“Thank God we took ’em by surprise,” Pete said, referring to the congestion. Really, though, he had to admit to himself that this seemed much better than when they went ashore on Ceylon, and it was infinitely better than the assault at Rangoon. Still . . . “I keep telling Alan we’ve got to have better landing craft,” he complained, “that don’t take so long to clear out of. We ever hit a heavily defended beach, we’re going to get our heads handed to us—or eaten.”
Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Salissa Home, Reserve “Ahd-mi-raal” in the American Navy, and Commander in Chief of operations in the West (CINCWEST), nodded. “I am sure Mr. Letts is working on it, along with countless other things. He may already have solved the problem, but much depends on supply priorities, and I maintain that new weapons and ammunition, not to mention troops and provisions, take precedence.” He grinned, and if his red-brown fur was indistinguishable from the night, his stocky form and bright teeth were plain. “And we do not need better landing craft as long as you continue to outwit our enemy into believing our blows fall elsewhere!”
Pete grunted. “You shouldn’t be here at all. It wasn’t exactly a cakewalk for the first wave. There was maybe a battalion of Grik with those weird matchlock muskets hanging around here—I don’t like the way we keep seeing more of those, by the way—and I doubt Billy Flynn and his Rangers got ’em all. There might be a sniper aimin’ at you right now!”
“Or you, General Aalden,” Keje said blithely.
Pete grunted again and continued churning forward in the loose sand toward a hastily erected CP tent. The frequent rains meant that their precious comm gear must always be protected, and there was usually someone near such devices who had some idea where people might be. “Either way,” Pete resumed, “the word’s going to get out, and we can expect company shortly. You belong on Big Sal.”
“And I shall return soon—I promise.” Keje paused and his voice changed. “I can only send my people into battle so often without at least standing on the same ground they strive for, from time to time.”
Pete had no response to that. He understood it perfectly. “Well, where the hell is everybody?” he demanded loudly of those under the tent.
“Just what I would like to know,” reinforced General Safir-Maraan, Queen Protector of the island of B’mbaado and commander of II Corps, as she appeared out of the gloom. Only her polished, silver-washed breastplate and helmet were visible at first in the dim gri-kakka oil lamps of the CP, but her exotically beautiful, sable-furred face and otherwise black raiment grew more resolved as she drew near. She saluted Alden, and he returned it as the comm ’Cats jumped to attention. “Where are my Sularans—and their aartillery?”
“It . . . is confused,” admitted a ’Cat lieutenant whose Home regiment could only be discerned by the crest on his rhino pig–leather armor. As the war in the West became less . . . linear, the Sa’aaran practice of tie-dyeing a kind of camouflage pattern in Army kilts and smocks and the painting of armor had grown almost universal. It made eminent sense, and not only did it simplify production and supply; it made troops harder to see from the air, which was a growing concern. As new supplies came forward, the regional uniforms were steadily being replaced. Even the Marines painted their field armor now, though they insisted on keeping their blue kilts. Blue blended well enough in the dense forest, Pete rationalized, as did the black of Queen Maraan’s regiments, who similarly clung to their traditions—although they also darkened their armor now.
“How confused?” Pete demanded.
“Well . . . General Rolak has apparently personally supported Colonel Flynn’s push inland, with elements of General Taa-leen’s First Division and most of the First Battalion, Second Marines, and perhaps some of Colonel Enaak’s Maa-ni-la Cavalry . . .”
“Goddammit!” Pete seethed almost resignedly, and the lieutenant flinched, but the Army and Marine commander’s wrath was not aimed at him. “Which elements? Flynn was supposed to lead his Rangers and the Second to find that road or path junction—whatever it is—and seize it, then send runners back to show the others the way! You mean Taa-leen and Rolak just . . . went along? Besides, General Rolak’s a corps commander, not a brigadier! What the hell does he think he’s doing?”
“He is an old warrior ‘marching to the sound of the guns,’ as I think you would say, Gener-aal,” Safir soothed in a softer tone. “He must see some advantage.”
