Blood was everywhere, and bodies lay in heaps. It even looked like Grik had fought one another, tooth and claw. Kapitan Leutnant Becher Lange, his once-robust frame now thin and wasted, lay atop a pudgy corpse in a blood-soaked white uniform. The man’s eyes seemed to stare at the overhead, astonished, from a face bearing a thin, dark mustache. Just beyond them on the bulkhead was a bronze plaque with the raised letters of the word HONNEUR upon it. Another white-uniformed man with a bloody leg wound sat on a chair, staring at Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn, who, almost as thin as Lange, was sitting on the deck, leaning on the engine-order telegraph with a pistol in one hand. His face was filthy, smudged dark with powder smoke and drying blood. Two pinkish tracks ran down his cheeks because his other hand supported the head of Captain Stuart Brassey, lying across his lap. It was impossible to tell how much of the blood Horn sat in was his and how much Brassey’s, but Horn at least was alive. One of the Grik suddenly whimpered and tried to crawl toward Horn. Matt raised his pistol.
“No!” Horn cried. “That’s Pokey! One of ours.” Apparently, Horn, Pokey, and the French naval officer were the only survivors on the bridge.
“My God,” Matt breathed. “Pack Rat, get Lieutenant Cross up here on the double. Chief Jeek”—he pointed at the Frenchman—“secure that prisoner.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan.”
“Capitaine Reddy?” the man asked, apparently surprised, as the bridge filled with ’Cats and Matt went to Horn.
“Yeah,” Matt snapped back. “How are you, Gunny?” he asked Horn.
“I’m okay. Pretty beat.” He glanced down at the still, young face, and absently brushed a lock of hair aside. “He was a good kid, sir. A good officer. All he wanted to be.” He nodded at Lange. “He got what he wanted too, I guess. Revenge for Amerika. That’s Admiral Laborde under him. He had a pistol. Shot Captain Brassey when we charged in. Lange’s pistol was empty by the time we got here, but he soaked up the rest of Laborde’s bullets until I could get a shot.” He glared at the wounded Frenchman. “He shot poor Pokey and a couple of our Khonashis. Winged me too—not bad—before I popped him in the leg. I guess he’s out of bullets.” Horn waved his pistol. “I got one left.”
“Capitaine Reddy, I am Capitaine Dupont, of the League of Tripoli. I demand—”
Matt spun to face him. “You! Shut your goddamn face! As far as I’m concerned, you’re a pirate and a murderer, in no position to demand anything. Chief Jeek, if that man speaks again before I want him to, you will not hesitate one single second to blow his head off. Is that clear?”
“Aye, sur.”
Horn was chuckling. It seemed painful.
“What?” Matt asked.
“Nothing, sir. I just don’t think I ever heard you cuss like that.” Matt’s blazing eyes softened slightly. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Gunny, but I guess I do sometimes. I’ll try to watch it in the future. Where are Sandra, Diania, Adar—and Kurokawa?”
Pam pushed her way in the pilothouse and flung her medical bag on the deck. “And that idiot Dennis,” she added anxiously, yanking the bag open.
Horn looked down as two ’Cats gently eased Stuart Brassey away. “See to Pokey first, ma’am. He’s hit worse than me. Mine’s clean, in and out over the hip.” He looked at Matt. “Chairman Adar’s dead, sir. Died breaking out of the camp.” Matt’s eyes went hard again. “But the ladies were fine when we split off from Dennis,” Horn assured. “Him and Lawrence went to raise hell ashore and hopefully catch Kurokawa there. He’s not aboard.” He shook his head. “Might’ve boarded something else, but that’s what Dennis meant to stop, I figure.”
Matt, stung by the news about Adar, squeezed Horn’s shoulder and stood, moving aside so Pam could work. Stepping out on the port bridgewing, he saw Walker idling just a hundred yards away. She didn’t seem any lower by the head, so she must’ve gotten her flooding under control. Far beyond, Ellie was steaming closer, the battle between Des-div 2 and the Grik cruisers apparently over. That had to have been a hell of a fight, he imagined grimly, but it served its purpose—to draw away the torpedo-soaking screen. He couldn’t tell how many ships had survived—friend or foe. They were all jumbled up—except for a couple drifting away, burning out of control. He glanced forward, and for the first time noticed that one of the guns in Savoie’s forward turret had burst just past a deep indentation in the barrel, like it had been hit hard by something big and they fired it anyway. Have to remember to ask Horn if he knows how that happened.
