The Allies hadn’t faced those, basically wheeled catapults, or “mangonels” as Bekiaa remembered Courtney Bradford calling them, in a long time. They launched rope-reinforced clay jars full of flammable liquids that burst and burned on impact. They’d disappeared from the battlefield because they were easy targets for cannon, didn’t have near the range, and the big ones were even harder to move. They were back now, throwing endless streams of their destructive payloads in fiery arcs, struggling to get the range. Only a few had landed in the Allied lines, but they were getting closer. . . . The planes had orders to concentrate on them.
The great Grik line disappeared behind a fire-stabbed, rippling cloud of smoke, and a storm of musket balls whizzed all around, kicking up plumes of dust, spanging off cannon, and thumping into bodies, knocking men and ’Cats to the ground. Grik muskets weren’t accurate at this range, but they were lethal. And even with the Allies’ looser formation, it was impossible that a lot of them wouldn’t hit somebody. Most hit were Lemurians, of course, being thickest in the line, and their screeching wails of agony tore at Bekiaa’s soul. This is it, she told herself, over and over again, praying to the Maker it was so. The laast time! One more time!
“Legate Bekiaa!” Rolak cried, rushing to her, surrounded by his Marines. He pointed to her left. “Your First Legion is getting too faar ahead. I know they’re aanxious,” he added drily, “but they must wait for the rest of us.”
“Haard to keep creepin’ at this pace, Gener-aal,” Bekiaa snapped back bitterly, “when they’re choppin’ us to bits. An’ it seems like haaff the enemy’s shootin’ at the First Legion! They’re gettin’ creamed.”
“You maay haave noticed, we’re ‘chopping’ them up worse. But a regiment from Fourth Corps is already moving to join First Legion. They’re our left flaank and the enemy must not get between them and the gorge when we come to grips.”
Bekiaa blinked confusion. “But why’re we even doin’ this? Why not just chaarge ’em an’ get it over with, or dig in an’ kill ’em from here?”
Rolak blinked understanding. “The first, as you know, would be faar too costly. Cap-i-taan Reddy would haave me haanged—rightfully so—for ordering such a thing! As for the second, however, I fear they wouldn’t come. If we stop advaancing and take the pressure off, they might notice thaat Gener-aal Haalik is, even now, preparing his assault up the slope in their rear.”
Bekiaa blinked surprise and her tail arched behind her. “Already? Thaat’s . . .”
“Impossible? No.” Rolak grinned. “Amazing? Most certainly. But apparently, he’s faced little opposition.” He gestured before them as another whirlwind of musket balls passed like a terrible swarm of bees, striking dozens down around them. A long, rumbling stutter of cannon belched canister in return and Bele’s hoarsening voice yelled, “Third rank, fire!”
“Thaat’s all they haave left, Legate Bekiaa!” Rolak almost crowed. “‘Esshk’s laast ace,’ as Gener-aal Alden would say!”
Only it wasn’t.
Suddenly, the very earth seemed to lurch beneath their feet. An instant later, it came up and slammed Bekiaa in the face.
* * *
* * *
“Leedom’s gone,” Pete murmured, crumpling the message form in his fist. “Shit!” he snapped, raising his head to stare up the gorge ahead. “Another hour’s warning and we would’ve had those missile ships! Now a good kid and three-quarters of his aircrews are gone, Ancus is a wreck, and both our troopships took it on the chin.”
“There is a bright side, General,” Captain Quinebe reminded. “The missile ships are both destroyed and Liberator is fast aground, conveniently close to the bank.”
Sergeant Kaik nodded. “Haaff her troops’re already ashore, along with Inquisitor Choon. Gener-aal Taa-leen an’ the Triple First is cuttin’ trail for the rest.” He blinked satisfaction. He’d been one of the earliest members of that unit. “They’ll be climbin’ the cliffs behind Rolak soon. They’ve lost much of their equipment—aartillery an’ aammunition—but Rolak should be able to supply ’em.” He gestured back at the river bend. “True, Raanaisi haas sunk, but she’s in shaallow waater. Gener-aal Kim says the troops aboard are in no danger an’ the DDs’ll ferry ’em ashore.”
