Breakthrough

by Scott H Washburn

  One train was filled and moved out, east toward Albuquerque. Becca looked in disgust as dozens of able-bodied men jumped on board as it gathered speed. She helped put another stretcher onto the second train, but that was the last of this first load and there was still plenty of room on the train for more. “All right!” cried Miss Chumley, “Back to the hospital! There are still some men there!”

  “Wait!” said one of the surgeons, a captain. “Nurse, maybe you and your ladies should get aboard this train now… just in case.”

  Chumley was having none of that. “Doctor, you are going to need every hand. Come on, girls!” They boarded the ambulances and wagons and turned them around. Becca leapt up and took the reins of one of them; she’d been driving wagons since she was a child. Another nurse, Clarissa Forester, climbed up beside her.

  As they headed west, through the enormous stacks of supplies around the railhead, they began to encounter men, individuals and small groups, heading the other way. Some of them shouted when they saw the nurses and urged them to turn around. The Martians are coming! they cried. But most said nothing.

  Far ahead of them the roar of battle continued and the clouds of gun smoke still drifted overhead. But now the cannon fire seemed to take on a more frantic note and it was punctuated by louder explosions and new columns of smoke rose up, tinged with flame. And then she heard it: that awful, awful sound of the Martian heat rays.

  “There they are!” shouted one of the ambulance drivers, pointing. Becca looked and yes, there, maybe a mile off, a dark nightmare shape stalked through the smoke. A heat ray stabbed out like a striking snake, staining the smoke clouds red, and another explosion billowed up, bits of debris spinning off in all directions. The smoke thinned for a moment and she could see a half-dozen others farther away. Some of the ambulance drivers reined in their teams.

  “Come on!” screamed Becca. “Come on!” She lashed her own team and the wagon rumbled forward. Most of the others followed - but not all.

  More men were streaming to the rear now. Suddenly one of them jumped up next to her and tried to grab the reins. “Yer goin’ the wrong way, girl! Turn round!” Three others clambered in the back.

  “This is for the wounded!” she snapped.

  “T’hell with the wounded! Turn round!” He jerked the reins out of her hands.

  Without a thought, her revolver was out of her pocket, and the barrel shoved into the man’s face. She thumbed back the hammer. “Get off! Get off or you’ll die right here!” The man was so startled he slid sideways on the seat and fell off the wagon and landed on his back in the dirt. She swung the pistol around at the other men. “Get off!” None of them even had a weapon. They goggled at her for a second and then bolted. The other man scrambled up and ran after them.

  “God in Heaven!” gasped Forester. “Would you really have shot him?”

  “Damn right I would!” Becca recovered the reins and the horses moved out. A few minutes brought them to the hospital. They posted some guards to make sure their vehicles didn’t get taken and the others, men and women together, ran into the tents and brought out the rest of the wounded. Becca helped carry one stretcher and then went back for a second. The noise of the heat rays was getting closer. She deposited the second man and then ran back to look for more. Clarissa screamed at her: “Hurry! For God’s sake hurry! They’re getting closer!”

  Becca dashed into one tent, but it was empty. She moved on to another. It was empty, too. Wait! What was that? Someone - or something - was screaming, it was an animal howl of sheer terror. Where…? Then she noticed an area at the back of the tent that had been screened off with cloth drapes. The noise was coming from there. She ran over and yanked the drapes aside.

  A man - that man - was lying there, still tied to the stretcher. He was thrashing frantically, trying to get loose and howling. When he saw her he stopped and cried: “Please! Don’t let them get me! Not again!” He resumed his thrashing.

  “Calm down! I’ll cut you loose!” She had a small pocket knife and she pulled it open and slashed the ropes holding him. “Come on! We have to go!” The man lurched up but immediately fell. He got up, staggered a few yards and fell again. Becca grabbed his arm and pulled it over her shoulders and hauled him to his feet. They emerged from the tent - and froze.

