Firestorm d-6

by Taylor Anderson

  They’d come far enough like this, hthere weded, unable to return fire. They’d pounded the Doms with their artillery and mortars, and now they were taking their turn. Much closer, and even the smoothbores of the enemy would be just as effective as the battered Krag Chack always carried. He unslung the weapon and affixed the long Springfield bayonet.

  “Division!” he trilled in his best long-distance tone, only to hear the word race down the line, repeated half a dozen times. “Prepare to charge bayonets!” He was answered by an animalistic roar, and sixteen hundred glittering steel, two-foot spikes came down and leveled at the enemy.

  “Remember to reserve your fire until you’re right on them!” an officer shouted from some distance away. “It seems to rattle the sods!”

  “Charge!” screamed Chack.

  He’d faced more Grik charges than he could remember, and no matter how often he endured and survived the primal force of the Ancient Enemy-its wicked swords, short, thrusting spears, claws and ravening jaws-he still felt a shadow of the visceral horror that struck him the very first time. Implacable and remorseless as the Grik were, however, they attacked as a mob, a “swarm” as even they described it. General Alden had long told Chack that, daunting as their charges were, nothing could be more terrifying-to people-than a disciplined bayonet charge, executed by thinking, committed, determined beings. Chack had faced Dom bayonets, but not yet in a charge. He’d seen the effect his charge had at the Dueling Grounds… and he saw it again now. As usual in such matters, General Alden knew what he was talking about. Of course, Chack had added his own little twist that seemed to shake the Doms as badly as anything else: the point-blank volley before the clash that the Doms, with their plug bayonets, never expected-yet-and couldn’t answer. The rippling blast was devastating, and delivered so close that even after their short sprint, the unsteady hands of gasping men and Lemurians simply couldn’t miss. Then, with another roar that all but shattered the remaining defenders, the bayonets went to work.

  Despite Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar’s best attempts to stop him, Chack went in with the rest of them. He never fired the old Krag; the ammunition in its magazine was the “real stuff,” not the hard-cast black powder reloads. It was precious for its long-range accuracy and utter reliability, despite its age. He went in with the bayonet just like his Marines and fought with a savagery that frankly unnerved a few Imperials, and an economical proficiency and precision that came only with the hard experience he’d gained. Through it all, his diminutive female lieutenant and apparently self-appointed “protector” fought alongside him with similar competence and equal vigor. That would later unnerve some of Chack’s Imperials even more, when they had time to reflect on various things, such as their own attitude toward women-and the kind of combat that had taught Chack and Blas, and all the Lemurians, their skill. But more than that, if there’d been present any Imperial Marines who, despite the reputation Chack had gained at the Dueling Grounds, still clung to any concern or discontented notion that they were commanded by an “ape” or “wog,” it vanished in the swirling smoke and bloody ground north of Waterford, New Ireland, that day.

  The sky was purple, with long bloody streaks, when Major Blair found Chack in a large Dominion tent that was spared the firestorm that engulfed most of the enemy encampment when the mortars turned their wrath there. As always, Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar stood beside the brindled Lemurian while he sat on a bench, his furry tso bare, stoically enduring the stitches “Doc-Selass-Fris-Ar” applied to the dark, shaved skin over his left shoulder blade. Other wounded were in the tent, being tended by more “corps-’Cats” as even they’d begun calling themselves, and Chack seemed annoyed that Selass was bothering with him when others needed her attention more. In the middle distance, at the south edge of town, mortars still burst with their distinctive crackling thuds, and all the artillery of two divisions now thundered continuously, pulverizing the final works of the enemy along the shore of Lake Shannon.

  “I’m heartily glad to find you in one piece, my friend,” Blair said with a touch of reproach. “Or at least fit to be sewn back into one,” he added.

  Chack snorted. “You chastise me, when you creep along like a freshly hatched grawfish in the mud!” Chack pointed at Blair’s leg. “You still limp from the wound you had at the Dueling Grounds! You hid that before.”

