Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556)

by Anderson, Taylor

  No, the guns weren’t the issue. These Grik also carried swords, of course, and truly were superior warriors. Two Arisakas and a crossbow might not be fast enough. They also had a long way to go, through dangerous country. They’d need the Grik to defend them and carry their supplies—at least for a while.

  “I can’t believe they made it back through the breakers,” Aguri said, referring to the longboat. Toryu couldn’t see it anymore, but Aguri was taller.

  “A shame,” managed Umito, but he paid for his words with a racking cough that sounded deep and wrenching. Toryu looked at him with concern. The cough had begun during the wet voyage south, then west. They couldn’t stand being belowdecks on the Grik ship—the stench was simply too great—and they’d slept exposed on the cold, damp deck.

  “Come,” snarled Bashg in his own tongue. The three of them had been chosen for the mission partly because of their ability to understand some Grik and speak some English, which Bashg could sometimes grasp. “Get things. We go!” Bashg wrapped his own fur coat more tightly around himself. “Sooner we go, sooner we done! Get back to warm!”

  Toryu and Aguri slung their rifles and headed for their packs. Another coughing fit from Umito made them look back. He straightened, shaking, still staring out to sea. The Grik ship that brought them was piling on sail, beginning to slant away to the north, northeast. Leaving them behind.

  “You get you sick man moving!” Bashg warned. “He make slow, we eat him!”

  Toryu rounded on Bashg. “I’ll kill any of you who tries! The rest of you might kill us, but then where will you be? Who’ll deliver the message to the ‘others’? Your mission will fail and Esshk will give you the ‘Traitor’s Death’!”

  Bashg stared hard at Toryu, then at Aguri who’d stepped forward as well, but his hand never neared his sword. “All well,” he said at last. “We no eat. He make slow, we carry. We only eat if he die.”

  Umito joined them, walking slow, taking quick shallow breaths. “Thanks, Toryu,” he whispered raggedly. “I’ll be fine once we get out of here.”

  Toryu nodded, trying not to show how much he was shaking with fury and terror. He feared Umito wouldn’t be fine, but even then there was no way he’d stand by and see him eaten. He suspected that would be when, one way or the other, he’d part company with the Grik.

  Colombo, Grik Ceylon

  General Halik lounged on Tsalka’s old throne in the regency palace, staring at a map of the island. He was exhausted, and if he noticed N’galsh’s indignation over his usurpation of what the vice regent considered his “chair” in Tsalka’s absence, he made no sign, and N’galsh didn’t speak it aloud. General Orochi Niwa stood by the map, doubtless just as tired, but unwilling to sit as he pointed out various places along the southern coast.

  “The enemy has landed here, here, and here,” he said, “in impressive force. I imagine, combined, they have even greater numbers than we faced at Baalkpan, and their discipline and disposition are proportionately superior as well.” He paused. “And, of course, they’re better equipped.” His tone carried what Halik had come to recognize as genuine admiration. “They’ve built a real army, with uniform armor, accoutrements, and apparently, large numbers of standardized muskets,” he enthused. “Not to mention their many steam-powered warships!”

  “Or their flying machines,” Halik added darkly.

  Niwa nodded, becoming more solemn. “Indeed. Honestly, I suspected they might have created some aircraft, but the numbers, sophistication, and frankly, skill with which they were employed, came as a complete surprise.” He shook his head. “That, and their ability to transport them here in the first place. I never expected aircraft carriers!” His admiration returned, but his expression was thoughtful. “We must consider the enemy airpower in every plan we make. Consolidation will be difficult, and we must use the terrain and jungle to best advantage. We’ll have to move carefully and employ misdirection whenever possible, because whatever we do might be observed. We must also find some way to combat these aircraft—shoot them down!”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know,” Niwa replied honestly. “Perhaps if we lure them low enough, into a specific, pretargeted place, we might have some success with even field artillery, loaded with canister—they are rather slow.” He shook his head, still considering. “Perhaps something else . . .” He looked at Halik. “We must pass word of these developments to General of the Sea Kurokawa—and General Esshk at once! The enemy will certainly move to blockade us again, in greater force than ever before!”

