Deadly Shores

by Taylor Anderson

  Matt nodded reluctantly. Essentially, Courtney had stated the simple fact that they were all soldiers now, and he was ready to do his part. Matt had no doubt the man had become proficient with the Krag, and Chack still kept his own as a constant companion. He found that a little odd. They didn’t have a lot of ’03 Springfields, but they were shorter and more powerful than the Krags. If anyone “rated” one, it was Chack. But he still stubbornly clung to the old Krag he’d been given—right after the Battle of Aryaal, if Matt remembered rightly. He smiled and nodded. “Okay, Courtney. If you say so. Just be careful, will you?”

  “‘Careful’ is my very favorite word, Captain Reddy!”

  The splash of the anchor hitting the sea distracted them, and they all glanced forward.

  “I will take my leave now, Cap-i-taan Reddy,” Chack announced, still speaking formally, “and I wish you the best of luck.”

  “Sure, Chack,” Matt replied, falsely cheerful. “And you be careful too! I’ll see you back aboard—or on the steps of that creepy, dumpy, palace in Grik City!” He silently cursed himself, realizing he’d just encouraged Chack to go beyond the parameters of his mission! All the 1st Raider Brigade was supposed to do was provide a diversion in the Grik rear to take pressure off II Corps when it became time to disengage. The brigade would then filter back into the jungle and be withdrawn by the DDs that would steam back down the coast to take it off. Damn it! What’s the matter with me? Without a further word, Chack took a step back and saluted. Matt returned it as sharply as he could, and then Chack and Courtney were gone.

  “I hope they’re okay,” Spanky grumbled softly.

  * * *

  Dennis Silva himself served as coxswain aboard the launch, and Gunny Horn went along as “security” with his BAR. Silva had left Petey clutching to an indignant Lawrence, who’d gone down to the firerooms to try to “give” the ridiculous creature to Isak Reuben. Isak probably wasn’t a good choice to take care of him either, but he’d always complained when anybody aboard had any kind of “pet,” and they didn’t get one for the firerooms. If nothing else, the heat belowdecks might cause Petey to pass out, Lawrence had reasoned, and get him to let go.

  Silva waited patiently while Chack and Courtney, and twenty other Raiders slid down the falls into the boat, before turning it toward shore and advancing the throttle with practiced ease. Chack watched him. “I didn’t know you could steer a boat,” he said at last. Silva rolled his eye. “Lotsa stuff you don’t know about me, Chackie. Just ’cause a fella don’t do a thing ever’ damn day don’t mean he can’t.” He nodded at Horn. “Why, me an’ ol’ Arnie there have tumped over a en-tire Jap destroyer with our bare hands, now! You missed that one.”

  “I heard about it,” Chack said, blinking amusement. “And perhaps, in the future, you will remember not to ‘tump’ Jaap ships over on top of yourselves!”

  Dennis slapped his thigh. “That’s what I told Arnie, but he never listens.”

  “What a load of crap. I always listen to that maniac,” Horn mumbled, “and always get a whole cargo of hell dumped on my head too.” He stuck out his hand. “Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn.” Chack chittered a chuckle and shook the offered hand. He knew exactly what Silva and Horn were doing: trying to lighten the mood for him and all the troops in the boat. It was an effort he would’ve considered uncharacteristic of Silva, at least, for most of their acquaintance. But whether he’d admit it or not, Dennis had changed. He glanced around. The ploy was working too, he realized, judging by the other faces he saw in the moonlight.

  “Kinda wish we was goin’ with you fellas,” Silva added a little whimsically. “I know I’ve said I was retirin’ from the jungle hee-roin’ bizness, but a fella gets melancholy for his adventurous youth, from time to time.”

  Horn snorted.

  “You will have plenty to do at Grik City,” Chack reminded, just as the keel of the launch touched the sand amid the gently breaking surf, and Lemurians returned to their ancestral lands for the first time in . . . well, it was impossible to say. Chack hopped out without ceremony, and his troops filed out of the boat to join him. “Take this line,” Silva called, throwing a coil of rope at a ’Cat before he and Horn stepped out of the boat. He saw Chack’s questioning blink and shrugged. “Just figgered we’d hang around an’ watch the goose pull for a while.”

