Firestorm

by Anderson, Taylor

  Reaching the warped, wingless wreckage, he saw a practically shaven head, followed by a pair of massive shoulders, a Thomson SMG, and then mighty arms pried themselves through the relatively small oval opening like a brontasarry emerging from an improbably tiny egg. The head swiveled, exposing a blond beard and black eye patch. A good eye focused on Chack, and the brow above it arched.

  “Goddamn snakey-bird bastards!” Dennis Silva grumbled. “This ain’t my fault!”

  “Dennis!” Chack was utterly stunned. He’d heard of Silva’s recent exploits, but the last time he’d seen his friend was before the “Second Allied Expeditionary Force” left to secure Aryaal and B’mbaado, and finally invaded Singapore. That force was now collectively referred to as “First Fleet,” and so much had happened since....

  “It’s me in the battered flesh, Chackie! Are you gonna stand there starin’ and chewin’ yer cud, or help me outta this junk heap before I have a hydrophobic fit?”

  Except for a few ugly cuts, Silva emerged relatively unharmed. Quickly, they practically tore the plane off Lieutenant Reddy. The man was unconscious but alive, and they carried him to a group of trees and laid him on the grass. Lawrence was banged up, but not too badly. They’d found him in the nose of the plane, under its pilot, where he’d tumbled during the crash. He limped a little from smashing the control stick and rudder pedals with his hip, but he quickly busied himself removing their weapons from the wreckage.

  “What about the wireless set?” Silva demanded loudly, checking Orrin’s pulse.

  “It’s ’usted,” Lawrence cried back, his voice muffled. “You ’recked it’ith your idiot ass!” Despite his aches, Lawrence was very happy to be on the ground, in one piece.

  “Okay . . . burn the wreck. Don’t want the Doms getting a good loot it!”

  “Ay, ay, General Sil’a!” Lawrence retorted.

  “Our little lizard is growing up,” Chack said fondly. He was surprised how glad he was to see them both. He stooped. “This is the ‘Reddy Cousin’ the reports mentioned?” he asked, looking down at the unconscious man. “Doesn’t look like him . . . to me.”

  “Me neither,” Silva said. “Not much. But he’s a good’un—in different ways. We need to take care of him.”

  “Of course. The area behind us is mostly secure now. Take these troops and escort him back to the harbor. You will meet Imperial Marines and possibly shore parties from Salaama-Na.”

  “Nope,” Silva said as the ruined “Nancy” began to burn and Lawrence limp-trotted back with weapons on his shoulders—and a long object in his hands.

  “Send these other fellas. I done all I can in the Air Corps. I ain’t been in a real fight in a while. I’m with you.” He suddenly noticed what Lawrence had. “Oh nooooo!”

  “What?” Chack asked.

  “The war’s lost! My be-loved ‘Doom Whomper’ is busted!” The giant flintlock rifled musket he’d made from a turned-down 25-mm antiaircraft gun barrel from sunken Amagi had broken at the wrist in the crash. He shouldn’t have brought it, not for this fight, but it had saved him so many times in such a variety of ways, he never knew when he’d need it. It was his lucky charm.

  “You can ’ix it,” Lawrence said. He seemed equally affected.

  “Yeah . . . well, bring it with us,” Silva said. “You can still sling the big part, an’ stick the buttstock in the shootin’ pouch!”

  “Why I gotta carry it?” Lawrence demanded, suddenly less concerned.

  “I gotta wag this Thompson an’ this heavy bag o’ magazines,” Dennis retorted. “Not to mention my cutlass, bayonet, an’ pistol. You don’t even need a sword—you got them claws.”

  “I broke one!” Lawrence complained.

  “Woop-te-do. We get in a fight, you can set my poor rifle down—gently—an’ pitch in. Till then, you wag it . . . or I won’t let you go huntin’ with me no more!”

  Lawrence fumed but slung the broken weapon and heavy pouch that went with it.

  “This reunion is swell,” Chack said, “but we must get out of here.” He motioned toward the now furiously burning “Nancy.” “Besides, we still have a battle. We must finish it before the enemy comes over the mountains behind us.”

