War of the Worlds

by Adam J. Whitlatch

  “My God,” Carter whispered.

  At the helm, Shah shifted levers and turned the Goliath toward the invaders. The battle tripod surged forward, and Carter and O’Brien were both sent sprawling to the deck.

  O’Brien rubbed a fresh knot on his head. “What the hell is going on out there?”

  Emerald light filled the portholes as a Martian heat ray sliced through the air where the Goliath had just stood.

  Shah keyed his microphone. “Your orders, Captain?”

  Silence.

  “Captain,” Shah said more urgently. “Your orders?”

  Carter looked up toward the turret. Had Wells frozen? Or had the Martians….

  “Captain Wells!” Shah shouted.

  A moment later, Wells’ voice filled the cockpit. “Get a message to the Leviathan that we are under attack. Blue Team, this is not a drill. Spread out and advance. Full power to heat rays. Replace paint with live armaments, and fire at will.”

  Carter descended the ladder to the weapons deck and took the heat ray gunner’s seat. “How’s that heat ray coming, O’Brien?” she shouted.

  “Heat ray’s hot,” O’Brien called. “Ready when you are!”

  “Let’s blow these bastards to hell!” said Wells.

  “Yes, sir,” said Douglas.

  The cannon fired, rocking Goliath back slightly.

  *****

  The eighty-eight roared and Wells gripped the railing to keep from being thrown from the crow’s nest. The shell struck the middle Martian tripod, but its armor was hardly scratched. It responded with its heat ray, and another Spartan exploded. Wells threw up his hands to shield his face from the blast.

  These Martians were different from the ones he’d encountered as a boy, more insect-like in appearance. They were taller by at least twenty feet, and twice as many tentacles flailed around them. The red sections of the body appeared almost organic, like muscle. The machines sounded a trumpeting battle cry; even this was louder and more terrifying than Wells remembered.

  The Martian’s heat ray glowed, ready to unleash another fiery blast.

  “Jennifer, fire up that heat ray,” Wells shouted into the mic, forgoing propriety in his panic. “Twenty degrees right. Distance: five hundred yards. Elevation: Ninety feet.”

  Goliath turned, matching the bearing Wells had given.

  “Fire!” Wells bellowed.

  A blistering, orange beam sizzled through the air, drawing a line between Goliath and the leading invader. The ray struck low, severing one of the Martian’s legs at the hip. The limb fell away and the tripod slumped, using its tentacles to maintain its balance.

  “Good shot, Lieutenant,” Wells shouted. “Maintain fire!”

  The eighty-eight fired again, this time striking the Martian directly in its cowl. The tentacles went slack and the alien tripod fell forward, crashing into the river. The other two Martians looked down at their fallen leader, and then advanced, their heat rays flashing. Two Hermes scouts exploded, sending debris crashing into Goliath’s legs.

  “Heat ray,” Wells ordered.

  “Thirty seconds, Captain,” O’Brien replied.

  Douglas fired the eighty-eight again, but the shell flew harmlessly past the nimble Martian tripods. Wells swiveled the fifty-caliber machine gun toward the target and opened fire. Spent shell casings shot out the side of the weapon and cascaded down into the cockpit below.

  “Where the hell is Sakai?” Wells shouted.

  *****

  Douglas pulled a lever and slammed another shell into the eighty-eight millimeter gun.

  “Keep firing,” Wells ordered.

  Douglas squeezed the trigger, but the cannon did not fire. He tried again. Nothing.

  “Shit!” he said.

  “Heat ray’s ready,” O’Brien called from the back.

  Douglas jumped from his seat and pulled the manual release on the cannon’s loading mechanism. The shell was jammed in the feed track at an angle.

  “O’Brien,” he shouted. “Get up here and get on the fifty!”

  A hiss of steam filled the air, and white vapor poured out of the engineering compartment. O’Brien cursed. “I’ve got problems of my own back here, Sarge!”

  “I don’t give a damn about your problems, Corporal,” Douglas said. “Get your ass on that gun or we’re all dead!”