“Captain,” Campeti called, “report from Chief Reuben: belowdecks is secure. They didn’t run into much resistance and only have two wounded.” He snorted. “One’s Earl. Fell down a companionway and sprained something, seems like. There’s flooding aft,” he added, “but there’s steam. Isak wants some firemen to help tend the boilers so he can get more pumps online. Anyway,” he said, and took a long breath. “Looks like the ship’s ours.”
Stepping to a Morse lamp, Matt signaled Walker to come alongside. “Very well, Mr. Campeti. Get that arm looked at, but you’re in charge here. Keep squads combing the ship for holdouts and see if the comm gear is working. Get the word out, if you can. We have a lot left to do, and the sooner started . . .” He looked aft at the mainmast, where another big Rising Sun flag flew. “And get somebody to rip that damn thing down. I’ve got to go back aboard Walker and get ashore. I’ll send one of our big battle flags across first, though. Run it up high, where everyone can see it.”
CHAPTER 26
////// Chack’s Brigade
POOM—POOM, POOM—POOM went two sections of little mountain howitzers, spraying 1,200 half-inch balls at a battalion of Grik trying to form in front of them. Machine guns sprayed the tree line as still more of Kurokawa’s army tried to join the defense. ’Cats and Khonashi fanned out to the sides and hit the deck or crouched behind dockyard equipment damaged in the bombings and opened fire. More Grik fell. A comm-’Cat near Chack was shouting in a microphone, hanging from a companion’s heavy pack by a woven fabric wire. He was wired to yet another ’Cat, lugging heavy batteries.
“Make daamn sure they know where we are this time!” Chack shouted bitterly at the comm-’Cat as a pair of “Fleashooters” roared overhead. There’d been a few . . . incidents.
“Ay, ay, Col-nol!” the comm-’Cat replied. “Akka Lead, Akka Lead, this is OR-One, over!”
“OR-One, dis is Akka Lead,” crackled from the headset, through the comm-’Cat’s fur. “Whaat can I do fer you?”
“You can hit the goddaamn enemy this time!” the comm-’Cat snapped, blinking impatience with the pilot’s cocky tone.
“Roger daat,” came the deflated reply. One of the earlier incidents had been very costly. It hadn’t been a pursuit squadron that did it, or even planes off Big Sal. Two Nancys from a pair of AVDs had dropped their incendiaries in the wrong place, killing or severely wounding nearly forty raiders. Realistically, it wasn’t their fault either; the fighting had been close, intense, and almost impossible to understand through the thick jungle from the air. Worse, a company of the 1st North Borno had accidentally marked its position with red smoke instead of green—at the same time Risa marked a target with a red smoke flare and called a strike on it. The planes were already diving and there hadn’t been time to unscrew the mix-up. And it was just a stupid accident, but now Risa was devastated and fighting like she didn’t care whether she lived or died, I’joorka was hideously, almost certainly mortally, burned, and nobody trusted their air support anymore. Chack shook his head.
“Make red smoke on the taar-git. Repeat red,” the pilot said.
Chack rolled over to the comm-’Cat. “Give me thaat,” he ordered, gesturing for the microphone and headset as sand and splinters showered him, sprayed from the debris around by musket balls. “Akka Lead, this is Col-nol Chack-Sab-At, OR-One Commaand,” he transmitted. “We caan’t get smoke on the enemy from here. There’s a clearing a hundred tails acro
ss between us. No more trees, no cover. We’re in the ship-yaard now. The enemy is forming behind a large, fallen crane, lying di-aag’naly southwest to northeast, using it for a barricade. Do you see it?”
There was a pause. “Aye, Col-nol. Near de ass end o’ dat sunk baattle-waagon, beside the dock?” Akka Lead asked uncertainly.
“Yes! I need you to strafe thaat position. And I could use some incendi-aaries directly to the east of the point of the crane, south of thaat big undamaged building. Some attention to it would be nice. All enemy forces seem to be coming from those two places.”
“No smoke,” the pilot said, hesitantly. Apparently, the flyers had caught the caution too.
“Follow the crane in from the southwest,” Chack said patiently. “Get bombers to follow you in an’ drop their loads on the building.”