  “That has already been ordered. All remaining ships in Colombo except our own ‘escape squadron’ will dash out this very night under cover of darkness. Perhaps some will get through.” Halik studied the map again. “The enemy concentrations are slightly isolated from one another. How will they proceed, and can we use that?”

  “It will be difficult,” Niwa confessed. “We didn’t expect landings where they occurred, and it will take us time to deploy in response.” He shook his head. “I doubt they intended to land where they did, but it’s turned out fortuitous for them, in the short term. They’ll likely consolidate as they advance, and we’ll have to watch for opportunities. There’s nothing we can do against their beachheads—oh, if we had planes of our own!—so their strength will build behind them. But they have far to go, and we should seize numerous chances to bleed them as they move.” He rubbed sore muscles in his neck. “We must have a care, however. They may retain reserves, make further landings. They can watch what we do and take advantage.”

  Halik blinked. “But what if we use this ‘misdirection’ you mentioned to lure them into committing those reserves, or some force, where they only think we are weak?” He drummed his claws on the arm of the throne, sitting up. “They have already shown an aversion to losses, a desire to rescue those who are doomed. If we strike a mighty blow somewhere they do not expect, might it not delay their advance? Cause confusion? Doubt?”

  “That . . . is possible. They do cherish the lives of their warriors more than we,” Niwa said with irony.

  Halik let it pass. He already knew Niwa disliked the wanton waste of Uul. So did Halik, for that matter; he’d been one. There still existed a difference between them regarding the definition of “wanton,” however. “We fight for time,” he declared. “Time is our ally, possibly more than theirs. With time, we might match their marvels and even their warriors. Kurokawa and General Esshk would surely rather employ our own new wonders here than on sacred ground if we can hold this place long enough for them to do so decisively.”

  Actually, Niwa believed Kurokawa wouldn’t, but he couldn’t stall Esshk—or more particularly Tsalka—if Ceylon held out, especially if Halik won a few victories. N’galsh would doubtless have stressed that proposition in the dispatches he sent with the blockade runners. “A stunning victory might give us the time you seek,” he conceded at last.

  “Good,” said Halik. “Instead of attempting to oppose the enemy everywhere, we will concentrate all our thoughts on devising a strategy to crush a portion of his force so unexpectedly and thoroughly as to give him pause everywhere . . . and then we shall see.”

  South Ceylon Coast

  “Lizard Beach 2” was a dozen miles east of the “Sand Spit” where Task Force Garrett ceased to exist. In wounded and dead, the once-formidable squadron had ultimately exceeded eighty percent, and a portion of the new assembly area had been designated for the rest and reorganization of the bedraggled remnants under Greg Garrett’s command. Garrett and Chapelle had temporarily remained behind to oversee the effort to refloat Donaghey. The grisly battlefield was now secure, and an Army company, chosen by lot, remained to recover and try to identify the dead. Many Lemurians would fly to the Heavens in the smoke of pyres, but the lost humans, and a surprising number of ’Cats, based on their stated preference, would be temporarily buried in a less exposed area, until they could be disinterred and taken back to the growing Allied cemetery at Baalkpan.

  M
eanwhile, four companies of the 1st Marines and both battalions of General/Queen Protector Safir-Maraan’s personal guard were sweeping inland to link Lizard Beach 2 with Lizard Beach 3 (west of the “Sand Spit”), as troops from those points advanced inland to join them. So far, there’d been little opposition besides the occasional cluster of disorganized Grik, likely separated from their army, that the planes of Salissa and Humfra-Dar had harried into the jungle. Allied troops were also encountering Grik “civilians” for the first time since Hij Geerki “surrendered.” These were apparently some kind of local “overseers” who managed Uul workers in fishing and agricultural activities. Even they tried to fight, but not very well. All were “mopped up” with relative ease with the exception of gangs of feral Grik “younglings” that roamed the jungles, turned out of holding pens at some of the rough, adobelike structures that served the Hij “overseers” like plantation houses. The feral younglings appeared willing to attack anything, and they added another dimension to the fight since, unlike their adult counterparts, they used the trees to hide and even to travel to some extent. There was a strange reluctance to kill them at first; Lemurians doted on younglings. But these creatures were wild, vicious animals even worse than the undisciplined, uncultivated Sa’aran young of the “ex”-Tagranesi. At least those were somewhat “tame.” It wasn’t long before Grik younglings were shot on sight.

