A Man Named Martinez

The man who brought us The Goatman Project earlier this year, Christopher Pitcher, returns to Demensions with some military SF set on a near-future Earth which has been run over by aliens simply known as the Invaders.

Of this story, Christopher says, "It's about the aftermath of an alien invasion and how one man can stem the advance of the invaders. The actual story is only about the last battle he ever leads and how he pushes his men to victory."

     The alien Invaders came without warning in numbers greater than the stars they came from. They struck in the middle of the night, killing their victims viciously, and without provocation. And when we awoke to the smoky morning, we faced a war on two fronts, from the very heart of our great nation. Many had died and many more would follow, in what was heralded as our darkest hour. But our freedom had been challenged, and that is the one thing that held us together. America rallied to defend herself and fought bravely for three years, slowly losing ground to the Invaders, until one man was raised up and led the offensive. America took a collective breath and held it, waiting to see if this one man could make the difference and stop the disease that had overrun their fine land.

     Washington, D.C., was once the center of power for the greatest nation in all the world. Considering how only America remained unbroken against the Invaders, it was technically still true, but the once proud and noble metropolis was a fading shadow of what was once a city of shining glass and towering stone.
     The Capital Building was one of the first targets, and lay in a shattered ruin of blackened columns and pillars. Andrews Air Force base was a deep crater, having been destroyed from orbit while the President attempted to escape to NORAD. Scattered monuments remained standing, scorched by the wild fires that had ravaged the city in the aftermath of the Invaders' attack. The White House still stood, but only until the next strong wind. The scorched timbers shone black and shiny in those few moments that the sun peaked through the clouds.

     Staff Sergeant Robinson fell in a heap beside his battle buddy. The other man was dead, blood seeping from a small hole in his head. Robinson knelt cautiously and peaked over the berm. The enemy was massing for another frontal assault. He could see how they formed up by companies, by battalions, and finally by brigade. Four thousand foot soldiers infested the next hill, armed to the teeth and ready to tear this last bastion of American freedom to pieces.
     "Stand firm, Men. Let them come as far as they dare. They'll never know what hit them."
     The man's very voice sent a thrill up Robinson's spine. There stood a man, a soldier's soldier. Robinson had served under many officers. Good, bad, effective leaders or not, they all seemed to fade into the distance when he compared them to David Martinez. Martinez had been a mere sergeant like Robinson when the war had started. But war is a business of killing, and nothing hurries promotion along like a good war. Martinez now wore the silver stars of a Major General. And he deserved every salute.
     In the short time Robinson had been under his command, Martinez had pulled countless battles and skirmishes from the depths of utter defeat to the lofty peaks of victory. The enemy was more technologically advanced, but it was Martinez' superior tactics and strategy that won the day time and time again. It shocked Robinson and his fellows that Martinez had not been named Commander and Chief, but it occurred to him that the man currently in possession of that title got to hide in his bunker while men like Martinez did the work of saving the world. Martinez had wrought havoc on the enemy and chewed his way through their double-pronged attack to race their eastward marching army to the Atlantic.
     Against all odds, Martinez and his men had overcome every obstacle in their path and driven a five mile wide wedge through the enemy lines. Now they held their ground, waiting for the enemy to advance and fall into their ambush.
     Robinson glanced over his shoulder to see the diminutive figure of his leader. Martinez stood a scant five foot six, but he towered over other men on the battlefield. He seemed to be over ten feet tall, and not one of his soldiers doubted that he could walk on water, or part the sea if he put his mind to it.
     Martinez was standing behind a camp table, pouring over maps and intelligence reports. Robinson knew only bits and pieces of the overall plan, but he did know that as long as the enemy was forced into using the river valley in their approach, a gargantuan ambush awaited them. Robinson was unsure of the form this attack would take place, whether a pitched battle or mines or an artillery barrage, but he had complete and utter faith in Martinez. "Let them come," he had said. Martinez was right, thought Robinson. They never would know what hit them.