“I know what he’s trying to do,” Pete admitted. “He’s trying to do Flynn’s job! Well, Flynn knows what to do. Once we control that junction, that goofy Grik berg where Madras should be will be cut off. We need Madras and its port to keep the beans and bullets on the road! I’m not really worried Rolak’ll get in the way, but he does have a real job of his very own, and he’s liable to get his overeager ass killed!” He looked almost pleadingly at Safir. Possibly she alone knew how much Pete counted on the old Aryaalan. “I just wish he wouldn’t go romping off like this,” he added.
For the first time, really, with Hij-Geerki’s aid, some odd but decent captured maps, and aerial reconnaissance, the Allies had a good idea of the geography of their objectives and could finally make strategic plans. They’d spent the last month sucking the vast majority of Grik combatants into South India, and now they meant to cut them off and destroy them before possibly countless reinforcements could be summoned. Their main goal in this, besides killing Grik, was to destroy what Pete suspected was this dangerous new team of Grik leaders. After that, they would establish a temporary defensive perimeter around what they saw as the resource-rich—including iron ore, some coal, and perhaps just as important, a kind of rubber-producing forest—industrial heartland of Grik India. That should oblige what they hoped was some ordinary Grik commander to come at them in the same old way, and they’d bleed him white before resuming offensive operations.
Pete admired Rolak’s guts and initiative; he just wished the wily old warrior would finally come to grips with how important he was and quit taking such spontaneous personal risks. The fact that Pete sometimes did the same thing himself didn’t even enter his thoughts.
“Okay,” he said with a sigh, squinting in the darkness toward where he heard the snuffling and heavy breathing of muzzled me-naaks, or “meanies,” the long-legged, crocodilian, Maa-ni-la Cavalry mounts. “We’ll send runners ahead to drag our . . . fiery old gentleman back here, where he can resume his proper duties and get this mess squared away.” He looked at Safir. “How’s Second Corps shaping up?”
Safir Maraan flicked her long black tail. “Third Division landed north of Maa-draas, as planned, and moves against the city. I came ashore on the south bank with the Third B’mbaado and Sixth Maa-ni-la Caav. I have, as yet, no idea where Colonel Grisa’s Ninth Aryaal or the First and Third Sular have found themselves, and they, of course, bear the bulk of my aar-tillery.” Somehow, Sularans were natural artillerymen who had an almost instinctive grasp of ballistics. Maybe that was a result of their millennia-long reliance on slings and thrown missiles instead of arrows? There was no telling. Regardless, their regiments were always gun-heavy. Safir suddenly went silent, and they listened for a moment as a furious cannonade abruptly erupted several miles to the north, the booming echoing back at them from the ships offshore.
“Ah,” she said with a predatory grin. “There had been no report, and it never occurred to me that the Sularans might make landfall exactly where they were supposed to! Perhaps, with practice, things grow less confused at last?”
Pete rubbed his neck with relief. Safir was right. After some recent . . . catastrophes, he always assumed their landings would be botched. But after Alan Letts’s visit, things had improved dramatically, and maybe practice did make perfect. Well, “perfect” was relative, of course. . . .
“Okay.” He gestured around. “But we’ve still got to get this mess squared away, and Rolak should have been here to do it.” Another wave of barges loaded with Surgeon Commander Kathy McCoy’s medical division and hospital corps was hitting the be
ach, threatening to stack things up even more. Pete growled in frustration and held his watch to one of the lamps. “Third Division is attacking from the north right now. That’ll draw the enemy. In less than an hour, we need to be hitting Madras hard from the south, so let’s get these other guns on the move while we still can. General Maraan, Madras is your nut, so see if you can push things along up the beach. That attack has to go in before the Grik have a chance to get their shit in the sock.”
“And you, General Aalden?” Safir asked.
“I’ll stay here until we round up General Rolak; then I’ll join you. If we can take the city and the crossroads before the end of the day, they’ll never push us out.” Pete looked at Keje. “Sir, I know your bombardment element is already in place, but we have to have that combat air patrol up with the sun, in case our lizardy friends start poking around with zeps to see what the hell we’re up to. I’d also love to know if there’s anything unexpected heading our way on the ground.”
