“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 hack yell 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 corner 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 planed 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-tat ted 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!”
Reaching the warped, wingless wreckage, he saw a practically shaven head, followed by a pair of massive shoulders, a Thomson SMG, and then mighty arms pried themselves through the relatively small oval opening like a brontasarry emerging from an improbably tiny egg. The head swiveled, exposing a blond beard and black eye patch. A good eye focused on Chack, and the brow above it arched.
“Goddamn snakey-bird bastards!” Dennis Silva grumbled. “ This ain’t my fault!”
“Dennis!” Chack was utterly stunned. He’d heard of Silva’s recent exploits, but the last time he’d seen his friend was before the “Second Allied Expeditionary Force” left to secure Aryaal and B’mbaado, and finally invaded Singapore. That force was now collectively referred to as “First Fleet,” and so much had happened since…
“It’s me in the battered flesh, Chackie! Are you gonna stand there starin’ and chewin’ yer cud, or help me outta this junk heap before I have a hydrophobic fit?”
Except for a few ugly cuts, Silva emerged relatively unharmed. Quickly, they practically tore the plane off Lieutenant Reddy. The man was unconscious but alive, and they carried him to a group of trees and laid him on the grass. Lawrence was banged up, but not too badly. They’d found him in the nose of the plane, under its pilot, where he’d tumbled during the crash. He limped a little from smashing the control stick and rudder pedals with his hip, but he quickly busied himself removing their weapons from the wreckage.
“What about the wireless set?” Silva demanded loudly, checking Orrin’s pulse.
“It’s ’usted,” Lawrence cried back, his voice muffled. “You ’recked it’ith your idiot ass!” Despite his aches, Lawrence was very happy to be on the ground, in one piece.
“Okay… burn the wreck. Don’t want the Doms getting a good loot it!”
“Ay, ay, General Sil’a!” Lawrence retorted.
“Our little lizard is growing up,” Chack said fondly. He was surprised how glad he was to see them both. He stooped. “This is the ‘Reddy Cousin’ the reports mentioned?” he asked, looking down at the unconscious man. “Doesn’t look like him… to me.”
“Me neither,” Silva said. “Not much. But he’s a good’un-in different ways. We need to take care of him.”
“Of course. The area behind us is mostly secure now. Take these troops and escort him back to the harbor. You will meet Imperial Marines and possibly shore parties from Salaama-Na. ”
“Nope,” Silva said as the ruined “Nancy” began to burn and Lawrence limp-trotted back with weapons on his shoulders-and a long object in his hands.
“Send these other fellas. I done all I can in the Air Corps. I ain’t been in a real fight in a while. I’m with you.” He suddenly noticed what Lawrence had. “Oh nooooo!”
“What?” Chack asked.
“The war’s lost! My be-loved ‘Doom Whomper’ is busted!” The giant flintlock rifled musket he’d made from a turned-down 25-mm antiaircraft gun barrel from sunken Amagi had broken at the wrist in the crash. He shouldn’t have brought it, not for this fight, but it had saved him so many times in such a variety of ways, he never knew when he’d need it. It was his lucky charm.
“You can ’ix it,” Lawrence said. He seemed equally affected.
“Yeah… well, bring it with us,” Silva said. “You can still sling the big part, an’ stick the buttstock in the shootin’ pouch!”
“Why I gotta carry it?” Lawrence demanded, suddenly less concerned.
“I gotta wag this Thompson an’ this heavy bag o’ magazines,” Dennis retorted. “Not to mention my cutlass, bayonet, an’ pistol. You don’t even need a sword-you got them claws.”
“I broke one!” Lawrence complained.
“Woop-te-do. We get in a fight, you can set my poor rifle down-gently-an’ pitch in. Till then, you wag it… or I won’t let you go huntin’ with me no more!”
Lawrence fumed but slung the broken weapon and heavy pouch that went with it.
“This reunion is swell,” Chack said, “but we must get out of here.” He motioned toward the now furiously burning “Nancy.” “Besides, we still have a battle. We must finish it before the enemy comes over the mountains behind us.”
“I agree on all counts,” Silva said, “but don’t worry about the last. Shinya’s comin’ ashore at Cork, an’ maybe Easky in the mornin’, with four nice, fresh, well-trained regiments, chompin’ at the bit. He’ll have more air too. There ain’t nothin’ on this whole shitty island he’ll even notice bustin’ through. An’ as for the bad guys attackin’ that Waterford burg”-he shrugged-“me an’ the lieutenant, an’ a few other planes pretty much took care o’ that, I figger.”
“What did you do?”
Dennis chuckled. “Wasn’t my fault… mostly. Wasn’t even my idea.” He nodded at the motionless man and looked at the squad that would carry him out. “You take good care o’ him. Like I said, he’s a good’un!”
