“True, though not as much anymore. I don’t know if thaat’s because they’re changing, or just well fed.” He tilted his helmet back at what they’d seen before standing up in front of Aasi. “Those Grik are ‘New Aarmy’ soldiers. You saaw their flaags. Respect-aable opponents if properly led, and better aarmed thaan Haalik. But you saaw their numbers and disaarray. I think they did fight a baattle—among themselves for food. They must be very hungry indeed.” Looking down the mountain spur they’d ascended, into the wooded valley below, they saw the leading columns of Halik’s army snaking through more great boulders bordering a minor stream that fed the Galk. From this distance, they looked like ants streaming to a meal of their own. “And if they know we’re coming, they don’t much care.” That seemed inconceivable. They’d met a lot of refugees, for a while. Halik let some pass, enlisted others, and probably ate a few, but surely they’d been observed as well, and reports sent back? Enaak snorted when the truth came to him. “I saw no discipline among those Grik, so they prob-aably ate their officers. We might really be unexpected.” He jumped on his me-naak, grabbing the reins. “I think we should report to Gener-aal Haalik, and Gener-aal Aalden as well; Esshk’s army is staarving, and I think it’s time to finish him.”
Nika was confused. “Well . . . if thaat’s the case, maybe we should hold off. Let them all staarve.”
Enaak shook his head. “Won’t work. You don’t think Esshk will staarve, do you? We wait too long, he’ll slip awaay again and thaat caan’t haappen. As long as he’s alive, he’s a threat. But as long as he’s got an aarmy”—he flicked his tail and grinned, exposing sharp white teeth—“he caan be surrounded.”
CHAPTER 29
OPERATION NOOSE
////// Galk River
Grik Africa
July 30, 1945
The conference room aboard USS Liberator, an armored Grik battleship captured on Lake Nalak, was right behind the pilothouse—and had probably been a meeting area for those who built her as well. Still, like all things Grik, the space was gloomy and tight, with insufficient lighting provided by smelly fish oil lamps. Side bulkheads were part of the armored casemate, sloping and narrowing toward the low overhead, and heavy skull-cracking beams supported a final deck above that would’ve mounted dozens of big antiair mortars. Liberator had never quite been finished, her cannon never mounted, and she still carried no armament—other than most of First Corps, which crammed the cavernous interior to overflowing. The rest, along with a division of General Kim’s IV Corps reserve, was embarked aboard another former Grik BB named USS Raanaisi (basically “Protector,” in Lemurian). Little more than Colonel Will’s Consolidated Division of Maroons and Shee-ree and Ker-noll Shelg’s 2nd Slasher Brigade remained to guard their rear, Sofesshk, and the Celestial Mother.
There were no chairs or cushions for the corps, division, and brigade commanders gathered in the space, only a long map table, and First General Pete Alden had no intention of letting things run long enough for anyone to need to sit. For one thing, even though it was evening and an uncovered grating and mushroom vent provided modest ventilation, it was hot as hell. The smell of sweaty ’Cats, humans, a few Khonashi and Grik, even the leather they wore, preserved by various—some quite disgusting—techniques, was almost unbearable. Besides, the time for rest was over.
“I’ll keep this short,” Pete said loudly, silencing the muffled roar of conversations, and everyone focused their attention on the aft end of the table. Second General Marcus Kim was on Pete’s right. Even glowering down at the map, eyes slitted, he exuded an air of excited intensity. Choon was close to him, somehow seeming fresh and cheerful in a red waistcoat and kilt, and fluffy white cravat. His only concession to comfort was that he’d removed his jacket to reveal black-and-white-striped shirtsleeves. There weren’t many other senior Repubs, since almost all were in the field. On Pete’s left stood Seventh General Taa-leen of the 1st (Galla) Division; Ninth General Minja-Kakja, cousin to Saan-Kakja, and commanding 2nd Division; and Colonel Saachic of the 1st Cavalry Brigade. Most of his troopers were up north, screening Rolak, and he’d be glad to get back with them.
Crowding around the far end of the table on the other side of I Corps brigade commanders were those responsible for naval and air elements of the operation. Captain Quinebe of RRPS Servius represented the Repub monitors, the most powerful ships they had. Captain Mescus-Ricum commanded the up-armored and rearmed old DDs USS Bowles, Saak-Fas, Clark, Kas-Ra-Ar, and Ramic-Sa-Ar of Des-Ron 10. MTB-Ron-1 was under Lieutenant (jg) Arai-Faar-Ar, probably the lowest-ranking officer present. Her mission would be to scout ahead for obstacles, even mines, the Grik might’ve placed. Finally there was Mark Leedom, who’d just arrived at this forward staging point about halfway to their objective in a Nancy he flew up from Saansa Field.
