“I’ll be damned,” whispered Dolfen.
“What is it, sir?” asked Findley.
“It’s an opportunity, Sergeant. The opportunity of a lifetime. Come on! We need to get back to the Colonel!”
* * * * *
Cycle 597, 845.1, inside Enemy City 3-118
Qetjnegartis evaluated the reports and looked on the burning city with satisfaction. Victory. The prey-creature defenses were collapsing. Resistance in the northern half of the city was all but eliminated. War machines were crossing the river into the southern half and it appeared that resistance there was disintegrating. Yes, that was the usual pattern: the prey-creatures would fight tenaciously until the battle began to go against them. At that point, their baser instincts for self-preservation took hold and they would flee to save themselves. Qetjnegartis was determined that this time very few would succeed. It had the forces available to pursue the enemy to complete destruction. It would begin by destroying all the river vessels so that…
“Commander! Commander Qetjnegartis! Respond!”
The communication was so abrupt and so lacking normal protocol that Qetjnegartis paused a moment before replying. “Yes. What is it?”
“Commander! This is Galnandis! Powerful enemy forces have attacked us! They are in among the…. We need assist…” The circuit suddenly went silent.
Galnandis? It had been left with two others to guard… The reserve fighting machines!
An enemy force in the rear? A powerful force? How powerful? Scouting reports from yesterday had found nothing for many telequel in any direction. Where had it come from? The artificial satellite, while useful, was in an orbit too low and too erratic to provide useful real-time tactical information. Somehow something had eluded detection and was now attacking.
Qetjnegartis hesitated. The battle here was won, but if a powerful enemy was approaching, and it caught them up against the river and the remainder of the city’s garrison… And even if it was not a large force, the reserve fighting machines were vital for the upcoming operations.
“Attention, all battlegroups. A new enemy force is in our rear. All groups halt in place. Groups 32-4, 32-5, and 32-9, move to the machine storage area and report on the situation there. Speed is essential.”
* * * * *
April, 1912, northeast of Little Rock, Arkansas
“Charge!”
Frank Dolfen shouted as loudly as he could, waved his arm, and dug his spurs into his mount’s flanks. The bugler immediately echoed his command and the 1st Squadron of the 5th US Cavalry surged forward. The other squadrons were doing the same thing, and a tide of horseflesh and machines swept into the west end of the little valley.
The 9th was also attacking from the opposite end. In fact, the colored troopers had jumped the gun and attacked a few minutes before the 5th was ready. No matter, it only added to the enemy’s confusion. The three sentry tripods had turned one way to meet the first threat, but now they were literally turning in circles as foes came at them from all sides.
Colonel Schumacher had been wonderfully quick to understand what Dolfen had told him - and brilliantly decisive in risking his command by believing it. If Dolfen had been wrong, if all sixty of those tripods had been operational, then his regiment would be annihilated in moments.
But Dolfen wasn’t wrong! The charge thundered forward and the rows of tripods stood there, just as immobile as before. The horses galloped between the standing giants and the troopers whooped at the top of their lungs.
Men on horses and men on motorcycles and men in armored cars converged on the three hapless sentries and hammered them with everything they had. Rifles and machine guns, light cannons and stovepipe rockets, bundles of dynamite and sheer human grit hit them, hurt them, and flung them to the ground in mangled wrecks. It was over in what seemed like seconds. It had cost three dozen men and horses turned to ash, and two of the armored cars burned fiercely, spewing black smoke into the sky, but still a bargain price for such a victory.
The soldiers shouted and cheered and tossed their hats in the air. Even the horses seemed to be exhilarated by what they’d accomplished. But there was no time to waste. Dolfen nudged his tired horse into motion and found the colonel.
“Dolfen!” he cried when he caught sight of him. “You were right! By God you were right!” Colonel Schumacher looked as giddy as his men.
“It won’t take them long to find out what we’ve done, sir. We need to get explosives placed and blow these things to hell.”
“You’re right again! You heard him gentlemen! Get your men to work and finish the job!”
Scouts were sent out, the armored cars, along with them, machine guns and mortars formed a defense line facing south, but everyone else got off their horses and their motorbikes and began swarming over the immobile tripods, planting their dynamite bombs where they would do the most good. Fortunately, there was no shortage of explosives. Every man had at least one of the bombs and many had more than one.
Men climbed, or were boosted by their squadmates, up the legs of the machines to where the odd hip joints met the lower bodies of the tripods. The bombs were packed tightly into place anywhere it looked like they might do damage. The trick was going to be setting them off without getting blown up with them. The bombs issued to the troops had a friction igniter to light the fuse, but the fuse only had a ten second delay. Not much time for a man to get down and find cover.
But time was short and these men were used to facing sudden death. Some tried to rig up ropes to pull the pin on the igniters from the ground, but the bolder ones just said to hell with it, pulled the pins and jumped. Fire in the hole! they screamed and scattered in all directions.
The first explosion blew two of the legs off one of the machines and it toppled over with a crash. The men, unhurt, whooped and went back to work. Some went on to another machine, while others decided to go back and place more bombs on the relatively unhurt head of the downed tripod to see if they could wreck it some more.
