by Неизвестный
“Must be Wichita,” Robert thought aloud. If so, his odds were good that he’d be able to find an airstrip somewhere that might not be completely demolished. He was about to risk radioing a mayday when all hell broke loose.
A wave of craft emerged from the thick smoke still wafting out of the downtown and outlying areas of the city. The size and speed of the ships told Robert that they were Invader craft. They rose en masse, streaking up and to the East, where he could make out an incoming formation of what looked to be American fighters and bombers. Robert was about to be caught in the middle of a dogfight.
“Captain Black to inbound forces, I repeat: Captain Black to inbound U.S. forces—invader interceptors are rising from the city and moving toward your position, over!”
The warbling static broke the silence of hours without human contact. “Copy that, Captain. This is Major Saunders of the Army Air Corps. We are engaging the invaders. What is your position?”
“Southwest of you.” Robert checked his instruments. “I’m at 17,000 feet and descending in a trainer P-40, and in need of a friendly airfield for refueling, over.”
“Copy that, Captain Black. Location of friendly airfield close to your position unknown. Repeat; unknown. Over.”
“Great,” Robert swore.
“Recommend you find a safe position until we’ve had a chance to finish this batch of Martian bastards off. Over.”
“Roger,” he responded. “Good luck.” But Robert knew as he watched the two groups of fighters merge and give chase that the terrestrial forces were outnumbered and outgunned. Mustangs and Corsairs could hardly keep up with the saucer-like ships, and the invaders’ tactics were still a mystery. They evaded the fighter groups and blasted flying fortresses and Mitchell bombers, destroying them with single blasts, then turning back on the escort planes to wipe them out as well. Some of the better U.S. pilots managed to hit Martian craft, but it seemed to take an extraordinary amount of ammunition to send even a few saucers tumbling back to earth. Within minutes, the surviving fighters and bombers were turning tail and heading back to wherever their base was.
And Robert had watched the whole thing unfold, defenseless, powerless, and entranced.
And the saucers were heading for him now.
Robert put the Warhawk into a nosedive. He was hoping he could make it to the airfield he could see just south of the city before the enemy ships got him first, but their speed was incredible. Bolts of enemy fire shot past him like tracers made from red-hot lightning. He evened out and turned to engage the two saucers that had fired on him, saying a silent prayer to whomever might be listening that his fuel and meager ammunition would be up to the task.
Robert’s plane made a tight turn and passed one saucer head-on. He fired on the second and raked the black frontal dome before diving out of the way. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the ship he’d hit falter and begin to spin out of control. Robert knew he was lucky to have scored such a direct hit considering what a hard time the others had downing the large craft. He continued to turn and dive, hoping he had managed to lose the other saucer. Weird colors lit up the darkening sky and more of the alien death rays streaked past his cockpit, dashing his hopes. Robert gunned the throttle, pointing the nose at the runways of what he was pretty sure was McConnell Air Field. He was coming in hot.
Another blast just missed his canopy, searing the top of his left wing and throwing sparks off the prop blades. The engine faltered and Robert’s controls shuddered in his hands. He was pretty sure part of his tail was gone and the engine was dying. The pattern of spinning propellers had altered and changed pitch—they had been sheared by the blast. He was going down. The controls felt stuck in place, but he did his best to slow his hampered plane and keep her under control. He dropped the landing gear and prayed that he could get the nose up in time.
He hit the ground hard several hundred yards short of the airfield. The plane bounced and the left side dipped. Its wingtip grabbed the ground, and Robert’s plane spun, pitching face first into the dirt and grinding what was left of his prop until the engine finally sputtered and died. Robert opened the canopy and practically fell out of the Warhawk, choking on the smoke and dust. Ripping off his flight cap, he jogged a few yards away from the smoldering plane and stopped, looking back at his first crash landing.
“Well ain’t that a kick in the head.” A wave of desperation threatened to envelope him. He took a deep breath and thought of Gina and home.