  Blair chuckled and patted his leg. “Actually, this is new. Courtesy of a Dom musket butt.” He shrugged. “Perhaps not entirely new, then. The bugger hit me in the same blasted spot!”

  “Do you need someone to look at it?” Selass snapped, her large eyes flashing.

  Blair was taken aback, and wondered why she was so angry. Then it hit him. He suddenly remembered the rumors that she and Chack had a “history” of some sort; a history perhaps aggravated by her proximity, continued devotion, and Chack’s betrothal to the distant “General” Safir Maraan.

  “Um, no, not at all. It’s just a slight ache.”

  “Then, as soon as I’m finished with this foolish person, you can take him off somewhere where he can hurt himself yet again-and I can resume treating others!”

  “I just came here to check on the wounded. I never asked…” Chack began.

  “Be silent!” Selass ordered. “If you speak again… I will sew your arms together behind your back!”

  Chack said nothing more until Selass clipped the thread and daubed the wound with the purplish polta paste that would prevent infection. Even then, he didn’t speak while he snatched his bloody armor from a hook and gathered his weapons. Only once he, Blas, and Blair were outside the tent and among his and Blair’s waiting staffs-and the horses!-did he mutter, “I have always been respectful to that… spiky female. I can’t imagine why she hates me so.” Blas turned her head to hide the blinking she couldn’t stop, but her tail twitched erratically. “What?” Chack demanded angrily.

  “Nothing, Major,” Blas replied, hiding her eyes under the rim of her helmet. “I’m just a lowly Marine. Selass-Fris-Ar is almost royalty, as our Imperial allies reckon such things. Her father is the great Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Salissa Home, and ahd-mi-raal of First Fleet! Who am I to grasp the thoughts of one such as she?”

  Chack growled with frustration, but went to his horse and patted the animal affectionately. He turned to Blair. “Come, it is time to finish this. The enemy here cannot escape and can no longer harm us.” He remembered the sincere, confused sentiments of an Imperial lieutenant he’d last seen lying facedown in the bloody mud at the bottom of a Dom trench. “Perhaps we are doing murder now,” he murmured, swinging stiffly into the saddle. Then his voice grew louder. “We must at least offer them surrender.”

  “ Pity for the enemy?” Blair asked strangely as mal athe others mounted as well. “This from the hero of the Dueling Grounds who was physically dragged from the fighting?”

  Chack sighed. “Of course I pity them. Hard as it may be to remember at times, the Doms are people. They’re not born evil. They do evil because they’re taught to, forced to, bred to…” Suddenly, Chack felt heat at the back of his neck, coursing into his head-along with a staggering revelation. “ Bred to evil,” he said again, a picture of Lawrence, cheerfully-and relentlessly-guarding Princess Rebecca from any possible harm springing to his mind. Lawrence wasn’t Grik… but he was as much like them as Imperials were to Doms-or the remnants of the New Britain Company. Lawrence was no more different from the Grik than the evil Rasik-Alcas had been from Lord Rolak, his beloved Safir, or all the good People he knew. “Maker above,” he whispered, “let us hurry and see if the enemy will let us save them.”

  “Very well,” agreed Blair. “We must deal with them at any rate, and the less ammunition we expend, the better. The bulk of the enemy still infests New Dublin, across the Sperrin range. We must quickly prepare to threaten them there if the rest of the plan is to succeed-and every mortar bomb, roundshot, and musket ball we fire, not to mention the food to sustain us, must be brought over the Wiklow range from Cork, or all the
way down the Waterford road from Bray.”

  The group started down the central avenue of the mostly undamaged town, moving through groups of people whose reactions to seeing them ranged from exuberant joy to resentful silence, depending on whom they’d supported. The latter were few, at least they appeared to be, and there were cheers when they reached the city center, already guarded by Marines, and Chack ordered the Company flag, the virtual banner of New Ireland, cut down from the pole in front of the Director’s mansion. After that, he and the rest of his entourage rode purposefully on, toward the sound of the guns.