  “Oh dear,” Courtney, the last in the boat, exclaimed, looking at the water. “You don’t suppose you might, um, pull me in just a bit closer? Hmm. I thought not,” he added a little petulantly when there was no response. He jumped over the side and crashed quickly through the shallow water to join them on the beach.

  If Dennis expected to be amused by a chaotic landing, he was disappointed. The 1st Raider Brigade had practiced landings on every kind of shore at the Baalkpan Advanced Training Center (ATC), and the boats rowed ashore by platoons and quickly formed into companies. They weren’t under fire, of course, but the whole thing was accomplished with a speed and professionalism Silva and Horn could only admire. The only problems came from the animals. Barges of cavalry, mounted on restless, grumpy me-naaks, practically disintegrated as they neared shore and the irascible creatures, fed up with their long, confining voyage, spilled out in the surf. Fortunately, whatever predators cruised these beaches were like most of those elsewhere and stayed out of the shallows at night. There were a few light injuries, but no losses. The paalkas, large, somewhat moose-shaped animals, came next with greater dignity, but then they had to haul the guns and wagons off the barges and out of the surf with cables before they could be properly harnessed. This caused considerable aggravation, and the mournful mooing of the paalkas echoed back at them from the trees.

  Eventually, however, Chack’s entire brigade of roughly three thousand officers and troops, eight 2-gun “company” sections of light six-pounders, and a full communications company had managed to assemble on the broad beach. The comm company had a short train of wagons and its own section of guns. It would follow the shoreline with two complete TBS sets and the associated paraphernalia, pacing the brigade’s advance, so they could maintain communications with a single DD offshore. That ship could, in turn, keep the rest of First Fleet South apprised of Chack’s progress. It was intended that silence be maintained for a while, until the “main” show kicked off, but Chack had strict instructions to call for help if he ran into anything he couldn’t handle, or if he believed his advance had been discovered by the Grik.

  “Well, Chackie, ol’ buddy,” Silva said after a while, “it looks like you’ve got things straightened out here. Doubt I coulda done much better myself. I guess Arnie an’ me’ll shove off.” He started to offer his hand for a final shake, when the woods erupted with the deep crackle of Allin-Silva breechloaders, and the stutter of a single Blitzer Bug. “What the hell? Sounds like your pickets’ve already run into something!” A thunderous screech echoed in the forest, followed by more shots and a terrible commotion of crashing, snapping trees. “Somethin’ purty big,” Silva added.

  “I wonder what it might be?” Courtney murmured eagerly.

  Chack’s sister, Captain Risa-Sab-At, hurried up to join them. She flashed a quick, friendly, Lemurian grin at Silva, then turned to Chack. “Major Jindal seems to have encountered some kind of resistance,” she reported unnecessarily.

  “Indeed,” Chack agreed, moving out in front of the troops that flanked him. “Action front!” he bellowed. “Fix bayonets! Front rank kneel, and prepare to receive . . . the enemy!”

  His command was relayed down the long row of raiders, formed into four ranks in preparation for moving, by column, into the forest. Another roar reached them, and it was closer now, the flashes of rifles visible, and shouts audible in the darkness. The guns were quickly unlimbering and being pushed through the sand to join the infantry in line, their loaders already slamming charges down the moving barrels. Silva unsnapped the holder of his 1911 Colt, wishing he’d brought his monstrous
“Doom Stomper” along. Horn readied his BAR.

  Walker’s two powerful carbon arc spotlights suddenly snapped on and illuminated the tree line with their glaring beams. Apparently the flashes of gunfire had been seen since no message could’ve been relayed. The lights probed quickly around until they settled on . . . something, emerging from the forest.

  “Gawd,” Silva blurted. He’d seen “super lizards”: giant allosaurus-like carnivores, according to Bradford, that inhabited Borno. He’d even killed a few. But this! It made a super lizard look like a chicken.

