Firestorm d-6

by Taylor Anderson

  “This is a good, defensible position,” Garrett shouted at last, over the wind and crashing sea, “provided we can get enough provisions and fresh water ashore. There’s no apparent source for either. That river’ll be too salty. We’ll leave Donaghey ’s guns aboard her for now. She should hold together, and if she stays put, she’ll make a fine flanking battery against any force coming along the peninsula at us, not to mention protecting us from a sea approach. We ’ve got to get Tolson ’s guns out of her, though, before she flips.” He paused. “The bad thing is, there’s nothing here to use as breastworks, nothing to fort up behind. No big rocks, no trees to knock down, nothing.”

  “ Tolson ’ll break up eventually,” Smitty said. “We can use her timbers as they wash ashore.”

  “Maybe. That might take a while, though, and what if she doesn’t? What if this storm plays out before then?” He shook his head. “After we get what we can out of her, if she’s still holding together, we’ll have to break her ourselves; then build trenches and reinforce them with her planks and beams.”

  “Cap’n Chapelle’s gonna hate that.”

  “So do I. It’s one thing to use what the sea takes off her; it’s another to kill her ourselves.” He shook his head. “Nothing for it.” They’d returned to that portion of the beach being used to stack supplies and equipment taken from the ships. Hundreds of ’Cats scurried around, carrying barrels and crates from the few boats and dozens of makeshift raftsthat labored ashore. Getting back out to the ships was the hard part. They had to pull themselves along heavy cables anchored to the land. Marine Lieutenant Bekiaa-Sab-At and Shipfitter Stanley “Dobbin” Dobson, both from Tolson, hurried up and hastily saluted. They were soaking wet.

  “Respects from Cap’n Chaa-pelle,” Bekiaa said. “Almost half Tolson ’s people are ashore… there have been a few accidents… and we’re getting the supplies out that are in the most danger from the flooding. Skipper wants to know how you want to get the guns ashore.” Garrett was glad Chapelle’s priorities mirrored his. Surviving the night would be an accomplishment, but it would mean nothing without the guns to defend them.

  “Float them in if you can,” Garrett said. “If that can’t be managed, we’ll have to drag them.”

  “Drag them!” Dobbin sputtered. “Drag them two-ton monsters a quarter mile through the sand and surf?”

  “Yeah,” Garrett replied. “Secure them to cables and throw them off their carriages. Donaghey can pull them most of the way with her capstan. We’ve got almost a thousand men and ’Cats, probably three hundred already ashore. We’ll drag them ourselves if we have to. The carriages too. They’ll sink, but they’re mostly wood. They won’t weigh nearly as much in the water.”

  “Oh,” Dobbin said thoughtfully. “I guess fellas do become officers for a reason.”

  Garrett chuckled at Dobson’s unconscious, backhanded compliment. “Lieutenant,” he said, addressing Bekiaa, “stay here on the beach. Any more Marines that come ashore, send them to Lieutenant Graana-Fas; he’s with the supplies. I expect he’ll send any Marines with dry muskets or bows to bolster our pickets. If any arrive with wet weapons or none, he’ll probably give them something dry or put them to work here.” He glanced at his watch. Fortunately, the precious device hadn’t gotten wet. ‘This night may be all the time we have; our only grace period. We’d better be prepared for a Grik probe, at least, by dawn. Maybe it’ll come then, maybe it won’t, but we have to be ready if it does. When it does, we can expect exponentially stronger Grik attacks very soon thereafter. If we’re not dug in tighter than a tick, with heavy guns ready and waiting, we will die here.”

  “Ay, ay, sur!”

  First Fleet

  Like a massive herd of brontasarries, interspersed with the smaller, swifter, horned beasts they cooperated with in the wild, First Fleet raised its anchors and began to steam or sail forth from Andaman harbor. Salissa ’s battle group was the first to leave, shaking out into its underway formation with the first rays of the sun. She was screened by the steam frigates, or “DDs” Scott, Dowden, Nakja-Mur, and Kas-Ra-Ar, which made up “Des-Div 1.” The fleet oilers and transports followed, screened by the steam frigates of Des-Div 3; Tassat, Haakar-Faask, Naga, and Bowles, along with the swift, razeed corvettes, or “DEs.” By the time Humfra-Dar ’s battle group, consisting of the carrier, Felts, Saak-Fas, Davis, and Ramic-Sa-Ar of Des-Div 2, cleared the harbor entrance, everyone knew it would be dawn on Ceylon, and the risk of discovery to TF Garrett increased with every hour.

