Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “Perhaps. But this recent episode has underlined the fact that she can’t last forever.”

  “You may be right, Mr. Herring,” Adar said a little impatiently, “but that is a subject you must discuss with Cap-i-taan Reddy. I may be Chairman of the Grand Alliance, but I am still High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan first, just as Ahd-mi-raal Keje-Fris-Ar remains High Chief of Salissa, a sovereign Home.” He looked at Herring. “Just as Cap-i-taan Reddy remains High Chief of the Navy, Maa-reens, and all the Amer-i-caan Clan to which they belong, human or Lemurian. You are a member of that clan, by oath, if you have not forgotten.”

  Herring’s face turned red. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Good. Then you understand that when it comes to clan matters, you must consult your High Chief. However”—Adar leaned back on his cushion—“just as Mr. Saan-di-son has done as Minister of Ordnance regarding special weapons, as a minister of the Grand Alliance, it is your duty to counsel me on straa-te-gic matters that affect all the Allied clans. It is then my duty to issue straa-te-gic commands that the clans are bound to obey as long as they remain in the Alliance. Perhaps that . . . dual allegiance still confuses you, Mr. Herring?”

  “No, Mr. Chairman.”

  “Very well.” Adar blinked determination. “As I said at our last meeting, I will be chairman in deed as well as name. No more will I let others suffer for decisions that should have been mine.” He took a long breath. “Cap-i-taan Reddy remains supreme commander of all Allied forces, and if I decide his very dangerous—as you pointed out—plan should proceed, he will command every aspect of it. But before we risk him, Walker, and so many other ships and lives, I must make the final decision to do so, not him.” Adar’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Cap-i-taan Reddy carries a great enough burden as it is.”

  Bernie felt a sudden chill. Would Adar really consult the Skipper before using the new weapon he’d cooked up? Would he really be willing to burden him with something like that?

  CHAPTER

  6

  ////// Corps of Discovery and Diplomacy

  The Wilds of Borno

  “T his is a bunch of shit!” groused Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn, USMC, formerly of the 2nd Battalion, 4th Marines on another earth. Currently, he was laboring up a steep, tangled slope behind Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva. His outburst, which sounded suitably disgusted but also oddly surprised, increased the disturbance of their passage. Lizard birds and other flying things, not to mention small ground and tree dwellers, made constant noise and motion as they moved, but now the cries and rustling briefly surged, making some in the party that followed stare nervously about. Silva stopped and looked back with his good eye at the black-bearded Horn. The other one was covered by a sweat-crusted patch, giving the big, powerful destroyerman a piratical flair that matched his personality.

  “Quit whinin’!” Silva said, louder than many in their group would’ve preferred. The day’s march had been particularly grueling and they’d been forced to cross two streams so far—something nobody liked. Now there was this damn rise. Unlike most, however, Silva was barely breathing hard. “Can’t stand M’reens who whine!” He paused his advance, and after a swig from his canteen, he stuffed a wad of yellowish leaves in his cheek. “You’re new here, Gunny,” he chided, “but you been through worse, if I recall.” The two men apparently had a . . . history in China, but no one knew the specifics of their relationship there. “’Sides, this ain’t a patch to when me an’ misters Cook, Brassey, an’ even ol’ Larry was marooned on Boogerland!”

  The panting column behind ground to a halt and Silva looked down on it. Ensign Abel Cook, their nominal leader, looked okay, but the Imperial midshipman Stuart Brassey wasn’t going to make it much farther that day. Some of the Lemurian Marines were lathered up pretty bad as well, and though the Grik-like Sa’aarans seemed pert enough, their three actual Grik “porters” were struggling to breathe in the sodden air, their long tongues lolling from toothy jaws. Old Moe, the grizzled Lemurian hunter bringing up the rear, blinked impatience back at Silva, and beside him, breathing just as hard as anyone, was Surgeon Lieutenant Pam Cross. Silva’s eyes lingered a moment to take in the way her chest rose and fell beneath the sweat-soaked smock . . . but he quickly looked back at Horn when he caught Pam’s searing glare.

  “No, damn it,” said Horn, raising his foot to display a Lemurian-made boondocker. “I mean, we been tromping through a bunch of shit!”

