Pass of Fire

by Taylor Anderson

  “‘If it is a sizable force, I’m not in the best position to stop it, due to the range of engagement. In aaddition to air, I might need indirect fire support. The aartillery observer haas our position. Please coordinate with him.’” She paused, considered, then shook her head. “Go,” she told the rider. A last rush of thirty or forty skirmishers came in view, bolting for the safety of their lines. A hail of mostly ineffectual shots pursued them, but several spun and fell. Just as the first retreating men and ’Cats reached the brushy barricade, a solid mass of Grik appeared in their wake, panting from their sprint but wide-eyed with excitement. Their gray leather and iron armor and dun-colored plumage was chalky with dust, and tendrils of filmy drool streamed from open, toothy jaws. Bright musket barrels and bayonets gleamed and bloodred sword or sunburst and “meatball” devices glared garishly on stained pennants whipping above the leading edge of the charge. Apparently surprised to find 5th Division deployed and ready, the rush ground to an uncertain stop—just long enough for the last skirmishers to clear the front.

  “Commence firing!” Bekiaa shouted, which was repeated by Bele, then her legion commanders. Staggered volleys, controlled by centurions, slashed at the hesitant Grik, and they reeled back down out of sight. When the smoke of that first rank of riflemen cleared, not a single standing Grik remained, though scores were down, dead or writhing and screeching on the ground.

  “Maybe that was it,” Bele speculated. “Must’ve been four or five hundred of them.”

  “Not it at all, Prefect, if ye’ll pardon the intrusion,” gasped Optio Jack Meek, hurrying up to join them. The young man looked as rough as the returning skirmishers, and his mustard-brown tunic was soaked in blood. He caught Bekiaa’s concerned blinking and gestured at himself. “Not mine, Legate. One o’ the lads took a ball an’ I carried him out. Nearly didn’t make it! Then I feared I’d be caught between them murderin’ devils an’ a volley!”

  “Whaat the hell were you doin’ out there?” Bekiaa demanded hotly. She glanced around. “And prob-aably without a rifle again, as usu-aal.”

  “I was scoutin’,” Meek replied reasonably. “Don’t need a rifle to scout.”

  “You’re not a scout, Optio Meek!” Bekiaa almost shouted, blinking furiously. No one really believed Jack—son of Doocy Meek, the Republic’s ambassador to the United Homes—was just an optio and Bekiaa’s aide. “You’re Inquisitor Choon’s spy—on me,” she continued lower. Meek nodded, unashamed. “Aye, at first, but no more. I am your aide by choice an’ Inquisitor Choon’s command.”

  “Then that puts you under Legate Bekiaa’s orders, not Choon’s,” Bele scolded. “Certainly not free to indulge your whims. If you wish to remain the Legate’s aide you’ll follow her orders to the letter, including those instructing you to arm yourself. Is that understood?”

  “Aye,” Meek readily agreed for once. “A rifle might’ve been of use back there.” He nodded at the rim of the canyon, choked with Grik corpses. Other skirmishers had approached, waiting to report, and the troops in the line were nervous. Obviously, no one really thought this was over. “Make your report,” Bekiaa ordered, but she wasn’t looking at Meek. A man with a bloody scalp wound stood at attention and saluted.

  “Centurion Honlee Fiske, Legate,” Bele reminded, “commanding the Second Century of the Fourteenth Legion.”

  “Of course,” Bekiaa said. “Whaat did you see?”

  “Grik, Legate, thousands of them, packed as tight as could be back in yonder gulley as far as I could see. All moving this way. I . . .” He paused, uncertain if he should speculate.

  “Go on.”

  “I think we’ve found that flank we groped for,” he replied, “just as it was about to fall on ours.”

