“Sir?”
“Take a detail and get me some mortar bombs . . . I don’t care how you do it.”
“You bet! C’mon, Larry, you fuzzy little salamander. Let’s go get some bombs!”
Half a dozen ’Cats followed Silva and Lawrence into the noisy, fiery night.
“What we do now?” another ’Cat asked Orrin.
“Let’s go see how many planes we can gas up enough to do the job, and still have enough fuel to burn the Doms out of this place!” He looked back at the HQ. “This joint’s even more screwed up than things were back in the Philippines when the Japs came! I didn’t think that was possible!”
Within an hour, Silva returned with almost forty bombs; Orrin had eleven planes with tanks topped off, each with two five-gallon gas cans slung under it’s wings. They hadn’t figured out a way to secure the bombs to the cans in a way that would ensure the contact fuses were pointed down when the ungainly weapons were dropped, so they decided to try something like what Orrin had heard First Fleet did in the west, except in this case the observers would toss a couple of bombs at the same time the pilots yanked a release lanyard on a gas tank. If they hit close enough together, swell. Some would, certainly, and their next pass with their second cans would connect the dots. Orrin knew “real” incendiaries were now in production at Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la, but they wouldn’t have them here for some time.
“I’m almost surprised that crazy-assed Imperial gardener hasn’t sent troops to stop us,” Silva said as he propped his and Orrin’s plane, and then sat down in the observer’s seat when the engine caught and farted to life.
“Me too,” replied Orrin, shouting over the sudden rumble of engines up and down the dock.
“Watch where your giant shoes go!” Lawrence suddenly protested from within the fuselage.
“Well, move your damn lizardy face out from under ’em!”
“Lay off, you two!” Orrin said. The moon had dulled behind the smoke, and there was less visibility on the lake now. “I need to concentrate— and you do too! Don’t forget, there’re still some other ‘lizardy’ things out there!” He paused. “Besides, why’d you bring Lawrence this time?”
“What, you wanna leave him back there with that buncha dopes? I doubt any of ’em has ever seen his type before. Hell, they’d have ’em on a leash—or in a fish tank—by the time we got back.”
“Just as well,” Orrin said. “After the stunt you pulled, I’m not sure we should go back! Listen, as soon as we’re up and get some altitude, send a report to Makka-Kakja about the mess here, and what we’re going to try.”
“Okay,” Silva responded doubtfully, “I’ll try. They may have trouble readin’ my writin, though!”
“Just do your best,” Orrin directed. “Use the ‘air’ frequency. You’ll have a better chance of getting through that mush offshore.” With that, he advanced the throttle and the “Nancy” accelerated across the water.
Once they were airborne and the rest of the pickup squadron, mostly from the 10th Pursuit, had formed on them, Orrin banked wide around the valley to the south of the lake, almost to the sea. There, the sky was clear and the bright moon was almost overhead now. He circled to the east, near the Sperrin Mountains, and tried to view the battle for New Dublin, but all he saw was a bright glow on smoky clouds beyond the craggy peaks. He steadied up on a northeast to southwest flight path that put the greater enemy concentration directly ahead.
“We’re first,” Orrin shouted back. “The rest of the guys’ll try to lay their eggs just beyond ours, and then the next plane’s in succession! It’s gonna be tough in the dark. Hell, it’d be tough in daylight, but there’s not much else we can do. If we leave it to those rear area . . . gentlemen at their supposed HQ, your Jap buddy’ll have to fight this whole campaign all over again.”
“He may be a Jap,” Silva returned, “an we ain’t exactly ‘buddies,’ but if he has to start over, I guarantee his campaign—with our guys—won’t be anything like this one! These New Brits ain’t like our Marines, but they ain’t bad soljers, I hear. I can tell you their Navy men are damn good—but their Navy’s kept ’em from havin’ to fight a big land war before, an’ except for that Blair fella—accordin’ to Chack—they don’t much know how.” He looked over his shoulder at the glare beyond the moun- tains. “An’ which it looks like ol Chack an’ Blair are stuck in pretty good. Chack damn sure knows how to fight!”
“Yeah, well maybe we’ll have a look after we’re done here.” Orrin nodded back toward the lake. “As I said, maybe we ought not go back there. Now hang on!”
