Destroyermen #05 - Rising Tides Taylor Anderson

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CHAPTER 11

Rangoon

The plan had seemed so simple, so clear, in Dowden’s great cabin riding at anchor in Port Blair. Now, in the vast, thick, reeking darkness of the misplaced river the Amer-i-caans still called the “Ayarwady,” nothing whatsoever was clear. There was no moon to speak of, and what little there was, was heavily smothered by an oppressive, visible humidity, almost a fog. As reported and expected, there were no channel markers of any kind and leadsmen in Dowden’s bows constantly tossed their lead as the steamer crept slowly upstream against the moderate current. Dowden made just enough steam to keep steerageway and continue her advance with her heavy burden of troops and the long train of troop-packed barges behind her. If she’d been a coal burner or a side-wheeler, this would never have worked. Telltale sparks from her funnel or the noisy, churning white water alongside would have betrayed her to anyone watching from shore. As it was, commands were kept to a minimum and muted, and even her engine had been muffled with blankets, wrapped around what was accessible and otherwise hung as baffles in the engineering space. Nakja-Mur was under the same discipline, with much the same burden. USS Haakar Faask, another new steamer that had arrived a few weeks earlier, had the newest, most powerful engine, and behind her trailed Donaghey with her sails all furled, as well as her own allotment of nearly two dozen barges filled with troops, field artillery, and a short company of the 3rd Maa-ni-la Cavalry with their silently purposeful “me-naak” mounts. The paalka teams to pull the guns were kept inconveniently muzzled and stowed belowdecks on the frigates to prevent them from causing alarm with their shrill cries.

General Safir Maraan, Queen Protector of B’mbaado and representative to the Allied Assembly, was immaculately groomed for battle, as always. In fact, she was practically invisible on Dowden’s quarterdeck in her black cape with her almost blue-black fur. She wore a silver-washed helmet, though, that complemented her form-fitted, matching breastplate, and that was how Lord General Rolak picked her out of the gloom and the milling throng of nervous, excited, whispering warriors.

“This creeping around in the dark always makes me uneasy,” he confessed quietly, joining her by the rail.

Safir grumbled a chuckle. “An admission I never expected from you, O valiant opponent.”

Rolak chuckled back. “I will never be your ‘opponent’ again,” he said. Then his voice turned serious. “You are the daughter I always wanted of my one mate who passed into the Heavens too soon.”

Safir touched his scarred, furry arm. “And you have become as my father, as the noble Haakar-Faask did before you.” She paused. “Do not make me mourn you today as I still mourn him—and my true sire.”

Rolak grinned in the darkness. “Fear not. I am already too old to die properly, bravely, on an honorable field against respected foes. That time is gone.” His tail drooped. “There is no honor in this war, as I have said many times. It is not fun.”

“It is not fun,” Safir agreed, “but there is honor.” She huffed. “You know that. The honor comes with the cause, a cause far greater than any we had before: the very survival and freedom of our people—even if it is just the freedom to choose ‘fun’ wars!”

They both chuckled then. They knew that few of their allies would understand. They also knew that for them to succeed, for the Alliance to endure, “fun” wars were over forever. Things could never be as they’d been before, with Aryaal and B’mbaado remaining apart from others of their kind. Any wars of the future would always be like this: desperate wars of last resort.

“But why are you uneasy?” Safir asked at last. She gestured at the southwest bank of the river. There had been lights there, obscured in the riverside wood of unfamiliar trees ever since they’d entered the river mouth. Most were probably lingering cook-fires, left unattended by sleeping Grik. A few rough structures eyed the river with lights from within, but there was no sign that the stealthy squadron had been detected. They’d seen only two Grik ships moored near the once impressive harbor facilities they’d passed, and one appeared half-sunk. The garrison here had clearly been abandoned, and the Hij in charge understood that the remaining ship represented suicide, not escape.

“Oh ... you know. These night antics of the Amer-i-caans still disturb me,” he admitted. “Just on the off chance that this battered old sack of bones was to manage a noble deed, or even die an honorable death ... I’d like for the Sun to see it.”

Safir slapped the admittedly old but still rock-hard arm this time. “Shortly we will be in position, I hope, and the Sun will not be long in coming! If you die any kind of death today, the Sun will watch me taunt your corpse! Do you understand me, ‘Old One’?”

Rolak patted her shoulder. “Yes, my Queen!” he replied lightly.

“Besides,” Safir added, suddenly somewhat concerned for Rolak’s state of mind, “you cannot die. You still owe your life to Captain Reddy! I was there when you made the pledge, remember? You may only die in his service, you know!”

“This is not?”

“Absolutely not! You must be at his side, protecting him from something ridiculous and foolish!” she declared.

The deck shuddered beneath their feet and the apparent motion of the ship, slow as it was, came to an abrupt halt, spilling quite a few soldiers and Marines to the deck with a clatter of equipment. The curses that followed were almost as loud. Runners came and went, barely visible, and there was a muted discussion near the wheel. Rolak and Safir looked on with interest. After a short time Commodore Ellis joined them.

“We’ve hit a snag or something,” he said. “Who knows, maybe we strayed from the channel. The lead showed deeper water.... It doesn’t matter. This is as far as we go. I’d hoped to take you another mile or so, but we knew it was dicey. No friendly pilots on This river.”

“Is the ship in danger?” Safir asked.

Jim Ellis shook his head. “Nah, we’ll back her off okay once the troops and equipment are off her. We could probably back off now, but we’re running out of night anyway.” He regarded the two generals, his friends, in the gloom. “Just keep an eye on that right flank,” he reminded them. “Especially now. We’ve got no idea what’s out there and we won’t be able to cover you much with the ship’s guns for a while. At least until daylight shows us the channel better.” He paused. “Be awful careful, both of you. This whole thing is ... different. We’ve never done anything on a continent before. Pete’s scouts saw nothing on the northeast side of the river, and the enemy you’ll be facing was kind of strung out. Like in the plan, if they don’t get wise, you shouldn’t have much trouble establishing a strong beachhead anywhere along here. The forest opens up a lot past the shore ... supposedly.” Jim shook his head. “Captain Reddy’s right. Being blind is sure a pain. I’ll be glad when Big Sal’s planes show up and tell us what they see! Anyway, if they stick to their usual routine, they’ll run around like chickens with their heads cut off for a while until they get sorted out. Use the time to dig in and wait for ’em to come at you, then slaughter ’em!”

Safir blinked amusement in the dark. “We have done this before, Commodore, and we know the plan well. We will ‘watch our flank,’ and I have high confidence in that aspect of General Alden’s strategy. It should work, and it might well be the only way to prevent ‘seepage.’ ” She grinned predatorily.

“I know,” Jim agreed. “I guess I just wish I was going with you.” He turned to his exec, who’d drawn near during the conversation. “Send: ‘This is it. All forces will immediately disembark and proceed to their relative positions according to General Alden’s plan. There is no geographic objective other than the shipyard, and that needn’t be taken intact. The only real objective it to kill Grik and practice new tactics. Maintain maximum communication and physical contact with adjacent units. Nobody is to go running off on their own.’ ” He took a breath, wondering if he’d forgotten anything. He started to add “be careful,” but decided that, like Safir, the various commanders would probably think he was carrying on too much about the obvious. “Send: ‘Good Hunting,’ ” he said instead, then turned back to Safir and Rolak. “Just promise you’ll remember: just because the Grik have always done things a certain way doesn’t mean they always will. I guess I don’t really expect anything fancy—this time—but keep reminding your NCOs particularly to expect the unexpected. Someday they’re liable to get it.”

The landing was discovered fairly quickly, but that didn’t mean surprise was totally lost. Guttural shrieks and excited, high-pitched cries echoed from the trees along the shoreline in the vaguely graying, predawn haze. One of the strident Grik “battle horns” brayed insistently. Only a few barges actually made it to shore before the Grik in their area knew something was up, but the commotion arising along the roughly three-mile shore upstream of the Rangoon docks appeared to confuse the enemy far more than it rallied them to any sort of coordinated effort. Several companies piled ashore in the face of headlong Grik counterattacks, but these were poorly timed, terribly executed, and totally unplanned. Each may have been composed of anywhere from a dozen to two hundred warriors, and they simply attacked what they saw. In other words, they behaved in a perfectly predictable fashion. So far. Except for a couple of companies of the 5th Baalkpan that took some casualties from one of the larger attacks that met them right in the water between the barges and the shore (and the short, greenish “flashies” drawn by the splashing), the rest of the Allied troops brushed aside the ad hoc enemy efforts. Immediately, the army began to expand its foothold all along the shore.