  At least they knew most aboard the two stranded ships had survived the night. Everyone had been surprised when the transmissions never ceased. Chief Signalman (“radioman” just didn’t seem appropriate anymore) Clancy, aboard Donaghey, had apparently managed to preserve his equipment and there’d been a blow-by-blow account of the grounding and the following, feverish effort to establish a defensive position. So far, the defenses sounded awfully thin, but ingenious attempts were underway to bolster them. Given enough time, the castaways might just manage to hold until help arrived. Occasionally, “Nancys” from Andaman’s patrol wing (PatWing) 2 buzzed the ships on their predetermined scouting missions to ensure no Grik ships lurked nearby to observe the departure of the fleet. Once they were out of range of the island-based planes, Tikker and Humfra-Dar ’s COFO would coordinate an almost-continuous CAP, or “Combat Air Patrol” to cover the fleet’s advance. They might have to launch the long-awaited invasion of Ceylon at a time and place not of their choosing, but the enemy didn’t have to know that. Chances were, even after TF Garrett was discovered, it would never dawn on the Grik that that was where the invasion would come.

  There was a brisk wind, more out of the south now, when Alan Letts stepped to Salissa ’s starboard bridgewing rail. He’d come to find Keje, but the “Ahd-mi-raal” wasn’t on the bridge. Drawn by the panorama of the mighty fleet they’d built, he forgot his errand and couldn’t help but stand and stare.

  “It’s a… stunning spectacle, is it not?” came a voice beside him. Letts turned to see Captain Risa-Sab-At, Chack’s sister, standing beside him. Once a “wing runner” like her brother, a member of the “forewing clan” on this very ship, she commanded “ Big Sal ’s” Marine contingent these days.

  “It is,” he said, almost wonderingly. “I’ve seen these things built”-he gestured around at the frigates-“or turned into flat-tops like Big Sal, but the only time I’ve ever seen them move is when I’d shove wooden boats around on a map in Baalkpan. My God, I needed this! I love my job, my wife, my daughter; shoot, I love my life in Baalkpan, working for Chairman Adar. But finally seeing all this, being part of it… makes me realize how important everything I’ve been doing back home is.”

  “You are both glad you came, yet wish you were home?” Risa asked with a rumbling chuckle.

  “Yeah…” Alan said thoughtfully. He shrugged. “But I had to come; somebody needed to sort out the logistical mess, and I’ve made a start. Besides, maybe desk weenies like me need to see the sharp end once in a while to keep a grip on what they do best”-he grinned-“ just like crazed killing machines like you ought to push wooden boats around a map every now and then.”

  Risa coughed and swished her tail. “No thank you! I’m a Marine now, but being attached to the ship keeps me out of the fighting enough as it is. This war has changed a lot. Marines don’t fight on the ships so much anymore.”

  Below them, on the flight deck, a PB-1B “Nancy” floatplane brought its engine up, and the noise stifled their conversation for a moment. With a signal to one of the ’Cats to the side, the plane plunged forward amid a kind of vapor of hydraulic oil and soared away over the purple-blue sea. A crew of Lemurians retrieved the cradle trolley from the end of the flight deck and hauled it back into position where the crane would place another plane upon it.

  “Ingenious,” Alan remarked.

  “But slow,” Keje said, joining them at the rail. “ Humfra-Dar has two catapults,” he added enviously, “that don’t spra
y oil all over the deck. We don’t he to use them when the wind is fair, such as now, but the pilots need the practice. I’m told the experience is quite exhilarating… much like being fired from a cannon, no doubt.” He looked at Alan. “You were looking for me?”

  Suddenly at a loss, Letts had to concentrate to remember why. “Oh yeah. Actually, I was looking for you, Pete, Lord Rolak… and Rolak’s pet Grik. I was going over all the jillion things an operation like this involves when I had a weird thought…”

  Gathered in Keje’s sprawling quarters, joined not only by those Alan requested, but by Risa, Nurse Lieutenant Kathy McCoy, General Queen Safir Maraan, and several other ground force commanders including even Billy Flynn, Letts seemed a little self-conscious. “Gee, guys,” he said defensively. “I just got struck by a cockeyed notion. I didn’t expect a staff meeting over it.”

