Pete climbed to the top of the breastworks, looking back at his creation. The Marines were his, of course, but even the various national regiments were “his” in a way. The tactics were Captain Reddy’s, but he was the one who, with—now Colonel—Tamatsu Shinya’s help, had formed the Armies of the Alliance. Currently, Shinya was still doing the same job in Maa-ni-la. For a moment, oblivious to the growing tide that prepared to thunder down upon it, he took time to admire what he’d achieved. Ostentatiously, he unslung his own M-1903 Springfield, with “S.A. 1—21” stamped prominently near the muzzle, and pulled his sixteen-inch bayonet from its scabbard. The bayonet was dated 1917. Strangely, it suddenly occurred to him that he’d been nine then. Thirteen when his beloved rifle was made. Odd, The sort of Things that go Through your mind at Times like This. He shook his head. The Grik tide had been released.
“First Marines! Fix ... bayonets!”
Weapons came back off the shoulders they’d been resting on, and the twenty-inch, triangular-bladed socket bayonets were jerked from their scabbards. Adding an historical flourish that Captain Reddy had thought of and Pete just loved, every Marine brandished his bayonet with a roar, as if showing it to the enemy. Then, with a satisfying clatter, the wicked weapons were affixed to the muzzles of eight hundred muskets.
There was no Grik-fire this time. It had all apparently been destroyed by the earlier bombardment, but swarms of crossbow bolts filled the air. Pete stepped down, grinning, from the breastworks, and rejoined Rolak, who’d been watching him with interest.
“You are a most unusual creature, General Aal-den,” Rolak said. “In some ways you remind me of Cap-i-taan Reddy. Even as I grow to dislike this war, I believe you are learning to enjoy it!”
“God help me, Rolak, I think I do—but not the way you think. I purely do enjoy killin’ the literal hell outta those nasty Grik bastards, and I’m proud of the tools we’ve put together to do it. But you got the Skipper wrong if you think he likes all this. He doesn’t, really.” Pete paused a moment, thoughtful, while the Grik horde swept down upon them. “Not usually, anyway,” he said at last. “It does bring out the best in him, though, doesn’t it?” He glanced quickly over the breastworks. It was time. “You may employ your artillery now, General Rolak!”
Firing off the muzzle blast of the next gun in line, one after another, two batteries of five light six-pounders each sprayed canister into the face of the charging mass of Grik. Again the distinctive yellowish-white smoke accompanied the thunderclaps, and through the smoke the roar became mixed with the wails and shrieks of countless wounded. The guns pulled back and the shield wall closed before them once more. With a momentous crash of bodies, weapons, and shields against shields, the Grik slammed into the wall. Again, the wall bowed, but with all the might of the first two ranks, doing nothing but pushing against the enemy, the wall regained its place.
“First rank, First Marines, pre-sent!” Pete bellowed. Youngling Marine drummers, ranged behind the line, relayed the command with a staccato tattoo.
“Fire!”
Four hundred loads of buck and ball slashed into the gaping jaws of the Grik warriors. Through the smoke, a perceptible cloud of downy fuzz from the feathery-furry bodies mingled with the misty red spray from so many simultaneous impacts. The shield wall almost collapsed forward into thin air when the pressure against it abruptly lifted.
“Second rank, First Marines, pre-sent!” Pete called, even as that rank stepped forward to the right and the first rank stepped back to the left and began reloading. Pete waited a few moments to let the first rank get well underway with their task and allow the enemy to press forward once again.
“Fire!” Horizontal jets of flame lit the lingering, choking smoke of the first volley, and again the pressure against the wall fell away. A collective loud, keening moan had replaced the anticipatory roar.
“First rank!” Pete yelled relentlessly. “Present! Independent, fire at will.” The drummers altered their cadence. “Commence firing!”
