“C’mon, baby!” Bernie Sandison crooned nervously. “C’mon!”
Only a combination of the engine orders and the capricious sea saved them. Ever so slightly, the waves pitched the Grik forward and Walker’s stern began shifting to the left. Even so, a collision seemed inevitable, side to side now instead of head-on, but that could be just as bad—or worse. “Port engine, full astern! Starboard engine, ahead full! Now we’ll try to twist around it!” he explained to the men and ’Cats around him who all seemed to be holding their breath. Slowly, the old ship responded, her momentum carrying her bow past the Grik’s stern galleries while the stern twisted slightly right. A sudden hail of crossbow bolts sheeted in at the ’Cats crewing the number one gun, and they tried to hide behind it or the splinter shield. One was struck in the back and fell, but another dragged him to safety. Machine guns raked the Grik, blasting bright splinters among its thick horde of warriors, mowing them down, toppling them into the churning water. None of the big guns fired, all their crews were taking cover, but only because Campeti, who knew they didn’t want to do anything to slow the enemy’s forward progress, told them to. Now, as the range gradually increased and fewer crossbow bolts touched the ship, Campeti ordered the number two gun in the port side of the amidships gun platform to “blow that damn thing all over the water.”
“That was… a close one,” Commander Herring said, his shaky tone belying his calm words. “I…” He was interrupted by a roiling explosion to port as the number two gun found the Grik Fire magazine aboard the ship they almost hit. Matt didn’t speak at all for a moment as he paced quickly out on the wet starboard bridgewing. “All ahead one-third,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll steer with the engines. Damage report!”
“Steer-een casul-tee!” Minnie answered.
“No shit,” Spanky seethed. “Beggin’ your pardon, Skipper.”
“No need,” he said, staring out to starboard at the white-hulled ship, now at their mercy. It had tried to turn directly away, an act of sheer panic, but the wind was still blasting out of the south and it simply stalled there, tossing drunkenly, as its bow came back around. “How bad is it?” he asked.
“Tabby says we fight uneven thrust so long, the steer-een engine work too hard, blow a steam line. Space all fulla’ steam, but they bypassed fast and is ventin’ it. The chains from the helm just broke. Too old, too rusty, an’ too much stress from uneven thrust again, to turn the rudder without the steer-een engine… Tabby says we can splice the chain, but wi’out the engine, it’ll prob’ly just break again, someplace else.”
“I get the picture,” Matt said. Of all the things they’d replaced on his old ship, they’d left the steering chains alone because they were, well, chains, and not only difficult to make, but hungry for iron. They could’ve used rope or cable, and probably should have, but the chain seemed better—at the time. He was tempted to view the failure as another example of how his ship was getting too old and beat-up to keep fighting her like they did, but she wasn’t, he insisted to himself. She’d been rebuilt and maintained on this world better than she ever had been at home. Just a stupid chain. “With the auxiliary conn damaged, Tabby’ll have to rig the tiller on the rudder post between the depth charge racks,” he said, knowing the wet, dangerous duty he was ordering; to manually steer the ship from the confined space, entirely exposed to the elements. “We’ll steer with the engines in the meantime,” he repeated, but pointed out at the white Grik ship. “But let’s kill that damn thing first, if you please.”
Having broken through the thickest mass of Grik still offshore, Matt was surprised to see so few left at sea after they left the burning white hulk in their wake. A lot of Grik were still afloat, waiting to join the attack on Safir Maraan, but they were stacked up, grinding together in the shallows, beginning to break on one another in the churning surf as their warriors crossed from ship to ship to gain the shore. He was about to order a turn to the southeast, taking them to point-blank range to fire on those ships from seaward. It would be a largely ineffectual gesture at this point, but it was something his battered, balky ship could still do. Then, one of Ed’s signal strikers brought a hastily scribbled message form. Matt read it and scowled. Ed Palmer’s always been good about that, he reflected, delivering news like this by message form instead of just calling it up. Lets me think about what to do before everybody knows the situation—and he obviously thinks I’ll want to do something about it.