  CHAPTER 15

  USS Maaka-Kakja Southwest of New Wales

  C aptain Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan angrily slapped the message form against her left hand, and Sandra Tucker looked at her with concern. She and Princess Rebecca, as well as several other Maaka-Kakja officers, had gathered on the bridge, forward of the comm shack to catch the latest news.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know… The issue on New Ireland grows more confusing by the hour!” She jerked her head to the side. “What seemed well in hand and going according to plan has apparently spun into the ‘pot,’ I fear.”

  “What’s up?” asked Irvin Laumer.

  “Yes, please tell us!” pleaded the princess.

  “Yess! Goddamn!” echoed Petey-more crassly-peering around Rebecca’s head from his perch on her back. Nobody paid his outbursts any attention anymore.

  Lelaa glanced at the anxious group, all of whom she cared a great deal about.

  “Majors Chack and Blair have reached their mountain pass objective and hold a good position on the ridge south of New Dublin. Sor-Lomaak and Salaama-Na, flagship of the bombardment element, heaps satisfactory abuse on the harbor defenses… That much remains according to projections. But those defenses have not weakened in response to Chack’s presence in their rear-and Dominion forces continue to sprout in… unexpected places. Apparently, there were far more troops at Belfast and Easky than ever expected, and they’ve counterattacked. The beachhead at Bray has been overrun, and the one at Cork is sorely pressed. An army-presumably the same that recaptured Bray, now marches south toward Waterford and threatens Chack’s rear!” She sighed. “And now Salaama-Na begins to run short of ammunition-far in advance of the more intense covering bombardment that was planned.”

  “One would almost suspect that the enemy is as well versed on Major Chack’s plan as we are,” Brassey observed quietly.

  “Indeed,” agreed Lelaa.

  “Somebody in the Imperial command must’ve squealed,” Irvin snarled. “That’s the only answer. They had to know what our guys meant to do before they even did it. How else would they know to place troops just so, and keep them quiet until the right-worst-time?”

  “And where are they all coming from?” Sandra demanded. “The troops that took refuge there after the battle for New Scotland might account for the numbers Chack reported facing, but not many more than that.. .. There had to be more already there, or they’re still coming from somewhere else nearby!”

  “But where?” Lelaa murmured. She stepped to the chart table and peered down at it. Most Lemurians still called the charts “scrolls” even though those used by the Navy had none of the religious, cultural, or historic passages recorded by the prophet, Siska-Ta. It didn’t matter. The term was almost interchangeable in the Lemurian-English patois that had begun to evolve-and Siska-Ta had never drawn scrolls of this region, anyway. Lelaa gauged the distance to New Ireland. They were just close enough to launch an air attack on New Dublin, but the planes would never make it back. They could set down at New Glasgow on New Scotland, however, and if “Oil Can” prepositioned fuel there as they were supposed to…

  “Pass the word for Lieutenant Reddy and Colonel Shinya,” Lelaa said. “Reddy is COFO, for all practical purposes, though he’s only once now flown a ‘Naancy.’ He’s formed and organized the wing even better than I expected. No doubt… different from the way Colonel Mallory or Captain Tikker would have it, but the inexperienced chaos is at an end. I’ll see what he has to say. As for Colonel Shinya… it seems we will need to land his troops. I would like his views on that.”

  Shinya and Orrin Reddy joined the group-with Dennis Silva and “Larry the Lizard.” Lawrence apparently suspected something was up, because he came dressed in his Sa’aaran battle kit, to everyone’s surprise. Oddly, Orrin and Silva had grown close over the weeks. That probably had to do with Orrin’s youth and exuberance as much as anything. He was built much like his cousin, and though he’d begun to “put some meat back on his bones” after his ordeal, he’d never be a physical match for Silva. But his and Silva’s personalities complemented each other, and Silva’s fondness for his captain seemed to have extended to the man’s younger cousin to a degree. “Maniacal giant meets fearless fighter jock,” Sandra had commented.

