Three guns fired as one. Only one round struck the target, but it was a perfect hit, exactly where Matt had hoped. A single high-explosive four-inch-fifty struck dead center beneath the maintop and detonated with devastating effect. Huge splinters and pieces of metal scythed through sails and rigging, and down upon the fo'c'sle. The mast and top above the impact were entirely severed, and the whole thing fell—canvas flailing and yards disintegrating in a mad carnival of destruction. Surviving stays stretched impossibly tight and parted like a volley of rifle fire. The fore-topmast snapped and added itself and everything above to the mass of debris that fell in an impenetrable heap amidships. A forestaysail billowed to leeward and fell into the sea. That, and the sails still set on the mizzen, caused the Grik to heave rapidly around to starboard and broach to, a wallowing, helpless wreck. As a final calamity resulting from that single salvo, the un-stayed mizzen sails were taken aback, and the entire mast snapped off at the deck and plummeted into the sea astern.
"Holy cow!" breathed Rick Tolson at the helm. Walker had closed to less than three hundred yards.
"Reduce speed!" commanded Matt. "All ahead slow. Helm, ease us in to one hundred yards and come left ten degrees on my mark." He turned to the talker. "Boarders to remain undercover, but . . ." He paused and cast a glance at Chack, standing nearby. "I don't suppose they'll surrender?"
The Lemurian just looked at him, uncomprehending. The Grik never gave quarter, or asked for it. They probably didn't understand the concept. Matt doubted that Chack did, even now, after he'd so carefully stressed the need to secure live prisoners. He rubbed his nose and gave the young warrior a grim smile. "Of course not. Never mind." To the talker: "Machine gunners may commence firing if they have a target, but don't waste ammunition!"
They'd left one of the .30s at the refinery as security against predators, but both .50s and the remaining .30 were all now on the starboard side.
Almost immediately, the .30 overhead began hammering. The two amidships .50s quickly joined it, shredding the dazed Grik as they emerged from beneath the wreckage. Splinters, shattered bone, and gobbets of flesh erupted along the bulwark amid a chorus of wailing shrieks. In the pilothouse there was silence. They were well within range of the Grik firebombs, but the attack came so swiftly and unexpectedly, either they hadn't prepared the weapons or they'd been buried by debris.
Walker edged closer to the rolling derelict, and the stutter of machine guns became less frequent as fewer targets presented themselves.
"Well," Matt said crisply, hoping his voice betrayed none of his nervousness. He tugged absently at the sword belt buckled around his tunic.
"Mr. Dowden, you have the deck. As we discussed, lay her alongside and try to keep station as best you can." He grinned. "Mind the Chief 's paintwork, though! If you have to break off, by all means, do so. But don't waste time getting back in contact." Tolson tossed a worried look over his shoulder at the captain.
"Yes, sir, I have the deck," responded Dowden grudgingly. "Should I have the whaleboat made ready to launch in case, well . . ."
Matt cast an appraising eye at the sea and quickly shook his head.
"Too dangerous. If anybody falls in, try to fish 'em out real fast, but there's no sense risking people in a boat. Not in this sea." He looked at the concerned faces on the bridge, meeting each eye. He prayed that if anything happened to him, they'd be all right. But he had to go. "Very well, carry on. You all know what to do." He removed his hat and handed it to Reynolds, exchanging it for one of the platter-shaped helmets. He buckled the chin strap and turned to Chack. "Let's go."
Together, they clomped down the ladder to join the boarding party sheltering beneath the bridge and the gun platform amidships. The party was as large as Walker could carry in such seas, numbering just over a hundred. Most were the cream of Alden's Lemurian Marines, armed with swords and spears. A few destroyermen would go as well, but only those who'd shown Shinya some proficiency with a blade. They were armed mostly with pistols and cutlasses, but Silva had one of the BARs and Tony Scott carried his personal Thompson. Matt shouldered his way forward to the hatch that led onto the fo'c'sle. There he ran into Chief Gray and Lieutenant Garrett.
"Boats," he said, nodding at the men. "Mr. Garrett. I don't remember mentioning either of your names when I put this boarding party together." Gray hitched his web belt, but it stayed right where it was. It couldn't ride any higher without being let out. He met Matt's gaze with an expression of determination.
"Well, Skipper," said Garrett, "you didn't exactly un-mention us either."
Matt frowned. "Be careful, then. We can't spare either of you."