“Of course, General Aalden,” Keje rumbled. “I shall take your hint and return to Salissa.” He nodded at Safir. “May the Maker of all things be with you all.”
CHAPTER 4
////// Ghaarrichk’k Madurai
Provisional capital of Grik India after the loss of Ceylon
N’galsh, Vice Regent of India and Ceylon, was almost keening with woe in the Speaking Chamber of the ancient temple. He was one of the few beings who knew that the odd stone structure festooned with the curious weathered remnants of unknown creatures carved on nearly every exposed surface actually predated the Grik conquest, which had occurred perhaps five hundred years before, but he cared nothing about that now. General Halik had been intrigued by the structure when he first arrived, and General Niwa assumed a troubled expression. But Halik’s interest had quickly turned to the subject at hand, and now he glared at N’galsh with a loathing he could no longer conceal. He’d had just about enough of the officious, elitist, fear-crazed creature, and wondered that N’galsh had not already turned prey despite his Hij status. It had been a rough day for them all. Why could N’galsh not contain himself?
“They are coming, probably with the dawn!” N’galsh cried. “The world burns. It heaves! They will cross the Ceylon Tongue, and if you do not send more warriors, they will soon have all India as well! You must bring your warriors forward!”
“Silence!” General Halik finally snarled. “You lost any entitlement to make demands of me that your exalted station may once have afforded you, N’galsh, when you abandoned Colombo while the Battle of the Highlands was at its peak! It is you who cost us Ceylon, and you attend me now only at my sufferance!”
N’galsh’s mouth snapped shut with a stunned, toothy clack, but he was clearly preparing to open it again when General Orochi Niwa of the Jaaph Hunters, Halik’s implicit co-commander, stepped beside him.
“Consider before you speak, Lord Vice Regent N’galsh,” he warned. “This war was never meant to be decided in India. The enemy was supposed to extend his lines to the breaking point before we struck in earnest. Now, largely because of you, India increasingly becomes the focus of both sides—and our lines of supply are even more tenuous than those of our foes. Regardless of whether General Halik is right or not, the Celestial Mother herself appointed him to command here, and in martial matters even you must no longer interfere.” He shrugged slightly. “The only matters remaining in India now are military and within the province of the Great Hunt. Right now, he may feed you to his lowliest Uul, if he likes.”
N’galsh shrank back from the strange creature who so rarely spoke to or around him.
Niwa turned to Halik. “Anything more you send into that . . . grinder of meat will be wasted, General. Too many are already being wasted there, and our reserves are not what they were. I know you sent word that we could hold this land if General Esshk would send us the . . . more mature of his ‘Chosen Warrior’ hatchlings, and I even agree, but we must meet the enemy on ground of our choosing to gain the time for them to arrive.”
Despite himself, N’galsh hissed. Until recently, the chosen hatchlings Niwa referred to were selected by the Chooser, or members of his order, to be eaten at birth. The world as he knew it had gone insane.
“If he sends them,” Halik growled, glancing darkly at N’galsh.
“If, indeed. Nonetheless, this can be our kind of fight.”
Halik nodded, still staring at N’galsh with contempt. “Yes, it can, and you are right. We will send no more warriors into the fight for the Tongue. The enemy will cross and he will be blooded by the Uul that survive there—those not already made prey.” He took a long breath. “Perhaps it might be different with the chosen warriors, as it is said. Perhaps they can defend. But they are not here now, and we will make this fight for India in the old way, even if just for one final time. But this time, we will strike when we choose.”
A mud-spattered First of One Hundred suddenly dashed into the chamber and sprawled on the stone floor amid a clatter of equipment. In Halik’s army, such creatures were not necessarily elevated to the exalted rank of Hij, but they were no longer just Uul either. Halik had been such a creature himself and understood the potential of older, experienced Uul. In a sense, they were Hij—in all but education—and they could think.
“Speak!” Halik commanded. Still groveling, the creature hissed without looking upon him.
