War of the Worlds

by Adam J. Whitlatch

  And not a moment too soon.

  Three Martian tripods stepped into the street four blocks down and immediately fired their heat rays. A Spartan behind and to the left of Goliath was engulfed in the green flash and exploded.

  Wells keyed his radio. “All units, fire at will!”

  Goliath’s cannon fired, immediately followed by the heat ray. The volley was ineffective, but the rest of the battalion followed suit, and a second cannon shell took down one of the tripods, sending it toppling into an adjacent building. The scouts and foot soldiers pelted the Martians with machine gun fire.

  The Martians raked the ground with their heat rays, taking out those gunners foolish enough to rush ahead of the pack. Goliath’s cannon fired again, striking another enemy tripod in the face. The alien machine crumbled and fell to the street.

  Wells fired the mounted machine gun at the remaining Martian, adding his ammunition to the hail of bullets and heavy munitions already buzzing around it. A heat ray struck it, and it took one step back. Then another. Two light rockets spiraled past the alien’s head, and the tripod quickened its pace.

  It was retreating!

  “We’re driving them back,” Wells shouted. “Don’t let up!”

  *****

  High above the city, General Kushnirov watched the battle from the Leviathan’s observation deck. The Agamemnon glided silently alongside while another wave of fighters descended into the fray. The streets were alight with the flashes of heat rays, but Kushnirov noted that the orange ones far outnumbered the green.

  The Martian forces were dwindling.

  “General,” a communications officer called, “I have the Secretary of War!”

  Kushnirov crossed the deck to the communications station and took the radio receiver from her. “It is good to hear you are still alive, my friend,” he said.

  “We’ve retaken the base, General!” Roosevelt said. “They’re retreating uptown.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Secretary,” Kushnirov said. “Drive them towards us, and we’ll crush them in the middle.”

  “Understood.”

  Kushnirov passed the receiver back to the comms officer and returned to the window to watch the battle.

  “Are we winning, sir?” the officer asked.

  “It would appear so,” Kushnirov said. “But… I’ve been wrong before.”

  *****

  The Ronin stepped through the demolished A.R.E.S. gates. Roosevelt stood perched on the Ronin’s turret, a portable heat ray strapped to his back. The secretary smirked as four Martian tripods retreated into the distance.

  “Full speed, boys!” he said. “Let’s go hunting.”

  The Ronin picked up speed, and Roosevelt staggered for a moment before finding his footing. He kept his legs loose, rising and falling with the tripod’s gait. He looked back, and saw the rest of the tripods filing out of the base.

  The massive machines lumbered over the debris-strewn battlefield. Even at full speed, they seemed agonizingly slow. Roosevelt feared the Martians might elude him, but—he reminded himself—they had nowhere to go. They were trapped.

  The destruction inside the city slowed their pace considerably, but Roosevelt saw movement ahead through the smoke.

  Lee’s voice crackled over the radio. “Mr. Secretary, I’ve spotted the enemy.”

  “Wait until you have a clear shot, then take them down, Captain.”

  The Ronin continued on, and the enemy remained oblivious to the pursuit.

  *****

  Police Officer Fred Morrison watched from the rooftop of a ruined office building as the A.R.E.S. forces pushed the Martians back. The aliens staggered slowly, hindered by the obstacles behind them as they fired on the humans in front of them. One tripod tripped over the burning wreckage of a Spartan and managed to latch onto a building with its tentacles before it could topple over backward.

  Morrison cursed.

  An A.R.E.S. infantryman named Rodriguez rushed to his side to watch the battle unfolding below. “We’re saved!” he said. “The Agamemnon and Leviathan have arrived with reinforcements!”

  Morrison hoped the soldier was right, but the invaders had already crushed everything A.R.E.S. had thrown at them. What difference would a few more machines make?

  Morrison looked at the other two men taking refuge with them. One, a stock broker named Henson wore bandages around his left forearm and right shin, the results of being too close to a Martian attack. The bloody shards of glass Rodriquez had dug out of the broker’s arm lay on the roof beside him. The other man, a butcher from Chinatown whose name Morrison couldn’t even begin to pronounce, used his teeth to cinch a dressing on his own arm. Morrison was thankful, because the Chinaman’s burn made his stomach lurch.

