Colonel Chack-Sab-At was accompanying the Imperial Major Alistair Jindal’s 21st Combined Regiment. It consisted of ’Cats and humans from the 9th Maa-ni-la and 1st Respite. His sister, Risa, was with Major Enrico Galay’s 19th Baalkpan, and the 1st of the 11th Imperial Marines. Galay had been a corporal in the Philippine Scouts in another war, and had grown into an enterprising officer with many talents. It was he who’d taken the first aerial photographs of Sofesshk, in fact. Too bad they hadn’t been able to do the same here, but anything capable of carrying a pilot and photographer over Zanzibar in daylight could never survive. They still had to rely on Fiedler’s map. Fortunately, because of Silva and a very brave pilot, the map had been much improved.
“I suppose it’s time,” Jindal said, twisting his long, dark mustaches as he peered over Tarakaan Island’s side at a capering, forty-foot motor dory packed with troops. Tara was half-flooded down, but the dory—and the deadly, boisterous sea—still seemed at the bottom of a high cliff. Dozens more ghostly dories bobbed and pitched erratically nearby, and some motored in circles a short distance away. As busy as it seemed in the huge ship’s lee, it was even more chaotic behind them inside the great repair basin, where nearly seventy more dories waited impatiently to join those in the rougher water outside.
Chack shifted the sling of his trusty Krag on his shoulder and flashed teeth at his Imperial friend. “Should I lower you down with a rope?”
Jindal glared at his commander but managed a small smile. “I can manage.”
“Then it is time. After you, Major.” Together, they descended a cargo net down to the dory. Chack hopped lightly across, and well-meaning ’Cats guided Jindal’s feet, nearly causing him to fall. Finally, he was safely aboard and the coxswain steered away from Tara’s side. It had begun. Barely seen, except for the phosphorescent wakes they kicked up, eight torpedo boats of Lieutenant Nat Hardee’s MTB-Ron 1 burst from Tara’s open stern and fanned out in a protective arc. Almost immediately, the first cluster of dories, packed with Grik-like members of I’Joorka’s 1st North Borno, rumbled into the offshore swells at a more sedate pace and turned for the invisible shore of Zanzibar. They’d be the first to land. With any luck, sentries would think they were Grik, performing some predawn exercise they hadn’t been expecting, and I’joorka himself, leading the first wave, would achieve a toehold on the beach west of Saansa Point before the enemy knew what was happening.
The first flotilla disappeared in the gloom, followed by the second, carrying the human Khonashis. They wouldn’t be separated from the rest of their clan for long. As soon as they passed from view, the rest of the brigade began to spread out and head for shore. They traveled more slowly, pacing larger barges loaded with light artillery and paalkas to pull them. Heavy mortars were already set up in the pitching boats, ready to rain shells behind the enemy, if necessary. Their fire couldn’t be very effective until they got ashore, but it might be unnerving. Finally, they’d brought some other surprises. Instead of the flamethrowers they’d used in the past—which everyone hated and were nearly as dangerous to them as to the enemy, they had twenty of what Matt called mountain howitzers. They were very small 12 pdr muzzle-loaders weighing only about five hundred pounds, which could be quickly moved and operated by very small crews. They were too light to fire solid shot but could deliver exploding case to a range of a thousand yards. More to the point, they also fired a devastating load of canister from their stubby little barrels, consisting of three hundred half-inch balls. Between them and the light machine-gun sections attached to each company, they should be in good shape—unless opposed by enemy machine guns and dug-in artillery. Bringing up the rear, in four even larger barges, was their final “surprise,” but Chack still believed he’d be more surprised than the enemy if they were actually of any use.
They never heard the big Clippers pass high overhead; their own engines and the sound of the sea drowned them out. But new, sharper stabs of lightning, about fifteen miles to the northwest, joined the more distant, natural sort flickering on the horizon. Orange flashes popped, unheard, in the sky over Lizard Ass Bay. There were quite a few, Chack realized, and he wondered if enemy planes would rise as well. Strobing pulses of fire outlined the jungle treetops ahead and he knew those must be the bombs hitting the ground, hopefully burning ships, planes, and Grik. So far, none of the ships offshore had opened fire. They’d be completely invisible from the beach and wanted to stay that way as long as possible to aid I’joorka’s surprise. There’d be covering fire for a while, if asked for, but even then it had to be done with care, and its effectiveness would be questionable. With their own people in contact with the enemy, they had to shoot cautiously long, and couldn’t keep it up for any length of time, even if asked. Salissa, most of the auxiliaries, and the sail-steam DDs had already departed for other positions, and Walker, James Ellis, and the MTBs had specific places to be before dawn. Tarakaan Island must be gone by then as well. With no protection, she’d be a sitting duck. The ground-assault force of Operation Outhouse Rat would be on its own.