Pete nodded but his expression remained bitter. “Yeah, I’m glad they’re okay, but they’ll be so mixed up they won’t be worth a shit today. It may take days to get ’em sorted out. Esshk just rendered half a corps—at least—combat ineffective right when Rolak needs ’em most, without even laying eyes on it. My corps!” he stressed fiercely. Rolak had commanded I Corps for a long time, but Pete built it and it had always been his baby.
The glass in the pilothouse windows rattled violently, like a roundshot from a heavy Grik shore gun just smacked the ship close to the bridge. Jash’s Slashers and the Repub V Corps were reportedly already through the enemy works on the heights to the west, rolling the Grik up, but they’d ignored isolated Grik positions on their side of the river.
“Return fire on that gun emplacement!” Quinebe called in the voice tube to the fighting top where the gun director for the forward 8″ turret was. For a moment, there was no response, then came a high-pitched, almost panicky Lemurian cry. “Wasn’t a shore battery, Captain. Look up, off the port beam!”
Servius had been turning back downriver to cover the ships taking troops off Raanaisi, so the gaping lower lock gates and long, narrow gorge was on their left. Pete, Quinebe, and Kaik all raced out to join the lookouts on the port bridgewing, where they looked up—and up—at the towering wall of smoke and debris rising high in the air about six miles to the north. Where the inner lock was. Even before the ear-splitting boom and long, echoing roar came down the gorge, Pete knew exactly what happened. “Crazy damn lizards blew the goddamn lock,” he ranted.
Quinebe knew it too. Instantly, he raced into the pilothouse, roaring, “Make your course one, six, zero, all ahead full! Close all internal and external hatches! Seal the ammunition hoists in the turrets and clear the crews out! Signal ‘seek high ground’ at once!” He punctuated that by pulling vigorously on the steam whistle cord three times.
“What the hell are you doing?” Pete demanded hotly.
“Trying to save this ship, though I can’t imagine how,” Quinebe replied bitterly. “We’re about to be swamped by a lake the size of a small sea, moving very fast.” Servius had almost completed her turn and was beginning to accelerate as the swift current took her.
“What about my corps?” Pete challenged.
Quinebe laughed, almost hysterically. “What about it? Don’t you understand? We can do nothing. Not for them, or probably ourselves. Even if we survive the initial burst of water, as soon as the speed of the river exceeds the thrust of our screws, we won’t even have steerageway! No control! We’ll be like a leaf in a whirlpool!”
“Beach her. Some might get off,” Pete suggested.
“Are you mad? We have minutes, perhaps only seconds! And the ‘beach’ will soon be miles away, or over our heads!” The more he thought about it, the more his expression betrayed mounting resignation. “No use,” he murmured. “It’s hopeless.”
Pete looked at Liberator as Servius raced past her. There was a little panic among the troops on the beach as they realized what was happening, but Pete was proud to see how many were streaming up the bluff beyond, and how orderly that stream appeared. And as far as he could tell, none of his beloved troops had cast away their weapons. “Professionals to the last,” he whispered as his heart cracked open. Snarling, he turned to Quinebe. “So what’re you gonna do, roll over and die?” He fumbled at the flap on his holster. “If you’ve already given up, I’ll shoot you right now. Damned if I’m gonna get drowned in the last land battle with the goddamn Grik!”
Jolted back to himself, Quinebe roared back, “I’m doing what I can!”
Nodding, Pete turned to the signals officer. “If it’s the
last thing you ever do, get a message off to Sofesshk and Saansa Field. Everything that’ll fly gets in the air, down to Arracca Field. Everybody gets to high ground. And Major I’joorka will get the CM the hell out of there!” He blinked, shrugged. “I guess that’s it.” Turning, he strode out on the bridgewing as Servius churned past the sunken Raanaisi. He was startled to see the ships of Des-Ron 10 already shoving off, turning downriver, stuffed to the gunwales with ’Cats and men wearing camouflage smocks and mustard-brown uniforms. He had no idea if they’d be any safer, but the DDs had taken a lot of troops aboard.
More remained behind. The old mortar deck at the peak of Raanaisi’s casemate was packed, mostly with ’Cats, but a few men as well. One caught his eye and Pete recognized General Marcus Kim, face expressionless other than his perpetual frown. Suddenly, he clenched his fist and slammed his chest in a Republic salute. Pete took a deep breath. Goddammit! he seethed, and did the only thing he could. Standing stiffly at attention, he rendered the finest, sharpest hand salute he was capable of, performed a parade ground about-face, and marched back into the pilothouse.
