Pass of Fire

by Taylor Anderson

  “But the damn rain is part of what will make our victory possible,” Juan reminded.

  Reluctantly, Matt nodded, and changed the subject. “How’s Earl?”

  Juan chuckled. “He’ll be fine. He was sleeping, reclined against the bulkhead, when the shot struck it. Two feet lower and it might’ve knocked his brains out. Small loss. Even so, it threw him across the compartment against the stove. Burned his arm a little. The only permanent casualty was his favorite chair. It was utterly destroyed, I fear.” Matt remembered the poor thing, wood framed with a wicker seat and painted a disreputable orange and blue, it was never intended to support something the size of Earl. Particularly leaned back on two legs. . . .

  “Maybe we can arrange a suitable ceremony,” he joked, but saw Juan frowning.

  “What is it? Spill.”

  “I fear that Surgeon Lieutenant Pam Cross is not fine.”

  Matt took a breath and nodded. “Worried about Silva?”

  “Against all reason,” he agreed, “she loves him.”

  Matt frowned too. “Well, she’s right to worry about her heart if she’s given it to that maniac to play with. But to worry about his safety?” He laughed and waved around. “She might as well worry about this storm. Silva’s a force of nature. When all this is over and Mr. Bradford’s back to writing his book, Silva’s liable to be the only one of us left for him to quote.”

  Juan chuckled ruefully but shook his head. “I rarely disagree with you, Cap-tan Reddy,” he said, “and I’m not really now. You already know no man—or Lemurian—is immortal. Dennis Silva isn’t, and neither are Lawrence and Chack or Mr. Cook.” He topped off Matt’s cup and retrieved the empty tray. This time he threw the towel over his head before starting aft toward the ladder and the storm. He paused. “Nor are you immortal, Cap-tan,” he called back, “or this fine crew and this old, worn-out ship we love so much. All will die for the cause we serve, if we must, because it’s right. But there’s no shame in fearing for our friends, our ship, our cause—or ourselves. I do, just as much as Lieutenant Cross. But I have faith in God, our cause, and you as well.” With that, he turned and stumped back down the ladder in the rain.

  “Wow,” Paddy Rosen muttered, breaking the spell of silence that filled the bridge. “Juan’s a great guy and makes swell sammitches, but sometimes I wish he’d save his moralizing for Earl an’ the snipes in the firerooms. Damn snipes need all the deep thoughts he can throw at ’em, little as they get out.”

  “And you don’t need a different viewpoint now and then?” chided Bernie Sandison in a playful tone. “Your whole world is the bow of the ship, a brass wheel, and a compass. Maybe you ought to try reading a book sometime. Juan’s an educated man! Why, I bet he’s read every book ol’ Doc Stevens had aboard.”

  “Nah,” Rosen denied, “I’ve looked at ’em. Not enough pictures. They’d just make me grumpy as him.”

  Matt shook his head. “Juan’s not grumpy, just realistic. Doc Stevens wasn’t immortal either.” Realizing he’d ruined the effort to thaw the chill in the pilothouse—and calm the nervous blinking of the ’Cats—he forced a grin. “But we’re not going to die. Not tonight. We’ve finally got the Grik by the tail, and when we get to Sofesshk, we’ll find Silva, Chack, Larry, and all the rest waiting for us. They’ll bitch because we took so long but they’ll be there, sitting on the Grik capital and their big, fat, Celestial Mother! It’ll be better than Grik City, because we won’t just have a city. We’ll have a hostage they can’t ignore.”

  There were growls of approval, and Lemurian feet tramped on the wooden strakes in the pilothouse in acclamation.

  “Cap-i-taan,” Minnie said urgently. “The Twenty-One Boat, scoutin’ out front, reports a laarge surfaace taagit, probaable BB, about four miles ahead, just before the river veers nort’-east.”

  Matt leaned back in his chair. “Very well. What’s the river width here?”

  “Six hundreds to staar-board, eleven hundreds to port. Is gettin’ wider again before it naarrows.”

  “Good. Have Gray come up along our port side. We’ll take this one together. With warning,” he stressed to the rest of the bridgewatch, “and it’ll be a cinch.”

  USS Fitzhugh Gray avoided the wreck herself, then surged up alongside her smaller consort. Together, the old DD and new CL led the rest of TF Pile Driver toward the next action they must win on their long, winding river “road” to Old Sofesshk.

