War of the Worlds

by Adam J. Whitlatch

  “Get in the car,” her father commanded. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

  Carter stalked past him, shoving him aside with her shoulder. “Go to hell.”

  “Jennifer,” he bellowed. “If you walk out that door, you will be cut off.”

  Carter stopped. She turned and saw the fear in her father’s eyes.

  “You already did that, Daddy,” she said. “Remember?”

  “It’s not too late,” he said. “I can protect you.”

  Carter shook her head. “No, you can’t. But maybe I can protect you.”

  “Jennifer, I—”

  “Run, Daddy,” Carter said. “Run as fast as you can. I’m through running.”

  She turned and left the apartment. When she was sure nobody could see her, she wiped the tears from her stinging cheek.

  *****

  Wells wanted a shower. He couldn’t tell if the smell was coming from him or the ash caked inside his nostrils. He moved his head from side to side and the bones in his neck popped loudly. The other tripod commanders seated in the auditorium looked at him.

  “Sorry,” Wells said.

  Shah patted him on the shoulder and took the empty seat to his right. “Relax, Captain.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Can I get you anything?” Shah offered. “Coffee?”

  Wells shook his head. “I’ll be fine. I just wish they’d hurry up. Thanks anyway, Shah.”

  Shah smiled and bowed his head.

  “Have the others returned yet?”

  “Corporal O’Brien is conducting repairs on the Goliath. Rather profanely, I might add. It’s actually quite impressive,” Shah said. “Lieutenant Carter and Sergeant Douglas have not reported in yet.”

  “I hope they don’t run into any problems.”

  Shah smiled. “It doesn’t do to dwell on things you cannot change, Captain.”

  Wells sighed. “You’re right, of course. I just—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Roosevelt’s voice boomed. “Your attention, please.”

  Wells looked at the stage. Roosevelt, Tesla, and Kushnirov stood in almost the exact places they had the previous morning. Had it only been a day? To Wells’ aching body, it felt like a week.

  Roosevelt scanned the room. “Are all of the commanders here?”

  “All the living ones,” an officer two rows up from Wells muttered.

  “Professor Tesla has examined the data from this afternoon’s encounter with the invaders and is ready to share his findings,” Roosevelt said. “Professor?”

  Roosevelt stepped aside and yielded the microphone to Tesla.

  The professor cleared his throat. “First slide, please.”

  The image of a Martian tripod appeared on the wall. This was the machine Wells and the other A.R.E.S. soldiers were familiar with. What they’d trained to fight.

  “As you know,” Tesla said, “the original Martian tripods were approximately eighty feet tall, had six fully articulated tentacles, and two heat ray cannons, one for short-range and the other for long-range assaults. Next slide, please.”

  A blurry image taken during the day’s ill-fated training exercise appeared on the wall. The three Martian tripods loomed over an Achilles in the foreground. Wells looked at the cowled heads; the originals had been dome-shaped much like a soldier’s helmet or a turtle’s shell, whereas the new machines sported elongated, swept-back crests. The overall aesthetic was rather insect-like.

  “Here we see an image taken this afternoon by Lieutenant Johnson,” Tesla said.

  Of course, Wells thought. Johnson would have been the one to catch the Martians on film. The lieutenant was an obsessive bird watcher. He’d probably planned to engage in his hobby while waiting for Sakai’s forces to arrive.

  “As you can see,” said Tesla, pointing to the image, “the Martians have upgraded their weaponry.”

  “Tell us somethin’ we don’t know, Doc!” an officer called out.

  Sakai shot the man a stern look, and the man slumped in his seat.

  Tesla cleared his throat again. “Using the Achilles tripod in the photograph as a reference point, I estimate the new Martian machines to be approximately one hundred feet tall. According to reports filed by Captains Wells and Sakai, they also appear to move much faster than those used in the first invasion.”

  They were fast all right. Back in Leeds, Wells had watched several of the machines lumber slowly through the streets. Even when actively pursuing prey, the tripods never moved faster than twenty, maybe twenty-five miles per hour.