Three minutes later, a great moaning wind roared out of the gorge, instantly erasing Servius’s smoke and whipping her signal and battle flags taut with a crackling rush that sounded like rifle shots. Moments later, the tight gorge ejected a chaotic explosion of water as high as the cliffs. The front of the tumultuous wave quickly collapsed as it spread, racing across the width of the river, but it was still higher than Liberator’s casemate when it slammed her, spinning her sideways, then rolling her over. In seconds, she was gone, tumbled into a thousand fragments that joined the cataract racing downstream. Hundreds of ’Cats were swept off the bluff and no more would possibly join those already at the top.
Servius saw none of this, not even her lookouts in the fighting tops. Engines racing, twin screws spinning faster than they ever had, the Repub monitor had already rounded the bend. Those aboard heard the rapidly mounting thunderous din, however, and many staring aft actually saw Raanaisi’s sunken carcass consumed in foam—before all twenty-odd thousand tons of her was lifted and hurled onto what had been the west bank of the river. The great ship smashed like a sack of eggs and the cluttered flood’s first inclination was to carry its trophy of wreckage straight on, flattening the forest across the countryside. Much of it did. Most, however, still spreading and shedding height as it came, made the turn and cascaded greedily up the wakes of Des-Ron 10 and RRPS Servius, just slightly ahead.
General Pete Alden faced through the pilothouse windows as the side hatches were dogged and battle shutters came down. The swift torpedo boats of MTB-Ron-1 were also covered with clinging troops. Hauling ass too, Pete appraised approvingly. The little boats, combined with the river flow, were probably blasting along at forty knots when they disappeared around another slight bend. Maybe they’ll make it, at least, he thought grimly.
* * *
* * *
The ground was still shaking when Bekiaa opened her eyes. Rolak was beside her on his hands and knees, coughing and spitting reddish-brown mud. She couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t hear anything but an endless, rolling roar. Looking around, she saw most of the 14th Legion was doing the same: rising under a layer of chalky pink dust and pebbles, acting stunned. Larger rubble, some bigger than wagons, had fallen as well—some still did, with ground-jarring impacts—and she realized many of her Repub troops would never rise again.
Widening gritty eyes, she saw a stupendous, opaque curtain of dust drifting west on a fitful breeze, and far above it stood a terrible gray cloud, reaching for the sun. A vol-caano! she thought with certainty. We’re fighting on a vol-caano, and the baattle stirred it to life! The roar grew louder and she cringed, expecting the beast to belch again. There was only one Maker in her faith, but many Changers, terrible beasts of nature the Maker unleashed to reshape His world. Their efforts were generally beneficial in the long run, but Changers resented their constant labors and could be spiteful at times. The sea was one Changer, and though quick to take offense, was usually benign, even helpful. It provided the People with its bounty and confined its many monsters. The wind was a more capricious Changer. It moved ships and stirred the air so it was always fresh, but bored easily, shifting on a whim. It also reveled in provoking the short-tempered sea to a frenzy. The earth was the laziest Changer, least likely to stir. When sufficiently provoked, however, its temper was most malevolent, venting its fury by throwing wide the gates of Chik-aash, where the flaming spirits of evil dwelled. They often returned to the world with a bang.
“Not a vol-caano!” Rolak was yelling as if he read her mind, or started with a similar assumption. His voice was muffled, buzzing, but Bekiaa saw him pointing to her left and she looked. The river gorge still had a ragged east rim, but it was closer now. Enough so that only part of the 14th Legion lay sprawled on the ground beyond her. The rest of the ground, as well as Colonel Naaris and the entire 1st Legion, were simply gone. Bekiaa whipped her head around to gaze ahead. It was hard to tell through the lingering dust and rising fogbank of spray, but she finally saw not only was the bridge over the inner gate of the lock entirely gone, the unnaturally flat-topped wall of water had taken on a jagged, concave aspect. Escaping water was the cause of the ongoing rumbling roar. “Maker in the Heavens,” she murmured, barely hearing herself as she blinked horror and amazement. “The Grik blew the lock.”