CHAPTER 19
Central Highlands Grik Ceylon
C olonel “Billy” Flynn was riding one of six paalkas, drawing a battery of light six-pounders on split-trail “galloper” carriages near the front of the column of his 1st Amalgamated. He still liked “Flynn’s Rangers” better, and through persistent repetition, he had enough people using the term that he was confident the moniker would stick. He had two more batteries of light guns along, one in the middle and another at the rear of the column. Looking back at the winding snake of Lemurians, he was proud of what he’d accomplished and what they’d achieved. They might not be Marines, or the Six Hundred, but he’d put his thousand-’Cat regiment up against any Army unit anywhere, especially with their new rifled muskets. Soon, they’d even have breechloaders, and he couldn’t wait. Since they’d been among the first to get rifles, they’d probably be the last to get the “Allin-Silva” conversions, however.
He guessed it was inevitable that he’d wound up “back” in the Army. He had good leadership skills and remembered by heart the infantry drill manual he’d been taught. For a while, Captain Reddy used him to help create a new manual that was applicable here. He’d modified and simplified the original in his head and unconsciously substituted a number of nautical terms and commands here and there, but it seemed to work okay. The new book-the first printed on this world with movable type-was titled Flynn’s Tactics. He wouldn’t admit it, but that “honor” actually embarrassed him. Ultimately, his manual set the stage for his getting his own regiment, and the irony of his command wasn’t lost on him. He’d made corporal in the 77th “Melting Pot” Division during the Great War, and now he had the “Amalgamated,” another “melting pot” of people from every Lemurian Home they were known to inhabit, mostly uniformed alike now, and many from places still trying to stay out of the war.
A good example of that was the nominal commander of his newest-if possibly temporary-company: Lieutenant Commander Saaran-Gaani, the brown-and-white-furred former exec of USS Donaghey. He was one of a few, but growing number of troops recruited from the Great South Island that really needed to be in the war. Not only was it a vast land with many resources, it was fairly well populated in the warmer north. He hoped ’Cats like Saaran could take their stories home and get their various Homes, or “city-states” on board. The allies needed the Great South Island much like the Brits and French needed the U.S. in the “last” war.
Billy’s contemplations were disturbed by a more immediate concern-his ass. He hated riding palkas. With their broad backs, it was probably about as comfortable as riding an elephant. He tried to sit as he’d seen folks do in movies, riding camels and such, but the damn pal-ka’s rolling gait and this unpredictable terrain made that almost suicidal. Therefore, whenever he was “aboard” one, he was perpetually doing the splits. He’d ride only a little while more, he decided; just long enough to give his knees and ankles a rest. He’d been a submariner too long, and honestly, he had some joint issues. Some of that likely stemmed from the near-scurvy he and the others experienced on Talaud Island while marooned for the better part of a year. He’d heard the island had blown itself apart, and though he was saddened by the loss of life and the damage to their Fil-pin allies, he was glad the island was gone.
“Somebody stop this goddamn thing,” he finally growled. “I’ve h all the ‘rest’ I can stand.” The Lemurian mahout stopped the beast by a means Billy didn’t see, and he slid gingerly down the animal’s flank, to be assisted to the ground by Captain Bekiaa-Sab-At. “Lemme go,” Flynn protested.
“Very well, Colonel, but if you break a leg or ankle in these rocks, you’ll have to ride a paalka all the time.”
“Yeah? Well, sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to snap. Just mad at my own worn-out carcass. Walk with me a little, wilya?”
“Of course.”
It was beautiful here; th
e mountains rising on either side of the valley, the heavy timber composed of something like ferny pines. It was cool, and for once the mosquitoes weren’t that bad except at dawn and dusk. Even the “Griklets,” the feral youngling Grik that dogged the column all the way up from the southern coast, screeching at them, throwing sticks, rocks, and feces, and occasionally even attacking, had finally laid off.
It did stink, though.
The valley they advanced through had been packed with Grik just a few days before, but after Alden’s breakthrough on the coastal plain, recon had reported the enemy abandoning the rough terrain to reinforce the southern approaches to the industrial heart of Ceylon; the area between “Colombo” and the natural low-tide causeway connecting the big island to the “Indian” subcontinent. The stench left by the departed Grik “Army” still lingered heavy in the valley, however. Grik didn’t use slit trenches, and the reek of their dung was all-pervasive. Billy wondered how on earth they avoided epidemics. Maybe they didn’t and just ate their dead. The stench of rotting flesh was strong as well.
Saaran joined them, wearing a bandanna over his face. “If this is what it smells like when the Grik leave, I’d hate to be in a confined place like this valley when they were here! I thought it was bad on the Sand Spit when we were downwind of them.”
Flynn’s brow furrowed. “Stink wouldn’t be the worst thing about being in a place like this!” he said, looking up at the wooded flanks of the mountains. “I wish we had comm down in here.” He glanced at his watch. “Another twenty minutes or so before our guardian angels check on us,” he added, referring to the four-plane flight tasked to watch over the long, winding column. “Anything from the flank pickets?”
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