War of the Worlds

by Adam J. Whitlatch

  Carter put a hand on the back of his chair and leaned in close to him, almost close enough to kiss him. If only. “You were ten years old,” she whispered. “There was nothing you could have done.”

  For a moment, she saw the fear in his eyes. But it wasn’t fear of the Martians.

  Wells turned away. “Right. If you don’t mind….”

  Carter stared for a moment, and then straightened. “Sure.”

  She turned to leave, mounting the ladder while Wells made a show of busying himself with his checklist. She looked back at him.

  “By the way,” she said, “that guy tonight. The one who spoke and kept all of A.R.E.S. from running home. That man… he wouldn’t freeze in battle.”

  Carter ascended the ladder, leaving Captain Wells to his thoughts… and his ghosts.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, the A.R.E.S. hangar bustled with activity as soldiers and technicians scrambled about, loading cargo into the Leviathan. Rows of battle tripods stood silent in three long columns, waiting to be craned aboard. Teams crawled over the giant machines like fleas on a dog’s back, filling their water tanks from long, snaking hoses and shoveling coal into the tinder boxes. Fuel trucks equipped with electric pumps provided the newer tripods with diesel fuel.

  Long, retractable folding gangways jutted from the hangar walls, providing personnel entry to the massive armored airship. Goliath Squad entered by one of these, their rucksacks slung over their shoulders. The temporary walkway swayed under their feet despite the heavy cables supporting them. Wells took deep breaths, fighting off a wave of dizziness.

  “Look at ‘em down there!” O’Brien exclaimed.

  “I’d rather not,” Wells said, his eyes fixed on the back of the soldier in front of him.

  O’Brien grabbed the railing and leaned over for a better look at the ten shiny, new Super Achilles tripods. The gangway swayed, and Carter, followed by Shah and Douglas, came to a jarring halt behind the giddy, mountainous Irishman. “What beauties!”

  Wells grabbed the rail to steady himself. “Please don’t do that!”

  O’Brien grinned. “Which one do you think is ours?”

  “Probably the one with Goliath painted on the side,” Carter said sweetly. “Now move your ass, Corporal!”

  O’Brien hefted his rucksack and resumed walking. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Shah and Douglas shared a chuckle as the line began to move again. As they neared the door, the sound of turning gears filled the hangar, and the Leviathan’s belly split open. Two doors folded down and outward over the rows of battle tripods.

  O’Brien looked down and grumbled, “I’m going to miss the best part.”

  “Today, O’Brien!” Douglas called from the rear.

  “Fine,” O’Brien said as he stepped over the threshold into the zeppelin.

  Inside the Leviathan’s belly, three girders ran the entire length of the tripod hold. Each supported several gear-driven crawler cranes equipped with powerful winches and massive yellow clamps capable of supporting up to one hundred tons.

  Every crawler was manually controlled from a glass-enclosed control station at the front of the rig. The controller could position the rig, lower and raise the loading clamps, and drop service platforms for in-flight maintenance. While airborne, all tripods remained securely clamped to decrease stress on the hold doors and prevent loss in case of a hull breach.

  The two-clawed arms descended on cables from the crawlers to the tripods waiting below. With a puff of steam, the clamps locked on under the machines’ “torsos” and lifted them into the cargo bay.

  The fueling teams completed their work and climbed down from the last machine as the claws arrived to lift the final row into the Leviathan’s hold. When the legs cleared the opening, the belly doors closed with a hiss as the interior was pressurized.

  *****

  Kushnirov stood on the command deck of the Leviathan overseeing the preparations. His hands gripped the iron railing surrounding the observation platform. Below and directly ahead lay the helm, radar, and communication stations. Iron staircases on both sides led past massive steam pipes and power conduits to banks of electronics that monitored everything from radio to internal climate control.

  This room was the nerve center of Leviathan, and from his lofty perch above it, Kushnirov had his finger on the giant airship’s pulse. While the tripods controlled the ground, Leviathan ruled the skies. Nothing in the Martian arsenal could possibly stand against the flying fortress.