  CHAPTER 41

  ////// Palace of Vanished Gods

  The large chamber just inside the arch was packed with Khonashi wounded, and quite a few others had finally been allowed to join them there. Apparently, the broad entrance ventilated the space well enough to minimize the effect of the strange smells deeper in the palace. The human and ’Cat casualties were mostly in the auditorium the next level up.

  Thaat waas a crummy decision to haave to make, Chack thought, peering from the archway into the gloomy, stormy dawn. But I couldn’t risk nearly half my brigade going nuts. The terrible bombardment had finally ceased, and he gazed out at the fits of sheeting rain, the wildly whipping wind driving the raindrops like stinging projectiles. A baad decision, he now knew, thaat probably killed a third of the troops I waas trying to save!

  Lieutenant Isaa-Kaas of the 1st Battalion, 9th Maa-ni-la came running up, sliding on the shell-blasted paving stones and almost tripping over a corpse. Finding Chack, she was nearly startled into saluting but stopped herself. She looked punchy and half drowned. “Beg ta report: Cap-i-taan McIntyre says there’s movement in the city,” she said, pointing to Chack’s right. McIntyre, of the 2nd Battalion, 1st Respite, commanded Jindal’s regiment now. Chack looked north. Despite the rain, great swaths of Old Sofesshk were burning fiercely, destroyed by the Grik themselves. “Major Cook figgers the Grik creeped in around us, like you said,” Isaa continued, “an’ wit’ the shellin’ stopped, they’ll be comin’.”

  “Anything from the Eleventh Maa-rines?” Chack asked. The shelling had chopped up almost all their comm wires and most of their field telephones. They still had a radio inside, wired to an aerial on the north side of the palace where it had been protected from the cannonade. That left them in contact with TF Pile Driver and the Expeditionary Force, but reduced to using runners for internal communications. At least until they could roll new wires.

  “Their laand-line’s still cut, but somebody over there risked a Morse laamp. They seen the movement first an’ reported it.”

  “Whaat does Major Gaa-lay think?” Galay had been wounded again, in the arm this time, but refused to leave his regiment on the line—or his Marines flapping in the breeze. Chack couldn’t blame him, but couldn’t spare him either. Especially not with Jindal gone.

  “Thaat the first thing the Griks’ll do is drive a wedge ’tween us an’ the Eleventh,” Isaa said.

  Chack was nodding. “Right. We haave to pull them in.”

  “But if the Griks hit ’em while they’re on the move . . .”

  “They’ll be cut to pieces. I know. Sound ‘Recaall’ with whistles.”

  “Whaat if they caan’t hear ’em over the wind?” Isaa asked doubtfully.

  “Major Gaa-lay’ll haave to use a Morse lamp himself.” The Grik knew exactly what those were now, and the flashing lights often marked their source for a lot of unwelcome attention. Chack blinked distractedly. “Does anyone know where Chief Sil-vaa is?” Chack had briefly glimpsed the big man a few hours before, when the barrage was at its hottest and most effective, and wounded were pouring in the palace. Without a word, Silva had simply drifted in like a bloody wraith, the bandages around his torso ragged and filthy. Grinning and shaking his head at Chack as if to say “What the hell?” he’d scooped up his Doom Stomper and bandolier of massive cartridges and stepped back out in the flashing, booming night.

  Isaa shook her head. “Not for sure. Major Cook thinks he went over to the Eleventh durin�
� the shellin’, when we lost contaact. Thinks he’s the one sent the signal. Said it was too sloppy for anyone else.”

  Chack grunted, hoping Cook was right. He knew even Silva wasn’t indestructible, but he was as close as they came. And he just couldn’t imagine him dead out there under the cracking shells and flailing iron. He was up to something for a reason that seemed good to him—which usually meant it was a pretty good reason—and he could take care of himself.

  * * *

  * * *

  “I’m tellin’ ya, we gotta get the hell back over there,” Silva growled hotly, blowing out the oil lamp in the blinker lantern and setting it down, then pointing at the dark shape of the palace a quarter mile away. Somewhat to his surprise, they hadn’t taken any fire during the signal, but the Grik probably took note of where it came from. He was talking to an Impie Marine captain named Milke, who was huddled behind a low stone wall under an eve beside the same building Silva first arrived at with his scratch company two nights before. Sheltering with them from the intermittent deluge was a squad of 11th Marines, some who’d been with him then and were glad to have him back.

