The Great Martian War

by Scott Washburn

  “It’s enormous,” observed Bill White. “Why would they need something so large?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we can find out.”

  The men got very quiet at that and dispersed to make camp. McGill came up to him later. “Are you really gonna try to get into that place, sir?”

  “I don’t know. I’d love to be able to get up on the embankment and at least get a look inside.”

  “Pretty damn risky, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I know, I know and I don’t intend to commit suicide, Sergeant. But I at least want to scout around and see if there’s any way I could get up close to it. And I won’t need everyone for that.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but it seems to me that we’ve completed our mission. We’ve found their base and we know they are herding prisoners in there. Anything more we could learn wouldn’t balance the risk of gettin’ killed and not gettin’ the word back.”

  “I’m at least going to take a look around in the morning.”

  McGill sighed. “If you say so, sir.”

  Andrew frowned as his sergeant moved away. Was he being stupid here? What McGill said was correct: it probably was an unjustifiable risk. But to turn back now when they were this close to maybe actually learning something useful? ‘Maybe’ being the operative word! If he was sure there was something important he could learn then, yes, it would be worth the risk. But he was just hoping. Could he risk himself—and maybe everyone else—on a maybe? Maybe he should sleep on it…

  “Sir! Sir!” one of the men hurried up. It was Beasley, he’d been on lookout.

  “What?”

  “I spotted what looks like a campfire, sir! Maybe three or four miles off to the southwest!”

  “Really? Show me!” He followed Beasley, stumbling over tree roots in the dark, until they reached a spot with a view. Sure enough, there was a faint speck of light off in the distance. He looked through his field glasses and there was no doubt that it was a small fire. Most everyone in the group else had trailed along and they started talking.

  “What d’you think it is, sir?” asked Corporal Kennedy.

  “Well, people, probably,” he replied.

  “Really careless people,” said another man.

  “Yeah, if we can spot them, any Martians around probably can, too.”

  “Maybe they don’t know,” said White.

  “How could they not know?”

  “I imagine the newspaper deliveries have been rather irregular around here of late.”

  “Quiet, all of you,” ordered Andrew.

  “What do we do, sir?” asked McGill.

  Andrew sighed. “Let’s go find out who they are. If they’re people trying to get away, we can have them douse that fire and direct them back the way we came. If they aren’t… well, they might even be survivors from Fort Wingate or the rest of the 5th Cavalry. They were supposed to be scouting around here. If that’s the case we can add them to us. McGill, Beasley, come with me. The rest of you stay on alert. We’ll be back soon.”

  They wearily re-saddled their weary horses and headed off toward the light. It wasn’t easy going in the dark and Andrew nearly changed his mind about the whole venture. His irritation increased when he discovered that Bill White had joined them. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Just being nosey. I’m a reporter, remember?”

  They covered a couple of miles and slowly approached where they thought they’d seen the fire. They’d lost sight of it a number of times as they moved over the rough ground, but always spotted it again. They had to be getting close. Just who were these idiots? By all the accounts Andrew had heard at General Sumner’s staff meetings, the Martians must have swept through this area to have reached Fort Wingate and Gallup. How could any people still in the vicinity not know about that? And not have the sense to keep their fires concealed? Andrew peered through the dark, trying to see. There! He saw the fire again. It was only a few hundred yards away; they’d come farther than he’d thought. Wait… what was….?

  “Halt!” he hissed. “Stop!”

  “What is it…?”

  “Quiet! Don’t move!”

  Heart pounding, he slowly drew out his field glasses. The light from the fire showed a group of people clustered around it, but it had also reflected off something else… something big… It was almost invisible in the dark, but then it moved slightly and he was sure.

  “A Martian! There’s a tripod there! To the right of the fire!”

  “Bloody hell!” whispered McGill. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “It hasn’t seen us! No sudden moves! But there are people around that fire!” He continued to stare through the glasses.

  “More prisoners? Blokes from the 5th, you think?”

  “Yes, I think… Oh God!”

  “What?”

  “Women! At least two women and a kid, I think.”

  “Saints preserve them,” hissed McGill. Beasley cursed.

  A chill passed through Andrew. Somehow, amidst all his nightmare thoughts and speculations on the eventual fate of the captured soldiers, he’d never really considered this possibility. Despite all the evidence he’d seen of the Martians’ utter ruthlessness, he had still thought about this in conventional military terms. The invaders might slaughter or enslave or feed upon or vivisect soldiers they captured, but civilians? Women and children? Hundreds, probably thousands of women and children had been killed in the first invasion in England, but he’d still thought of that as the unfortunate, but inevitable fate of people caught up in a raging battle. It hadn’t been deliberate, had it?

  Yes it had.

  The full realization came to him like a thunderbolt: the Martians didn’t care. They might not even know that humans had a distinction between soldiers and civilians, but they wouldn’t care, even if they did. No more than an average person would distinguish between a soldier ant and a worker ant. We’re all the same to them: things to be killed! Things to be eaten! This war would be one without mercy.

  On either side!

