War of the Worlds

by Adam J. Whitlatch

  “Here they come!” Blanchard shouted over the radio.

  The Martian craft burst from the clouds and, upon sighting the waiting Storm Crows, immediately broke formation and scattered. They were flat, oval-shaped ships with gleaming, silver hulls spotted with multiple red running lights. As they banked, Chamberlin could see the heat rays mounted under their noses.

  One of the saucers fired its beam, obliterating Grant’s Storm Crow in a blistering fireball. Chamberlin felt the heat of the explosion and banked to pursue one of the enemy craft. He fired his ray, but the Martian rolled and avoided it.

  The comm channel was a cacophony of overlapping voices. Strict, military discipline quickly broke down into frenzied chaos as the panicked pilots banked out of the path of the Martians’ deadly heat rays.

  Below him, Chamberlin saw Webster fire her heat ray, scoring a glancing blow against one of the Martians as it pulled into a dive. The saucer trailed thick black smoke for several seconds before exploding.

  Chamberlin cheered and looked down at the power gauge for his own heat ray. The needle crawled past the 25% mark with agonizing slowness. He waited until the Martian craft drifted into his crosshairs and opened fire with the machine guns. The barrels barked and the Martian banked, but Chamberlin matched its course as the bullets ripped through the hull. Smoke poured from the wounded saucer.

  “Bank! Bank!” Browne’s voice sounded in his ear.

  “Damn it,” Blanchard shouted. “I can’t shake them!”

  Chamberlin whipped his head around, looking for the source of the distress call. Finally he saw two of the Martian fighters on Blanchard’s tail. He reluctantly disengaged from his prey and pulled his plane into a dangerously sharp turn. Although the aliens were unable to match Blanchard’s path, they soon caught up to him, their heat rays flashing. Browne struggled to keep up with the pursuers, her machine guns firing short, controlled bursts so as not to risk hitting him.

  Chamberlin dove into the fray. He watched the Martians carefully, gauging their speed. When he was sure he knew where they would be, he fired two rockets. The projectiles traced spiraling paths through the sky. The first missed its mark, but the second struck one of the saucers, and the resulting explosion sent its wingman careening away in an uncontrolled dive.

  “Thanks, Archangel,” said Blanchard. “I owe you— Ahhhhhh!”

  Blanchard’s Storm Crow vanished in a flash of green flame and smoke. The Martian craft, now recovered, approached from below, heading straight for Chamberlin.

  Browne’s fighter appeared beside Chamberlin’s, and they kicked in their afterburners. The pilots were pressed back into their seats as the Storm Crows’ rocket engines propelled them forward. When Chamberlin looked back, however, three more Martian saucers had joined the chase, their heat ray cannons charging to fire. An emerald beam streaked past and singed Chamberlin’s wing.

  “Where the hell is Richthofen?” he shouted.

  *****

  Richthofen grinned. The frigid air stung his cheeks as the Valkyrie dove through the clouds. When it emerged, he saw the Martian wings pursuing the fleeing Storm Crows.

  He fired his machine guns, and his squadron followed suit. Bullets ripped through the alien hulls and heat rays flashed as the Valkyries descended on the enemy like ravenous birds of prey. Richthofen fired his heat ray, blowing one of the Martian craft to smithereens and scattering the others.

  The Valkyries broke formation and pursued the saucers. Richthofen chose a target and followed it, but did not immediately engage. He watched the craft, studying its movements. Its turns were clumsy, exposing its entire body while it made long, curving arcs.

  Richthofen scoffed. If birds of any kind lived on Mars, they must have been the most graceless beings in all Creation.

  The Martian turned, and Richthofen fired two of his rockets, having grown tired of his game of cat and mouse. One of the missiles struck the saucer’s tail, sending the craft into a smoking spin until it broke apart, raining debris down onto the desert floor.

  Motion in the corner of Richthofen’s eye caught his attention, and he looked to his right. Three of the Martian craft flew toward the Leviathan in formation.

  “They are heading for the Leviathan,” he shouted. “Valkyries, move to intercept!”