The Wall of Trees
Despite all her “modern” weapons, Major Risa-Sab-At wished the 1st Raider Brigade still had shields. Shields had been taken up, discarded, and then taken up again numerous times by various outfits as their tactics changed. They might’ve saved Flynn’s Rangers on North Hill in Indiaa if they’d had them. They had saved Walker when her Marines defended her decks, and the Marines in the East, fighting the Doms, still used them to good effect. But the whole purpose of the 1st Raider Brigade was to move swiftly with its lethal weapons mix and plenty of ammunition. It wasn’t an outfit intended for defense, and shields were heavy.
It was a passing thought she had no time for now. She’d seen—participated in—numerous epic slaughters of Grik before, but had to think that nothing she’d experienced could possibly compare with this. For one thing, she had more Grik coming at her than she’d ever seen so concentrated in one place, and for another, she had more terrible weapons than ever before to slay them with. But shields would be nice, when they reach the top of the wall, she added wistfully, and it looked like, in spite of her cannon, mortars, Blitzerbugs, grenades, rifles, and even flamethrowers, the Grik would reach the top.
Cannon, light six-pounders mostly, that had been easier to build platform embrasures for and haul close to the summit, spat double loads of canister into the howling horde, mulching great swaths of Grik into mewling heaps, but the mob closed over the bloody mounds and pressed on. Mortar bombs exploded near the tree line, making chaos in the mass still rushing into the open ground; but all was already chaos and the Grik knew the direction of their prey. Allin-Silva rifles crackled uninterrupted as human and Lemurian troopers fed their hungry breeches and Maroon muskets on the right made duller, slower, popping sounds, but not terribly slower after all. They were holding firm so far. Grenades thumped as they were rolled down the slope to geyser earth and rotten wood, mixed with downy fur, into the sodden sky.
“Blitzers!” Risa cried, hearing the command passed along. Almost immediately, the distinctive clacking stutter of the little submachine guns added to the noise, spitting their.45-caliber bullets into Grik, now almost crawling to the summit. Scores screeched and rolled away, but more surged past them. Risa now wished she’d been given some of the new.30-cal “Brownings,” copies of the M1917 “light” machine guns that Walker brought to this world that were just now making their appearance. Though they might be considered “light” compared to a.50, it still took four men or ’Cats to lug the weapon, tripod, and enough ammunition to make it worthwhile, so none had yet found its way to the Raiders.
One “heavy” weapon the Raiders had was a number of “flamethrowers,” essentially just wands with an igniter attached by a hose to a fuel tank that was pressurized by a pair of ’Cats on a hand pump. Originally enclosed in a small, wheeled cart that could be drawn by a pair of men or ’Cats, the wheels had made the things impossible to transport through the jungle. The wheels were done away with, but then the same two troopers had to carry the cart/crate around. Everyone hated that duty, and most were terrified of the things—but so were the Grik, they’d learned.
“Flamethrowers!” Risa roared, judging that the climbing Grik were getting close enough for the short-range weapons. Pairs of Raiders went to work on the pumps while “fire-’Cats” edged their wands over the summit and pointed them down. Crossbow bolts sleeted over their heads or skated off their helmets, and they hunkered as low as they could before turning their valves and depressing their ignition triggers. A dozen gouts of orange flame roared down the slope
in a rush of roiling black smoke, scorching the wet, rotting wood of the giant palisade and searing Grik. An unearthly keening wail accompanied the stench of burning flesh and fur that joined the fuel smoke, and the Grik beyond the reach of the flames recoiled as those in front writhed in agony or rolled and flopped amid horrible squealing screams like young rhino pigs being eaten alive.
“Cease fire, flamethrowers!” Risa called. There was little fuel in the weapons, and she had to reserve it. “Riflemen, pour it in!”
The torrent of flame receded, and the rifles and Blitzerbugs resumed their fire. The Maroons didn’t have flamethrowers and had never stopped shooting. Far to the right, she could see the familiar wave of their bayonet-tipped muskets rising to be loaded, gray steel ramrods pushing charges of buck and ball down smoothbores, or heavy slugs down rifled barrels, and then lowering to fire. It hadn’t been that long ago that all Allied troops had carried muskets like those, but then it hadn’t been long since they’d used longbows and spears either. Yet those few short years felt like an eternity.
