War of the Worlds

by Adam J. Whitlatch

  Sakai stalked over to the Hermes and addressed the pilot, shouting to be heard over the commotion. “Sergeant, get these men inside. The Secretary has ordered the blast doors sealed.”

  “But, Captain,” the scout protested, “there’s still no word from the Seven-Oh—”

  “They’re dead,” Sakai said curtly. “Restore order, and get these men inside in sixty seconds or everyone outside these walls will be joining them.”

  The sergeant stared, his jaw slack. “S-sir?”

  Sakai glared. “Is there something wrong with my English, Sergeant?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “No, sir! Understood, sir.”

  “Good.” Sakai turned and walked toward the base. “Forty-five seconds.”

  To the northeast, a chain of explosions reverberated between the buildings. Sakai and the pilot looked toward the source and saw smoke rising from the Brooklyn Bridge. It sagged and crumbled. Suspension cables stretched and snapped under the strain. Concrete and steel debris crashed into the East River, creating huge waves. Farther north, they heard another explosion. And another.

  The scout stared at the ruined bridge. “My God.”

  “Thirty-five,” Sakai said.

  “Pull back!” the man shouted. “Double-time it! We’re buttoning up!”

  Soldiers ran past Sakai as he calmly marched back to the base. The Hermes surged past him, trailing smoke from its stack as the pilot waved the mob of fleeing soldiers aside. Once inside, Sakai turned and stood at the front of the nervous throng of men and women. The first of the tripods stepped through the smoke and stomped toward the base.

  Sakai huffed as the blast doors slid shut in front of him. He caught a brief glimpse of the heat ray’s glow before they sealed. A moment later, the beam struck, and dust rained down on his head.

  He brushed the grit from his scalp and surveyed the men. Less than half of them were in fighting condition. The rest looked as though Yomi had spat them back out for one final battle. Sakai spotted the scout climbing down from his tripod, and his fingers curled around his scabbard.

  “Stand your ground,” Sakai shouted.

  The scout froze.

  Sakai pointed at the door. “If those doors fail, be prepared to repel the enemy.”

  “But, sir, shouldn’t we run?”

  Sakai frowned. “To where?”

  The scout appeared close to tears, but he climbed back into the pilot’s seat and threaded a fresh belt of ammunition into the machine gun mounted to the nest. Another blast struck the door, and the pilot racked the weapon. He watched the door and trembled.

  Sakai turned to the soldier next to him. He was British by the look of his uniform, or what was left of it. Several inches were torn from the bottom of his shirt. Sakai guessed this was the same bloody cloth the man held against the side of his head. He gestured toward it, and the soldier peeled it away.

  Sakai examined the wound. For a moment, he saw bare white skull under the mass of matted hair before fresh blood coursed over it. He stepped back and allowed the soldier to reapply the makeshift bandage. The man winced.

  “Report to the infirmary,” Sakai ordered. “Tell Dr. Patel to send stretchers.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied wearily.

  Sakai watched the man go. He regretted sending away any man who could still hold a weapon, but of all the wounded, he looked least likely to collapse en route to the hospital wing.

  Something solid struck the blast doors, and the men raised their weapons. Sakai watched as the metal bowed under a second impact. He waited for a third, but it never came. Instead the familiar sound of a heat ray striking rang out again, and continued.

  Sweat beaded on Sakai’s forehead. He tugged at his collar, and all around him, the others did the same. The air in front of the doors seemed to move, swirling as the surface heated up.

  Sakai’s jaw clenched as he realized the Martians’ plan. They intended to cut their way into the base, and judging by the red glow spreading from the center of the doors, it wouldn’t take long.

  Perhaps they wouldn’t need those stretchers after all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Sir,” Talbert said, “we have a problem!”

  Roosevelt appeared at her side. “What is it, Colonel?”

  Talbert pointed to the row of lights on the demolitions console. Each light was labeled with the name of a corresponding bridge. Brooklyn, Manhattan, Williamsborough, Queensborough… all were dark. One light, however, burned a steady red. “The Jefferson Bridge, sir. The charges failed to go off. It’s still standing.”