To encourage further disarray among the enemy, at least at first, the big thirty-two-pounders of the steam frigates, and Donaghey’s eighteens pulsed with fire, flashing on the dark water of the Ayarwady through the mist and gunsmoke like the most intense cloud-to-cloud lightning imaginable. The thunderous booming of the guns was muffled some by the dense air, but the pressure of each report seemed even more intense. The fused case shot that had worked with such surprising efficiency and reliability at Singapore had long since been replenished and then some. Now it flashed over the landing troops like meteors, trailing short, luminous, sparkling tails. Half a mile inland, it detonated unseen except for periodic brief stabs of light that rained fragments of crude iron down through the trees and among the rudely awakened camps of the enemy. Rolling booms reached the ears of the army several seconds later, and droplets of moisture shivered from the leaves.

Safir Maraan strolled slowly along in the rapidly brightening dawn, hands clasped behind her back. She uttered no orders. She’d come ashore with half her personal guard, her Silver Battalion of the Six Hundred, and they had things well in hand. For organizational purposes, the Six Hundred was considered a regiment with two battalions, Silver and Black. Unlike the rest of the B’mbaadan and Aryaalan troops who’d adopted their own distinct colors, the Six Hundred still clung to their old black and silver livery. They also trained right alongside Pete’s Marine regiments and were crack troops. They knew exactly what they were doing and needed no distractions from her. Thrashing, hacking, chopping sounds reached her from the front as the perimeter was expanded. For just an instant, she allowed her thoughts to stray to her beloved Chack, and as she’d expected, his presence, his very scent suddenly filled her heart just as quickly as she opened it. The Sun and the Heavens only knew what unthinkable distance separated them, but for a moment he was with her, beside her on the field that day. Back where he belonged.

A paalka squealed behind her and she coughed loudly to stifle the sob that had risen to her lips. Consciously, she restored the stones to the wall that protected the Orphan Queen from herself at times like this—times she’d never known before she’d met the “re-maak-able” wingrunner-turned-warrior. Times when she didn’t want to be a queen or general or even a warrior anymore, but just a mate to the one she loved.

The paalka squealed again and she shook her head, turning to see a pair of the heavy beasts, their palmated antlers bobbed and capped, being dragged from a barge and taken to a picket line. She still marveled at the creatures. They were infinitely better draft and artillery animals than the stupid, lumbering, dangerous “brontasarries,” as the Amer-icaans called them. They were really too broad and large to ride, but except for their annoyingly high-pitched cries they were among the greatest gifts the Allies had yet received from Saan-Kakja and the Maa-ni-los. She watched as the barges withdrew, headed back to the ship for more troops or equipment, and another barge landed to disgorge its cargo of two more paalkas and four light guns under the anxious, tailtwitching glares of the gun’s crews. None too soon.

“My Queen,” cried a “lieuten-aant,” rushing to stand before her. “Cap-i-taan Daanis begs to report a substantial Grik force marshaling to our front!”

Safir peered upriver. The coming day had actually made it suddenly, if likely briefly, more difficult to see in the haze. “Are we well connected to the 3rd B’mbaado and the rest of Lord General Rolak’s command?”

“Yes, my Queen.”

“What is Cap-i-taan Daanis’s definition of a ‘substantial force’?”

“Perhaps six or seven hundreds so far. There may be many more on their flanks. It is ... difficult to tell.”

Safir nodded. “Of course.” She glanced around at the beachhead they’d secured. She would have preferred it bigger, deeper at least, but it was sufficient. As long as they had a contiguous battle line and enough room to land their subsequent waves in relative safety, it would be enough for the time. “Very well. Tell Cap-i-taan Daanis that his company may lay aside its garden tools and prepare to receive the enemy!”

“Yes, my Queen!”

Safir paused while a squad of signalmen raced past, unspooling a long roll of wire with little red ribbons tied to it at intervals of about a tail. They had to stop a moment and wait impatiently while the gun’s crews moved their pieces forward by hand. She turned to Colonel Anaara, who’d been pacing along beside her. “The Silver Battalion will ‘stand-to,’ if you please.”

The drums—another of Captain Reddy’s imported innovations—thundered in the gradually fading morning mist as youngling drummers blurred their sticks. Even as the battalion fell in, preparing their bows and spears and locking their shields; while artillery crews rammed fixed charges of canister down the mouths of their gleaming bronze six-pounders and gunners sighted the tubes, the raw, visceral roar of the first mass charge of Grik warriors fell upon them. The Battle of Raan-goon had begun.

Lord General Rolak heard the sound of the Grik charge, the whoosh of arrows, and then the stuttering Ka-burr-Burr-aak of a battery of guns on his left. He could see little, but he wasn’t much concerned. There’d been none of the raucous, thrumming horns, calling and answering like skuggik cries on carrion, so even though he doubted that Safir was completely ready, he expected her to handle this first thrust with little difficulty. The distinctive sound of Grik “infantry” crashing against a shield wall confirmed his confidence that the Silver Battalion had made ready for the charge. The odd trees of the forest muted the sound, of course, but he could tell from experience that the blow had not been a heavy one. Arrows and canister had certainly blunted it as well.

So far, the 5th B’mbaado was not involved, which meant the charge had fallen either on Safir’s center or left. Rolak hoped she’d had time to deploy the follow-up regiments between herself and Captain Garrett’s forces. Even if she hadn’t yet, he doubted she’d have too much trouble. Runners had just reported stiffening resistance—in the form of sporadic attacks—against Garrett’s landing at the port facilities. He had heard horns from there. With any luck at all, most of the enemy was being drawn to those horns even now. Garrett’s landing had been the first, most exposed, and by far the largest in apparent size. He had to make the deepest penetration against the largest known enemy concentration and establish the biggest beachhead. He had two full Baalkpan regiments, one Aryaalan regiment, and one fresh, unblooded Maa-in-la regiment to accomplish this, but he also had the most mobile artillery and mortars. Additionally, General Alden’s 1st Marines would follow on Garrett’s heels and he could call on them if he had to, but supporting him was not their main objective.

Rolak snorted. They’d already discovered one major weakness in the Allied military organization: logistics. At least as far as large-scale expeditionary efforts were concerned. Previously, they’d noticed an annoying disconnect between naval and land forces regarding what equipment and troops should be loaded on what ships and barges, and where those barges should land. A lot of it had to do with preparation and simple sequencing, but the Lemurians (and a few humans) weren’t that good at those tasks yet. Particularly on something of this scale. They had a lot of work to do to improve that situation, and hopefully this “live fire exercise” would highlight the most egregious discrepancies. The worst so far today was that the 1st Marines, which were supposed to land here on the right flank, had instead been mistakenly loaded on barges towed behind Donaghey—towed behind Haakar Faask!

Discovering the error after it was too late to repair had resulted in radical last-minute alterations to the plan. Rolak was glad he hadn’t been there when General Alden learned of the foul-up. A few officers had doubtless become privates or seaman’s apprentices, but really it was not unexpected. They were all amateurs at this sort of thing. They’d practiced numerous landings and even faced a few hostile ones now, but as Commodore Ellis had said, this was different, and their next landing would be even more different still. In any event, now the Marines would have to double-time nearly three miles behind the—hopefully by then—contiguous beachhead, to reach the point where their real mission would begin. In the meantime, there was that right flank Jim had warned them about, just hanging out there.

There might be nothing beyond it, and if there was, he was confident he could refuse the flank with the forces he had. The entire 9th Aryaal was wrapped around, anchored to the river, deployed to do just that, even if it deprived him of close to a third of his own front. The one good thing was that some of the Maa-ni-lo Cavalry meant for Garrett had already arrived here. He would keep it and use it to warn of any threat gathering on his right.

Grik horns blared almost directly to his front. The naval bombardment had paused while the ships sought to maneuver in the clearing morning light, and it sounded like the horns were coming from the area they’d recently been “pasting.” He grinned with the certainty that the guns would resume firing with the same elevation once the ships had rearranged themselves. He glanced at the river and saw that Dowden had finally cleared the snag and was working her way a little farther upstream. While he watched, he saw a cart being wheeled into position beside the tent that had been established as his “See-Pee” (what a strange term, if he translated it correctly) and a small group of ’Cat signalmen began stringing wires from the grotesquely heavy “baat-eries” in the cart to the transmitter already inside the tent. Another haggard, filthy crew of signalmen raced up, panting, with their spool of wire unrolling behind them. Still another crew was hoisting a pole with an aerial attached. Good. If all worked properly—he snorted again—the entire Expeditionary Force would not only have hard communication within itself but wireless communications with the ships—and eventually Big Sal’s planes.

The sound of battle to the left had faded, but the horns thrummed again. This time there were more.

“Lord General!” Colonel Taa-leen of the 5th B’mbaado spoke as he returned. He’d gone to try and view the action. “The assault against the Silver Battalion has failed.”

Rolak nodded. “Did you speak to the Queen Protector?”

“I did, briefly. The enemy came on in ‘the same old way,’ but they did not break as they were slaughtered.” Taa-leen blinked uneasily. “All but a handful were slain, but the Silver sustained heavier than expected losses. Not heavy,” he hastened to add, “but ... more than would usually be expected. I personally viewed the Grik corpses heaped before the shield wall and they do look poor. Not starved necessarily, but ragged and lean.”