“The prey comes!” it said.
“So soon,” Niwa mused. “I had expected a dawn attack, although that is not long now.”
“As had I,” Halik admitted. He considered how to get the most information out of the underofficer. “Do they come in force? Are there many of them on the Tongue?”
“Not the Tongue, Lord General!” the creature whined. “I runned here, long way. Others runned long way first! I told to repeat, ‘The prey is ashore in strength at Madras!”
Niwa straightened, and Halik stood from his lounging hassock. “Madras!” they chorused, and looked at each other, both their faces hardening in their own way.
“They have done it to us again!” Halik breathed bitterly.
“Yes,” Niwa said, thoughtful, even with a touch of admiration, “but where they have landed changes nothing. True, we must deploy to react, even launch spoiling attacks to keep them off balance, but the bulk of our army must remain concentrated! We can still choose our ground!”
“Yes,” Halik replied, looking at the great map on the broad table. “But first we must see where they turn, how they face.” He stared hard at Madras on the map. “Not this time, my clever foe!” he softly swore. “We are learning, you see. This time, you have leaped upon the back of the radaachk’kar, and it will snatch you off. This time I will have you!”
Madras Crossroads
The sun was above the horizon now, and Colonel Billy Flynn’s Rangers remained crouched behind what cover they could find. The ground in front of their position heaved with mewling, wounded Grik, and feathery reptilian corpses lay sprawled before and among the bloody, exhausted troops. The Rangers and 1st of the 2nd Marines had reached their objective after floundering in the dense, almost junglelike forest for unanticipated hours before they finally cut the road that led them here. Only the most meager protective breastworks had been thrown up before the first sizable Grik force arrived and charged headlong in their singular, terrifying way to slaughter them. As usual, there’d been little organization to the attack, just a pell-mell, roaring sprint up the south fork of the road. But the blow fell with such sudden ferocity, Flynn nearly lost his tenuous grip on the strategic choke point. That initial attack was finally crushed only by concentrated volleys of loose-fitting “buck and ball” from the muzzle-loading Baalkpan Arsenal rifled muskets in the steady hands of Flynn’s veteran regiment, and the rapid fire of the Marines’ “Allin-Silva” conversions. In many places along the hasty line, the issue was settled with bayonets.
Sporadic flights of crossbow bolts still thrumped out of the woods on the south side of the cut, and General Lo
rd Rolak’s guards ringed and defended him with their bronze-faced shields as he paced along, congratulating the defenders. Things were firming up now, with the arrival of General Taa-leen’s 1st “Galla” Division—mostly regiments from Baalkpan and B’mbaado—and the weight of General Rin-Taaka-Ar’s 2nd Division was starting to be felt on the left flank. There were still plenty of Grik in those woods, however, and Rolak wished the comm ’Cats of the signal corps would hurry and catch them so he could get reports directly from the aircraft beginning to crisscross the sky above.
“General Lord Rolak!” cried a ’Cat in a Maa-ni-la accent. Rolak turned to see a meanie blowing through snot-slinging nostrils and clenched teeth. Several crossbow bolts festooned the ugly beast and blood leaked down its flanks, but the wounds were shallow and didn’t seem to have worsened the creature’s normally foul disposition. A Maa-ni-lo, still in Saan-Kakja’s black-and-yellow livery, sat atop the surly mount.
“Get down from there, you fool!” Rolak cried. The rider ignored the order, but saluted.
“General Rolak, my orders are to locate you and ask if you do not agree that a corps commander’s proper place in battle is a suitably removed position from which he can coordinate the movements of all the troops under his command, and not only the handful around him.”
A tired cheer arose from the nearby troops, but Rolak slumped a bit. “Please tell my dear Queen Protector that I am withdrawing, duly chastened, to such a suitable place as we speak,” he said a little ruefully. The cav ’Cat saluted again and lashed his animal with a heavy quirt. With another shower of snot, the meanie bolted back the way it had come, chased by another flurry of bolts—which provoked more musket fire.
Iron Gray Sea - 07 Page 8
