Warbirds of Mars: Stories of the Fight! Read online

  So we have four working aircraft, three pilots, and enough petrol for a one way journey. Not a great armada like the US and British had flying over Germany, but, after the devastation, this is more than we could have hoped for.

  Comrade Noir, we know at this point that we are now likely going on a suicide mission. We have no way to get home, outside of via parachute. No rocket packs like Buck Rogers. Not enough fuel to even guarantee our reaching the target. But we have a chance. With this chance we have, we must do two things. First thing, is knock one of the motherships from the sky so that Martians and Fascists will know they cannot act without consequences. Second thing, when the craft strikes the Earth we must be sure to kill all the inhabitants, so that we can make sure they do not survive to threaten the ground like they did the air.

  We have studied the bombing patterns and understand that they are not random, that they fly at the same altitude every time. Although they are far more advanced than our own craft, we have a chance, because we will be doing what no one else has attempted. That is, we have surprise: both for ambushing them and for the fact that we exist. When one expects no resistance, they do not act to avoid it. When they do not act to avoid it, we can win! Nobody wants to die, nobody wants to be in pain, but as we see it now, we have no life outside of our motherland, and no land other than our motherland.

  We have calculated the time before the next raid. We have two weeks. Two weeks to build two things. We have to construct a launching ramp so that we can make use of our rockets in the ammunition to assist in take off, of the jet. By doing this we can avoid using as much fuel. Fortunately Andrei is gifted in understanding physics. He devised a chart showing us exactly what we need, to achieve the most efficient launch. Mikel is willing to fly the jet. Spartak has trained himself on the Sturmovik, and I am well able to fly the Mule. The planes would be loaded with rockets and ammunition, and just enough fuel to reach our opponent. Reaching them with maybe five minutes of fuel left.

  We had to devise a plan able to knock the enemy from the sky, with our limited weapons, against their futuristic craft. We knew three things. The best defended area was the front of their ship, so to attack it was suicide. The bottom of their craft was exposed, but we assumed, thick with steel—or some alien form of it. The back and sides were covered by their defensive array. So going with what we have, which is not much, we have to first cause the belly to burn. While it will not be a fatal blow, we know it will distract the enemy. Then we must strike the rear of the plane with strong efforts. This again is not assumed to be able to down the craft, but to cause the crew to have to respond. And finally, one of us, likely whoever is still alive, must crash his craft into the front of the enemy ship, where it is piloted from.

  So we also made assumptions about our own craft. The jet is likeliest to return, the Sturmovik is heavy and able, but with stripped down defensive armor, we do not know, and the I-16s are likely fodder. Whatever. It does not matter. All we have is what we will use. And should we find victory, nobody will complain what kind of craft achieved it.

  Of our unit, we have now over 2000 men and women assembled. Of that number we have two other people able to fly, but with far less training and likely hours in flight. The Beast has led the effort to build the launch ramp, and he has his ground troops ready for the downing of the Martian ship. We do not know who will be manning the ship, whether Fascists or Martians, but we know, they all have to die. We are no longer going to ever take prisoners. The war has become one of survival, and should have always been thought so from the time the Fascists entered the political boundaries of our country.

  We decided to organize ourselves as a government prior to the attack. We elected officers and leaders, we decided how rule should be done, and what our goals were outside of the attack. The simplest rule was to free Russia from Martian and Fascist attackers. It was a primary goal. Beyond that, we want to know that there will be people to live on and make Russia fight after we are gone. We voted to call ourselves the Free Russian Army. Our goals are simple, but the task to win the war is so great we can not know where our decisions will take us.

  I do not mean to say that all is well. We are a country that is only thirty years since a revolution, and only two years since the collapse of the government. Everyone in our “army” has faced big problems and depravities. We have all been hungry, for very long. We have all lost hope. But the worst part is, no one really knows how to be free. Without government, we have lost the big voice telling us what to do, and deciding who we are now is confusing to some of us, and frightening to most of us. But freedom from the Martians and Fascists is all we need. After we get that done, then our world will be considerably better.

  Comrade Noir, the world we live in is one where heroes do not exist without ideas. We are only here long enough to make a change in the path, and then others can take the lead. I am writing this two days before the Martian mothership comes. I have no doubt that what we are doing will end with my death. I only hope that you can see that your acts, and that of countless others are what is needed to free the world from Martians and Fascists. Keep fighting the fight, Comrade. We are all that stands between the Martians and our homelands.

  Your admiring friend,

  Oleg Lavrov

  Dear Comrade Noir,

  I would like to wish you and your forces well. While Free Russia is now a force added to the battle, we are young, feeling our way through the birth pains. We have few weapons, and few soldiers, but we have hearts that long to free our country.

  The first blow for freedom has been struck. Yet, I regret to inform you that the actions of the Free Russian Army’s ambush of the Martian mothership, resulted, in fact, in the death of Oleg Lavrov.