“They have a wider range to forage here than was the case on Singapore,” Rolak speculated.

“My assessment as well, Lord General, but the Silver recovered one of their diseased standards. It was the same as some of those taken after the Battle of Singapore.”

“So. We knew they were attempting to evacuate that place before we blockaded it. I would presume they took the better troops first, perhaps even before we cut them off. Some of those may not have been taken all the way to Ceylon, but deposited here instead.”

“Indeed. Which makes it likely we face still more of the vermin responsible for the ... atrocity ... committed against our homes, General, as well as all Jaava.”

Perhaps a dozen horns were sounding now, more stridently than before. They would soon be ready. Dowden and Nakja-Mur opened fire again, and as Rolak watched, mortar teams prepared their tubes. Case shot shrieked overhead and thunderclaps pealed through the trees. Orders swept up and down the line and the three regiments under Rolak’s command, far better prepared than the Silver had been, readied for a much larger test.

“Indeed,” Rolak said, “but that only means they know us better—and even their insane youngling minds may comprehend that fleeing will do them no good.”

The “Raan-goon” harbor facilities were a dismal wreck by anybody’s standards even before Haakar Faask and Donaghey started in on them. They’d been something once, before the Grik planted their next outposts at Singapore and then Aryaal. Nobody really knew much about how the Grik ultimately expanded behind their frontiers. Ceylon was fully integrated into the “Grik Empire,” and evidently so was much of India. It was like they’d stopped there for a while, until it was nearly filled up, before pushing on again. Still, Rangoon had been big once, apparently for quite a while. Now it looked a little like the rats were taking over. At least it had. Most of the strange city was now ablaze.

General Pete Alden hadn’t been to the American southwest before, but Grik architecture, at least here, reminded him of a Mexican border town in a western movie. Everything was wood and adobe, though how they kept the adobe from melting under the nearly daily rains was beyond him. Maybe they’d developed some kind of cement? They might mix it with their nasty spit for all he knew. Whatever it was, the adobe didn’t burn, but there was plenty of other stuff that would. Cannon fire still rumbled from the ships, but it was mostly ranging longer now, exploding in the jungle or among the crumbling dwellings that probed into it. A few Grik guns still responded—that had been an unpleasant surprise—but the ones that remained seemed intent on shooting at the ships. Grik gunnery had been notoriously poor ever since they revealed their first cannons, and judging by the relatively light shot they were throwing, these were probably some of those early weapons. They might have been left here or off-loaded from the partially sunken ship. It didn’t matter. As long as they were shooting at the ships, they couldn’t do much damage even if they managed to hit one—and the Grik weren’t using them against his infantry anymore.

Pete took a huge chew of the yellowish “tobacco” leaves and trotted down off the dock where he’d been observing the action. Greg Garrett’s troops had a lot of the crummy city near the docks already, but the 1st Marines were still waiting for him to solidify the link with Queen Maraan’s forces upstream. The Marines had a long trot ahead of them on what promised to be a miserably humid day. They could fight a battle, run three miles or so and fight another, but he didn’t want them to if it wasn’t necessary. Besides, the end-around maneuver might wind up being a lot more than three miles. He joined his troops where they were strung out, resting on the shore under the protection of a high embankment.

“That’s it, fellas,” he said and spat. “Rest up while you can. One of the most important combat skills a Marine can ever learn.”

One of the somewhat dreaded and always poorly trusted me-naaks, or “meanies,” charged down among the Marines, sending several of them scattering. It loped right up to Pete and came to a mud-spraying halt. It stood there, glaring insolently with its tightly trussed, salivaoozing jaws and reptilian eyes. The damn things always reminded him of a cross between a horse-size dog and a crocodile. He looked up and goggled a little to see that the rider was none other than Captain Greg Garrett.

“What the devil are you doing on that monster? I can see it now; when the history of this war gets written, your story’ll be like ol’ Albert Sidney’s, who rode around all day while he was bleeding to death—except in your case, it’ll end with you getting ate by your horse! Don’t you have more important shit to do?”

Garrett chuckled and patted the animal affectionately. “Gracie’s no monster! You’ll hurt her feelings. She’s kind of sensitive. As for what I’m doing on her ...” He shook his head and grinned. “I am from Tennessee! I’ve been riding since I was a kid. Shoot, I was in the Navy before I learned to drive a car! Besides, while I was recuperating and getting back in shape playing Devil Dog with you and your boys, I was also hanging around the Manilo Cavalry learning the monkey drill!”

One of the crudely cast Grik cannonballs moaned overhead, then kicked up a geyser of spray about halfway across the river, just short of Donaghey. Greg didn’t even flinch. Of course, commanding the veteran Donaghey, he’d probably had more Grik cannonballs fired at him than anyone else in the Alliance.

“But what are you doing here ... now? You talked me into letting you command ground troops. Fine. Everybody’s done it but you, and I get it. All the higher-up Navy guys need it on their résumé and we’ll need you at Ceylon, but your troops are over There, and you probably don’t need to be making such a target of yourself.”

“I could make the same argument about you,” Greg warned. “You’re our MacArthur—sorry, make that ‘Black’ Jack Pershing. You’re supposed to be moving the chess pieces, not running around like a rifleman.” He looked pointedly at the ’03 Springfield slung on Pete’s shoulder.

Pete rolled his eyes. “Don’t start that again. I’ve got to be with my Marines to evaluate the new tactics. Rolak and the Queen have done this sort of thing more often than I have. They’ll do fine. All they have to do is hold. I have to see what the enemy does when we change the rules!”

“I didn’t start it again,” Greg reminded Pete. “I came here to report that my guys and gals have everything under control. The battle line’s secure for the moment and we have comm from one end to the other. Your Marines won’t be needed here, and you’re free to go ranting off on your own. You might want to hurry, though. General Rolak says things are starting to build on his right—like you figured. I don’t know if we drew as much down on us here as we’d hoped. Apparently they don’t think much more of their port than we do. Rolak thinks they’re trying to do unto us what we’re planning to do unto them.”

“Well ... why didn’t you just say so?” Pete demanded, turning to his lounging troops.

“One other thing—may be nothing,” Greg said, regaining Pete’s attention. “These buggers we’ve been fighting here are pretty scruffy. Practically skeletons. They fight, but there’s not much fight in ’em. Rolak and Queen Maraan both report the ones they’re up against are skinny, but fit. I don’t know what it means, but I thought you should know.”

Pete Alden nodded thoughtfully. “Form up!” he bellowed, and the drums began to roll.

“Very much as expected, only somewhat more so,” Rolak replied to the signalman who’d requested a status report for Queen Maraan. The signalman ducked back into the tent and the “tele-graaph” key began to clatter. A most remarkable invention, he mused again; instant communication on a battlefield. Throughout his life, signal flags had served well enough, but before this war, his people had never fought battles on such a grand scale. They still used signal flags, but now distance, gunsmoke, and intervening terrain and foliage made them unreliable. He loved the tele-graaph.

The last of the Maa-ni-la Cavalry scouts he’d sent to investigate their flank leaped back over the hastily constructed breastworks. The rider was winded but unharmed, although the me-naak had two of the wickedly barbed Grik crossbow bolts embedded in its right quarter. The scout dismounted, handing his reins to a pair of cavalrymen who’d already returned. With a regretful backward glance at his suffering mount, he raced to stand before Rolak. The me-naak snorted shrilly through its nostrils and tried to smash one of the cavalrymen against its flank with its head when she jerked the first bolt free.

The scout saluted in the Amer-i-caan way he’d been taught, and Rolak returned it.

“Beg to report, sir,’ he said. “Our troop encountered a few Grik as we set out, but most seemed to be running for the port in response to the earlier horns. We left them alone, as ordered, and found a place where we could spread out a little, beyond the thickest jungle, and observe a large enemy camp. The commander there sent out some scouts of his own, and we tried to kill them all in the woods, but I fear we failed. After a while, horns began sounding from the camp itself—you must have heard them—and they just seemed to suck Grik out of the jungle. I presume, with the isolated nature of this Raan-goon, the enemy has dispersed most of his force to forage for itself. That seems consistent with the fact that we encountered almost nothing in the way of wildlife. In any event, a surprisingly large enemy force has assembled on your right front.”

“An excellent report, ah, Corporal,” Rolak said, glancing at the stripes on the hem of the trooper’s black and yellow kilt. “What is your estimate of the size of this force?”

The corporal blinked uncertainty. “Perhaps two thousands, Lord General. More? It was impossible to tell for sure, and our presence was discovered, interfering with our estimate. They pursued us very near.” He paused. “We lost two troopers to their crossbows.”