  “I agree on all counts,” Silva said, “but don’t worry about the last. Shinya’s comin’ ashore at Cork, an’ maybe Easky in the mornin’, with four nice, fresh, well-trained regiments, chompin’ at the bit. He’ll have more air too. There ain’t nothin’ on this whole shitty island he’ll even notice bustin’ through. An’ as for the bad guys attackin’ that Waterford burg”—he shrugged—“me an’ the lieutenant, an’ a few other planes pretty much took care o’ that, I figger.”

  “What did you do?”

  Dennis chuckled. “Wasn’t my fault . . . mostly. Wasn’t even my idea.” He nodded at the motionless man and looked at the squad that would carry him out. “You take good care o’ him. Like I said, he’s a good’un!”

  CHAPTER 19

  Central Highlands Grik Ceylon

  Colonel “Billy” Flynn was riding one of six paalkas, drawing a battery of light six-pounders on split-trail “galloper” carriages near the front of the column of his 1st Amalgamated. He still liked “Flynn’s Rangers” better, and through persistent repetition, he had enough people using the term that he was confident the moniker would stick. He had two more batteries of light guns along, one in the middle and another at the rear of the column. Looking back at the winding snake of Lemurians, he was proud of what he’d accomplished and what they’d achieved. They might not be Marines, or the Six Hundred, but he’d put his thousand-’Cat regiment up against any Army unit anywhere, especially with their new rifled muskets. Soon, they’d even have breechloaders, and he couldn’t wait. Since they’d been among the first to get rifles, they’d probably be the last to get the “Allin-Silva” conversions, however.

  He guessed it was inevitable that he’d wound up “back” in the Army. He had good leadership skills and remembered by heart the infantry drill manual he’d been taught. For a while, Captain Reddy used him to help create a new manual that was applicable here. He’d modified and simplified the original in his head and unconsciously substituted a number of nautical terms and commands here and there, but it seemed to work okay. The new book—the first printed on this world with movable type—was titled Flynn’s Tactics. He wouldn’t admit it, but that “honor” actually embarrassed him. Ultimately, his manual set the stage for his getting his own regiment, and the irony of his command wasn’t lost on him. He’d made corporal in the 77th “Melting Pot” Division during the Great War, and now he had the “Amalgamated,” another “melting pot” of people from every Lemurian Home they were known to inhabit, mostly uniformed alike now, and many from places still trying to stay out of the war.

  A good example of that was the nominal commander of his newest—if possibly temporary—company: Lieutenant Commander Saaran-Gaani, the brown-and-white-furred former exec of USS Donaghey. He was one of a few, but growing number of troops recruited from the Great South Island that really needed to be in the war. Not only was it a vast land with many resources, it was fairly well populated in the warmer north. He hoped ’Cats like Saaran could take their stories home and get their various Homes, or “city-states” on board. The allies needed the Great South Island much like the Brits and French needed the U.S. in the “last” war.

  Billy’s contemplations were disturbed by a more immediate concern—his ass. He hated riding palkas. With their broad backs, it was probably about as comfortable as riding an elephant. He tried to sit as he’d seen folks do in movies, riding camels and such, but the damn pal-ka’s rolling gait and this unpredictable terrain made that almost suicidal. Therefore, whenever he was “aboard” one, he was perpetually doing the splits. He’d ride only a little while more, he decided; just long enough to give his knees and ankles a rest. He’d been a submariner too long, and honestly, he had some joint issues. Some of that likely stemmed from the near-scurvy he and the others experience
d on Talaud Island while marooned for the better part of a year. He’d heard the island had blown itself apart, and though he was saddened by the loss of life and the damage to their Fil-pin allies, he was glad the island was gone.

  “Somebody stop this goddamn thing,” he finally growled. “I’ve h all the ‘rest’ I can stand.” The Lemurian mahout stopped the beast by a means Billy didn’t see, and he slid gingerly down the animal’s flank, to be assisted to the ground by Captain Bekiaa-Sab-At. “Lemme go,” Flynn protested.

  “Very well, Colonel, but if you break a leg or ankle in these rocks, you’ll have to ride a paalka all the time.”