  From the accounts of the members of the flight who survived long enough to explain what happened:

  We did indeed rightly guess the arrival time of the enemy. This was very important to the success of the mission. We had only so much jet fuel, and petroleum for the flight. While launching the jet successfully, the two members of the flight with less training did not manage to engage the enemy, and they bailed out from their craft. With empty gas tanks preventing their engagement, one safely returned to Earth, and the other’s parachute did not fully open, causing his death.

  Mikel piloted the jet into action prior to Spartak and Oleg’s craft arriving. He managed to cause enormous damage to the under side of the Martian craft, but at the last moment, he seemed to accelerate into the same, causing Mikel’s death, and major damage from the impact to the Martian craft.

  Spartak launched the Sturmovik successfully, and engaged the Martian ship with rockets and numerous cannon bursts. Shortly before driving his plane into the enemy, he bailed out. His chute caught fire in the immediacy of the explosion, but, fortunately, he was returned to Earth alive. The impact did break both his legs and his pelvis, but he is recovering safely.

  The last to engage the Martian ship was apparently Oleg, and we can only assume that his actions led to the downing of the ship, because from the ground observation after the first two impacts, the Martian ship was wounded but still able. Following the crash of Oleg’s plane, his beloved self-named “Mule,” into the front—perhaps the pilot chamber—of the Martian ship, the explosion and crash of the same left no evidence of life, for a mile surrounding the crash site.

  We sorrow for the loss of our brothers in combat, but the day is here for Free Russia. We look forward to hearing about your victories, and commend all of your actions to this point.

  Perhaps we might one day meet in the fight against the hated Fascists and Martians.

  Colonel, People’s Russian Army

  Nataya F. Tabakof

  HUMAN GUILE

  By Chris Samson

  Sodak Jutt was proud.

  The failure to capture New York City, Pennsylvania, and Boston had fallen on other shoulders. The West’s resistance was formidable, but he had played precious little part in that. Sodak Jutt concentrated on smashing the Mid
west.

  Kaizen Jodom still had the biggest seat at the table, though. The Germans had allied with them so quickly, and these Americans...

  Sodak looked around the landing pier. His sash billowed in the wind. Far away, he heard the whine of the laser cannons.

  These Americans didn’t know when to stay down.

  Kaizen was lucky...the only reason he had all the territory was because the Germans were so willing to cooperate. He had The Doll too. Sodak was on his own, dealing with the Americans every day, and they were resourceful creatures. As the whine of the Talon and its Warbird escorts hummed in the air, Sodak felt the sting in his eye acting up, as it did whenever the wind and the whine of the engine happened to assail his head at the same time.

  The sting was in his right eye, the dead one marred by the scar ever since that human slave had gotten too close. He would be blind in that eye the rest of his life, and whenever the wind and the whine combined together, he would be reminded of that human.

  The Warbirds landed, flanking the Talon. After a moment, the underside opened and a ramp leaned to the ground. A small procession came out, flanking the reason Sodak had to come out to this airstrip.

  “Kalen Tengel,” Sodak said, as his fellow general walked forward. Kalen was young but he had risen quickly. Sodak had a reputation for brutal efficiency, but Kalen had a reputation as a master tactician, a general who could work miracles with few resources. His slightly smaller stature had been the target of much speculation among the other generals at first, but Kalen quickly demonstrated his frame was no impediment to victory in battle.

  “Sodak Jutt,” Kalen responded, his courteous demeanor ever-present. “Thank you for assisting me.”

  Sodak nodded. They began walking to the tripod Sodak had waiting. “A long way from Memphis, Kalen. I heard you contributed to...”

  “Alamogordo,” Kalen said.

  They strode through the tunnel to the tripod. “A bit of a small town for your talents, Kalen. I expected better of you. No dishonor.”

  “Understood,” Kalen said, entering an elevator with Sodak, fully aware Sodak was—in fact—heaping enormous amounts of dishonor on him.

  “What did you want there anyway?”

  Kalen pressed the button to take them to the boarding deck. “How goes your Detroit campaign?”

  Sodak scowled, though this was essentially unnoticeable with the scars on his face. “Their resistance is more substantial than information had originally indicated.” The elevator hummed. “The resistance has given strict orders: Detroit cannot fall. They know if I—if we—can take it, that’s half their industry right there.”

  “They’re throwing everything they have into protecting it.”

  “Yes. That’s one of the reasons I’m staying here now. Converting this Chicago into a base of operations, so I can remain focused on taking Detroit without neglecting the rest of the continent.” The elevator stopped. “You seem to be doing a decent job though.”

  “Thank you,” Kalen said, stepping out into the tripod bay. It was large and spacious. The two generals walked over to the open door of the tripod, entering. Sodak took a seat by the aisle. Kalen sat by the window. “They call it the Arsenal of Democracy,” Kalen said.

  “What?”

  “That was the nickname the Americans gave to Detroit. Their president called it that.”

  The tripod hummed to life. With a trembling lurch, the tripod took its first step. “I had planned on making Chicago University a prison originally. I suppose it’s fortunate I had the Detroit campaign to think about.”

  “I am...pleased it still stands,” Kalen said, as the tripod took its second step.

