He’s outnumbered, Ando translated to himself, and has no idea how to deal with it.
“We still grasp the advantage firmly in our claws,” Esshk assured. “We hold difficult ground around the locks and neither of the yanone carriers have been detected. At this moment they’re responding to my command that they steam out of the bay threatened by Halik’s advance and position themselves near the center of the lake.”
“Do they have a target?” Ueda asked.
“Scouts declare the armored enemy ships, and others bearing more troops, no doubt, will approach within range sometime after dawn.” He hesitated. “Perhaps later, but certainly sometime tomorrow.”
“Sometime tomorrow,” Ando frostily echoed in English. “You know the enemy will see the carriers as soon as the sun comes up.”
“Yes,” Esshk agreed. “Probably almost at once, and they’ll attack very quickly. They can’t know what the carriers do, but will doubtless assume it’s dangerous. They’ve proven they’re not fools.”
“No,” Ando agreed. Unlike you, he told himself, trusting us so completely after you’ve nearly starved us to death. A thought came to him. He can’t see us in the dark so maybe he doesn’t even know. Would he care if he did? It makes no difference now. It never should have, he added bitterly.
“You and your pilots must protect the yanone carriers!” Esshk stated adamantly. “I know you’ll be at a . . . disadvantage, considering the numbers of enemy flying machines. . . .”
Disadvantage! Ando snorted to himself.
“But you need only protect them until they launch their weapons,” Esshk continued. “There will be no opportunity to reload them.”
“How long will we have to defend them?” Ueda pressed. One of the generals gurgled a growl, but for a wonder, Esshk didn’t snap at what even he had to recognize as insubordination.
“The pennants will pass the warning as soon as the enemy ships are sighted,” he answered evasively.
Ando sighed, stepping in front of Ueda. “It will be done, Lord,” he said forcefully. “We’ll do all that can be done,” he added cryptically, then hesitated. “I do have a question, if you’ll permit me?”
“Ask.”
“What happened to the antiair rockets? I expected to see them rise against the enemy planes. Have you been saving them to help us protect the yanone carriers?”
“Lord Supreme Regent!” one of the generals objected indignantly, glaring murderously at Ando. “You’ve already been more gracious than this creature deserves. It’s not entitled to know anything beyond what you require of it!”
Esshk waved him away. “Actually, General of the Sky Ando’s loyalty has entitled him to more than I can give, and there’s a simple answer to his question.” He looked back at Ando. “There are no more antiair rockets. The yanone project was very expensive in terms of materials, particularly gunpowder—which we desperately need for muskets, cannon, and . . . other things. The rockets were wildly wasteful, as you’ve remarked yourself. We simply repurposed various of their components.”
Ando bowed, mind racing. Other things? “If there’s nothing else, then, My Lord, I’ll resume preparing my planes.”
“Of course. Avoid making more lights, however,” he warned. “I can’t spare you to air attack and dawn will be soon enough for you to take to the sky.”
All five aviators could only stare as Esshk’s carriage vanished in the darkness and the dust its passage stirred. Ueda broke the silence. “We’re . . . we’re not going to do as he asks, are we?”
Ando looked at him. “He didn’t ‘ask,’” he replied sarcastically, then grinned at their startled, forlorn expressions. The moon was beginning to rise and he could see them better now. “Of course not! Esshk can eat shit!” He gestured at their Grik ground crew. Somehow, the one who’d dropped on his torch was suddenly dead and the others were carrying him away. “Bring them back. Tell them they’ll have all they can eat tomorrow, but I’m afraid we simply can’t avoid making just a little light. Supreme Regent Esshk has given us such an important mission, we have to properly test our planes.” He glanced at the sky, listening. There were no telltale engines droning overhead, at present. “Two torches, one on either side at the end of the runway should be enough. Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
* * *
“Maa-chine guns, there and there!” Legate Bekiaa roared, pointing at a gap in the back of the second Grik defensive line. The first had been surprisingly easy to overcome, in 5th Div’s sector at least. The surviving Grik on top of the cliffs had been so stunned and disoriented by the furious, concerted bombardment, they simply couldn’t mount a vigorous defense. Localized counterattacks drove against some of the first troops up, but those were wrecked or driven away by savage, well-disciplined, continuous rifle fire even before the first machine guns were hoisted to the heights.