“Very well. Thank you, Corporal. It is not their nature to linger overlong when their prey is in sight. Tend your mount. We might expect their full attention at any moment.” He turned. “Colonel Taa-leen, Colonel Grisa, you heard?”

“Indeed,” replied both officers. They’d arrived nearly as quickly as the scout.

“Signalman,” Rolak called, “acquaint my dear Queen Maraan that we will likely have visitors shortly. I may call on her Black Battalion of the Six Hundred as a reserve if she has no objection and General Alden does not arrive in time.”

“Lord General,” the signalman replied, “General Alden and the First Marines have left the port at the double time.”

Rolak’s response was interrupted by braying, thrumming horns, quite close. An expectant roar thundered in the trees. “Send to Dowden,” Rolak yelled over the sudden cacophony. “‘Concentrate fire two hundred tails—I mean “yaards” forward of our position.’ ” He took a breath. “Mortar teams, make ready! Archers and artillery will commence firing at my command. Lock shields!”

Several Hoosh-KAK! sounds split the incoming tide, and the veterans who’d heard them before called out “Firebombs!” or “Grik-fire!” in two tongues.

“Cover yourselves!” roared Colonel Grisa, and he and Taa-leen attempted to tackle Rolak to the ground and cover him with their own bodies.

Rolak twisted away. “I will stand,” he said. “My old hide is not so valuable that I must squirm in the dirt to protect it.”

Taa-leen got another grip and roughly pulled him down. “With respect, Lord General,” he growled, “your ‘old hide’ covers the mind that will preserve our hides, and mine is quite important to me!”

Rolak was laughing when the first bombs struck.

“Grik-fire” was little more than a clay vessel wrapped in coarse cloth and painted with flammable resin. The contents were a mixture of other things, not necessarily always the same and still a little ill-defined. More resins, mostly. Some kind of tree sap. Maybe some petroleum. The result, however, was an effective incendiary that created an impressive fireball when the jar ruptured on impact and exposed the contents to the flaming wrap. There was no explosive force to speak of, but enough to blow the burning sap in all directions, and the stuff was incredibly hard to put out.

The bombs streamed in, trailing smoke, and erupted with large mushrooms of roiling flame. One fell directly on an open ammunition chest for the six-pounders, and the combination went up with a dull fwump and a towering column of white smoke. Droplets of burning sap spattered the paalkas and they screeched in agony. Another bomb fell in the water and had little effect, but one ruptured in the trees over the shield wall and dozens of Aryaalan troops were burnt to death beneath the descending curtain of fire. Others scrambled to quench themselves either by abandoning their posts and leaping into the river or by rolling in the loamy sand.

Rolak staggered to his feet. “Signalman! Please ask Dowden to hurry her barrage! Mortars may commence firing!”

The Allies had done away with their original mortars, basically small bronze Coehorns that launched a copper shell with a powder charge. Now they had “real” mortars, the “drop and pop” kind, as Bernie Sandison called them. They were larger and shaped like an egg, with a finned tube protruding from the rear. They had to be handled with care, but in action all one had to do was drop them down a much-improved mortar tube and they launched themselves with an integral percussion-fired charge. A rod protruding from the nose of each “egg” fired another cap inside and detonated the bomb on impact.

Two dozen mortarmen each removed an egg from a small padded box, gently inserted the rod in the nose, and poised their weapons over the mouths of the tubes. The tubes had already been adjusted for elevation by other mortarmen. There, they awaited the orders of their section commanders. The wait was short. The command to “drop” spread down the line, and with a rippling paFWOOMP, two dozen mortar bombs leaped skyward, trailing smoke from their expended launching charge. The resulting stuttering detonations in the jungle didn’t sound like much through the overall din, but the screams, and at least one secondary explosion, indicated the range estimate was good.

“No change, no change!” Taa-leen bellowed. “Fire for effect!” Even as the mortars began coughing independently, Dowden’s guns sent heavy case shot flying as high overhead as elevation would allow, and the six-pounders positioned at the hasty breastworks bucked backward, sending canister scything through the vines, leaves, and bodies of the Grik front rank, finally visible through the trees.

“Archers must wait for targets,” Rolak declared. “It is some denser here than the ground before the Queen. The trees will soak up too many arrows!” Grisa passed the word.

Another salvo of firebombs dropped behind Lemurian lines, but there were only three this time. One wiped out an entire squad hurrying forward from the barge they’d just left, and their screaming antics were horrible to behold. Another fell in the water again, and the third fell close to the command tent but didn’t go off. By the look of it, it hadn’t even been lit.

“Keep at it! Keep at it!” Rolak chanted aloud. “Punish them! Kill them!”

The jungle pulsed with explosions, filling the air with hideous wails and acrid smoke. A huge fireball vomited into the sky, and after that there was no more Grik-fire.

“We run low on mortar bombs!” Taa-leen observed.

“Send to Donaghey that we need more ammunition!” Rolak shouted at the beleaguered signalman.

“I already did. They have no more to send us. Most of our reserve was sent to the left by mistake!”

“Then tell them we need it here!”

The light guns spat another load of canister into the smoke-shrouded woods, and then the crews pulled them back so the shield wall could close the gaps where they’d been. With a stunning crash, like the one they’d heard to their left near dawn but much, much louder, the Grik slammed into the interlocked shields in front of Lord General Rolak.

The shield wall bowed inward alarmingly in several places, but nowhere did it break. The front rank merely hunkered down and heaved against the blow, with the second rank pushing against them with its shields. Over their heads, the spearmen of the third rank probed and stabbed at the attackers. Rolak had seen it many times now—the determined wall of people, his people all, now standing and struggling against the vicious jaws and curved talons of purest evil. Individually, hand to hand, Grik warriors had no equal. Braad-furd had once called them “perfect killing machines.” “The top of the Darwinian predatory heap.” But individually, mind to mind, the Grik simply couldn’t cope. They carried wicked swords, but used them poorly. They had crossbows, but often fired them indiscriminately. Some were better than others, of course, and though not up to Allied standards, their gunnery was improving, so they could learn. They might even be cultivating specialized elites within the ranks of the Uul. That was an unpleasant thought. But only the Hij, the “elevated ones”—probably naturally elevated, if allowed—could devise and implement a strategy, or even a more involved tactic than “up and at ’em.”

But Hij didn’t fight in the line. Regardless of their ferocity and physical superiority, the average Grik warrior stood no chance against the skill, discipline, and training of the average Lemurian soldier. The problem was, they never fought “one on one.” When given time to think about it, they did seem to understand the principle of “mass” as Captain Reddy taught it, and they knew where and when to apply it. Crossbow bolts streaked by, mostly overhead but in almost continuous sheets. Nearly as continuous were the stretcher bearers carrying wounded to the barges. Corpsmen worked frantically near the beach, in a little muddy recession, but many would have to be carried to the ship for a proper surgeon—Jamie Miller—to look at. Jamie had started out a mere pharmacist’s mate on Walker, but everyone was filling bigger shoes nowadays.

“Lord General!” cried the signalman, rushing from the tent. “The B’mbaadan Queen asks if we can hold a little longer. She has observed how closely we are engaged, and though she is pressed now as well, she will gladly send the Black Battalion to our aid. Scouts from her left have determined we face the deepest enemy reserves ...” He paused as one of the signalman’s mates joined him, speaking quickly. “Lord General, the first elements of the First Marines are passing behind the Queen’s position!”

“Excellent. We would hold regardless, but send my—” A Grik bolt nailed the signalman’s helmet to his head and he dropped instantly, his tail quivering. Rolak paused for the slightest instant, then looked at the other “comm-’Cat,” staring down at his companion. “Send my appreciation for the Queen’s gracious offer, but we will hold. The enemy is gutting himself on our spears.” The signalman’s mate saluted shakily and dashed for the tent.

“Colonel Taa-leen, your B’mbaadans are heavily engaged, but you have some reserves yet. Grisa does as well, but his are still coming straight from the barges into the fight. They plug holes. Can you move anything behind him?”

A triumphant roar built on the far right and spread across the front. A suddenly unmasked four-gun battery spewed double loads of canister, and the distinctive yellowish smoke drifted back across the shredded landing zone between the battle line and the shore. The roar of battle slowly dwindled, as did the flurry of bolts overhead. Another battery, closer to the center, unleashed its own swath of canister, lunging back until the double-pole trails buried in the loam. The cheering grew.

“Thank you, General,” Grisa said, “but that is not necessary! We have repelled them!”

“They will be back,” Rolak assured him. “The question is, will they strike the same place again, hoping they have weakened it, or somewhere else, hoping we have weakened it?”

“Surely you give them too much credit?” Grisa asked. “I was at Baalkpan, sir.”

“I give most of them too much credit,” Rolak agreed, “but the ‘stratait-gee’ at Baalkpan nearly succeeded. I will never be guilty of giving too little credit to their ones who design battles.”