He looked toward the airfield, hoping to see grounded aircraft intact, but night was falling. All he could make out were buildings, hangers, and smoke. The air-raid sirens were still sounding, but they sounded like they were coming from the city.
He looked back at the skyline of Wichita. The buildings were silhouettes against the purple dusk, and while Robert did not see much damage to infrastructure, he didn’t see any life either, and Martian saucers were swarming over it all.
Above the city, among the darkening swirls of clouds and smoke, a shape was casting a shadow over it all. Giant eerie lights floated through the black mist, the running lamps of a Martian behemoth. The dark hull of the descending ship looked like an art-deco train engine mounted on the front of a graceful, tapering saucer with huge fins and glowing engines. It was a mother ship: The final stamp of occupation.
Robert ran for the fence line of the airfield. Beyond, he could see a few of the enemy walkers standing guard at perimeter points, but he would have to take his chances. Some of the hangers were destroyed, though other buildings looked intact. His odds were rough, though not unbeatable. He would steal another plane and head for home. Home to Gina.
He reached the chain-link fence and climbed it, jumping the distance to the ground and moving quickly to the shelter of the closest structure. If the walkers were looking for intruders, then they had missed his entrance. Robert could hear the march of oncoming footsteps and some sort of strange language. He chanced a glance around the corner and could see a group of men and women, a combination of military and civilian personnel, being escorted by several creatures with streamlined guns.
“My God.” Robert had gotten his first glimpse of a Martian, or whatever they were. Easily six feet tall each, muscled and nude save for a strange loincloth garment and holsters for their blasters. They resembled hairless grizzly bears except for the strange lumpy heads atop their shoulders, as if they had no necks. Three giant, circular, lidless black eyes stared out from the front of each nightmare face, with tiny slits for noses and gaping fang-jawed mouths. Their skin seemed strange and thick, the hue perhaps a light shade of gray or green. Long, rippling arms ended in elongated hands with a thumb and two boney fingers, the discoloration suggesting claws or nails.
They were evil incarnate, demons from another world.
Robert waited for the group of prisoners and their escort to pass, then he started making his way toward the nearest hanger. A noise of some sort of movement nearby forced him to freeze. A Martian was close, its shadow stretched across the nearby patch of grass. Robert moved quickly toward the closest Quonset hut and what he hoped was an unlocked door. A childish terror threatened to overwhelm him—that to even let the strange creature’s evil shadow touch him would mean his demise. His clammy hand gripped the doorknob and it turned.
Inside, the hut was quiet and dark. The window in the door had been covered, and there was only a single light at the center of the room. Beneath it was what appeared to be an operating theater, and upon the table was a man, strapped down and unmoving. He was wearing a battered officer’s uniform and one leg was missing below the knee. As Robert moved closer, he questioned his senses. The man’s pipe was missing, but he was still wearing his sunglasses.
“General? General MacArthur?!”
MacArthur stirred. His face was ashen and drawn, and he blinked like he was returning to his senses as he looked at Robert. He raised his brow, taking in the young man standing there unharmed in his civilian clothes. “Help me off of this table, son, be
fore their scientists come back and take any other pieces off of me.”
Robert helped MacArthur to sit up after removing the restraints.
The man groaned. “I’ll never look at eggheads the same way again. I’m General Douglas MacArthur.” He shook Robert’s hand.
He motioned to another table in the dark behind him. “See if my aide is alive while I catch my breath.”
The general’s aide-de-camp was a thirty-something man with a small amount of dried blood caked in his blonde hair, though he still wore his officer’s cap. The man grumbled, but seemed intact. Robert loosened the straps and helped him to sit up. “I’m Robert Black. I was stationed at Thunderbird Auxiliary Field as a trainer when the attack came.”
“Captain John Grover,” the man answered. He was wearing gloves and didn’t shake hands. “I was assigned to the General the same day we were abducted.”
“Bad break,” Robert replied. “General, I thought you were in the Pacific?”