  “Goodness gracious!” Courtney chortled.

  The monstrous beast that crashed out of the jungle onto the beach and paused, squinting in the painfully bright beams of light, looked like a giant me-naak at a glance. It went on four legs and had a large head full of vicious teeth like a meanie, but it stood perhaps twelve or fourteen feet high at the withers. It also had a trio of forward-facing horns kind of like the mounts the Czech Legion rode, which was ironic as well, but it also boasted a horny crest that swept back along the top of its head and neck to provide a dangerous mouthful for anything that went for that vulnerable area. Probably only Courtney Bradford reflected on the implications of that just then, however.

  “It’s a tripto-serpent-top!” Silva exclaimed. Horn glared at him, amazed as always by how quick Silva’s irreverent wit could be at times like this.

  “Chief Silva! You will kindly let someone else provide a thoughtful, scientific name for something we meet for a change!” Bradford challenged hotly.

  “Stand by!” Chack trilled loudly.

  Just then, the air shattered with the sound of tearing canvas, and three orange flashes lit the area around the monster amid geysers of earth and a stuttering boom. Moments later, the reports of Walker’s three landward-trained 4"-50s reached them.

  “Good boys!” Silva crowed triumphantly. He turned to Chack. “Our friends’ll hammer that booger to pieces before it gets too close to your fellas!”

  He was right. Another salvo was already shrieking in on the suddenly confused beast. At least one struck, and mighty gobbets of flesh rocketed into the sky, surrounding a massive, tumbling foreleg.

  “Such a pity,” Bradford mourned, even as a third salvo convulsed the roaring beast and the ground around it. The roaring snapped off.

  “Sure, it’s a helluva thing that you didn’t get to gawk at the scary booger longer than you did,” Silva scolded sarcastically. “Maybe next time you’ll get a good look at its innards from the inside!” He looked back at Chack, just as the searchlights dimmed out, their job obviously done. “Hope nobody heard that. Sure you don’t wanna call your little hike off?”

  Chack shook his head angrily, staring out at the old destroyer. The Morse lamp aboard her was apparently asking the same question. “We will continue our mission,” he stated emphatically. “Have each section of guns join its assigned company in the marching order at once, Cap-i-taan,” he told Risa, “and we will place a section at the head of the column, behind the scouts, as well, if you please. We are far enough from Grik City that the enemy shouldn’t have been alerted if it truly is as isolated as our reconnaissance has reported, but other things like that”—he motioned at the wreckage of the creature Walker killed—“may wish to investigate. Form a detail to check on our scouts in the forest to ensure that none were wounded by that thing—or Walker’s shells!”

  “Ay, ay, my brother,” Risa replied, and Chack nodded. “Carry on!” he said. With a last look at Silva, Risa scampered away.

  “Okay, then,” Silva said. “Have fun, Chackie, and don’t get ate. C’mon, Arnie, let’s get back to the ship.”

  “Have a care for yourself, Silva,” Chack warned, “and tell Cap-i-taan Reddy to look for the First Raider Brigade in the enemy’s rear—when he needs us most!”

  “You bet. So long, Chackie, Mr. Bradford. Watch out for ’skeeters, an’ don’t stump yer toes! If you do get yer stripy tails in a jam, I’ll try to come a’runnin—but who knows what I’ll be tangled up with. May get awkward for me to just drop ever’thing to save your silly asses this time!”

  Chack grinned at his big friend. “I will bear that in mind.”

  “C’mon, Arnie,” Dennis repeated. “We hang around much longer, Skipper’ll figure we decided to stay with these nuts an’ leave us here.”

