Warbirds of Mars: Stories of the Fight! Read online

  He pondered a moment, and decided that an honest answer was better than a flip one. She deserved it. “Yes,” he said, finally. “Yes, a big part. We can remember the past and we can think about the future.”

  “Hang onto your memories, then, Jack. If we lose those—if we lose the things that make us human—then the Martians will have won. I’m not willing to let that happen.”

  Jack raised his glass. “Neither am I,” he said. “So here’s to Nicky and Renata—the ones I remember from Illinois.” With a glance out the window, he added, “And here’s to you, world. You’re worth fighting for.”

  Josie clinked her own glass against Jack’s, and they drank.

  THE DEADLY TRIAD

  By Alex Ness

  January, 1947

  Hey Hunter,

  Get a look at this memo we intercepted in transit from the ground forces of Japan in China... It sounds like our suspicions of a Nazi fallout with the Japanese is real. And it sounds like our worst fears of the Chinese have come true as well...

  Translated for your pleasure,

  —Bob Hooper

  To Gensui Rikugun Taisho Ito Ichiro

  (Field Marshal Ichiro Ito)

  Your Excellency,

  I was asked to compile a background report and an action report about the events in Manchukuo regarding the “Martians”, Nationalist Chinese (KMT), Communist Chinese (CCP), the Imperial Japanese Kwangtung Army (IJKA), and the events following the Nazi Germany betrayal of our forces in same location.

  The war situation and my comments are, of course, open to your critique and consideration.

  February 1945

  Japanese forces led by the IJKA push KMT forces out of most of the coastal regions of China, and push inland. The CCP remains in defensive mode in the northern regions, but begin to assert themselves against remnant KMT forces. No inroads can be made and no progress can be determined to exist by our forces against the CCP who have the nearly complete confidence and support of the peasants and locals, unlike the KMT in any region of the country.

  March 1945

  The different dynamics between the CCP and KMT versus our forces were no doubt exacerbated by the abrupt change in the war situation between the Soviet Union, Nazi Germany and its Martian allies, and the general collapse of most fronts in the war for the so called Allied powers. The retreat and disintegration of Soviet forces from Siberia, Vladivostok and throughout Mongolia left a vacuum of power. It is uncertain the exact cause of such a huge event, but our own experience with the Nazi German decisions to betray our forces to serve their Martian masters adds a layer of likely accurate suspicion regarding the ultimate cause of the Soviet decline.

  The ensuing vacuum led to expansion into the former areas of control by the CCP with designs upon the same by the KMT. But the KMT could only dream of the ability to move so quickly, being basically bunkered in the distant reaches of Chungking.

  The pull back of American forces in the face of the Martian control of areas of the globe meant our forces were now, on land at least, able to act without harassment from the sky attacks by US and Allied Chinese forces. However, as you might be aware, the deficit in attacks from the US and Allies were more than made up for by those of the Martians, and their soon to be allied Chinese forces.

  April 1945

  The KMT is believed to have switched sides from that of siding with the Western Allies to that of the Martians and Nazi Germany. This move coincided with the betrayal of our nation by the Nazi German government, and left our forces in a situation where we were still fighting against the same foes of the KMT and CCP, but now we were no longer fighting what one might call a war of ideology. Rather, we were fighting for our own survival. The loss of the US and Western Allies to the KMT and CCP was significant. However, with their own struggles after the arrival of the Martians, it was possibly inevitable that they would need to withdraw in any event. From a power politics view, the KMT did nothing that it was not already doing, following a nationalist agenda, in a desire to destroy the CCP and push out the IJKA.

  May to August 1945

  The summer of 1945 was one of constant ground attacks and shifting territorial control. The depravations on all sides are incalculable, and no doubt exists that the three-sided war was becoming untenable for all parties. A knockout blow was seen to be needed, and the leaders of the IJKA planned a major attack upon the nexus point between the KMT and Martian forces.