  “This ain’t a staff meeting,” Pete said, “but a lot of the stuff you dream up is worth paying attention to.”

  “Are we still in contact with Donaghey?” Alan hastened to ask.

  “Yeah,” Pete confirmed. “They’re digging in, hand over fist. Haven’t seen so much as a sand crab so far, but I doubt that’ll last.”

  “Maybe it will,” Letts hoped. “Maybe the spot they went aground is secluded enough, the lizards won’t notice.”

  “Maybe,” said Pete doubtfully.

  “You’ve been getting too much sun again, Mr. Letts,” Kathy suddenly clucked in a motherly way. “What would Karen say if she saw you all red and peeling like that?”

  Taken aback by this unexpected chastisement, Alan felt even more self-conscious. The sun did terrible things to his fair skin. “Why, I guess she’d be sore…” He shook his head. “Look, all I wanted to do is ask the lizard a few questions.” He looked at Hij Geerki, standing attentively behind Rolak ’s stool. The old Grik cocked his head. He came from a class of Hij required to do sums and inventories, and Letts intended to learn as much as he could from the creature about Grik logistics-among other things. Geerki understood written English and was beginning to pick up spoken words. He carried a writing tablet and a piece of chalk to answer questions.

  “Do step forward, Hij Geerki,” Rolak commanded. “You will answer this man’s questions to the best of your ability.”

  “Aye, Lord,” Geerki replied. He could say that much. He stepped closer to Keje’s ornate table, careful not to touch it. This was the first time Letts had gotten a really good look at Rolak’s “pet.” Its feathery crest was long and graying and the once dun-colored, striated “pelt” of downy fur was shot with white, but still… Though it was ravaged by age, most of its teeth broken, lost, or worn to nubs, its claws clipped and rounded, it was still a fearsome sight. Even if its skin hung loose over atrophied muscle, it was bigger than Lawrence, and while Rebecca’s friend had become “one of the guys,” and wasn’t really a Grik at all, this thing still had a profound aura of savage. .. otherness… about it. Alan had been in the fighting for Baalkpan-briefly-and the only live Grik he’d ever seen this close had been trying to kill him.

  “Well, ah, listen, Geerki. I’d like to know more about those Grik horns-how they work, what the different sounds mean, things like that.” He looked around. “Do you think he understands me?”

  “Ol’ Geeky understands,” Pete confirmed. “And evidnti, he’ll even tell you the truth, if he knows it. Sometimes he doesn’t, and he’s been known to make up stuff he thought Rolak wanted to hear, but that’s over now… ain’t it, Geeky?”

  “O’er,” Geerki agreed solemnly. Quickly he wrote on the tablet: “No more make up. Not know, say so. New masters not like old. Want honest only. Better honest not know than lie, make masters glad.”

  “Huh.” Alan looked at Rolak. “You trust him?”

  Rolak blinked affirmative. “I suppose I do,” he said. “As best we can tell, he either tells us the truth or-now-tells us he doesn’t know. He’s given us a good picture of Grik population and industrial centers, as well as warrior concentrations-as they were when last he was on Saa-lon.”

  “Why?” Alan wondered aloud.

  Pete shrugged. “He’s figured out we’re not ‘prey’; can’t be, since we kicked hell out of the warriors he ‘belonged to.’ That makes us ‘hunters’ like any other that might’ve done the same thing. Turns out the devils fight one another all the time when there’s not somebody like us to pick on. Anyway, the ‘civvies,’ like him, belong to whoever wins, and at Rangoon, that was us.” He shrugged again. “Weird.”

  “And perhaps useful… or problematic,” Keje said.

  “In any event, if he knows the answer to what you ask about the horns, he will tell you,” Rolak assured him.

  Hij Geerki knew quite a lot about Grik horns, as it turned out. Like many other things, he’d been responsible for their procurement. Through a series of questions, alternately written and spoken, Geerki described how they were made, used, and what the three tones they were capable of making meant. It had long been a mystery how the sounds were made. Grik were even less suited to blowing horns than Lemurians were; yet as the Allied armies had discovered, sound commands on the battlefield were essential. The allies had resorted to drums and simple whistles even ’Cats could blow. Various tattoos or sequences of whistle blasts meant different things. The same was true for the Grik, but they’d contrived instruments blown by a bellowslike device to create the bloodcurdling, rumbling roars they used. The horn itself had two holes in it, and a different sound resulted from the simple expedient of depressing the bellows with a wooden plug stuck in either or none of the holes. One sound was a warning. Another was blown to assemble all warriors within earshot. The last was a signal to attack.

