Warbirds of Mars: Stories of the Fight! Page 25

  Blau assisted Crooks with Jerry as Lady Doyle pushed open the warehouse door. She heard the words, “Go! Move!” She did not realize until they were out of the door that she had been the one shouting. Taking one last look at Trost, a rag doll flopping back and forth atop the machine, she noticed the skull engulfed in flames. The three ancient eye sockets held her gaze for one final moment, and she briefly wondered if Delacroix was right. Would the world have been ready to know that the Martians hundreds of years ago might have had a hand in their culture?

  The group found themselves escaping up a hill toward the setting sun. They did not rest until the heat of the building no longer resonated on their skin. They saw the fire breaking through the doors and licking the outer walls of the warehouse only a split second before they heard the explosion. Torpedo-sized chunks of concrete and steel flew in every direction. Smaller bits of debris scattered through the air like popping corn. When the flames died down and the noise gave in to the silence of the valley, all that remained was an indistinguishable rubble.

  Jerry strained his head to look around. “I think we’re still in Austria, at least,” he groaned.

  Blau agreed, “If I overheard Trost correctly, ve are not zat far from some resistance strongholds zey were spying on.”

  Their whereabouts did not concern Lady Doyle, who shook her fist at the rubble. “Bollocks!” she shouted over the last crackles of the fire carried on the breeze. “My favorite gun was still in there!”

  Crooks took the pistol from within his shabby coat. “Relax. I swiped it from Trost earlier and put it in my coat pocket. I recognized it before he even put that sack back on my head and marched me out to see you in that over-dramatic rigmarole.”

  “Oh, Henry, you are a doll,” she cooed, as if he had just handed her a pair of diamond earrings. She holstered the weapon and stood up with all of the grace of a ballerina. “Come along, men. I suggest we, as they say in the gangster films, make ourselves scarce.”

  “It iz a shame ve did not save the doctor,” Blau confessed with a hint of respect in his voice.

  “I think that man’s mind was long dead before any of us met him. Saving him would not have done him much good,” Lady Doyle affirmed, bracing herself against the chilled mountain air.

  “A life is a life, Eva,” Crooks corrected. She frowned at him.

  Jerry’s arm was wrapped with a tearing from his own shirt. Each of his companions checked him for signs of a concussion. The film director and Crooks took turns keeping Jerry upright as the group marched for miles without talking. They took short breaks, sitting for five minutes then starting their escape once again.

  It was not until they saw the tops of houses that Crooks at last spoke up. “If there is a telegraph in that place, then I can contact allies in the British military to get us out of here.”

  Blau stretched his back, listening to it pop. “Do you think ve vill have time for a little rest, preferably in a bed until morning?”

  Crooks rolled his eyes, as if a night in a bed were a ludicrous idea. “I think it would be best to get medical attention for Jerry and get out of here as soon as possible. If we are really lucky, maybe there will already be some resistance soldiers here. They could arrange transport for us without us even having to risk sending out a contact.”

  “Gah! I ain’t too bad. I don’t need no doctors.” Jerry lifted his weary head. His voice was hoarse as if he’d had a recent coughing fit. “What do you say, m’lady?”

  Lady Doyle pointed at a light ahead, a dim beacon amongst the dark windows of the tiny Austrian village. “Gentleman, I propose we get a pint,” she announced with more energy than she felt.

  The group trudged into the pathetic bar. Pockets of British and American soldiers were clustered in corners, savoring the dregs of their beers, and trying to look like ordinary Austrians. Behind the counter, the bar keep had carelessly left the radio on, not listening but comforted by the background noise.

  “Good evening, boys,” came the all too familiar sultry voice through the speaker. The soldiers all stopped their conversations, unable to muster the energy to resist the German woman’s taunts. “Alien Ada here with a little piece of advice to the allied forces. Tonight, a bomb went off somewhere near Salzburg. The details behind the attack are still unknown, but I do believe one thing can be made very clear. If you want to survive this war then you had better realize which three-fingered hands hold the power—”

  Bang!