  One by one the Valkyries disengaged their contacts, leaving the Storm Crows to fight the remaining Martians. Their afterburners spewed long trails of flame and smoke as they rocketed toward the zeppelin.

  Leviathan’s guns fired, tracking the enemy craft but moving too slowly to actually hit them. The Martians’ heat rays flashed, scoring hits on the zeppelin’s hull and guns. Fires erupted along the Leviathan’s surface. The Valkyries opened fire with their machine guns, unwilling to risk hitting the zeppelin with their heat rays or rockets.

  One of the saucers exploded, and Richthofen heard Gondron exclaim, “I got one!”

  “Gut,” Richthofen replied. “Now do it again!”

  The two remaining Martian wings skimmed the Leviathan’s hull on a direct course for the aft landing strip. Richthofen fired his heat ray, scoring a glancing blow against the nearest saucer. The alien disengaged and pulled away from the zeppelin, trailing smoke from its tail.

  “Leaving the dance early, ja?” Richthofen jeered. “It’s just you and me, Fraulein.”

  The Martian pulled into a steep climb, then barrel-rolled and straightened out on a collision course with the Leviathan’s bridge. Realizing the alien intended to take the Leviathan down with it, Richthofen turned to pursue. He set his rockets to fire, humming Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries as he aligned his sights on his prey.

  Richthofen fired, and the Martian flying wing exploded, its twisted wreckage falling to the landing strip, spewing sparks as it skidded across the deck. The Valkyrie banked, and Richthofen saluted with a smirk as he passed the observation deck. If only he could see the look on Kushnirov’s face. By now, the Russian general’s already ruddy complexion would surely match the paint on his plane.

  The emerald flash of a heat ray streaked between the wings, and Richthofen jumped in his seat. “Scheisse!”

  He looked back and saw a Martian close on his tail. The heat ray charged to fire again, but Richthofen plunged the Valkyrie toward the desert floor.

  “So,” he said, “you wish to cut in, ja? I’ll lead. You follow.”

  Richthofen steered the fighter into a narrow canyon, pulling out of the dive just above the ground. The Martian followed, matching the German’s movements as he hugged the floor. The alien heat ray fired, vaporizing a rock wall as Richthofen’s plane deftly disappeared around the corner.

  Richthofen risked the briefest of glances. The Martian was still right on his tail, beams firing wildly, unable to lock onto him in the winding canyon. He looked at his instrument panel; the heat ray’s needle crawled past the 80% mark. He’d soon have a full charge, but if he stayed in these close quarters, he might never get a chance to use it.

  Up ahead, a toppled rock formation to the right leaned against the left wall, creating a small, low-lying gap. Richthofen readied his rockets, but the Martian fired its heat ray at the crag, sending the pillar of stone straight into the Valkyrie’s path. The clever beast had anticipated his plan and used his own strategy against him!

  Richthofen cursed and pulled back on the stick. The Valkyrie rose into a vertical climb. The Martian matched the trajectory and continued its pursuit. Richthofen banked randomly to avoid the beams slicing through the air around him. He watched the needle on his heat ray’s gauge climb past 95%.

  “Come on, come on,” he snarled. “Charge!”

  The light on the instrument flashed red and a steady tone rang out. Richthofen fired the afterburner. The Valkyrie pulled ahead of the Martian and surged into the sky. The plane shuddered in protest, but Richthofen gritted his teeth and fought the stick. He brought the plane into a long backflip back into the clouds.

  When he emerged, the Martian was still ascending on his previous path,
unaware of his deception. Richthofen fired his heat ray and blasted a hole through the center of the alien disc. He grinned as he watched the craft blow apart.

  Above him, the Leviathan continued along its westerly course, smoke trailing from the points where the Martian heat rays had struck it. Richthofen turned and headed for the zeppelin.

  *****

  Richthofen stepped onto the Leviathan bridge and saw Kushnirov standing at the front of the observation deck, his back turned to the pilot. Richthofen weaved through the men and women rushing about the room. He approached the general, snapped to attention, and saluted.

  “General,” he said.

  Kushnirov did not turn. “Report.”

  “We lost three Valkyries and seven Storm Crows,” Richthofen said. “Seven Martian craft are confirmed down. The last two broke off their attack and ran home. They’re faster than we are, but we turn quicker.”