  Silva shrugged. “So? We’re on a trail, ain’t we? Not many trails through this damn jungle.” He waved around, his . . . unusual collection of weapons clanking against one another. Once again Horn wondered why Silva felt compelled to carry such a large and diverse arsenal, and how he could stand the weight of it all. Horn had a Baalkpan Arsenal 1911 pistol, and a local copy of the 1917 Navy cutlass like everyone else, but the BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle) that Silva said was his and Horn was only “borryin’” was as much as he wanted, or honestly thought he could manage, and still keep up. But Silva not only had his “real” cutlass and 1911, but his web belt was crowded with an ’03 Springfield bayonet, and as many magazine pouches as he could cram on it. Slung over both shoulders like a Mexican bandit in the Western movies, were bandoliers of what looked like 10-gauge brass shotgun shells with great long bullets sticking out of them. Cradled in his arms was his Doom Stomper, a mammoth version of the standard Allin-Silva breech-loading rifle musket—only this one was built around a 25-millimeter Japanese antiaircraft gun barrel. Perhaps most bizarre, an ornate, long-barreled flintlock pistol was stuck in his belt. Horn hadn’t even asked about that. Silva was just as sweat-soaked as anybody, but the weight of his weapons and his pack didn’t seem to bother him. Horn shook his head, slinging sweat off his eyebrows.

  “Lotsa critters use this trail,” Silva continued, deliberately letting the others catch their breath, “all of ’em dribblin’ shit up and down it as they go. This cow-floppy-lookin’ stuff ain’t nothin’ to worry about. It don’t even really stink. That means vegitician critters is mostly what’s usin’ it for now, like those big, stumpy-legged, dino-goat-lookin’ things. Ain’t that right, Moe?”

  “That right,” Moe answered, sniffing and peering into the gloom around them. “For now.”

  “See?” Silva demanded. “I’m learnin’ stuff.” He looked back at Horn, then the others. “You all seen rhino pigs. They’re good eatin’, but bad news on a trail this skinny. As liable to come at you like a Jap torpedo as haul ass the other way. They throw a bigger, lumpier turd that smells like hell.” He paused. “Now, a super-lizard turd . . .”

  “If takin’ a break means we gotta listen to a turd talk about his relatives,” Pam Cross snorted in her sharp, Brooklyn way, “then I’m for pushin’ on!”

  Silva grinned beatifically at her. “Ain’t she sweet? What I was gettin’ at, doll, is when you come across a trail like this, don’t get to thinkin’ somethin’ else ain’t noticed it first. Super lizards are smart. They’ll find a wide spot an’ back away from the trail just a tad an’ wait for the shmorgishboard to commence. That’s how ol’ Tony Scott got it; ate by a super lizard while wanderin’ up the old pipeline cut, prob’ly happy as a clam.” He paused. “Tony was . . . a right guy. Just had a little trouble with the water, is all. Then he got ate on dry land, where he thought he was safe.” He shook his head and blinked irony in the Lemurian way. “Anyhow, the moral to this story, as my sainted ma used to say, is that you ain’t never safe around here—no matter what shit yer trompin’ through.”

  Silva heard a soft scritching sound and turned. Suddenly, there was Lawrence standing before him in his mottled smock and rhino-pig armor. The rest of his very Grik-like body was covered with orange-and-black-striped feathery fur, and Dennis was always amazed by how well his friend blended with the jungle.

  “Why, there you are, Larry! We was just talkin’ about you!”

  “You ’ere talking loud enough to hear in ’aalk’an!” Lawrence scolded with a hiss. Even though he w
as clearly related to their Grik enemy, physically distinguishable only by a smaller stature, slightly longer tail, and his coloring, Lawrence was of an entirely different race. Originally hailing from the distant Pacific island of Tagran, he’d become the friend and protector of Rebecca Anne McDonald while marooned with Sean Bates and the crew of S-19 on the volcanic island of Talaud. Talaud was gone now, as were most of Lawrence’s people, lost in a volcanic cataclysm that had stunned the Alliance. Some of Tagran’s survivors were subjects of Saan-Kakja now, given the Fil-pin island of Samaar. Lawrence was Sa’aaran now too, but he’d also become one of Silva’s closest friends—even though Silva once shot him. In any event, he understood English and Lemurian perfectly and could speak either as well as his lipless mouth allowed. With his help, even some of the captured Grik were speaking a little, something no one ever considered possible before Hij-Geerki actually surrendered to Lord Rolak and began to communicate.