  Lelaa greeted them all but first turned to Orrin. “Lieutenant,” she said, “please determine whether there actually is fuel, as well as sufficient facilities at New Glasgow to service our aircraft. If so, I have two missions for the Fourth Naval Air Wing. We’ll immediately send the Ninth and Eleventh Bomb Squadrons to attack Dominion positions on New Ireland. They’ll rearm and refuel for subsequent sorties at New Glasgow.”

  “What about the Twelfth?” Orrin asked.

  “It remains here in reserve, as will the Tenth Pursuit. I want the Seventh Pursuit to scout the sea between New Wales and New Ireland”-she peered closer at the chart-“this Saint George’s Channel, and determine if any enemy forces linger beyond our fleets. The Seventh will then proceed north of New Ireland, overfly the defenses at New Dublin, and determine the disposition of the enemy before also proceeding to New Glasgow. The pursuit ships will carry no bombs, so range should not be an issue.”

  “What targets for the bombers?”

  Lelaa pointed. “The Ninth will overfly Belfast and Bray before turn- ing southeast toward Waaterford. Its objective is to destroy enemy concentrations along that route, but to focus efforts closer to Waaterford if necessary.” She huffed in exasperation. “We just don’t know what’s there! There is no direct communication with the interior! Regardless, the Ninth should have the fuel to backtrack and hit any major concentrations they spot along the way if Waaterford remains secure.”

  “And the Eleventh?”

  “The Eleventh will provide air support at Cork. They should be able to coordinate with the naval forces offshore, either by wireless or signal flags.”

  “Okay,” Orrin said. “Sounds straightforward enough.” He chuckled. “Way simpler than some of the wild-goose chases FEAF sent us on in the Philippines! Which squadron do I take?”

  “None.”

  “Now wait a sec…!”

  “Lieutenant Reddy,” Lelaa began severely, “like it or not, you’re something of an important person, through no fault or act of your own. You’re kin to our supreme military commander. Besides that, you’re acting COFO of the Fourth Naval Air Wing, not just another pursuit pilot! In those roles, some responsibility is inherent. You must instruct our fliers what to do, depending on what they find at their objectives. To retain a ‘big picture’ view, you must remain in wireless contact-with a scroll before you-not romping off on your own, an individual combat pilot!” Lelaa paused, deciding to toss the suddenly crestfallen young man a bone. “Besides, if needed, you’ll lead the reserve flights.”

  “Yes, ma’am, uh, Captain Lelaa,” he replied.

  “What do you need of me?” Shinya asked. He’d been studying the chart with one ear tuned to the conversation around him.

  “Your force may be needed to retrieve this situation. Where should you land where you can best support Major Chack, while contributing to the completion of the overall mission of liberating New Ireland?”

  “What a load of crap,” Orrin said as he, Silva, and Lawrence trotted down the companionway from the comm shack where he’d just determined that New Glasgow at least thought it had everything they needed. He gestured at
a “Nancy” perched on its launch truck. “Flying those things is a cinch… and what’s this crud about being ‘important’?”

  “Maybe it is a cinch; I wouldn’t know. Scared ta death o’ flyin’ myself. But why do you want to? To fight, or just zoot around? Can’t have gen’rals leadin’ cavalry charges,” Silva clucked. “An’ you have wormed your way to the top of the flyboy heap.” He stopped and shook his head. “That Cap’n Lelaa’s got brains. She knows what she’s doin’. You do as she says; go brief your ‘Nancy’ boys-an’ don’t treat it like a chore.” Siva’s scarred face turned uncharacteristically serious. “I know you’re still new here, but these little guys, these ’Cats, are good people, an’ they’re in this fight in a big way.” He shrugged. “You had a rough war. We all did. An’ maybe this ain’t your war yet, the way it is for me an’ hisself, your cousin.” He held out his big hands. “I ain’t gonna wave no bloody shirt er nothin, an’ I know how tough it is to go from hatin’ Japs to gettin’ along with Colonel Shinya.” He snorted. “An’ maybe I still have trouble now an’ then thinkin’ of him as a good guy-but I trust him, an’ if you’ll take anything from me, take this: he is a ‘ right’ guy.”