“Yes, sur . . . but what if they not holding?”
Flynn took a breath. “Then spike what guns you can and get everybody out who can climb in the saddle with you. We’ll cover your run back here.”
“Meanies don’t like extra riders,” Saachic warned. “And even if we all get some, we can’t get all.”
“I know.”
* * *
The battle for South Hill intensified as darkness fell, flaring and slashing with fire. Every instinct Flynn had told him to march to the aid of the Sularans, but he knew that was probably exactly what the Grik wanted him to do. With the darkness, he had no way of knowing how the enemy deployment was developing. The cavalry was keeping a clear line of communication between the hills—the Grik seemed to respect their me-naaks—but he already had reports of Grik circling around South Hill to threaten that line. One way or the other, the Sularans had to pull back here soon.
In the meantime, his Rangers were digging like fiends and heaping the damp earth in front of their lines. Stakes were being cut, sharpened, and driven into the ground, and details were busy spooling out the new barbed wire they’d just recently received from Baalkpan. It was crummy, lightweight stuff compared to what Flynn had seen in France as a youngster, but this would be the first time the Grik ever ran into such an entanglement, and it was going to cost them. Other details were starting work on several bunkers to give them some overhead protection, and revetments were taking shape around the guns. The Marines maintained their position on the south side of the hill, throwing breastworks in front of their own forward battery, which was prepared to fire down the flanks of the gap held by the cavalry when the Sularans finally came out. When they were withdrawn into the fortifications, their guns would serve as a mobile reserve for any hot spots that might develop.
Flynn looked around. He’d done his best to prepare, he thought. There was little more he could do but make North Hill so costly to take that the Grik would choke on it.
“Col-nol Flynn! Col-nol Flynn!” he heard called in the deepening gloom.
“Here!”
One of the comm ’Cats hopped closer. “Col-nol, we got contact with Maa-draas HQ! Gener-aal Taa-leen wants to know what the hell is going on! We can’t get Division or Corps. Them damn hills round the pass block us, I bet.”
“I’m on my way.” He paused for an instant, listening. High above, he heard the sound of motors, lots of them, and they weren’t Nancys. The night suddenly brightened with the lights of what looked like falling meteors that illuminated the bellies of Grik zeppelins in the sky. The things didn’t light up until they’d fallen some distance from the ships, and he guessed that made sense. They were using some kind of delayed-ignition system to protect their hydrogen-filled airships. The first meteor struck out on the plain and burst amid a roiling ball of spreading flames. It was followed by many more. None landed on North Hill. They probably couldn’t see it in the dark. Some probably burned Grik when they fell, but several splashed fire on South Hill, and Flynn swore.
“C’mon,” he said to the ’Cat. “Now they’re throwing Grik fire at us! If the Air Corps can’t keep those bastards off us, they’ll burn us out for sure!”
* * *
“What the hell’s going on out there?” General Pete Alden demanded, storming into the briefing room adjacent to the comm shack in Madras.
General Taa-leen commanded 1st Division, and while it occupied the city, he was essentially Pete’s Chief of Staff. “A counterattack, General. A big one. Beyond that?” Taa-leen spread his arms.
“Where?” Pete asked, shoving through milling, confused staff officers to stand before the most current map they had, tacked to the wall. He did a double take when he saw Hij-Geerki lying on a pair of the common Lemurian cushions in a corner, as inconspicuous as he could make himself. He’d thought Rolak had taken his pet Grik south. He shook the distraction away.
“Everywhere. Or so it seemed at first,” Taa-leen answered.
“Show me what we know; then we can wonder what it seems like.”
“Of course. In the south, Third Corps has not been directly attacked, but a strong force has assembled opposite it. Fifth Corps is heavily engaged and has been forced to pause its advance and assume a defensive posture. Its supply lines south have been cut. General Rolak has encountered increasing spoiling attacks, he calls them, but continues to push First Corps south even now. He thinks the large enemy force that he hoped to fix in place for Fifth Corps to hit from behind has turned to crush Fifth Corps, or at least drive it south and prevent it from linking up with him.”
“Nobody could ever call Rolak timid,” Pete said respectfully.
