Perry felt himself blushing. “You did,” he said.
Rolak blinked with humor. “But that is because I am drinking coffee.”
Slowly the sky began to brighten, and nervous, eager eyes stared hard at the strait. The sun would rise behind them-at least that was the same-so there’d be no silhouettes. They’d have to wait until the sun actually illuminated the water below.
“I see them!” came a shout, and Perry did look then. He squinted hard through the binoculars and adjusted them with his thumb.
“Where?!” he shouted in reply.
“Right there!”
He quickly looked up and saw a ’Cat pointing down toward the very mouth of the bay, and he jerked the glasses back to his face.
“My God.”
The squiggles he’d seen and written off as wave tops suddenly resolved themselves into scores of ships packed impossibly close. He’d been looking mostly at the horizon, beginning to emerge. Looking too far. The thing he’d dreaded to see in the distance was already here.
“Load your gunly, “my command is incapacitated, out of the fight. I’ve moved her to a safe anchorage-I hope-and request permission to resume my previous post here, for the duration of this action.”
Matt glanced at Campeti, who shrugged.
“No complaints from me, Skipper. He’s a better gunnery officer than I am. ’Sides, we might need more than one before this is over.”
“Very well, Mr. Garrett, you have my permission.” Matt looked at Juan. “What are you here for?”
“I promised to bring you this, Cap-tan,” he replied with quiet dignity. “Lieutenant Tucker sent it out a short while ago. I did not want to wake you.”
Matt began to send Juan away, but something in the steward’s manner made him reconsider. Instead he took the bulky package and curiously peeked under the folds. He blinked in surprise and glanced back at Juan, a soft look of wonder on his face.
“Lieutenant Tucker commissioned it,” Juan explained. “She said you once told her we had seen such a thing, and you admired it greatly. The one who made it would take no payment.”
“That was… generous,” Matt said huskily. Gingerly he handed the package to Garrett. “Have this run up, if you please. On the foremast halyard.”
Pete Alden was on the balcony of the Great Hall again, but this time with a far larger group: official gawkers, for the most part, who should have been at their posts. In spite of all their preparations, the attack had come so swiftly and unexpectedly, a measure of confusion was inevitable. Letts was shouting for them to disperse. From Alden’s perch, much of the mouth of the bay was obscured by the south headland, and even as the day began to brighten and the overcast burned away, he could see only the mast tops of the enemy ships. It reminded him of a forest of toothpicks. Fort Atkinson was invisible as well behind a shroud of dense white smoke gouting continuously from the active guns and drifting lazily toward the city. It was accompanied by a constant rumbling sound. It must be hell for the gunners, he thought: gasping and choking and going deaf in the dense, sulfurous haze. He didn’t know how they could even see their targets. Somehow they could, evidently, because even as he watched, another geyser of flames erupted among the clustered masts.
“The fort’s really pounding them,” Letts observed beside him. Most of the gawkers had finally fled, although Pete saw many Lemurians still crowding the nearby dwellings, trying to catch their first glimpse of the enemy.
“Not hard enough,” Pete growled, pointing at the part of the bay they could see. A phalanx of Grik Indiamen had appeared around the headland.
“They’ll be in the minefield soon,” said Letts. “Too soon. Do you think it’ll stop them?”
Pete shrugged. “It might slow them down. Bunch them up. That’ll give the fort more time to hammer their flank.”
“Look!” cried Nakja-Mur, pointing westward, toward the middle of the bay. Under the brightening sky, Walker her rusty funnels, and white water curled from her bow beneath the proud, faded numbers and churned along her side. She was rust blotched and streaked, and all the patches and welds gave her once-sleek hull a leprous look, even at the distance from which they viewed her. But her sad, frail appearance wasn’t nearly enough to offset the impression of bold determination she managed to affect. Straight out behind her high foremast, brilliant and new in the first rays of the sun, streamed a huge American flag. Alden raised his glasses and saw words embroidered on the broad stripes: Makassar Strait, 1 st Java Sea, Escape from Surabaya, 2 nd Java Sea (Salissa), The Stones, B’mbaado Bay, Aryaal, and simply Nerracca. The names of Walker ’s major actions.