  While Douglas wrenched on the jammed shell, O’Brien slid into the gunner’s seat to his right. The fifty-cal opened up, filling the cockpit with a rhythmic rat-tat-tat.

  “How d’ya like that, ya bastards?” the Irishman taunted.

  “Everyone grab hold of something,” Shah shouted.

  The Goliath pitched as an enemy heat ray flashed past the view ports. Douglas fell back against his chair, but the momentum pulled the shell loose. It slipped from his grip and rolled across the deck.

  “Woo,” O’Brien hollered. “That one singed me eyebrows! What say we return the favor, Sarge?”

  Douglas loaded a fresh shell into the cannon, and this time, it slid into place effortlessly. “With pleasure.”

  Douglas aimed for center mass on the closest Martian tripod and fired. The shell struck its left side, blowing off a grouping of tentacles but otherwise leaving the machine intact.

  “Damn,” Douglas growled.

  *****

  The machine gun clicked empty, and Wells slapped the side of the weapon. “Damn! O’Brien!”

  “Captain?” the Irishman called from below.

  “Bring me the Torch!” Wells shouted. “Hurry!”

  An enemy heat ray strafed the top of the Ifrit, disintegrating the gunner in the crow’s nest before melting the turret to useless slag. The tripod staggered erratically as molten steel poured down into the cockpit.

  “Corporal!” Wells shouted.

  “Here, Captain!”

  Wells looked down and saw O’Brien at the foot of the ladder holding the portable heat ray’s backpack. Wells slid down the ladder and shrugged into the pack, snapping the waist strap while O’Brien twisted valves on the weapon’s fuel tank.

  Wells looked over his shoulder. “Ready?”

  O’Brien swiped his forehead with the back of his forearm, pushing back a lock of sweat-matted, red hair. “She’s ready to cook, Cap’n!”

  Wells ascended the ladder and blinked the rainwater from his eyes. He hefted the Torch and flicked the switches along the side. The emitter hummed, and the needle on the dial rose rapidly, hitting the peg at 100%.

  Wells leveled the emitter and fired. The smell of ozone burned his nostrils as the red-orange beam shot toward the invaders. The ray sliced several tentacles as it strayed, but Wells fought the weapon and held it on the enemy tripod’s torso.

  The Martian’s heat ray glowed, but an artillery shell struck it from behind. The alien machine staggered. Wells looked up and saw several A.R.E.S. tripods coming over the rise with the Ronin leading the charge.

  “It’s Red Team!” he cheered.

  Sakai’s tripods opened fire on the Martians, pelting them with artillery and heat rays, shearing off limbs and tentacles. One of the alien machines turned to face the newcomers, earning itself a rocket to the face for its trouble. It staggered and fired, destroying one of Sakai’s Achilles.

  “Give them everything we’ve got,” Wells ordered. He fired the Torch again, exhausting what remained of its charge.

  Goliath’s heat ray and heavy cannon fired, along with all six light rockets. The rest of Blue Team followed suit, catching the Martians in a devastating crossfire that buffeted them from all sides. The rockets found their mark and the alien tripods exploded in a massive, expanding fireball. Wells released the heat ray’s trigger and shielded his eyes from the blast.

  When the light faded, all that remained was a smoking crater where the invaders had stood. The rain slowed, and the clouds parted to reveal the pink-purple sky of twilight. What Wells saw turned the blood in his veins to ice.

  Three bright comets streaked across the sky, trailing green flames a
nd smoke behind them. The first time Wells had seen them had been through the lens of his father’s telescope fifteen years ago. Martian cylinders, each containing multiple enemy tripods and pilots.

  “They’re entering our atmosphere,” Shah’s voice crackled from the radio. “The invasion has begun, Captain.”

  “Damage report,” Wells said. “I need to know how many we’ve lost.”

  *****

  “Congratulations on your victory, Captain,” Kushnirov said.

  Wells stood on the Leviathan’s observation deck. The other tripod commanders stood behind him. Many of the officers were wounded, their heads bandaged and arms in slings. One German officer stood supported on a crutch, his right leg wrapped in a plaster cast.