  Kushnirov nodded.

  “Sir,” a communications officer below the observation deck called out. “We just received word of fifteen tripods supported by a dozen Martian wings driving toward Albuquerque. Local militia has engaged and is taking heavy casualties.”

  “Move to intercept,” Kushnirov ordered. “I want Hermes scouts dropped down behind them to monitor their approach.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Kushnirov turned to Richthofen. “You can grieve for your dead later. We’ll need you in the air.”

  Richthofen saluted and turned to leave.

  “And Captain,” Kushnirov called.

  Richthofen turned.

  “Nothing flashy,” the general said. “Just bring them down. Do I make myself clear?”

  Richthofen nodded. “Perfectly, General.”

  “Dismissed.”

  When Richthofen turned, he found Wells waiting for him by the lift.

  Wells held out his hand. “Well done, Manfred.”

  Richthofen’s face split into his trademark grin as he shook Wells’ hand. “What did I tell you? Better than sex, ja?”

  Wells smirked. “With you, maybe.”

  Richthofen laughed and slapped Wells on the back. “Come, my friend. The battle is just beginning.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Leviathan hovered over the northern rim of a winding canyon and lowered battle tripods to the ground by cable winches. Behind them, a lift carrying dozens of soldiers armed with machine guns and portable heat rays slowly descended. When the elevator touched ground, the men scattered, attending to various duties. Some of them attended to the machines, helping the crews remove safety harnesses and cables, while those armed with Torches took up positions at the canyon’s rim.

  Engines roared, and black exhaust plumed as the engineers brought the machines to rumbling life. When all tripods were prepped, the infantrymen divided into their units and awaited orders.

  On the southern rim, Wells, Richthofen, and three other officers stood in a circle while Kushnirov laid out his battle plan. He picked up a dry stick from the ground and drew a crude map of the area in the dirt.

  “Gentlemen, we will place our heaviest tripods in a line below that low ridge,” he said, pointing into the canyon.

  Wells nodded.

  “The rest will deploy with all ground troops and the militia here on both sides of the canyon,” Kushnirov continued. “The Leviathan will take up station in the clouds above us. With any luck, we will catch the invaders in a killing box.”

  Captain Anna Pecinovsky, commander of the Achilles Beowulf, crouched to examine the diagram. Her short brown hair rustled in the light breeze. She brushed her bangs aside. “So we concentrate fire and take them out before they can fire a single shot,” she said. “Minimize casualties.”

  The general nodded. “If all goes according to plan, yes.”

  Wells heard a loud, rhythmic clanking sound from behind them and turned his head to look for the source. A Hermes tripod raced across the staging ground, flames spurting from its engine compartment. The scout surged forward, paying the fleeing soldiers no heed. Wells noticed that the pilot was slumped over the controls.

  “Make way!” Wells shouted.

  The engine blew, and the tripod slumped forward under its own momentum. One soldier ran toward the wreck, but the heat held him back.

  “Get this fire out,” he shouted. “We’ve got to get him out of there!”

  Two men ran up with fire-suppression gear and hosed the tripod down. Steam hissed and billowed into the air. After cutting the safety restraints, the team pulled the burned and bleeding pilot from the wreckage.

  When Kushnirov approached, the pilot shouted, “They knew! They knew we were behind them! They were waiting for us.”

  Kushnirov considered this. “They must be monitoring our radio transmissions. Captain Wells—”

  The pilot grabbed Kushnirov’s sleeve. “General, there weren’t fifteen. There were only twelve.”

  “Those three tripods are somewhere. If they outflank us….” Kushnirov turned to Wells and Pecinovsky. “You two, take your teams and three scouts. Find them!”

  The captains saluted. “Yes, sir!” they said in unison.

  “And get this man to a doctor!” Kushnirov ordered.

  *****

  “My God,” Wells whispered.

  The burning wrecks of two Hermes tripods littered the canyon floor. The smell of burning flesh and mechanical fluids was overwhelming. Wells covered his nose with the back of his hand. Among the wreckage, he saw a pilot’s blackened skeleton, its jaw open wide in an eternal silent scream, locked in its final moment of terror and anguish.

