Matt emptied his Springfield again and drew his pistol, firing quickly into faces and bodies that writhed in front of him. The loud popping of the pistol was muted now, barely heard by his tortured ears over the thunderous roar of battle.
“Gen’raal Maraan can send nothing!” came the cry of the comm-’Cat behind him. “She holds, even wins, she thinks—but the last Grik landed farther down the coast, and she must shift forces there to stop them!”
“Well, we ain’t gonna win here, if we don’t get some goddamn help!” Earl Lanier shouted excitedly to the right of Matt’s leg. He’d fixed his gun, but he was helping a ’Cat insert another belt. He had only a couple more. Packrat was firing another Browning to Matt’s left, chewing Grik with short, clattering bursts. Matt looked farther to the left, but the rain was worsening as the storm built strength and he couldn’t see far. For all he knew, the Grik might’ve hit the Wall of Trees in other, more feebly defended places as well, but he didn’t think so. These were “old-style” Grik—there could be no doubt of that now—and having found their enemy, they’d attack it with a single-minded ferocity that still amazed him. Whether those that faced Safir Maraan were any different he couldn’t know, but he doubted they were, and only the accident of the weather had driven their ships ashore where they might force her to extend her lines. “She says she already sent all she can!” the comm-’Cat yelled, and Matt blinked bitter amusement at that. He and his destroyermen were the only reinforcements that had reached the Raiders.
“Goddamn it!” Earl shrieked when his gun quit again. “An’ this ain’t even one o’ those new pieces o’ shit! It’s a Colt for God’s sake!”
“It’s a hard-used Colt,” Bernie shouted, carrying a pair of ammo cans and tossing them down in the mud. “Pitch it. Here’s another one!” A ’Cat behind him was carrying one of the newly made weapons, the rain beading on the oil that covered it. “I doubt this one’s even been fired. You take Packrat’s gun. Packrat! Over here!”
“What the hell?” Earl bawled. “No damn ’Cat . . .”
“Can cook like you,” Bernie finished, letting others decide what he meant. “Packrat knows guns better.” He joined Matt, his pistol in his hand. “That’s the very last ammo,” he shouted in his ear. “When it’s gone . . .”
“We keep fighting,” Matt said simply, holstering his own pistol. His Springfield was stabbed in the mud by its bayonet beside him. “I’m already empty.” Reluctantly, he drew his battered Academy sword and ran his hand down the notched blade. Bernie looked at him, rain-thinned blood spatter running down his boyish face. He paused, then nodded grimly.
“We keep fighting,” he agreed. The semicircle of Grik in front of them that had been kept open by the pair of machine guns began to close. Earl splapped down behind Packrat’s gun, cursing at the Grik guts he’d landed in, and Packrat and his assistant were jamming a belt into the new one. The fighting remained close everywhere else, but they’d have one more brief respite before the Grik closed over them here and Matt would have to use his sword yet again—one more time.
It was hard to hear, but it suddenly seemed like a new kind of yell was building on the right. At first, Matt thought it was the roar of the mounting wind. But shouts raced toward them down the line, excited, exhausted shouts of hope—then glee, which turned to screams of triumph and encouragement.
“What the hell?” Matt murmured, straining to see. The Grik were too close, too thick to see beyond them, and they were still pushing forward, snarling, yipping in anticipation, but he sensed that something was happening. Something the Grik wouldn’t like. “Get those guns firing!” he shouted. “Everyone! Let ’em have it with everything you’ve got!” The firing had diminished as those who still had ammunition tried to conserve it, but now they let loose with a last, stunning flurry that mowed the closest Grik down. Packrat’s new Browning opened up, chopping across the faltering Grik behind, side to side, and then Earl’s finally joined in, doubling the slaughter. The roar on the right continued to mount, and Grik started looking that way, pausing, staring, mouths gaping wide in sudden confusion. They were winning, grinding down their prey—but the sounds of triumph were not Grik and even if they couldn’t see what was happening either, they instinctively knew it wasn’t right. Major Jindal practically crashed into Matt, gasping, and Matt held him up before he could fall, avoiding the bloody bayonet on the rifle the man still clutched.
“Risa!” Jindal grated, and cleared his throat. “God, how can I be so thirsty on such a day!” He looked at Matt, at Bernie. “Risa is charging the Grik flank with the Maroons!” he finally managed.
“They’ll be torn apart!” Bernie objected.