Just as Bekiaa’s troops—and she prayed to the Maker others as well—quickly expanded their toehold and flooded the first pulverized, flesh-mulched trench, Grik boiled out of their second position and charged through the broken remnants fleeing back past them. They’d been met by even heavier fire, augmented by the first wave of dozens of cart-mounted “light” machine guns: Baalkpan Armory copies of water-cooled 1919 Browning .30 cals. The Repubs had good machine guns of their own, based on 8mm Maxims, but with the production bottlenecks in Baalkpan now gone, there were more .30s. To simplify logistics, they’d be used exclusively in this assault, and the Repub Maxims had been sent to V Corps and Jash on the other side of the river.
Tracers chewed the swarm of Grik thundering out of the dark, heralded by heavy musket fire and roaring war cries. Bright orange lines of death swept across it in a riotous, stuttering roar, ricochets flaring and bouncing high. They were quickly dimmed by dense smoke created by rapid rifle fire, better- organized companies even managing volleys by ranks, their metronomic Ccrack, Ccrack, Ccrack! sounding like cannon. Like the .50-80 Allin-Silvas of their allies, the 11.15mm bolt actions used by Repub troops were still only single shots, but they loaded just as fast and were comparably lethal. Growing banks of gunsmoke and the night vision–shattering ripple of muzzle flashes made it difficult for marksmen to pick specific targets, but it was nearly impossible not to hit something in the dense enemy press, and nothing could live long in that barren, rocky space under such a deluge of flying lead. The Grik attack shattered and scattered like a window struck by a flurry of stones.
Bekiaa often had to remind herself that Grik only recently began learning the concept of “defense,” and if the works they took were any indication, they were getting better at the physical preparations. But defense required a mind-set as well, and with the exception of Halik’s and Ign’s—now Jash’s—forces, Grik didn’t do retreats, so there were never many veterans to steady new forces no matter how well-trained or dug in they might be. All Grik instinctively knew how to attack, but if the thrust failed, returning to the defense wasn’t instinctive at all and confusion often reigned.
“Up and at them!” Prefect Bele had roared again, and 5th Division, touching and joined by III Corps’ 10th Aryaal, charged forward at once and quickly fought their way into the second Grik trench. A lot of Bekiaa’s men and ’Cats fell in that rush, mostly to a rushed blizzard of canister, it seemed, until it was discovered quite a few simply plunged down in connecting trenches and advanced under cover. The enemy guns were overwhelmed, their vents spiked, and solid wooden wheels shattered with axes. Bekiaa hated wrecking the guns; they were decent, well-bored pieces. But they were heavier than they needed to be and supplying crews and turning them would take time. Advancing them would slow her down. And with even more machine guns joining them by the moment, and light mortars too, they really didn’t need them.
“Commence firing!” Bekiaa said, and the two weapons she’d just directed opened up on the next charge, coming from the third Grik line. The firing spread outward an
d met the enemy in the same old way.
“It makes no sense!” Bekiaa shouted at Bele, crouching under the vooping warble of returning musket fire. The big man was sitting in the muddy ooze beside her while a Lemurian medicus split his sleeve and wrapped a bandage around a shallow, bloody gouge caused by a Grik musket ball. Even sitting, the giant man was nearly as tall as Bekiaa. “Why did they even dig trenches if they’re just gonna jump up out of ’em an’ run at us to die?”
“I can think of two reasons,” Bele said, stifling a grunt of pain as the medicus worked. “As we’ve discovered, a ‘fighting withdrawal’ is one of the most difficult things for even experienced troops to accomplish. I’m told Halik once managed it, and Ign as well, but regardless how well-trained and armed they are, a conventional fighting withdrawal is beyond Esshk’s Grik.” He shrugged.
“So they attaack to slow us?” Bekiaa asked. “Couldn’t they do thaat better under cover?”
“Of course. Unless, after the initial bombardment, they see the trenches themselves as death traps. And they will be in daylight when our planes are overhead.”