  Bekiaa studied Fiske a long moment, trying to find any doubt or exaggeration in his eyes. “Thaank you, Centurion. Thaat’ll be all. See to your troops.” She looked at Meek after the centurion left. “Was thaat your impression too?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then I waant you to person-aally take this message to the comm caart: ‘We haave repulsed a heavy enemy scouting force—fairly easily—but I suspect this truly is their extreme right flaank, positioning itself for a major attaack. We haave them in a bottle for now, but they’ll soon deploy in the open and we’ll haave to shift our line to meet them. A heavy aartillery baarrage now, coordinated with airstrikes, could cripple their entire offensive and leave the paath to Sofesshk open.’”

  A tumult was rising in the depression ahead as more organized Grik forces pushed forward. Soon they’d crest the rim of the valley in their thousands, not hundreds, and start spreading out. Bekiaa put her hands on her hips like she’d seen Spanky McFarlane do so often. Bele imitated her unconsciously. Together they displayed as much unconcern as if suddenly confronted by an unexpected insect, not a seething, overwhelming horde of Grik. “Caarry on, Optio Meek,” Bekiaa said. She looked at Bele. “In the meantime, let’s see whaat we caan do. All our mortars and all three baatteries of Derby guns not moving into the line will staart putting as much fire as they caan down in that goddaamn hole in front of us.”

  “We should really move all the guns back,” Bele objected. “They shoot too flat for this sort of thing.”

  Bekiaa considered. “No. Half on the line,” she insisted. “I fear we’ll need them there. And haave the rest send half their caanister forward. But leave them some infaantry protection. The Grik could pop out of any of these raa-vines now they know where we are.”

  * * *

  * * *

  General Kim, Courtney Bradford, Inquisitor Kon-Choon, and General Taal-Gaak stared down at a large map tacked to a rickety, collapsible table in General Kim’s HQ tent. The map was bigger, but probably only slightly better than the ones Bekiaa referenced, and they’d all become painfully aware how poorly it depicted the convoluted local terrain. Artillery thundered constantly, targeting what they thought they’d identified as the largest concentration of Grik forces blocking their advance, massing about two miles away across yet another wide, thorny depression. General Kim had no choice but to deploy the bulk of his own army in a defensive posture until he had a better idea what the enemy intended.

  With almost eighty Cantet biplanes now flying out of airstrips around Soala, he should’ve had sufficient aerial reconnaissance. And the planes were taking a grisly toll on the enemy with their firebombs. But in addition to the surprisingly troublesome terrain, the Grik had received hundreds of the ridiculously crude but disconcertingly effective antiair mortars they’d been using to good effect against the Allies for a couple of years. Basically just heavy pipes with rounded baseplates at the breech end to pivot against the earth, they required only a couple of Grik to carry them, quickly charge them with powder and handfuls of musket balls, and lean them in the general direction of slow, low-flying targets. They could be anywhere, and Kim had already lost a dozen planes and their two-man crews trying to get a closer look at things.

  Ironically, the very presence of the mortars implied the Grik were trying to prevent observations over ground they protected, and that was another thing that had convinced Kim the force he’d deployed against and was expending so much ammunition on was the main enemy concentration. It still might be, but the report from Legate Bekiaa’s division and General Taal’s cavalry scouting to the east had thrown everything into doubt.

  “So, in effect, you’re telling me our pilots have told us only exactly what the Grik wanted them to,” Kim growled at Choon.

  The Lemurian spymaster blinked affirmative, lids flashing over large, pale blue eyes. “I fear that’s the case. The Fliegertruppen,” he said, using the Republic word for its army pilots, “have learned to equate ground fire with the presence of Grik. Where there’s no fire, there are no Grik, and that’s what they’ve reported.” He blinked consternation, tail lashing. “I still find it difficult to believe the Grik could just crouch and hide from aircraft flying di
rectly overhead. They’ve never displayed such discipline! But that’s exactly what they must’ve done, if Legate Bekiaa’s report is true—and I do not doubt her,” he added fervently, glancing at General Taal, whom he considered his rival for Bekiaa’s affection. “In fact, knowing Legate Bekiaa, I suspect her assessment that she faces a ‘large force’ is likely an understatement. We must move to reinforce her at once!”