  The bar keeper jumped as his radio sparked from the bullet hole directly through the center of it. Lady Doyle holstered her weapon and smirked at the little man holding up his dish rag in surrender. “Sorry, but there’s been nothing good on in since they canceled The Shadow anyway. Now, what do you say to a round for the lads and I?”

  RED SKY PHOENIX:

  THE RISE OF FREE RUSSIA

  By Alex Ness

  Darkness and silence covered the Land of the Rus since 1944. Almost no information came out of the region, and communications have never recovered to the point where information can be reliably received and trusted. In the present, 1948, the silence coming from the former Soviet Union has been deafening. It was said that Stalin was dead. That the Martian ships controlled the surface of the entire country, or former country. And that the people who lived in the area were either slaves or collaborators. But it was not true. A lack of news is not the same as a lack of events. There are rumors that a blow has been struck against the Martian and Fascist war machine. And Hunter Noir has a first hand account of the event.

  There is a packet marked “for Hunter Noir’s eyes only” and it is handed to Noir by a messenger. The handwritten address is crude, but legible. The envelope is made from old cardboard, and the contents within reveal photos from the former Soviet Union, and a letter.

  June 1948

  Comrade Noir,

  Enclosed is a letter written to you from a Soviet who sought to reach out to you prior to his unit’s attempt to free Russia from the control of the Martians. Please read, and at the end I will explain the results of his actions.

  Colonel, People’s Russian Army

  Nataya F. Tabakof

  1947, December 1

  Tovarich Noir,

  Comrade in arms, I am writing this to tell you about the war you fight having a new ally. Yes, it is me. I’m sorry for the English in this, I took only few years of school for it and am not good with it. I was one of many Soviet airman who fought the war against the Fascists over Soviet Union. We fought many times at great numerical disadvantage over the years, since the invasion. Those of us who survive, we were the elite, tested by the fire. The skies are red, they will be made to be more red. They will even bleed.

  Before I tell you more I wish to explain how I come to write you this letter. When the Martians take over and Mister Hitler (Pyos yob yevo mat) get new life, I was prisoner of war held in Poland, with other comrades. Most of Soviet prisoners are treated poorly, and many die. But for some reason, I was placed in a camp with many airmen, not all Soviets. The result was I survived when my brothers in arms who fought on the ground would have been dead.

  The event of Martians coming was amazing. We did not understand it, but we knew the war, which we were of course winning, was about to change. Soviet forces were getting closer and closer to the borders of the Nazi homelands, only to be sent in disarray home. The skies over Germany were now Martian airspace and were dangerous in ways we were only too soon to understand. The camp I was in was bombed by someone, we are not sure who, but whether Allies or Martians or Fascists, we did not question our fate. We run like rabbits from wolf, toward the east, where Soviet lands called us.

  As the war news came to us in our long trip home, it became clear that Soviet Union was no longer. The Martians had created ships that flew overhead and destroyed much of the ground forces and our leader Stalin’s headquarters. Without Stalin, there is no Soviet Union. But Mother Russia lived. I burned inside to change this. I do not love Soviet Union, I love Mothe
r Russia. She gave me birth, and she was now in danger. I had to come up with plan to change this. I had to do this. I had to do this soon.

  Along the way, many peasants recently liberated by Soviet forces gave us shelter. The trip home was long, we needed this help. Here we learned of American Patriots fighting against Martian hordes. We learned of your fight, through a mutual friend. I will not name her here, for if this letter is intercepted I do not wish to cause her to be shot for resistance. I do not well understand your plight, but I do understand what it is like to live life in a country beset by enemy invasion, and need to push the enemy from your homeland. Comrade Noir, I salute you and your fight.