  Milke pursed his lips. They’d all caught glimpses of Grik massing inshore among the shattered buildings, and it was obvious Silva was right. But Milke was new; a replacement from New Ireland, via the Maa-ni-la ATC, where the tactics and military discipline he’d learned only reinforced the stiff, hierarchical, upper-class Impie restraint he’d been raised to exhibit. In other words, he was unused to the freewheeling initiative often required of junior officers in this war, and was determined to do things “right.” Silva wasn’t sure how he’d made captain, but actually liked him and thought he’d make a good officer—if he ever pulled the six-foot broomstick out of his ass.

  “Our orders from Major Galay were to fortify this position and hold until recalled,” Milke stated pedantically.

  Silva rolled his eye. “An’ I’m tellin’ ya—again—Galay’s wounded; might not even be over there. An’ Chackie—Colonel Chack to you—will expect us to have the spizzerinctum ta jump up an’ do what needs doin’. If we don’t move right damn now, you’ll have seven hundred guys plumb surrounded by the whole Grik army an’ cut off from the rest of the brigade. Not only will we get rubbed out, but Chackie’ll lose damn near a third o’ what he needs to defend that stupid dump.” He nodded at the palace again. It was more visible now that the day was brightening and the latest band of rain was starting to taper off. “The Griks’ve quit shellin. We seen ’em, an’ they’re comin,” he stressed.

  “‘Hold until recalled,’ Chief Silva,” Milke quoted, affecting calm, though his voice was an octave higher than usual.

  “Which meant until the shellin’ stops!” Silva snapped at the Impie. “I’ve known Galay a long time. I was there when he gave the order. I know what he meant!”

  Milke waved at the Morse lamp. “Then light that again and clarify his intent for me. I haven’t the ability to read my commander’s mind.” His tone turned disapproving. “I don’t know you, Chief Silva, but I know your reputation. I’d never dispute your courage or . . . flamboyant supplementary contributions to certain tactical aspects of several campaigns, but I take issue with your methods. Imperial Marines don’t simply run about, doing as they please.” His voice hardened. “And I won’t disregard a direct order.”

  Silva mashed at his soggy eyepatch in frustration and grimy water trickled down his face. He stood. “Well, sonny, I ain’t under nobody’s orders but Cap’n Reddy’s . . . an’ Colonel Chack’s, when it suits me. They’re the ones who turn me loose to ‘run about,’ an’ I’ve always snatched up whoever I wanted along the way an’ never heard shit about it.” His growing grin was disconcerting to those who didn’t know him, and might terrify those who did because they knew what it meant. “So I’m fixin’ to commandeer the First Battalion of the Eleventh Imperial Marines to save its ass. Take a guess which one o’ us winds up polishin’ grenades or guardin’ coast watchers from swamp lizards at Chill-Chaap.”

  “Cap’n Milke! Listen!” interrupted one of the Marines.

  “It’s whistles!” another agreed excitedly. “I hear ’em too. It’s the recall!”

  Milke listened intently for several moments, the piercing, warbling notes coming and going through capricious gusts. Finally, he stood as well. “It seems all your bluster has been for nothing, Chief Silva,” he said, self-satisfied. “Now we can . . .”

  A great moaning roar swept down upon them, its lower frequency carrying clearer than the shrill whistles mocked by the wind. On and on it went, building in intensity until it seemed the whole city reverberated and more rain was shaken from the heavens.

  “Well, shit,” Silva said disgustedly, squatting back behind the wall. Slinging his Thompson, he slid the heavy Doom Stomper up over the stones. “Too damn late.” Veteran Marines were imitating his preparations all along the low wall they’d been scrunched up behind all night. Quite a few who’d been surreptitiously sheltering from the storm splashed through puddles, back to their places. Some just found thin spots in the line and took positions there.

  “Very well,” Milke told his aide hovering near. “Form the men and we’ll move to the breastworks around the palace at the quick march!”

  The aide, a veteran, just stared, eyes wide.

  “Are you out o’ your goddamn gourd?” Silva shouted, pointing north at the nearest ruins. “Here they come!”