“Aye, Col-nol. Akka Lead out.”
Chack hunkered down to watch. The nightly bombings had been far more effective at disrupting Kurokawa’s shipyard activity than imagined, but the primary result, from his brigade’s perspective, was more junk for the enemy to hide behind. Now would’ve been a good time for their last two tanks—his opinion of them was much improved—but one broke down and the other was still stuck in the trees behind. They might come in very handy in the open terrain around Sofesshk. He glanced left. The PT attack must’ve gone well; two Grik dreadnaughts lay on the bottom beside the pier. One still burned furiously, but the other was only smoldering now. Across the bay, the last enemy “flaat-top” had sunk on its side in shallow water, its port side still spewing flames.
The two Fleashooters bored in, one after the other, bullets spitting from their wings, throwing up fountains of sand and plenty of charred splinters of their own. Grik fell, squirming and screeching as the planes pulled up and away. Moments later, three Nancys with Salissa markings roared down. Incendiaries—still basically big barrel bombs full of gimpra sap and gasoline—tumbled from the first even as tracers rose to meet it. The enemy had apparently been saving one of their machine guns for Chack’s final charge but decided the planes were the most pressing threat. They were right.
The target plane staggered, rolled inverted, and slammed into the big warehouse, just as the incendiaries from the following planes fell through the roof. Orange fire and oily black smoke seared Grik warriors and mushroomed up from the fallen crane, but a huge explosion blasted the warehouse apart. A second explosion, even bigger, sent a massive cloud of white smoke high in the air and pummeled Chack’s Brigade with smoldering timbers and other debris. “Maker!” Chack hissed. “The joint must’ve been full of munitions!” He scrambled to his feet. Flames roared all along their front, and few Grik could’ve survived the bombing and resulting explosion. Wiping his eyes, he spied a gap between the burning crane and shattered warehouse. “Gener-aal advance!” he shouted at the comm-’Cat, still trying to hide under his helmet. “Send it now! All units forwaard, no stopping!” He raised his voice. “First Raiders! Up an’ aat ’em!” He snatched up his Krag, bayonet already fixed. “Follow me!” he roared.
Very little fire met them as upwards of six hundred Raiders raced across the clearing. A few ’Cats fell, but the Grik musketry was sporadic and rushed. The fight for the downed crane itself, the parts not burning, was some of the bitterest Chack had seen. With such a narrow front, just a few dozen Grik made the Raiders pay dearly, but they couldn’t hold for long and the desperate work of bayonet, cutlass, teeth, and claws lasted only moments before the surviving Grik pulled back and the Raiders poured through. They were about halfway up the bay now, almost even with the north end of Island Number 1. Soldiers, Chack thought a bit grudgingly. Real soldiers, even better than the Grik we fought on the Western Maangoro River. And those were rear-area troops, for the most part. He knew these Grik were different from what they’d face at Sofesshk. Trained different, fighting for a different reason, but are these better—serving Kurokawa—than the Grik at Sofesshk will be, fighting for their own capital, their Celestial Mother, their God? Either way, it was going to be tough. And it wasn’t finished here. The Grik were running, but not running away, like the old days. They were looking for another place to stand.
The section of comm-’Cats caught up with him, puffing under the weight of their burden. “I got Akka Lead again,” the talker said. “He waanna know what else he can do.”
“Look at daat!” someone yelled, pointing out to sea. Chack looked. About six miles away, around the point of the western peninsula, Savoie’s tops could just be seen over the intervening jungle. Even at this distance, the huge Stars and Stripes of the Amer-i-caan Navy and Marine Clan was plainly visible, streaming from the mainmast aft. What’s more, Walker was steaming around the point, laying punishing shell fire into shore-battery positions that had opened up on her again as she headed back into the bay.
“Maker above,” Chack murmured in wonder. “Cap-i-taan Reddy has taken Saavoie!” he roared, his voice carrying above the din of battle. Feral cheers from Khonashi and Lemurians mounted in response. The force was growing rapidly as the rest of the brigade moved up. He looked at the comm-’Cat. “Tell Akka Lead to hold on. We’ll holler if we need him. We’re about to get mixed up pretty thick with the enemy.” He raised his voice again. “Onward, First Raiders! Aat ’em, First North Borno! Let’s finish it!”
