War of the Worlds

by Adam J. Whitlatch

  The man at the entrance left, closing the door behind him.

  O’Brien stood abruptly and collected his coat. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course,” said Roosevelt, taking a drink.

  Shah watched the Irishman over the rim of his teacup, tracking his movements through the wafting steam.

  *****

  O’Brien walked alongside the man from the pub. Their footsteps thumped on the boardwalk as water lapped loudly at the pier’s supports below. O’Brien turned up the collar of his long gray coat against the chill in the night air. A foghorn blared from somewhere over the bay, but the mist in the air was too thick to spot any ships.

  “Nice night,” O’Brien said. “You’re Ryan, right?”

  The man did not answer. The foghorn sounded again.

  O’Brien grunted. “Suit yourself.”

  They continued on in silence until they came to a boathouse at the end of the docks. The Brooklyn Bridge loomed behind it. They stopped at a large sliding door.

  O’Brien turned to his escort. “Mind tellin’ me what kind of mood he’s in?”

  Ryan grunted and walked around the side of the building, leaving O’Brien to listen to the flying insects bouncing against the single light bulb above the door. O’Brien sighed, clenched his jaw, and reached for the handle.

  *****

  Four men stood inside the dimly lit boathouse. Three were checking an assortment of automatic weapons while another—the tallest among them—rummaged through a wooden crate. The tall man straightened and held up a stick of dynamite.

  “Here ya go, boyos,” said the man, a dark horseshoe mustache framing his sneering lips. “With this we can blow all of Downing Street to hell.”

  Behind him, the door slid open, screeching on its rusty track. The man with the dynamite whirled and drew a pistol from the holster on his left hip while the others raised their machine guns. Patrick O’Brien paused when he saw the weapons. After he regained his composure, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  “You shoot me, Brother,” O’Brien said, “and there’ll be hell to pay with Ma.”

  Sean O’Brien holstered his pistol and grinned. “Well now, if it ain’t the hero of A.R.E.S.”

  The two brothers met halfway across the room and embraced, patting each other on the back. Slowly, reluctantly, the other three men lowered their weapons.

  Sean turned to address one of the men. “Get out the whiskey, Liam.”

  Liam produced a half-empty bottle and five glasses while Sean led his brother to a makeshift kitchen consisting of a small table, chairs, a few wooden casks, and a cast-iron wood stove, upon which sat a bubbling pot that carried the faint aroma of boiling potatoes. The Irishmen gathered around a barrel while Liam poured the drinks.

  Sean lifted his glass and grinned. “To me baby brother, who will help us hijack enough heat rays tonight to blast the bloody English out of Ireland once and for all.”

  “Slainte,” the men toasted.

  Sean and his men downed their whiskey in a single gulp, but the younger O’Brien merely stared into the amber liquid sitting neglected in his glass.

  “Maybe we can even get our mitts on one of them new battle tripods,” Sean said. “Okay, Bucko… when and where?”

  “Look, Sean, there’s been a complication,” O’Brien began.

  Sean frowned. “Don’t be playin’ with your older brother now, Paddy. I don’t like it.”

  “We’ve been called up for war games,” O’Brien explained. “The whole base is on alert.

  “When then?” Sean pressed. “Tomorrow? The day after?”

  “I don’t…” O’Brien hesitated. “I’ll let you know. I have to get back.”

  He turned and walked toward the door.

  “You’re not goin’ yellow on us now, are ya, Paddy?” one of the others jeered.

  “Shut your gob, O’Rourke,” Sean snapped. “My brother is no coward.”

  “You sure about that?” said O’Rourke. “Seems excuses are all that ever come out of his mouth.”

  The others murmured similar sentiments.

  O’Brien gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. “I just need time.”

  “Time?” Sean followed his brother. “Europe’s about to explode and take England with it. We either make our move when it does, or we’ll never be free.” He slammed one meaty fist into his palm.

  O’Brien reached for the door handle. “I know that.”