  “I heard you doin’ yer nails,” Silva accused, nodding at the small rock Lawrence held in his right hand. “You’ll be paintin’ ’em next.” Lawrence hissed at him. “See anything ahead?” Silva asked. Lawrence had been scouting the trail.

  “Good area to stay the night on the rise not too distant. The trail’s . . . ’ider there, and there’s old su’er-lizard sign. Good trees, though. Us get high in the air.” Lawrence subconsciously scratched the dark crest on top of his head. He’d been doing that a lot lately, ever since Silva told him they’d have to burr it off—like his own bristly blond scalp—if it got infested with cooties. “There’s so’thing else there I think you’ll . . . think interesting,” he added cryptically. “It . . . created the clearing.”

  “What’s that?” Dennis demanded, removing his helmet and scratching his own head. He’d been reinforcing Lawrence’s phobia so long, it was starting to backfire. He realized what he was doing and casually sopped at the leather sweatband with his bandanna. He liked the helmet, even in the muggy heat, because it was fairly well ventilated—and let him lower his head and plow through brush.

  “You’ll see.”

  Dennis rolled his eye. “Well, Mr. Cook? It’s about that time, I guess, and maybe we can get high enough to get a good fix on our position. Might even get a message out.”

  “Uh, yes, very well,” Abel Cook said, removing his own helmet and scratching his head as well. He had only four fingers on his hand. They’d been forced to amputate his pinky when it got infected with . . . something on Yap island. They’d been in the brush for almost two weeks and he still hadn’t gotten used to the fact that he was supposed to be in charge. How could he give orders to Dennis Silva? The man had saved him more times than he could count. Yet Dennis always deferred to him, even while essentially leading them. It might’ve been embarrassing if he wasn’t absolutely certain Silva’s attempts to “prop him up” were sincere. Pam Cross—who acted like she hated Silva—assured him of that. “He’s a bastid,” she’d said, “but he’s a Navy bastid, through an’ through. He don’t follow ordas worth a damn, but he’ll treat an offica with respect if he likes ’im—an’ he does like you, Mista Cook.”

  Abel looked at Lawrence. “This thing you found. It’s not dangerous?”

  “I don’t think so. Just interesting. You’ll see.”

  Abel shrugged. “Very well. It is about that time.” They needed plenty of daylight to make camp in this dangerous place.

  “We never gonna find these damn Injun Grik, we keep stoppin’ all the time,” Moe complained when the column pushed on. “I don’t never even see tracks of ’em since we leave Saanga River. We go wrong damn way, I think.” He raised his voice so someone besides Pam might hear him. “Why I even come, you don’t go the way I say? I wanna go home, kill rhino pigs, sleep safe. I old.”

  Silva fell back as the others passed him.

  “Hey, Moe,” he said when he was walking beside the old ’Cat. Pam threw him a sneer, but moved ahead to let them talk.

  “She don’t like you no more,” Moe observed.

  “Nah. ’Fraid she does. Why do you think she made us take her along? She don’t like this little jaunt any more than you do.” Dennis grimaced. “She’s just sore at me—an’ wants me to know it every damn day.” He shrugged. “Listen. You really think you could track these Jungle Griks?”

  “Sure. I do before, to catch ’em, run ’em off,” Moe blinked disdain and flicked his tail. “Sometimes I kill ’em. You know dat.”

  “Yeah,” Dennis agreed, nodding. “And so do they,” he added significantly.

  Moe stopped and blinked at him. “So?”

  “So if we took to trackin’ em, they’re bound to know. Good as you are, we’re in their front yard. They figger that out, what do you think they’d think?”

  “Huh.” Moe blinked thoughtfully, introspective. “Dat we chase ’em,” he said at last. “Maybe we come to kill ’em.”

  “Right.” Silva waved at the column. “We’d never catch ’em with a group this size, and if we did, it’d be because they wanted us to—to kill us, don’t you figger? This way, we’re just trompin’ along—careful-like, so we don’t get ate—but not trackin’ nobody. Anybody that might be watchin’ can tell that easy.” He shrugged. “Maybe they’ll attack us anyway. We do make a temptin’ target. But we’re a weird target too. Humans, ’Cats, funny-colored lizard folks that look like them—all runnin’ along together, practically holdin’ hands. Maybe they’ll get more curious than scared.”