“Major I’joorka should be landing now,” Jindal observed, putting his watch back in a pocket he’d sewn to his combat smock. Chack doubted he’d seen what time it was, but thought he was probably right. Long moments went by and nothing disturbed them but packets of spray dashing back from the blunt bow of the dory. They could see the darker black outline of the jungle against the sky, still silhouetted by distant bombs, antiaircraft fire, and flames on the ground or sea, but the first- and second-wave dories remained invisible. The first, at least, must be ashore. The problem was, Grik-like though they appeared, albeit dressed somewhat strangely, none of I’joorka’s Khonashi actually spoke Grik. Confused or not, sentries wouldn’t put up with being ignored for long. Conversely, Chack was also concerned about I’joorka’s Grik-like Khonashi being accidentally shot by friends. The different dress should help, but ironically, he suspected more such mistakes from veterans than newies. They were used to identifying enemies more by general shape and how they moved. Not by what they wore. Grik had only recently begun making widespread use of anything resembling a uniform.
This train of thought shattered when the orange tongue of flame from a rifle or musket lit the beach ahead, much closer than Chack expected. Perhaps he’d been expecting breakers or something to define the beach, but there was nothing. The shot was answered by another, then several at once. Immediately, he suspected sentries. The second wave, humans also Khonashi, were the least likely to fire on their own. But very quickly, the flashes became continuous.
“I’joorka’s troops are either very excited or ran into more than just a few lookouts,” Chack shouted at Jindal. Just then, a great gash of flame lit the shore and muffled screams arose from boats somewhere ahead as the pressure of the muzzle blast hit them and thunder rolled from the woods beyond the beach. “Shore baat-tery!” Chack yelled at the closest boats alongside. “Paass the word! Step on it! We must get ashore as quickly as we can.” He turned to Jindal. “A red signal rocket, if you please.”
Jindal had already opened the waterproof wooden box and was selecting a rocket from the right side. In the darkness, colors were indistinguishable. He placed the guide rod in a hole bored in the bulwark and lit the fuse with a borrowed Zippo. With a gout of yellow-red sparks and a great whooshing sound, the rocket leaped into the air. It burst high above them moments later and a bright red ball appeared like a tiny comet, trailing sparkling streamers downwind. Another gun boomed in the woods beyond the beach, spraying grapeshot or canister into the running shapes the muzzle flash lit. Almost immediately, nine impossibly bright, white-yellow spears of flame lit Walker, James Ellis, and Tarakaan Island as they commenced firing with the three guns aboard each ship that would bear. The MTBs had nothing to contribute and had probably already dashed off in the direction of their next assignment. Chack heard the harsh shriek of shells whip overhead before they impacted in the trees past the shore. Yellow flashes erupted in th
e limbs and on the ground, geysering brief images of earth and splinters in the air, or scything hot iron and more shards of wood on the foe. A huge splash alongside nearly swamped his dory, and another wide pattern of grapeshot smote another to his left, leaving it spinning and sinking in a welter of blood and screams. Mortar bombs thumped in the air from heaving barges, their explosions adding to the chaos ashore, but Chack doubted they did much good.
Salvo after salvo flashed from the ships, churning the jungle with brilliant strobes of light, but cannon still snapped back at the landing force, on the beach and beyond.
“How many guns can they have here? And why?” Jindal yelled. Chack had no answer. He’d personally chosen the spot, close enough to the harbor that they could reach it quickly, yet far enough not to require a shore battery to protect it. And it wasn’t really a shore battery. The cannon firing at them were comparatively light; “standard” Grik nine- or sixteen-pounders like they’d faced many times. They were using more effective munitions than usual, however, which was relatively new to Chack’s experience and a complete surprise to most. And though the guns were incapable of seriously damaging the ships offshore, they were perfectly suitable against an amphibious assault. Apparently, Kurokawa had seen the same vulnerability as Chack and prepared accordingly.