  Roosevelt turned the key and reset the system. Once again the bulb for the Jefferson Bridge lit up. He pressed the detonation button, but the light did not go out.

  “Damn!” Roosevelt slammed his fist down on the console, causing the lights to flicker.

  He turned toward the window and looked at the Jefferson Bridge. It stood intact, stretching right from their back door to New Jersey. If they didn’t take out that bridge, tripods would swarm in from Jersey and overrun them.

  Roosevelt grimaced. “Get me Chen.”

  “Sir?”

  “Deploy Chen and her unit to intercept the Martians,” Roosevelt said. “They’ll buy us time until we can blow that bridge.”

  “But, sir,” Talbert said, “Lieutenant Chen is—”

  “Do it,” Roosevelt said.

  *****

  Private Lief Erikson pushed his spectacles up on his nose as he surveyed the numbered steel doors lining both sides of the dark cinder-block corridor. In his left hand, he held a pair of knee-length black boots; a gray A.R.E.S. uniform that matched his own was tucked under the same arm. The sentry at his side stopped in front of the door labeled #12 and fumbled the ring of keys in his hand.

  “This is it,” he said.

  Erikson looked at the stenciled number, then down to the dirty food tray sitting in front of the rectangular opening at the bottom of the door. He brushed the tray aside with his toe and gestured with the hand holding the boots.

  “Open it,” he said.

  The sentry stared.

  “Do you hear what’s going on out there?” Erikson said.

  As if on cue, a distant rumble reverberated, and the ground under their feet trembled.

  Erikson pushed his glasses up. “Open. The. Door.”

  The sentry found the correct key on his ring, unlocked the door, and stepped back against the opposite wall. Erikson pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. Upon entering, he immediately snapped to attention and saluted.

  “Lieutenant Chen!” he said.

  The woman sitting on the floor stared up at him through raven hair that partially obscured her dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her bare feet poked out the bottoms of a red, one-piece jumpsuit. She brushed a stray lock away and revealed a red scar that ran over her left eye from her forehead to her jaw. Lieutenant Hu Chen looked impatient.

  “Erikson,” she said.

  “Orders from upstairs, sir,” Erikson said. He’d seen firsthand what happened to anyone who called the Lieutenant ma’am. “Orders were given to blow the bridges, but Jefferson’s a no-go. The old man wants us to go over there and finish the job.”

  Erikson tossed the uniform down at her feet. Chen smiled and unzipped her jumpsuit. “Lead the way, Private.”

  Erikson turned to allow the lieutenant some privacy. Moments later, Chen stepped out into the corridor, clad only in her trousers and boots and he fell into step beside her. Chen held her uniform blouse in her hands, snapping it in the air to remove the wrinkles. More long, red scars crisscrossed her bare breasts and shoulders, vanishing below the waistband of her pants.

  Once, after the lieutenant had had about three too many, Erikson had mustered the courage—after about three too many of his own—to inquire about the marks. With a drunken grin, Chen had said, “You ever seen what a Martian tripod’s tentacle does to human flesh, Private?” That promptly put Erikson’s curiosity on the matter to rest.

>   “What went wrong?” Chen asked.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Erikson said, pushing his glasses up. “We’ve been assigned a demolitions unit. We have to buy them time to reset the charges.”

  “Beautiful,” said Chen as she slipped her arms into the sleeves of her blouse and began buttoning. They passed the sentry walking the other direction. The man gawked at the lieutenant.

  “Eyes forward, soldier!” Chen snapped.

  The sentry jumped and stared straight ahead, his chin up in an exaggerated showing of discipline. Erikson smirked. Whether the man had been staring at the lieutenant’s breasts or her scars, he couldn’t be certain.

  But his money was on the tits.

  Chen left the top three buttons unfastened and pulled on her gloves. “I want the boys assembled and ready to—”

  “Already done, sir,” Erikson said.

  Chen smiled. “Good man, Private. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  *****

  They stepped into Bravo Hangar, a garage at the south end of the base. The darkened room was packed to the gills with older, rusty tripods in various states of assembly, or rather disassembly. Colloquially known as “the Bone Yard,” this room was where tripods went to die. The decommissioned war machines were then stripped and the parts melted down or used for repairs.