A troop of six me-naaks loped near, out of the smoke. One of the yellow-and-black-uniformed riders noticed Rolak and steered the rest of his troop toward the old Lemurian. The me-naaks were clearly restless in this environment of smoke and noise, and though they’d been exposed to cannon fire as often as possible, they still flinched a little when the guns boomed again, bidding the fleeing Grik farewell. They were also drooling buckets, probably due to the smell of so much blood.

“Lieu-ten-aant Saachic, General,” announced the trooper, saluting. “Third Maa-ni-lo Caav-alry. I have the honor of informing you that Gener-aal Aal-den and the First Maa-reens will be at your service presently.”

Rolak returned the salute. “That is excellent news, Lieutenant. Now, if you might ride back to the general and give him a message for me, I would be most appreciative.”

“Of course.”

“Tell him if he can manage to arrive and position his troops within the next one, perhaps as much as two handspans of the sun, I believe I can promise him exactly the battle—the ‘test’—he seeks!”

The Grik did nothing for the next hour, but horns continued sounding in the jungle. All the vegetation except the larger, harder trees in front of the fighting position had been sheared away by the coming and going of the Grik horde, and the canister that had churned all the vines, small trees, and low-hanging branches to mulch. Equally mulched were the countless Grik dead heaped at the base of the breastworks and scattered on the ground as far as the eye could penetrate into the once dense foliage. Many had already been buried by the falling leaves. Visibility was good now, with the sun well up in the midmorning sky. Scattered cottony clouds had begun to form. Dowden continued a desultory barrage, a round or two every quarter hour, as if to goad the Grik into remembering and concentrating on this supposedly exposed flank.

Garrett reported that the “city” was secure at last and his cavalry was busy chasing those who had fled toward the mouths of the Irrawaddy. Behind them, Garrett dug in beyond the city with a Baalkpan regiment while the rest of his troops went to bolster his connection with the center line and reinforce Queen Maraan. A few squads still roamed the city, torching anything that would burn. Most important, Pete Alden finally arrived at Rolak’s position with eight hundred of the 1st Marines. He was breathing hard, but not exhausted after his slog through the calfhigh sand. He’d lost a few Marines to straggling and injuries along the way, but those who made it were ready to fight. Company commanders and NCOs were already deploying the Marines when Pete went to find Rolak.

Rolak saluted him when he appeared at the command post and Pete waved back.

“I could use a drink,” Pete said, grinning.

“Water?”

“Not unless it’s ship’s water, boiled—or maybe mixed with something stronger. The last thing I need right now is the screamers. I still have my canteen, so something stronger would be nice.”

“Orderly,” Rolak called, “bring chilled beer for the general.” He huffed apologetically. “I fear ‘chilled’ will be a relative term, General Alden.”

“Anything below eighty degrees will be plenty refreshing, Lord Rolak. Could you send a few water buckets to my Marines so they can drink and refill their bottles?”

“Of course. Colonel Grisa?”

Grisa called one of his own orderlies to delegate a detail.

Pete gulped the sweet Lemurian beer that was brought to him. “My God, but that hits the spot! War’s getting downright civilized around here.”

“It was not so ‘civilized’ a short while ago, I assure you. We held well enough, but it was costly.”

Pete nodded grimly. “Sorry about that. You did swell.” He shook his head. “Logistics was a goose-screw in a sack. We have to sort that out.”

“We must, or those who died here today will have done so for nothing.”

“Not nothing. We’ve already learned a lot. I hope we learn a lot more. Weird fight, though. Going by what Captain Garrett’s faced and what you’ve been facing here, it’s almost like we’ve got two entirely different Grik tribes.”

Rolak nodded. “Yes, I ‘got the word.’ The ones he faced were ... less healthy, it seems.”

“Yeah. You had it tougher. Glad we got here during a lull. You think they’ll hit the same place?”

“I am as certain of it as one can be about such things,” Rolak replied. “Our scouts, and those attached to the Queen, say they are massing everything that faced us both into a single concerted effort against us here. The fighting was fiercest here, so they must believe us the weakest.” The grin that stretched across his teeth was feral. It faded. “I do wish Salissa’s planes would arrive and confirm that, however.”

“Another hour or so, according to the report I heard from Queen Maraan’s command post.”

Rolak nodded. “We heard the same. We can hear the planes themselves report, but they cannot yet hear us.”

Pete pointed at the aerial. “Not enough antenna, I guess. Too many trees too. Too much interference. The ships can talk to ’em.”

“That will have to do.”

“Maybe it’ll get better when they’re closer. It’ll be tough coordinating everything through the ships.”

Grik horns brayed in the woods, interrupting their conversation. Many horns. More than before, Rolak thought.

Pete finished his beer and wiped his lips. “Here we go again,” he said, turning for the front.

“Do you mean to stand in the line?” Rolak asked accusingly.

“Yep. I have to, to see what happens.”

“Unfair!” Rolak protested. “You ordered me to stay back and I spent the entire last fight strolling about with nothing to do!”

“That’s your job. Normally, it’d be mine too, but I have to see this.”

“Then perhaps I ‘have to see’ it too!”

“Well ... what if I get knocked off? You know the plan. You can still carry it out.”

“Everyone here knows the plan, General Aal-den. But if you are ‘knocked off,’ who else here has my experience in war? Who else would be better to observe the enemy reaction than I?”

Pete shook his head and shifted the sling of his Springfield. “Aww, hell. C’mon!”

The Lemurian “phalanx,” as Captain Reddy had helped create it, worked much like its historical predecessors on that other earth. No physical activity ever conceived could possibly be as exhausting as prolonged hand-to-hand combat over a shield wall. The tactic was therefore designed to allow periodic rotation of combatants from the front rank to the rear, where they might manage a little rest until they started forward in the rotation again. Ideally. The trouble was, Grik assaults were usually so relentless and chaotic, there was rarely a “good” time to rotate troops. In this war, the ’Cats had learned to do it by “feel” and fleeting opportunity more than any other way. The system worked after a fashion, but some fought, by necessity, until they were nearly dead from fatigue, and that often resulted in them being completely dead. The fighters in the front ranks relied on the spearmen behind them to give them the break they needed, and woe was he or she who did not learn spearwork well, because in this business, what went around came around ... literally.

Rotation must have been fairly steady in this fight, Pete thought, looking at the blood-spattered troops. “Okay, fellas,” he shouted, his words echoed by NCOs down the length of the line. He always used the term “fellas” inclusively, whether his troops were male or female. Here, with B’mbaadans and Aryaalans predominating, there were still few females in their ranks, although that was changing. It was impossible to ignore the fact that Pete Alden’s Marine Corps ran about half and half, and it was composed of volunteers from every “nation” in the Alliance. It was equally clear that even the best-trained, most-conservative Aryaalan regiment would never want to tangle with the Marines. Queen Maraan’s Six Hundred were on a par with them, but it also accepted females now. Nobody was really happy with that arrangement, least of all Pete and the human destroyermen, but the Baalkpans, Manilos, and various sea folk insisted on it. It was their way. It also worked.

“You’ve had a tough fight and killed the bastards like proper devils,” Pete continued over the growing tumult of the Grik horns as the enemy prepared for its next attack, “but this time we’re going to play something new. At my command, the first and second ranks will remain in place. Third and fourth ranks will step to the rear, behind the First Marines!” He waited while the order was relayed. “Execute!”

The two rearward ranks, gore-streaked spears on their shoulders, about-faced and marched through the waiting ranks of Marines. “First Marines! Take positions ... March!”

The two ranks of Marines that stretched the entire length of the line, except for the most extreme right, stepped forward in near unison, their blue kilts and largely unblemished white leather armor a stark contrast to the troops they’d replaced.

“Load!” Pete roared.

Eight hundred of the new muzzle-loading Baalkpan Arsenal muskets were removed from shoulders and placed butt down on the ground. Almost in unison, each Marine shifted his or her black leather cartridge box around, closer to their front, and proceeded to load their weapons by silent but endlessly practiced detail. Finely woven, almost silk cartridges made from the webs of some kind of long-bodied spider were handled and torn open with sharp teeth—the Alliance still didn’t have any real paper—and the gunpowder within was poured down eight hundred 36-inch barrels. The remaining silky stuff at the base of the “service load”—consisting of a .60-caliber lead ball with three roughly quarter-inch balls stacked atop it—was wadded up and the whole thing was seated on top of the charge with a glittering flourish of eight hundred bright ramrods. The weapons were then brought up to an almost precise forty-five degrees, hammers placed on half-cock, and tiny copper caps were pushed onto the nipple-shaped cones at their breeches. Again, with a simultaneity achievable only after long, repetitive drill, nearly every musket landed back on its owner’s shoulder.