  But today, the bastards had managed to chase down a Hermes. That meant they could move in excess of forty miles per hour. And they sidestepped the A.R.E.S. armaments with much more grace than their predecessors had ever managed.

  Tesla held up a dinner plate-sized hunk of jagged, scorched metal. “This is a sample of their armor. The material is unlike anything we have ever harvested from their technology before. It shows properties of a ceramic and a combination of alloys found in Martian machinery.

  “The material is incredibly resistant to heat. The scorch marks you see here are the result of direct exposure from a portable heat ray generator for thirty seconds. While at first glance it may seem the damage is only superficial, closer examination of the material reveals cracks on the opposite side.”

  “What does all this mean for those of us who don’t speak egghead?” an officer called out. Wells recognized the speaker. He was an unpleasant but competent man named Graves.

  “It means they’re tough, but the armor can be weakened,” said Wells.

  “Captain Wells is correct,” Tesla said. “The material is heat resistant, but it cannot stand up to prolonged heat ray exposure. A concentrated salvo will create cracks in the ceramic plating. Your shots must be precise to maximize damage. Next slide, please.”

  The image changed to a close-up of the bisected Martian leg recovered from the battlefield. While the shiny, silver portion of the limb was intact, the soft, red hip joint was melted and charred. Carter’s shot may have been off target, but her hastily aimed volley had turned out to be in their favor.

  “As you can see,” Tesla continued, “the joints are still quite vulnerable to extreme heat. Aim for the knees and hips, and the invaders will be crippled.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Graves called out again. “You try aiming one of those beams at a moving target at several hundred meters. We’re lucky if we can hit the broad side of a barn on a good day.”

  General Kushnirov pounded the podium, breaking his silence. “Then I suggest you try harder to hit your mark, Lieutenant.”

  Graves folded his arms across his chest.

  Kushnirov stared. When it was clear the Lieutenant was through interrupting, Tesla signaled for the next slide, which showed a magnified view of the new tripods’ top section.

  He pointed to the crested cowl. “The cowl is heavily armored. Much more so than earlier models. You will also note that the ‘head’ is cast slightly downward, presenting the pronounced crest.”

  “Meaning the underside of the cowl may be vulnerable,” Sakai said.

  “Possibly,” said Tesla. “If the opportunity presents itself, concentrate heavy cannon fire in that area.”

  “I don’t like the idea of getting that close to one of those things,” said Captain Lorenzi.

  Richthofen turned and grinned at the Italian officer. “You wish to live forever, Lorenzi?”

  “Not forever,” said Lorenzi. “Just longer than you.”

  Many of the men laughed, including Wells. It felt good to break the tension. They were all wound too tight. Kushnirov especially. The old warhorse looked like he could fly to Mars under his own steam.

  “Let us move on,” said Tesla, bringing the meeting back to order. “Next slide.”

  A Martian heat ray cannon covered the wall.

  Tesla pointed to the image. “These new heat ray cannons are more compact than their predecessors, but more articulated
, giving them a wider range of motion.”

  Graves raised his hand, but did not wait to be acknowledged before speaking. “Is it just me, or are the damn things hotter than our rays? They cut through our tripods like a hot knife through butter.”

  Tesla nodded. “Based on my preliminary examinations of the recovered wreckage, these heat rays exceed three thousand degrees Fahrenheit.”

  The officers groaned. They all knew what that meant. At those temperatures, a battle tripod would almost instantly boil up, detonating the boiler, fuel, and munitions. No wonder they’d lost so many units so quickly.

  “The new Achilles tripods’ armor is able to withstand these temperatures for a short time,” Tesla said. “The material was salvaged from the outer shells of the Martian cylinders. Unfortunately we do not have enough of the Martian element to equip all our tripods.”

  “Yet,” said Roosevelt. “We’ll strip it from their wrecks.”

  A few of the men cheered.

  Wells raised his hand. “Professor, what about our radios? After the last enemy tripod was destroyed, we experienced a blackout in communication between all units—”

  “Except the new Achilles,” Tesla said.