  We were half way home, when we learned that the Fascists had launched missile attacks upon all areas of the Allied world. The Martians had no doubt influenced their choices, but the Fascists’ use of death from the sky is familiar to me; as an airman, I had fought against such. It made me realize that without a decision by Russian patriots, all of our beloved land would be ruined. My father fought as a soldier for the Czar and died in 1915 against the German Empire. My mother raised her children in the shadow of hunger, and only the bread given to us by Soviet government allowed us to survive. But government is different than people, and we saw all the terrible things done during the years prior to the war. But when Nazi invaders come, all of Soviet Union stood to fight. They called it the Great Patriotic War, and we did feel that we were one, united and strong.

  You by now are wondering another thing, I say we a lot, and us, as to those who accompanied me on the trip from Fascist death camp to homeland. I had formed a unit of comrades, who were agreed with me that we must return home, and save our homeland. I introduce you to them now...

  Andrei Y: From Smolensk, which is now smoking rubble... He was son of two professors, and he himself was trained as scientist, until the war came. At this point he was assigned to a front-line outpost as a soldier. Yes, the Soviet Union recognizes talent and matches it to official job well, (that is joke, Comrade). Andrei is in truth no great soldier, but he is brilliant, he beats me in chess every night before sleep, and he love Mother Russia as much as I do.

  Evgeny B: We call him The Beast. He is 198.5 cm tall, oh, I mean 6’6” for not metric. He is beast. He eats anything. He can lift anything. He is ugly like beast. He is also poet like Gorky. He is soft inside, and beautiful in heart. He comes from a mining town in Siberia. His parents are long dead, and he has no love of where he come from. But he is a warrior, and I would not have made it here, this far, without him.

  Spartak G: No one knows where he is from, because he does not tell us, and nobody knows him from his hometown. He was injured before he was taken prisoner, and his body is not good since. He is in pain, and we all feel like there is something in him screaming to get out. Exactly, so to say, what, we don’t know. But, he is qualified airman, I am sure, and I trust him.

  Mikel S: He is this or that, and some of the other. He has told all sorts of stories about his family, his hometown, his job in the military. If we believe him, he is either an only child, or the youngest of many children. He is either a great pilot or he is a skilled mechanic. He comes from Moscow and knew Stalin, or he is from Arkhangelsk. We simply don’t know. However, since he is not reading this, I should say, I think he is a Jew, and is trying to make sure he is not killed for being that. Mister Hitler (Pyos yob yevo mat) made sure to rid his country of Jews, so, I do not doubt Mikel’s idea is good one. From what I can see, and have experienced, he is bright, funny, and loyal to our group.

  Many more died along the way home than I can relate. We did not linger over them, the time for that is passed. We could only keep moving as a memorial to their resistance. Going forward was our only choice.

  We took a route to get back to our homeland through lands that had fallen to Soviet forces, only to see them retaken after the Martian invasion. So we had to move at night, be silent as possible, and make sure to keep our heads down. And comrade as you know, the world has changed. But while the destruction of our lands had been bad under the Fascists, I cannot tell you how heartbroken I was to see the lands after they were retaken by Soviets, and then lost again to Martian hands. Lands that had once been gold with wheat are now black from fire. Even the gloriously overgrown Pripyat marshes are black with fire. The people live in fear now. They resisted the Fascists. They resisted the Commissars. They simply wanted to live. Now, where there was life, there is only death.

  We had for a long time been discussing how to free our country from the Martians and Fascists. We talked about what could hurt them. And it is hard to imagine hurting a people who could fly through space. I cannot even imagine being in space, and yet we know these creatures are not from Earth. We cannot reach their Martian planet, we cannot defeat their ground forces. We can only watch as their motherships hover overhead. However...we did have something in common with which we could strike out. We could strike from below in aircraft. If we had them. But as yet we did not.

  So, you wonder, why I am writing, is it just to tell you I like what you’ve done? That I am enthusiastic fan? Well yes, I think you are great. But no, this is not a fan letter. It take us from early 1945 to middle of 1946 to return to Russia. We had to fight through many remaining Fascist ambushes and invaders. We had to sneak across lands made flat and black from the wars, without any resources to help us survive. And we had to get home before it was too late to do anything to save our land. Partisans helped us in places. We armed ourselves along the way with weapons from the dead Fascists: machine guns, ammunition, grenades... And these work well upon humans, but all of us feared facing the Martians.