  Chen followed Erikson through the maze of junk to a group of five Spartans and three Hermes tripods idling by the overhead door on the outside wall. Chen’s men stood in front of the machines, talking to two men in blue uniforms.

  “Atten-hut!” Erikson shouted.

  The men snapped to attention.

  “Gentlemen,” Chen shouted over the low rumble of the diesel engines. “As you may know, orders were given to blow the bridges connecting the island to the mainland. For whatever reason, Jefferson failed to go up with the others. Jersey’s falling apart, and as I speak, there’s a major Martian force heading straight for the bridge. Marty’s got Sakai pinned down on the other side of the base, so that leaves us. Our orders are to hold the bridge until these boys”—she gestured toward the men in blue—“can reset the charges and bring it down. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” the men answered.

  “Are there any questions?” Chen surveyed the men’s faces. No one answered. “Good. Let’s ride, Hell Hounds!”

  The men ran to their tripods. Chen followed Erikson up the ladder into her own Spartan, Bonaparte. She closed the hatch behind her and settled into the pilot’s chair. Her fingers caressed the control sticks.

  “Hello, Sweetheart,” she said. “Did you miss me?”

  Erikson started the engine, and the Spartan shuddered as the diesel rumbled to life. Chen skipped the startup checklist and pushed forward on the sticks. Bonaparte stepped forward, and the overhead door rolled up, bathing the Bone Yard in sunlight, the first Chen had seen in over a week.

  Her latest stint in the brig had been courtesy of a Danish civilian sailor. After spilling beer down her front at the Green Man, the man had very politely offered to clean up the mess, and then proceeded to do so with his tongue. By the time Chen was through with him, he more closely resembled a Martian’s reproductive organs than a man… not that he’d been much of one to begin with. Kushnirov and Roosevelt had been less than thrilled by the lieutenant’s lack of restraint, and rather than discharge her outright had opted for solitary confinement.

  The faster scouts surged to the head of the pack, leading the way toward the bridge. Smoke drifted along the New Jersey coastline, but Chen saw no sign of the Martians. Burning debris littered the ground, and Bonaparte crushed a Storm Crow’s wing under its foot as it plodded along its course. The convoy stepped onto the bridge, which stretched nearly half a mile ahead of them with no sign of the enemy.

  Chen keyed her radio. “Let’s make this quick, gentlemen. Kingsley and Donnelly with me. McCredie, Peterson, covering fire.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Through her viewport, Chen saw an indistinct shape emerging from the smoke at the end of the bridge. Two crimson eyes pierced the haze, followed by the gleaming, towering body.

  “Contact!” Chen said. “Peterson, watch our asses, and keep the demolitions team covered.”

  “Yes, sir!” Peterson said.

  Chen waited, her thumb poised over the firing button, turning in slow circles as she counted the seconds and the steps. The Martian covered several yards with every footfall, but to Chen and her itchy trigger finger, the machine seemed to move at a snail’s pace. Finally, the tripod stepped through the furthest arch, just inside the Spartans’ effective firing range.

  “All Spartans, fire! Give them everything!” Chen said. “Not one of these sons of bitches gets through. That’s an order!”

  The Spartans’ cannons roared, and Chen thumbed her firing button, adding her own firepower to the volley. Below her, Erikson opened up with the fifty-cal, peppering the arch with lead.

  “Check your specs, Erikson,” Chen said.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Chen smirked, picturing the bookish private pushing his glasses up his nose. She reloaded the cannon and fired again. The shell struck the Martian’s cowl, and the impact turned it to the right. Another round struck the side of the tripod’s head, blowing out one eye and sending plumes of black smoke into the air. A secondary explosion from within blew out the other eye, and the machine fell backward.

  Chen pushed the Spartan forward. When she was within spitting distance of the downed tripod, she leapt from her chair and scrambled up the ladder. She lifted the hatch and looked down at the smoking machine. She ran her thumb along the length of the scar over her eye as she stared at the razor tip of one of the limp tentacles snaking across the ground.