“No! The brigade guarding the Grik below has joined her! Nearly the entire brigade! That creature, Geerki, I believe, says even if the ‘civilian’ Grik wanted to cause any mischief, they are somewhat too occupied at present to achieve it!” Matt tried to see again, and suddenly he could. A sudden easing of the torrential rain revealed a roaring tide of tie-dyed, helmeted troops and gray steel bayonet-bristling muskets surging down the slope from the right, backed by far greater numbers than they’d had before. And the Grik were responding, recoiling, being driven under, and starting to flee. Even as they did, others behind them, as yet unaffected or unaware, slew the ones that turned on them, fighting to get away, or were killed themselves in the growing panic.
“Grik rout,” Matt said, amazed.
“What’s that?” Jindal asked.
“Grik rout,” Matt explained. “Courtney Bradford’s term. Something you’ve never had the pleasure of seeing before, and I never thought I would again. Don’t you get it? These are ‘old’ Grik, probably ‘pure’ Grik. They only know attack, and if they’re not attacking, they’re losing.” He smiled grimly. “And if they’re losing, they run away, useless to continue the fight!”
“What can we do?”
Matt stared to the right, watching the entire line at the summit begin to follow Risa’s charge, peeling down to join it as the companies to their right, one by one, did the same.
“Charge them!” Matt replied, grinning now. “Pass the word! Charge bayonets, by companies, from the right! Probably not a proper command, but I’m a destroyerman, not a Marine. Cease firing as soon as the guys around us go!” he shouted at Earl and Packrat.
“What?” Earl yelled back. With a feral yell that seemed to release all the tension and terror of that long, vicious fight, the men and ’Cats who moments before had been preparing to make their final, bitter stand, leveled their bayonets and raced down the slope at the Grik who’d already started to turn away.
“Cease firing!” Matt repeated.
“Which I already did, didn’t I?” Earl snapped back, his tone surly. Matt just stared at him and then started to laugh.
“I ser’ you, Lord!” Matt heard a breathless, rasping call, and saw Hij Geerki—protectively surrounded by six Lemurian Marines to keep him from being murdered, no doubt—being ushered into his presence.
“You certainly do, Hij Geerki. You certainly do,” Matt said seriously. Geerki looked down, almost modestly, Matt thought.
“I too old to . . . join that killing,” Geerki said. “’Ut I do all I can,” he added piously.
Matt was struck by how similar Geerki’s intent had been to his own not long ago. “You did swell. Escort this . . . person to General Maraan’s main HQ in the Cowflop. Make sure he’s comfortable and well fed,” he told the Marines. “He’s going to be busy, and he’ll need some rest.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan Reddy!”
“Skipper,” Bernie said, touching Matt’s sleeve. Matt looked at him and saw him nod down the slope behind where corps-’Cats feverishly tended the many wounded that had been dragged away from the fight. A pair was kneeling over a man in mud and blood-spattered Navy whites. Matt didn’t even look behind him. The battle here was over as soon as the Grik turned away. Many more would
die, chasing them down, and he’d tried to tell Jindal to stop the pursuit at the jungle, but he’d bolted to join the charge before he could. Risa will stop them, he thought. She knows. Any Grik that escape us today will belong to the jungle, he added grimly to himself. A few might make it to one of the abandoned Grik cities down the west coast, but they’d be no threat. Unlike the “civvies,” they probably would murder one another to the last. “Round up Walker’s people,” he told Bernie. “Make a count, and find some cav-’Cats and meanies. I want to get down to Safir as quick as we can if she needs us there. There’s got to be more ammo someplace. Hopefully, not too many of our people joined the charge,” he added, then stepped down the slope.
Simon Herring was looking up at him as he approached, his eyes wide and surprisingly clear, considering how much seep the corps-’Cats had probably given him for the pain. But his face was terribly pale, and there was far too much blood soaking the bandages on his torso past his unbuttoned tunic.
“It was a spear,” Herring explained almost apologetically. “Would you believe it? A spear. How could I let myself be killed by a spear in 1944!” He snorted and tried to sit up, but the corps-’Cats held him down. He relaxed but looked back at Matt. “Another famous victory, Captain Reddy. I salute you.” Matt was surprised that there was no sarcasm in his tone, and he sat in the mud beside the man, grunting a little from his wounded leg and aching joints and muscles. He stabbed his sword into the ground and just stared past the Cowflop and the jumbled battle beyond, out to sea. The wind was milder in the lee of the great wall and though the visibility was better now, the storm on the water seemed even stronger. That was when he knew he wouldn’t be riding to save Safir Maraan next; she wouldn’t need him.