“This operation, ‘Operation Noose,’ is gonna be as simple as it gets,” Pete said, then added wryly, “which I’m sure will come as a relief to many. Just remember, though, sometimes the simpler things seem, the more damn near impossible they turn out to be.” He slapped the ’03 Springfield he always carried slung, even here. “This is pretty complicated compared to the Allin-Silvas half our troops carry, but the magazine spring breaks, you can still shoot it single shot. Mainspring snaps on an Allin-Silva, you got nothin’ but a club.”
“And a daamn fine spear with the baayo-net fixed—as you well know, Gener-aal,” Taa-leen reminded, bright canines bared.
“Well, yeah, smart-ass,” Pete growled, “and everybody’s got pretty good at stayin’ on the crapper in a heavy sea or they wouldn’t be here now.”
“Keeping their heads when all about them are losing theirs,” Kim paraphrased and Pete looked at him, wondering where he got that. Probably from captured Brit sailors that came over in SMS Amerika, he supposed. Though he didn’t sound it and rarely showed it, Pete had been a reader as a kid. Unfortunately, he’d let it slide. Then, when he’d been in USS Houston’s Marine detachment, his CO loaned him some Kipling while he was sitting in the brig, saying “read this through and I won’t take your stripes. If it sticks, I won’t ever have to.” He’d been right. Pete felt a twinge, remembering that officer was now most likely on the bottom of the Sunda Strait—on another world.
He cleared his throat. “Right. Just don’t forget that ‘simple’ don’t always mean ‘easy.’” He picked up an iron Grik ramrod and smacked the map east of the Galk River just short of where the locks were depicted. Those and their environs had finally been photographed from the air and the painted map was particularly detailed in that area. “We’ve pushed the Grik all the way back to here.” He whacked the map again, then moved the rammer northeast. “General Rolak and Third, Sixth, and Twelfth Corps are here, spread out to here”—he glanced at Kim—“along with Legate Bekiaa’s Fifth Repub Division, of course. Most of the Grik our air has seen are bunched up in front of ’em, well protected in some damn rough terrain.” He nodded at Leedom. “Our air’s been giving ’em hell, now that Saansa Field is up. Sunk everything they could find on the lake too, but we all know that don’t mean shit. It’s a big lake, with a rough shoreline. Lots of hiding places.” He slapped the map, close to the locks. “But this looks like the toughest nut, and they’re dug in tighter than ticks.”
“And bombing can only do so much, I assume?” Kim asked.
“Right. The screwiest problem is where they’re most heavily concentrated: right on top of the locks. On both sides, actually. They know we can’t get up on the lake with our monitors and transports without the locks, and they’ve pulled out all the stops to hold ’em. Worse, they’ve opened all the lower gates so not only can’t we use ’em as we take ’em, only the last big innermost gate is holding that whole giant-ass lake in by itself.” He shook his head. “The strain must be incredible. Whoever built those things back at the beginning of time really knew what they were doing. Anyway, you can see the problem. We can’t risk bombing too close to that damn ga
te. Hell, I’m scared to even shoot artillery around it. We shake anything loose, the gate busts, and we lose everything on the river—including us—all the way down to the Zambezi. Hell, maybe to the sea. Sofesshk, Saansa Field . . . nearly the whole population of ‘allied’ Grik, loyal to the CM, is back in drowning distance of the river. Prob’ly a couple million of ’em.”
“Not to mention the CM herself,” Inquisitor Choon pointed out.
“Not to mention,” Taa-leen murmured, leaning closer to the map.
“Point is, Rolak’s gotta take those heights the old-fashioned way. I was exaggerating a little about artillery and air support, at least until he gets close to the last gate, but moving guns up there in the teeth of Grik gun emplacements is gonna be a nightmare. I don’t know if Rolak has the weight for it, even with three whole corps.” He shrugged. “That’s why we’re taking him another one.”
“What about the Grik on the west side of the locks?” General Minja asked.
Pete nodded. “That’s our first ace in the hole. As far as we know, the lizards think all we’ve got on that side of the river is the Repub Fifth Corps, under General Tiaan-Kir, and he can’t punch through by himself. But they’re still expecting General Ign to join them.” He smiled grimly. “He will. Or rather, First Ker-noll Jash will, with the Army of the Mother. Fifth Corps will come in behind him.”
“It . . . might work,” the Repub brigadier said, scratching her furry ear, blinking yellow eyes. “If this . . . ‘Jash’ can be trusted.”