“No, sur.” Taa-leen blinked. “And perhaps he is right to push. Where he had been the anvil, he might now become the hammer, and the result could be the same.”
“Is that what you think?” Pete asked, eyebrow raised.
“It is. The Air Corps saw no indication that fresh enemy troops had moved against Third Corps. Co-maander Leedom believes it faces the same battered troops that the fleet gave such a pasting.”
Lieutenant Commander Mark Leedom had been assistant Commander of Flight Operations on Salissa, and was acting COFO of the 5th and 8th Bomb Squadrons and the 6th Pursuit—all from the lost Humfra-Dar. He also had two new squadrons that had literally been assembled in Madras, right off the transports.
“If true,” Taa-leen continued, “it cannot be a steady force and is likely there only to fix Third Corps in place.”
“Okay,” Pete agreed. “We’ll give General Rolak his head. If anybody can keep it together in a night march, it’s him. We’ll know more about the big picture in the morning. In the meantime, if he runs into anything he even thinks he can’t handle, I want him to pull back.”
“Yes, sur.”
“So, what’s the worst of it? There’s got to be more, or you wouldn’t have sent such an urgent message. There’s nothing going on here, so that leaves Second Corps.”
“Yes, Gener-aal,” Taa-leen admitted, “I don’t think the Orphan Queen is in a jaam; I know she is. All physical lines of communication have been cut between here and the place they were calling Rocky Gap. Wireless transmissions report that her situation is dire indeed.”
“What happened?”
Taa-leen explained what they knew so far; that II Corps was basically trapped in the gap and the 1st Amalgamated, the 1st Sular, the 1st of the 2nd Marines, and several companies of cavalry were independently trapped beyond it. At first they’d been on separate hills, but now they’d consolidated. Losses, particularly to the 1st Sular, had been high. To make matters worse, a very large enemy force was assembling, and likely advancing from the west. “We are in wireless contact with Colonel Flynn and General Maraan,” Taa-leen continued, “but they cannot communicate with each other. Of the two, the smaller force is in the greatest jeopardy. I have just received confirmation that zeppelins are bombing it with Grik fire! I suspect the rest of Second Corps will soon receive the same treatment.”
“Get Leedom in here,” Alden barked at an aide, who dashed out of the briefing room.
“You will send planes up there? In the dark?” Taa-leen asked, blinking concern. “The air crews are all tired. Most have flown numerous sor-tees, and we lost two more aircraft today for no apparent reason. Commander Leedom blames hasty maintenance caused by the pace of operations.”
“Night flying here is different than it was for those guys in Second Fleet,” Pete conceded. “India’s a hell of a lot bigger than New Ireland! But Leedom’ll take care of those damn zeps, if he has to do it himself,” he ground out. “I’ll tell him to ask for volunteers.” He looked at Taa-leen. “He’ll get ’em too. You know why? Because nobody in Ben Mallory’s Air Corps could sleep a wink tonight knowing the damn Grik are burning our people!”
He turned back to the map. “So,” he muttered. “That’s the deal. I think you’re right about the south. It’s clever and might even work, but I think this General Halik has deliberat
ely tossed his best dice at Second Corps, hoping to wipe it out. The question is, what the hell are we going to do about it?” He turned and looked at Hij-Geerki, who was watching attentively. “What do you think?” he blurted with a sour expression.
“I no t’ink,” the creature answered tentatively in its strange but improving English. “I . . . ’e-long to Lord Rolak. I t’ink what he t’ink. I can’t . . . self t’ink like Gen’ral.” Geerki hesitated. “Ony . . . ’aybe dis Gen’ral Halik not t’ink like Grik Gen’ral.”
* * *
North Hill was ablaze and the trees that stood atop it flared like great vertical matches in the dark. A lucky hit by the first flight of zeppelins had landed on its flank and ignited one of the Marine artillery caissons and the resultant flashing detonation had drawn the attention of the other airships. Most had already dropped their firebombs and the plain between the two hills was dotted with dying fires. The tall, damp grass just wouldn’t burn, at least without a wind to fan the flames, but the few airships that still carried loads quickly dumped them on the illuminated hill. Finally out of ordnance, the zeppelins departed, but they left plenty of misery in their wake.