  In Garrett’s and Chapelle’s absence, Saraan-Gaani was in charge of the survivors at the “rest and reorganization” area. He sat on a stool beneath an awning, a “corps-’Cat” finally tending the many small wounds he’d received in the fighting. None was serious, but with his large percentage of white fur, he’d looked a lot worse than he was. Lieutenant Bekiaa was with him there, her own amazingly few wounds already attended, and she’d been teasing him over his discomfort at the hands of the medics. Saaran-Gaani wasn’t sure if she was still flirting with him, or if she ever had been. He liked her, but she was more . . . forward than females he’d known in the south, and he wondered if she actually was compensating a little for the horrors she’d endured. It didn’t matter. It was no time to contemplate such things. The spectacle before him on the broad, protected beach was sufficient to hold his attention.

  Dozens of ships of various shapes and sizes were moored offshore; transports close in, with shoals of broad-beamed boats plying to and fro, depositing troops and supplies. Farther out were the “DDs” and “DEs,” guarding the helpless flock, and even more distant lay Salissa with her own screen of warships. “Nancys” flew back and forth between the carrier and points inland, scouting, or throwing a few bombs at any enemy concentrations they saw. Now and then, one landed among the anchored ships, leaving a passenger to come ashore. A floating pier was already under construction to service the planes from the beach. The activity ashore looked chaotic to Saaran-Gaani, with some troops running around and others just milling about. Different regimental colors were mixed, but those of Baalkpan and Aryaal/B’mbaado prevailed. It looked like most of those in a hurry wore the blue and white of Marines, although the black and gold of Maa-ni-la was represented and seemed purposeful, for the most part.

  He wondered at that. The Marines were all veterans, as were the majority of the Baalkpan and Aryaalan/B’mbaadan troops. But many of the Maa-ni-los were “green.” Maybe it was just that the less organized, such as his own people, simply hadn’t been given anything to do yet. The “rest and reorganization” area could boast little organization at all. Makeshift shelters had been rigged here and there, and the survivors of TF Garrett lounged on the beach in the morning shade, close enough to the shelters to escape the inevitable squalls of the day when they manifested themselves. Saaran-Gaani was a little chagrined to see that Bekiaa’s remaining Marines had at least bivouacked in a creditable way, while the crews of Donaghey, Tolson, and Revenge were mixed and scattered. He sighed. All the survivors had fought like Marines or they wouldn’t be here, but with no ship beneath them and no immediate task, the sailors had reverted to a complete “off-duty” state that contrasted strikingly with the more regimented Marines.

  “I must come up with something for them to do,” he said, nodding at a group of sailors playing one of the many universal Lemurian “hand” games.

  “They still need rest,” Bekiaa said. “Only two days have passed since their ordeal.”

  Saaran-Gaani didn’t mention that it had been his and Bekiaa’s ordeal as well. “Yes, but once relief becomes lethargy, and perhaps fear, it will be harder to return them to their duty.” The medic finished applying the curative polta paste to his now-clean wounds and left them then. Saaran-Gaani sighed with relief and continued. “I must get them back on ships, I suppose—although many might resent being separated after all they’ve been through together. I wish Cap-i-taan Gaar-rett were here to sort this out, but he sent word last night that progress is slow on Donaghey.” He considered. “She must be saved if possible. She’s my ship, my Home, but she’s also the last of her kind . . . and her role at Baalkpan must be considered. Perhaps the only more significant remaining name in our Navy is Walker. Her loss would be hard on the people of Baalkpan, and the Alliance in general.”

  “As will Tolson’s be,” Bekiaa agreed. “That’s bad enough.” She looked at him and blinked irony. “How very astute for a ‘South Islander’!”

