“Crossbows would’ve been equally ineffective in this weather, Lord General,” the ker-noll objected as reasonably as he could. “The strings—”
“And you are?” Ign snapped.
“Ker-noll Naxa. I was raised by and second to First Ker-noll Jash. He sent me here himself.”
Ign thought he remembered Naxa, not as the calm, collected ker-noll he now appeared to be, but as a capricious First of Fifty, then One Hundred, who’d once denied Jash and even rebelled against him. But Jash was . . . extraordinary, and Naxa had apparently recognized it as well, as he matured. Ign grunted, returning his attention to the present disaster. “Rain did not affect their weapons. They only stop when they kill enough of us that they can’t feed them anymore!” He turned to view the field he’d left but still could hardly see. What was apparent was that the force he’d led into the charge, and that which swept up from the south, was almost entirely ringed in fire. Cannon roared all around it, and rifle and fast-shooter fire stuttered and flashed with an irresistible frenzy. The small hand bombs the enemy had used to such effect clearing the trenches were cracking again, throwing mangled bodies aside and spewing smoking mud. They must’ve gotten more of those, he realized darkly. Like everything else. Even the iron monsters were moving again, firing as they went. One stalled, spinning the belts around its wheels, the ground too slick with mud or corpses, and Ign felt a sudden thrill when his warriors swarmed it under, prying out its crew and hacking them apart. But it was only a tiny, momentary victory, and all the warriors atop the machine were blotted out by the fast-shooter fire of another.
“Lord General, there’s little time,” Ker-noll Naxa suddenly insisted. “Runners arrived here while you . . . fought out there.” The pause implied Naxa thought Ign had been foolish to join the charge himself. He pointed southeast. “As you no doubt began to feel, an enemy force with more death machines is rolling up your rightmost flank. Worse, the enemy has broken through to the south as well, joined with the Other Hunters—Republic forces—and rounds on us as we speak. Yet another enemy force landed from the river as their fleet passed, and quickly fortified a clawhold behind you. I saw that with my own eyes as I hurried here. It’s not a large force,” he conceded, “but it would take an organized, purposeful effort to destroy it.” He gestured helplessly around, and Ign took his meaning that any such effort now was impossible.
“I suggest you ignore it,” Naxa continued. “It can do nothing and is probably yet another distraction.” Obviously, like Ign, Naxa understood that Alden—or whoever designed the enemy plan—built the whole thing upon distraction, misdirection, and diversion. And it had been so simple! So uncomplicated! All the enemy had to do was show Ign the part of the plan he most expected, then take advantage of how he so predictably reacted. Over and over again. He felt like a fool and, truth be told, was so spooked that even now he doubted he’d seen the full extent of the enemy design unfold.
“In addition . . .” Naxa continued.
“There’s more?” Ign snapped sarcastically.
“Regrettably. That small clawhold is not all that’s behind us. Besides the mysterious assault on Old Sofesshk itself, which I know you haven’t forgotten, there are rumors that thousands of large, ferocious beasts, like rinooks, but bearing enemy warriors, have utterly routed your reserves to the southwest and may be drawing near.”
Ign blinked. “Rumors. Dream fancies of warriors turned prey,” he speculated, though at this point he’d dismiss nothing.
“Perhaps,” Naxa agreed, “but there’s no doubt the enemy fleet has bashed upriver behind us. Our fleet may hold it yet,” he suggested doubtfully, “or stall it with their sunken hulks as at the nakkle leg. But if it reaches Sofesshk before Ker-noll Jash retakes the city and secures the Celestial Mother . . .”
“All is lost,” Ign practically moaned. “All. Better that you’d left me out there”—he pointed at the battle with his snout—“to die with my army!”
“No, Lord General! Only you can save what remains. But you must disengage and march northwest. The enemy fleet will meet resistance, and must creep north through the winding narrows before turning west again. You can still get there first and cross the river to Jash’s aid!”
Ign snorted. “There’ll be no disengaging here. And even if I could, I’d never march—no, run—these exhausted troops sixty, seventy miles through a storm. To a battle? Impossible!”
