Up ahead there was a crippled tripod, one of its legs blown off, trying to drag itself along with its arms and other legs. As the Albuquerque approached, it propped itself up and fired its heat ray. But the front of the ironclads were very heavily armored with the steel-asbestos sandwiches developed by the MIT engineers. The shoes on the caterpillar tracks were solid steel six inches thick and continually rotating to prevent a heat ray from being able to burn its way through. For a short exposure, there wasn’t a thing the Martian could do.
“Run it down,” Andrew said with grim satisfaction.
There was slight lurch and they crushed the thing flat. Only after they’d done it did Andrew wonder what would have happened if the tripod’s power cells had exploded with them sitting on top of it. Need to be careful about that…
“Colonel, there are a bunch of them gathered up ahead. Seven or eight blocks away, there. Do you see?” Stavely pointed. Andrew squinted, pulled out his binoculars, cursed at the fuzzy image, and stepped out onto the bridge wing to get a clear view. Yes, three-quarters of a mile ahead there was a cluster of tripods milling about. A dozen or more of them.
“Do they think they’re out of our range?” asked Stavely who had followed along.
“Let’s enlighten them with the twelve-incher, Major. Give them a shot and tell the crew to make the next one armor piercing.”
“My pleasure, Colonel!” said Stavely with a grin.
A moment later the big gun roared out, half-deafening Andrew. Through his binoculars he saw the shell burst among the tripods and at least one went down. Now, if the gunners could just reload before they had the sense to disperse. A well-drilled crew ought to be able to reload and fire in less than a minute, even with the thousand pound shells the big gun fired. He counted silently and had only reached fifty-two when they fired again.
The guns and the ammunition they fired were designed by the navy. An armor piercing round had a thicker metal shell and the fuse had a delay to allow it to smash its way deep into the vitals of a ship before exploding.
The tripods had far less armor than a battleship.
Even from that far away, Andrew could see the havoc the shell wrecked among the Martians. It tore its way right through their formation, arms, leg, heads, whole machines went flying before the shell finally burst. Andrew was reminded of the descriptions he’d read in history class at West Point about solid shot from artillery ripping through the close-packed infantry of a Napoleonic column.
“Wow!” cried Jerry Hornbaker.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” said Andrew. “Wow, indeed.”
* * * * *
Cycle 597, 845.2, City 3-37
Qetjnegartis was thrown violently against the safety restraints as something large smashed into its fighting machine. The machine staggered and it was barely able to regain control to prevent it from toppling over. What had happened? It was at the rear of the formation? Had one of the high-angle projectiles landed on it?
No, as it looked around it realized that something else had happened. Four of the fighting machines had been wrecked and three others seriously damaged all at a blow. The impact on its own machine had actually been part of another machine which had been torn off.
“Commander!” said one of its subordinates. “These narrow passages are death traps. The enemy can fire right along them and we are easy targets.”
“Yes, yes, you are correct. Quickly, let us move into the lateral passages, out of their line of fire.”
The surviving machines moved into cover behind the buildings. They were safe for the moment, but what was to be done? Over half of the fighting machines which had crossed the river were out of action. Nearly eighty percent of the drones were gone. More and more prey-creature forces were gathering with the new giant machines. Was there any way to defeat them?
“If we stay in these side laterals until the large machines approach, perhaps we can ambush them, Commander,” suggested Davnitargus. “If we are very close, perhaps their large weapons will not be able to bear on us.”
“Perhaps. Very well, let us try.” Commands were issued and on laterals adjoining each of the five passageways on which the enemy vehicles were approaching, fighting machines were gathered. Vision pick-ups were extended on manipulators to see the enemy. They were coming on slowly; perhaps this would work.
But flying machines were overhead, circling beyond the reach of the heat rays. They were clearly directing the fire of the long-range high-angle projectile throwers. Their shells were falling more and more frequently near the closely massed fighting machines. Could they warn the large machines as well?
They were nearly here. A bit closer and the trap could be sprung…
The machine stopped.
“Commander, they can see us!”
Qetjnegartis looked and saw that the tall tower on top of the enemy machine was higher than the intervening buildings. This close they had a direct line of sight to the tops of the fighting machines. They had detected the ambush. Should it still be sprung? They would have to emerge into the passageway and attack from the front. If that electric arc weapon was ready, how many machines could it take down?
The image from the vision pick-up showed the largest weapon turning to the left. What was it aiming at? The building was in the way. Surely they aren’t going to…
The side of the building forty quel ahead of Qetjnegartis exploded outward and the fighting machine in front of it was torn to pieces. The prey had fired right through the building!
“This is no good, Commander!” said Davnitargus. “We must withdraw!”
Retreat meant failure. The only possible place to go was back across the river. The chance to establish a hold on the eastern shore would have to be abandoned. Was there anything that could be done to salvage the situation?
But then word came from the commander of the battlegroup on the eastern perimeter. The enemy force which had gathered there was now attacking. “There are over three hundred of the armored gun-vehicles, Commander,” it reported. “We cannot stop such a force without immediate reinforcements.”
