“Yes, yes! I know all that! It’s just . . . hard! In this one day, we’ve lost everything! With a single ‘plan,’ all is undone!”
“No, my . . . friend. Nothing is undone. As I’ve said many times, we’ve accomplished our mission here. We learned about the enemy, and he’s learned little new of us. Even more important is what we’ve learned about us! It’s long been an axiom among my . . . species that one often learns more from failure than success; more from defeat than victory. Not least among those lessons, I think, is that defeat is possible, even likely, if one has never seen its signs before.”
“There are ‘signs’ all around us!” Halik snorted.
“Indeed. You’ve seen much that doesn’t work today: too rigidly adhering to a plan, assuming that plan is too clever for the enemy to divine, overconcentration of command—all these and many more you won’t do again—if you and some portion of this army live to fight another time.” He put his hands behind his back. “General Halik, there are . . . some things . . . General of the Sea Kurokawa admires about your Uul. He admires what he calls their ‘discipline,’ their willingness to do anything they’re told, within the context of their understanding. Tell them to charge into certain death and they do—because few have any real con- cept of death, what it means, and that it will happen to them. They are told and they obey. We once watched hundreds dive into the water to assist with repairs to Amagi, my lost ship. They were torn to shreds by the fish. They finally managed the simple task set them, but hundreds died to accomplish what might have been achieved with no loss had any real thought been given to the assignment. Kurokawa believed that was discipline, but it wasn’t.” He paused. “I don’t know if you’re ready to discuss what I think it was, but it wasn’t discipline.”
He pointed down at the battle. “Those . . . creatures and their Americans have true discipline! They move and fight as a team, like a machine—and not the way your laborer Uul behave, with no thought or understanding of what they do. Our enemy, each and every one of them that performed that admirable maneuver to evade your trap, knows what is expected of them, knows they can die—they are as intelligent as you or I, it seems; yet even though they’re likely terrified, they do their duty. That is discipline! The contrast between that and your average Uul couldn’t be more striking.
“Now we’ve begun to form troops with a measure of understanding for what they do. Some are even afraid, I think; yet they don’t ‘turn prey,’ as you put it. They begin to know, as you once did, yet still they do. We must preserve that!”
Halik hissed a long sigh, looking to the west where a great column of smoke rose above Colombo. “I will end this, if I can. Some will not retreat; others will turn prey at last, once they show their backs to the enemy. . . .”
“Perhaps.” Niwa stared down at the milling, dying army. “Perhaps not. If so, you can’t help that. Save what you can.”
Halik raised his voice. “The horns will sound the ‘gathering’ call!” He listened as his order was obeyed and the horns boomed along the crest, answered by others on the far slope. Almost immediately, the Grik horde, savagely depleted, began to stir; to disengage.
“See?” Niwa said with satisfaction. Greater, stricter “horn” training had been one of his own contributions. The horns not only told the warriors what to do, they gave them direction and ensured them that “someone” was watching over them, leading them. The sound of the horns gave them something to cling to when they were confused. “They’ve learned that well enough. Their obedience to the horns has become even stronger than their urge to attack—or break!”
“What now? Will the enemy pursue?”
Niwa glanced at the sun nearing the horizon. “I think not. He’s been mauled as well. He’ll expect us to move to the relief of the city, and if it has truly fallen as the message suggests, he’ll move to intercept us. I recommend we retreat north, as quickly as we can. We may have time to destroy some of the factories and other facilities, but I submit our greatest imperative is to save as much of the Army, this one and that to the north, as possible; to prevent a rapid enemy advance across to India. The factories may be here, but the things that feed them are there. You must decide on which side of the land bridge to try to stop them. Once that’s done, you must also decide if we should stay, or if it’s time to leave at last, to pass what we’ve learned to others.”
“It will be as you advise,” Halik hissed. “I will decide that last question when the time comes.”
