Deadly Shores

by Taylor Anderson

  Silva’s grin widened. “Why, we’re gonna jump down the hole right in the Grik’s front parlor, kickin’ hell outa whatever yellow jacket nest we land on with both feet—an’ we’ll all be lucky to live through it. What other details do we need, you and me?” He ruffled Lawrence’s crest. “Or you, you fuzzy little salamander.”

  Lawrence backed out of reach with a hiss, but seemed pleased by Silva’s confidence. Dennis raised his gaze slightly to watch a moonlit shape move away from the gathering where Lanier was filleting the strange fish beside the port 25-mm gun tub, just aft of the number two torpedo mount. He saw a cherry brighten as that man also leaned against a stanchion to stare out to sea, and realized he was smoking one of Isak’s vile cigarettes as well. “Or maybe, if you really want to know, you might just ask your ol’ buddy down there,” Silva grouched.

  Horn followed his gaze. “Lance Corporal Miles?” he asked skeptically. “Why him? What would he know?” Ian Miles had been attached to Bernie Sandison in Experimental Ordnance after his arrival in Baalkpan with Horn, Herring, Conrad Diebel, and Leading Seaman Henry Stokes. Like many of the survivors of Mizuki Maru’s old-world mission as a slave-labor transport, he’d been given a job he seemed suited for. Stokes was running Allied Intel while Herring was away, and Diebel was flying P-40s for Ben Mallory in Indiaa. After his adventures with Silva in Borno, Gunnery Sergeant Horn was basically assigned to him in Sonny Campeti’s gunnery division (which seemed appropriate). He was still a Marine, of course, but not considered part of Walker’s small Marine contingent. Likewise, Lance Corporal Miles remained under Sandison’s authority, though some suspected he still truly answered only to Commander Simon Herring.

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Dennis repeated. “He’s your pal, an’ he’s prob’ly oozin’ all sorts o’ dope Herring’s fed him.”

  Horn stared at the other Marine thoughtfully for a moment. He knew Miles and Herring had remained close after their ordeal together, closer than one might expect considering their wildly divergent attitudes toward rank. “Miles is a good Marine,” he defended, “and a good guy to have at your back . . . in the situation we were in after the Philippines fell.” He shrugged. “Sure, he had a chip on his shoulder in China. Played the sea lawyer too, sometimes. But he straightened up. Hell, you know the type. You were much the same yourself.”

  “I never was the type to toady up to a tin Tojo type like Herring,” Silva stated flatly, and Horn frowned. He had to admit Silva had a point. Gunny Horn had admired Commander Herring while they were in the hands of the Japanese, but he’d been disappointed by the way Herring tried to throw his weight around after they joined the Grand Alliance here. Sure, he was chief of strategic intelligence now, along to see the Grik “elephant” for himself. But after the hellacious fight with Kurokawa’s battlewagons, he did seem to be trying to become a “real, live” naval officer at last. He’d also clearly changed his opinion of Captain Reddy, and completely embraced the scheme to hit the Grik where they lived.

  “Commander Herring’s not like that now,” Horn defended.

  “No? Then how come him an’ a lowly shoestring corporal like Miles is always promenadin’ our decks an jawin’ about stuff—an’ clammin’ up whenever I . . . whenever anybody wanders by?”

  “Maybe they don’t like it when fellas spy on them,” Horn retorted, “or make such a fuss about them being pals. Neither one is easy to be friends with; trust me, I was with them long enough.” He took a long drag on his PIG-cig and coughed.

  Silva’s eye widened. “Say, you don’t s’pose they’re special pals, do ya?”

  Horn glared at him. “Hell no! What’s the matter with you?”

  Silva rolled his eye. “Just a thought. An’ dis-gustin’ as that notion is, it’d worry me less than the one I’m really stuck on.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Those two are up to somethin’,” Silva stated firmly. “Somethin’ the Skipper won’t like.”