  As O’Brien stepped out of the warmth of the fire and into the cold, wet night, Sean called out to him. “Know this, too, boyo. You took the oath. You break it, brother or no, I’ll kill ya dead.”

  O’Brien nodded and stepped onto the boardwalk, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Sean watched him disappear into the fog, and then slammed the boathouse door.

  *****

  The barmaid set three new mugs in the center of Goliath Squad’s table, and Roosevelt pressed two silver coins into her hand.

  “You didn’t have to pay, Mr. Secretary,” Wells said.

  Roosevelt raised his mug. “It’s the least I could do, Captain.”

  Carter reached for a mug. “For what?”

  Roosevelt leaned in. “I’ve had my eye on you all for some time now. You all scored exceptionally high in your respective fields, and we need soldiers like you to keep A.R.E.S. alive. I don’t think I have to tell you we’ve been losing support in the international community.”

  They all nodded.

  “That,” Roosevelt said, “is why the general and I handpicked you five to lead our new generation of international squads.”

  “We won’t let you down, sir,” Wells said.

  “I have no doubt, Captain.” Roosevelt stood and hoisted his mug into the air. “To the crew of the Goliath… the best of the best.”

  Wells, Carter, and Shah exchanged sheepish smiles, raised their own glasses, and drank. Roosevelt drained half his mug in one long pull.

  “I’d rather drink piss than drink to them,” a German officer at the next table slurred.

  The multilingual din subsided, and every head in the pub turned toward the source of the outburst.

  Roosevelt choked on his beer and coughed. He turned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Excuse me. Did you just say something?”

  A big, blond man in a gray tripod operator’s uniform sneered at Roosevelt. Across the table, Richthofen waved his hand dismissively. “He’s drunk. Ignore him. Be quiet, Biermann.”

  Roosevelt turned back to Goliath Squad’s table, but Biermann pushed out his chair and staggered over. He grabbed Roosevelt’s shoulder and whirled him around.

  “I said,” the German slurred, “I’d rather drink piss than drink to them.”

  Roosevelt winced and turned his face away from the man’s hot, pungent breath.

  “Simulations and games mean nothing,” Biermann continued, leaning heavily on Roosevelt’s shoulder. “And don’t think that farting match with Spain in Cuba was a war. If Germany was involved, we would have ended it in a week!”

  Roosevelt closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath.

  Biermann’s speech reached a fever pitch as he turned to address the rest of the room. “Everyone knows that the Germans are the best soldiers in the world!”

  Mixed murmurs filled the room as others joined in the argument.

  “And after we kick Europe’s ass, we’ll come for you in America…” Biermann turned and pointed at Roosevelt. “Ted-dy.”

  Roosevelt calmly removed his glasses, slipped them into his breast pocket, and rolled up his sleeves, his eyes cast at the floor.

  Emboldened by Roosevelt’s silence, Biermann took a brazen step forward. “I said, we’ll come for you.”

  “Well, then,” said Roosevelt, “why don’t we start now!”

  Roosevelt delivered a powerful right cross to Biermann’s jaw, sending him stumbling backward. He fell onto the Germans’ table, collapsing it and knocking his drinking companions to the floor
. Only Richtofen remained on his feet. The flying ace snatched his mug as it fell and stared dumbfounded at his countrymen before shrugging and taking a swig.

  The Germans scrambled to their feet and helped Biermann up. The three remaining members of Goliath Squad stood and adopted defensive postures, ready to strike should the Germans wish to continue the fight.

  Biermann, too dense and too drunk to know when he’d been beaten, leapt at Roosevelt. The secretary twisted his body, and the German stumbled into a table occupied by Sikh soldiers. The impact drove one of the Sikhs’ faces into his soup, drenching his turban. The broth-soaked soldier grabbed Biermann by the lapels and punched him in the nose, sending him hurtling over and behind the bar.

  An English officer sitting there craned his neck over the bar top and smirked at the humiliated, bleeding German. “I say, how was that bit of simulation, old boy?”

