The critical point would be the place where the enemy intended to make the breach. Whatever they planned, they could only make a narrow entrance. If enough power could be assembled opposite that point, then anything attempting to enter could be destroyed. Yes, that was the proper response.
It issued its orders.
* * * * *
August 1912, the Martian Fortress
“All right, Major, bring us forward,” said Andrew Comstock. “Stop about fifty yards short of the wall.”
“Right, sir,” said Stavely. He gave the order and Albuquerque squealed into motion. Yeah, he didn’t like the noises the thing was making these days…
“Slowly. Line it up just like I said.”
“Yes, sir.”
The land ironclad inched toward an apparatus that the company of engineers had just set up against the forward face of the wall around the Martian fortress. Andrew had been very impressed at how quickly they’d accomplished it. The captain in charge said they’d been practicing for months. Andrew had known about this unit for many months and even seen them demonstrate their equipment at Aberdeen one time, but he hadn’t really paid all that much attention to them. At the time, there seemed little likelihood that they’d have any opportunity to try it out against a Martian fortress.
But then this offensive had been decided upon and a frantic message had gone out to get the 187th Engineer Company and all its gear up to the front immediately. By some miracle, not only had they made their way through the clogged railway system to Memphis, but then they’d been able to catch up with the assault force and arrive in the nick of time.
Just ahead of Albuquerque, there were two metal chutes erected on small scaffolds to hold them about fifteen feet off the ground. One end was positioned against the face of the wall and the other was pointed at the approaching ironclad. The chutes were a little over a foot in diameter. Resting in the chute was a section of metal pipe. The end facing the wall was pointed like a javelin. The other end was open and had a socket-like connection. Andrew knew that the hollow inside of the tube was packed with explosive. An identical set up had been arranged for Omaha, which was coming up alongside them with only a yard or two between their mammoth set of caterpillar tracks.
An engineering officer had come aboard and was standing at the very front of the ironclad, looking down and using hand signals to tell the driver what to do. A little to the left, a little right, slow down, and finally stop. Andrew decided to go and take a look for himself. He left the bridge, followed by Drew, Hornbaker, and that blasted Englishman. They came up behind the engineer, who was a first lieutenant. “How’s it going?” asked Andrew.
The man glanced back, a look of annoyance on his face, but he said: “Well enough. We’ll be ready for the first section in a minute.”
It was longer than that, but eventually, he gave the signal for slow ahead. Andrew went up to the rail and looked down. The apparatus which had been welded to the front of Albuquerque during the night was a pair of push rods which could be lined up with the end of the explosive packed tubes. Now, using the immense mass and power of the ironclad, the tubes were slowly pushed into the wall of the Martian fortress.
The walls were simply a big mound of rock, earth, and rubble which had been piled up by the alien machines. The outer face was steep and treacherous with loose stones. Andrew had climbed the one near Gallup and knew how difficult it was. They were completely impassible to vehicles. But being loose stone rather than something truly solid, the tubes could be pushed right into them.
They crawled forward about twenty feet and then the engineer waved them to stop and then to reverse. As soon as they had pulled back, two new ten foot sections of pipe were lifted up by a crane mounted on a truck and lowered into each chute. They were then fitted into the sockets at the rear of the leading pipes. When all was ready, the process was repeated, pushing the pipes deeper into the wall.
“We’ll be lucky if those pipes don’t buckle,” said Drew.
“The walls of the pipe are an inch thick. And they are packed full so they are nearly solid. This has been tested, and if we come straight on, it should work.”
“Damned ingenious,” said Bridges.
“What happens if the Martians suddenly pop up on the wall and start shooting at us, sir?” asked Drew.
Andrew glanced up at the top of the wall. The barrage was supposed to discourage the enemy from doing that, but it was still a good point. The explosives in the tubes shouldn’t explode just from heat, but you never knew. And of course all of them were standing right here in the open. They’d be incinerated in an instant. All the gunners were on alert, of course, and Springfield and a hundred steam tanks were ready to provide covering fire if necessary; but none of that would do any good for those of them standing where they were, unprotected. I’m not necessary here, I should go back inside. But instead he stayed.