“Get the wounded in the ditches!” Flynn roared over the hideous, wrenching screams. Bad as the cries of the wounded were, the agonized, squealing wails of scorched paalkas were probably worse. “Throw dirt on those fires . . . and put those poor damn animals out of their misery!”
“What about the trees?” someone cried.
Flynn wiped the soot from red, streaming eyes and looked up at the crackling trunks and naked limbs above. The flames were already diminishing. The tree bursts had been the worst, spattering the Grik fire over a broader area than the ground impacts. “Nothing for ’em. They’ll have to burn out.” He stared a moment longer. “I don’t think they’ll burn once the fuel is gone. Pretty wet wood.” For the first time, he was grateful for the almost daily rains and high humidity. “Jesus,” he mumbled, taking in the rapid activity and smoldering bodies around him. He didn’t know how he’d escaped with little more than a few light burns; most of the Grik bombs had fallen right around him. He coughed on air that was thick with smoke and the stench of burning fur.
Bekiaa appeared out of the swirling gloom and stopped beside him, gasping, her hands on her knees. Flynn offered his canteen.
“You better save that, sir,” Bekiaa grated. “We lost all the Sularan water butts, and I don’t know if ours made it through this or not yet.” She waved around.
“Take a drink,” he ordered grimly. “We have only about half the Sularans to worry about.”
“We were lucky to get that many out,” Bekiaa reminded him, and relenting, took the canteen. “The Grik nearly got them all, and the caav, once they figured out they were retreating.” She took a small sip and handed the canteen back, blinking admiration. “The caavalry earned their pay today! I confess I never imagined such a . . . quickly moving fight on land! And the Marines who covered them at the end!” she added proudly. “Those new breechloaders are a wonder! The Grik pursuers melted before them like wax!”
“Yeah, the cav did swell,” Flynn agreed. “Everybody did. And those Allin-Silvas are great—but they use a lot of ammunition, fast.” He looked around. “Just swell,” he muttered. “So, now everybody’s here with us, in one place, being burned alive.” He paused, steeling himself. “What’s left?” he asked at last.
“It was bad,” Bekiaa admitted, “but the work you had us do paid off. We lost over a hundred dead in the bombing, and many more wounded.” She sighed, her tail swishing in the glow. “A lot of those will not live. I estimate twenty-eight hundred effectives remain.” She stood up straight at last. “We brought out some of the Sulaaran’s caissons, with many people clinging to them—but then lost several of our own to the fires. I am not sure exactly what our ammunition situation is, but we can still fight.”
Flynn pointed at the sky. “We can’t fight that! Where the HELL is the Air Corps?”
Bekiaa shook her head. “I do not know. The communications equipment survived, but the aerial is down—for now. Saachic has taken out a patrol, but the Grik stay back.”
“Makes sense,” said Flynn. “No point in them getting burned by their own zeps when they come back.”
“You think they will?”
“Why not?” Flynn said bitterly. “The fires are dying down, but we can’t put ’em all out. We make a fine target from the air.” He grunted.
“What?” Bekiaa asked.
“Oh, just a weird thought. There might be fifty thousand Grik out there—plenty to go over us like a steamroller—but they’re waiting for their high-tech weapons to finish us off!”
An hour passed, then two. Axes dropped most of the rest of the smoldering trees and they were shifted into a checkerboard of revetments, fighting positions, and overhead protection. The aerial was restrung, but now there was a problem with the batteries. Apparently, one of the trees they felled landed heavily against its cart and cracked their mobile power supply. A Ronson wind generator was rigged, but there was no wind. The handles for the hand generator couldn’t be found, and the comm ’Cats were trying to make some with the help of a battery forge. It was all infuriatingly frustrating and exhausting work—on top of a long, difficult march the day before and the events of the late afternoon.
Heavy, echoing thunderclaps of massed artillery fire and ripping sheets of musketry drifted toward them from the Rocky Gap, and flashes like lightning beyond the horizon lit the sky above it.