A crossbow bolt glanced off Risa’s helmet, knocking it askew. Sheets of bolts came now, from below and afar, but those from a distance were slow, wobbly things, falling from high trajectories. The Grik bowstrings were damp and that affected their power, but they were still lethal and there were so many! ’Cats and men around her screamed or roared in pain and anger. Others simply slumped down, silent, as the wickedly sharp bolt points plunging from the sky nailed their helmets to their heads or struck gullets and spines. A man from the 7th Regiment to her left where Jindal had gone ran to her on the firing step, crouching low. “Major Jindal’s compliments,” he yelled over the fire, wind, and rain, “an’ he begs ta’ report he’s runnin’ low on ammunition for his rifles an’ Blitzers! Voracious buggers they are!”
Risa gestured behind and below. “More is coming.” One of their magazines, the closest behind the 7th, had been hit by errant bombs dropped by a wind-tossed zep formation that morning, but they had several more. She wasn’t much afraid they’d run out of ammunition, for the rifles and cannon at least. The mortars and Blitzers were another matter. But right now it was taking time to bring it forward, up the rain-slippery reverse slope of their position. “Tell him to send more bearers. Take all you need from the other bunkers.”
“Can’t spare too many from the wall,” the man said, peeking over it. Ever more Grik surged from the jungle, even as the mortars kept slaughtering them, and they were building for another push.
“Tell him to do it now,” she began, but a bolt slammed down past the man’s collarbone to bury itself deep in his chest. With a blood-hacking moan, he clutched the dark feathers at the end of the shaft and sank to his knees. “Corps-’Cats! On the double!” she shouted, then snatched a ’Cat out of the firing line. “Did you hear what I told that maan?”
“Ay, Major.”
“Then take the message to Major Jindal, and hurry back as quick as you can!”
“Ay, ay!”
She glanced back over the wall at the seething mass of Grik, still climbing relentlessly against the merciless fire from above. “Flamethrowers, stand by!” she cried, making her way to the comm-’Cat crouched over his field telephone, protecting it from the rain with his body.
“You still connected?” she demanded. The delicate wires they strung behind the “Double E-ates” somebody had dubbed the things for no reason she could imagine, were always breaking. They needed braided wire for strength, and that she understood. “Get Second Corps HQ on the horn. Gener-aal Maraan if possible, but don’t let ’em give you the runaround! I know they’re busy too, but the Gener-aal has to know that we’re in a jaam here, with probably just as many Grik as she has. Sure, our position’s better, but we got just a brigade, the Maroons, an’ a few of Col-nol Saachic’s cav to stop ’em. An’ if we don’t stop ’em, it won’t matter what she does, ’cause they’ll be climbin’ up her aass! You got that?”
“Yes, Major!”
“Then wind it up!” She turned and looked down, from the relative peace and security that momentarily surrounded her to the surf of yipping, roaring Grik clawing close once more. “Flamethrowers! Fire!” she yelled again, and once more the leading edge of the Grik horde withered under the hellish flames, shrieking, squealing, leaping in the air, trying to jump over those pressing from behind. Those were immediately slain in the “same old way” the Grik had always killed those that tried to flee, that “turned prey,” she noticed with interest, but the rest kept coming this time. One reason she saw to her dismay was that the flamethrowers didn’t reach as far or as vigorously, and she knew they must already be running out of fuel. Not quite, unfortunately, she saw to her horror, because amid startled cries to her right that rose to shrieks of terror, a fire-’Cat stumbled back, a crossbow bolt jutting from his eye, and he went down—his wand spraying his last flaming fuel on his comrades nearby. Most recoiled away in time, but more than a dozen Impie Marines of the 1st of the 11th got a murderous dose, and the screams tore her soul. She shook it off; she had no choice. These Grik might be the same mindless monsters they’d faced early in the war, but they’d definitely see and exploit an opportunity like the smoldering gap that had just opened before them.