“That’s why we need to hurry.”
A third set of pipes were pushed in, and then a fourth. As the fifth pair were set up, a man dashed up to Andrew. “Sir, we just got a signal from Springfield that the artillery is running low on ammunition and the second wave of aircraft will be here soon. We need to finish this now.”
Andrew looked to the engineer. “Will this be enough?”
“This will make two one-hundred foot lengths for us and the same for Omaha. That will be close to ten tons of explosives. It should do the trick, sir.”
“All right then! Get this last set pushed in and we’ll pull back. The rest of us better get up to the bridge.”
As the ironclad moved forward once more, the rest of them retreated back, past the main turret, and then up a ladder to the bridge. Major Stavely met them at the pilothouse door. “That’s it, sir, the charges are placed.”
“Excellent. Pull back three hundred yards and we’ll wait for the fireworks!”
* * * * *
August, 1912, the Martian Fortress
“Keep your fool heads down—all of you!” shouted Frank Dolfen. His troops, already lying on their bellies atop the wall, tried to flatten themselves down a little further. A couple peered at him from under the brims of their helmets, their expressions seemed to say: okay, but what about you? Dolfen was kneeling next to the wreckage of one of the heat ray towers rather than lying down. Well, rank had its privileges.
They’d made the climb up to the top of the wall without much problem beyond scraped hands, bruised knees, and uniforms stained red by the Martian weed that was everywhere. It would have been a terrible thing to try and do if someone was shooting at you, but today no one was. He thought back to the time - the two times - he’d done this before, back at Gallup. That time, it had just been him and that Major Comstock. This time, he’d brought a whole army with him.
He swept his binoculars in a long arc, taking in the view. A half-mile to his left, the big land ironclads were doing something very close to the face of the wall, and a large number of steam tanks were also drawn up close by. A half-mile to his right, a dozen more tanks were dueling with one of the heat ray towers, and as he watched, they took it out. A similar duel was taking place on the other side of the fortress, beyond the land ironclads. Given time, they would destroy all the remaining towers.
Behind the wall and opposite where the ironclads were at work, there was a thick wall of dust and smoke where the artillery was concentrating its fire. It was in a half ring, touching the wall not four hundred yards away and looping around to touch the wall on the other side of the ironclads. Two hundred guns were banging away as fast as they could and the explosions were nearly constant.
He could catch glimpses of Martian tripods standing or moving about beyond the wall of smoke. They seemed to have gathered, ready to oppose the attempt to break through the wall. He couldn’t tell how many, but if there were a lot of them, they were going to make it very rough on whoever went through the gap first. He was glad he and his men wouldn’t be involved with that. He glanced over to where Becca was laying flat. He
wished she wasn’t here. He’d had some hopes that maybe he could convince her to stay with the horse holders down at the base of the wall. Maybe the presence of her fool horse would make her want to stay with him. No hope there. She’d just left her horse with Private Gosling, who was holding all the officers’ horses.
Lieutenant Lynnbrooke crawled over to him and said: “I went up to the edge of the wall, sir. I couldn’t see anything, no tripods or spider-machines waiting for us.”
“Good.”
“But it’s very steep. There are a few ledges here and there, but everywhere else it’s almost vertical. The rocks seem all fused together, too. Not many handholds. There’s a ramp about two hundred yards off to the right, but there’s a whole regiment of infantry waiting to use it.”
“Send back to the horses for some ropes. We’ll let ourselves down that way.”
“Right, sir.” He crawled away.
Things were going to happen soon, he expected. And once it did, he and his men were going to have to come down off the wall and deal with whatever they found inside. He lifted his binoculars and scanned the inside of the fortress again. It was basically an empty circle three miles wide. There were some lumps and bumps here and there, but no obvious entrances to the underground parts. He’d heard that at Gallup some troops had found ways to get in. Hopefully they’d be able to it again here.