  A burning anger began to grow inside Andrew. They had to be stopped! These monsters had to be stopped! Before they could do this to more people. To people like his landlady back in Albuquerque, or to Victoria back in Washington!

  “Sir? Sir!” McGill had grabbed his arm and was tugging at him. “Women, sir! We can’t let those devils have ‘em! What do we do?”

  Andrew stared McGill in the eyes.

  “We stop them.”

  * * * * *

  February, 1909, Washington, D.C.

  Major General Leonard Wood, Chief of Staff of the United States Army, looked down at his left foot and cursed. The damn thing was twitching again and the tingling was spreading all along his left side. The fingers on his left hand were numb and he could barely move them. Damnation! This wasn’t the time for this! A half-dozen years earlier he’d been forced to have an operation on his brain for a tumor that was growing there. It had been a risky thing to do, but the results had been miraculous and he’d had no more troubles for years. But now they were coming back again. There was no time for another operation! What was he going to do? If any hint of this got out, there would be calls for him to step down, and he was not going to do that!

  He jerked erect when he heard Theodore Roosevelt boom a greeting to his aide in the outer office. A moment later the President strode through the door. “Morning, Leonard! Morning!”

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” he replied, awkwardly getting to his feet. He shrugged his left hand into the pocket of his tunic. “How are you today?”

  “Splendid! Splendid! That message you sent me last night from Funston was just what I needed. Slept like a baby!”

  “Theodore, all it said was that he had reached Albuquerque and had taken command of the forces in the region.”

  “Yes, but the mere fact that he was in Albuquerque and not the Martians is good news, eh? Yesterday you were worried that if the Martians just kept advancing they
would roll right over everything before a defense could be organized.”

  “True, and we’ve been very lucky—so far. The Martians have made the classic mistake of not pursuing a beaten foe to its destruction. If they had just kept advancing we could have been in serious trouble.”

  “Good to know that they do make mistakes, isn’t it?”

  “Very, but it doesn’t begin to make up for the huge mistake we made in our own planning,” said Wood. “Theodore, we have a hell of a task facing us and it’s getting worse day by day.”

  “What do you mean? Something new has happened?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid that the rumor of another landing in Idaho has finally been confirmed.” He shoved a paper across his desk at Roosevelt. “It would appear that they landed in a very desolate area in the southeast part of the state. We’ve received word that they have now cut the east-west rail line near the town of Pocatello. No idea where they might move from there, but we have nothing nearby to stop them no matter which way they go.”

  Roosevelt consulted one of the many maps hanging on the wall. “Hmph!” he snorted. “Not that far from Yellowstone. I’ve been through that area, and yes, not many people live there. Doesn’t seem like an immediate concern, Leonard.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Theodore, there are six major transcontinental railroad lines. We have already lost the Southern Pacific from Santa Fe to Flagstaff. Now we’ve lost the Union Pacific line through Idaho. If that force at Pocatello moves south, we’ll lose the other Union Pacific route that goes through Salt Lake City. That will leave us only the other Southern Pacific line that runs through El Paso and along the border with Mexico and the Northern Pacific and Great Northern lines in the far north. As we’ve heard, the Mexicans are already in a very bad way and the Canadians are nearly certain now that there is also a landing in Alberta. If so, we could lose all three lines in the next few months.”

  “Which would cut the country in half.” The president looked properly sobered now.

  “Yes, just as we foresaw months ago, and if they tear up the rail lines like we know they were doing in New Mexico, it will make it very difficult for us to launch any sort of counterattack against them. At least in the short term.”

  “That will make the canal all that more critical. It will be the only practical way of staying in touch with the west coast. Reminds me, when is that division going to embark for Panama?”

  Wood suppressed a sigh. Roosevelt’s obsession with the canal in Panama could be irritating at times. Not that he wasn’t right about its importance. “They should be departing within the week. Of course, with this development in Idaho, we could really use them out west.”

  “One division in all that emptiness, Leonard? It might not make much difference out there. But the Isthmus is only twenty miles across and half of that is blocked by Gatun Lake. One division guarding ten miles could make all the difference.”

  “True, but I’m already getting frantic messages from the governors of Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, and Utah to send every man and gun I have to guard their territories. When they hear I’m sending troops to Panama instead, they are going to howl.”

  “Let them howl,” snorted Roosevelt. “I’m used to howling. I’ve got the ambassadors from nearly every country in the Western Hemisphere howling outside my door right now.”

  “Which is why you’re over here with me?” asked Wood, with a smirk.

  “Of course! Of course!” replied the President with an answering grin. But the smile quickly faded. “I wish there was something we could do to help the poor devils. It’s really starting to look like everything south of Texas is going to be overrun, except for Panama.”

  Wood consulted another map and then rifled through a sheath of papers, using only his right hand. “Most of the big coastal cities are holding out, from what we know, although La Paz seems to have fallen. But the interiors of all of the South American countries are in chaos. Still, that’s mostly wilderness. If the cities can be defended, there may be some hope.”

  Roosevelt shook his head. “They don’t have anything to hold with. Most of their armies are like something from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. And they have very little heavy industry to produce armaments. They import most of their weapons.”