  CHAPTER 23

  ////// Chack’s Brigade

  Northeast Madagascar

  July 31, 1944

  The me-naak Chack rode was a poor substitute for the horse he’d grown so fond of in the New Ireland campaign, but he was increasingly glad they hadn’t brought any horses here. Madagascar might be the ancient homeland of his people, but whether it ever had been or not, it was certainly no place for horses now. The strange and terrifying monster they’d encountered when they first landed had been but a taste of the . . . unreasonably dangerous predators that infested this land. Most were relatively small and quickly dealt with by recon squads that probed ahead of the brigade, but some were larger, and a few were much more clever. All were a menace, and the 1st Raider Brigade was advancing at a frustrating crawl.

  The marching column had been essentially abandoned the very first day, since Chack had been forced to move behind battalions that remained largely deployed for battle. This was an incredibly tedious arrangement in the virtually trackless coastal forest, and the alignment of the battalions was extremely difficult to maintain. No one was ever supposed to lose sight of the troopers to either side of them, but the woods echoed almost continuously with sporadic firing, particularly on the flanks, and there was a steady trickle of casualties, dead and wounded, that was bleeding Chack’s Brigade at an alarming rate. Worse, the monsters stalking them had quickly closed in behind, snatching any stragglers they could. This kept straggling to an unprecedented minimum, but also prevented Chack from sending his reports—and his wounded—back to the beach without a significant guard. The farther inland they moved, the more difficult that was becoming.

  “I have never seen anything like it,” Chack’s sister, Risa-Sab-At, stated, saluting as Chack and his small staff rode up behind her currently deployed 1st Battalion of the 11th Imperial Marines. She marched with the “Impies” whenever she could because they’d never faced Grik before, but nobody had ever encountered a situation quite like this. “It is like we move through a land of walking flasher fish!”

  “The closest situation I have heard of might be Mr. Cook’s—and Silva’s—expedition through north Borno,” Chack agreed, “but their party was much smaller and drew far less attention.”

  “They weren’t discovering a new species with virtually every step either!” enthused Courtney Bradford, waving his sombrero to cool his red, sweat-streaked face. He’d been walking with Risa that day, inspecting the various slain creatures. Risa had been forced to detail a few men to place the manageable carcasses on a cart and bring them to him, so he wouldn’t keep scampering toward every shot he heard to have a peek at what provoked it. He was taken, under guard, to see the larger monsters the advancing riflemen brought down.

  “Such an astonishing variety of predators!” he continued. “Almost nothing else has been seen! They certainly must prey upon one another if nothing else is to be had. If this truly is a sort of zoo, or preserve for the various ‘worthy prey’ or ‘other hunter species’ the Grik have encountered over the ages, it is quite fascinating, of course, but the nature of their existence here would seem to minimize any opportunity to study the beasts as they previously existed, if you get my meaning.”

  Chack simply stared at the man, blinking tolerant amusement. “And why might that be, Mr. Braad-furd?”

  Bradford blinked back. “Why, with predators being forced to subsist on other predators, many behavioral, and even physiological changes, will have had to occur—particularly over long periods of time, of course!” He gestured at his latest acquisition, weaving through the tr
ees beside him on a cart drawn by four resentful-looking Imperial Marines. The thing looked vaguely similar to a Grik, though it was larger and more colorful. Its arms weren’t as well developed, and its tail was considerably longer. Interestingly, its teeth were very different from a Grik—more like those of a rhino-pig, complete with wicked tusks, than anything else Chack could compare it to. Courtney frowned, and flapped his hat more vigorously. “I may be wrong, of course,” he conceded. “I’m so often wrong these days, it seems! There’s no reason to presume there aren’t any prey animals on Madagascar. They’d naturally flee our approach, as well as the concentration of predators we invite. And if the Grik truly brought these creatures here, they could certainly bring others for them to feed upon.” He paused, peering at the creature on the cart. “And now that I think about it, this specimen, among others, displays a credible capacity for omnivorism. Most interesting indeed.”

  “But you would say that most of the monsters are somewhat Grik-like in form?” Chack asked.

  “Most,” Bradford cautiously confirmed. “At least the majority that seem most inclined to attack. I haven’t seen them, but other creatures, some armed with primitive weapons, in fact, have been reported. Those appear content to merely scrutinize us for the most part, and almost timidly avoid prolonged observations.”