  Moe slowly nodded. “I just a hunter.” He patted the painted stripes on his dingy leather armor with the smoothbore musket in his hand. “I saar-jint of hunters now, an’ I got dis mus-ket ’sted of my old crossbow, but still just a hunter. You think-fight ways better than me. Good. May-be we not all die.”

  Dennis chuckled. “Maybe.”

  They reached the top of the rise, an arduous trek along an increasingly convoluted rocky trail, and gazed upon a scene just as interesting as Lawrence promised. The wide part of the trail was bigger than Silva expected, practically a clearing, largely—obviously—made by fire. Unlike other burn clearings in the dense Borno jungle, however, this one hadn’t been caused by lightning.

  “By God,” Horn said, “A plane crashed here!”

  He was right, and all but perhaps the Grik porters knew it as soon as he spoke. The crash had occurred some time ago, judging by the height of the grass and renewed leaves on the flame-scarred trees. Some trees hadn’t survived, though, sheared off or toppled by the falling plane, and bright sunshine slanted through the broken canopy—the first they’d seen in many days. They began to recognize bits of wreckage protruding from the knee-high grass.

  “Maybe Colonel Mallory’s missin’ P-Forty?” Pam suggested, pushing through the group that blocked the path.

  “Maybe,” Silva said doubtfully, “but we’re, what, eighty, a hundred miles in now? Countin’ the distance we came upriver?” He paused. “And looky there. That’s a hunk of a wing stickin’ up. Way wrong color. It was some damn Jap, I bet.”

  They moved forward, the Lemurian Marines alertly flanking the advance, rifles ready.

  “The paint might have faded, changed . . .” muttered Abel Cook, stooping to pick up a fragment of aluminum. The bright metal bore the spalled remains of dark, leafy green paint on one side. He turned it in his hand, then looked at the trees in the direction of the setting sun. “It came in from the west, clipped those trees there, and began coming apart. I believe it struck those other trees ahead much harder, perhaps shearing off the wings or parts of them. There would’ve been burning fuel . . .” He trotted ahead, and Silva, Horn, and Lawrence hurried after him. “Yes,” he said, pointing down at a large piece of fire-blackened metal as he passed. “More wing!” He stopped in front of what looked like, at first glance, a giant ball of rusty string. “A twin-banked radial engine! It must’ve rolled and tumbled a bit. . . . And there’s a section of a landing-gear strut, if I’m not mistaken! It’s definitely not the missing P-Forty. Not with that radial engine!” He r
ubbed his chin. “Judging by the oxidation of the metal and the regrowth around the crash site, it’s been here as long as we have. That’s unfortunate.”

  “Why?” Pam asked.

  “Oh, no reason, really. Perhaps I hoped to prove there’d been other events, such as the Squall that brought us here.”

  “There have been,” Silva pointed out, gesturing at Horn. “That awful ship that brung them prisoners—and murdered most of ’em, an’ that damn tin can, Hoo-dooy-yammy, that Walker tangled with.”

  “Yes, but those ships originated . . . appeared on this world, in the Philippine Sea. I’d hoped there might have been other, separate events here so we could begin to understand if we’re dealing with a geographically specific phenomenon. . . .”

  “Careful what you wish for,” Silva said, then stopped watching Cook and resumed scanning the denser trees looming around them, his monstrous rifle at the ready. Suddenly, he didn’t like it here. They moved farther along, the Marines watchful, the rest of the party grouped together, coming up behind.

  “If I was a super lizard,” Moe began, and Silva nodded. “Me too. Lots o’ grass-eatin’ critters would love this place; pygmy brontasarries an’ such, and you can see where rhino pigs been rootin’ around. You ’Cats better stay on your toes,” he cautioned the flanking Marines.

  “We on it,” one answered.

  Dennis looked down to see Pam’s diminutive form beside him. “Startin’ to cozy back up to ol’ Silva after all?”

  Pam glared. “I’m cozyin’ up to that big gun o’ yers, that’s all.”

  Dennis feigned a hurt expression. “So that’s all I ever was to you?”

  Pam’s face flushed with rage and she stormed off after Stuart Brassey, who was moving farther along.

  “Goofy broad,” Silva muttered.