  CHAPTER 10

  ////// East Indiaa

  The “Western Front”

  July 8, 1944

  General of the Army and Marines and acting CINCWEST, General Pete Alden, rode his me-naak alongside General Muln Rolak as they carefully picked their way through the Allied entrenchments at the west end of the Rocky Gap. Gleefully sitting atop another me-naak behind them was Hij Geerki, an ancient Grik bookkeeper, as best they could interpret. They’d captured him at Raan-goon, and he essentially belonged to Rolak now, body and soul. He was along to translate. The trio was surrounded by a full company of Colonel Enaak’s 5th Maa-ni-la Cavalry, and accompanied by the colonel himself. The day was dreary, breathless, and hot, with a heavy overcast lingering above. Alden’s “weather weenies”—mostly Lemurian Sky Priests—were confident it wouldn’t rain, but then no Lemurians had any long-term experience with weather this far west. Alden took their assurances with a grain of salt.

  “Yah!” he snapped, kicking at his me-naak’s head when it suddenly swung toward his left leg as if intent on taking a bite. The beast was muzzled, but that couldn’t prevent Pete’s instinctive reaction. Me-naaks, or “meanies,” might be fine cavalry mounts, but they looked like long-legged crocodiles with a protective, almost bulletproof case around their abdomens. They were notoriously ill-tempered, and though oddly loyal to their long-term riders, they were fickle, notional creatures, not above occasionally attempting to snatch a snack—particularly when carrying someone they weren’t used to.

  “Gener-aal Aal-den,” Rolak chided, “you’ll hurt his feelings!” Rolak was old and scarred, but singularly charming in an aggressively mischievous sort of way. He’d been a warrior long before most Lemurians were and had quickly earned a rare war-wisdom that had been uncommon for his race. He also possessed an unusually dry wit that complemented Pete’s earthier humor.

  “I don’t give a damn,” Pete retorted tautly. “It kinda hurts my feelings that he wants to eat me!”

  “He just playing,” Colonel Enaak assured, blinking amusement. “He tease you. He know . . . what you say? He know ‘mud marines’ when he smell them.”

  “Is that so?” Alden challenged, preparing a bantering reply, but just then his party passed through the final Allied trenches and barbed-wire entanglements, and into the shattered no-man’s-land moonscape beyond. Just a hundred yards ahead across the denuded plain stood a large, open-sided, octagonal marquee. The canvas was painted against the weather; not colorfully, as Lemurians usually preferred, but in a somber gray similar to that used on Walker and the other iron ships. The earth here had once been picturesque, Alden had been told, but now it appeared tortured and dead. There were no deep craters such as those that pockmarked France and Belgium during the Great War, but the land was scarred and gouged by roundshot, withering musketry and canister, flames, and thousands of feet that had churned the slowly drying, but still-damp ground. Despite the best efforts of both sides to remove them, it had proven impossible to retrieve all the dead. Bones picked clean by the skuggik-like local carrion eaters still protruded, jagged and forlorn, from the firming morass like broken stumps of scrub.

  The harsh, smoky odor of Lemurian funeral pyres still lingered, and Pete knew the Grik had burned their dead as well—at least those that had lain too long to eat—and in that one small respect, his army, his people, had finally found common cause with the Grik. Whether for morale, to prevent disease, or simply because the stench had grown too great to bear, neither side wanted such festering heaps choking the killing ground between their positions.

  Ominously dominating the destroyed landscape were the two small hills, respectively called simply “north” and “south” where all the forces that wound up under the command of Colonel Billy Flynn made their last stand. It was nothing short of a miracle that any of them made it out alive, but most didn’t. The hills’ current, ostentatious occupation by Grik warriors made Pete wonder if the Grik General Halik was experimenting with so
me newly developed sense of human-Lemurian psychology. The hill forts contributed little to Halik’s defensive line and were vulnerable to air attack. They might be good places to install heavily protected batteries, but if Halik wasn’t short of warriors, gathered from all over Indiaa, his artillery reserve was pretty skimpy and likely to remain so. Madraas had been the center of heavy industry in Indiaa, and the Allied Navy was patrolling off every port where more artillery might be landed. Pete suddenly realized his first impression was probably right. Unfortunately, Halik was no idiot. He must have left the hills occupied for the sole purpose of reminding Pete and his army what happened there. He clenched his teeth. As if I could forget, he thought. But if that bastard thinks being reminded of a traumatic but ultimately small defeat will shake us, he’s still got a lot to learn!