Past the pounding, surf-racked wreckage of the mighty Grik fleet, there were now two shadowy gray shapes in the distance. One was his beloved Walker, of course, and he saw occasional deliberate, unheard flashes from her guns. Steaming ahead of her, however, the odd “dazzle” paint job further obscuring the lines of her much larger form, was the converted freighter turned armored cruiser, USS Santa Catalina (CAP-1). She’d clearly outpaced her consorts to arrive so soon. And unlike Walker, she had plenty of ammunition and was pounding the Grik to smithereens with her more numerous, more powerful weapons. No, Matt thought tiredly. I won’t be going anywhere. He looked forward to seeing Russ Chappelle, Mikey Monk, Cathy McCoy, and all his other friends on the doughty old ship, but right then he belonged where he was, with the people who’d held the back door to this crappy place—and the strange, dying man beside him.
“Santy Cat’s here,” he told Herring.
“Leave us!” Herring ordered the corps-’Cats, who looked at Matt. He nodded, and they moved to another patient. “I’ve been watching her,” Herring told Matt. “I saw her arrive some time ago.” He closed his eyes and took several careful breaths. “A famous victory,” he finally repeated, “and I don’t know why I’m surprised anymore. You do seem to have a curious aptitude for creating them, regardless.”
“I didn’t create anything but a mess,” Matt said.
“Untrue. We were all ‘suckered,’ but as usual, you ensured that the enemy did not benefit. That is perhaps your greatest talent. You are always making bricks without straw, and yet they somehow endure.” He coughed, and a blob of mucous and blood came to his lips and slid down his cheek. “So much for that ‘long talk’ I requested,” he murmured, “so I will just tell you what I have to say and let you decide what to do with the information. I’d hoped to counsel you, but there won’t be time for that.” He blinked. “Remember the organic weapon that Adar authorized and Mr. Sandison helped create?” Matt looked at Bernie, still standing beside them, and saw his confusion.
Bernie had indeed helped make a weapon that Courtney Bradford considered worse, and far more insidious than gas. It was made from the collected seed-thorns of a kudzu-like plant they’d discovered on Yap Island. The terrible thing about this plant was that it grew in the living tissue of whatever creature was pierced by the thorn, very quickly consuming it and sprouting from the body to produce more thorns. In addition to the dreadful nature of the plant as a weapon—spreading or dropping the tiny seed-thorns where they might fall on enemies, or be stepped on or ingested, could kill uncountable numbers of them in the most horrendous way—Bradford feared such a deployment would spread the plant uncontrollably, and might ultimately render entire continents uninhabitable.
“Mr. Sandison didn’t know,” Herring assured him, “but the weapon, the ‘kudzu bomb,’ as I believe he referred to it, is here.”
“What?” Bernie gasped. “How?”
“I brought it,” Herring simply said. “And it’s perhaps not precisely here—I don’t really know anymore. But it was aboard Salissa, packed in several barrels labeled as a dietary supplement for captured Grik. A kind of fish hash, I believe.” He chuckled and more blood came up. “Grik food,” he managed. “An amusing irony I indulged in.” He looked at Matt, seeming to have trouble focusing now. “It may have been moved. In fact, I suspect it has.”
“If Bernie didn’t know, who else does? Keje? Adar?”
“Neither, at first, though I told Adar after the battle to take this place. He said he’d move it to the Celestial Palace, the uh, ‘Cowflop,’ but I don’t know if he ever did. He may have told Keje himself, and left it aboard Salissa. Other than Adar, I told only two others. One is Corporal Ian Miles, who accompanied Mr. Bradford, Chack, and that interesting Mr. Silva on their expedition south.” He looked troubled. “I no longer trust Corporal Miles for various reasons; nor should you. He is a capable Marine and should pose no threat to his companions on their mission, but his only real loyalty is to himself.”
“Who else, Herring?” Matt demanded.
Herring’s eyes flickered. “I didn’t use it,” he defended. “I only brought it because I didn’t think you could win, and saving our people here has become as much my cause as yours. But you amaze me again, and along with my most sincere esteem, I shall leave you with this final gift, this weapon, to use or not as you see fit.” Herring closed his eyes.