  Wells nodded.

  “We have experienced similar phenomena while experimenting with Martian power sources,” Tesla explained. “You recall what happened at Manchester?”

  The question was rhetorical. Of course Wells did. How could he not?

  Five months prior, an experimental power plant utilizing recovered Martian technology in northwest England had exploded, taking the entire city of Manchester with it. Survivors on the outskirts of the blast zone had shown symptoms of severe burns, blindness, hair loss, and—in most cases—delayed cellular malignancies that eventually led to slow, agonizing death. All other stations around the world experimenting with the technology were immediately shut down as a result.

  “After the destruction,” Tesla explained, “all radio, telegraph, and radar equipment within a fifty mile radius broke down. I believe that the electro-magnetic pulse generated by the sudden release of the Martian power source was responsible for the disruption. The same happened today when the tripod’s power cells overloaded—on a much smaller scale, of course. Goliath’s armor shielded your equipment from the pulse.”

  “So there’s nothing we can do to prevent it from affecting the older tripods?” Wells said.

  Tesla shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  Murmurs broke out among the crowd. The Manchester Blast had shocked the entire world. The possibility of it happening again, no matter how small, was understandably troubling to all those present.

  Tesla turned to General Kushnirov. “That’s all, General. I’ll keep working and hopefully will have more for you soon.”

  Kushnirov nodded, and Tesla stepped back to allow the general full access to the microphone.

  “The enemy is faster and stronger, but they are not invincible,” Kushnirov said. “You have proven that. We must change tactics. We can no longer afford to keep our distance in battle.

  “Flank the enemy and lay down heavy suppressing fire. Do not allow them to outmaneuver you. If an opening presents itself, aim for the cowl. Remove the head, and the body dies.

  “Use your rockets and heat rays to weaken their armor, then hit them hard with heavy artillery. For our weapons to be effective, all units must work together to coordinate your assault. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” the officers shouted in unison.

  Graves spoke up again. “So if all else fails, throw everything we’ve got at them, including the kitchen sink?”

  The assembled officers laughed. Even Shah chuckled at Graves’ outburst. Kushnirov turned a particularly rosy shade of red, but Roosevelt spared Graves the general’s wrath.

  “Yes, gentlemen,” he said, “in a pinch, hit the bastard with the bloody kitchen sink.”

  “Any more questions?” said Kushnirov.

  There were none.

  “Good. Report to the Leviathan in one hour for departure,” said Kushnirov. “Atten-hut!”

  The officers snapped to attention.

  Kushnirov nodded. “Dismissed.”

  “Good hunting, men,” Roosevelt said.

  One by one, the officers filed out of the auditorium. Some lingered to talk amongst themselves. Wells noted the worried looks on many of their faces.

  “Find the others, and then report back to me on the Leviathan,” Wells said to Shah. “I’m going to check in on O’Brien.”

  Shah nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

  Wells walked toward the door. As he passed Sakai, he saw a look of worry on the Ronin captain’s face similar to his own. Sakai nodded curtly, then returned his attention to Lieutenant Lee. It was the most civil interaction the two tripod captains had ever shared. Wells hoped it wouldn’t be their last.

  Chapter Nine

  From the control room high above the A.R.E.S. base in the central tower, Roosevelt watched the Leviathan glide through the night sky, flanked by a squadron of Storm Crows and Valkyries. His aide, Colonel Talbert, stood at his side. As the zeppelin disappeared above the low-hanging clouds, Talbert looked at Roosevelt.

  “I never thought this day would come,” she said. “I thought the bacteria would keep us safe.”

  Roosevelt nodded. Over the past fifteen years, he’d seen more than his fair share of Martian specimens floating in jars of formalin, and every one of them looked like they’d fallen ill to some flesh-eating pestilence. It wasn’t any one germ that had brought them down. Influenza, measles, smallpox, and even the common cold had conquered the would-be conquerors.

  Professor Tesla had speculated that the Martians’ advanced technology had eradicated disease on their own planet, but in their arrogance they had failed to anticipate earthly pathogens. The theory had merit; no human had fallen ill to any mysterious, cosmic plague after the invasion.