Suddenly, the nose pitched down and the plane aimed for the edge of the now-much-larger fire burning on the enemy’s left flank. Orrin’s warning had really been just a figure of speech, because Silva couldn’t hold on with a ten-pound bomb in each hand. The “Nancy” hurtled downward, and if it hadn’t been for the sudden fusillade of musketry crackling toward them, it would’ve been frighteningly difficult to tell how low they were getting.
“Get ready!” Orrin yelled. Musket balls began striking the plane. “Now!”
Silva pitched his bombs just as the plane jolted to starboard with the sudden lightening of the port wing. He was pressed back into his seat as Orrin pulled back on the stick and applied full throttle, but still managed to keep his eyes on the general area where their “ordnance” fell. “Who-eeee!” he roared when two small flashes ignited a mushroom of orange and black. Myriad trees and limbs were silhouetted, many already adding yellowish wisps to the fireball. “That was a good-un!” he cried as the plane continued climbing, banking east over the city and out of the haze already lingering over the enemy position. Another fiery eruption extended the fire a little southwest, and Silva whooped again. There was nothing more for several moments beyond a few probable mortar bursts, long past the time for the next two planes to drop. Suddenly, the sky spit a spiraling meteor that spun out of control and impacted almost a quarter mile past the last explosion. It detonated with even greater force than their own bomb had done—just as another “Nancy” suddenly blew up a little beyond where the first had fallen.
“Two of them must’ve run into each other,” Orrin said stiffly. Even as they watched, the new flames leaped back the distance toward the first. Evidently, the drops had been good; they just hadn’t ignited. They did now. Tall, sappy trees became instant torches, swirling flames coiling around them and pointing at the sky. Another plane dropped its payload, then another. Orrin was sad about the pilots he’d just lost, but damn, the rest of the “boys” were pasting them!
“Okay, one more run!” he commanded. “Send it, if you can.” He circled around, out of the growing haze of smoke to the southwest, and tried to line up on the procession of strengthening fires. It must be hell down there, he thought, but then tried not to think about it. They took more bullets on this run, and Lawrence squeaked when a ball tore through the hull and exploded some of his tail plumage, but they made their drop without serious injury to the plane or themselves. The gas didn’t burn this time, but a plane behind them connected fuel to the flame, and the whole thing went up in a quickening rush. Orrin was probably only imagining the screams he thought he heard over the engine and the wind rushing by.
“Jesus,” he muttered, looking down. The Dom artillery flashes had all but stopped, and the semicircle of encroaching fires had become a cauldron of flame. Somewhere in the midst of all that were hundreds—thousands of men who’d had absolutely no idea what was coming, how to deal with it, or even how to take cover. They’d never been attacked from the sky before. He felt a little sick. In the dark days before the Philippines fell, the few remaining American planes had been forbidden to tangle with Zeros. They could outrun them or dive away, and that was what they’d been told to do, to preserve their planes for recon and ground attack. Mixing it up with the nimble Japanese planes was a losing proposition. Therefore, he’d strafed and bombed his share of landing craft and troop columns—but that was different. They were Japs, they�
��d attacked his country, and they were after him. He felt protective of “his” pilots now and he mourned those he’d lost, but this still just didn’t feel like “his” war yet.
Below, the flames grew more intense as the prevailing east wind curled around the flank of the Sperrin Mountains and blew them northwest. He began to see why the “tree officer” had been so concerned; the conflagration was growing and threatened to consume the entire valley in a sea of fire. Well, that was tough. He’d come to save people, not trees, and the increased fire from the Imperial positions showed that “his” side was taking advantage of the situation and pressing the Dom survivors back toward the blaze. Their reserves, caught on the other side of the advancing firestorm, were abandoning them and starting to flee up the Waterford road. Soon, those left behind would have to surrender or die.
“Our work here is done,” Silva shouted in the lofty tone of some satisfied warrior prophet. “Let us go across the mountains!”
“You think we ought to take the rest of the flight?”
“I dunno. They’re as likely to be welcomed as hee-roes as shot, I guess, an’ they was just followin’ orders. Then there’s them giant lizard birds to consider.”