  A tripod was there. It was two or three hundred yards away, but to Becca it looked like it was standing right over her. The man’s legs gave way underneath him and he slumped to the ground, whimpering. Then the Martian fired its heat ray and it swung the beam of destruction in an arc that started to her left and moved toward her. Tents and stacks of supplies dissolved in flames that leapt skyward. The ray came within fifty yards of her and she could feel the heat on her face, but then it swung on past and receded again, leaving a blazing ruin in its wake.

  “Rebecca!” shrieked Forester. “Come on!”

  She couldn’t seem to force her limbs to move. But then the Martian machine turned and started to move away. She sucked in her breath and pulled the man to his feet again. They stumbled toward the wagon and dragged themselves aboard. The man tumbled into the back among several of the wounded and she let him lie. Forester was staring to the west, her eyes wide. “They… they’re going away! Why?”

  Becca grabbed the reins and turned the wagon around. She glanced back at the retreating Martians. No, they weren’t retreating. “They’re going after the rest of the army.”

  The wagon lurched and rumbled along, trying to catch up with the ambulances, but they only caught up when they reached the railhead.

  The empty railhead.

  “They left without us!” cried Forester. It was true, the other train was gone. “What do we do now?”

  Rebecca was too dazed to think. But Miss Chumley was there and she instantly took charge. “All right! There’s no train so we’ll have to use the wagons! We might be out here a few days, so we need some supplies. You girls look through those stacks of crates and find some rations. Find water, too. Move!”

  It was done quickly and fortunately everything they needed was close at hand. Within five minutes they were on the move again. There were crowds of fleeing soldiers all around, but the nurses kept their pistols drawn and no one tried to commandeer their vehicles.

  Becca looked back from time to time, but all she could see was the burning camps and supply dumps. She kept expecting to see Martians in pursuit, but there was nothing but the smoke. After a while the road passed around an out-thrust spur of the mountains to the south and the camps were lost to sight.

  “Where are we going now?” asked Forester.

  “Albuquerque, I guess.”

  * * * * *

  Cycle 597,843.8, Holdfast 32-1

  Qetjnegartis switched off the heat ray as the prey-creature vehicle exploded in a cloud of smoke and steam. It looked for new targets but didn’t find any. Was that the last of them?

  “Progenitor, is the battle over?” asked Davnitargus. Qetjnegartis was very pleased that the bud had survived.

  “I believe so. You performed very well.”

  “Did I? I tried my best, but I fear I contributed little.”

  “Compared to the adults, perhaps not, but that is to be expected. For one so inexperienced in so desperate a fight, you did well.”

  “It is unfortunate that Zastranvis and its bud were slain. We have suffered much loss.”

  “Yes.” Much loss indeed. Two members of the clan slain, another wounded, and a dozen fighting machines destroyed or damaged. And the holdfast badly damaged. How badly remained to be seen. And if the prey-creatures were still loose inside the underground chambers…

  “Something approaches!” said Davnitargus urgently.

  Qetjnegartis tensed and prepared to activate the heat ray. More of the miserable creatures? How much longer would this go on? But then it checked the tactical display and relaxed. “They are friends.”

  Through the clouds of smoke that still rolled over the area, six fighting machines appeared. They walke
d up to Qetjnegartis and halted. The communicator came to life and Braxjandar spoke. “So you still live, Qetjnegartis?”

  “Greetings, Commander Braxjandar, with your help we have won a victory this day.”

  “The prey-creature army has been broken. All the large projectile throwers and all their fighting vehicles have been destroyed. Several hundred of the creatures have taken refuge in the small redoubt in the center of your holdfast. I have posted guards so they cannot escape.”

  “They will provide useful sustenance,” said Qetjnegartis. “My thanks.”

  “The rest of them are fleeing east. They should trouble you no more.”