“Fill that hole!” she roared, racing forward, stepping over burning, bawling men, and unslinging her own Blitzerbug. Others hurried to join her, but it might have already been too late. “Meet ’em with your bayonets!” she cried, racking her bolt back and firing quick bursts into slathering, toothy faces that appeared in front of her. Bayonets stabbed into the mass, thrusting, twisting, and rifles fired the big.50-80s to tear through two or three Grik at a time. Even the comm-’Cat she’d just spoken to was beside her now, hacking with his cutlass at a leather shield. Risa fired through it and the Grik fell away with a squawk, but another barged up, trying to skewer her with a spear. An Impie Marine drove his bayonet into the monster’s neck, and she shot a Grik trying to hack him with its sword.
“I got through!” the comm-’Cat gasped beside her.
“What did they say?” she demanded, slamming another magazine in her Blitzer.
“Dat dey got a wider front, an’ the Griks is maybe get past aroun’ dem. Dey can’t spare nobody right now. But dey say you right!” he added with a quick, angry blink. “We got de ‘better position,’ an’ we got to hold it!”
Risa fired a long, frustrated burst that toppled several Grik. The gap was closing, finally, but more Grik were reaching the top of the Wall of Trees at last, all along the line.
“Right,” Risa said grimly.
USS Walker
“Risa and Chack’s Brigade, and all our new ‘Maroon’ friends under her command are catching hell on the Wall of Trees west of the harbor,” Matt told the others in the pilothouse. Spanky rubbed his chin, and Bernie looked alarmed. Herring just stared, his expression unreadable. Doocy Meek had rejoined them on the bridge. Though he didn’t know Risa well, he knew she was important to these people. “And Safir says she doesn’t have anything she can send to help,” Matt added.
“That’s tough,” Spanky growled. “Wish we could help.” He gestured at the mass of Grik ships ahead. “But we got a target here that needs attention,” he reminded. “Can’t be two places at once. And even if we steamed into the harbor, we couldn’t give Risa any supporting fire with the Griks so close under the wall. Shooting high enough to clear it, all our fire would fall way past, back in the jungle.”
“That’s better than nothing,” Bernie insisted. “The Grik hitting her are coming from the jungle.”
Matt shook his head. “Too dangerous. Even the water in the bay is too rough to risk shooting right over our friends’ heads. One short round and we’re Grik heroes. But Spanky’s wrong. We can be in two places at once.” Spanky looked at him, brows arching, and Matt turned to the signal striker. “Have Mr. Palmer instruct the PTs to meet us in the lee of those big rocks off the harbor mouth. We’ll hook on and transfer as heavy a landing party as we can,
with all the thirty cals and modern small arms on the ship. They’ll take us ashore and join us with their new thirties too. The PTs can’t do much else today,” he added, looking at the surprised expressions.
“We?” Spanky growled.
“Well, not you, of course,” Matt answered.
“That’s not what I meant!”
“I know, but you can’t go. Starboard engine back one-third. Port ahead two-thirds,” he called to the ’Cat at the engine order telegraph. “That area just off the harbor mouth is liable to be the calmest place we can find. We’ll hold the ship so the PTs can approach under our lee as well.” He looked back at Spanky. “You’ll stay with the ship. They should be finished rigging the tiller soon enough, and I want Walker back off the beach as soon as you can get her there, to keep blasting the Grik in front of Safir Maraan. You’ll still have the twenty-fives and fifties, but I’d rather you didn’t get any closer than they will reach.”
Spanky grimaced, glancing at his crutch wedged between the chair and the forward bulkhead, then finally nodded. “When I said I figured you might have to whip things in shape ashore for a while, this isn’t what I had in mind.”
“Me either, but we do what we can. And this is what we can do.” Matt looked at Minnie. “Pass the word to issue small arms and dismount the thirties from the rails. We’ll take everybody not shooting, passing ammunition, keeping the screws turning, or fixing leaks.” He considered. “That’ll give us maybe fifty, counting the Marines. I’ll take one of the gun crews off the amidships platform and one of the twenty-five-millimeter crews too. That’s a dozen more. You’ll stand off,” he stressed to Spanky, “so you won’t need to fight both sides at once.” He looked at the others. “The rest of us are going to help Risa.”
Straits of Hell: Destroyermen Page 45