A shrill noise caught his attention and he looked over to his left. The three land ironclads were all sounding their steam whistles. He could only assume that something was about to…
He’d never seen a volcanic eruption except in drawings in the newspapers, but what happened now matched his mental image of what one must look like. The section of wall in front of the ironclads… erupted. The top part of the wall lifted up into the air, almost in a single piece, while two huge clouds of rock, dust, and smoke blasted out from the front and rear sides of the wall, spewing debris for hundreds of yards. Then the upper part disintegrated into another boiling mass of flying junk. Boulders tumbled end over end and came crashing down again. Smaller rocks were flung great distances, a few thudding down only a hundred yards away.
The wall beneath him was shaking and the clouds of dust all merged into one and drifted slowly eastward. The noise blotted out all other sound, even the artillery bombardment. He knelt there staring as the dust slowly settled. The artillery fire died away and the cloud from that dispersed as well.
What was revealed was a huge ditch blasted through the wall. All the rocks and dirt from a big section had been blown in all directions. He couldn’t see down into it from where he was, but the land ironclads were starting forward, so apparently they thought they could make it through. The Martian tripods had stood as still as everyone else during the explosion, but now they started forward, too, directly toward the ironclads. Could they get through and deploy before they were overwhelmed?
But then a buzzing reached his stunned ears and it quickly grew to a roar of another sort. Looking back he saw a swarm of aircraft coming right at him. They were flying scarcely higher than the walls, and a moment later they swept over him so close he felt he could reach up and grab one. Hundreds of them! Selfridge and his boys must be with them.
Lynnbrooke was back tugging at his sleeve. He pointed toward the edge of the wall. The men were getting up from where they lay. Dolfen wrenched his attention back where it belonged. He shouted at his bugler: “Sound the advance!”
* * * * *
August, 1912, the Martian Fortress
As the dust and smoke gradually thinned, Andrew Comstock tried to see what the explosion had done. Had it cleared a path which the ironclads and the tanks could traverse? It was essential that the tanks could make it, too. General Clopton had convinced MacArthur that as impressive as the ironclads might be, they couldn’t win this battle by themselves. They needed the tank support, so they had to get inside the fortress.
Slowly, slowly the air cleared and revealed what the engineers had wrought. An enormous divot had been made through the wall. The upper half had been gouged out for a width of perhaps fifty feet - barely wide enough for an ironclad. Just as importantly, the displaced dirt and rock had been scattered on either side and formed what looked like a passable ramp up into the breach. There was no way to tell if there was a similar ramp down on the other side, but there ought to be.
Only one way to find out!
A toot from Springfield indicated that Clopton agreed. Forward!
Albuquerque would lead the way and Major Stavely got it up to full speed as quickly as possible. The British-designed steam turbine spun, the electricity it produced powered the big Westinghouse motors, and they turned the Baldwin-built caterpillar tracks. Human ingenuity on the move! They reached the edge of the debris field and started up the ramp, crushing down the rocks and boulders and hopefully creating an easy path for the tanks to follow. He was able to see through the gap now, and what he saw put a lump of fear in his throat. A seemingly solid phalanx of tripods was coming the other way, maybe a half-mile in the distance. Swarms of the spider-machines were all around them. Could they get through the hole before the Martians put a stopper in it?
“Sir! Here come the aircraft!” Hornbaker shouted at his side. Andrew looked through the rear door of the pilothouse, and to his relief, the promised air support had arrived. Squadron after squadron of the small attack planes swept in at low altitude, spread out over a wide arc. Past the ironclads, over the walls, and straight against the enemy, closing in on them from three sides.
“Right on time!” cried Drew Harding. “First the bombers and now these. They taught us at Annapolis that no battle plan ever works right.”
“Taught us the same thing at the Point. Guess there’s a first time for everything, eh?”