  “Tripods are loaded and secured, General,” said a female officer behind him. “All gangways retracted.”

  Kushnirov nodded. “Open the canopy.”

  “Aye, sir.” The officer turned and repeated the order into one of the many speaking tubes lining the wall behind them.

  Above them, the convex canopy crowning the A.R.E.S. hangar split apart and slowly opened, revealing blue sky streaked with lazily drifting white clouds.

  “Release ties,” Kushnirov ordered.

  A moment later, series of six loud hisses and pops reverberated throughout the ship, and the Leviathan drifted up through the opening in the roof. The Manhattan skyline stretched before the zeppelin.

  “Seventy knots,” Kushnirov said “North… north east.

  “Seventy knots, north… north east, aye,” the young helmsman repeated in a Russian accent.

  The airship rose and turned before surging forward, leaving twin trails of steam in its wake. All around it, purple, bi-winged Storm Crow fighters moved into formation to provide escort.

  “Steady as she goes,” said Kushnirov.

  The helmsman repeated the order.

  Kushnirov turned to Wells and Sakai, who stood beside a table covered with a three-dimensional topographical map of the war game staging area. Shah stood at Wells’ side, while Lieutenant Lee accompanied his own commander.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Kushnirov said.

  “Good morning, sir,” Wells said with a smile.

  Sakai grunted and nodded curtly; he was obviously still sore from the reprimand he’d received from the general the day before.

  The general pointed to the end of the map closest to Sakai.

  “Captain Sakai,” he said, “your red forces will mass twenty miles north of Ellenville.”

  Sakai nodded.

  “Captain Wells, your blues will be twenty miles to the south,” Kushnirov continued, pointing to the opposite end of the table where Wells stood nodding. “Your goal is simple: ‘Destroy’ the force facing you. All heat rays will be set on only enough power to mark your enemy and armaments will be firing paint. This won’t be war, but it is as close as we can get. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” both captains replied.

  “And be mindful of the front coming in from Canada,” Kushnirov said. “Expect ground fog… maybe rain. Your visibility may be limited, so stay on your toes. Good luck, gentlemen. Dismissed.”

  Both squad leaders and their lieutenants snapped to attention and saluted, holding their posture until the general moved away to attend to other duties. As Wells turned to leave, Sakai grabbed his arm. Wells looked at his rival’s hand, and then met his cold stare.

  “There is no dishonor in being defeated by your better,” Sakai said.

  “Well,” said Wells, “I hope you’ll keep that in mind. If you’ll excuse me, Captain….”

  Wells pulled away from Sakai’s grip and accompanied Shah to the lift at the rear of the bridge.

  Sakai frowned. “These English gaijin. Their arrogance never ceases to amaze me.”

  “The English have no monopoly on arrogance, Captain Sakai,” Lieutenant Lee said.

  Sakai glowered at Lee. The lieutenant bowed, then turned and walked toward the lift. Sakai’s hands balled into fists as he watched him go.

  *****

  Wells thumbed the broadcast button on his radio receiver. “Fire her up, O’Brien.”

  Goliath shuddered as the engines rumbled to life. Thick, black smok
e billowed from the stacks behind Wells’ position in the main turret. The vibrations rattled his joints, and he gripped the railing.

  Around him, the entire battalion ignited their engines, adding their own smoke trails to Goliath’s, which the wind mercifully carried away. One of the other new Achilles, the Drago, had trouble getting its diesel engine started, but eventually it too chugged to life.

  Wells led the squad through the pre-operational checklist while the other Super Achilles commanders did the same with their respective squads. The shakedown revealed a leaky rear leg hydraulic line in the Goliath, an electrical fault in the Ifrit’s heat ray, and sticky clockwise rotation in the Terra’s main turret. While troublesome, the glitches were hardly crippling, and Wells gave the order to move out. He just hoped Sakai was experiencing similar headaches on the Ronin’s maiden voyage.