One after another the tripods were felled like trees before lumberjacks. Dolfen looked on in exhausted satisfaction. But then a bugle sounded officers call and he moved over to where the colonel and his staff were clustered around a map.
“Gentlemen,” said Colonel Schumacher when everyone was there. All the jubilation was gone from his face. “Our radio has just picked up a signal from the Little Rock garrison commander. The defenses have been breached and the city is going to fall. He’s ordered everyone to try and retreat down river. Once we are done here, we will move east and try to link up with what’s left of the garrison and cover their…”
For one instant, everything was lit up by a brilliant blue light, and then Dolfen was knocked to the ground and a roar shook the world.
He found himself lying on top of the colonel’s adjutant and tried to push himself up. He could see the man with his mouth open, apparently shouting something, but Dolfen couldn’t hear anything but a loud ringing in his ears. He twisted around and a huge billowing cloud of smoke was rushing toward him.
But before it reached him, there was another dazzling flash of blue, only slightly dimmed for being inside the smoke cloud, and an instant later another blow slammed him backward onto the unfortunate adjutant again. Smoke and dust swept over the tangled group of officers, choking and blinding them.
As he tried to struggle up, he felt rather than heard a heavy impact nearby. The ringing in his ears slowly faded, only to be replaced by a shrill noise close at hand. The smoke and dust cleared and he could see again. He staggered to his feet, coughed up a mouthful of grit, and tried to spit it out. Colonel Schumacher and some of the officers looked around in a daze, but the others were clustered around… what?
Dolfen moved over to them and discovered the source of the noise. A man was pinned to the ground by the severed leg of one of the tripods. It lay right across his torso and he was screaming, blood coming out of his mouth. Looking around, Dolfen saw bits of metal and wreckage scattered everywhere.
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“What the hell happened?!” screamed someone in his ear.
“One of the tripods… two of ‘em, must have blown up… Their power gizmos… I saw that happen at Prewitt… didn’t think about that…” No he hadn’t, had he? “Didn’t think it could happen with the ones just standin’ there…”
As the smoke cleared away, he saw a scene of devastation. The tripods, those that hadn’t been blown completely to pieces, were scattered around the valley, smashed, torn apart, reduced to junk.
The two regiments of cavalry had been reduced to junk, too. Bodies lay among the wreckage; men and horses.
“Oh, God,” groaned Dolfen.
Somewhere a bugler was blowing recall and men were picking themselves up off the ground, trying to catch panicked horses, tend to the wounded… what a mess. All the elation of what they had accomplished drained away.
Frank Dolfen limped away to try to find what was left of his squadron.
* * * * *
April, 1912, Little Rock, Arkansas
The heat has almost unbearable and the roof of the pilothouse was cherry-red. Drew Harding was quite certain he was going to die. A loud concussion slammed the ship and he was thrown against the bulkhead. It had been strong but not strong enough to have come from his own ship. Wichita, that must have been Wichita…
“Oh, God! Let me out!” screamed Mackenzie. He surged up from his knees and started clawing at the pilothouse hatch. Hinsworth grabbed him to hold him back.
But then the red glare coming through the view slits faded away and the roof changed to a dull red and then back to gray metal. It was still hot as the gates of Hell, but what was happening? Drew went to the speaking tube and shouted: “Secure steam!” The hissing stopped and the white cloud outside dispersed, but the heat…
“Let me out!” shrieked Mackenzie.
“Let him out,” gasped Drew.
Hinsworth let the man go and he flung open the hatch and staggered outside. Drew saw Mackenzie grab hold of the railing and then scream and fall back, his hands burned. He slumped to his knees and then screamed again as the hot metal plating of the deck burned through the knees of his trousers. He lurched up and Drew yanked him back into the pilothouse where he collapsed, sobbing. Pulling off his dust mask, Drew and the others went outside, careful to touch nothing. He could feel the heat of the deck through the soles of his shoes, but it didn’t get too bad. Cooler air touched his face, and he sucked it greedily into his lungs. He looked up at the cliffs, but to his amazement, the summit was empty. The tripods were gone. Why? What the hell was going on?
“Sir!” cried Hinsworth. “Dead ahead!”
He turned about and saw that the noise he had heard had indeed been the USS Wichita. She lay, broken in half, both ends burning, just a few hundred yards ahead. Drew leapt back into the pilothouse and spun the wheel. They were already as far to the south side of the river as they dared, so there was no choice but to steer back into the center, closer to where the Martians had been. But the enemy was gone.
He looked for survivors in the water as they churned past, but there were none. Wichita had been battened down just like Santa Fe, and there would have been no way for anyone to get out. Only after they were past did he take a good look at his own ship. Good God! The mast and upper works were scorched and blackened and even partially melted in spots. The two wooden launches stored on the after deck were burning, as were some coils of rope. The upper mast with its observation platform was leaning precariously off to starboard, and the bridge railings were twisted all out of shape. The funnel had a hole in its side and the smoke billowed out of that as well as the normal opening on top.
“Sir? Sir, the radio is out,” reported Hinsworth.
