Surrender was useless to the Americans. The blood lust of their foes had grown to such proportions that they had proclaimed that only the complete extermination of Occidentals would satisfy them. In a few more days, when the needed reinforcements had arrived from China, there would be a battle surpassing in magnitude and horrors all previous struggles. Then the men from the East would dump tons of chemicals upon the American metropolis; her twenty million inhabitants would suffer a moment of intense agony and, in a few minutes, she would be left silent and empty. So, at least, thought Tsu Tsin Ho, "The Wizard of the East," and many another wise head among the invaders; for the air fleet of the United States was outnumbered three to one.
But there was one thing that the brilliant Orientals did not know of. In Whitley Park, Chicago's most important pleasure ground, an unusual engineering operation was in progress. Four slender, two-thousand-foot towers of steel, seemingly as frail as spider web, were rising as if by magic. They were arranged in a square and between them skillful workmen were fastening a maze of fine wires.
In the center of the rectangle formed by the towers two enigmatic machines were being assembled. One was a huge apparatus, very similar in appearance to a gas engine of the twentieth century. Fully a hundred feet its eight bulky cylinders reared, gleaming with a glossy black sheen. There was something sinister and awesome about it—a suggestion that within its slumbering frame there lurked sufficient power to send the earth hurtling from its orbit. Beside the engine a great drum-like contrivance was slowly taking form beneath the hammers and riveters of the construction crew. It was a generator that would soon supply energy to the mass of wires overhead.
What was the sinister purpose of this gigantic wireless power plant? Only a few men knew, and these often smiled grimly.
With feverish haste Chicago's factories were turning out new and strange devices by the thousand—things the purpose of which even their builders did not know. They were tubes of varying sizes, from one foot in length to twelve, made of black enameled steel.
The report that the impending battle was very near came sooner than was expected. In the midst of a glorious June day, the sunny serenity of which was mocked by the awful contest that was going on, a lone air scout raced over the city from the south. He brought news that the enemy was preparing every available ship, evidently for the final struggle.
Ten minutes after the arrival of the messenger, a hundred and fifty battleships, America's only reserve force, arose majestically from the landing stage to join the main fleet.
What appeared to be Chicago's last day of life was drawing to a close when they reached their destination. With this reinforcement the American fleet numbered about 2,000 large battlecraft. They hung stationary, supported high above the earth by their gravitational screens, awaiting the attack.
To the south of them, at a distance of perhaps twenty miles, the ships of the enemy were being arranged in battle formation. From deck, port and bridge, keen eyes watched their movements, through powerful glasses. There were at least five thousand of them—all first-class fighting machines of the largest size. Accompanying them was a countless hoard of small fliers.
Now the Orientals began to advance in a great V-shaped arrangement. A thousand feet above them, the one-man craft moved like a swarm of hornets.