“Right. Tell ’em to set back down on Lake Shannon and await further orders. If they don’t hear from us in a couple of hours, they’re on their own. If they can’t get any reception, they can take a plane up once an hour and try to contact Maaka-Kakja. Otherwise, they can still support the ground elements here, but don’t let the boneheads push ’em around! We just won their damn battle for ’em,” he added grimly.
Silva sent the message, and the two men and Lawrence turned northeast for the pass Chack and Blair had crossed to New Dublin.
“Have Major Jindal bring his company up even with us, on those parallel streets to the right, then move up several more . . . sections? Blocks! Several blocks, and wait for us to do the same! Oh, and watch for people on the roofs! Ask their aid in spotting enemy concentrations. They’ve been most helpful.”
“Aye, sir,” said Shmuke, and he trotted off with his squad.
The “mystery company” they’d joined near the Company HQ was one Jindal put together much like Chack had. It even included some of Blair’s men. No one had been prepared for urban combat like this. The only good thing was that the Doms apparently weren’t very good at it either; and even fractured as they were, the allies were pushing from all directions while the enemy had little choice but to contract toward that heavy bastion in the northwest of the city.
That didn’t mean the fighting had gotten easier. The first thing Chack and Jindal accomplished together—with the help of the light six-pounder an industrious Lemurian artillery crew had brought forward—was the capture of the holdouts in the Company HQ house. Several double-shotted loads collapsed the south-facing portico, and a final round of double canister preceded a bayonet charge by the two companies of’Cats and men. The fighting in the rubble of the entrance, and then through the corridors of the building, had been savage but ultimately futile for the defenders. Some surrendered—rebels and Company men for the most part—and were dragged roughly into the street where Chack and his Marines had been pinned down.
“What shall we do with them?” Jindal had asked, still breathless after the fight. Chack saw the cobbler and his sons coming from the door he’d entered earlier. More “rooftop militia” appeared as well, from other doors and buildings.
“We can’t take them with us,” Chack said. “You, sir,” he addressed the cobbler. “We must move on. We have wounded, and perhaps twenty prisoners here. Can we leave them with you?”
“Aye,” said the cobbler. ‘We’ll do whatever we can for your wounded.” He’d looked hard at the prisoners, some he likely knew. “We’ll take care of them as well.”
That was almost two hours ago, and Chack and Jindal had finally linked up with the Marines who’d taken the port facilities. Most of those had moved east and southeast toward the still-unconquered fort. Its guns had finally fallen silent, but it hadn’t surrendered. Apparently, Blair was moving north, going for the bastion, but much was still confused. Many enemy troops were still encountered in what had to be Blair’s rear, and clumps of Marines were swept along as Chack and Jindal advanced.
“Jindal’s on the move!” came a cry from above. Chack had sent a few Marines to augment the rooftop militia and help form a verbal semaphore system.
“All right, take your positions,” Chack ordered. As often as not, when one element moved forward, enemy troops ran out in front of the other, trying to flank the first, or just get out of the way. Chack never knew what their intent was, and didn’t care. The idea of receiving or giving quarter still struck him as odd. Sure enough, dark forms appeared in the flame-lit streets, scurrying around a corner and heading in their direction.
“Make ready!” Blas-Ma-Ar cried beside him. The growing gaggle of Doms tried to slow their advance, suddenly aware of their mistake.
“Fire!” Chack yelled. The booming volley echoed down the rubble- strewn avenue and men fell, or clutched themselves, screaming. Others bored in. In the flashes, Chack saw the uniforms of these men and recognized them as “Blood Drinkers,” the elite, special force of the Dom Army, commanded by their “Blood Cardinals” and sworn to their twisted “pope.” They wouldn’t ask for quarter. “Bayonets!” Chack yelled. “At them!” He lunged forward himself, his old Krag lowered. His hatred for the “Blood Drinkers” rivaled his hatred for the Grik. Even badly outnumbered, this group of Doms sold their lives dearly, but none were left for Chack to kill when he reached the melee.
Blas grabbed him from behind. “Quit that!” she seethed forcefully. “You get killed, who’ll take over here? Not me! Our guys would be okay, but you think these Im-pees do what I say?” She snorted. “Not god-daamn likely! I’m just a dame to them, a forrin ‘ape’ dame to some! We still win this fight if you’re dead?”