  “Well, what about the Europeans? We talked about that before, and I know how much it irks you to bring them in after all the trouble we’ve gone through keeping them out, but it may be the only hope. Is this grand world alliance you’re trying to build making any progress, Theodore?”

  The President growled and shook his head. “Not enough. Those who need the help are the most enthusiastic and those who ought to be providing the help are the least. Everyone is paying lip service to the idea, but real, material aid is not forthcoming. The French and the Germans are the worst, blast them! They’ve got the most powerful armies on the planet and so far they’ve refused to send a man beyond their borders—even though no Martians have landed in Europe!”

  “Any idea why? I’d think the Kaiser, in particular, would be eager to get involved. I met him back in ‘02 and again in ‘08 and you could see he was so damn proud of his army. You’d think he’d want to show what it could do—unless he’s afraid of getting it banged up.”

  “Yes, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? I really have no idea what Willy is up to. The times I’ve met him, you could tell we was just itching to expand his empire and prove that Germany really is a Great Power—as if any more proof was needed!” Roosevelt paused and then shook his head. “Honestly, I think he and the French are holding back to see just how badly the invasion hurts the British. They’re both terribly jealous of the Brits, you know. Of course it hasn’t helped that the British have been so stingy about sharing what they’ve learned from the Martian machines they captured. The French and Germans have been terrified that England will use their new knowledge to dominate the whole world.”

  “So they’d rather see the Martians dominate the world? I can’t even think of a word to describe insanity like that!”

  “I can think of a few, but I won’t use them here,” said Roosevelt. Wood nodded, the man almost never resorted to profanity, although he had the widest range of insulting non-profane vocabulary to describe people he disliked that Wood had ever encountered. “I’m hoping that they will come around once they see how serious this is. The Martians are going to be on the southern shores of the Mediterranean soon and coming over the Urals. The Tsar’s armies have gotten themselves rather badly chewed up from what we’re hearing.”

  “Hopefully that will bring them to their senses,” said Wood. “But in the meantime we have to figure out how to defend our own territory.”

  “Well, we will be giving you the tools to do it soon enough, Leonard. The Conscription Act will be on my desk by this afternoon and I’ll sign it at once. We’ll have a million new men in uniform for you by the end of the year and another million every six months for… well, for quite a while.”

  “We need more than just men in uniforms, Mr. President. The reports from the battle indicate that small arms are useless against the enemy machines. We are going to need artillery in unprecedented amounts and in larger calibers—and the men trained to use it. We are going to need heavier machine guns—and a lot more of them—and we are going to need to develop weapons and tactics that can make infantry effective again—or all those millions of men in uniform are just going to be lambs to the slaughter.”

  “I know, and we are working to get you what you need. New contracts are going out every day. We’re getting industry converted to war production and General Crozier’s people are rushing the new weapons into service. We’ll get you what you need. In the meantime, is there anything else I can do to help?”

  Wood frowned. There was one thing he really wanted, but he wasn’t sure he should ask. Why not? I’m the Chief of Staff, damn it!

  “Can you get rid of Ainsworth for me?”

  “Is he giving you trouble again?”

  “Yes, to p
ut it mildly. Despite my gentle, and not so gentle, reminders that the General Staff Act strips the Adjutant General of nearly all his old powers, he refuses to cooperate. Theodore, he simply has to go if I’m going to do my job.”

  Roosevelt scratched at his mustache, adjusted his pince-nez on his nose, and then nodded. “All right. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” sighed Wood in relief.

  “You are welcome.” Roosevelt straightened up and turned toward the door. “All, right, I’ll leave you to it.” He paused, turned back and eyed Wood closely. “Are you all right, Leonard? You don’t look well.”

  Wood straightened up and put back his shoulders. “I’m fine, Theodore, just fine.”

  * * * * *

  February, 1909, Near Gallup, New Mexico Territory

  Sergeant Franz Dolfen, 5th US Cavalry, watched the coming dawn, fingered his revolver, and tried to figure out the best way to make his death mean something. He was going to die; of that he was absolutely certain. The questions were: when and how? Part of him regretted not getting himself killed when they first saw the Martian machine. It would have been quick and easy and he wouldn’t have any decisions to make now. But he hadn’t. The presence of the girl and the other civilians had forced him to… to surrender.

  Technically, he supposed he was a prisoner of war, even though he still had his pistol and two of his men had their rifles. Hell, even Becca was armed; her fool horse had bolted with the others, but the critter had come trotting up to their campfire during the night and he still had that old Henry in the saddle holster. The Martian didn’t seem to object to the horse or their weapons. It knows we can’t hurt it.

  But he knew full well that the Martian didn’t consider them prisoners of war. It wasn’t going to treat them by any civilized rules based on tidy agreements between nations, even though it had allowed them to rest after a grueling day of marching. He’d heard the rumors about what had happened in England and he was quite certain this thing wasn’t herding them along to some prison camp. He wasn’t exactly sure where it was taking them, but he was certain it was somewhere he didn’t want to go.