“Who else!” Matt insisted.
“The perfect person, really,” Herring mumbled, then smiled vaguely. “I had a desk in the War Department, you know. It was a small, ugly, metal thing with a green linoleum top. The Navy dearly loves green linoleum! I actually begged to be sent to China before the war, just in time to flee to the Philippines and be captured by the Japanese. Imagine that! Oh, how I missed that horrid little desk.” He opened his eyes and grasped Matt’s arm. “And then, in spite of everything, you turned me into a destroyerman. I thank you, Captain Reddy.” His last words came as a whisper, and Matt gently shook him.
“You’ve become a good destroyerman, Simon, but tell me the name!” he whispered back, expecting nothing and not surprised when Herring’s head rolled to the side and he could say no more.
“Damn,” Matt murmured.
“Yes, sir,” Bernie said, then looked at him. “I’m sorry, Skipper, for the kudzu stuff.”
“Not your fault. I said so then. You were just doing what you were told.”
“What if it’s not on Big Sal anymore?”
“Then we find it.”
“How? It’s not like we can whistle up Adar or Miles and ask them. Mr. Garrett and that Choon guy are sure the League is reading our mail, and our codes may not matter. I don’t think we should be sending any messages asking where our ultimate weapon might be.”
Matt smiled in spite of himself. “No.”
“So what do we do?”
Matt waved around. “After all this is sorted out, we’ll look for Herring’s ‘fish mash,’ in Big Sal and the Cowflop. Chances are, we’ll find it without the other name.”
“What then?”
Matt sighed. “I honestly don’t know, Bernie. I used to think I did, but after today, after everything, I can’t tell you
right now whether I’ll burn it—or use it. Either way, this is between you and me, clear?”
“Of course, Skipper.” Bernie frowned. “You and me—and whoever else already knows.”
“Yeah.”
Bernie finally grunted and sat beside him, and Matt stared back at the sea, another round of driving rain from the mounting storm soaking him to the bone. Together they waited with Simon Herring’s corpse while that terrible day, and the Second Battle of Grik City, slowly came to an end. Liberty City was a fine name, and an even better idea, he thought, but the old name is too set in the minds of those who fought here, and on the graves of those who’ll never leave. Probably just as well. Change the name of the place, and eventually the names of the battles will change as well—and that’d change the whole meaning of what we fought for here . . . or would it? He was suddenly unsure of that after all, but “Grik City” would stick, regardless.
“At least Amerika and . . . well, everybody on her, was out of here before the fight,” Bernie said at last, mirroring Matt’s own, earlier thoughts, thoughts he now returned to.
“You can say that again,” he agreed, “but I won’t be happy until I hear she’s dropped anchor in Baalkpan Bay.”
CHAPTER 37
////// PT-7
Mangoro River
“Anything for us yet?” Dennis Silva grumped at the comm-’Cat in the Seven boat’s cramped wireless office. He completely filled the small hatchway and unconsciously shifted his weight to compensate for the boat’s still somewhat energetic bucking. PT-7 had crept as far as it could up the sluggish, narrow red waters of what Bradford called the “Mangoro” River about six hundred miles south of Grik City a couple of days before. There it moored offshore, using the mighty carcass of a fallen Galla tree as a dock of sorts to ride out what threatened to become a full-blown strakka. It hadn’t turned as bad as that, as far as Silva could tell, at least not here. But it sounded like Grik City had been harder hit, on top of the Grik attack. It had been a “bit brisk,” however, and the torpid river had become a boisterous torrent. Silva had wanted to go ashore, of course, even during the worst of it, but Courtney and Chack vetoed the scheme. They’d seen firsthand how dangerous the Mada-gaas-gar interior could be and didn’t want anyone, even Silva, tromping about in a storm ashore. That left them largely battened down together in the small MTB, riding it out like sardines in a can. The group comprised Chack, Bradford, Lawrence, Corporal Ian Miles, an Imperial Marine sergeant named McGinnis, Ensign Nathaniel Hardee, his Seven boat’s six-’Cat crew—and Dennis Silva. Silva had been excruciatingly bored and had begun contemplating numerous antics to relieve the tedium by the time the blow finally eased, and Bradford assured him they’d all soon be on the loose. But in the meantime, Silva pestered the comm-’Cat almost hourly for news from the north.
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