  “Yeah? Well, sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to snap. Just mad at my own worn-out carcass. Walk with me a little, wilya?”

  “Of course.”

  It was beautiful here; the mountains rising on either side of the valley, the heavy timber composed of something like ferny pines. It was cool, and for once the mosquitoes weren’t that bad except at dawn and dusk. Even the “Griklets,” the feral youngling Grik that dogged the column all the way up from the southern coast, screeching at them, throwing sticks, rocks, and feces, and occasionally even attacking, had finally laid off.

  It did stink, though.

  The valley they advanced through had been packed with Grik just a few days before, but after Alden’s breakthrough on the coastal plain, recon had reported the enemy abandoning the rough terrain to reinforce the southern approaches to the industrial heart of Ceylon; the area between “Colombo” and the natural low-tide causeway connecting the big island to the “Indian” subcontinent. The stench left by the departed Grik “Army” still lingered heavy in the valley, however. Grik didn’t use slit trenches, and the reek of their dung was all-pervasive. Billy wondered how on earth they avoided epidemics. Maybe they didn’t and just ate their dead. The stench of rotting flesh was strong as well.

  Saaran joined them, wearing a bandanna over his face. “If this is what it smells like when the Grik leave, I’d hate to be in a confined place like this valley when they were here! I thought it was bad on the Sand Spit when we were downwind of them.”

  Flynn’s brow furrowed. “Stink wouldn’t be the worst thing about being in a place like this!” he said, looking up at the wooded flanks of the mountains. “I wish we had comm down in here.” He glanced at his watch. “Another twenty minutes or so before our guardian angels check on us,” he added, referring to the four-plane flight tasked to watch over the long, winding column. “Anything from the flank pickets?”

  “Just Grik . . . excrement, Colonel,” said Bekiaa. Her tail swished. “They abandoned a lot of their artillery, though. Orders from Colonel Grisa of the Ninth Aryaal behind us is not to destroy the guns, we might use them. Even if we don’t, they’ll certainly be easier to salvage on their carriages.”

  “True.” Flynn rubbed his jaw. “Look, maybe I’m paranoid, but it wouldn’t be the first time the flyboys missed something. They have to key on movement like the rest of us, and it’s a lot harder to see when you’re moving yourself.”

  “The Third Maa-ni-lo Caav, under Cap-i-taan Saachic, scouted the whole area carefully this morning, and their . . . me-naaks did not alert,” Saaran reminded him thoughtfully, “but with the scent so thick, they may not have.” They used a vaguely similar, if smaller—and much more agreeable—version of “meanies” on the Great South Island to track game, and Saaran was familiar with them. They weren’t “pets” per se, but they did respond to affection and familiarity. Saaran respected the larger beasts’ capabilities but had no desire to befriend one.

  “Yeah, but this valley is just too good a place to put cork in the bottle—hell, the Grik were here!” He shrugged. “I feel sorta like I’m on the conn tower of the old S-19 in the bottom of a big trough with all the hatches open.”

  “I agree,” Bekiaa said, a little edgy. “As you say, something stinks here—besides the waste. But the pickets move all the way to the crests”—she pointed north and south—“and see no movement.”

  “Hmm. I hate to string the poor guys out that far, where those damn Griklets might gang up on ’em, but signal the pickets to drop over the crest—in pairs—and see what they can over there.”

  “We might not hear shots, or even see the puffs of smoke,” Saaran reminded him. “They certainly won’t be able to signal us visually.”

  “Then they’ll just have to haul their asses to where we or other pickets can see or hear ’em if they spot anything,” Billy said. “Pass the word back to Grisa that he might want to do the same.” He looked back as far as he could see. His and Grisa’s regiments were fully committed to the valley now, but the rest of the division wasn’t yet. Was that good or bad? Both the Amalgamated and the 9th Aryaal were well trained, and the 9th was a hardened, veteran force. If this was a trap, could two thousand stand against whatever might be assembled against them? It occurred to him with a chill that if his instincts were correct, the Grik thought they could handle the entire division!