“Jesus, they’re pullin’ back!” Colonel Flynn gasped, pausing his attempt to pound a stuck “Minie” bullet down the fouling choked barrel of his Baalkpan Arsenal rifled musket. A few of his Rangers also paused to look, to realize what he said. They’d never had a chance to throw up a proper breastworks, but they’d improvised one during the battle with the bodies of the Grik dead. Those with shields had tried to protect the firing line from the hail of crossbow bolts, but the killed and wounded in almost every engaged regiment approached thirty percent. Naturally, the Rangers and the 9th Aryaal had been hardest hit, being in the center, and the 1st Amalgamated had been forced into close combat with their slightly slower-loading rifles. Flynn vaguely suspected there’d always be a place for the “buck and ball” smoothbores as long as the fights remained such close-quarters affairs.
The Grik had paused about two hundred yards away after their most recent rush was blunted. Even they had to rest a while, though their attacks had been unnervingly well coordinated for a change. Their ranks remained disorganized, but they seemed to have adopted the concept of successive “surges” that allowed those most closely engaged to fade back and be replaced by others at the point of contact. This allowed them to keep the pressure up far longer—and more exhaustingly—than ever before. The change was a . . . chilling development. Finally, they’d pulled back en masse beyond what they must have considered “musket shot,” apparently to sort things out a bit. They weren’t out of range of the new rifles—or canister from the artillery, of course. For the last ten minutes, the Grik just stood there and took it as if unsure what to do while the battered II Corps obligingly poured it in. Flynn had been wishing for the hundredth time he had one of Hij Geerki’s “recall” horns, when suddenly the things began to thrum in the valley, and the massive Grik swarm began obediently withdrawing.
He was stunned. Never had the Grik just backed away from contact—never. In the past, they always either fought until they died, or ran. This was completely new. Alden hadn’t reported seeing anything like it during his march up the coast.
“Jumpin’ Jehosephat! They’re licked!” Billy paused, his eyes widening. “And they know they’re licked! Goddamn! Let ’em have it! Pound’em! Don’t let ’em just walk the hell away!” The firing around him redoubled, and he tamped the misshapen projectile the rest of the way down the barrel. Putting a copper percussion cap on the cone at the breech, he thumbed the hammer to full cock, aimed into the departing mass, and fired. The recoil of the weapon wasn’t really all that bad—unless one had already fired it a couple of hundred times. His shoulder felt as if somebody had been whacking it with a baseball bat. “Mortars, damn it! Hit ’em now, while they’re bunched up!”
“We’re out of bombs!” someone hollered. “More are on the way, but we have none now!”
Flynn swore and looked around. “Corporal, gimme some water!” he cried to a ’Cat hurrying by with a bucket. The corporal paused while Billy threw some salty-tasting water at his mouth with the floating cup, then spat some down the barrel of his rifle. “Ghaa!” he said, spitting out the foul remainder. He plugged the muzzle of the weapon with his finger and tilted it in a seesaw motion so the water would slosh back and forth in the bore. “Musta been an artillery sponge bucket!” he said, spitting again and pouring the black water from his rifle onto the ground. He placed a piece of cloth over the muzzle and ran it down with his jag-shaped rammer head. Withdrawing the rammer, he stuck it in the ground at his side, and the now-soggy, blackened cloth fell away. H
e popped two percussion caps and blew down the barrel, then snatched another paper-wrapped cartridge from the box at his side and tore it open with his teeth.
The firing around him was diminishing, except the artillery, which was now shooting the lighter spherical case—he could tell by the report. White puffs cracked and blossomed over the retreating enemy, spraying shell fragments among them, but still they moved away—as a mob certainly, but a controlled mob.
“It is over, Col-nol Flynn,” said a familiar voice behind him. He turned and quickly saluted Safir-Maraan, throwing most of the powder in his cartridge at his face. Self-consciously, he wadded the torn paper around the bullet and dropped it back in his cartridge box.
“Aye, uh, General,” he said. Regardless of her various other titles, on the battlefield, she was “general” first. “It looks that way,” Billy added. He reached up and pulled the helmet off his head, revealing his thinning mat of sweaty red hair. He started to slick it back but was shocked to see how badly his hand had begun to shake.
Safir took a deep breath and almost gagged herself. The stench of the morning had grown exponentially worse with the addition of the mangled corpses all around and the fog of smoke that clung near the blood-drenched ground. Her normally resplendent silver-washed armor was stained with red turning to black, and her black cloak was torn and tinged with shiny reddish patches. Knowing her, she’d probably been right up on the line with a musket and bayonet at some point, Billy thought. Not the best place for a corps commander!