"Like we can spare our captain?" questioned Alden as he squeezed his way to the front of the line. The crowd parted as best it could in the cramped space. There was an overwhelming sour odor of wet fur and sweat. "Captains don't lead boarding parties. As head of Walker's Marine contingent"—Alden grinned, but with a hint of reproach—"that's my job."
Matt grinned back, remembering when he'd made the appointment.
At the time, Alden was the only Marine in the world. "Nevertheless, I'm going. We've been over this before." He gestured at those around, destroyermen, as well as their shorter allies. "Don't worry. These are your troops. You trained them. You'll retain tactical command if we run into organized resistance. Just don't forget the priorities."
"Right," Alden agreed. "Secure the ship, and don't let 'em scuttle. Take prisoners, but kill 'em all if we have to. Nobody speaks Grik and we'll probably learn more from the ship than we will from the crew."
Matt nodded agreement. "Don't risk anybody's life to save any of theirs. While you're doing that, ten 'Cats"—he paused, looking at Garrett and Gray—"them too, I suppose, will accompany me into officers' country. We'll try to find any papers, maps, or other documents. Maybe we'll even catch their captain!"
Alden glanced through the small rectangular window near the hatchway to the foredeck and squinted through the spray that left it almost opaque. It was nearly time. "Maybe so, Skipper. But if he was on deck, he's a goner for sure." He whistled at the nightmare tangle of heaving debris.
The machine guns had stopped firing and there wasn't a living thing in sight. "What a train wreck!"
"Hell," said Gray, "they might keep him in a bucket down in the hold, for all we know. Just because that thing has stern galleries like an Indiaman don't mean their leaders stay in 'em. They're as likely to hold Hindoo revivals there."
The men laughed, and many of the Lemurians grinned too. None, not even Chack, understood what he meant, but humor for any reason was good at moments like this. Alden moved to the hatch and turned.
"All right," he bellowed. "Listen up! We're goin' out there to activate Captain Reddy's contraption. When we do, I'll blow this whistle." He held up a chrome whistle in his left hand. "When you hear it, go! Single file, as fast as you can! No goofing around or gawking! It's gonna be tough for the ship to keep station in this sea, and we've got to get as many aboard as fast as we can. We could lose the bridge at any moment! If we do, those left behind will try again. There's bound to be lizards left and they're not gonna be happy to see us!" He waved at Lieutenant Shinya, about midway down the press of boarders. The Japanese officer waved back and repeated Alden's instructions to those behind. "Good luck!" Alden roared, and opening the hatch, he dashed onto the fo'c'sle. Matt and the others quickly followed.
Atomized seawater drenched them immediately as they ran to a pair of heavy cleats on the forward bridge plating. Matt looked over his shoulder at the wallowing derelict and then up at Dowden leaning over the wing rail. Dowden was gauging the distance. Suddenly he pointed at Matt with an exaggerated gesture and yelled, but the words were lost in the crashing waves. Garrett and Gray released the cables holding the "contraption" upright against the side of the bridge, and it plunged down to starboard. Matt watched it fall with a fist on his heart, hoping it wouldn't just disintegrate when it struck.
It was a corvus, a device inspi
red by his interest in history. Specifically, in this case, the first Punic War. A corvus was basically a long, rigid ramp that dropped upon the deck of an enemy ship so troops could sprint across. A sharp spike attached to the descending end was supposed to drive itself into the deck, holding the ships fast together and forming a temporary bridge. It should work. It hadn't worked well for the Romans, he reflected bleakly, but they'd never had a chance to try it.
As advertised, the weight and inertia of Walker's corvus drove the spike into the enemy ship with a tremendous crash. The entire structure bowed alarmingly, but sprang back to its original shape. The frame, like almost everything else from Baalkpan, was made of the heavy bamboo.
Alden blew a long, shrill blast on his whistle. Sword in one hand, pistol in the other, Matt followed the Marine across the bouncing bridge. The rest of his immediate party raced after him, followed by a closely packed line of yelling destroyermen and chittering Lemurian Marines. As soon as they gained the enemy deck, they deployed into a protective semicircle, which quickly expanded as more boarders joined them. Grik bodies were everywhere. Some were shot to pieces, while others had been crushed by falling debris. The foamy water coursing across the deck was dark with their blood.