Naxa gestured at the fighting. The Grik still hadn’t broken and many were surging against the enemy lines, dying in hundreds, but fighting nonetheless. “Not those troops, Lord General. Don’t forget: you have just as many strung out on the march from here to the city.”
Ign hesitated, glaring out at the slaughter. “We couldn’t hold the city long,” he objected, though tacitly acknowledging Naxa’s point. “But we might buy time for Esshk to come. Or secure the Celestial Mother and take her away to him.” He remembered his earlier effort to gain time by quitting the second trench before he absolutely had to. It failed, but the principle was sound. He jerked a nod. “Very well. We’ll sacrifice the portion of the army now engaged—it can’t withdraw in order and will only turn prey if it tries.” It would turn prey soon enough in any event, he was sure. “Send runners!” he bellowed. “Nothing else comes here. Any troops not already engaged will turn and rush to the ruins of New Sofesshk. The entire swarm will rally there.”
He glared at Ker-noll Naxa, suddenly suspicious. “How did you get here so quickly?”
“I was already on my way, in one of First General Esshk’s black airships. I’m sure, under the circumstances, he won’t object. As you can imagine, however, I was forced to set down when the storm grew too extreme.” He gestured at the hundred warriors he’d arrived with. “They pulled a carriage the rest of the way, at the run. They and others can take us back the same way. Or perhaps the Vanished Gods will pause the storm long enough that we can make it partway in the airship once more. Regardless, you and I can be at New Sofesshk by midday tomorrow, but we must go now.”
“Can you arrange sufficient transport to get the army across the river? That of it which we save, of course,” he added bitterly.
For the first time, Naxa seemed less self-assured and his answer wasn’t definitive. “Preparations of a sort were already underway when I departed. All that can be done will be. Ker-noll Jash is most resourceful and entirely committed.”
CHAPTER 40
////// USS Walker
Zambezi River
Surfaace taagit, dead ahead!” screeched the port bridgewing lookout. Matt raced to the starboard bridgewing, shouldering Bernie Sandison and the ’Cats by the torpedo director aside. He didn’t even raise his wet and fogged binoculars, and didn’t need them to see the wind-whipped sparks gushing from the single stack of the fat Grik cruiser lying squarely athwart their path. Otherwise, the ship was darker than the night because the sky was alive with lightning, and the steep forested banks on either side flashed with still more light shore batteries. Those seemed concentrated in the narrows and were slowly beating First Fleet to death. Matt briefly wondered why the lookout in the crow’s nest—or Nat’s MTBs, for that matter—hadn’t reported the enemy ship. The damn thing was barely two hundred yards away.
“All astern full! Rudder amidships.” Matt glanced back in at Minnie. “Tell Gray— Signal all ships to back the hell up! Commence firing!” he shouted at Campeti, who was leaning over the rail above to look down at him.
Almost instantly, the number-one gun barked and recoiled back, the tracer just the briefest flash before the shell detonated against the enemy ship—which fired a broadside of seven 50-pound roundshot in reply. Most missed, but one gouged a deep dent in Walker’s rebuilt bow and splashed close alongside, showering reeking spume down on the amidships deckhouse. Another shot slammed into the bridge structure directly beneath Matt’s feet—right where his new cabin was—and almost sent him sprawling. The torpedo director
saved him, but anyone on the bridge without something to cling to went down. The number-one gun fired again and again, blasting the cruiser ahead with high-explosive shells even as Walker drew inexorably closer, screws slashing the river to slow her. Two machine guns on the fire-control platform yammered, spraying the areas around the enemy gunports to delay their loading.
“All stop!” Matt roared, almost feeling USS Fitzhugh Gray’s substantially larger form looming up behind him. “All ahead, slow!”
“Commaander Spaanky reports Graay’s about to run right up our aass!” Minnie cried. Matt knew. Even if Miyata reacted instantly to the warning, Gray weighed five times what Walker did. It would take much longer to stop her. “Direct the searchlight off the starboard bow!” Matt barked reluctantly, hating to give the enemy such a fine aiming point, but he had to see where to steer to avoid a collision. Suddenly, disconcertingly, since Matt had been expecting the pure white glare of the searchlight, the Grik cruiser—barely a hundred yards distant now—glowed orange between its timbers and plates and erupted into the sky.