“Second Corps is in it now,” Flynn said to Bekiaa, still by his side. None of the 1st Sular’s senior officers had survived, and she remained his exec. An exhausted Captain Saachic returned and blearily reported that there very well might be fifty thousand Grik surrounding North Hill, but for now they were holding back, waiting, as Flynn had predicted. Flynn ordered him, and everyone who could, to get some sleep. The long night wore on and the flames faded almost entirely, giving them hope that the enemy airships might not return. Of course, they could just be waiting for daylight now. The fighting in the gap ebbed and flowed, but never ceased, and all that William Flynn, Bekiaa-Sab-At, and much of what remained of the 5th Division could do was stand, sleeplessly, and wait.
Eventually, just as the sky was beginning to turn gray in the east, the dreaded sound of the odd little Grik zeppelin engines reemerged. Inexorably, the airships drew closer, nearly invisible in the dark sky above.
“Sound ‘Stand To,’” Flynn sighed, and shortly after, the drums began to rumble.
Staring up, Bekiaa thought she could just make out the enemy craft, the sun beginning to reach the higher objects. She was startled when a stream of reddish, flaring dots suddenly arced through the air and impacted against one of the dingy cylinders. Almost immediately, it erupted into bright, hungry flames and began to fall out of the creeping formation!
“Col-nol!” she cried, grasping Flynn’s arm.
As was customary at that latitude, aided by the elevation, dawn came swiftly—particularly to the “furball” that suddenly erupted in the sky. A squadron of white-bellied Nancys swarmed the remaining eight zeppelins, hosing them with tracers from the single.50-caliber machine gun mounted in their noses. The weapons were further gifts from the salvaged Santa Catalina; either spares or guns that had been removed from the P-40s. It had been deemed unnecessary for all the Warhawks to carry their full complement of six, particularly those deliberately lightened to increase their range or carry bombs. Now the slowly resolving sea of Grik around the hill emitted a rushing wail as the Nancys slashed their own machines apart.
Blazing, crumbling airships stumbled from the sky, some intact, but most in disintegrating, fire-breathing sections. Some even fell on the gathered Grik below. Firebombs vomited flaming fluid from the impacting machines, or drizzled fiery tendrils down on clots of Grik between the hills. Shrieks echoed and seethed. A flight of Nancys rumbled low over the horde and Allied bombs tumbled among it, detonating and spewing fire, weapons, and
parts of Grik in long, roiling ovals.
“All batteries, commence firing with spherical case!” Flynn roared. “Fire at will!” The Grik were too far for canister to be effective. “Mortar crews, stand by! Action south!” Mortar ’Cats scrambled from their various positions around the perimeter, lugging their tubes and crates of ammunition.
Chest-thumping concussions ringed the hill and white smoke billowed outward as exploding case shot soared among the Grik, popping with gray-white puffs above or within their ranks, and scything them down with hot, jagged shards of iron. More bombs fell from another flight of the strange little seaplanes before it clawed its way back into the sky. A huge mushroom of smoke chased them this time, and one of the planes staggered. Its port wing fluttered away and it spiraled down amid a smear of fire.
“Damn!” Flynn growled. “Must’ve been those antiair mortar things of theirs again!” The cumbersome Grik weapons had made their first appearance on Ceylon.
Another Nancy was in trouble high above. A long stream of gray smoke chased it as it peeled away from a final, plummeting zeppelin. The plane steadied for a moment, but the smoke grew thicker and darker and it dove for the earth.
“Caap-i-taan Saachic!” Bekiaa shouted over the pounding guns. “That plane looks like it will try to set down there, near where the Marines had their works last night! You must rescue the crew if they survive the crash!” Nancys had no wheels—but wheels would be useless in the tall grass, at any rate. Maybe a hull designed for landing on water would fare better?
Saachic, already mounted, whirled. “First Squad!” he cried to the ready unit that had been around him throughout the night. “Follow me!”
With a clatter of equipment, swords, and carbines, 1st Squad’s me-naaks vaulted the breastworks and raced toward where the wounded plane was leveling off above the long grass that glowed golden green under the bright sunrise. The Nancy was burning now, its engine gasping and popping in agony. It nearly stalled, but the pilot dropped the nose and it swooped low, into the very top of the grass, and practically fluttered to the ground. Even with such an amazingly light impact, the high wing immediately sagged to either side of the engine and the fuel tank in front of it ruptured with a searing whoosh!
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