Matt glanced back. The second wave, led by Shinya, was just starting across. The dismasted hulk wallowed horribly and the strain on the corvus was unbelievable. The spike was battering a growing hole in the deck and despite Dowden's best efforts, the bridge began to fail. "Quickly, quickly!" he shouted. They couldn't be quick enough. Ultimately, it was the attachment to Walker that parted, not the spike in the deck. Shinya had almost reached them when the corvus behind sagged under the reinforcements and then, with a deafening crack! fell into the sea.
"Grab the manropes!" Alden screamed as the spike jerked out of the hole and the whole thing tilted over. Dozens did so, and fortunately it was already so entangled in the debris of the rigging that it couldn't have fallen completely, but Matt dreaded what he would see when he looked over the rail. At least a dozen men and 'Cats dangled by the ropes. Some were actually in the water, holding on for dear life. A few disappeared astern, waving their arms in the air.
"Get them up!" Gray leaned over, snatched Shinya like a doll, and threw him on the deck. Others joined him, hauling the men and 'Cats up as fast as they could. Silva's BAR hammered. The Grik were coming up too.
Tony Scott stood by Walker's rail, wide-eyed, watching the figures struggling in the water or clinging to the ropes. He'd been next to cross. His foot was on the corvus when it failed. For a moment, all he could do was stand there, clinging to the chain. He would have been in the water! So far, none of the terrible fish had arrived. Maybe the heavy seas kept them deep or disoriented, but he doubted they'd stay away long. And there were still people in the water. One wore a helmet, like most of the destroyermen did, but seemed too stunned or injured to do more than hold a rope. With quickening dread, he saw the long brownish blond hair unfurl and stream out from beneath it when a wave washed over the helmet. He gulped.
"God in heaven! That's Lieutenant Tucker!" He glanced wildly around.
No one could have known she was there! What was she doing there? He screamed, trying to be heard on the Grik ship, but the waves and growing gunfire drowned him out. Laney heard him, though; he was right beside him.
"Tough break!" shouted the machinist's mate with genuine remorse.
Tony looked at him, appalled. But he was right. There was nothing they could do. Nothing he could do. Just like that, everything was falling apart.
Only a little more than half the boarding party made it across. The rest were stuck on this side, with nothing to do but watch, and now the skipper's dame was in the water. He couldn't stand it. Terrified as he was, he just couldn't stand it. He saw Dowden's worried face over the wing rail and he caught his eye. He made a whirling motion over his head and pointed at the other ship. Dowden seemed confused, but within seconds Walker briefly nudged back within twenty yards of the derelict. Scott wound up like the pitcher he was and slung his heavy Thompson across the gap. He hoped it didn't hit anybody in the head. The ammo belt followed the gun.
"What the hell are you doin'?" Laney demanded, incredulous. Scott just looked at him, slapped him in the gut with his helmet, and leaped over the side.
The water was warm and familiar, but the memories of a lifetime spent within its comforting embrace couldn't prevent his shriek of terror when he thrashed to the surface. There, just a few yards away, was Lieutenant Tucker, eyes shut tight, trying desperately to pull herself along the rope. He looked up at the ship and saw that nearly everyone else was safely aboard or climbing out of the water. Either they hadn't noticed her or the rope was fouled and they couldn't pull her up. Something slammed into the heel of his shoe. He lunged for the rope, right in front of her, and shouted over the crashing sea: "Put your arms around my neck, Lieutenant! I'll pull us up!" He never heard her reply, but she did as instructed and he hauled against the rope with maniacal strength. In moments, he crashed against the side of the ship. Nearly stunned, he just hung for a moment. Something that felt like oak bark dragged across his leg.
"Help!" he screamed. "Help, goddammit! I've got Lieutenant Tucker here!"
Almost immediately, the captain himself was hanging above him by the wrecked corvus. Garrett and Chack and a couple of others too. Garrett was hacking at something with his cutlass while the rest tried to heave them aboard. Suddenly the rope was free, and Tony and Sandra snaked up the side and sprawled on the deck.
Scott got to his hands and knees and vomited into the water swirling around him. Then he felt himself rising, and there was Silva's grinning mug in front of his face.
"Here," he said, pushing the Thompson into his hands. "You idiot!"
Before he could respond, Sandra had her arms around his neck again, kissing his cheek. Blood thundered in his ears.
"Thank you!" she said, and kissed him again. His legs felt like melted wax. For the moment, the shooting had stopped. They must have chased the lizards back below.