“Now, isn’t that just the damnedest thing you ever saw?” Letts managed to say. Pete only nodded. With the size of the lump in his throat, he didn’t trust himself to speak.
Another, different rumbling boom came from across the bay. They watched a dirty gray upheaval of water and debris gush skyward from among the leading Grik ships. The red-painted hull directly over the explosion lifted bodily into the air, breaking its back. It sank quickly beneath the settling spray. Several ships nearby looked mortally damaged, and masts plummeted into the sea or fouled other ships as they listed.
“It worked!” Letts shouted, clapping his hands. “My God, what a mess!” Nakja-Mur clasped his paws together in a gesture of thanks.
“Yeah,” muttert size="3"›Another runner appeared, her yellow eyes wide and blinking with excitement and fright. “The Grik are landing on the south coast, east of the fort!” she gasped. “ Amagi has been sighted to the south, accompanied by another large force!”
“Very well,” Pete replied without inflection, but his chest tightened with the news. Under control, my ass, he thought. It hasn’t even started yet. He turned to Letts and Nakja-Mur. “I ought to be down on the south wall, the way things are shaping up.”
Letts shook his head. “Not yet, Sergeant. The landing in the south might be a feint.” Alden raised a skeptical eyebrow. He didn’t believe the Grik were that subtle. “Even if it’s not,” Letts persisted, “sooner or later they’re going to get past Walker. She doesn’t have the ammunition to hold them forever. When that happens, it might get hairy on the waterfront in a hurry. The only way you can be two places at once is if you’re right here, where you can direct all the defenses.” He shook his head again, apologetically, looking at the man almost twice his age. “But you’re the Marine. I’m just a supply officer.”
A rueful grin spread across Alden’s face as he looked at the fair-skinned… kid, in front of him. “You’re right. I am a Marine, and this standing around is kind of tough to do. But you’re not just a supply officer anymore; you’re the goddamn chief of staff!” His eyes twinkled. “So the next time I start to go off half-cocked, just keep yankin’ my leash!”
Perry Brister could barely talk. His voice was hoarse, and his throat hurt from all the yelling. Not that it mattered to most of the crews manning the big guns on the south and west sides of the fort; they were probably deaf as posts by now, and no longer needed his direction anyway. Their task was simple, if physically exhausting. As long as there were Grik ships below, they’d keep blasting them apart. They couldn’t get them all, of course-there were just too many-but there was no question the Grik knew they were in a fight. As the supply of ready ammunition dwindled, and more had to be brought from the magazines, their rate of fire inevitably fell off, and an ever-increasing number of the enemy slipped through the gauntlet of fire. Also, the guns of the fort simply wouldn’t reach clear across the mouth of the bay, and the enemy seemed to have realized that at last. More and more hugged the distant shore. Still, the slaughter Fort Atkinson had worked so far was beyond anything Brister had expected, and the sea frothed with flashies around the burning, sinking ships.
Brister’s most pressing concern, however, was what was taking place on the other side of the fort. Scores of small boats plied to and fro between half a hundred Grik ships and the shore. The guns on that side were smaller than those facing the sea-
twelve-pounders-and were emplaced to defend against a landward assault. So far they’d been silent. Now those that would bear began firing at the boats full of warriors as they neared the beach. The range was extreme, and they had almost no chance of hitting the anchored ships, but an occasional lucky shot spilled a score or more Grik into the deadly surf. In spite of that, a truly terrifying number of the enemy had begun assembling onshore, their garish banners flapping overhead.
“Look!” cried Lord Rolay superficial damage. Occasionally enemy firebombs arced out of the wreckage of ships, but the American squadron stayed beyond their range. The effort to use the things was far more dangerous to the Grik themselves. Matt was bitterly convinced that, with enough ammunition, his little squadron could stop this prong of the invasion all by itself.