  “Nice work, boys,” Chen said. “Kingsley!”

  Sergeant Kingsley brought his Hermes alongside Bonaparte.

  “Sir?”

  “I need you to take Hobbs and Roberts—”

  A high-pitched hum filled the air. Chen looked over her shoulder and saw three silver saucer-shaped craft chasing a Storm Crow upriver. Green heat rays streaked through the air around the biplane. The fighter banked directly into the path of one of the beams and blew apart. Their quarry destroyed, the strange craft changed course.

  “Incoming!” Chen shouted.

  The wings dove, spraying the roadway with heat rays. Chen shielded her face with her arms as a beam struck the bridge in front of her Spartan. An explosion rocked the bridge. When Chen opened her eyes, she saw the flaming wreck of a Spartan a hundred yards away take two stumbling steps and collapse.

  “They got Peterson!” Kingsley said.

  “The bomb techs,” Chen said. “Shit!”

  A deafening, trumpeting howl rang out, and Chen turned. Two Martian tripods stepped through the archway, bearing down on them.

  “Here they come!” she said.

  Chen dropped down, not bothering to close the hatch behind her. When she looked through her viewport, she saw one of the Martians coil its tentacle around one of the Hermes tripods, then punch another through the pilot’s chest. The tendril lifted the man out of the cockpit and shook his flailing body off with a flick, tearing his torso in half with the barbed tip.

  Chen fired, and the Martian countered with a defensive burst of its own. The heat ray struck the front of the Spartan, and Chen shielded her eyes from the brilliant blast. The walls glowed a bright orange for a moment and then slowly faded to a dull black, the green paint fried by the assault.

  “Jesus Christ!” Chen pulled back on her control sticks. “Everybody fall back!”

  To her left, Donnelly’s Spartan exploded.

  “How are we supposed to blow the bridge now, Lieutenant?” Erikson said below.

  “I’m thinking!” Chen said.

  Chen fired again, but the shot missed. She cursed in Mandarin as she fed a fresh shell into the breach. Outside, three Martian tripods marched toward them, their heat rays flashing.


  “Lieutenant!” Erikson called.

  “I said I’m thinking, Erikson!” Chen snapped.

  “No,” Erikson said. “One o’clock high!”

  Chen looked. Movement behind the invaders caught her eye, and she squinted. A Martian wing, its fuselage torn open and trailing smoke, bore down on the oblivious tripods. The saucer struck one of them in the back and exploded. The impact threw the fighting machine off its feet, and it fell forward.

  “Erikson, brace for impact!” Chen shouted.

  She jerked the control sticks back, and the Spartan reversed, but it was too late. There was no time to get clear. The taller Martian machine fell onto Bonaparte, toppling the Spartan onto its back.

  Chen tumbled out of her chair and fell onto the cockpit’s rear wall. She lay still for several seconds until a piercing howl roused her. She sat up slowly and touched the back of her head. She winced as her fingertips touched her scalp. When she looked at her glove, it was coated in blood.

  “Erikson,” she said. “You alive?”

  Erikson’s pained voice echoed from the gunner’s position below, which was now to Chen’s right. She crawled to the opening in the floor and met Erikson there. The left lens of his glasses was cracked, and Chen noticed for the first time just how thick they were. How had the man ever landed a gunner assignment being blind as a bat?

  She wiped her hand on her trousers and held it out to him. “Come on, Private.”

  Erickson accepted it and pulled himself into the upper deck, dragging his right leg behind him. Chen pushed against the outer hatch, but it did not budge. She repositioned herself on her back and kicked it. On the third strike, it gave way—as did the Lieutenant’s heel—and sunlight and smoke poured into the cockpit.

  She stepped out, turned, and reached inside to grab Erikson under the arms. “Come on!”

  Chen pulled Erikson through the hatch, and the private collapsed to the pavement. He winced as he pulled himself into a seated position with his back to Bonaparte’s roof.

  Chen peered around the corner toward the west side of the bridge and saw an ugly, ashen face staring back at her. She screamed and drew her sidearm.