from the cracked ribs, they’d had two broken arms, a dislocated shoulder, and one poor guy who’d lost three fingers to a howitzer’s breech block. About average, really.
But it was only a matter of time before a lot worse started coming in. She wasn’t sure which she hated more, the burns or the dust casualties. A person caught fully by a heat ray was reduced to ash and was beyond any help, but sometimes a man would only be grazed by the ray. An arm or a leg would be burned—sometimes burned completely off—or the man’s clothing would catch fire producing less severe burns, but all over. They were awful for the victim and difficult to treat effectively. Burn patients filled entire wards back in Santa Fe. But if the man managed to survive for a week or two they usually recovered.
Dust casualties, though…
The black dust the Martians sometimes used was fiendish. A man who inhaled a lot of it was dead in minutes and never reached the hospital. Someone who breathed in just a few grains was just as dead, but it could take them days or weeks to die. The stuff literally dissolved the victim’s lungs and no one ever recovered. She remembered one man back in Santa Fe who looked like he was going to be the exception. He’d been brought in and put in the special ward for dust casualties and after nearly a month he appeared to be recovering. And then one afternoon he suddenly started coughing up blood and was dead in an hour.
Getting the stuff on your skin wasn’t quite so deadly, but it was far more ghastly. It dissolved skin and muscle just like it would dissolve lungs. A single grain would start burning its way into a person and left untreated it could melt a chunk the size of a fist. And that was just one grain. A lot of them could burn off an arm or a leg or a face in short order. The best treatment, oddly enough, was alcohol. Pure grain alcohol would dilute the dust and it could be sluiced away. But it
took quite a lot because just a little only liquefied the dust into a solution which still worked like acid. There had been attempts to supply the troops with alcohol for first aid, but inevitably it had found its way into the soldiers’ stomachs instead of onto dust wounds. If no alcohol was available, then heat would also work. Steam or fire would stop it—but obviously with serious pain and damage to the patient. Water could wash the dust away, but only if used instantly. Once the grains started burning into you, water was useless.
The soldiers—the nurses, too, for that matter—had been equipped with dust masks to protect the face and lungs, and gloves and leggings to keep the dust off their skin. But they were only partially effective at best. A person caught full in a dust cloud would be so covered with the stuff that it was nearly impossible for them to get out of their clothes without getting some of it on them—or in them. They had set up a facility where soldiers could be cleaned off with controlled blasts of steam, but it didn’t seem to work all that well. And a dust-covered soldier was a menace to everyone around them. Becca had heard stories of men being shot by their own friends—whether out of mercy or fear, she wasn’t sure.
The only bright spot about the dust was that once exposed to air and sun it did seem to break down pretty quickly. After a few days an area which had been covered in it wasn’t dangerous anymore. Sometimes badly covered soldiers could just sit down and wait it out. And the Martians didn’t seem to be using it so much lately; maybe they were running out. She hoped there wouldn’t be any dust victims today.
Confirming that there was no immediate work to be done, Becca went outside the tent and looked to the west. The guns were still firing, perhaps not quite so quickly as before, but the sun was well up in the sky now and it seemed like they’d been firing forever. She walked over to one of the ambulance drivers, a man she knew named Simms, and asked: “Any word about what’s happenin’?”
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