They didn’t have enough, however. All the new copper bolts they’d taken aboard last night had been expended, and they’d dipped dangerously into their reserve of high-explosive shells. They’d discovered their star shells were highly effective against the wooden hulls of the enemy, able to penetrate and then set them afire when they burst. But they had only about ten salvos left, and they might need them for illumination when darkness fell. There were still a fair number of armor-piercing rounds in the magazines, but they’d been even less effective than the copper bolts against wooden-hulled ships. They just punched a four-inch hole in one side and out the other, and almost never exploded. It was better to save them for later. Riflemen and machine gunners fired at the barrels floating among the enemy ships. Many were decoys, of course, and a lot of ammunition was wasted sinking them. Silva tried to remember which ones were which, and concentrated only on those he felt sure supported a depth charge. Occasionally he was rewarded by a resounding blast and another expanding column of debris and spray.
The center, for the moment, was secure. The chaos and frustration there had become so intense, Grik could be seen actually fighting one another from ship to ship. It was on the flanks that things were getting out of hand. Ship after ship managed to squirm past the blockage and make its way into the clear. Some fell victim to the shallow water mines, but others got through. On the east side of the bay they came under the guns lining the southern waterfront, and a terrible destruction was heaped upon them. Regardless of losses, the Grik bored in, literally running their ships aground on the open beach between the Clump and the southwest wall of the city. Even as the warriors leaped into the surf and were shredded by the terrible fish, mortar bombs fell on the ships and set them ablaze. And still they came. What was more, an increasing number of the enemy were making it ashore. Whether because there were just so many of them or the carnivorous fish were strutted with their flesh was impossible to say. Whatever the reason, the road to Fort Atkinson was in growing danger of being cut.
Matt couldn’t do anything about that. If Walker moved closer to the waterfront, not only would she interfere with the gunnery from the city wall, but she risked accidental damage herself. Steel or not, the old destroyer’s thin skin wouldn’t stop a thirty-two-pound ball. She could do something about the Grik squeezing through the open lane in the channel, near the west side of the bay, however. Signaling the two frigates to hold where they were, she altered course and sprinted in that direction. An agonized, droning noise rose over the sound of the blower, and the PBY flashed by overhead, a depth charge slung beneath each wing, set to detonate at its minimum depth. Just one more flight , Matt hoped fervently as she passed. Just one more… With luck, Mallory would continue to contribute to the devastation in the center, while Walker raced to secure the flank.
With the snarling, hissing sound of a raging sea, the mass of Grik warriors crashed against the shield wall of the Second Marines and the Tent had torn at them as they charged, and still they came. At three hundred yards, canister and grape from the field battery, as well as the fort, scythed down great gaping swaths of the berserker horde, and still they came. Crossbow bolts and arrows from both sides passed one another in midair, to drive home in shields and flesh. With their smaller, less effective shields, the Grik were savaged by this final fusillade, but even then they didn’t falter. The clash of shields, the shrieks and screams, the bellowed curses, and the ring of weapons merged into a single cacophonous thunderclap of sound when the armies came together. The Lemurian line sagged in two places: first in the center, where the heaviest blow fell, where the walls of the Marines and the Guards came together. Second was at the point where the Guard right was anchored to the fort. Shinya bolstered the center by wading into the fight with his own guards and staff. It was, effectively, the only reserve he had. The pressure on the right was relieved when the two hundred Sularans under Lord Rolak’s command sortied from the fort behind the line, and drove a wedge into the brief gap the Grik had created.
Shinya’s modified cutlass parried and slashed across the top of the shield in front of him. Gaping jaws clamped down and tried to wrench it away, and a spear wielded by one of his staff drove into the top of the creature’s head. Tamatsu crouched down and slashed beneath the shield at feet and ankles on the other side as the wall began to stabilize. His wrist jarred painfully when the blade struck bone, and he was rewarded by a muted wail. A foot slammed down on his sword, pinning it to the ground. With all his strength he twisted the blade and wrenched it back, sharp side up. If there was a scream that time, it was drowned by others. His arms were already throbbing with pain. His left was in the shield straps, and the unending blows were starting to be felt. The awkward angle at which he was using his sword sent fire into his right chest and shoulder. The initial defiant yelling of the Lemurians had all but stopped, to be replaced by the panting and grunting of disciplined troops holding the wall, and heaving against the weight of ten times their number. Their only words were cries of instruction or encouragement to those behind, and the spears of the second rank remorselessly thrust and jabbed.