“The other reason?” Optio Meek asked, still gasping from his sprint from the first Grik position. Bekiaa was glad to see he had a rifle, even if it was slung over his shoulder. She couldn’t gripe. She still carried her precious 1903 Springfield the same way. “Booms’re rigged to hoist supplies, ammo, even our own cannon should we want ’em, by the by,” Meek told Bekiaa. “General Rolak’s compliments, an he’ll be joinin’ us directly,” he added neutrally.
The repair to his arm complete, Bele answered Meek. “The other reason might well be to blood us, scratch us—and pull us onward. Get our entire army on the heights, with the cliffs at our backs, and mount a major counterattack.” Despite the warm humid night, a chill raced down Bekiaa’s spine. That made a terrifying kind of sense, and though wasteful, it would be consistent with Grik thinking.
Optio Meek kicked a Grik corpse, half buried in muck at the bottom of the trench. It twitched feebly but wasn’t a threat with most of its head blown away. “Did ye look at these damn things? Really look? Colonel Enaak was right. Look how skinny this one is.” He waved around. “They all are.” He had to raise his voice over the growing machine-gun and rifle fire. The whine of musket balls was louder as well. “Maybe there’s another, simpler reason. Maybe they’ve finally just had as bloody much as they can take? We know they’re smart enough to realize they’re it, the last thin line between us an’ their precious, bloody Esshk. Half-starved an’ dyin’ in the dark, could be they don’t feel much inspired by Esshk’s management, or even legitimacy, anymore. If they’ve just had enough, there’s nothin’ for ’em but charge er run away.”
“And in the waay of Grik, they might first do one, then the other,” Rolak agreed, joining them out of a communication trench through which he and his Marines had moved forward. Dipping his furry, almost bearded chin at Bele, he confirmed he’d heard the entire exchange when he continued. “Whether the Prefect is correct or not, however, whether the enemy plaanned it or not, his theory represents a significaant risk we must guard against as we push on.”
They chopped up the attack out of the third trench much as they had those before, though it took longer this time and a staggering remnant of Grik took a significant toll from the Repub 5th Division and the 10th Aryaal before they fell, virtually at the muzzles of their rifles. And this time, Rolak chose to wait until reports returned that every division under his command had achieved similar results before resuming his advance behind a curtain of mortars. There were no more trenches or steep cliffs, but the terrain rose rough and abrupt ahead, strewn with boulders and jutting monoliths of stone that hid clusters of defenders. Both disrupted Rolak’s advance, as did a small, rocky mountain in front of VI Corps, right in the center, where a lot of fleeing Grik had gathered. The whole assault bogged down while General Faan’s 9th Division stormed the slope and evicted the Grik in the costliest fighting so far.
By the time the army was ready to push on, everything it could want in terms of supplies, including ten batteries of 12 pdrs and three of Derby guns, had joined it. So had the dawn, however, and as the hazy gray of morning shifted to a reddish gold, splashing across dark gray stones protruding from damp reddish soil, Bekiaa found herself much higher than she’d been at nightfall, with a stunning view all around. Only then did she truly grasp the scope of the battlefield they’d fought over.
Miles to the south, down the rugged slope and 9th Div’s bloody mountain, were the gore-choked stains of the Grik trenches they’d overrun. They were ragged and cratered, and barely resembled lines anymore. The shelling really pasted ’em, faarther baack thaan I thought, she realized. Beyond the red-gray edge of the cliffs was the green of the forest they’d fought through for months. The Grik down there learned to baack up fightin’, she remembered bitterly, but most prob’ly never got up the cliff. She felt a grudging respect for them, and a surge of outrage at Esshk for not providing for the escape of such troops. If any did make it out, he prob’ly fed ’em to the ‘fresh’ ones we killed laast night. Now the space between her and the cliff fairly worked with moving figures and marching columns. There wasn’t any cavalry—no way they’d hoist me-naaks up with ropes!—but Colonel Saachic was advancing on the far right, through passes in the high mountains silhouetted against the rising sun. He was supposed to link up with Enaak or Svec and join Halik’s push. Bekiaa wondered how that was going. She could just barely see a swatch of the big glittering lake to the northeast over a final rise ahead and there might’ve been smoke in the distance.