     Foot soldiers do not move as quickly as armored vehicles or helicopters, and so the first kills of the day belonged to the ground-to-air missile teams and the soldiers carrying tank killing AT-4's. Destroying tanks and air craft is a laudable pastime for troops under attack, but while a tank will roll over nearly everything in it's path, and helicopters can soar above the whole battlefield, firing missiles at whatever target they chose, the key to taking and holding a piece of ground lies in foot soldiers.
     Martinez knew this. And so his men waited, waited for the right moment to spring their trap on the unsuspecting enemy. Some knelt in prayer, others stole a few moments of sleep. Many just watched the enemy come, rolling over the lay of the land like the wind through a wheat field. Robinson pulled a smoke from his last pack and lit it with an ancient butane lighter. He took a long drag and let it out slowly as he surveyed the river valley below him. The dirty brown water of the Potomac sludged its way downstream, carrying the remains of a proud city to the ocean, where nothing would remain but the timeless rising and falling of the tides.
     His eyes caught a glint of steel in the muddy bank off to his left. He looked closer, and for a moment thought he saw the outline of a huge tank turret buried in the mud, but then the sun disappeared behind one of the endless clouds and the moment was gone. What had he seen? Was that part of Martinez's plan?
     Robinson looked again. Sure enough, the enemy column was heading straight up the banks of the mostly dried up river. They didn't know, couldn't know what was in store for them. He ducked down below the level of the berm and looked back at Martinez, who was now staring intently at the massive line of men marching up the river. They were getting close now. Martinez lifted the handset of his portable radio and spoke a single word, gesturing sharply. The explosion was like nothing Robinson had ever experienced before in his life. Never having served on a naval vessel in his career, he had no idea what to make of the way the earth shook and the dark clouds overhead reflected the yellow blast of forty-five sixteen-inch guns firing in perfect unison.
     Artillery came to mind, but something told him that it was much too loud, too earth-shakingly powerful to have been mere artillery. He risked a peek over the berm and before him lay the wrecked bodies of three thousand Invaders, slain by Martinez in one deft blow.
     Robinson again looked to his left, where he thought he had seen a tank turret buried in the riverbank. A crater was blown from the side of bank, a huge chunk of muddy earth missing, and in its place sat a series of three of the biggest cannons he had ever seen.
     He sank down, out of sight again. There were still more Invaders out there. Martinez's trap hadn't taken them all. The enemy was smart. They had left a reserve force. Now it would come down to the skill of the squad leaders and two man teams, as the enemy moved over the broken terrain of a ruined city.
     Robinson knew that Martinez had planned for this, but his heart filled with desperation as the first of the enemy crested the hill and began pouring down like a tsunami, able to break the strongest of seawalls, and wash over entire islands, leaving nothing but wreckage and corpses in it wake. Robinson looked back over at Martinez who again, held the radio to his mouth and yelled a command. Robinson looked out at the battlefield expecting to see another sheet of yellow fire envelop the approaching masses. Nothing happened.
     He turned back in time to see Martinez throw down the handset in anger. Something had gone wrong. A bad wire refused to send the signal, or maybe the crew on the guns had all been killed by sniper fire. If Martinez was thwarted, then there was no hope. The second battle for Washington was the last hope for the American people, for the world. Robinson slowly turned back around to face the oncoming enemy.
     He half-heartedly fired a few rounds, killing one of the charging Invaders. He sighed and turned to see Martinez pulling the Flag from the top of his command tent. Raising it over his head in a clear sign of defiance and victory, he pulled his pistol and charged.
     Robinson stumbled after him, blindly following his great leader, as if knowing that there was one last plan of action, one last attack that would save the day. He dodged left and right, returning fire as he ran. Bullets zinged by his ears, missing him by a hair each time.
     He looked ahead of him to see Martinez, running and dodging bullets just as he was, but not as well. Blood ran down the smaller man's back from a wound in the neck, a limp hobbling his steps. He stumbled to a stop in front of a small rise and threw himself to the ground, narrowly missing a burst of machine gun fire.
     Robinson ran on, watching as Martinez threw open the door to a hidden bunker and slapped a control on the wall. The soldiers on the hillside vanished in a sheet of fire. Robinson was thrown from his feet to the ground, where he hit his head. When he regained his feet, he saw Martinez pulling himself across the ground, keeping the Flag off the ground with his last shreds of strength. Beyond him stood the remains of the invading army, still five hundred men strong and angrily spilling into the valley between the hills.
     Robinson looked back to where the rest of Martinez's men had fallen in behind, and were now rushing to the front line. What would they do when they got there and found their leader dead on the ground? Would they still fight, or would they give up and be slaughtered after Martinez sacrificed himself to give them all better odds of winning?
     Robinson couldn't answer the question, but Martinez could. With his last breath, he hurled the Flag to Robinson, who caught it one handed and understood immediately. He raised it over his head and charged, screaming at the top of his lungs, and firing into the seeming wall of enemy troops.

     Martinez's men followed.

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