“Take cover!” somebody yelled, and the crew around the number-one gun dove under the light splinter shield just as debris started to fall. Most was small, clattering on the steel deck of the fo’c’sle, but one heavy shattered beam smacked the edge of the spray shield in front of Paddy Rosen and crushed one of the ready lockers below. Another heavy blow against the pilothouse windows in front of the lee helm cracked the glass and left the panes painted with blood.
The harsh searchlight beam on the foremast lit up and exposed the scene for an instant—the cloud of smoke and falling, smoldering timbers—before swinging right. It paused for an instant on the speeding form of Nat Hardee’s Seven Boat, peeling away from the sinking wreck, then quickly veered farther to starboard. There was open water. “Right full rudder!” Matt called in at Paddy, watching the Morse lamp on the Seven Boat flashing. Roundshot from shore threw more spume up close aboard, and several drummed against the hull. “Searchlight off,” Matt ordered. “Damage report!”
“Mister Haardee’s sayin’ . . . ” one of the signal-’Cats started to report.
“I know,” Matt cut him off, reading the signal himself. Scouting ahead, MTB-Ron-1 had simply missed the darkened cruiser nestled against the shore, and it moved to oppose TF Pile Driver after the torpedo boats were past. Nat did see this but couldn’t warn them—he’d discovered his radio set was soaked and shorted out—so he turned and sped back to do the only thing he could. He ended the message by apologizing for expending his last torpedo.
Matt snorted and walked to the port bridgewing and watched the burning, sinking cruiser slide by. There were Grik in the water, clinging to floating wreckage, but they wouldn’t last long. “Rudder amidships,” he called. “All ahead one third. Get us past that thing.” The flames were silhouetting Walker and marking her for even more attention from shore. A loud bang came from aft, and Matt wondered what his poor ship would look like in daylight. Few of the light Grik shot could punch through the old destroyer’s plates at the range they were firing, but some could, and all left dents and opened seams. “All guns return to local control and concentrate on those damn shore batteries.”
For the first time since the port lookout shouted, Matt felt the tension ease in his chest. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, not even the highest lookout. Everyone was tired after fighting their way past—he’d lost count of how many—Grik ships, with Walker and Gray alternating in the lead when they could. Only the crummy conditions he’d chosen were to blame, and everyone was doing their best. “Send to the Seven Boat: ‘Well done.’ And ask if Lieutenant Hardee can repair his radio equipment.”
“He says no,” the signal-’Cat replied. “They already gone through all their spare tubes.” He paused. “The Seven Boat’s set is one of the older ones, Skipper, first meant for planes. It ain’t well per-tected from waater, an’ it’s been wet before.” He hesitated again. “Should I haave Lieuten-aant Haar-dee motor aaft an’ seek spares from the fleet?”
Matt considered. MTB-Ron-1 was Nat’s and he had to be able to command it, but they didn’t have time for that. “Negative,” he said. “He won’t like it, but have Mr. Hardee transfer to another boat. The Seven Boat’ll take the place of one of those marking the channel as we progress. And keep ’em closer,” he added. “We couldn’t see any of their running lights in the rain, and the river only gets tighter from here. If any of us runs aground . . .” He shook his head and didn’t finish. The signal-’Cat knew, and so did Nat.
“Cap-i-taan,” Minnie called, “Com-aander Toos make his report.” Commander Toos-Ay-Chil was a burly, middle-aged ’Cat from the Baalkpan shipyards who’d found his way to Walker via one of their first floating dry docks, then Mahan. Not only had he built Mahan’s new bow, but he’d also designed lasting repairs to Walker’s. Matt had essentially swiped him to fill the long-vacant First Officer/Damage-Control Officer slots, which Spanky, Tabby, and Chief Jeek had been dividing among them. The only drawback was that Toos had a long way to go as a bridge officer. He’d built ships all his life but never handled them. He was making progress, but in the meantime, Walker had never been as well maintained on this world.
“What’s he got?” Matt asked, afraid of the answer.