  “I agree,” Taal said. “My cavalry has the farthest to go but can get there quickest.”

  Kim looked at him. “But you suspect equally large forces on our right!” He waved to the north. “And what of that force? We know it’s large and has many guns firing into our forward defenses now. All indications suggest it’s massing for an attack on this position, possibly as soon as tonight.” He murmured aside to Courtney. “We’ve taught the Grik too much. Whether they like moving at night or not, they’ve learned to use darkness to close with us.”

  “Indeed,” Courtney agreed absently, running his fingers through thinning white hair as he leaned over the map. His ever-present straw sombrero was tucked under his left arm. He traced the distance between them and 5th Division with his right index finger. “Will our artillery range that far?” he asked.

  “The Derby guns and newest howitzers will. Not the mortars,” Kim replied.

  “Then I urge you to place all you can spare under the direction of Legate Bekiaa’s artillery observer at once.” He nodded at Choon. “And begin sending reinforcements as well.” He looked at Kim. “I’m no military man; never claimed to be. I used to consider myself a naturalist, though that . . . hobby no longer binds me as tightly as it did. Perhaps someday . . .” He sighed. “But it did make me a rather acute observer, if I say so myself, and I believe you’ll admit I’ve scrutinized a deal more of Grik strategy and tactics than anyone here.” He pointed to the map. “The Grik have learned from us and adapted their tactics.” He paused. “Yet I think I see a very ancient strategy unfolding here, probably almost instinctive to them, and they’ve used it successfully against us from time to time.”

  Kim shouted orders to his signalman to have the field artillery HQ stand by for fire commands from Bekiaa’s observer, via the wireless comm cart with her column. Though wireless communication had been known in the Republic, field communication of any kind was new to the Army. Quickly grasped as essential after the Battle of Gaughala, the strange Australian naturalist/ambassador had arranged a gift of efficient, portable equipment from the United Homes. He was still pointing at the map when he had Kim’s attention again. “You’ve only ever seen the Grik do two things: full-frontal assault and defense. Neither was as successful as they would’ve hoped, I’m sure, but let’s quickly examine both events. At the Battle of Gaughala they swarmed to the attack directly out of the Teetgak Forest. It was a desperate bid to stop our advance—which very nearly succeeded—but it had been impossible for them to develop a more complicated, traditional assault within the dense confines of the woods. Things might’ve turned out very differently if they had,” he added ominously. “Then at Soala, Grik troops new to the very concept of defense were faced by your carefully laid plans and brilliantly executed attack. Frankly, I was surprised they fought as well as they did.”

  “So what’s their traditional strategy?” General Taal asked impatiently.

  Courtney looked at him and blinked. “It’s very simple, really. Not so different from what we did to them at Soala, and one reason I was also surprised our plan worked so well against them.”

  “You talk in circles, Mr. Bradford,” Choon complained.

  “Yes I do, in point of fact,” Courtney confessed, “but that’s how Grik think. They encircle their prey. Think of war, in their minds, as an extension of the cooperative hunt. They fix the prey’s attention in one direction while the killing blow falls elsewhere. It’s been so almost every time they’ve launched a prepared attack against other members of the Grand Alliance. Always, there’s a diversion at least, but the most carefully laid plans by their better generals—Hij Geerki calls them designs—embrace what they consider the dance of battle.”

  “Which involves?” Kim demanded.

  “Fixing the prey’s attention”—Courtney drove the idea home, pointing to the north; then his finger moved back to Bekiaa’s position on the map—“so it won’t see the killing blow. The attack you expect will come, General Kim, and though probably not exactly a feint—the Grik don’t think like that and it’ll come hard—the main attack”—he glanced at Taal—“or attacks will come from the flanks.” He shrugged. “Only our luck we were looking about, trying to discover their flanks at the same time, and Bekiaa stumbled across this western envelopment force.”

  “By the Maker!” General Taal gasped. “All the more reason I should rush my cavalry there!”