  Saaran’s tail twitched irritably. “I’m as Amer-i-caan as you, now.”

  “Aa-ten-shin!” someone cried, and there was a general stir outside the shelter. Saaran and Bekiaa stood, although they couldn’t see who was approaching. The sailors who’d come to their feet parted, revealing General Alden, Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar, Colonel Flynn, and Lord General Muln Rolak, accompanied by a number of staff officers.

  “Good morning, Lieutenants!” Keje boomed, and the officers with him returned the salutes they received.

  “Good morning, Ahd-mi-raal, Gener-aals, Colonel,” Saraan-Gaani replied.

  “How do you feel?” Alden asked them.

  “Fine,” Saaran and Bekiaa chorused.

  Keje grunted. “One of the reasons we came ashore . . .” He glanced around. “Where has Mr. Letts run off to?”

  “He has gone to begin the chore of organizing this ridiculous mess,” Rolak muttered. “Another of the reasons we are here,” he explained. “Thank the Heavens we did not face an opposed landing!”

  “Yes. Well, one reason was to congratulate you two and your companions”—Keje gestured around—“for your survival and perseverance during the recent . . . situation.” His gruff voice grew soft. “We came as fast as we could.”

  “We could not have asked for more, Ahd-mi-raal,” Bekiaa said, “and as it turned out, you were just in time.”

  “Perhaps for some,” Keje hedged.

  “That’s enough of that crap,” Alden said tiredly, clearly continuing an argument between the two. “Nobody can do anything faster than ‘as fast as they can’!”

  “Just so,” Rolak agreed, taking Alden’s side.

  Keje straightened. “Just so,” he repeated. “In any event, we must see to the disposition of your people here, Commander Saaran-Gaani, Cap-i-taan Bekiaa-Sab-At.”

  Saaran and Bekiaa both gulped at the unexpected promotions.

  “You have almost two hundred sailors and Marines fit for duty,” Keje continued. “I feel the most appropriate thing would be to transport them to An-da-maan to await the arrival and refit of Donaghey. Captain Garrett has . . . virtually demanded that he be allowed to remain here, in the fight, while Donaghey is repaired”—he shook his head—“but that is impossible. With his experience at sea, he is far too valuable to further risk on land. The same goes for Mr. Chapelle. Both may resent my decision, but there it is.” His tail swished and he grinned. “I am reliably informed that ahd-mi-raals may do as they please.” He paused. “That said, the notion they proposed has merit. I see several options for your people here. You may all go to An-da-maan as a single crew, and assist in Donaghey’s refit. More ships are on their way, but it
would be unfair to replace their crews as soon as they arrive. You may all go back to Baalkpan and be assigned one of the new steam frigates they’re now building. It would likely take more time than refitting Donaghey, but you’ve certainly earned the rest and a more capable ship. Or, some of your people might choose to join the fleet and be absorbed into one of the ship’s companies here.”

  Bekiaa hesitated but managed to speak. “Is there an option that might allow my Marines and me, at least, to remain here and do as Cap-i-taans Garrett and Chapelle desired? If you please, we do have a score to settle.”

  “This isn’t baseball, damn it; it’s war,” Alden growled. “There’s no such thing as an ‘even score.’ We fight to win, and your Marines are a ship contingent. The sailors aren’t infantry at all.”

  “I propose that most of the sailors who fought at the Sand Spit are infantry now,” Bekiaa said. “And were you not once also part of a ‘ship contingent’ as well, Gen-er-aal? Did that make you less of a Marine?”

  “Bekiaa!” Saraan hissed, but Alden scratched his beard and chuckled.

  “Good point, Captain.” He groaned and looked at Colonel Flynn. “Make your pitch, Billy,” he said.

  The former submariner with the strange red mustache and chin whiskers grinned. “Well, it just so happens that the ‘First Amalgamated Regiment’ is a company short, and if I don’t put one together, General Alden has threatened to snatch away the allocated rifled muskets and dole ’em out to a bunch of other fellas. That’ll dilute their effectiveness, since the Lord knows where they’ll wind up.”

  “Rifled muskets?” Bekiaa asked, confused.