  “Looks like the ugly buggers developed an immunity,” Roosevelt said.

  He watched as two Storm Crows sped away from the base to catch up to the Leviathan.

  “Will there be anything else, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Hmm?” Roosevelt turned. “Oh. No, you can go, Colonel. Get some rest. I have a feeling we won’t get another chance for a while.”

  Talbert nodded. “Thank you, sir. Goodnight, sir.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Roosevelt resumed his vigil, watching the Bismarck steam toward the open ocean as Talbert’s footsteps faded. “Godspeed, men,” he said. “Give ‘em hell.”

  He turned and walked to a birdcage elevator at the other end of the room. He slid the gate closed behind him and pulled the lever all the way back. The lift rose with a steady hum, and the dim, quiet space gave way to a chaotic, brightly lit chamber at the top of the tower. After a jarring halt, Roosevelt stepped out into an expansive laboratory, stuffed to the gills with thrumming and sparking machinery he could not begin to comprehend.

  The lab bustled with activity as men and women clad in white coats and yellow jumpsuits busied themselves with various tasks. Nearby, three workers sorted damaged Martian components into metal bins according to type and function. At the far end of the room, Nikola Tesla sat cradled in the control seat of a massive telescope. Roosevelt didn’t have to ask where the professor had it focused.

  Roosevelt called out over the din, and Tesla looked up from the eyepiece. He motioned for an assistant to take his place and descended the ladder. Tesla rubbed his eyes and blinked, tired from his ceaseless watch of the heavens.

  Tesla stifled a yawn. “Mr. Secretary.”

  “Professor, how’d they do it?” Roosevelt said. “How’d they blindside us again with every major observatory on Earth watching?”

  “I was just pondering that very question.” Tesla gestured for Roosevelt to follow him. “When they attacked the first time, there were tremendous dust cloud disturbances on the Martian surface caused by the aliens’ launch cannon months before the invasion. I was one of the
few who saw them because I was one of the few who was paying attention.”

  “Are you saying we weren’t vigilant enough?”

  A wry smile curled Tesla’s lips. “I think we both know that is not the case, Theodore. No. This time, my friend, there has been no dust.”

  Roosevelt’s brow furrowed. “But how is that possible?”

  Tesla sat on a bench along the wall and ran a hand through his hair. “They must have found another means of launch. I have a theory that the electromagnetic emissions that I have detected must be from a new ‘rail gun’ type technology. Incredibly powerful. The magnitude of the force vector can be expressed in terms of the permeability constant, the radius of the rails, the distance between them, and the current in amps through the sys—”

  Roosevelt shook his head. “In English, Professor. Please.”

  “Simply put,” said Tesla, “these ‘rail guns’ use electromagnetic energy charges that are theoretically strong enough to sling the Martian cylinders into space at fantastic speeds. Escape velocity is achieved without the use of explosive force, making the launches virtually undetectable.”

  Roosevelt sat beside the professor. His shoulders slumped. “This is not good.”

  Tesla laid a hand on Roosevelt’s shoulder. “On the contrary, just knowing that such a thing exists means that they’re not the only ones who can do it. Given enough time, we might be able to launch craft of our own and take the war to them.”

  “How long?”

  Tesla shrugged. “Ten… maybe fifteen years.”

  Roosevelt sighed. “All we have to do is survive.”

  “There is one other thing that worries me,” Tesla said.

  “Oh?”

  Tesla opened his mouth to speak, but then shook his head. “No, it is nothing.”

  Roosevelt saw the worry on the scientist’s face. “Please, Professor. What’s troubling you?”

  “Manchester.”

  Roosevelt stiffened. There was that word again. “What about it?”

  Tesla took a deep breath and stood, pacing in front of the bench as he spoke. “The energy released by the abrupt collapse of the electromagnetic fields encapsulating the Martian power plant was devastating. An entire city gone in a flash, the earth wiped clean of all living things. Nothing grows in the soil collected from the blast site.”