  Milke’s eyes followed Silva’s finger and he paled. Grik were pouring out of the rubbled city about two hundred yards away, rushing directly toward the gap between the 11th and the palace. A soggy volley clattered from the flanks of the assault, sending chunks of lead and damp shards of stone spraying around them. Milke dropped behind the wall. “Prepare to commence firing!” he yelled. “Pass the word to the machine gun on the left to suppress the enemy fire. You,” he shouted at the machine-gun crew on the weapon slightly to their right. “Fire into the mass of the enemy charge, but don’t traverse to the right beyond those trees to the left of the palace.” He raised his voice again, as loud as it would go. “Eleventh Marines! Open fire!”

  Silva nodded to himself and aimed his huge rifle at the mass as Allin-Silvas started crackling around him and a few Blitzers opened up. The .45 ACP SMGs wouldn’t kill many Grik at this range, but they’d wound. “Least he knows what to do when a goddamn battle drops in his lap,” he muttered. The Doom Stomper roared, shoving him back. As usual, he had to shake his head to clear his vision. The two .30-cal MGs opened up, tracers sizzling into the smoke-puffing ruins or the surging Grik, peeling them away in a welter of blood. The single 3″ mortar section they had started lofting shells as high and fast as the two tubes could fire them, and explosions blasted Grik apart behind the line they’d established to cover their push. Silva fired again, and a Grik musket ball blew the forward hand guard of his weapon apart as the barrel recoiled up. “Ahhhsh!” he hissed, pulling splinters from his left hand with his teeth. Quickly looking at the rifle, he saw the barrel was fine and the stock was sound behind the first barrel band. He slammed another big cartridge in the breech and cocked the hammer. Wham! He couldn’t tell, but each 1″ slug slamming through such a mass ought to be tearing through five or six Grik, maybe more.

  Yet the tide of Grik seemed unstoppable. None of those charging were even shooting, but bayonets bristled from the tightly packed, running phalanx. Machine-gun and rifle fire scraped away rank after rank, and still it came, not even slowing. A man next to Silva pitched back, his skull a crater and his helmet flying, and Silva remembered there were still Grik firing muskets in support. The range was too long for their smoothbores to be accurate, but the big balls were still lethal and the volume of fire was impressive. Some must’ve managed to dry their weapons after their swim, he thought, loading the Doom Stomper again. Or towed a bunch, an’ all their ammo in boats. Maybe more boats crossed after we quit lookin’. But the rain and wet’ll slow or sto
p just about any muzzle-loader eventually, while it won’t hurt our fixed ammo. Still, something was nagging him.

  He fired again, then laid his damaged Doom Stomper aside and unslung the Thompson. The Grik were getting close and the leading edge of the wedge had already passed the point he could shoot without stray bullets falling among his friends. But the Grik were fanning out now, attacking both directions with bayonets leveled. The firing redoubled, concentrating on the nearest targets, and even more Grik went sprawling. Bullets blew through them, weapons were shattered, adding their jagged parts to the hail of projectiles. The sodden air took on a reddish haze.

  The charge that finally hit the low stone wall was a bit thinner, due as much to dispersion as attrition, and had lost a lot of punch. Rifle fire tapered off as bayonet met bayonet, but Blitzers and MGs still rattled. They came to this fight for this, Silva realized as he sprayed a full twenty-round magazine at a tighter group. Most of ’em swam a goddamn river to get at us with empty muskets, to use their bayonets, claws, teeth. . . . They were acting just like “old” Grik, but he didn’t believe they were for a second. They’d timed this too well, and the Grik at the wall were using their bayonets like pros. They swam a goddamn river, he repeated to himself with a different emphasis, and icy mercury gushed down his back. “To fix our attention!” he roared out loud, blasting away with his Thompson again. Whirling, he looked at the river. It was raining again, the wind whipping harder, and whitecaps lashed the gray water—as well as the scores of Grik wearing gray leather armor surging up out of it to join hundreds more already forming on the flat below the retaining wall beyond the road.

  “They’re behind us, goddammit! Form squares by companies!” he bellowed, but his voice was lost in the crashing tumult of fire and wind.

  Milke was shooting a pistol, taking deliberate aim between shots. Silva grabbed him by the arm and the pistol whipped around toward his face. Instantly, Milke lowered it. “What?” he shouted, rain sluicing down from his helmet.