  With the disposition of all forces at an all time low regarding manpower, it was essential to strike a major blow so an immediate safe pullout from China could be accomplished. With the CCP in control of the Northwest and much of the central regions, the KMT was able to keep hold of its position only through the alliance with the Martians. The air fields and supply bases in mountains of China bordering Nepal and Tibet were clearly far from the IJKA’s reach, but the nearest land base and base of operations for the KMT was within a long expedition by the special recon units and possible air drops by parachute-trained units. The region of Chungking and Chengdu were formidably defended, but Wuhan was not. As a forward base it could be removed, and had to be used for a springboard to attack first Chengdu and then Chungking.

  The Wuhan assault was marked by the brilliant success of ground troops and the grave destruction of our air units by the Martians and Chinese KMT air force. The parachutists never reached jump point, being shot out of the sky before they reached altitude. But on the ground, the KMT forces were overwhelmed, bloodily.

  October to December 1945

  The IJKA waited to gather all resources before jumping off toward Chengdu and Chungking, when advanced rockets from the home island arrived, and weaponized bacterium arrived from Unit 732 in Pusan. Using these to our advantage, the final assault on Chengdu was met with absolute surprise and complete success. It is estimated that the KMT forces were utterly annihilated there. The responding air assaults by Martian and allied Chinese air were devastating, but the path was open to Chungking, and the assault followed.

  The KMT was not destroyed but was considerably reduced by the successful assaults upon Chungking, Chengdu and Wuhan. The IJKA removed itself safely from China main, and returned to Manchukuo to assume a defensive posture awaiting assault from the CCP, and other units.

  The numbers of dead, missing and wounded-beyond-continued-performance sees the CCP still at 100 percent efficiency, the KMT at 20 percent efficiency, and the IJKA wounded badly, but still battle ready with 60 percent efficiency.

  The numbers that cannot be properly assessed are the capacity of the Martians, and their ultimate goals in the region remain unknown.

  Awaiting your analysis and further instructions

  For the Emperor

  Rikugun Shoi Takahashi Kenshiro

  (Lieutenant Junior Grade Kenshiro Takahashi)

  Information officer

  Member of the Kwangtung Army

  Manchukuo and China

  Hooper here,

  If you note carefully, it sounds very much like we shouldn’t put too much hope in the Japanese coming over to our side. It sounds much more like they are going to fight a war on all fronts if necessary. But it is good to know that they aren’t any better informed or aware of the Martian goals and abilities than we are.

  THE FARMBOY’S

  ADVENTURE

  By Sean Ellis

  The farmboy craved adventure. He knew there had to be more to life than simple toil and misery. He had heard about the war, and he wondered if it he might not find fortune and acclaim as a warrior.

  So he left behind the fields where he had been raised—the fields of toil and futility—and set his eyes and heart on the field of battle…

  Though he was ashamed to admit it, even if to no one but himself, he was afraid.

  He had spied their campfire on his third day of travel through the pine barrens. The city—what was it called? New York? He didn’t know if they still called it that—was still at least another two day’s journey, and once he got there,
no matter his apprehensions, he would have to interact with people. He knew this, had known it from the moment he had embarked on this journey, and yet now, faced with the reality of such an encounter, he was filled with dread.

  Not yet, he told himself. I’m not ready.

  And so, he watched them from a nearby hilltop, their shapes silhouetted against the orange glow of their fire. He caught occasional snatches of conversation, nothing he could comprehend, and wrestled with his self-doubt until sleep claimed him.

  He awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the low branches and the eerie music of birdsong. It was only as he stretched his limbs, stiff from a cold night on the hard ground, that he realized he was not alone.

  “Good mornin’.”

  The greeting was tentative but cheerful, as if the speaker knew that he was intruding and hoped that his pleasant demeanor might offset any perceived breach of etiquette. The farmboy stiffened, instantly alert, and gazed back at the newcomer, a young man with dark brown skin and fine curly hair.