  The building shook, and Morrison grabbed hold of a broken section of ornamental wall to steady himself. The masonry gave slightly under his weight but, to his relief, held. Below, a Martian tripod lumbered toward them, its heat rays flashing in desperation at the advancing A.R.E.S. reinforcements. Morrison’s gaze wandered from the fighting machine to the damaged wall.

  “All of you,” he shouted, “get over here!”

  “What for?” Henson whined.

  Morrison drew his sidearm. “Get off your ass!”

  Reluctantly, Henson and the butcher ambled over to the edge of the roof. When Henson’s eyes fell on the approaching tripod, panic gripped his face. Morrison grabbed the broker by his lapels and shook him.

  “Get ahold of yourself,” he said. “You can piss yourself when it’s over!”

  Rodriguez put an arm between the two men. “What’s the plan?”

  Morrison slapped the wall. “We’re going to drop this onto that Martian bastard and crush him.” To illustrate, he held his hand open, palm up, and brought his other fist down on it.

  A grin spread across Rodriguez’s face. He clapped the others on their backs.

  “Get ready,” he said. “On the officer’s signal!”

  Morrison stood at the edge, holding onto the wall for support as the Martian’s footsteps rattled the entire structure. Broken bits of masonry danced at his feet and plummeted several stories to the street. The tripod took a faltering step back; its cowl was directly below him, but Morrison wasn’t looking to score a glancing blow.

  “Steady,” he said. “Steady. Wait for it.”

  The Martian took another step.

  “Now!”

  Morrison stepped behind the wall and joined the others, pressing his shoulder against it. The men grunted and snarled, willing more strength into their weary muscles. Finally, Morrison felt the wall shift and he rammed it with all his weight. The stone fell away, and the men held their breath as it plummeted toward the tripod’s gleaming crest.

  The stone struck with a bone-jarring crash, and the machine’s legs buckled under the impact. For a moment, the tripod seemed disoriented; its eyes swept left and right while its tentacles swiped at the dented cowl. The momentary distraction worked, because an instant later, a salvo of light rockets struck the machine. The explosion threw the men off their feet, but Morrison scrambled to the edge to watch the ruined Martian fall, its cockpit torn open like a tin can.

  Morrison barked out a triumphant laugh and rolled onto his back as a red tri-plane streaked overhead.

  *****

  Richthofen’s Valkyrie banked and hugged the side of a building as a heat ray sizzled through the air so close he could smell the ozone. He turned, leading the pursuing Martian wing down Broadway. The saucer made a wide, clumsy turn, but soon caught up to the smaller tri-plane. Beams assailed the Valkyrie from above, below, and—most pressing of all—from behind.

  Ahead, another Valkyrie bore down upon him, and Richthofen grinned. He pulled back the stick, and the plane surged up like a rocket. An instant later, the air he had occupied swarmed with bullets. The high-caliber rounds shredded the flying wing’s fuselage like foil, and the craft exploded.

  Richthofen grinned.

  Below, A.R.E.S. forces c
onverged on the invaders from the north and south. So far, the enemy seemed oblivious to the pincer attack.

  Movement to the east of the southern A.R.E.S. detachment caught his eye, and Richthofen swooped down for a closer look. Two tripods, one lurching on a twisted leg, marched down Delancey Street. Roosevelt’s forces carried on, unaware of the ambush they were walking into.

  Richthofen scanned the skies, and saw two Ravens nearby. He squinted. One of the bombers still carried its payload. He kicked in his afterburner and caught up to it in a few agonizing seconds. When the pilot saw him, Richthofen pointed toward the tripods.

  The pilot nodded and banked, bringing his Raven on a direct course for Delancey. Richthofen followed, maintaining a safe distance. His heat ray’s needle rose past 95%, and his thumb caressed the trigger, ready to unleash fiery death upon the Martians.