  The Englishman laughed and raised his mug for a drink, but a German pilot wheeled him around and knocked him off his stool with a left cross to the chin. More Brits and Germans joined the fray until every soldier in the room was squared off against another—Koreans against Japanese, Austrians against Italians, Russians against Poles—their old blood feuds reignited by hate and hard drink. All, that is, except Richthofen, who reclaimed his seat and watched the melee with glee as he downed his beer.

  An Austrian sergeant backed Shah into a corner, broke a whiskey bottle on a nearby table, and waved the improvised weapon in erratic arcs.

  “This violence is unnecessary,” said Shah.

  The Austrian grinned. “But fun.”

  He swung the bottle, and Shah knocked it from his hand with a palm strike to the man’s forearm. The soldier reached for Shah’s jacket, but the lieutenant dropped, locked his legs in a scissor hold around his opponent’s, and twisted, sending the sergeant face first into the nearest table. The man groaned and slid to the floor, unconscious.

  Shah stood and adjusted his uniform. “Are you having fun yet?”

  Wells turned and spotted an English soldier behind Shah with a chair held over his head.

  “Shah,” Wells shouted. “Look out!”

  Wells scooped up an abandoned mug of beer and hurled it at Shah’s assailant. Shah sidestepped the chair as it swung through the space he’d just occupied. The mug smashed into the side of the Englishman’s head, dousing the man in drink and broken glass. The man’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed on top of the Austrian.

  Shah pressed his palms together and bowed his head to Wells. “Many thanks, my friend.”

  Wells smiled. “Anyt— Oof!”

  A cue stick wielded by a Japanese artilleryman hit him in the gut, and Wells doubled over. The man raised the cue over his head, and Wells struck him in the chin with an uppercut.

  A Korean tripod gunner lunged at Captain Sakai. The samurai sidestepped the man’s punch, kneed him in the stomach, grabbed his shoulder, and drove him face first to the floor. Another kicked at the captain, but Sakai caught the man’s leg and threw him to the ground beside his compatriot.

  A short distance away, Carter squared off against one of the German tripod engineers, a man nearly as broad as Carter was tall. The man’s eyes traveled up Carter’s body appraisingly, and he grinned.

  “You’re mine, Fraulein.”

  Carter scoffed. “In your dreams, Fritz.”

  The German charged. As he approached, Carter fell backward and drove her leg into the soldier’s midsection, throwing him through the plate-glass window behind her.

  “Scheisse!” the German bellowed as he crashed onto the bricks outside.

  “Carter!” Wells shouted. “Are you all right?”

  Carter stood and flipped the hair out of her eyes. “Never better, Captain.”

  An Italian infantryman rushed at Wells, who kicked a chair into the attacker’s path, sending him tumbling to the floor. The Italian rose unsteadily and drew a knife from his boot. Wells dropped into a low stance and reached for his own blade sheathed on his belt.

  A shot rang out, and every soldier in the room froze. One by one, every head turned to face the door where General Kushnirov stood with two A.R.E.S. sentries flanking him. The general’s sidearm was aimed at the ceiling, wisps of smoke curling from the barrel. Without comment, the general holstered his pistol and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

  Kushnirov unfolded the communiqué and read, “Today at eleven AM in Sarajevo, Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated. The act was carried out by members of the Black Hand and Young Bosnia.”

  Murmurs erupted from the crowd.

  “What does this mean?” an English officer said. “There will be war!”

  Kushnirov returned the paper to his pocket. “When you return to A.R.E.S., you will find cables from your homelands recalling you to service in your national armies.”

  “This cannot be,” Richthofen protested. “What about the Martians?”

  “They will just have fewer of us to kill,” Kushnirov said gravely.

  “What can we do?” a Russian soldier called out.

  One of the Germans stepped forward. “It is our duty.”

  “We must leave,” Sakai said.

  Others joined in, expressing their intention to heed their homelands’ call.

  Wells shook his head. “No.”