“I was,” MacArthur said. He rubbed his face and looked away from his missing leg. “That is until two days ago. Whatever those things are, they captured me in a covert strike. They shocked the Captain and I with some sort of cattle prod, and neither of us could speak. Then they snuck us out to a waiting craft that took us up to a carrier above the Earth. Biggest damn thing I ever saw.” He looked Robert in the eye for the first time. “I was in outer space, Robert. Do you think I was the first man to do that?”
Not knowing what to say, Robert shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. After today, who knows anything?”
MacArthur continued, making an effort to sound stoic. “I was tortured. They took my leg, but I remain unbroken. I think they intended to eventually parade me around as some sort of propaganda spokesman once I saw how powerful they are, but they found me less than agreeable to their terms. They brought the Captain and I down here to work on us some more.” He motioned to some strange, futuristic prosthetic looking devices lying next to the table, including a leg and perhaps two arms. “I think those were meant for me.”
“They burned my hands,” John said. He got up and headed over to where belts and holstered handguns lay next to the door. “I think I can still fire a gun at those bastards, though.” He brought the various weapons over.
“Find something the General can use as a crutch till we figure out how to get this leg on him.” Robert picked up the technological limbs. “We’ll take them all with us. Maybe we can learn something from the technology.”
“Good thinking,” MacArthur said. With help from his aide-de-camp, he got off the operating table. “What’s your plan?”
“Steal a good plane and head northeast.”
“Where are we now?” MacArthur asked.
“Wichita.” Robert put the Martian artificial limbs in a sack and stuck a .45 in his belt. “I just hope that the Midwest is in better shape then everything else I’ve seen so far.”
MacArthur pulled his large corncob pipe from his shirt pocket. “Say, if they’d taken this, they might just have broken me after all.” He smiled. “Take heart, Mr. Black; we’re not beaten yet.” He seemed to be taking stock of his surroundings. “Find something to start a fire. By the time we’ve found a plane it will have grown into a nice distraction.”
Robert smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks. “Yes, sir.”
John helped MacArthur as they snuck out of the Quonset hut and made their way behind a set of barracks toward the closest hanger still standing.
“Stop!” Robert hissed. The group of battered men halted, hiding behind a woodpile in the dark. Martian guards were leading another group of prisoners past. They were passing within just a few yards of them. The last creature in line turned to survey the area, its alien blaster held high, as if it could sense the presence of the escapees. Its giant black eyes turned to look right at the woodpile where Robert and the others hid. Robert’s heart began to thump wildly, and he felt certain that the evil thing could hear him. But the Martian turned away at last and walked toward the others.
“That was close,” Robert breathed.
John shook his head. “I was sure he saw me.”
“Quiet,” the general ordered. “Something’s happening.”
The Martian that had looked their direction was gesticulating toward the prisoners and saying something in its strange, guttural language. It leveled its gun at the prisoners.
“Oh God.”
The guards and a few of the prisoners moved out of the way of the intended target. The alien metal of the blaster—a cross between a hair dryer and a meat cleaver—glinted in the moonlight. The weapon fired, its ray a wide, pulsing beam of blinding blue-white light. The target, a soldier who never even screamed, was rid of one third of his mass. His head and torso were seared away in a flash, and his legs gave out and collapsed to the ground.
Robert and the others sat in stunned silence. Mortified and angry, they could only turn away. The creatures ‘laughed’, moving their prisoners onward.
“We should keep moving, men,” MacArthur said. “They might come back.”
They moved as quickly as they could across an open field of grass to a side door of a hanger. Robert tried the door, and when the knob turned, he peeked through the crack to ascertain whether there were surprises waiting for them. “Coast is clear, and I see two aircraft.” They ducked inside.
Robert smiled. “Oh, baby; lookit you.” He walked toward the larger of the two planes. “If that has fuel in the tank, then we are free and clear, gentlemen.”
“What is it?” John asked.
Robert lifted a hatch to gaze at the engine. “It’s a late model Cessna C-165 Airmaster, with a Warner Scarab engine. We’re in luck; this baby’s got legs.”