The ensuing shots were almost desultory. A volley would have been wasted, since there was little left to shoot at. A few Marines got to practice their new combined drill, skewering Grik from behind the protection of the shield wall with their bayonets, just like spearmen would do, but then being free to shoot other enemies when none were directly in front of them or within reach. That was the real test Pete had hoped for: the bayonet as a primary weapon and the musket fire just the music before the dance—as well as an added “killer of opportunity” that spearmen could never indulge in with their bows. He’d hoped the initial volleys would provide a psychological effect, but they’d been unable to really evaluate that. The Grik hadn’t had time to “break” into Courtney’s Grik Rout. A lot did run, but most of the Grik force in front of the shield wall had been eviscerated before it had a chance to make up its mind what to do.
“Marvelous! Utterly marvelous!” Rolak chortled, yellowed teeth showing in a genuine, delighted grin. “I did enjoy that! We will pursue them now, of course?”
“Yeah. As soon as we kill the enemy wounded in front of us. Even if they are Grik, it ain’t decent to let the damn things suffer. Besides, some might still be dangerous.”
“Generals!” cried a runner from the command post tent. “The aarplaanes from Salissa Home draw near! They report seeing smoke from the city, and smoke from this fight. The wing commander, Cap-i-taan Jis-Tikkar, asks how his force might best be employed.”
“Tell ’em to bomb the hell out of any large collection of Grik they see southwest of our current position. Try to herd ’em toward the swamplands. I’d also appreciate a look at our far right, northwest along the river, to make sure there’s nothing else out there. Mainly, though, advise Captain Tikker that we’ll be pushing forward momentarily, so he should watch where he drops his eggs! Oh, and give my respects to Queen Maraan, and tell her we’re about to advance. I want the shield wall to stick together as much as possible, just like in the plan.”
Tikker yawned hugely. The steady, reliable, workmanlike drone of the Nancy’s engine had a lulling effect, and after staying up most of the night going over last-minute details and sorting through maintenance issues with the crew chiefs, he’d had to get up early and meet with the pilots for a final, redundant briefing. Salissa hadn’t been commissioned into the U.S. Navy; she was still an independent Home, but all her pilots were duly sworn “Navy men,” and therefore “Americans.” As an “American” now himself, with somewhat unprecedented responsibility, Tikker had finally solved one of the great mysteries of his human clan-mates: their addiction to “coffee.” Despite its vile taste, he’d actually become as dependent on the stuff as any American. So had most of his pilots. They’d virtually emptied Salissa’s “medical lockers” of coffee the night before. Aahd-mah-raal Keje promised to send across to his other ships for more, but his human officers dipped into their own “stash” so Tikker’s fliers would have enough to “get their blood moving” before the mission.
This would be the First Naval Air Wing’s maiden combat operation, and the first almost entirely Lemurian and Lemurian-led air operation in all of history. Thirty-two planes would participate. Sixty-four young lives, not to mention endless months of training, preparation, and the very concept of naval aviation on this world were on the line—on Tikker’s shoulders. If he’d felt a little overwhelmed in the predawn hours, that was understandable.
This morning, Tikker commanded “A” flight of the 1st Naval Bomb Squadron, while Mark Leedom led “A” flight of the 1st Naval Pursuit Squadron. Only the names were different. All the planes were identically loaded with one fifty-pound bomb under each wing, and a crate of mortar bombs in front of the observer’s stick. Mark’s was the lead flight in the lead squadron and Tikker brought up the rear. Not long after takeoff, they’d lost a couple of planes to mechanical problems, but there’d been no issues since then. The planes that had to fall out of the formation had headed back to Salissa. The sea was flat and calm, so if they could
n’t make it, they would set down and wait for pickup. With most of four squadrons of the blue and white Nancys still in the air ahead of him, Tikker felt a flush of pride and accomplishment at the sight.
The voice tube beside his head whistled.
“What have you got, Cisco?” he shouted into it.