  “Looks like hell around here,” he said at last, breaking the short silence.

  “If my understanding of your concept of ‘hell’ is correct, I would have to agree.” Rolak nodded, blinking unease. “And the quiet. That no one is shooting while we all remain poised, just waiting for the slaughter to resume, adds an even more menacing aspect to the scene. Let us get this over with. Much as it fascinates me to study General Halik and some other members of his staff, I do not like it here. The fighting around our perimeter was tortuous, and the land around it came to resemble this place far more than I care to remember. Your ‘trenching’ provides an admirable defense, but Halik has learned it. I do not relish the notion of attacking trenches from trenches!”

  “Neither do I, old buddy,” Alden growled. “And much as I want Halik to think we will, when the time comes, I don’t have any intention of doing it!”

  Rolak and Enaak both glanced at him, blinking speculation, as they arrived at the marquee. Halik and his party were already there, glaring . . . covetously? Pete wondered, at Enaak’s meanies. The Grik didn’t have anything like them.

  Halik strode forward while Pete and Rolak dismounted. The Maa-ni-la Cav dismounted as well, forming a line facing the Grik guards, their weapons held at the ready. As always, Pete was impressed by the odd Grik general. He wasn’t any taller than the average Grik, but older, of course, and unusually muscular. He also . . . carried himself differently, almost like a man, Pete reflected. Of course, he’d been around that Jap, Niwa, long enough for a few mannerisms to rub off, but he’d clearly picked up quite a few notions as well. These meetings, to discuss grievances and try to patch up misunderstandings and downright violations of the truce, had been Halik’s idea. Both sides knew this was just the calm before the next bloody storm; actual peace and coexistence weren’t an option either could even contemplate. But Alden’s and Halik’s forces had both fought to a shattered nub, and the tactical situation at the time had made it clear that neither could possibly win, so they’d simply quit fighting—for a time. Since then, both armies had secured their lines of supply, at least as far as victuals were concerned, and both had swelled in numbers as well. Halik still had greater numbers by far, but Pete had the edge in artillery, air, and small arms. He also kept a distinct edge in training, he thought. Some kind of “new” Grik, trained and conditioned to defend, had bolstered Halik’s lines, but he was sure Halik was still burdened with a preponderance of “ordinary” Grik, which were only good for mindless charges and melee combat. At least he thought he was sure.

  No salutes were exchanged when the leaders met, but Pete was tempted to hold up a hand and say “how” like they did in the Western movie pictures. That wouldn’t do, he realized immediately. Among Lemurians, the gesture was called the “sign of the empty hand,” and meant you held no weapons or grudges. Such was not the case here at all. For an instant he wondered if the similar sign in the pictures meant the same thing among American Indians once—or if indeed it was based on anything other than some screenwriter’s notion. It didn’t matter. He held plenty of weapons and grudges for the Grik, and since nobody was around who’d appreciate the irony, the gesture would only confuse things.

  “Whatcha got, Halik?” Pete asked instead. “You wanted this meeting, so what’s the dope?”

  Geerki translated, though he didn’t really need to. Halik couldn’t speak English, but he’d learned to understand it from Niwa. Geerki spoke regardless, to apply his better understanding of Alden’s slang. Then he’d tell Pete and Rolak what Halik said. Halik snapped, clacked, and hissed in his own tongue for a moment, and Geerki turned to Pete.

  “He says the Czechs are at it again,” Geerki explained. With the Lemurian-American example already set, everyone had begun considering all the “Brotherhood of Volunteers” under Colonel Dalibor Svec’s command as the “Czech Legion.” The somewhat odd continental ’Cats didn’t seem to mind. “They’re still raiding isolated Grik garrisons at either end o’ Halik’s ar’y.”

  “Still picking at the flanks, eh?” Pete commiserated solemnly, speaking directly to Halik. He shrugged. “Nothing I can do about it. Let’s see if I can explain this in a way you’ll understand. The Legion joined our ‘hunt’ against you, the same way that bastard Kurokawa and his Japs once joined your hunt against us. The Czechs only agreed to follow the orders they like, and right now they don’t like it when I tell ’em to leave off killing your guys when they see an easy mark. If you don’t like it, beef up the garrisons they’re targeting.”