Pete climbed to the top of the breastworks, looking back at his creation. The Marines were his, of course, but even the various national regiments were “his” in a way. The tactics were Captain Reddy’s, but he was the one who, with—now Colonel—Tamatsu Shinya’s help, had formed the Armies of the Alliance. Currently, Shinya was still doing the same job in Maa-ni-la. For a moment, oblivious to the growing tide that prepared to thunder down upon it, he took time to admire what he’d achieved. Ostentatiously, he unslung his own M-1903 Springfield, with “S.A. 1—21” stamped prominently near the muzzle, and pulled his sixteen-inch bayonet from its scabbard. The bayonet was dated 1917. Strangely, it suddenly occurred to him that he’d been nine then. Thirteen when his beloved rifle was made. Odd, The sort of Things that go Through your mind at Times like This. He shook his head. The Grik tide had been released.

“First Marines! Fix ... bayonets!”

Weapons came back off the shoulders they’d been resting on, and the twenty-inch, triangular-bladed socket bayonets were jerked from their scabbards. Adding an historical flourish that Captain Reddy had thought of and Pete just loved, every Marine brandished his bayonet with a roar, as if showing it to the enemy. Then, with a satisfying clatter, the wicked weapons were affixed to the muzzles of eight hundred muskets.

There was no Grik-fire this time. It had all apparently been destroyed by the earlier bombardment, but swarms of crossbow bolts filled the air. Pete stepped down, grinning, from the breastworks, and rejoined Rolak, who’d been watching him with interest.

“You are a most unusual creature, General Aal-den,” Rolak said. “In some ways you remind me of Cap-i-taan Reddy. Even as I grow to dislike this war, I believe you are learning to enjoy it!”

“God help me, Rolak, I think I do—but not the way you think. I purely do enjoy killin’ the literal hell outta those nasty Grik bastards, and I’m proud of the tools we’ve put together to do it. But you got the Skipper wrong if you think he likes all this. He doesn’t, really.” Pete paused a moment, thoughtful, while the Grik horde swept down upon them. “Not usually, anyway,” he said at last. “It does bring out the best in him, though, doesn’t it?” He glanced quickly over the breastworks. It was time. “You may employ your artillery now, General Rolak!”

Firing off the muzzle blast of the next gun in line, one after another, two batteries of five light six-pounders each sprayed canister into the face of the charging mass of Grik. Again the distinctive yellowish-white smoke accompanied the thunderclaps, and through the smoke the roar became mixed with the wails and shrieks of countless wounded. The guns pulled back and the shield wall closed before them once more. With a momentous crash of bodies, weapons, and shields against shields, the Grik slammed into the wall. Again, the wall bowed, but with all the might of the first two ranks, doing nothing but pushing against the enemy, the wall regained its place.

“First rank, First Marines, pre-sent!” Pete bellowed. Youngling Marine drummers, ranged behind the line, relayed the command with a staccato tattoo.

“Fire!”

Four hundred loads of buck and ball slashed into the gaping jaws of the Grik warriors. Through the smoke, a perceptible cloud of downy fuzz from the feathery-furry bodies mingled with the misty red spray from so many simultaneous impacts. The shield wall almost collapsed forward into thin air when the pressure against it abruptly lifted.

“Second rank, First Marines, pre-sent!” Pete called, even as that rank stepped forward to the right and the first rank stepped back to the left and began reloading. Pete waited a few moments to let the first rank get well underway with their task and allow the enemy to press forward once again.

“Fire!” Horizontal jets of flame lit the lingering, choking smoke of the first volley, and again the pressure against the wall fell away. A collective loud, keening moan had replaced the anticipatory roar.

“First rank!” Pete yelled relentlessly. “Present! Independent, fire at will.” The drummers altered their cadence. “Commence firing!”

The ensuing shots were almost desultory. A volley would have been wasted, since there was little left to shoot at. A few Marines got to practice their new combined drill, skewering Grik from behind the protection of the shield wall with their bayonets, just like spearmen would do, but then being free to shoot other enemies when none were directly in front of them or within reach. That was the real test Pete had hoped for: the bayonet as a primary weapon and the musket fire just the music before the dance—as well as an added “killer of opportunity” that spearmen could never indulge in with their bows. He’d hoped the initial volleys would provide a psychological effect, but they’d been unable to really evaluate that. The Grik hadn’t had time to “break” into Courtney’s Grik Rout. A lot did run, but most of the Grik force in front of the shield wall had been eviscerated before it had a chance to make up its mind what to do.

“Marvelous! Utterly marvelous!” Rolak chortled, yellowed teeth showing in a genuine, delighted grin. “I did enjoy that! We will pursue them now, of course?”

“Yeah. As soon as we kill the enemy wounded in front of us. Even if they are Grik, it ain’t decent to let the damn things suffer. Besides, some might still be dangerous.”

“Generals!” cried a runner from the command post tent. “The aarplaanes from Salissa Home draw near! They report seeing smoke from the city, and smoke from this fight. The wing commander, Cap-i-taan Jis-Tikkar, asks how his force might best be employed.”

“Tell ’em to bomb the hell out of any large collection of Grik they see southwest of our current position. Try to herd ’em toward the swamplands. I’d also appreciate a look at our far right, northwest along the river, to make sure there’s nothing else out there. Mainly, though, advise Captain Tikker that we’ll be pushing forward momentarily, so he should watch where he drops his eggs! Oh, and give my respects to Queen Maraan, and tell her we’re about to advance. I want the shield wall to stick together as much as possible, just like in the plan.”

Tikker yawned hugely. The steady, reliable, workmanlike drone of the Nancy’s engine had a lulling effect, and after staying up most of the night going over last-minute details and sorting through maintenance issues with the crew chiefs, he’d had to get up early and meet with the pilots for a final, redundant briefing. Salissa hadn’t been commissioned into the U.S. Navy; she was still an independent Home, but all her pilots were duly sworn “Navy men,” and therefore “Americans.” As an “American” now himself, with somewhat unprecedented responsibility, Tikker had finally solved one of the great mysteries of his human clan-mates: their addiction to “coffee.” Despite its vile taste, he’d actually become as dependent on the stuff as any American. So had most of his pilots. They’d virtually emptied Salissa’s “medical lockers” of coffee the night before. Aahd-mah-raal Keje promised to send across to his other ships for more, but his human officers dipped into their own “stash” so Tikker’s fliers would have enough to “get their blood moving” before the mission.

This would be the First Naval Air Wing’s maiden combat operation, and the first almost entirely Lemurian and Lemurian-led air operation in all of history. Thirty-two planes would participate. Sixty-four young lives, not to mention endless months of training, preparation, and the very concept of naval aviation on this world were on the line—on Tikker’s shoulders. If he’d felt a little overwhelmed in the predawn hours, that was understandable.

This morning, Tikker commanded “A” flight of the 1st Naval Bomb Squadron, while Mark Leedom led “A” flight of the 1st Naval Pursuit Squadron. Only the names were different. All the planes were identically loaded with one fifty-pound bomb under each wing, and a crate of mortar bombs in front of the observer’s stick. Mark’s was the lead flight in the lead squadron and Tikker brought up the rear. Not long after takeoff, they’d lost a couple of planes to mechanical problems, but there’d been no issues since then. The planes that had to fall out of the formation had headed back to Salissa. The sea was flat and calm, so if they couldn’t make it, they would set down and wait for pickup. With most of four squadrons of the blue and white Nancys still in the air ahead of him, Tikker felt a flush of pride and accomplishment at the sight.

The voice tube beside his head whistled.

“What have you got, Cisco?” he shouted into it.

“There’s a big fight at Raan-goon,” Cisco said. Her voice sounded tinny and remote. Riggs had contrived a set of earphones that sort of worked on Lemurians, so the observer/wireless operators could actually hear signals in flight. “Big fight,” she continued. “Yasna-At, with Lieutenant Leedom, says they can see plenty of smoke.” Tikker could see the jungle peninsula ahead, the swampy marshland receding in the west, but couldn’t see any smoke yet. The overland sky was hazy, and almost the same color smoke would have been. “Commodore Ellis says that we must fly to the north end of the battle. He will place Dowden in the river there for a waypoint. Our new orders are to sweep west-southwest from there, and engage any substantial force but one. There is an enemy camp of some sort about a mile from the river, in front of Generals Alden and Rolak. Commodore Ellis says to leave it alone for now, but to save enough munitions and fuel to ‘paste’ it at his command!”

Tikker wondered what that was about. “Very well. Reply ‘Understood. Entire First Bomb Squadron will orbit area and remain at his service.’ Inform Lieutenant Leedom he will command all other attack elements and pursue the enemy. Make sure we have confirmation from all ships.”

“What the hell is this all about?” Pete growled when a lone Grik warrior stepped forward from the mass that had fallen back in front of the enemy camp the scouts had discovered. He watched in astonishment as the Grik poked its sword through a piece of white cloth and held it high, continuing forward. “No way!” he said, incredulous.