  “The prey-creatures have shown surprising resilience. They recover from defeats quickly. If reinforcements arrive for them, they may be back. Perhaps if you would pursue them for a time…”

  “Pursue them!” said Braxjandar, anger in its voice. “I have lost two of my people killed today! Another very badly wounded! Four of my machines were wrecked and all the rest damaged! And now you plead with us to pursue!”

  “Then you can now see how dangerous these creatures are. We should not underestimate…”

  “I have saved you from shame and destruction this day, Qetjnegartis! You dare ask no more. My people and I will remain here for one day and then depart. We have affairs of our own to attend to. Reinforcements are on the way from the Homeworld. If you cannot defend yourself until they arrive then perhaps you don’t deserve to survive! I have nothing more to say to you.” Braxjandar turned its machine and strode away.

  “So be it,” said Qetjnegartis, spreading half its tendrils in resignation.

  * * * * *

  August 1909, Near of Fort Wingate, New Mexico Territory

  First Sergeant Frank Dolfen guided his weary horse through the remains of the army’s encampments. There were still fires burning, but the first drops of rain from the storm he’d seen building earlier were starting to fall. The smell of burned canvas, burned wood, and burned flesh was everywhere. There weren’t many bodies; the heat rays didn’t leave much in its wake, but the smell told that there had once been living bodies here.

  In fact, there were still some living bodies here. Men who had somehow escaped the disaster kept emerging from hiding places or drifting back from the direction of the Martian fortress. There had been thousands streaming to the rear in the beginning, but it had dwindled to just a trickle now. Dolfen told each one he encountered to just keep moving.

  “Not much more for us to do here, I’m thinking, Sarge,” said Corporal Urbaniak. “Still no sign of the lieutenant or the captain. Guess that means you’re in charge.”

  “They’ll probably turn up. Everyone’s scattered to hell and gone. But it doesn’t look like the Martians are going to come after us.” Not that there’s anything we could do if they did. The cavalry’s utter impotence—again—was like a heavy weight on him.

  “Wonder why? They’ve got us beat.”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Come on, let’s get moving.” They called in the other men of the troop, who had been spread out as a rear guard, and then headed east. Their path took them through the field hospital. The tents were still standing but the place was deserted. Sure hope Becca got out okay.

  As they neared the railhead they disturbed groups of men who were breaking open crates and boxes. Looters? What in the world could they possibly find that would be worth anything now?

  “You idiots better get movin’!” shouted Urbaniak. “Nothin’ between you and the Martians now!” Some took his advice, others kept looking.

  Dolfen found that he was bone-weary. It had been a very long and very bad day. Even if his equally weary horse had been capable of any pace faster than a walk, he didn’t think he was. The rain was heavier now and he pulled his gum blanket out of the saddle bag and wrapped it around him. Flickers of lighting lit the sky, but the following thunder seemed puny compared to the roars that had filled the day earlier.

  “So now what, Sarge?” asked Urbaniak. “What th’hell do we do now?”

  “Dunno. Guess we go back, refit the army, and try again.”

  Chapter Six

  September 1909, 70 miles east of Isla de Cozumel

  The U.S.S. Mayflower was a commissioned warship in the United States Navy. She was 273 feet long, 36 feet wide, displaced 2,700 tons, could cruise at 17 knots, mounted a half-dozen six-pound cannon, and had a crew of about 170. But she was also the President of the United States’ yacht. She boasted two white and gold reception rooms, a wine cellar, silk paneled walls, a galley fit for a gourmet chef, and a solid marble bath. When the President and his entourage were aboard the compliment would swell to two hundred.

  Two hundred and two.

  Andrew Comstock carefully slipped out of bed without waking Victoria. His bride had been having trouble with seasickness and this had been the first night she’d slept soundly. He quickly dressed in his lightweight tropical ‘whites’ and went out the bedroom door. He could still hardly believe that he was here on the Mayflower or that the President had given Victoria and him the large cabin he would normally occupy! That solid marble bath was theirs for the journey, not his!