Kurokawa’s Compound
Musket balls flailed the wooden pickets of the stockade surrounding the compound, spraying them with splinters. Sandra picked one out of the skin of her upper arm and glanced at Diania. The girl was rocking back and forth on her knees, eyes clenched shut—in pain, not fear—as she held her shattered hand to her breast. A musket ball had smashed it during their wild, brief exchange of fire with Iguri and his Grik. None of the enemy survived, but between that and now this firefight with Kurokawa’s guards, only Sandra, Diania, Corporal Tass, Ruffy, one Shee-ree named Minaa, and Maggiore Rizzo were alive. And only Sandra, Ruffy, and Rizzo weren’t seriously wounded. Tass had been hit in the leg and face. The leg was useless and his jaw had been shattered by a ball. He looked dazed, his mouth hanging open at an unnatural angle, bloody drool stringing down, but he still fired over the stockade as quickly as he could load his Allin-Silva rifle. Minaa was hit in both legs. He and Ruffy, with their Blitzers, were on either corner, guarding against a flank attack. Sandra had done all she could for the wounded and the jungle beyond the palisade beckoned, but Tass and Minaa weren’t going anywhere and she couldn’t leave them to die. Instead, she removed the magazine from her Blitzer and looked at it.
“Only a few rounds left,” she told Diania. She’d already taken her friend’s magazines, since the Impie girl could barely hold her weapon. “I doubt Ruffy and Minaa have much ammo either.” The result of their expenditure was clear to see in the courtyard between them and Kurokawa’s HQ, through gaps in the stockade: twenty Grik guards lay dead, and just as many were crawling, moaning, or squealing in pain. They’d all been victims of an impetuous charge straight at them through the door. Bunched up, they were impossible to miss. The fire galling them now came from the windows, the heavy timber frames giving the shooters better protection than the spindly palisade offered. “Do you think you can crawl over there and get his pistol?” She nodded at Iguri’s corpse.
“Aye’m,” Diania said, her voice strained. “An’ p’raps some Grik muskets.”
“Good girl. Just stay low.”
“Go! Us hold!” Corporal Tass slurred, proving once and for all that much of the human speech Grik-like beings managed came from their throats and the backs of their tongues. His broken jaw never moved.
“No way, Corporal,” Sandra stated flatly.
“We came for you,” Minaa pleaded. “Get hurt an’ dead to save you. Don’t let us fail!”
“We’ll be okay,” she snapped irritably. “Chack’ll be here soon. Listen: the fighting’s only a few hundred yards away.”
“Runnin’ Gaa-reiks’ll get here quicke
r,” Minaa objected.
“He is right,” Ruffy reluctantly agreed. “They came to save us. They have done all they can. My kaiser would expect me to get you to safety.”
Rizzo had finally spit the gag out of his mouth. “Do as he says, signora,” he begged, his expression at least looking sincere. “You have a chance to escape. Take it!”
“Shut up, you!”
Corporal Tass tumbled back, the top of his head and right eye a pulped wreck. The ball that hit him whined into the trees and struck one with a loud thwok! “Damn!” Sandra swore, and fired a few precious rounds over the palisade. To her surprise, there was no answering fire. A moment later, however, there came a voice: one she knew and hated.
“Your position is hopeless, Mrs. Reddy,” Kurokawa yelled. “You have—what? One or two companions left? You will soon be surrounded, overwhelmed by my army. Surrender now and you will not be harmed!”
Sandra barked a laugh. “How ironic,” she called back. “If we get surrounded by your army, that’s running from the fight. Even more ironic is that you think your position’s better than ours. You’re about to be surrounded by my husband’s army!” She twisted the knife. “I guess you saw your getaway ship go up in smoke, and your whole damn fleet is done!” She only hoped the last was true, as she was unable to see past the bay with the building blocking it. But the cruiser’s fate was obvious. “I’ll tell you what,” she countered. “If you surrender now, I give my word you won’t be roughed up too much—before you’re hanged.”
The laugh that returned was maniacal, and Grik troops suddenly filled the doorway, rushing out, bayonets fixed. Sandra rose and shot one before her bolt locked back on an empty magazine. A few shots came from Ruffy and Minaa, dropping a couple more, before they were also empty. Ruffy dove for Tass’s rifle, but a staccato clatter of musket shots chewed through the palisade and sent him sprawling. Ten Grik remained and they bounded toward them.
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