The aircraft bore in on the Martians, machine guns chattering. The tripods halted and formed a tight mass, facing outward. Their heat rays lashed out and the formations of planes were turned into balls of fire. Dozens fell in the first seconds. More followed. Flaming wrecks fell to the earth everywhere. Only a few made it close enough to drop their bombs. Fewer still hit anything, and only a couple of hits were on tripods. Andrew felt sick to his stomach.
But the sacrifice of the fliers had bought precious seconds. Albuquerque crested the top of the gap and headed down the other side and onto the flat ground inside the fortress. Omaha was right behind and swung right, Springfield swung left. Twelve and seven and five-inch guns roared out and shells tore through packed enemy machines. A dozen tripods went down in seconds. The ironclads reloaded and fired again, smashing more of the hated foe.
With most of the aircraft destroyed, the Martians now turned against the new threat. Dozens of heat rays stabbed at the metal giants and Andrew ducked away from the red blaze that came in through the quartz blocks in the pilothouse view slits. The guns on the ironclads roared out again, and some of the deadly rays were silenced. But they were under the concentrated fire of the whole Martian force now and damage reports were coming in as some of the rays cut through the armor in spots. Major Stavely ordered steam to be released to lessen the effects. A hissing cloud engulfed them.
They were blinded now and the steam would only help them for a few moments. “Maybe we should turn!” cried Drew Harding. “Show them some undamaged armor!”
“Worth a try,” said Andrew. “Stavely bring us left!”
The major gave the orders, but a moment later he shouted: “Track number two is out! We can only turn right. Turning now!” The ironclad shuddered and groaned as it dragged itself around sideways. After a few seconds, it lurched to a halt. “Number four is out, too! We’re stuck!”
“Damn!” Blind and immobilized, they were sitting ducks.
But then the red glare faded completed and a host of new sounds filled the air. Cannon fire. Smaller cannons to be sure, but a lot of them. Andrew poked his head out of the pilot house, and when the wind pulled the steam curtain away for a moment he saw dozens and dozens of tanks pouring through the gap
in the wall, their guns blazing. The 2nd Tank Division was charging into action.
“Secure steam!” gasped Stavely. The hissing died away, and after a moment they could see again. There was Omaha, off to the right, its guns still firing, still killing Martians. To the left was Springfield; Andrew was dismayed to see black smoke boiling out of a hole in its side, and its observation platform gone. But some of the guns were still firing. And all around were steam tanks. Mark IIs with their single guns and Mark IIIs with three of them. Even a few of the large, but notoriously unreliable Mark IVs had made it through. All were firing steadily at the enemy. There didn’t seem to be all that many of the enemy left now; maybe thirty or so.
“Sir! Look there!” Hornbaker pointed.
“What?”
“Spider-machines! A whole bunch of them! I think they’re going after Springfield!”
Andrew looked through smoke and saw: a moving carpet of the smaller machines, and yes, they looked to be heading directly toward the flagship.
“That’s how they sank my monitor, Andrew,” said Drew Harding urgently, his face twisted with remembered anguish. “They got aboard and down inside and blew up the magazine.”
Andrew turned to Major Stavely. “Major, can you put some fire on those things? The machine guns, maybe?”
“I can do better than that! Doctor Tesla’s cannon is still undamaged. It’s ready to fire!”
Andrew’s face lit up. They’d been too far away to use it at first, and with all the damage he’d assumed it was out of action. But it wasn’t! “Yes! Tell them to fire at the spiders!”
Stavely passed along the order and just a few moments later the turret with the Tesla Gun swung around and the blue-white lightning burst forth. It leapt to one of the spider-machines and then another. And then another, more and more, a dozen, two dozen. They writhed and shuddered, and many of them exploded in a display that to Andrew looked like kernels of corn on a frying pan. When the lightning winked out, the field was littered with wrecked spider-machines. Many of the survivors stood frozen while fire from the tanks picked them off.
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