“Major Shinya!” came a cry behind Tamatsu. He spared a glance in that direction and saw an American shoulder his way through the second line. Without another word, the man rested the muzzle of a BAR atop Shinya’s shield and held the trigger down for a magazine’s burst, sweeping it back and forth. Then he dragged someone forward to take Tamatsu’s place. “C’mon, sir! You got more important shit to do!”
Without resisting, and still a little numbed by the fighting and the close report of the automatic rifle, Shinya allowed himself to be dragged out of the wall. Behind the spearmen, he looked at the sailor. He’d seen him before, he supposed, but they’d never met.
He’d called him sir.
“What are you doing here, ah…”
“Torpedoman First Russ Chapelle. USS Mahan, originally. Donaghey now.” He had to scream to be heard over the roar of battle. “I said I was bored, and Alden sent me and Flynn and some of his sub pukes up the Fort Road. I’m such a dumb ass. We barely made it! Lizards is landin’ hand over fist!”
Flynn joined him, pantinge i› situation! Captain Reddy wasn’t kiddin’ when he said he’d pulled us out of a fryin’ pan just to throw us in a fire!”
Shinya whirled and looked at the hell below the fort, but couldn’t see beyond the Clump to tell what was happening to the north. “I left Ramik and his warriors from Aracca to guard that approach,” he insisted.
Russell nodded. “They’re moving up here. There’s nothing they could do. Goddamn lizards took us by surprise-started runnin’ their ships right up on the beach. Ol’ Ramic never even had a chance to deploy.”
The young female lowered her eyes and blinked. “Of course. I am shamed.”
“Not at all!” Nakja-Mur retorted. “Now, what is your message?”
“Tower one reports a signal from the fort: Major Shin-yaa has withdrawn within its walls. His force is mostly intact, and they continue to engage the enemy, but the landing force is free to move on the city. The fort is under heavy attack, but Lew-ten-aant Brister believes they can hold for now.”
“Did they estimate the size of the landing force?” Alden
demanded.
The runner nodded, eyes wide. “Sixteen to twenty thousands-but the landings continue.”
“Very well-thanks.” He turned to the others. “As soon as they join the ones in the cut, they’ll probably come right at us.”
“You don’t think they’ll wait for further reinforcements?” Letts asked.
Pete shook his head. “Not their style. The first try, anyway. I think now it is time for me to go.”
Letts nodded. “By all means.”
“What of the threat from the bay?” Nakja-Mur asked nervously.
“You two will have to handle it. The defenses are stronger there, and the lizards’ll have to land right in their teeth. It’ll be very difficult to consolidate their force. They already have in the south. I think that’s where the main threat lies.”
Alden turned back to the runner. “First Marines, Fifth Baalkpan and Queen Maraan’s Six Hundred will prepare to advance to support the south wall.”
“Reserves already?” Letts asked.
Pete shook his head. “Do the math. The First Baalkpan and the few Manila volunteers are all we have on the south wall. That’s about twelve hundred, counting artillery. There’s no way they can stand against twenty or thirty thousand. I wish the rest of the Manila troops had arrived in time! We’ll pull the Second Aryaal off the north wall and add them to the central reserve.” He cocked his head to one side when the strange thundering sound resumed. Realization struck.
“Son of a bitch! Amagi must be in range. She’s shelling the fort!”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Brister,” said Shinya between deep, ragged breaths. “You timed that perfectly, I believe.”
Brister waved his hand and grated, barely above a whisper, “Your withdrawal was what was perfect. I never would have believed it.”
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