  Carter turned to him. “What did you say?”

  “I said…” Wells slammed his fist down on a nearby table. “No!”

  Silence blanketed the room, and all eyes fell on Wells.

  “We’re not just French, or German, or Japanese,” said Wells. “We are A.R.E.S. We are human.

  “I have seen what the Martians will do. They will murder our brothers… our wives… our children. And if you are lucky enough to survive, you will spend the rest of your miserable lives running like hunted animals, always knowing that because of your cowardice in this moment, everything you loved was dead.”

  “But we will be traitors to our homeland,” Biermann said.

  Wells pointed at Biermann and shouted, “It is they who are the traitors. Those pompous, arrogant fools who call you to their war. They say they fight for their honor when it is only for their greed and their vanity.”

  Wells looked into the faces of the men and women around him. He could see in their eyes that they knew he spoke the truth.

  “We must remain together.” His voice softened. “We must fight as one. I ask you… I beg you, who will fight with me? Who will live and die my brother?”

  For a moment, all were silent. Finally, Richthofen stepped forward.

  “I will,” he said. “Deutschland can kiss my ass.”

  Sakai pounded his chest. “As will I.”

  Carter raised her fist and shouted, “A.R.E.S.!”

  “A.R.E.S.!” Sakai called.

  One by one, the others took up the chant until every man and woman rattled the walls with their voices. Roosevelt glanced at Kushnirov and nodded.

  *****

  Patrick O’Brien stood outside the Green Man Pub, his hand resting on the door handle as he listened to the thunderous chant emanating from within the bar. His shoulders slumped. He released the handle and turned away, disappearing into the fog.

  *****

  A few hours later, Carter walked between the rows of cold, silent battle tripods occupying the main A.R.E.S. mobile artillery hangar. She looked up at the Spartan Class models, the same machines she’d first trained in. At thirty-five feet tall, they were light and quick, but lacked the devastating firepower of their big brothers, the Achilles Class.

  Her time with the American Spartan squads had been agonizing. Even though she proved herself time and time again, her male counterparts still saw her as “just a woman,” and deemed her better suited for nurse duty. After all, combat was no place for the fairer sex.

  Goliath Squad had been different. Oh, sure, O’Brien was a Neanderthal, but he was harmless. She could put up with his ham-fisted advances if it meant finally belonging to a unit. The others had
accepted her readily; especially Captain Wells, even if he did stutter like an idiot whenever she spoke to him.

  She smiled.

  The Achilles tripods loomed over her, their legs taller than an entire Spartan. What they lacked in speed and agility they made up for in power. They could bring down a mountain if necessary. But even with all their firepower, an entire battalion of standard Achilles couldn’t stand up to the Goliath.

  She stopped beside Goliath’s massive foot, and her eyes traveled up the legs, past the powerful hydraulic pistons and fist-sized rivets. It was every bit a walking tank. It looked as if it could plow through any obstacle and emerge without so much as a scratch. If the Achilles were the big brothers, then Goliath was Big Poppa.

  Carter noticed a yellow glow pouring from the cockpit. It seemed somebody was burning the midnight oil. It could only be one person. She climbed the ladder rising between the tripod’s legs, taking the rungs two at a time.

  When she dropped through the main hatch at the top of the turret, her suspicions were confirmed. Wells sat in the pilot’s chair, which was normally occupied by Lieutenant Shah, reading notes from a clipboard.

  “It had to be you,” she said.

  Wells looked up and smiled. “Just checking on a few things.”

  “Hmm….” Carter leaned against the control console. “For, what? The tenth time?”

  “Seventh,” Wells said, “but who’s counting?”

  She sighed. “It’ll be fine.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t,” Carter said forcefully, turning to face him, “but you should. You were the best captain in training.”

  “Training is not reality,” Wells countered, shaking his head. “When my parents were killed… I froze.”

  Wells’ eyes squeezed shut. His face bore the same pained expression it had that morning in the auditorium.