  He’s one of the people they call ‘coloreds,’ the farmboy thought. He had heard about such people, though he had never seen one before. Descended from the natives of Africa, he recalled from his lessons. Brought to the Americas hundreds of years earlier as a slave labor force. It was said that the dark-skinned people were not fully human, or that they were a race cursed by God. The farmboy didn’t place much stock in either theory; to his eyes, the young man didn’t look all that different from other people.

  “Saw you watchin’ us,” the young man continued. “Thought mebbe you were g’in’to come down and join us.”

  The farmboy answered with silence, paralyzed by uncertainty.

  “Shoo,” the young man exclaimed, slapping his thigh with one hand. “Where’s my manners? Mama raised me better’n this. I’m Lincoln Monroe Jackson. How do you do?”

  The farmboy continued to stare at Lincoln Monroe Jackson, though he felt his apprehension slipping by degrees.

  “Got a name, don’cha?”

  The question drew the farmboy out of his fugue. His mouth started moving, as if chewing and tasting the word that was trying to take shape. “Joe.”

  “Please’ t’ meet’cha, Joe. Figgered you might be gettin’ a mite hungry, so I brought you some food.” He stooped to pick up a parcel wrapped in a cloth. He opened it to reveal a bowl filled with a steaming white substance. “Jus’ grits, but better’n nothing, I reckon.”

  Joe took the proffered bowl and cautiously lifted a spoonful to his lips. The milled grain porridge was flavorless and dry in his mouth, but he managed a nod of gratitude.

  “So where do hail from, Joe?”

  Joe knew the young man was speaking English, but this was nothing like the language he had learned. He worked through the unfamiliar dialect with the same patience that he digested the sticky grits. “Kansas,” he said after a long, difficult swallow.

  “Shoo! Don’ the big heads own Kansas now?”

  “That’s why I left.”

  “Hear that,” Lincoln replied, nodding sympathetically. “G’in’to the city?”

  “Yes.” Joe studied Lincoln’s earnest face a moment longer then decided to take a chance with trust. “I want to join the resistance.”

  Lincoln appeared duly impressed. “You g’in’ to fight the big heads?”

  “Yes.”

  “You a brave man, Joe.”

  Joe heard the sincerity in the young man’s voice, and felt a thrill of exultation as he realized that he had passed a sort of test. Though he hadn’t exactly rushed out to face the source of his fears, he had nevertheless overcome the first obstacle on the road to his adventure. At the same time, this encounter had served to underscore just how woefully unprepared he was for the uncertainties of what lay ahead. He’d been lucky this time, lucky that Lincoln and the other travelers had posed no threat, but luck wasn’t something he dared count on in the future.

  “Are you going to the city, Lincoln?”

  “Sho’ am. An’ call me Linc.”

  Joe nodded. “Linc. Why are you going there?”

  “Well, the big heads done wrecked everything down south. ‘Lanta ain’t there no mo’. We lived out’n the sticks, sharecropp’n and mos’ly self-efficient…is that the word? But the big heads was gettin’ too close for comfort, and pappy thought we might have better luck up north o’ the Mason-Dixon. Got relations in New York.” He paused a beat before continuing. “Leastwise we did. Ain’t heard from ‘em since the big heads came.”

  “So you’ve never been to the city?”

  “No sir. But I done gone to ‘Lanta a time or two ‘fore the big heads show’d up. I reckon big cities are mos’ly the same. ‘Cept I hear they get on better with colored folk up north. That’d be nice for a change.”

  Joe nodded, though in truth he had understood only a little of what Linc had said. He had hoped Linc could serve as a guide in the unfamiliar environs of the city, but it seemed the young sharecropper’s son was as clueless as he. Still, it might be advantageous to have a traveling companion. He was about to suggest such an arrangement when he felt a faint tremor pass through his body.