  The Raven dropped into a steep dive. The tripods’ hideous faces lifted, and their crimson eyes tracked the bomber, but their heat rays were too slow to intercept it. The bomb dropped from the Raven’s belly, narrowly missing an emerald beam as it fell. It struck the ground at the Martians’ feet, blowing a crater in the street.

  The wounded tripod fell forward while its comrade staggered into the hole, its heat ray firing at the ground. The Raven climbed out of harm’s way, and Richthofen checked his gauges: 100%. He mashed his thumb down on the trigger, and the beam slashed the disoriented machines. Fire erupted from the Martian cowls, sending great plumes of black smoke into the air.

  As the Valkyrie crossed Broadway, Richthofen caught a glimpse of Secretary Roosevelt perched atop the Ronin, his fist in the air. Richthofen grinned and saluted.

  *****

  The northbound Martians met a company of infantry entrenched behind some debris and halted, giving the Ronin time to catch up. The soldiers’ bullets buzzed around the alien machines like gnats, and at first the tripods merely stared at them. Then, in an act of unrivaled sadism, one of the invaders snatched up a soldier in two of its tentacles.

  The man fired his machine gun at the Martian’s face, but the tripod never flinched. The tentacles encircling the soldier’s waist contracted, and the man screamed as his weapon fell from his fingers. The alien stared at the dying human with the same morbid fascination of a child pulling the wings off a fly.

  When the infantryman stopped struggling, the tripod tossed the body aside like a broken toy. Roosevelt grimaced and disengaged the safety on his portable heat ray generator.

  “Monsters,” Roosevelt said. “Blow ‘em to hell!”

  The Ronin’s cannon roared, and the shell struck the tripod on the back of the head beneath its crest. Smoke poured from the hole and the machine staggered a few labored steps before it fell to the street. The others turned to look at the Ronin, their tentacles writhing in agitation.

  Roosevelt fired his Torch, his arms straining to keep the weapon from straying off target. The other battle tripods from the base fell in line beside the Ronin and fired their cannons and heat rays.

  *****

  Shah brought the Goliath to a halt and peered through his viewport. Behind the retreating Martians, he saw four more approaching, but behind them he saw the familiar shape of a new-model Achilles. White Japanese script decorated the tripod’s hull.

  “It’s the Ronin!” he said.

  Douglas loaded a fresh shell into the cannon. “‘Bout damn time Sakai showed up.”

  The cannon fired, and Goliath rocked back. A flash briefly illuminated the cockpit, and Douglas grunted with satisfaction as he loaded another shell. “Got ‘im!”

  Carter turned in her seat. “I need heat ray, O’Brien!”

  “Five seconds,” the Irishman called from the back. “Four… three… two… Let ‘em have it!”

  Carter centered the sights on the chin of the closest tripod. It seemed to sense her intentions and turned to look at the Goliath. Its heat ray glowed, preparing to fire, but Carter never gave it the chance. Goliath’s beam slashed through the air and struck the Martian machine square in the face. The alien staggered and raised its tentacles, but the orange stream cut through them.

  Finally the heat ray penetrated the alien alloy, and the tripod fell.

  “Good shot, Lieutenant!” Shah said.

  Carter grinned.

  Wells’ voice crackled over the speaker. “Incoming!”

  A Martian heat ray flashed outside, and Shah shielded his eyes. An explosion rocked Goliath, and he worked the levers to keep the tripod on its feet.

  “Where the hell did it come from?” Carter said.

  A piercing hum filled the air, and three Martian wings streaked past the view ports, weaved through the enemy tripods at the end of the block, and looped around. A few seconds later, three Valkyries roared overhead in pursuit. One of the fighters fired its rockets, and two of the saucers veered away, but the third took a direct hit and blew apart, shattering the windows in the buildings around it.

  “Enemy aircraft inbound,” Wells said.

  Heat rays flashed past the viewports. One of the light beams slammed into the hull.

  Shah turned toward the rear of the cockpit. “Corporal! I need you on the gun!”

  “Oh ho ho,” O’Brien said. “I thought you’d never ask!”

  “They’re coming!” Carter said.