“Good range?” MacArthur queried.
“500 or more miles, and gas in the tank.” Robert turned to them. “This will take us where we’re going.”
“And where are we going?” John sounded anxious.
Robert looked at the general, hoping that he wouldn’t challenge the idea. “Indiana. And wherever you need to be, General. I’m hoping that the invaders haven’t reached the Midwest yet.”
MacArthur pulled a face but did not otherwise pull rank—yet. “One way or the other, we have to make a break for it first. Get us out of here, Mr. Black.”
“Yes, sir.” Robert opened the hatch on the Cessna and got in, taking stock of the aircraft controls, while MacArthur climbed in behind him. John waited by the hanger door, ready to open it on Robert’s command.
John peeked through a tiny gap, watching the hut from which they had escaped. “Okay, the fire’s got someone’s attention. I think it’s now or never.”
Robert fired up the engine and let it warm a moment before giving the high sign. “Let’s go!”
The hanger door slid aside, and John made a break for the plane as it began rolling, and climbed inside the open side door of the craft. Robert taxied the plane forward and gunned the throttle, but he had forgotten the performance differences compared to flying a fighter. He glanced around. “John, keep that door open til we’re off the ground. You may need to used that gun of yours.” His fears were quickly borne out. “General, on your right!”
Two Martians were running to intercept them, and one halted to aim its ray gun at the Cessna. MacArthur didn’t hesitate; he leaned out of the plane, took aim and fired four times, twice for each alien. They went down, writhing and kicking and holding their bulging eyes.
“Hard to miss peepers that huge,” the general grinned. “Don’t bother with runway etiquette, Mr. Black.”
“Okie doke,” Robert nodded. Gritting his teeth he pulled back on the yoke hard. The Cessna took to the black sky like an escaping bird on the wing. He kept her low at first, hoping to clear the field before using up the fuel necessary to climb. He didn’t want to jinx their luck by commenting on it until they were miles away, but it didn’t matter—giant blasts of glowing Martian death lit up the sky within seconds. The shots just m
issed the aircraft’s wing, so Robert turned and climbed, then dove.
“It’s one of their walkers, “ MacArthur said sternly. “Comin’ this way.”
“We’re almost out of the park,” Robert hoped. Another shot nearly clipped the end of one wing. Robert pointed the Cessna at a tall hanger at the far fence line of the base and pushed the throttle, waggling the wings erratically.
“What’re you doing?” John cried.
“Evasive maneuvers.”
“I thought you said you were a fighter instructor!”
“I am.” Robert pulled up over the top of the hanger, hopping the structure briefly, before diving almost completely to the deck. The hanger exploded behind them as it took a Martian blast, but the smoking remains covered the Cessna’s escape as they flew into the darkness beyond.
“I plan to stay low till we’ve cleared the city outskirts,” Robert announced. “Then we’ll climb and make for safety.”
“And if they’ve sent some of those flying saucers after us?” John asked.
“We’ll improvise,” MacArthur cut in. “It’s gotten us this far. Well done, Mr. Black.”
When dawn came, the world below was a mix of unnatural calm and smoking hell, the latter especially over major cities.
“I can’t tell if we’re headed in the right direction.” Robert checked his compass then looked at the ground some 17,000 thousand feet below. “I think we’re off course for Indiana, though. Damn.”
The group got quiet. Only the sound of the engine filled the cabin, and Robert—convinced that he was lost—began to think of home.
He shut his eyes and he was there; he grasped a cool bottle of milk from inside the milk door in his parents’ kitchen and handed it to Gina, who smiled. She turned to set the milk down, and the light caught her auburn hair and danced across her long lashes. Robert’s mother called from her chair in the living room, anxious about others doing her job in the kitchen, despite her broken foot. She had been on it entirely too often, ever since Howard had left for the Army, busying herself around the house until Robert and his Dad had been forced to make her sit. He didn’t mind; it gave Robert a chance to play house with Gina before he left for Arizona.