  The Achilles tripods took up positions in front of and around the Goliath while the lighter Spartans and Hermes scouts moved to the head of the pack; the creaking of metal joints and the hum of hydraulic pistons filled the air. Goliath rose and fell steadily with every step. The movement was sluggish at first, an erratic gait, but Shah soon found his rhythm, and Goliath marched forward over the tall grass.

  Wells unfolded his map and studied it for a moment before keying his radio. “Looks like there’s a river about twelve miles east. We’ll spread the team a mile wide and wait. When they hit the middle of the river, we’ll open up and hit them hard.”

  The receiver crackled, and Shah’s voice rang out over the cacophony created by the tripods’ marching. “I know Captain Sakai well. The man is a samurai. He will attack full force in the center of our line.”

  A samurai and arrogant to a fault.

  This wasn’t Wells’ first skirmish with Sakai. The reason Goliath wasn’t named the Ronin was because the Japanese captain’s narrow-minded strategies had allowed Wells to flank him. Sakai only saw what was in front of him. Their best chance would be to divide their forces and catch Sakai by surprise, provided he hadn’t learned from their last encounter.

  Wells opened a channel to the entire battalion. “Scouts One through Five, I want you a thousand yards to point. Scouts Six and Seven, right. Eight through Ten, left.

  “No one gets on our flanks without us knowing. If you see the enemy, you are to report back immediately. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage. I want them coming to us, not digging in.”

  Thunder clapped and lightning streaked across the sky, heralding the arrival of the storm front Kushnirov had warned them about. The single-pilot Hermes tripods bounded across the terrain toward their assigned positions, leaving the Spartans lagging behind. Wells pitied the poor scouts; their open cockpits provided no shelter from the elements. At least it would keep them alert.

  The rain came slowly at first, only random droplets, but they gradually grew fatter until a torrential shower fell upon Wells’ shoulders. He grimaced and held the map over his head for a moment, then thought better of it and shook it off before returning it to his shirt pocket.

  Wells watched as a dense fog slowly rolled in, completely obscuring the ground. He cursed. If Kushnirov wanted to test them, he’d certainly chosen the right day for it. To his left, Wells heard a metallic crunch followed by creaking and screams. He looked as a Spartan fell forward, its back protruding from the mist.

  Wells leaned over the edge of the turret for a better look, and then called down into the cockpit. “Shah, hold up!”

  Goliath’s steps slowed and halted alongside the fallen tripod.

  “Lieutenant Hendrix,” Wells called over the radio. “Are you all right?”

  Several seconds later, Hendrix’s voice came back over the speaker. “Just a couple of bruises, sir. Nothing hurt but our pride.”

  Wells breathed a sigh of relief. “Relax, Fred. You’ll be fine. Just watch where you’re going.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  It took a couple minutes for the Spartan to regain its footing and right itself, but the tripod showed no apparent damage from the tumble. A few clumps of muddy sod clung to the nose and knee joints.

  “Blue Team,” Wells said into the microphone. “Half-throttle and watch your footing. It’s thick as soup out here.”

  *****

  Inside the Goliath’s cockpit, O’Brien climbed up from the lower engine compartment and tossed a grease-caked wrench into his toolbox. “I hate to think what we’re doing to some poor farmer’s cattle,” he said. “Crushing the pudding out of ‘em, I’d wager.”

  Douglas twisted in the gunner’s chair and craned his neck to look at the corporal. “Cows? We’re stuck out here, in this soup, with Sakai’s guns pointed at us, and you’re worried about cows?”

  O’Brien lifted a mallet from the toolbox and pointed it at Douglas. “Damn right, I am! You’re not the one who has to scrape the bastards off Goliath’s heel. Who gets stuck with that mess? Ol’ Paddy, that’s who!”

  Douglas shook his head and faced forward. “You’re some piece of work, O’Brien.”

  “Hey,” O’Brien snapped. “Mark my words, we’ll trip over a barn by day’s end.”

  Carter turned in her co-pilot seat and smiled at Shah. “Two months training together and they’re already fighting like an old married couple. Sweet, isn’t it?”

  “I heard that,” O’Brien called.

  Shah chuckled.