  “You feel that?” Linc’s face had suddenly transformed into a mask of concern, and the sentiment was infectious. Joe had thought the vibration to be a figment of his imagination, but Linc had felt it too, and a few seconds later, the sensation repeated.

  “Oh lord,” Linc whispered hoarsely. “It’s the big heads.”

  The young man turned on his heel, but before he could rush away, Joe seized his arm and pulled him back. Another vibration, stronger still, shook the ground beneath them.

  “It’s too late,” Joe hissed. “We have to hide.”

  “But my family’s down there.”

  “You can’t help them if you’re caught.” Joe drew the young man back, into a hollow formed by the roots of a tree.

  The thumping vibrations had taken on a slow rhythm that Joe instantly recognized as the lumbering steps of a tripod war machine. He couldn’t see it through the dense foliage, but he assumed it to be a lone patrol, scouting the uninhabited No Man’s Land that separated the occupied territory in the American Heartland from the holdout region in what had once been called New England. The design of the battle tank, which featured three fully articulated mechanical legs, had been primarily utilitarian—it could negotiate even the most rugged terrain—but it also served another purpose; the lumbering footfalls of the monstrosity struck fear into the hearts of anyone unlucky enough to be in close proximity. That was the very reason for the patrols—to discourage refugees from making their way to the resistance base in the city. The border was too vast and the invaders’ resources spread too thin worldwide to completely stop the migration, but fear of what might happen if caught on the journey kept many from even making the attempt.

  There was a flash of movement near the now abandoned campsite, and a column of dull metal landed squarely on the cinders of the previous night’s fire. An instant later, a shudder rippled up the hill and shook through the huddled young men. Linc tensed, as if preparing to bolt from their hiding place, but Joe held him back. Somewhere up above the treetops, the battle tank’s crew was looking for any sign of movement that might reveal the location of the refugees.

  Evidently, they had noticed just such a sign, for a moment later, a hideous noise—a sound like the tearing of metal—ripped through the forest. A shaft of blinding light stabbed down from the unseen body of the tripod and lanced into the forest floor.

  Momentarily blinded by the brilliance of the heat ray, Joe threw an arm over Linc, pressing him down. If panic or grief overcame the young man’s instinct for self-preservation, they would surely both die. The death ray shrieked again and again, close enough that Joe could feel its heat on his back. The air became a thick miasma of wood smoke—was the forest burning?—he dared not raise his head to look. He just stayed there, trying to remain as still as a corpse, until the rhythmic vibrations of the tripod’s step
s resumed. The tremors gradually lessened as the war machine moved away, until at last, perhaps ten minutes after the attack had begun, the only vibration Joe felt was the wild thump of Linc’s heart.

  He sat up and looked around. The bright spots had cleared from his vision, but the landscape before him was almost unrecognizable. The woods were not on fire as he had feared, but several trees had been simply obliterated, vaporized by the intense heat. A few small fires burned in the resulting craters, but there seemed little chance that these would spread; the alien weapon had preemptively destroyed the fuel that might have fed such a conflagration.

  “They’re gone,” Linc whispered. Joe thought the young man was talking about the tripod, but when Linc jumped to his feet and started shouting names, he realized that Linc had been referring to his own traveling companions. Still yelling, Linc rushed down the hill to the smoldering ruins of the campsite, and Joe chased after him.

  They searched for nearly an hour but found no trace of the other refuges. As Linc’s anxiety gave way to a hopeless resignation, he began talking about them—his family and friends. The young man tried to take comfort in the fact that they had found no bodies; perhaps in the pandemonium, the others had fled beyond earshot. It was a flimsy foundation for optimism, but Joe seized on it as a way of pulling Linc out of his paralyzing despair.

  “If you’re right, then your best chance of finding them again is to keep moving. They’ll head for the city, right? We should go there, too.”

  Linc stared at him for a long time, his face twisted with grief, but after a while the seed of hope sprouted, and he answered with a nod.

  And so the farmboy, having overcome his fears and survived the encounter, resumed his journey toward the city.