To send the reinforcements would leave Qetjnegartis with insufficient force to deal with the current situation - if indeed there were sufficient forces now - but to ignore the request would mean the enemy would come driving in on their rear at the most critical moment. To stay could mean the annihilation of the entire force.
“Progenitor,” said Davnitargus, “it was a noble attempt, a brilliant plan, but to stay here will mean our destruction; and with it, all hope for our clan on this world. We must withdraw.”
Another projectile crashed through the building, but fortunately this time it did not hit any of the fighting machines. No, Davnitargus was right, to stay would mean destruction with no hope for any gain.
“Very well. All forces, this is Qetjnegartis. We must retreat. Disengage and move north. We will re-cross the river at the same point as we initially crossed. Speed is essential.”
It received the acknowledgments almost immediately. Clearly all were expecting the order.
Turning its machine, Qetjnegartis fled the scene of disaster.
* * * * *
July, 1912, Memphis, Tennessee
“They’re retreating, Colonel, shall we pursue?” asked Major Stavely.
“By all means, Major,” said Andrew. “I doubt we’ll catch them, but let’s make sure they don’t stop.”
“You’re not going to wait for an order from General Clopton, Colonel?” asked Major Bridges.
“Any fool can see what needs to be done, Major, and Clopton’s no fool. Let’s drive these bastards into the river.”
* * * * *
July, 1912, Memphis, Tennessee
Drew Harding sat on the steps of the hotel, cradling his arm. He was filthy and utterly exhausted. A steady stream of men ran up and down the steps into the headquarters now. He looked up as the same army major he’d talked to earlier sat down next to him with a grunt. “So what’s happening?” asked Drew. “Did we wi
n?”
“Looks like it. Or it sure sounds like it if you listen to MacArthur. He’s a pistol, isn’t he?”
“I guess.” In truth he wasn’t sure what to make of General MacArthur. He’d been so absurdly confident at that meeting before the battle; pompous, even. And then during the crisis he was nowhere to be seen. His subordinates had been like a flock of chickens with all their heads cut off. With nowhere else to go, Drew had found a spot near the entrance to the hotel and dozed off. The fighting to the north didn’t seem to be getting any closer, so it had seemed like a good idea.
Then, suddenly, everything was in an uproar. The sounds of battle were coming from the east instead of the north and they were getting close very fast. The headquarters staff had come boiling out of the building, carrying rolls of maps and stacks of paper and calling for vehicles to move it all. But before an evacuation could even get under way, the Martians were marching down the streets just a block away to the north. Everyone tried to find cover.
And into the midst of the chaos, MacArthur had suddenly appeared; he was immaculately decked out in his fancy uniform, decorations on his chest, and a riding crop in his hand. He’d walked through the mob like a large ship parting the waves, ignoring every shouted plea for orders. He’d strolled over to the intersection and just stood there, in plain sight, watching the Martian tripods moving past, not five hundred feet away. To Drew, it looked like he was trying to get himself killed. But no heat ray claimed him.
The sounds of fighting near the bridge grew to an uproar, and then to everyone’s astonishment, the Martians had come back the way they had come, heading east, away from the bridge. A few minutes later they were followed by the most outlandish contraptions Drew had ever seen. He instantly knew what they were; he’d read about them and he’d gotten some letters from his friend, Andrew Comstock, who was helping to build them. But he’d had no idea they were ready for action or that they were coming to Memphis. They were, perhaps, the ugliest bits of machinery he’d ever seen, but at that moment they looked beautiful. Everyone stopped and stared.
MacArthur had stared, too, but then he stirred and came back to the entrance of the hotel. Everyone had gathered round. “A great victory is within my reach, gentlemen,” he’d said. He didn’t speak loudly, yet somehow everyone could hear him. “But now I need all your help to grasp it. Let’s get to work.” He’d walked back into the hotel, his staff streaming after him.
“So what are you going to do now?” asked the major.
He sighed. What he really wanted to do was to sleep for about twelve hours. “I guess I need to find Commodore Rush and get some orders.”
* * * * *
July, 1912, Memphis, Tennessee
Captain Frank Dolfen, 5th US Cavalry, stumbled over the rubble, back toward where he hoped his men were waiting. The sun was sinking toward the western horizon, although it could only be seen from time to time through all the smoke. Large sections of the city were still burning and he doubted that any of the fire brigades were still functional. They’d have to let it burn itself out, he guessed.
The smell of burning; burning wood, burning coal, burning flesh, was almost overpowering. It was odd: during the fighting he’d smelt nothing. But now he could smell everything. It was like that in every fight he’d ever been in. His senses narrowed down to sight and sound. Afterward he’d find himself covered with cuts and scratches and have no memory of how or when he’d gotten them. Like now. His uniform was torn and burned in a dozen spots, and he hurt in more places than that.
Most of them he guessed had come from at the end, during the fight in the rail yard. He’d been running from spot to spot, encouraging his men, trying to keep them fighting. Trying to keep them alive. Between dodging heat rays and dodging shrapnel from their own artillery, he’d spent most the time on his belly, crawling among the railroad cars.