  “No,” Kim said. “If Mr. Bradford is correct, that’ll leave us utterly exposed to a heavy attack from the east. No,” he repeated thoughtfully, staring at the map. “You may send a division, but the bulk of your cavalry corps, led by you,” he stressed, “must block that attack alone, General Taal. Spoil it, delay it, bleed it dry, and remain ready to cover the withdrawal of the divisions I must leave here, their attention apparently ‘fixed’ on the enemy in front of us. They’ll mount as spirited a defense as they can before I pull them out.”

  “Pull them out where, General Kim?” Choon asked. Kim looked at him. “To the west, of course. The entire army will move to support Legate Bekiaa and utterly crush the force attacking her. If Mr. Bradford is correct, it’s probably composed of at least a third of the Grik blocking our way, after all. Then we’ll rush northeast as fast as we can, leaving the rest of the Grik in confusion and disarray.”

  “And standing right on top of our supply line,” Choon interjected sourly.

  Kim nodded. “True. We’ll only have whatever food, water, even ammunition, we can carry. The closest supply convoys can try to join us, but the rest must turn back for Soala. And even with all our wagons and suikaas, we’ll have to abandon a lot of equipment so we can focus on the essentials and move quickly.” He sighed. “I know this is a great gamble, but worth the risk, I think.” He looked at Courtney. “Please inform Captain Reddy of our intentions, and that I’ll instruct our ships now moving supplies from Songze up the Ungee River to Soala to change course for the Zambezi. We’ll desperately need those supplies when we link up with his expeditionary force.” He frowned. “I know Captain Reddy is planning an audacious scheme of his own, though I have no idea what it is.”

  “No one does, General,” Courtney consoled. “But I suspect he, like you, is preparing a great gamble and won’t risk our enemies discovering what it is.”

  “Well then,” Kim huffed, “I just hope he’s able to spring his surprise as quickly as circumstances have forced us to commence ours.” He smiled slightly. “Two mad ventures combined must surely be at least as confusing to the enemy as they will be to us.”

  Choon was staring at the usually so conservative Kim with openmouthed amazement. He recovered himself. “The Kaiser wouldn’t approve,” he warned. Kim smiled even broader. “Oh, I think he would. He’s more a gambler than you imagine. The Senate will wail after the fact, over the risk and expense if not the lives. Fortunately, it’s not their decision, and by the time they vote on whether to replace all the ordnance and equipment this will cost, we will already have won.” He blinked irony in the Lemurian way. “Or we’ll all be dead and they’ll have other things to worry about.”

  Grasping his hands behind his back, General Kim strode outside under the hot afternoon sun while Courtney dashed past the signal-’Cat and directly into the headquarters communications tent nearby. “Orderly!” Kim cried. “All corps commanders to me in ten minutes. Any not here will be replaced. Fetch me the supply train Dominus as well,” he added, referring to the Gentaa logistics supervisor. The ’Cat orderly blinked astonishment. “Except for divisions I specify, the army will prepare
to march in one hour,” Kim continued, “including all support elements and their equipment. Whatever they can’t load in wagons, they’ll accumulate here.” He didn’t add that he’d leave orders for the rear guard divisions to burn everything they left when they pulled out.

  “But, Gen . . .” the orderly began, then saluted and scampered off, tail high.

  “By your leave, General Kim,” General Taal said urgently. “I believe I’ve heard all I need to, and I have a great deal to do!”

  “Of course.”

  Taal bounded toward his horse, standing amid a squad of his troopers, and hopped in the saddle. With a sharp shout, they galloped off.

  More quickly than Inquisitor Choon would’ve expected, Courtney rejoined him amid the rising confusion as Kim continued barking orders. “That didn’t take long,” he observed.

  “No,” Courtney agreed. “We’re relatively close”—he gestured at the tall antennae telescoping upward from a robust wagon with a wide footprint—“and have an excellent signal today.” He shrugged. “And there was little to add to my prepared message about our long-planned effort to break through to our comrades in the AEF. I simply instructed it be sent with the amendment that today’s the day, and any commotion they can add will be appreciated.”