“But they retire in . . . I think you say ‘good order’?” she said huskily, holding her hand over her mouth. “Oh, surely this is the stench of the unlighted void! I barely noticed it before.” She fumbled for her water bottle and took a long swig. “Odd, the things one perceives immediately after these ‘new’ battles—at least I’ve found it so,” she almost whispered. She composed herself and gestured toward the retreating Grik. “I do not like to see that.”
“Me neither,” Billy agreed, stunned to see even an instant of weakness from the indomitable Safir. “It was a hell of a fight, but we’d turned the corner—even if there was a bunch more than I thought at first. Sorry about that. It’s hard to count ’em when they’re all wadded up. Anyway, any battle in the past, we would’ve about wiped ’em out. This retreatin’ crap, instead of just runnin’ away, gives me the creeps.”
“I feel ‘creeps’ as well,” Safir admitted. “We must report this immediately.” She looked at him. “Thank you Col-nol,” she said sincerely. “I admit, I didn’t know what to think of you and your Amaal-gaa-mated before today. You are a strange man, originally from a very strange craft! But your and Col-nol Grisa’s regiments likely saved my entire corps today when you ‘smelled a rat,’ as Lieutenant Saaran-Gaani put it. You have my most profound appreciation.”
“More like ‘smelled a turd,’ General, but thanks. How’s Saaran? He never came back. We have to come up with a portable wireless we can use on the march! It would still be line o’ sight, but we wouldn’t have to send runners up and down the line!”
“Yes. I see no practical way to use wire as we did at Raan-goon! They say we will have better baater-ees and wireless sets soon.” She blinked a shrug. “Saaran is lightly injured, but fine. He tried to return, but tumbled from the back of a paalka!”
Billy laughed, then sobered. “I lost a lot of good guys today.”
“As did we all.”
Bekiaa-Sab-At finally gave the belated order for the nearest artillery to cease firing, and its example was soon followed by the other batteries up and down the line. She stepped wearily up beside Flynn and also exchanged salutes with Safir Maraan. Bekiaa looked terrible—again—and this time she had a Grik crossbow bolt buried between the twinbones of her left forearm. She’d refused to leave the front. “Shall we chase ’em?” she asked.
“No,” Safir said reluctantly. “They outnumber us still. I estimate now that we engaged upward of forty thousand today. Even if we’ve killed half the vermin, they could still overwhelm us in the open, in the dark, and we suffered sorely as well. No, we will consolidate the line and stand down those who were most heavily engaged. I’ve already sent cavalry to scout the high flanks, but I do think it’s over. Here.” She looked at Billy. “Tend to this stubborn Maa-reen female . . . and your Flynn’s Raangers! We will need you all again!”
“We’ve got the city, Admiral,” Alden said when Keje-Fris-Ar entered his tent, now erected inside the original Grik defenses.
Keje was in his martial best: his new white Navy tunic and blue Marine-style kilt. The polished, chased, copper scale armor he’d always worn in battle was fastened over the tunic, though, and he still wore his old helmet. He also had standard-issue leggings and a web belt with a 1911 Colt holstered on one side and his old “skota” or “working sword” hanging from the other. He looked like a short, armored Navy bear.
“Splendid news, Generaal Aalden,” Keje replied. “When I got word that you desired the fleet to shift our fire to the north, I suspected as much and promptly came ashore! I hope I do not intrude.”
“Of course not!” Pete grinned. “This is a big deal, sir. The first time we’ve ever kicked the bastards out of one of their own provincial capitals! At least, Rolak’s pet Grik claims that’s what Colombo is. The little creep even acts excited for us, if you believe that!”
“I cannot fathom the Grik mind, Generaal. Even Lawrence has . . . exceedingly odd notions, and he is not Grik. Perhaps Hij Geerki is sincere, but I could not care less. Your victory here today, and Queen Protector Safir Maraan’s victory in the highlands are the greatest acts of the age! They will be recorded in the very scrolls!”