  A set of double doors opened out onto the rear area of the ship. He guessed it was technically called the ‘poop deck’ or some such thing. He was still a bit confused by naval terminology. It was enclosed with polished brass railings and the American flag—the ensign—was on its pole at the stern, flapping in the breeze caused by the ship’s passage. The upper deck, which was also the roof of their stateroom, ended just behind him and a six-pounder cannon was mounted on each corner, the brass fittings on the guns polished as brightly as everything else on the ship.

  It wasn’t quite dawn yet; they were as far west as Chicago and he was still on Washington time. The eastern horizon was glowing pink and he was interested to see that it was off to the left side of the ship. The last two days the dawn had been almost dead astern. They must have rounded Cuba and turned south during the night. The ocean was smooth as glass and he hoped Victoria’s seasickness would be better today. The last three days they had passed through the remnants of a large storm which had struck the coast of Florida. The seas had been very rough and the small ship had been tossed around on the waves. It had made both of them wish they were aboard one of the battleships, even if there would be no marble bathtub.

  Turning the other direction, he saw one of those battleships looming like a gray mountain half a mile away. It was the Delaware fresh from the builder’s yards, completed almost a year ahead of schedule and off on her maiden voyage. Looking about, he spotted several of the escorting cruisers farther away. The ships were all painted a gray color and difficult to see. The Mayflower was still sporting her peacetime colors: white hull and tan upper works.

  A twittering of the bosun’s pipes caught his attention and he saw crewmen assembling on the upper decks for their morning roll call. He climbed the ladder up to the same level and watched the proceedings. It wasn’t much different from the army he decided, and after just a few minutes the men dispersed to their duty. Every man was spotlessly dressed so he guessed the ship’s ‘black gang’, the men who shoveled coal and worked the engines, had stayed below. Those who had to be seen by the President and his guests were probably all picked men.

  The eastern horizon was very bright now and it was already getting warm. It was going to be a hot day. He leaned on the rail and watched the sun come up. He’d never been out to sea before and he had to admit it was an amazing experience.

  “Good morning, Major.”

  Andrew turned at the voice and saw that it was the President’s oldest son. He was named Theodore like his father, but went by ‘Ted’. He was wearing whites just like Andrew and had captain’s bars pinned to the collar. “Good morning, Captain. Up early, too?”

  “Yes, gets to be a habit.” He joined him at the rail. “How are you and your wife getting on, sir?”

  “Please, call
me Andrew.”

  “All right, if you’ll call me Ted. But are you enjoying the voyage?”

  “Oh, absolutely! Still totally flabbergasted at being here. At least I am. Victoria thinks this is all some fairly-tale-come-true. I don’t know how to thank your father.”

  Ted laughed. “Don’t even try! He takes those things as such a matter of course that he’s surprised when people try to thank him.”

  “He’s an amazing man.”

  “No argument there. He can still amaze me.”

  Andrew hesitated but then went on. “To be honest with you, I’m most amazed that any of us are here. What with all that’s happened.”

  “You mean the setback with General Funston’s army?”

  “Yes. I would have thought the President would want to stay in Washington to deal with the situation.”

  Ted laughed again. “You don’t know my father!”

  “No, not yet.”

  “My father never—never—backs down. Not to anyone for anything. Well, except to my mother now and then.”

  “That doesn’t count,” said Andrew with a smirk.

  “No, it doesn’t. But he had publicly announced that he was going to make this inspection trip to Panama. Nothing, not even the defeat in New Mexico, is going to make him change his plans. It’s just not in him.”

  “I’d think he’d want to be back where he can keep a closer watch on what’s happening.”

  “Oh, I’m sure wants to be there! God in Heaven, he wants to be everywhere! Everywhere at once! If he could split himself into a dozen men it wouldn’t be enough to suit him. But General Wood is back on the job and my father trusts him like he trusts few other men. They fought side by side in Cuba and he’d trust him with his life—or the life of the country.”