His dory roared up on the beach at last, and ’Cats of the 9th Maa-ni-la poured out onto the sand. Machine guns were stuttering now, and white tracers probed the trees and bounced manically away in the night. A disorganized line of riflemen was lying in the sand, fully exposed except for the shallow depressions they’d scooped or scrunched under themselves, firing back at the sparkling flashes of Grik muskets as fast as they could. Chack followed Jindal out of the dory and they strode among the whizzing bees of musket balls, calling for I’joorka. A Khonashi rushed up, keeping low, but sprawled on his face before he could report.
“Who’s in charge here? Where’s I’joorka? Mr. Cook?”
“Get down!” yelled a human Khonashi lying nearby. “They all dead! Griks kill us all!”
A dory slamming up the beach just a dozen yards away was shattered by another Grik gun, parts of it and its occupants twirling in all directions, wounded troops spilling out the sides and writhing in the surf. Two lines of tracers converged on the muzzle flash and sparkled as they ricocheted amid a chorus of unearthly Grik squeals.
“They certainly will kill you if you lay there and let them. Get up, daamn you!” Chack roared back at the cringing soldier, reaching the line at last. It was quickly becoming a huddled mass, a perfect target, as more troops raced ashore, stopping at the growing obstacle made by their hesitant comrades. A green signal rocket popped overhead, launched from somewhere to the right. It was the signal that the beach was secure and the ships offshore should proceed to their next objectives. Of course, the beach wasn’t secure, but the fire support might be doing more harm than good, Chack realized. Somebody else must’ve thought that too. The baarrage’s probably killing Grik, but nobody wants to run toward it either. For safety’s sake, the ill-aimed, exploding hell in the jungle is too far inland to affect the closest defenders, and might be doing more to staall the assault than the enemy. A few more rounds landed in the trees, but the sea was dark again. Somewhere out there, the task force would be securing its guns and steaming away, even though they doubtless saw for themselves that the fight was just getting started. Captain Reddy would guess exactly why whoever fired the green rocket did so, dooming the brigade to win or die. He might’ve even thought it was Chack himself. No maatter, Chack thought. There’d been no choice and he completely agreed with the decision. We all knew “win or die” was the deal from the start.
The lifting barrage didn’t mean it went quiet, and the Grik fire redoubled, but the first howitzers were up now, sending heavy doses of canister slashing to the front, and the stutter of Blitzerbugs and the crackle of rifles resumed. “Major Jindal,” he shouted, pointing to the left. “Organize those troops and prepare to advance.” Jindal nodded and raced away. Chack took the Krag off his shoulder. “Fix bayonets!” he bellowed, latching on his own.
“Sur,” came a distinctive, toothless voice beside him, and even in the dark Chack recognized Sergeant Major Moe. He was an ancient ’Cat who’d made his living hunting the wilds of Borno. Despite his unremembered but extraordinarily advanced age, he was apparently simply too tough to die and had advanced from scout to militia sergeant, then from first sergeant to sergeant major of the 1st North Borno, even though he was the only Lemurian in its ranks.
“Sergeant Major,” Chack greeted him. “Where are I’joorka and Mr. Cook?”
“To de right,” Moe said, waving. “Dey was first ashore an’ got pinned down. Shit get baad wit-out nobody see-um, but Risa’s M’reens git ashore an’ sweep far anuff up to un-pin ’em. Dey send me to tell you dey’s gonna ad-vaance.”
Chack looked behind him. More dories were still coming through the withering fire, followed by the four larger, flat-faced barges. Facing that, there probably weren’t more than five or six hundred defenders—yet—with maybe six or eight cannon left. But more would be rushing to the sound of the guns and they had to secure the beach and break through before the defense grew strong enough to stop them. After that, there’d probably be a ten- or twelve-mile running fight to the harbor. If they moved fast enough up the wide pathway Fiedler drew and Saansa confirmed, they should roll the Grik up in squad and company packets before they reached the only other place they could establish a proper defensive line: at the edge of the harbor itself. “Very well. Tell Major I’joorka we’re about to push forward as well. Whoever moves first will be the signal for the rest.”
Moe touched his brow and scampered off in that weird, bow-legged gait he had.