  “We have fifty-seven dead and seventeen injured,” said Wells. “We lost six scouts, four Spartans, and six Achilles. You’ll excuse me, sir, if I don’t think of it as a victory.”

  “Was the enemy destroyed?”

  Wells nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then it was a victory, Captain,” said Kushnirov.

  “The aliens are bigger, stronger, and faster than they were,” Wells countered. “We were not prepared for this.”

  “It’s not supposed to be easy.”

  “Why didn’t they land in force?”

  “It was a probe to test our capabilities,” Kushnirov explained. “Now they know what they are fighting.”

  “Sir,” the communications officer called from her console. “We’ve just gotten word of landings throughout Europe and Asia, but the Martians seem to be concentrating their forces in North America.”

  Kushnirov turned. “Where?”

  “Montreal… New Orleans… San Francisco,” she replied. “The largest concentration is in New Mexico.”

  “Our bases in Europe and Asia will respond,” Kushnirov said. “West Coast forces will have to defend San Francisco on their own. We will respond to the rest of the landings.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Take us back to A.R.E.S.,” Kushnirov ordered. “I want a full mobilization. All leaves are canceled. All troops are to report to their units. Strike forces will be armed, outfitted, and ready to leave in three hours. Gentlemen, I believe that little European war has just been canceled.”

  “Are we ready, sir?” said Wells.

  “We’d better be,” Kushnirov said.

  Chapter Six

  A.R.E.S. Radar Station 42

  150 miles north of Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Private Pete Gracen stared up at the stars. The sky was crystal clear, making the brilliant lights seem to twinkle and dance. One of them, to the northeast, almost seemed to move. Gracen raised his binoculars and focused on the distant light. He watched it for several moments, but it remained stationary.

  Just his eyes playing tricks on him again.

  He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Six hours of watch duty. Or had it only been five? He checked his watch. Five. Three hours to go.

  Gracen reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. He rested his elbows against the railing and unfolded it. In the bright starlight he could just make out the light, flowing script.

  My Dearest Peter,

  I hope all is well. It feels like you’ve been gone for ages, even though it’s only been a month. The nights are so cold without your arms around me.

  Mother and I have started working on my dress! It’s so beautiful! I wish you could see it. Señora Guzman gave me these lovely beads for the—

  “Are you reading that letter again?”

  Gracen looked up. His squad mate, Private Byrnes, stood only a few feet away staring at him, his binoculars resting on the railing. Byrnes had transferred in six weeks before from San Francisco, and even though his joking nature often rubbed the other men—particularly the lieutenant—the wrong way, Gracen had taken an instant liking to him.

  Gracen blushed. He folded the letter and stuffed it into his breast pocket. “Sorry, Adrian.”

  Byrnes smirked and shook his head. “What is that? The tenth time today?”

  Gracen shrugged.

  “Have you two set a date yet?”

  Gracen nodded. “September 18th. Maria wants an outdoor wedding. We’re going to have it on the mesa where we first kissed.”

  Byrnes nodded his approval. “Very nice.”

  A coyote howled nearby.

  “George is out,” said Byrnes.

  Gracen shook his head. “That’s not George. It’s Bob.”

  “Clean your ears. It’s George.”

  To stave off boredom, they had taken to naming the coyotes they spotted while on watch. So far, they’d named eight of them, even though it was harder to identify each one than either man would admit. Still, the game and its resulting arguments kept them from dozing off.

  Byrnes raised his binoculars and scanned the sky. “You never told me how you two met.”

  “Met who? Bob?”

  “No, dust brain. You and Maria,” Byrnes replied. “And it’s George.”

  “Oh,” Gracen said. “Well, it’s a long story.”

  Byrnes cast him a sideways glance. “You got somewhere else to be?”

  Gracen sighed. “I guess not. You remember when they came, Adrian?”

  He didn’t have to elaborate.

  “Too young,” said Byrnes. “You?”

  Gracen nodded. “I was in Albuquerque. At first, we were safe because the tripods were staying close to the coasts. My father didn’t believe the war was real. He thought it was some story made up to sell newspapers. It wasn’t until the Army came to town with sandbags and cannons that he started to really pay attention.