“Few dents an’ dings on the fo’c’sle”—Minnie blinked disgust—“along wit whaat looks like parts o’ half thaat crooser’s crew. There’s no leaks from the strike for-aard,” Minnie proclaimed triumphantly. She hesitated. “But your stateroom’s wrecked. The shot punched through both sides an’ slaammed into the gaalley. Raang Earl Laanier’s bell. Surgeon Lieu-ten-aant Cross is exhaa-mine him, but says he’s okaay. No other caa-sul-tees on Waa-kur.” She blinked. “Gener-aal Safir Maraan reports one trooper on her traans-port went overboard when it got taangled wit another. Recovery efforts failed. Somethin’ . . . gotteem.”
Of course something got him, Matt reflected bitterly. No water on this world was safe.
“Only other thing waas Mahaan brushed Gray’s faan-tail an’ bent her jaackstaaff,” Minnie continued in a positive tone. “Could’a been a lot worse, Skipper,” she reminded.
That was true. But it would get worse. It had taken longer to land the Maroons than Matt expected since, with reports of such chaos ashore streaming in, Safir suggested they needed a larger force for their depot beachhead. Matt agreed, and they’d landed another nine hundred troops from her 6th Division—the 5th B’mbaado—to reinforce Colonel Will. Even so, all the Maroons and the 5th had to protect them until the skies cleared or I Corps arrived—something that was looking increasingly doubtful—was RRPS Ancus and Servius, and the few guns on the transports they’d left standing by. It had been tough to leave them like that.
The added delay meant TF Pile Driver started out behind schedule and was only losing time as it crept so slowly up the unfamiliar river, while Chack’s Brigade and the 1st North Borno were hanging on to Sofesshk by their teeth and tails. Who knew what the Grik were gathering to oppose TF Pile Driver—or throw at Chack? On the other hand, Matt consoled himself, the Grik are still reacting to us. If we’re having a hard time dealing with the situation, just imagine how confusing it must be for them. He’d stopped underestimating the Grik a long time ago, and that had certainly made him better at what he did. But even in light of the enemy’s improvements, he’d begun to realize he couldn’t fall into the opposite trap and overestimate them either. That way lay only paralysis—and defeat.
Walker’s, Gray’s, and Mahan’s guns went silent after all the shore batteries were hit—or quit—leaving no targets for Ellie and the DDs of Des-Ron 10. Matt went back to his chair and sat, trying to peer through the wavy, rain-washed glass. Juan Marcos stumped up on the bridge with a pot of coffee—only “monkey joe,” unfortunately, Matt could tell by the smell—and a platter covered with a towel. Juan looked like a drowned rat, but when he removed the towel he revealed a heap of dry, thickly-packed sandwiches
pinned together with toothpicks. Matt took one before the tray was passed around, and Juan poured him a cup of the ersatz coffee.
“A little more excitement,” the Filipino said.
“A little more,” Matt agreed, taking a bite of the big sandwich. He liked the pumpkiny bread, and the pulled rhino pig between the slices—fresh from the freezer and not a salted cask—tasted like fine pork barbeque. He chewed and swallowed. “Thanks for this,” he said. “I probably won’t get down to the wardroom tonight.”
“Or your stateroom either,” Juan agreed. “I hear it has been ventilated. Not necessarily a bad thing, ordinarily, but in this weather?” He shook his head with a smile. “I already had your important things moved down to your wife’s room—your old quarters.” Matt smiled as well, knowing Juan’s definition of “important” was probably Matt’s dress uniform. “Perhaps you might briefly visit there, for some sleep,” Juan suggested, knowing it was hopeless, but his words sent Matt’s thoughts winging back to Sandra.
I bet this storm’s even bucking Big Sal around, he mused, blowing harder on the coast. But at least she’s safe. She and the baby. He rarely let himself think about the baby, and what life might be like after it was born. He knew it was impossible that it would be born in peace—but maybe he could at least finish part of the damn war first!
He smiled sadly. “Afraid not, Juan. That last cruiser just jumped up out of nowhere. It was an easy kill, but the whole column nearly stacked up like a train wreck. Damn rain! I’d string the ships farther apart if we could see each other better!”
Pass of Fire Page 45