  To his right, in the gunner’s nest atop the Beowulf’s left shoulder, Captain Pecinovsky crossed herself, muttering a prayer that Wells could barely hear between the tripods’ steps.

  Pecinovsky was Bohemian, the daughter of a blacksmith. Like her father’s wares, she was made of iron. She was beautiful, but capable. If a man was foolish enough to underestimate her, he didn’t make the same mistake twice. She turned her head and caught him staring.

  Wells turned his attention back to the three scouts marching ahead of the Goliath. They stepped cautiously into the smoke. At any moment, Wells expected to see the telltale green flashes followed by the pilots’ agonizing screams, but they never came. Instead, all he saw was the smoke stinging his eyes tinged with the rhythmic thumping of the tripods’ massive feet.

  Wells coughed, clearing his throat, and keyed his microphone. “Let’s look sharp, people. They must be close.”

  A moment later, the radio squawked, and O’Brien’s voice rang out a little louder than Wells would have liked. “I think dividing our forces was a dumb idea.”

  Wells sighed. He was inclined to agree, having seen what these new invaders were capable of firsthand, but orders were orders. From the worried look in Pecinovsky’s eyes, he could see she shared the sentiment. Before Wells could answer, the radio sounded again.

  “I don’t remember anybody caring what you thought, O’Brien,” Douglas said.

  “Those bastards could be anywhere,” O’Brien snapped.

  “All the more reason to stay focused on the task at hand,” Wells replied.

  He pinched his nose and held his breath as the Goliath passed through the smoke, and for a moment he felt as though he was back in Leeds, fearful to breathe lest the invaders’ black death take him.

  Finally the Goliath and Beowulf emerged into the oppressive sun. The scouts were at least fifty yards ahead now, coming upon an intersection in the canyon.

  “Shit!” the lead Hermes pilot shouted. “It’s a trap!”

  The scout’s machine gun swiveled, firing into the intersecting canyon. A bright green beam streaked out and struck the Hermes tripod. The pilot’s shrieks were cut short as the heat ray ignited the fuel, and the machine blew apart.

  Wells keyed his radio. “Scouts, pull back!”

  The Martian stepped into the canyon and fired its heat ray at the ground, raking the beam toward both scouts. The tripods burst into
flame and exploded in a blinding green flash. Wells shielded his eyes from the blast. When he looked up, the Martian machine stood staring at the Goliath.

  “Goliath! Beowulf! Fire at will!” Wells ordered.

  The Goliath’s heat ray flashed, missing the Martian and striking the canyon wall. Beowulf’s main cannon fired and struck the tripod’s body while Pecinovsky pelted it with the fifty-cal.

  “Abe,” Wells shouted. “Let them have it!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  A moment later, the eighty-eight roared, rocking the Goliath back slightly. The Martian charged its heat ray to fire, but the artillery shell struck the cowl and knocked the alien tripod off balance.

  Wells saw the Martian heat ray’s new trajectory and keyed his mic. “Take evasive action, Beowulf!”

  The Martian heat ray flashed and struck the canyon wall beside the Beowulf. The rock exploded and sent dust into the air, enveloping the Achilles.

  Wells keyed his mic. “Anna, get out of there!”

  “I can’t see anything,” Pecinovsky shouted.

  The Martian tripod fired its heat ray blindly into the dust cloud, and Wells heard the screams of the doomed Beowulf crew over the radio before the boiler exploded, cutting them off. The Achilles fell forward onto its nose. Smoke billowed throughout the canyon, engulfing the Goliath.

  “No!” Wells shouted.

  He turned. The Martian staggered erratically, smoke and flames billowing from the underside of the cowl. It was wounded; they would never have a better opportunity.

  “Fire all weapons,” Wells shouted, not bothering to transmit his orders. “Give ‘em everything we’ve got!”

  The Goliath’s heat ray, cannon, and all six light rockets fired, pummeling the wounded Martian. The cowl exploded, the spindly legs buckled, and the tripod fell face-first to the canyon floor.

  Wells heard the Goliath crew cheering below, but his eyes searched the canyon. “Where are the others?”