He’d been quite certain they were all going to die. They were in a box with nowhere to run, and a swarm of the tripods were approaching from seemingly everywhere. A strange acceptance had filled him. It had been a good fight and they’d hurt the enemy a lot. He’d hurt the enemy a lot over the years. He’d been sad that the 5th Cavalry was going to die yet again. Sad that Becca was going to die, too. So young. No younger than many of his troopers, of course, but it was still a shame.
Then, those incredible, amazing… things had broken through the walls. Just smashed right through them, and blown the holy hell out of the Martians. Those big guns, that unbelievable magic lightning cannon, they’d simply wrecked the bastards. He’d heard rumors of the ‘secret weapons’ the army was building, but never really believed it. So far the only new weapons they’d seen were the airplanes and the stovepipe rocket launchers. Useful things, to be sure, but still kind of pathetic compared to what the Martians had.
But these! These things were enormous! Bigger than the tripods, big as buildings. He’d seen one of them knock a tripod over and then crush it flat under its tracks. It was glorious. Yes, glorious; not a word he’d had much use for in recent years, but that’s what it was. He’d laughed and shouted and thrown his helmet in the air. And then the Martians were running; fleeing back the way they’d come. The troops had all cheered and come out of whatever hole they’d been cowering in to follow along behind the big green behemoths.
He’d waved to his men to come on. It was a pursuit, and that was what cavalry was for. Granted, they were all on foot now, but it still wasn’t a chance to be missed. He’d shouted and led them forward.
For a couple of blocks.
The spirit was willing, but their bodies just couldn’t do it. They’d been fighting or on the move between fights for a full day and a night. They had done all that could be expected of human flesh and blood. They’d tried, but eventually their pursuit had slowed to a crawl and then stopped altogether. Other troops had streamed past them, eager to finally get into the fight. Dolfen and his boys had been content to let them. Lynnbrooke had found him leaning against a wall, gasping for breath. He told him to gather the men and form them up back in the rail yard. The lieutenant, half his age, had smiled and done it. Dolfen had followed along a bit more slowly.
“Over here, sir,” said someone. Looking up, he saw a cluster of men right at the edge of the yard. Somehow, they still had a guidon and the tattered red pennant with the white letters for the 1st Squadron fluttered fitfully in a weak breeze. He looked around, hoping to see others like it, but there weren’t any, just a steady stream of men and vehicles moving up from the bridge and smaller groups filtering back in the opposite direction. He hadn’t seen or heard anything of the rest of the regiment since they were separated at the bridge. He hoped that he and his men weren’t all that was left.
And how many did he have left? He could see forty or fifty sitting or lying down. There could easily be some stragglers who had become separated during all the frantic repositioning. Maybe a few wounded who had survived and who might someday return to the ranks. But at least half were gone. Half of the officers, too. Buckman had burned up in his armored car, and he’d seen Gregory McGuiness cut down by one of the spider-machines while he was trying to clear a jam in his remaining Browning.
But it wasn’t all bad news, there was Gosling, his orderly, miraculously coming up to him with a tin cup filled with coffee. Bless the man. He took it and gulped it down, realizing he was terribly thirsty. Hungry, too, as he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. “Thank you, Goose,” he said.
“M’pleasure, Captain. Helluva thing today, weren’t it?”
“Yeah. A hell of a thing.” He looked over his men and was pleased to see that most appeared to be in good spirits despite their ordeal. Or perhaps because of it. They all knew that they’d won a huge victory today. Maybe a war-changing victory. And his unit had played an important part. If they hadn’t spotted the enemy’s flank attack, hadn’t delayed the Martians long enough for the new machines to arrive, if the Martians had overrun everything and been lined up along the walls waiting for
them… things might have been much different. They’d done a hell of a job. And not just his boys… He looked around again, suddenly worried, but Gosling chuckled.
“She’s over there with t’other ladies, sir. By the buildin’ there.”
He looked where he was pointing and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the cluster of women. He handed the cup back to Gosling and walked over there as quickly as his aching legs would carry him.
Becca was standing apart from the others and he spotted her immediately. He came up to her and stopped. “Becca.”
“Frank.” She looked at him with eyes filled with pain and a bottomless weariness. He glanced at the other women. They had none of the jubilation that his men had. They seemed in a daze. This was their first fight. They had no idea what to expect.
“Are you all right?”
“Well enough. How are you?”
“Beat t’hell, but well enough.” He looked toward the women. “How… how are they?”
“Beat t’hell,” she said quietly. “Not sure how many we lost. I started the day with thirty. I’ve got twelve now. Four I know… four I know for sure were killed. Not sure about the others.”
“There’s bound to be some who got separated,” said Frank, trying to sound reassuring. “Always happens in a fight. They’ll turn up.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I ‘spect so. Some of the others probably just ran off to their homes. They all live nearby and they might have gone there.”
“Yeah, probably.” He paused. “It’s a hard thing, Becca. Nothing can prepare a person for it.”
“It’s not my first battle, Frank.”
“No, but it was theirs. And you brought them through it.”
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