Lord General Rolak was equally shocked. The sounds of battle still seethed on the left, where Queen Maraan’s forces were pushing forward, but here, for a moment, except for the occasional shell from Donaghey detonating well forward of their position and just beyond the Grik, there was only stunned silence. “If I understand the meaning of such gestures—we have used them among ourselves and the Imperials before—it would seem the Grik Commander would have a parley.”

“Well ... How in God’s name can he expect ... It’s not like they ever ... What makes him think ... Well, he ain’t getting one!” Pete roared. Raising his Springfield, he shot the warrior directly in the snout at a range of about seventy yards. The back of the creature’s head erupted crimson clay and one of the warriors behind it squealed and fell when the bullet continued on and struck it in the torso. The Grik with the white rag collapsed instantly.

A strange sound, like an anxious moan, escaped some of the eight hundred to a thousand warriors still blocking the camp, but there was no other reaction. A few moments later, another Grik strode from the mass, again bearing a rag. Perhaps even more disconcerting and ... well, creepy ... the frightening creature showed no more hesitation than the last one. Pete swore and raised his rifle again, but Rolak stopped him. “I must confess a most profound, almost morbid curiosity, my friend,” he said, “to discover whether they would keep sending them regardless of how many you shoot—but let us see what we shall see.”

“Shit, Rolak,” Pete grumped, picking up his empty shell and putting it in his pocket. “What’s he going to say? We can’t talk to the damn things! Besides, how come they wait until we’re fixin’ to wipe ’em out before they want to talk?”

“Indeed,” agreed Rolak. “But they’ve never done that before. They could still flee—or attack and die. Indulge me, please. I am interested.”

“Well ... okay.” Pete relented and ordered: “Hold fire. Pass it down!” He waited until the order was picked up and began to spread.

They waited expectantly while the lone warrior approached. The creature didn’t look like a Hij “officer”—its dress was too utilitarian, too drab. It did have an impressive crest flowing from beneath a hard leather cap, however. Probably an older NCO or something. Unlike the other, this one wasn’t armed—besides its natural battery of lethal teeth and claws—and merely held the rag above its head. Finally, a few paces short of Pete and Rolak, who’d moved slightly forward, it hissed and spat something that sounded like a piece of steel slapped against a grinding wheel. Tossing a piece of the heavy Grik parchment on the ground, it turned and stalked off. It was all Pete could do to keep from shooting it in the back.

“Fetch it,” he told a Marine nearby, and the ’Cat trotted the few steps and stooped, distastefully retrieving the object, like one might pick up a turd. Returning, he thoughtfully held it so Pete could see it without touching it himself. “Son of a ...” Pete snatched the parchment and turned it right side up. “You can read, can’t you, Rolak?” he asked in a strange tone.

“I’ve learned to read English,” Rolak stressed, ignoring what he knew was not meant as an insult, “fairly well. Quite an accomplishment, considering my years.”

Pete held the parchment for him to see.

“Runner!” Pete demanded, as if expecting one to materialize out of nothing, and he scribbled something on the back of the parchment. A young ’Cat Marine raced to his side and he passed the note. “Get that to the CP, PDQ, see?”

The ’Cat saluted. “Aye, aye, Gen-er-aal!”

“What was that? What did you write?” Rolak asked, still stunned.

“Request for Dowden to cease firing. Also, those brand-new Naval Aviators’ll be swarming around here pretty soon. Might as well find out what the deal is with these guys before our flyboys bomb ’em.”

Tikker couldn’t believe his eyes. His squadron had been the last to use Dowden for a waypoint, and he’d easily caught her flag signal reinforcing the signal they’d received by wireless. Alden was talking with some Grik! When his eight-plane squadron buzzed over the Grik encampment, there’d been some evident confusion on the ground, but there stood two distinct forces—the Marines and a numerically roughly equal mob of Grik warriors staring at one another across a clearing about a hundred tails wide. From his plane, he could see Queen Maraan’s regiments proceeding past the “situation” to the south, followed by most of Rolak’s troops that had moved from line into column and were picking their way along in the Queen’s wake. Basically, all that remained facing this enemy concentration was the Marines, and they were more than a match for it. Tikker had received a final addendum to his orders: if the Marine guns began to fire, he was to bomb the enemy with everything he had. He glanced at his fuel gauge and hoped the standoff wouldn’t last long, one way or the other.

Rolak had placed his force under Colonel Grisa and remained with Alden. He couldn’t help it. He had to see how this was “sorted out.” Grisa would report to Safir Maraan and offer his regiments to her. Now Rolak stood with Pete Alden and a couple of Marines facing what was certainly the most formidable-looking Grik he’d ever seen alive. It was taller than most Grik, something they’d expected after examining dead Hij before, and it was dressed in relatively ornate, if garish, bronze armor over its chest, shins, and forearms. It was armed with one of the sickle-shaped swords favored by its kind, but the weapon remained sheathed and the pommel was well crafted if, again, somewhat grotesque. In contrast to the shining armor, the cape and kilt it wore were a somewhat battered red and black.

The creature called itself “General Arlskgter,” and the reason they knew that was because it was accompanied by three other Grik, one of which was stooped with age and not attired as a warrior. That one named itself Hij-Geerki. The very first thing they established was that Hij-Geerki had been liaison to a party of Japanese who’d been sent in search of undisclosed raw materials for the Ceylon war machine. For different reasons, English was the technical language of the Grik and Japanese, and though they couldn’t actually converse, Hij-Geerki could understand spoken English and the Japanese technicians had learned to understand some spoken Grik. Both could read the written words. Through a quick series of notes, Pete and Rolak learned that Hij-Geerki understood nearly everything they said and could form a very few words. Mostly, however, he would write English translations of what his master told him to say. In a few short minutes, they’d already confirmed everything Commander Okada had told them about how the Grik and Japanese managed to cooperate.

“Well,” Pete said, “let’s get on with this. We haven’t got all day.” He gestured up at the eight aircraft circling the clearing, their droning engines and passing shadows still clearly disconcerting to all the Grik, even their general, who glanced up at the planes each time they flew by, high behind Alden. He gave the impression it was all he could do not to stare at them continuously. “What do you want?”

“Terms,” Hij-Geerki wrote again in reply. “My General Arlskgter and all his Hij and Uul warriors would join you in the hunt.”

“Which ‘hunt’?” Rolak asked. “What does that mean?”

“The war hunt you wage against the ... Ghaarrichk’k ... others of our kind.”

“I’ll be damned,” Pete muttered. “They really do call themselves something like ‘Grik.’ And all this time, the Skipper always thought that was just somebody else’s rude name for ’em, kind of like the names we always got for Indian tribes—from other Indians.” Rolak looked at him questioningly, but Pete shook his head. “You, Geeky; you mean to tell me your General Alski-gator would just switch sides? That’s nuts.”

“The wise hunter joins the strongest pack,” Hij-Geerki wrote. “It is the same when we wage the war hunt among ourselves. It is true that no Ghaarrichk’k ... no ‘Grik’ ... has ever joined other hunters against Grik before, but the Grik have always been the strongest pack.”

When Rolak read this last, his tail went rigid with indignation. “General Alden,” he said formally, “I respectfully insist that you must entertain no notion of any ... alliance”—he spat the word—“with these vermin!”

“Cool your guns, Rolak,” he said. “I’m just picking my way through this. You’re the one who wanted to talk to ’em. I’m just talking.” He looked at Hij-Geerki. “You seem like a smart cookie ... ah, Grik. What would you have done if Alski-gator was dead?”

“I would have made the same offer,” Hij-Geerki wrote in reply. “It was my idea. I am no general, no warrior. I am Hij, but just a ... procurer of supplies. My general requires that I obey him, so obey him I must while he lives.”

“Holy smokes,” Pete whispered to Rolak, realization dawning. “Geeky’s a civilian! I didn’t even know they had civilians!”

“It would seem they do, after all. It makes sense. We know they must have females, though we’ve never seen one.”

“Yeah, but we’re starting to knock on their own door for a change. This might make a big difference when we move on Ceylon.” He turned back to Hij-Geerki. “What about the other Grik, the ones around the town, or port? By all reports, they seem like a whole other command. Weaker. Can he make them switch sides too?”

Hij-Geerki spoke with his general before replying. “Why? They are of no use except for fodder. They believed the Celestial Mother would not forsake them and remained overlong near the harbor where there was little food. We foraged and remained strong. Eventually, we came to feed on them with almost no resistance. Do you not now easily drive them like prey yourselves?”

Pete shuddered. He’d begun to suspect something like that. He could almost understand a rebel force, in this situation, separating itself from some Pollyanna leader who couldn’t read the writing on the wall, but to then prey on former comrades, to eat them like cattle! His skin crawled. The Grik were like Martians or something, totally unlike anything he could imagine, unworthy of existence. When he spoke again, his tone was wooden.

“We’ve heard your general’s terms. Here are mine. He and all his warriors will surrender at discretion, unconditionally, and take whatever I decide he has coming. That’s it.”