“There’s a big fight at Raan-goon,” Cisco said. Her voice sounded tinny and remote. Riggs had contrived a set of earphones that sort of worked on Lemurians, so the observer/wireless operators could actually hear signals in flight. “Big fight,” she continued. “Yasna-At, with Lieutenant Leedom, says they can see plenty of smoke.” Tikker could see the jungle peninsula ahead, the swampy marshland receding in the west, but couldn’t see any smoke yet. The overland sky was hazy, and almost the same color smoke would have been. “Commodore Ellis says that we must fly to the north end of the battle. He will place Dowden in the river there for a waypoint. Our new orders are to sweep west-southwest from there, and engage any substantial force but one. There is an enemy camp of some sort about a mile from the river, in front of Generals Alden and Rolak. Commodore Ellis says to leave it alone for now, but to save enough munitions and fuel to ‘paste’ it at his command!”
Tikker wondered what that was about. “Very well. Reply ‘Understood. Entire First Bomb Squadron will orbit area and remain at his service.’ Inform Lieutenant Leedom he will command all other attack elements and pursue the enemy. Make sure we have confirmation from all ships.”
“What the hell is this all about?” Pete growled when a lone Grik warrior stepped forward from the mass that had fallen back in front of the enemy camp the scouts had discovered. He watched in astonishment as the Grik poked its sword through a piece of white cloth and held it high, continuing forward. “No way!” he said, incredulous.
Lord General Rolak was equally shocked. The sounds of battle still seethed on the left, where Queen Maraan’s forces were pushing forward, but here, for a moment, except for the occasional shell from Donaghey detonating well forward of their position and just beyond the Grik, there was only stunned silence. “If I understand the meaning of such gestures—we have used them among ourselves and the Imperials before—it would seem the Grik Commander would have a parley.”
“Well ... How in God’s name can he expect ... It’s not like they ever ... What makes him think ... Well, he ain’t getting one!” Pete roared. Raising his Springfield, he shot the warrior directly in the snout at a range of about seventy yards. The back of the creature’s head erupted crimson clay and one of the warriors behind it squealed and fell when the bullet continued on and struck it in the torso. The Grik with the white rag collapsed instantly.
A strange sound, like an anxious moan, escaped some of the eight hundred to a thousand warriors still blocking the camp, but there was no other reaction. A few moments later, another Grik strode from the mass, again bearing a rag. Perhaps even more disconcerting and ... well, creepy ... the frightening creature showed no more hesitation than the last one. Pete swore and raised his rifle again, but Rolak stopped him. “I must confess a most profound, almost morbid curiosity, my friend,” he said, “to discover whether they would keep sending them regardless of how many you shoot—but let us see what we shall see.”
“Shit, Rolak,” Pete grumped, picking up his empty shell and putting it in his pocket. “What’s he going to say? We can’t talk to the damn things! Besides, how come they wait until we’re fixin’ to wipe ’em out before they want to talk?”
“Indeed,” agreed Rolak. “But they’ve never done that before. They could still flee—or attack and die. Indulge me, please. I am interested.”
“Well ... okay.” Pete relented and ordered: “Hold fire. Pass it down!” He waited until the order was picked up and began to spread.
They waited expectantly while the lone warrior approached. The creature didn’t look like a Hij “officer”—its dress was too utilitarian, too drab. It did have an impressive crest flowing from beneath a hard leather cap, however. Probably an older NCO or something. Unlike the other, this one wasn’t armed—besides its natural battery of lethal teeth and claws—and merely held the rag above its head. Finally, a few paces short of Pete and Rolak, who’d moved slightly forward, it hissed and spat something that sounded like a piece of steel slapped against a grinding wheel. Tossing a piece of the heavy Grik parchment on the ground, it turned and stalked off. It was all Pete could do to keep from shooting it in the back.
“Fetch it,” he told a Marine nearby, and the ’Cat trotted the few steps and stooped, distastefully retrieving the object, like one might pick up a turd. Returning, he thoughtfully held it so Pete could see it without touching it himself. “Son of a ...” Pete snatched the parchment and turned it right side up. “You can read, can’t you, Rolak?” he asked in a strange tone.