  O’Brien weaved his way through the cockpit and settled into the machine gunner’s nest. He sighted on one of the saucers and opened fire. The Martian banked out of the line of fire, but O’Brien tracked the craft’s path.

  “C’mon, you tossers,” he said. “You’re meetin’ an Irishman! One of me’s worth ten of you!”

  The saucer disappeared behind the top of a high rise, but O’Brien never let up. Bullets ripped through the building as the gun followed its trajectory, sending dust and broken chunks of stone raining down.

  “Come on, me beauty!” O’Brien bellowed.

  The saucer reappeared and was met by a hailstorm of fifty-caliber rounds. Fire erupted from the fuselage, and the craft blew apart.

  “Yeah!” O’Brien cheered.

  “Press forward,” Wells ordered.

  Shah shifted levers, and Goliath lurched forward, trampling the twisted and smoking remains of the enemy.

  “They’re runnin’ scared!” O’Brien said.

  “Let ‘em run,” said Carter. “They’ve got nowhere to go.”

  *****

  Wells threaded a fresh belt of ammunition into the M-2 and pulled back the bolt. An engine screamed overhead, and he looked up as one of the Martian saucers trailing flame and smoke streaked over Washington Square. The craft fell out of sight before it hit the ground, but Wells saw the resulting fireball behind the trees.

  To his astonishment, only two Martian machines remained. The aliens were trapped, caught between the Leviathan’s forces and the New York tripods advancing on them. One of them fired on a Valkyrie and one of the base Spartans shot it in the back with its main cannon. The Martian staggered, turned, and received another blow to the face from the Ronin. The headless tripod stood swaying on unsteady legs for a moment before it fell, leaving only one invader to face the whole of A.R.E.S.‘s fury.

  The tripod backed into Washington Square. Wells noted that the arch behind it had already suffered damage in the attack. One corner was broken away and bullet holes riddled the marble.

  The Martian machine stared, its tentacles twitching anxiously. It turned and watched A.R.E.S. forces from the south enter the park. The battle was over, and it knew it. Could they take it alive, Wells wondered. What could Professor Tesla do with a live specimen?

  The Ronin halted on the other side of the arch, and Wells saw Roosevelt perched atop the turret, a portable heat ray emitter clutched in his beefy hands. The tripod remained still for several moments, as if weighing its options. Silence fell over the square as both parties waited for the other’s next move. Well’s fingers tightened on the trigger.

  Suddenly, the Martian turned toward the Goliath and charged its heat ray.


  “Fire!” Roosevelt bellowed.

  Cannons roared, heat rays flashed, and Wells opened up with Ma Deuce. The tripod staggered under the relentless barrage. When one artillery shell knocked it one way, a second punched it back the other. Its armor cracked under the intensity of at least ten beams. Goliath fired its last six rockets, and the projectiles snaked through the air at the punch-drunk Martian.

  The rockets found their target, and the tripod was engulfed in a massive fireball. Wells released his hold on the trigger to shield his eyes from the blast. When he looked up, spots danced across his vision, but he could still see the Martian slumped against the arch. The marble crumbled under the machine’s weight, and the tripod slid to the ground, a heap of broken, twisted metal.

  Goliath stepped forward, as did the Ronin, and the two colossal tripods met over the Martian’s smoking remains.

  “Captain Wells,” Roosevelt called.

  “Mr. Secretary,” Wells said.

  “My god, we did it, Captain. We beat the bloody monsters. We took back the city!”

  Wells grinned. All around them, tripod commanders emerged from their machines and joined the Secretary in his revelry.

  Roosevelt thrust his smoking Torch into the air and shouted, “Victory! Victory! Victory!”

  Dozens more took up the chant. Tripod crews emerged from their machines and cheered. Wells sighed and smiled. It was over.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fort Wood A.R.E.S. Barracks & Watch Station, Bedloe’s Island

  A dark shape rose from the depths of the bay south of Bedloe’s Island where the great Statue of Liberty stood guard, her sword thrust high into the air as a warning to any invaders foolish enough to try to take the city. Her stern countenance, marred in the original Martian invasion, was patched with stainless steel, giving her a scarred, battle-hardened appearance.