  “But they sneak across the mountains through passes we do not know!” Halik complained.

  “Then it seems to me they’re doing you a favor,” Pete stated sourly. “They’re showing you all the places I might try to sneak my army across! Don’t you think I’d stop them if I could?” In point of fact, the Legion was doing exactly what Pete wanted: forcing Halik to spread out and defend an ever-growing number of passes while very carefully not revealing some of the better ones.

  Halik stared hard at Alden before jerking a nod. “I can appreciate your frustration in that regard. It seems we are both plagued by other hunters with their own agendas. Our now mutual enemy, Kurokawa, tasks me still as well.”

  Pete’s ears pricked up at that. Kurokawa was dead . . . wasn’t he? Maybe Halik just didn’t know, and was referring to Kurokawa’s inability to protect the sea lanes—or maybe he really had heard from the crazy Jap. “Yeah? What’s he been up to now?” he asked casually.

  Halik snorted. “I shall not tell you that, General Alden. But like your Czechs, he does not . . . cooperate. And ironically, his actions aid you at present more than they do me—unless he should somehow encounter those elements of your fleet that sailed several days ago. Surely you understand why I will not tell you how that may be if you do not already know.”

  “Can’t blame a fella for asking,” Pete murmured, mind racing. He had to get word to the Skipper that Kurokawa might not be dead after all—and he might now be entirely on the loose, and utterly unpredictable!

  “What other complaints do you wish to advance?” Rolak asked, and Halik’s intense, reptilian eyes turned to him.

  “Your flying machines. They fly over us at will, scouting our positions and watching our every move. They are under your control, and I understood that none of us was to cross the cease-fire line.”

  “Shoot ’em down, if you can,” Pete said. “Or try to scout us with your zeppelins if you like. We’ll shoot them down if we catch ’em, though.”

  Halik could only nod. He didn’t have any zeppelins left. Those few that had remained airworthy after the last battle had vanished from India before or with Kurokawa, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

  “Could be we’ve missed a few, or you wouldn’t know part of our fleet has sailed—but that only proves you’ve been spying on us, so I don’t want to hear any more whining about cheating.”

  Halik said nothing. He had his spies, certainly, but they were on the ground, lurking in the dense jungle along the coast south of Madras. Contact was sporadic, however, and he wasn’t getting nearly enough reports on troop movements. Even worse, what
he did get was often confusing or made no sense at all, and that left him anxious. Sometimes he wished he was like other Hij, born into the class, and able to remain dispassionate, almost disassociated from events surrounding them. First General Esshk had been his role model after his elevation, but Halik knew Esshk wouldn’t know what to do under these circumstances. He was a designer of battles in the same way that a master swordsmith might instruct an apprentice how best to shape a blade. He was responsible for how it turned out, but wasn’t personally invested in its creation—and had little interest at all in how it was used. Halik couldn’t lead like that, couldn’t even think like that anymore. Battles had become very personal things for him, and he was entirely invested in their outcome.

  He had no doubt that the current peace was a fragile thing, and hostilities could resume over any provocation. They’d resume anyway, just as soon as either side thought it had a decisive advantage. When that finally occurred, he and his new . . . fraternity . . . of officers would lead their troops in ways that Esshk never could: with passion and complete commitment. They were determined to achieve victory, and to accomplish it with as little loss as possible. That was another thing that set Halik aside from other “born” Hij officers. He’d started out as a lowly Uul himself, and if he could grow into what he’d become, why couldn’t others? What a terrible waste was the old way of war!

  In addition, though, somehow, his new awareness had taught him to consider it a terrible shame that hostilities must resume. To his amazement, he even caught himself actually admiring this foe—Alden and Rolak in particular. But for whatever reason, the Giver of Life had decreed that all non-Grik not associated with the Great Hunt must be exterminated as prey, and it was not his place to defy the Celestial Mother. To that extent at least, he was as dogmatic as any Grik ever hatched.

  “Come, General Halik,” Rolak said. “None of this is new; we have haggled over these same details before. What is the real reason you asked to speak with us?”