Chack almost laughed at the little female shaking him by the arm—then remembered a time when she’d been shaking, under entirely different circumstances. She’d been through a lot and come a long way. And she was right. Suddenly, as often happened in the midst of battle, he thought of his love, Safir Maraan, impossibly distant. She wouldn’t be holding him back; he’d be trying to restrain her—but that was what kept them balanced. She’d been born to this, but he’d come to it late and without her influence, or more properly his need to influence her, he chased it like an addict. He suddenly missed her so intensely, he felt almost ill.
“I . . . will try to refrain from impulsive acts, in future, that might leave you with the burden of command,” he said.
“Daamn well better,” Blas muttered, blinking rapidly as she released him and turned away.
“Females,” Chack grunted. “All right,” he said, raising his voice. “Wounded to the rear. The rest of you, let’s move up to that next street crossing. Major Jindal may be about to give us more business; I hear firing from his direction!”
“That’s not Jindal!” came the voice of a Marine on a rooftop. “That’s one o’ yer bloody flyin’ machines! There’s a dragon latched onto it, an’ it’s comin’ down! Somebody’s shootin’ one o’ them fast shooters at it!”
Almost at that instant, the plane staggered overhead, aiming for a bayside park a few blocks over. A grotesque, winged shape was plummeting away from it, but another was underneath, clutching its tail.
“Continue the push,” Chack said. “I’ll rejoin you shortly. If any still live when that craft comes to rest, I must hear their news and observations at once! Anyone who questions Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar’s orders will regret it! Half a dozen volunteers, with me!” He looked at Blas, and his eyes and tail flashed irony, confidence, and fondness simultaneously in the pulsing lights of the citywide battle. In an instant, he raced off in the direction the “Nancy” disappeared, followed by a mixed group.
“Hold up!” cried a ’Cat in the “point” position of the squad, flinging himself against a plastered corne
r as white, dusty chunks erupted around him. He slammed back against the wall as several more musket balls whizzed past. “A dozen—red on coat fronts; more ‘bloody boys,’ work their way to plane!” he said.
“Did you see it?”
“Ay, te plane busted up, one wing tore off—hit tree, I tink. Lizard bird still ’live, but busted up too!”
“Did all the Doms fire?” Chack demanded.
“Ah,” the point ’Cat blinked furiously. “Ay, most.”
“Then at them!” Chack yelled.
Not all the Doms had fired, and one of the two Imperials in Chack’s squad went down as they rushed the “Blood Drinkers” with the disconcerting Lemurian battle shriek Pete Alden had once compared to a “Rebel yell.” Almost on top of the frantically reloading Doms, they all planted their feet and fired directly into them, then leaped forward with their bayonets. The elite troops almost never surrendered, but these never even had a chance to decide. All were killed while either still doggedly reloading, or reaching for bayonets. Chack twisted his Krag and dragged his own sixteen-inch steel from the chest of a writhing man and snapped his gaze toward the wrecked plane, when a mournful, hissing wail caught his attention. The lizard bird had been flung against some other trees beside a nearby circle of benches in this apparent “park” area, and it was quickly stumping back toward the smoking wreckage, dragging a shattered wing and leg. It used its other folded wing like a foreleg, though, and its progress was surprisingly swift. In an instant, it was be- tween them and the broken “Nancy,” its jaws agape, protecting its “prize.”
This was Chack’s and his squad’s first real look at one of the things, and it did look shockingly like a big Grik, with thicker, oddly colored plumage—and, of course, wings instead of arms. Chack’s squad was furiously loading its muskets, and the thing, seemingly convinced they didn’t mean to challenge it, turned its attention back to the plane. Chack opened the bolt of his Krag enough to ensure there was a round in the chamber, and raised it to his shoulder. Just as the beast peered into the rear opening in the fuselage, where the observer sat, a rapid burst of yellow-orange flashes tat-tat-tatted from within, and the “flying Grik” collapsed backward, flailing and flopping with a spastic energy that only lifeless creatures seemed capable of. Chack lowered the Krag and sprinted for the plane. “Two with me!” he shouted. “The rest of you, keep a careful watch! Others will have seen the crash!”
Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Page 37