Musket balls whickered overhead or struck the ground and spewed clouds of sand. Others slapped flesh, raising cries of pain. The last wave of dories was landing now, and suddenly enemy tracers started chewing at them. Maa-sheen guns! Chack raged. The Grik have maa-sheen guns! “Suppress that fire!” he shouted, and rifles and Blitzerbugs hammered at the source of the flicking lights. A heavy blast, almost directly to their front, revealed another cannon, and its shot struck one of the four barges right at the waterline. It quickly filled, its heavy load taking it down just thirty yards from shore. The other barges were drawing a lot of fire as well. Being larger and coming up last, the Grik must’ve thought there was something particularly dangerous or worthwhile about them. Another Grik machine gun opened up, spraying the next barge as it touched shore.
“Everybody up!” Chack shouted, his voice carrying above the sound of battle. “Sound chaarge!” NCOs raised their whistles and blew one long burst. “Up and aat ’em!”
With a roar that sounded as terrified as it was savage, the hundreds of Respitans, Maa-ni-los, and Khonashis gathered near him leaped to their feet and raced ahead, firing as they went. Mortar bombs still fell in the woods, and there’d been enough fiery attention there that a few trees had begun to burn. Chack’s troops had targets now, in the flickering light, and less ammunition was wasted. Grik, rising behind their breastworks to shoot at the barges, tumbled back, stitched by yammering Blitzerbugs or clutching terrible wounds inflicted by the .50-80 Allin-Silvas. One machine gun to their front redirected its fire and dozens of Chack’s troops fell screaming. Something snatched at his smock and he felt a stunning blow on his helmet, but he rushed forward, gasping, his feet heavy in the deep, soft sand. The front of the mob—for that was what it had become—swept up and over the Grik position, shooting and stabbing, their bayonets flashing in the flickering light of growing flames.
Most of the cannon crew, still trying to load another stand of grape, fell sprawling and flailing. Chack shot a Grik in the face, blowing its bottom jaw away, then stabbed another in the side with his bayonet. It nearly yanked the Krag from his hands, raking spastically at the barrel and stock with vicious claws, but the press of stabbing and shooting at
tackers carried it away. Suddenly in the chaos, a man stood in front of Chack beside a strange-looking machine gun, its belt of ammunition protruding rigidly to the side in a curious fashion. Chack thought his face was vaguely similar to Tomatsu Shinya’s, with the same narrow eyes and an expression just like Shinya made when he was utterly focused. He also had a two-handed sword, cocked back, ready to strike. For an instant they just stood like that, staring. Then the man’s eyes darted down at the bayonet-tipped muzzle of Chack’s Krag, held low but aimed unwaveringly at his chest. His eyes came up again, wider, desperate, face twisting, posture stiffening. Chack pulled his trigger and the man cried out, toppling to his side. Blinking harshly, Chack pressed on, thrusting at another Grik with his bayonet. In the frenzied, kaleidoscopic, ear-numbing moments that followed, the fight reached a terrible crescendo of furious, blood-spattering, flame-and-steel-flashing, shrieking, squealing death. And then, with a stunning abruptness, it was over . . . there.
Chest heaving to suck smoky air in his lungs, Chack hopped on the breastworks they’d overcome and looked east. “Re-form!” He gasped. “We’ll attaack to the right and roll up the enemy in front of I’joorka and Risa!” The charge on the right was stalling, machine-gun bullets and canister tearing at its front. Behind, however, the bows of all three remaining barges slid to a stop in the shallows, dropping heavy ramps in the sand. Amid a thunderous roar of exhaust, their burdens pitched down into the surf and rumbled forward, shedding water from churning tracks and heavy, riveted plates.
Taanks, Chack thought. Stupid daamn things. Only four in the whole world—three now, he corrected. And we’ll never squeeze them through the trees to get them to the road beyond. The word “road” was something of an exaggeration. As reported, it was little more than a game trail through the jungle. Probably have to leave them here, he expected, even if they make it up the beach. Then his eyes narrowed and he reconsidered. The three iron, smoke-jetting monstrosities were having no difficulty with the sand and they came on with a thunderous air of invincibility. This was underscored by the fact that they seemed to have drawn the fire of every Grik still defending the beach, and they shrugged it off as if oblivious. Musket balls and tracers spanged off the big machines, and machine guns in sponsons began spitting tracers back, chewing at the source of incoming fire. Even roundshot clanged loudly against them, warbling off in the night, but the tanks kept coming.
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