“Those scrolls of yours are going to get mighty long if we keep adding to them at this rate,” Pete said less enthusiastically. “We need to keep a history of this war, damn straight, but your ‘scrolls’ are sacred—and these battles today were an unholy mess. You know the details of the battle in the mountains?” Keje nodded. “Yeah, well, that was a real fight,” Pete continued. “This here was mostly just butchery once we broke through the first couple of countercharges. Rolak was right. General Grik filled his ranks with civilians; fishermen, artisans, builders, farmers—most were a buncha fogies by Grik standards. More head crests, like officers have, than we’ve ever seen before. A few females too, apparently, though you can hardly tell by lookin’ at ’em. Fatter, no crest, that sort of thing. Same teeth and claws.”
“Have any been found like Lawrence’s ‘Great Mother’?”
“No. Thousands of eggs left in joints like chicken coops, probably laid by the regular Grik broads hereabouts, but no big mama.” He looked away a moment. “I ordered all the eggs smashed. The few prisoners we took so far didn’t give a shit. You know? That part still gives me the heebie-jeebies. Wild Griklets runnin’ loose all through the woods, and nobody gives a damn about the eggs. Hell. According to Geeky, they used to eat the little buggers when they hatched. He doesn’t know why they’re takin’ over the jungle.”
“But you did secure prisoners? Any of account?”
“How should I know? Word is—again through Geeky—that the city manager, or whatever the hell he is, hauled his ass outta here with the ‘special warriors,’ whatever the hell that means. No word on General Grik, the guy in overall command. Maybe he knocked himself off like all the rest we’ve come across. Hope so. He’s no Napoleon, but he was startin’ to bark up some of the right trees.”
“Naa-po-leon?”
“Skip it.”
“What is the situation now?”
“Pretty much unchanged from my last wireless report. Victory in the mountains, but those forces didn’t come back here as I’d hoped. We were waiting if they did. General Maraan says they disengaged and retreated in an orderly fashion! Must’ve headed north.”
“I would wager that is where your ‘General Grik’ was.”
Pete sighed. “Probably so. His stunt almost worked, you know? I can hope his bones are smashed under one of
the goofy buildings they build around here, that First Fleet knocked flat. At least for a while.” He held up his hand. “I ain’t going to count on it, just hope it!” He grinned.
“You are pleased with the fleet’s gunnery?”
“Oh, you bet. Naval Air did a great job too. Whatever they used to knock those planes down this morning wasn’t here. They must’ve cobbled’em together in a hurry and taken them all. Bet we see ’em again, though, so the Airedales need to watch out. Anyway, like I said, the city’s knocked flat. Grik don’t go in much for fancy digs. Mostly adobe, either kind of sensible multistory, rectangular structures, or like . . . I don’t know, domes, I guess. Not much reinforcing. There’re a couple of exceptions, big buildings made of stone. You clobbered a couple; the forts overlooking the harbor, but there are more that didn’t take such a beating. Look like temples or something.” Pete shook his head. “I have some squads going through those, rooting out some really wild lizards, but maybe we’ll find something useful. I’ll send another squad with Geeky once the holdouts are hacked out. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to the little shit; he’s the only interpreter to the other Grik we caught.”
“Yes, and not only those, but the ones being held in Baalkpan all this time! How many did you take alive?” Keje asked.
“Altogether?” Pete’s expression turned to stone. “You know, I gave strict orders that nobody risk his life to take prisoners. Most think that seeing a Grik is too risky to let it live, and you know, I’m fine with that after the hell we’ve had trying to take ’em in the past. Some of the Ma-nilos and Sularans actually went out of their way to capture a few in ‘fancy dress,’ like I sorta asked.” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll never do that again.” He looked at Keje. “They captured nine, all civvies, who might’ve been willing to fold anyway, like Geeky, but the warriors defended ’em or killed ’em themselves. I’m pretty sure they killed more Grik here today than we did! As soon as it went in the pot, it was as if they had orders to kill every one of their own people they could catch! It cost me almost thirty good troops to capture—hell, rescue—nine of those lizard bastards. Regardless of what we might learn from ’em, it ain’t worth it, and I’ll never ask it again! Kill ’em all; that’s what they’d do.”
Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Page 40