Deliberately looking northwest now, as if she’d been saving it for last, Bekiaa caught her first glimpse of their objective. She hadn’t seen the open locks they’d already passed in darkness, hadn’t even seen the narrow canyon they stoppered, when closed, off to 5th Division’s far left flank. She’d heard the torrent of water thundering down the gorge, however, not recognizing the booming roar for what it was at first. Now she saw the source and it filled her with a sense of supernatural awe. A massive wall of water, perhaps two hundred feet high (she couldn’t see the bottom and the rising mist would hide it anyway) and twice that wide, stood like a titanic, surging wave, miraculously restrained, about half a mile ahead. She knew the enormous inner lock that held Lake Galk like a trembling dam was somewhere under the cascading overflow caused by the rainy season downpours, but wished she could see the thing itself, get a notion of its construction. That was impossible.
She did see another structure, however: a wooden suspension bridge of rough, if intricate design, arched high over the falling water from one side to the other. It was packed with Grik, funneling over in front of them.
“Look,” Rolak huffed, pointing southwest. Bekiaa looked at Rolak with concern instead. The whole army was tired after its uphill fight, but Rolak was old. Examining him, Bekiaa saw only fatigue and turned her gaze where he indicated. Other works, like those they’d stormed, stood across the river. They were full of Grik, and were the source of the reinforcements. Below the cliffs they guarded, another great force was streaming out of the forest across the open ground. “Thaats Jaash,” Rolak said with certainty.
“How caan you be sure?”
“The enemy is. Sure enough to send help over here—to whaatever force awaits us beyond the crest. Our air should tell us soon, if the Grik don’t announce themselves first.” He grinned wickedly and blinked sarcastic sorrow. “Won’t the enemy be embarrassed when Jaash attaacks after they just weakened themselves!”
“Won’t do us much good,” Bekiaa grouched, staring at the bridge again.
“No. Pity our planes caan’t just bomb it. But who knows whaat even a concussion in the waater, so close to the lock, might do? I’m sure our aviators will work on them, however. Strafing runs, perhaaps?”
That would probably happen soon. Bekiaa could hear the sound of engines, even over the rumble of thousands of troops ma
rching forward deployed into lines. Even now, as the front slightly narrowed, they were relatively loose lines compared to those the Grik still used, but they were deep. Not knowing what was ahead, Rolak had to advance in battle formation. Glancing behind, he blinked relief. “Ahh. It seems all the pieces we have any control over are now in place.” Bekiaa looked as well.
She was certain of this smoke, thick and black, chuffing from the coal-fired Repub monitors Ancus and Servius struggling around a final bend in the swift-running Galk River about six miles to the south. Little dots trailing white water identified the MTBs scouting ahead amid tall shell splashes made by thus far lightly molested Grik shore batteries on the west side of the river. Ancus and Servius systematically smote them with their big 8″ guns as they revealed themselves, as did more dots swooping from the sky, dropping an endless stream of incendiaries. They blossomed into orange spheres of fire that roiled black into the sky before turning a dirty gray.
“Liberator and Raanaisi, screened by Des-Ron 10, won’t be faar behind,” Rolak remarked. “I wonder where Gener-aal Aalden will laand First Corps? Will he reinforce us or Jaash? We won’t know if we need him until we see whaat’s ahead.”
“I wonder where General Alden is,” Optio Meek speculated aloud, moving up slightly to march alongside his commander. He was huffing a little too.
“He’ll be at the front of it all, no doubt,” Rolak answered sourly. “Prob-aably on the lead monitor, now.” He sighed. “He really should look to the future. My life belongs to Cap-i-taan Reddy,” he reminded them, “and whether I faall in baattle or not, it’s nearly spent. But regardless how this baattle goes, Cap-i-taan Reddy, the Union, the entire Graand Alliaance, will need Gener-aal Aalden for years to come.” He chuckled. “Even if he only commaands our aarmies from a desk, as he so fervently dreads.” He paused a moment and watched curiously as a Lemurian Marine sprinted toward them from the creaking comm-cart four men were pulling nearby.
Winds of Wrath Page 39