  “The trip will take us by the Loop. Have you heard of it?” Kalen shook his head. “Elevated trains. It’s where they converged in a circle.” He smiled. “I turned it into a crucifixion hub. All along the elevated tracks, all through this city spreading out. Bodies after bodies of traitors, collaborators, and suspects. It starts at the Loop. Sometimes I let the bodies rot, so the new ones get infected. Let them die in a fever.”

  As Sodak laughed, Kalen looked out the window. Down at the feet of the tripod were the ruined and broken streets. Every step the tripod took slammed into the road, pounding it under a metal heel. Humans hid on the sidewalks, pausing as the tripod lurched past. One blast from its lasers, one grasp of its tendrils, and they’d be dead. With every heel stepping to the ground, another chance for death took a step.

  Kalen watched the humans. He watched the fathers hold their children’s hands. He saw the women, proud older women who had seen much in America and who had survived starvation, gang wars, and oppressive regimes—some beyond the present one—and they did the same thing as the men. The children followed suit, children who would one day grow up to be bigger and stronger.

  The humans were not going away.

  Kalen watched them make way for the passing tripods.

  He saw them staring defiantly up at the death machines, refusing to bow their heads.

  Father James Cansino expected this to be the end.

  He’d done his best to minister to everyone in the camps. He spoke of the suffering of Christ on the cross, heard confession, and administered the last rites. Before the invasion, he’d done his time in the Catholic worker movement in St. Louis. He’d had his head cracked, but he never missed teaching class at St. Brigit High School, where he’d counseled many of the boys and a few of the girls about going off to war.

  That was all before the invasion.

  Before fighting became a way of life.

  Now, escorted down the lavish hall by two towering Big Heads, he was ready for the end.

  He prayed it would be quick, and he prayed for the flock he would leave behind. He prayed to Christ in his infinite mercy, to let this humble servant’s death contribute in some minuscule way to the end of the invaders. At the end of the hall were two massive oak doors, flanked by two equally intimidating aliens. He expected the torture chamber to be on the other side.

  He continued to pray.

  One alien opened the door.

  Father Cansino stepped inside and experienced something akin to culture shock. The floor was carpeted, a small chandelier hung above, luminous and sparkling even without the bulbs being on. On the far side of the office, a large glass window overlooked the courtyard. Two crimson armchairs faced the window and a magnificent wooden desk. Behind the desk, a Martian strolled over to a blackboard, writing something down in a notebook next to it. The sight of the three-eyed creature broke Father Cansino’s momentary shock. Seeing the creature there, its three black eyes blinking at him, made him realize what had put him off about the room.

  It was comfortable.

  It had been a long time since Father James Cansino had been anywhere comfortable. “Father,” the creature said, putting his pen down. “It’s so good of you to join us. Please come in, have a seat.” The creature looked at the guards. “Leave us.” The closing door shut Father Cansino off from the rest of the world. It was only him and the Martian. “Take a seat. I have so wanted to meet you. I’ve set this up for you and your companion.” The Martian gestured to one of the seats.

  Father Cansino walked closer, curious as to whom his companion might be. As he walked, his eyes began taking in other things in the room. Bookshelves lined either side of the office, piled high with volume after volume of human culture. He squinted at the titles. The Iliad, The Last of the Mohicans, Moby Dick, Myths of the Orient, Grant and Lee, The Legend of Robin Hood. Looking past the bookshelves, on the floor he noticed other works of art intermixed with movie posters for King Kong and Stagecoach. Stepping around the chair, he could see more books on the Martian’s desk: tales of the Shadow, Doc Savage, Tarzan, Conan, and others. Often he’d confiscated some of these at school, or some of the more spicy romance ones from the girls. The values they promoted were far from what the Catholic faith espoused (though he had a few Tarzan books from his younger days; more than once he’d returned the magaz
ines to their owners on a Friday afternoon). Other, older books depicting the adventures of Buffalo Bill Cody, Daniel Boone, and Jim Bowie were in a separate corner. There were ripped pages next to a book he couldn’t see clearly, illustrating two men labeled Moriarty and Holmes. Scattered haphazardly on a smaller bookshelf were half a dozen comics depicting Superman, Batman, The Human Torch, and Captain Marvel locked in mortal combat with various transgressors.

  “Have you two met?” the Martian asked, gesturing at the second seat. “Father James Cansino, meet Rabbi Joshua Maltz.” Cansino looked over at the man in the other chair. He had a small beard and a white shirt on. He looked about fifty or so, but it was hard to tell in conditions like this. Rabbi Maltz’s face had a resigned look to it, but it was not a look that was resigned to death. For the first time since the guards had arrived, pulling him from the factory, Father Cansino began to think he might see another sunrise. He exchanged greetings with the Rabbi before the Martian continued. “Father, I am General-Prime Kalen Tengel, commander of the occupied West and South. Please, Father, take a seat. We will be here a while, and I have so many questions. Before you stoically decline and choose to stand, as your companion did upon our first meeting, you should be aware the discomfort will be all yours, as we will be here some time.”