  “Okay,” he said, a little tentatively, “I want another runner to suggest to Grisa that our two regiments go from column into line, act like we smell a rat. If the Grik are up to something, maybe that’ll prod them into showing us what it is. If they attack down one of these slopes, we can funnel the follow-on regiments in behind our lines.”

  “What if they attack down both mountains?” Bekiaa asked.

  “Then we’re screwed . . . but maybe the rest of the division can block the valley behind us, and we can retreat back to them.” He shrugged. “Prob’ly nothin’, anyway, just a superstitious old pigboater!”

  They continued to advance a short distance until Grisa’s reply arrived. Apparently, he was superstitious too and fully endorsed the scheme. If nothing happened, the worst that would occur was perhaps an hour’s delay in their advance.

  “Just a few minutes until the planes,” Flynn said, as much to himself as to Bekiaa who remained beside him. “If we do poke a hornet’s nest, maybe they’ll see it before it hits us.” He raised his voice. “Rangers!” he yelled, followed by other shouts up and down the column, crying out to their various companies or batteries. “Halt! Action left! Column into line by files . . .” He waited while his command was relayed and the appropriate drum cadence rumbled. “Execute!” (He’d always thought it was stupid to punctuate a command with the word “march”—particularly when troops were already marching.)

  Despite the rocky, uneven ground, NCOs scampered out to the left, looking back at the troops, and the column of Lemurians that had been marching four abreast transformed into a battle line facing southwest, two ranks deep.

  “Batteries! Action left!”

  The “Gun ’Cats” wheeled their palkas to the right until their pieces were even with the infantry line; then the beasts were halted while the long, twin shafts were unhooked from either side of them. The animals were then moved to what was now the “rear,” where they were joined by more palkas pulling similarly hitched ammunition limbrs. The new twelve-pounders had single, “stock trail” carriages that hitched directly to the limbers, which were in turn drawn by a pair of palkas, but they’d been considered too heavy for the rough mountain trails.

  In moments, thirty-six guns in six batteries were crewed and pointed up the slope of the mountainous ridge to the south, and two thousand Lemurians from the 1st Amalgamated and 9th Aryaal stood prepared for battle. Colonel Flynn studied the crest through his binoculars, but so far, there’d been no response to their maneuver. In the sudden near silence, he heard the sound of approaching planes.

  “It’s about damn time!” he said as the four-ship formation swooped low over what had been the head of the column, and obviously seeing its deployment, banked left and climbed to investigate the flank. “This is probably all for nothing,” he admitted sheepishly to Bekiaa. “Everybody always says I give those Grik bastards too much credit for brains, but I spent some time talking to Rolak’s pet, Hij Geeky . . . or whatever.” He swatted at a mosquito. “He ain’t
a genius, and he’s weird as hell, but he’s no dummy, you know? Anyway, maybe I’m bein’ a dope, but I didn’t last this long. . . .” He stopped. A tiny, distant puff of smoke drifted up out of the trees; then another. “Pickets, I bet,” he murmured. Several more puffs appeared, but they never heard the sound of the shots over the diminishing engine noises. The planes must have seen as well, because they banked further, aiming for the crest of the mountain just west of Flynn’s Rangers. Barely an instant after the “Nancys” cleared that crest, the entire top of the mountain seemed to explode as hundreds of gouts of flame stabbed upward, shrouded in dense gray-white smoke. Two of the planes instantly crumpled and fell. One spiraled down, out of control, and painted a smear of orange fire and greasy black smoke on the skyline. A single ship staggered on, trailing smoke.

  “Sonuva bitch!” Billy yelled, just as the thunderous reports of the enemy weapons began to reach them. They would echo in the valley for some time. “I wish for once I didn’t have to be right about how shitty a thing can turn! What were those things?”

  “I would say they were either cannon on the extreme opposite slope, or they have something similar to our mortars for firing a heavy load of canister straight up. Either way, the range cannot be great,” Saaran said.

  “Great enough,” Flynn seethed. “I hope that one plane is able to report, because whatever did that wasn’t here this morning. The Cav would’ve seen them.” The sporadic musket fire from the retreating pickets was diminishing. Either they were breaking contact—or being wiped out. “And whatever the hell else is up there all of a sudden.” He looked around.