“I’ve learned to read English,” Rolak stressed, ignoring what he knew was not meant as an insult, “fairly well. Quite an accomplishment, considering my years.”
Pete held the parchment for him to see.
“Runner!” Pete demanded, as if expecting one to materialize out of nothing, and he scribbled something on the back of the parchment. A young ’Cat Marine raced to his side and he passed the note. “Get that to the CP, PDQ, see?”
The ’Cat saluted. “Aye, aye, Gen-er-aal!”
“What was that? What did you write?” Rolak asked, still stunned.
“Request for Dowden to cease firing. Also, those brand-new Naval Aviators’ll be swarming around here pretty soon. Might as well find out what the deal is with these guys before our flyboys bomb ’em.”
Tikker couldn’t believe his eyes. His squadron had been the last to use Dowden for a waypoint, and he’d easily caught her flag signal reinforcing the signal they’d received by wireless. Alden was talking with some Grik! When his eight-plane squadron buzzed over the Grik encampment, there’d been some evident confusion on the ground, but there stood two distinct forces—the Marines and a numerically roughly equal mob of Grik warriors staring at one another across a clearing about a hundred tails wide. From his plane, he could see Queen Maraan’s regiments proceeding past the “situation” to the south, followed by most of Rolak’s troops that had moved from line into column and were picking their way along in the Queen’s wake. Basically, all that remained facing this enemy concentration was the Marines, and they were more than a match for it. Tikker had received a final addendum to his orders: if the Marine guns began to fire, he was to bomb the enemy with everything he had. He glanced at his fuel gauge and hoped the standoff wouldn’t last long, one way or the other.
Rolak had placed his force under Colonel Grisa and remained with Alden. He couldn’t help it. He had to see how this was “sorted out.” Grisa would report to Safir Maraan and offer his regiments to her. Now Rolak stood with Pete Alden and a couple of Marines facing what was certainly the most formidable-looking Grik he’d ever seen alive. It was taller than most Grik, something they’d expected after examining dead Hij before, and it was dressed in relatively ornate, if garish, bronze armor over its chest, shins, and forearms. It was armed with one of the sickle-shaped swords favored by its kind, but the weapon remained sheathed and the pommel was well crafted if, again, somewhat grotesque. In contrast to the shining armor, the cape and kilt it wore were a somewhat battered red and black.
The creature called itself “General Arlskgter,” and the reason they knew that was because it was accompanied by three other Grik, one of which was stooped with age and not attired as a warrior. That one named itself Hij-Geerki. The very first thing they established was that Hij-Geerki had been liaison to a party of Japanese who’d been sent in search of undisclosed raw materials for the Ceylon war machine. For different reasons, English was the technical language of the Grik and Japanese, and though they couldn’t actually converse, Hij-Geerki could understand spoken English and the Japanese technicians had learned to understand some spoken Grik. Both could read the written words. Through a quick series of notes, Pete and Rolak l
earned that Hij-Geerki understood nearly everything they said and could form a very few words. Mostly, however, he would write English translations of what his master told him to say. In a few short minutes, they’d already confirmed everything Commander Okada had told them about how the Grik and Japanese managed to cooperate.
“Well,” Pete said, “let’s get on with this. We haven’t got all day.” He gestured up at the eight aircraft circling the clearing, their droning engines and passing shadows still clearly disconcerting to all the Grik, even their general, who glanced up at the planes each time they flew by, high behind Alden. He gave the impression it was all he could do not to stare at them continuously. “What do you want?”
“Terms,” Hij-Geerki wrote again in reply. “My General Arlskgter and all his Hij and Uul warriors would join you in the hunt.”
“Which ‘hunt’?” Rolak asked. “What does that mean?”
Rising Tides: Destroyermen Page 17