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Scott!" Matt said earnestly, squeezing his shoulder hard. He looked at Sandra. The mixture of profound relief and rage on his face was something to behold.
"What on earth were you thinking?"
Her wet chin came up. "I was thinking, Captain Reddy, that you might need medical help over here!"
"And because of that thinking, I . . . We almost lost you!"
"Captain," Alden interrupted, "we have to push 'em before they get their act together! We're a little shorthanded, and it looks like there's more of 'em crammed below than we figured."
"Of course, Sergeant. Carry on. I'll deal with Lieutenant Tucker!"
Alden nodded. "Mr. Shinya . . ." He hesitated only an instant. "Take A company. Work your way forward! Be sure and check under all this shit before you pass it by. Chack, take C company and follow 'em. Find a way below from the fo'c'sle! We'll get 'em stirred up amidships and you can hit 'em in the rear! B company, with me!"
They'd gathered near the wreck of the mainmast on the raised quarterdeck, with an open companionway gaping in front of them.
"Grenade!"
Silva slung the BAR and fished in a satchel at his side. Retrieving a grenade, he pulled the pin and lobbed it into the hole. There was a muffled whump and the deck shivered beneath their feet. A chorus of shrieks and snarls punctuated the blast.
"Guess somebody is home," Silva quipped.
"Another!" shouted Alden. "Scott, you okay? You and your Thompson follow the grenade with first squad. We'll be right behind you!"
Tony jerked a quick nod and poised himself near the ladder. After what he'd just been through, a battle was a cinch. In the water he'd been helpless. Now there was something he could shoot. Silva pitched a second grenade. More screams accompanied the explosion, and the coxswain bolted down the hatch with a dozen yowling Marines. Bra-ba-bap!
Bra-ba-bap! roared the Thompson amid yells and screams and clashing weapons.
<
br /> "Second squad, with me!" Alden cried, leading the second wave into the belly of the ship. He had a pistol on his belt, but he charged down the steps holding a spear like a bayonet-tipped Springfield. He would fight as he'd trained his Marines. Gray grabbed at Silva's satchel as he brought up the rear.
"Gimme some of those!" he ordered. Silva quickly opened the flap so Gray could snatch grenades, then he bolted down the ladder. A moment later, the heavier bark of the BAR was heard.
"More down there than we thought," Garrett mused worriedly. "It may be a while before we can get through that way!"
One of the Marines in Matt's guard detail "oofed" and crumpled to the deck with a crossbow-bolt high in his chest. Sandra rushed to him, opening her soggy bag.
"Aft!" cried Gray. "That skylight in front of the tiller!"
Matt grabbed one of the Marines by the arm. "Five of you stay with Lieutenant Tucker and the wounded!" Sandra started to protest. "That's why you said you came," he accused harshly, opening his holster and taking out his .45.
"But I don't need that many. You do!"
"Nevertheless—" He pushed the pistol into her hand. "Can you use that?" She nodded, terrified, but not of the gun.
"Of course! But you're not going to fight them with just that stupid sword!"
He quickly stooped and whispered in her ear. "I wouldn't have to if you'd stayed where you belong!" He took a deep breath. "I think I love you, Sandra Tucker, but you're an idiot!" He flashed a quick smile and stood. "The rest of you, with me!"
Together, they rushed the skylight, hoping to make it before another bolt flew. They didn't quite, but the next went wide and thunked into the bulwark. Gray flung a grenade into the opening and dropped down beside it. Smoke and splinters rocketed from the hole, mixed with red droplets and a fuzz of downy fur.
"In!" Captain Reddy yelled, and he dropped out of sight.
Keje-Fris-Ar stared in shock at the devastation they'd wrought. The big bronze guns that Letts worked so hard to produce—along with the foundry at Baalkpan and more than a hundred helpers—had been inexpertly used, to say the least. Despite the assistance of the destroyerman named Felts and another Amer-i-caan supervising each gun, more than half the destructive force of each shot was wasted, churning up the already maddened sea for hundreds of tails beyond the target. Even so, it was more than enough. A total of fifteen shots were fired at the boats, three from each cannon, sending thousands of copper balls scything through the flimsy vessels and enemy warriors. Parts of bodies and large chunks of the boats themselves scattered among marching plumes of violent splashes and horrible, unearthly shrieks. When the smoke and spray had cleared, nothing was left of the enemy but shattered flotsam and struggling forms. Flasher-fish weren't active when the sea ran high.
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