  “I’ll be damned,” Pete confessed. “Hell, we’ve captured some of the gizmos. Didn’t know what they were.”

  “Are any aboard here?” Alan asked.

  “I don’t know. Could be. I’ll find out. If we kept any, they might be back on Andaman.”

  “We’re still close enough for a plane to bring one out, as long as it refuels for the return,” Keje suggested. He looked at Alan. “Why?”

  “Well, think about it. I’m no infantryman, but just imagine the confusion we could cause if we had some of those horns to toot on at the right time.”

  “Wow,” Pete said. “That’s a swell idea.” He paused. “And one that doesn’t leave this compartment,” he warned. “We might make use of it at some point, but it’ll take more than a couple of horns to pull it off. It’ll probably only work once on a large scale, and that’s the only way it makes sense to use it.” He looked at Letts and scratched his beard. “You know, we nd to keep this in our back pocket, but maybe start up a ‘dirty tricks division’-start getting some guys to work making more ‘Grik horns,’ and cooking up other angles on stuff the Grik do that we can use against them.” He grinned. “This is the sort of stunt you plan a battle around, and I want more of ’em to choose from!”

  “Ha!” barked Rolak. “A ‘dirty tricks division’! That is just what we need to put some ‘fun’ in this dreadful war, and maybe it will help us win it!” He looked around. “Obviously, Mr. Letts should be in charge…”

  “As if I didn’t have enough stuff to do already,” Alan interrupted, but he was grinning too.

  “Indeed,” Rolak agreed. “I suspect you and Hij Geerki will be spending a great deal of time together!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Adar’s Great Hall Baalkpan December 25, 1943

  A dar, High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan and Chairman of the Grand Alliance (COTGA), sat stiffly on a heap of cushions in the “War Room” section of the Great Hall. Ironically, it was one of the few places he could find “peace” anymore, since only those invited, or had a “need to know” what was discussed inside, were ever allowed. He took refuge there more and more often during the days when office seekers, deputations from other Allied powers, and representatives of the Home and Allied Councils sought him out to berate or cajole him concerning what he saw as
trivial matters. Some were trivial and others weren’t, but Adar wasn’t a High Chief by temperament, at least in the jovial fashion of his predecessor, the Great Nakja-Mur. Once a simple Sky Priest, a celestial observer who’d charted Salissa Home’s nautical wanderings by plotting her position on the Sacred Scrolls of the prophet Siska-Ta, he’d become a “War Leader”; a position, even a concept, unimaginable to most Lemurians just a few years before. He hated it.

  He longed to be just a simple warrior; to personally fight the hated Grik, but he had neither the training for, nor the “luxury” of engaging in such a personal craving. Perhaps because he was a Sky Priest, able to grasp the evidently progressively more flawed, but still pertinent “big picture” of life, he was possibly uniquely qualified to lead the Grand Alliance through the ever-expanding panorama of an increasingly global war. Right now, he wasn’t leading anything, even the conversation flowing around him. He merely sat listening intently, his silver eyes fastening on each speaker in turn.

  “Some of Ben’s toys are washouts, if you’ll pardon the term,” said Walker ’s former comm officer, and Adar’s acting chief of staff, Steve Riggs. He was also “Minister of Communications and Electrical Contrivances.” “But we might save some of the radios. There were even a few spare sets aboard Santa Catalina. Might help Pete with his mashed-up comm. They’re short-range sets, of course, but still plenty useful, tactically. We can have the operators speak ’Cat in case the Japs still have, or have developed, a new means of listening in.”

  “Good idea,” said Rolando “Ronson” Rodriguez, the former EM who’d taken over most of Steve’s day-to-day responsibilities, particularly where it came to electrical power and comm development. “I’ll pry what I can from Colonel Mallory. We’ll be able to build similar sets soon, now that we’re blowing glass and we’ve got a vacuum chamber to assemble tubes in.” He shrugged. “It’s just a little thing now, nalproof of concept,’ but it works, and we’ve made some rectifier tubes already.” He grinned. “They’re pretty big and look like a squash, but at the rate we’re going, we’d have voice comm with Walker in a month-if she were closer.”