Hij-Geerki was practically wringing his hands. He could barely hold them still enough to write. The general spoke harshly to him and he made some sort of reply that didn’t seem to mollify his master. “He will not accept that!” he wrote. “He cannot accept that!”

“Sorry,” Pete snarled. “We don’t allow cannibals in my Marine Corps. We don’t even let ’em in the Army. Besides, if he changes sides once, he’ll do it again, and I don’t keep copperheads in my shirt pocket!”

Rolak looked at Pete. He knew what was about to happen, and knew it would happen fast. He agreed completely with the decision, but also feared losing an opportunity. “Hij-Geerki,” he said quickly, almost interrupting Pete’s last words, “you are not a warrior and you make no decisions here, correct?”

Geerki responded with a large, hasty “NO” on his tablet.

“You seem like a sensible creature that does not want to die, yes?”

“YES!”

“Then I suggest you lie down.”

Hij-Geerki flung himself to the ground just as Rolak drew his sword and slashed across the throat of one of the Grik guards in one continuous motion. General Arlskgter opened his terrible jaws in a shriek of fury and had his sword half out when Pete fired two shots with his .45 that came so close together it was difficult to distinguish the reports. He still carried standard military ammo, and the empty shells dutifully ejected high and to the right amid the smallest wisp of brown smoke. Both 230-grain copper-jacketed slugs struck within two inches of each other, punching deeply recessed round holes in the general’s polished breastplate. At least one bullet must have severed the spine because General Arlskgter crumpled to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. Both of the Marine guards had driven their long bayonets into the remaining Grik, and it squalled hideously as they twisted their triangular blades and jerked them free.

For just an instant the Grik horde seemed stunned. This whole activity had been beyond their experience from beginning to end, and a little confusion was understandable.

“Come along quickly now, Hij-Geerki,” Rolak said. “You will live, but you are mine, understand?”

Hij-Geerki croaked something unintelligible, but punctuated it with a definitive nod. Together, the four “delegates” and their new, possibly priceless acquisition, scampered back to the Marine lines, just as crossbow bolts began thrumming past. Each of the eight light guns of the 1st Marines fired double canister off the muzzle flash of the closest gun on the right, creating a rolling, booming thunder, punctuated by the shrill screech of projectiles and the horrible screams of the enemy.

“Well,” Tikker said, sighing theatrically to himself when he saw the gouts of smoke belch from the Marine line, “I knew it would never last.” He shifted his face so he could speak more directly into the voice tube. “‘A’ flight to form on us,” he instructed. “Send ‘Apparent failure of “diplomatic” effort. Will proceed with final instructions to “kill them all,” unless ordered otherwise. Inform Commodore Ellis we are only a little over half fuel level any way.’ ”

“Roger,” Cisco replied, again reminding Tikker that someday, he’d have to ask why they said that. It was a name, wasn’t it? There was a Mahan destroyerman in Ordnance named “Roger.” Maybe he would know? He banked a little left and pulled back on the stick until his compass indicated north. He’d gain a little altitude, then roll out on a reverse course and align his attack on a north-south orientation. He didn’t want to risk hitting any Marines, and he’d still have to be careful not to release too late, or he might drop an egg on the force moving past the target to the south. He glanced around, confirming that the flight was with him—including a stray he’d picked up from “B” flight. He shrugged. There was too much comm traffic as it was, with everybody stepping all over one another. He’d let the pilot’s flight leader deal with it later.

Judging that his distance was just about right, he banked hard left and gave it some rudder until his nose started to drop, then he leveled out and pushed the stick forward. Ben Mallory had passed on what he knew of dive-bombing attacks and the information was good, but Nancys were a little different. With their very high wing and considerable engine and radiator drag, one had to be careful with the rudder so as not to release one’s bombs into one’s own plane. Steadying up, he concentrated on the target below. For once, he didn’t check behind him to make sure everyone else had executed the maneuver properly. He was going in hot, and there was nothing he could do about it. Either they had or they hadn’t.

The dingy sailcloth tents and rude makeshift shelters grew rapidly in size. The Grik were running in all directions: toward the Marines, away from them, and into the surrounding jungle. Smoke still drifted downwind from the Marine line, and it even seemed as if some of the enemy were trying to hide in it—from him! That was it. The air attack was panicking them! Whether it started the panic or not was unclear, but it was definitely making it worse. A large jumble of Grik gathered near the center of the camp, either for protection or for orders from some leader. Tikker aimed for that.

Their altimeters were always slow, but they were taught to compensate. Judging his altitude, he pulled back on the stick, counted “one, two, three” to adjust for the relatively low angle of attack, and yanked back on the lever attached to two cables that in turn pulled the pins that held the bombs secured to the hardpoints under the wings. It was a ridiculously simple release. Bernie Sandison had actually been a little ashamed of its lack of ingenuity, but it worked every time they tested it, and it worked again now. The Nancy literally leaped upward when the bombs fell away, and Tikker continued climbing, bleeding off the airspeed he’d gained in the dive. Finally, he banked left again and turned to see the show.

His bombs had already gone off, unheard and unfelt. Smoke and debris filled the air around his target and pieces of bodies were beginning to fall back to earth. As he watched, the next plane in line performed an almost identical attack, and this time he witnessed the impressive effects of the fifty-pounders going off. They weren’t in the same league with Amagi’s ten-inch guns, but they appeared at least equal to Walker’s four-inchers. They were far more destructive than the little mortar bombs. He whooped with glee when two plumes of smoke and earth rocketed into the sky a third time, and a fourth. So far, the pilots were being careful not to drop on the exact spot he had. They were trying to saturate the clearing with the heavy explosions and lethal, whizzing fragments of crude cast iron. He’d almost reached the point where he first began his dive when he watched the last ship go in. He was preparing to make another pass, low and slow, so Cisco could hand-drop mortar bombs on the enemy, when he realized the last plane was still barreling in.

Even as he watched, knowing with sick certainty what had happened, he saw the plane lurch upward, apparently dropping its bombs at last, but it was too late. Against a floating target on the open sea, the air crew of the last Nancy might have had a chance, but here ... there were trees. Even so, miraculously, the plane almost made it, clearing the first trees by the width of a whisker. Tikker had never believed in anything like the human concept of “luck” before he became an aviator. He did now, with good reason, and thought he had it in spades. But he also knew “luck” was a fickle phenomenon. Just when it looked like the Nancy below might actually survive, it clipped a treetop with its fuselage and created a small explosion of leaves. The contact slowed the plane just enough to force it into another treetop, then another. It collided head-on with the fourth tree, the pilot’s compartment crumpling under the engine, the wing wrapping around the trunk. The ruptured fuel tank ignited almost instantly with a hungry rush of flame, and the tangled wreckage of the fragile plane tumbled to the jungle floor, leaving a dwindling fire in the treetops and a chalky black pall of smoke.

Tikker blinked rapidly with sadness and irritation; his lips were set in a grim frown. Target fixation. Ben had warned them, and they trained hard to avoid it. They’d even lost a couple of pilots and ships in training, and he’d known it was going to be a problem. He blinked again, and surveyed the field below. Their target had evaporated. The Grik gathered there had either fled or died, and there was no point in wasting the little bombs.

“Cisco,” he said, “send to ‘A’ flight: ‘Well done, but let that be a lesson to us all. Never forget it.’ ” He sighed. “‘This squadron’s going home, unless we receive further orders from Commodore Ellis. “B” flight will withhold ordnance for targets of opportunity. That is all.’ ”

The squadron re-formed and together made a low-level pass over the field. Unheard over the engines, the Marines cheered them; Tikker saw their gestures and the waving banners. Without orders, every ship in the 1st Naval Bomb Squadron waggled its wings at the 1st Marines. The squadron had done well in its first action, no doubt about it. The outcome of the fight below had been a foregone conclusion, but the squadron had saved a lot of lives. A lot of highly professional and experienced lives. It was a heady moment. Tikker knew their success would have been proclaimed even more exuberantly in the air and on the ground if not for the already dwindling black column of smoke.

The squadron climbed to a thousand feet. That was high enough to see the jungle panorama below and avoid the eruptions of lizard birds and other flying creatures that flushed, panicked, into the sky at their passing. Larger flying things, like nothing he’d ever seen, with half the wingspan of his plane, didn’t seem too alarmed and even tried to climb and pace them. Whether they were driven by hunger or curiosity was moot because the Nancys easily outpaced them. The port city, “Raan-goon,” still burned, and they flew east, over Donaghey, to skirt the smoke and updrafts.

There were wounded on the docks, waiting to be carried out to the ships. There weren’t a lot of wounded, compared to the depressing throngs he’d seen after other battles, and he supposed they were getting better at this business of war. The battle wasn’t over, though, even if it had essentially degenerated into a general chase; it might last many hours more. Whatever it had become, there would be more wounded before it was done. More dead. He hoped this exercise would be worth the price.

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