  As we moved across the no-man’s lands, we picked up new members for our party of warriors. And our ideas for revenge and liberation developed further. By the time we arrived at Kiev, we had fifty members of our unit, and we were all armed well, although, granted, with Fascist weapons. Kiev was now a hole, formerly a wonderful city. Attacked so many times by Martians in the sky, and previously by Fascists on the ground, it was no longer recognized for what it had been. Some of the Ukrainians in our party vowed revenge, as they should have, and we would make use of this anger...in time.

  We kept moving until we reached Free Russia soil. It was the least touched from the Martian attacks and Fascist attacks, but still notably wounded. However, every single weapons plant, tank and aircraft manufacturing facility, and government building were gone, destroyed. How would we be able to drive the Martians from the skies? How?

  That answer was to present itself soon. We recuperated in the arms of our mother. Russia provided some distance from the Fascists, and only occasional attacks from the Martians. We built our unit from the fifty I had mentioned to well over one thousand. We were all people who had escaped certain death, had a great passion to defend our homeland, and now, were gathering forces to do something about it.

  Every yard we controlled, every peasant or former worker who saw our banner and saw our guns knew we were on their side, not the government, not the Martians or Fascists. We send out patrols, we scout the nearby areas for possible strategic uses, and we support the locals in the event of any attacks from enemies of any sorts.

  After six months without incident, we found something of great importance.

  In a bunker, of a location I will not state in this letter, for reasons of safety, we found a complete German jet, in a disassembled state, that prior to abandonment was being studied to perhaps be used to advance the Soviet air war capacities. We had seen these craft flying overhead, fighting alongside the Martians. We had marveled at their speed and agility. And despite the state of the craft, and our lack of petrol, we now have a means to reach upwards and attack those that reign over us.

  Andrei kept marveling at the perfect unison of form and function for the jet. He studied every document, looked at every single sprocket, nut, and bolt. He said he understood now why he was born, to build this machine so that one might fly it in defense of our home. According to our time researc
hing it, it is a two seat version of an ME-262, and was modified at some point for night action. It looks like something from American pulp novel, Buck Rogers. Only this is not fiction.

  Another concurrent event that happened, was that one of our patrols found a major landing strip, with four obsolete planes and a skeleton team of guards from the Martians and Fascists guarding it. It was not in use, but we could make use of it. We had to attack immediately, since we needed just such a thing, and the enemy was unaware of our existence. The longer we might wait, the sooner they would find out.

  The Beast led one hundred fifty men in attack against the Fascist/Martian site. The enemy were outnumbered 5 to 1, but they managed to defend the site with some little effort. We lost more than half of our number, but managed to kill their entire compliment. Licking our wounds, still we quickly moved toward repairing the obsolete planes, and filling in the bomb holes in the runway.

  Three of the planes we recovered are I-16s! My favorite plane. They are short, ugly, stubby, and have the kick of a mule. I flew one in the earliest days of the war. I survived being ambushed by four Japanese fighters in one, during the Khalkhin Gol. I was shot through my left bicep, bled like a dog, but despite my craft having hundreds of holes, I landed safely. Doctors sewed me up tight and mechanics patched my Mule. These planes we found were retired and set aside for reserve service. They are fully loaded with ammo, but we would need more petrol if we were going to return after taking off. The last plane is a highly modified Shturmovik, a ground attack bomber. It is a great plane, but this one is seemingly an abandoned project or prototype. It has racks to hold rockets, and it is fully armed, but the normally heavy thick armor is absent. It will no doubt fly faster, but it will be very vulnerable to fire from the ground. Also there is no rear gunner. The whole craft seemed unfit for its assumed purpose. That is, until we found the records of the previous command of the strip. The plane was modified for an attack upon a Martian mothership, but the previous Soviet combat unit was killed or made prisoner two years prior. After years of being ignored on the ground, the unit was thought to be unimportant, and since no one in the area seemed interested, it remained unimportant...until now.