“Not surprised, the antenna’s all melted. Check for damage below, Ensign.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
They were almost past the mountain now, and Drew looked ahead for enemies, but the river banks were strangely deserted. Where were the Martians? He could see some explosions of in the southern part of the city and still hear some artillery fire, so they weren’t all gone, but he didn’t spot a single one from where he was.
Mackenzie was slumped down on the deck, looking stupidly at his burned hands and whimpering. “Mister Mackenzie, go below and have those looked after. Go on, get below!” The man nearly crawled off.
Once fully beyond Big Rock Mountain, Drew could see tripods off to the north and some others in the southern part of the city, but none seemed to be coming his way. He reduced speed to spare the engines and searched for any sign of organized resistance. The waterfront on the south bank was empty of ships, even though the damage to the docks appeared minimal.
Finally, a couple of miles ahead, he caught sight of a cluster of vessels. He spotted one of the Olmstead class gunboats and steered for her. As he got closer, he saw that in addition to the remaining ships of the flotilla, every other ship, boat, or barge that had been at Little Rock - which was still afloat - had gathered near a small island in the river. The island had been fortified and it marked the eastern end of the city’s defense lines. There were two forts on either bank and swarms of people, horses, and vehicles were crowded on the shores. Many appeared to be loading on to the ships.
“Looks like they’re leaving, sir,” said Hinsworth, who had just returned. “Oh, and there’s no damage below, but everyone’s near passed out from the heat.” He looked aft. “Oh, and the flag’s all burned up. I’ll have another one rigged.”
Drew reduced speed even more and pulled up close to the gunboat, it was the Evansville, and shouted across to her skipper, Lieutenant Commander Brighton. “What’s happening? Our radio’s out!”
“General Duncan’s ordered a retreat!” Brighton yelled back. “Where’s Gillespie?” he gestured up river.
Drew shook his head. “Sunk! I’m low on ammo! Did we save any?”
“Pelée’s over there,” replied Brighton, referring to the munitions ship. “But you’re senior now, Harding! What do you want us to do?”
Drew’s shoulders sagged. He was suddenly very, very tired and he didn’t need anything else piled on him. What to do? He looked around at the barely controlled chaos.
“Load up everyone we can and then cover the retreat!”
Chapter Nine
May, 1912, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Colonel Andrew Comstock watched the train chug into the enormous shed of the Broad Street Station. He found that he was both nervous and excited. Victoria and his son were on that train. It had been three months since he’d last been home and he missed them terribly. But as glad as he was to see them, he dreaded telling his wife the news.
The train squealed to a halt and Andrew scanned the cars, looking for Victoria. There she was. He saw her leaning out one of the car windows and waving. He returned the wave and hurried over to where she was. “Hello!” he shouted.
“Andrew!” cried Victoria and then she held up young Arthur, who initially looked very uncertain about this new place he was in, but when he caught sight of him shrieked: Da! Da!
A warm glow passed through Andrew that had nothing to do with the spring weather. He stopped just below the window and stood on tip-toe to grasp the hands of his wife and son. “How are you? The trip okay?”
“Yes, fine. So good to see you, love. Can you come in and help with the luggage?”
“Sure! Be right there.” He went to the end of the car, up the steps, and inside. He gave his wife and son a quick hug and then got the luggage out of the overhead rack. Before the war there would have been a dozen porters competing for the job, but nearly all of those men were in the army now. Andrew didn’t mind carrying the bags at all, except… “Wow, what all did you bring? How long are you planning to stay?”
“Andrew! You’ve never had to travel with a baby. Almost all of this is for Arthur.”
“Oh! Well, no matter, I can manage.” He grabbed up the bags and trundled them off the rail car. The platform wasn’t terribly crowded, unlike other
times he’d been here. New regulations had gone into effect restricting ‘unnecessary’ civilian travel. It had been done to free up rolling stock for military use, but it was just another example of how the war was changing everyday life. There were still plenty of people, however, because there were always ways around the regulations. Andrew had had no problem getting a pass for Victoria and Arthur.
He lugged the bags down to street level and only had to wait a moment for his driver, who had been circling the block, to spot him and pull over. Being a colonel had its advantages: his own car and driver. The driver popped out and helped him load in the bags and then they were off. Andrew had reserved a room at a nice hotel down on 7th Street, and it was only a short drive on Market Street to get there. He was staying at a boarding house in Eddystone, but it was a dreary place and Eddystone, itself, wasn’t much better; so he’d arranged for this hotel instead.
“How’s your mother?” he asked.
“Oh, she’s fine, fine. Worried about Dad - and you, too, of course.” Her father, General Hawthorne, was technically Andrew’s boss - or had been. He spent most of his time in Washington these days, unlike when Andrew had first become his aide, before the war. They had never managed to find a house, so Victoria and Arthur were still living in her parent’s home at Fort Meyer. He knew Victoria wasn’t happy about that, but it was really the only practical thing to do.
“Is everything all right with your dad? You must see him nearly every day now that he’s not traveling so much.”
“Almost. But we do worry about him. He’s sick a lot, though he tries to hide it. He works too hard.”
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