  “After a couple weeks, they made their way inland. It was my sister Becky’s birthday when they came into town. They didn’t even bother with the black smoke; they just started blasting away with the heat rays. The noise… I don’t know what was worse, the shelling, the screams, or that awful sound the bastards made whenever they blew somebody to hell.

  “We stayed out of sight until the Army shelled one of the tripods and it fell into our building. My father led us outside. We’d hardly made it all the way into the street before one of those… things opened fire on us. My father was the first to go. Then it blasted my mother, my brother, and my sister; she was still holding the stuffed bear my parents had given her.”

  Gracen turned to Byrnes. “You ever burn ants with a magnifying glass?”

  Byrnes nodded.

  “It was like that.” Gracen snapped his fingers. “One second they were there, and the next… whoosh! Gone in a flash.”

  Byrnes stared, entranced. “How’d you escape?”

  Gracen shook his head. “Beats me. I never moved; just stood there, waiting to get burned like the others. Maybe it couldn’t see me. I don’t know.”

  “Then what?”

  “One of the others called out, and it walked away,” Gracen said. “I watched them burn soldiers left and right. The heat rays never stopped flashing for an instant. Those who survived ran away. Everybody ran… except Sheriff Chavez.

  “The sheriff stood his ground. He just stood there in the middle of the street, a Colt .45 in each hand, firing at the Martians. He never flinched, even when one of the tripods turned and marched toward him. I thought for sure he was going to buy it when the tripod wrapped a tentacle around his leg.

  “But the sheriff kept firing, even while that monster dragged him down the street on his ass. When he got within spitting distance, it lifted him about a foot and a half into the air and then dropped him. The tentacle just kind of twitched on the ground. It never even tried to reach for him as he backed off and reloaded.

  “The Martian just stood there, even after the Sheriff put another slug in it for good measure. After a couple minutes, it collapsed… just fell on its ass in the middle of the street like a three-legged drunk. Not too long after, I heard the other one fall a couple blocks away.”

  “The germ?” Byrnes said.

 
Gracen nodded. “Sheriff Chavez climbed up onto the one he’d been fighting and pried it open with a crowbar. How he kept from spilling his guts all over the place, I’ll never know. The stink was awful, and it attracted every damn scavenger for miles; I’ve never seen so many flies in my life. The tripods sat there for weeks before the Army finally hauled them away.”

  Byrnes’ lip curled in disgust. “Yuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So,” Byrnes said, “what does all this have to do with Maria?”

  “I’m getting to it,” said Gracen. “Keep your shirt on!”

  Byrnes laughed. “In this heat?”

  “The war may have been over,” Gracen continued, “but the Martians left their mark. Albuquerque was a ruin. I spent the first year in a refugee camp—we called it Tent City—living with the other orphans. I don’t think I tasted solid food the entire time.”

  “There wasn’t anywhere for you to go?” Byrnes asked.

  Gracen shook his head. “No family. No home. After they shut down Tent City, a bunch of us moved into the alleys. I don’t know what was worse: baking in the summer or freezing in the winter. I stole what I needed to survive.

  “But one day it caught up to me. I hadn’t eaten in at least a week, and this well-dressed couple walked past me on the street. I don’t know whether it was the hunger or the heat, but I ran up behind them and snatched the woman’s purse right there in broad daylight. Her husband chased me for a couple blocks before he gave up. I thought I was home free, until I ran right smack into Sheriff Chavez.

  “I thought he was going to take me to jail. To tell you the truth, I actually hoped he would. Three hot meals and a warm cot at night. It sounded like a good deal to me.”

  “But he didn’t?” Byrnes said.

  “No,” Gracen said. “After he made me return the purse, he took me to his home. I remember Mrs. Chavez wrapping me in her arms and hugging me like I was her long-lost child. That’s when I saw her standing in the doorway. Maria. I loved her from the very first moment I laid eyes on her. Her dark eyes… her raven hair… and that smile.