“Up! Up! The Grik are coming! On your feet!” Rolak bellowed. He was right. Bekiaa stood, whipping dust away in a drifting cloud. Down the line, far to her right, the battle was slowly resuming. A ragged volley slashed, then another. A half dozen cannon fired. The closer they were to the scene of the catastrophe, however, the slower the stunned army responded. No doubt the Grik had been just as terrified by the unprecedented blast—probably the biggest nonnatural explosion this world had ever seen—and far more of them were killed by it too. But they’d seen the signal pennants and were warned what was coming. None could’ve actually been prepared for such a thing, so far beyond their imagination, but they’d been ready for something terrible, and recovered more quickly—to a degree. They’d never reform their ordered ranks or keep alignment on the move, but that didn’t much matter right now. Despite how much they’d changed, Grik would always remain consummate predators that instinctively knew, whether they were truly ready or not, the very best time to strike their prey was when it was hurt and reeling. Amid blaring horns, the entire right half of the Grik battle line rose up and charged, en masse.
Right at Bekiaa, it seemed to her. Men and ’Cats scrambled to rejoin their firing lines, shoulder to shoulder now, to better support one another in what was to come. Bekiaa prayed her wobbly troops would stiffen before the Grik slammed into them. Four loose ranks jostled into two tighter ones, and the confused 20th Legion from IV Corps that had—lucky for it—just arrived to back the 1st, quickly spread out to form a third line behind what remained of the 14th and 23rd.
The sun was almost directly overhead, the column of smoke and dust leaning away. The dust in Bekiaa’s sweat-foamed fur was starting to thicken, but she was so caught up in the spectacle before her she barely noticed. She knew the blown lock would result in untold calamity downriver, but simply couldn’t contemplate that now—beyond hoping someone at a comm-cart or flying overhead would pass a warning. Her entire world, her whole life, narrowed to focus on the ravening Grik horde. A stutter of shots pecked at it, but Bele and others roared to stop them. Cannon belched smoke and fire, and mortars started lofting. Machine-gun tracers swirled wildly before settling down to peel bloody layers off the running Grik. Now Bele bellowed, “Front rank, volley fire, present! Fire!” A creditable Craaack! resulted, throwing out a long, dirty white screen of smoke.
The Grik responded with a single, prolonged, unaimed avalanche of musket fire, and dozens of men and ’Cats fell screaming, or pitched backward out of line.
I doubt they’ll even shoot again, Bekiaa thought. Caan�
�t load muskets on the run. She noticed Optio Meek by her now, helmet gone and blood washing down his face. At least he had a rifle. “Just like old times!” she shouted at Rolak over the roar of guns, Grik, and the agonies of a dying lake. She was trying to project confidence, but thought her voice only sounded tiny and desperate in the heart of the tumult.
“Indeed,” Rolak replied, turning his gaze on her. He’d been staring south, blinking despair for Pete Alden, I Corps, and all that lay behind. But when he spoke again, his voice was strong. “As if we’ve come full circle. Once more, they come at us with teeth, claaws, steel . . .” He forced an unconcerned grin and blinked disdain. “No maatter how haard we try to teach them, they never really learn.”
Bekiaa knew that wasn’t true, but nodded anyway. Her tail rose behind her. “Between volleys, fix bayonets!”
CHAPTER 35
////// Sofesshk
Grik Africa
Acting Regent Champion I’joorka, formerly of the 1st North Borno Regiment in Chack’s Brigade, was practically running, hissing with pain as tight, burn-scarred skin tried to flex to match his haste. And though it probably made him look more presentable, covering the patchy, rust-colored feather-fur sprouting like moss on purple bark, the rough fabric of his tie-dyed combat smock chafed annoyingly. The stairwell from the entry/audience chamber loomed intimidatingly before him. At least it’s well lit, he thought gloomily, imagining how hellish it must’ve been for ’Cats to fight their way up it in the dark. Without pause, he hurried on, surprised (and slightly triumphant) to hear Centurion Ione, one of his female human Repub aides, huffing to keep up. And she much younger and fitter than I, he reflected. Every sign that he’d pushed beyond expected limitations after his frightful wounds was a victory. Of course, his long convalescence had left him dreadfully out of shape and he was literally gasping by the time they reached the top of the turning stair and stepped into the more private audience chamber the Celestial Mother of all the Gharrichk’k had been allowed to consider hers alone. Centurion Ione was still only huffing, and probably would’ve been after ten times the distance.
Winds of Wrath Page 42