  Carter turned back toward the front and watched the landscape steadily rise and fall in her viewport. The Goliath shuddered with every footfall. Not enough to rattle one’s teeth, but Carter could feel the raw power in each step. O’Brien was right; this tripod would tear through a barn like paper, and it wouldn’t even falter in its gait.

  Her body moved in her seat with the tripod’s motions, which were much smoother than the clunky Spartans she’d trained in. It was a lot like riding a horse—a three-legged, steam-powered, iron steed. Her sleeves hid the goose bumps dotting her arms. She shivered and bit her lower lip as she gripped the chair. She could get used to this.

  “Let’s stay focused, Team,” Wells said. “Cut the chit-chat.”

  Wells’ voice broke the spell, and Carter straightened. “Yes, Captain.”

  Carter stared ahead into the fog, watching for O’Brien’s barns. The Goliath moved forward at an agonizingly slow pace. At this rate, they’d meet up with Sakai’s forces just in time for Doomsday.

  *****

  General Kushnirov stared out at the dense rolling clouds from the observation deck. Heavy rain beat against the windows and ran down in sheets. To starboard, a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the thunderheads from within.

  A communications officer approached the general and stood at attention by his side. She waited to be acknowledged.

  Kushnirov’s eyes remained fixed on the clouds. “Report.”

  “Sir, the storm is distorting all communications between the Leviathan and the Blue and Red Teams.”

  “I don’t like it,” Kushnirov said, turning to meet her gaze. “Get me Professor Tesla.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, sir. The storm….”

  Kushnirov turned back to the clouds as a nearby thunderclap shook the ship. “I don’t like it at all.”

  *****

  At half-speed, it took nearly two hours for Blue Team to reach their ambush point. As the tripods crested the hill overlooking the river, they halted, their guns pointed north. The silence sounded strange to Wells, having grown accustomed to the rhythmic thump and hiss of Goliath’s legs. If not for the frigid rain, it might have lulled him to sleep.

  The rain had eased somewhat, but the tiny droplets still felt like icy needles on Wells’ cheeks. His breath came in puffs of white vapor, adding to the haze blocking his view of the battlefield. Movement on the opposite bank caught his eye, but as the wind pushed the fog aside, he could make out two does grazing. He relaxed.

  Wells opened a channel to the entire team and keyed the microphone. “Okay, people, we wait. If Shah is right, Sakai should be arriving
in twenty minutes. Stay sharp.”

  Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled overhead. There was another sound beneath that. Rhythmic. Mechanical.

  The deer on the far side of the river looked toward the north, and then bounded downstream. A Hermes scout came over the rise at top speed, its pilot twisting in his seat to look back over his shoulder.

  “They’re here!” the pilot shouted. “They’re coming!”

  “That’s impossible,” Wells said. “The Ronin couldn’t possibly move that fast.”

  The scout stepped into the river and was enveloped in a bright, green light. The pilot screamed as the flesh melted from his bones, leaving a blackened skeleton at the controls for a moment before the tripod exploded.

  *****

  In the Goliath’s cockpit, Lieutenant Carter twisted in her seat and looked out the window at the fireball erupting in the middle of the river. Flaming debris rained down, sending billows of steam and smoke into the air.

  “Dear God,” she said. “Sakai must have forgotten to lower his power levels.”

  Shah looked through his porthole and raised his binoculars. “That wasn’t Sakai.”

  Three tall, indistinct shapes moved through the fog. They were much too tall to be Red Team. Lightning flashed, revealing three enormous silver and red tripods over one hundred feet tall, their tentacles writhing at their sides.

  Shah lowered the field glasses and gasped. “Martians!”

  The middle Martian tripod fired its heat ray. A moment later, a deafening explosion rocked the Goliath, and Shah fumbled with the controls to keep her on her feet.

  “Hendrix!” Wells shouted from above. “Hendrix!”

  Carter looked out the portside porthole. The green legs of Hendrix’s Spartan stood beside them. The body had been blown completely away, leaving a smoking mass of twisted metal at the top.