“He can,” Inquisitor Choon assured, “especially with the stakes downriver to consider. That brings us to our final ‘ace,’ does it not, First General Alden?”
Pete nodded. “Yeah. Halik.” He looked around. “It looks like the back door’s wide open for him, and that’s why we’re all moving now. The Grik on the north end of Lake Galk are starving. Maybe they all are.” He snorted. “If it seems those in front of us have plenty of fight in ’em, it might be because we’ve been killing enough to keep ’em fed. The ones up north are killing each other to eat.” He rubbed the dark beard on his chin. “I sent Halik the ‘go’ order an hour ago, and he’ll be starting his show any minute. So will Rolak. Hopefully by tomorrow morning when we steam upriver, Rolak’ll have the heights leading to the locks and Halik’ll be galloping up Esshk’s skirt with a hot poker in his hand. No way to know how far he’ll get before somebody stands up against him, but I don’t think it’ll make much difference.” He sighed at the skeptical faces and doubtful Lemurian blinking. “Look,” he said, “I know this lizard pretty well. Fought him once, long and hard.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it seems, you butt heads with somebody long enough, you get to know ’em better than yourself. Anyway, it’s hard to explain why, but I trust him. More important, he knows we beat him, the CM’s on our side, and we will beat Esshk—eventually—with or without him. If he wants to keep what he’s got, save what he’s made of his army . . . and just rear up on his hind legs and look us in the eye someday—that’s damned important to him—he’s got to do this, and do it with style. Same as Jash. If I’m wrong and they screw us, actually turn on us—” A lopsided grin appeared in his beard. “Then I guess we’re screwed. But I ain’t wrong.”
CHAPTER 30
THE BATTLE OF LAKE GALK
////// North shore of Lake Galk
Grik Africa
General Yikkit had been granted the privilege of leading the first assault on Esshk’s final stronghold around Lake Galk. Standing in a neekis-drawn chariot in the gathering gloom on the flat alongside the valley stream, he watched the setting sun pour its dying light on the mountain above the spur Enaak explored. Enaak was up there now, in fact, with Halik himself, and would signal the advance of Yikkit’s twenty thousand warriors with two batteries of the little mountain howitzers, positioned on the near slope of the ridge. Just as the line of creeping darkness passed over the stubby guns, piercing whistles trilled and all twelve weapons vomited bright balls of fire into the twilight. Yikkit could actually see the exploding case shot arc over the spur in their high trajectories, flame-jetting fuses spinning or tumbling as they vanished from view. About the time they would’ve exploded but before he actually heard them, Yikkit pointed at the signalers and they pumped the bellows of the battle horns. The sound started with a wispy brap, but quickly rose to a rumbling roar echoing in the valley.
The first line of ten thousand warriors, half a mile wide and four ranks deep, burst forward at a ground-eating trot. The line bowed back on the left as those troops came to the base of the spur and had to break into a run to keep their alignment but they managed it magnificently. Yikkit growled with predatory satisfaction and pointed at another crew of signalers, who joined the roar of the first horn with a slightly different note. The next four-deep line advanced, and Yikkit whipped his neekis forward to follow the first.
* * *
* * *
“A slaughter,” Halik murmured, his tone a mixture of satisfaction and disappointment. He stood in his own chariot with an aide as they watched Yikkit’s first line smash into the disorganized camp below, trying to steady the scene in the Impie telescope Enaak handed him. The constant uncomfortable shifting of his own neekis, acutely aware of the hungry, speculative scrutiny of Enaak’s cavalry mounts, made that difficult. Still, it was obvious that without defenses of any kind, the brief shelling had decimated the enemy and induced an initial panic. The survivors rapidly formed a ragged, bayonet-bristling firing line, even managing a volley sufficient to stagger Yikkit’s center for a moment. There was no second volley as the tide of Halik’s army swept upon them, only a rising roar of independent fire that quickly dwindled. A few Grik, probably less than a thousand, broke for the rear, but they’d been waiting for that. Dalibor Svec and his Brotherhood of Volunteers had worked their way around the mountain to the east and positioned themselves in a scrubby creek bed. Now they thundered down on the fleeing Grik, their big kravaas bashing through the mass, goring and trampling, troopers firing carbines and pistols or laying about them with cutlasses.
Enaak slapped the telescope shut when Halik handed it back. “A slaaughter indeed. I’ll be surprised if a single survivor makes it paast Svec. You complain?”
“No,” Halik denied. “I’m proud of my army, proud of Yikkit, but I suppose . . .” He snorted. “General Alden beat me in India, yet Esshk has given him considerably more trouble. Perhaps I just expected more of these other New Army troops Esshk made.”
Enaak blinked amused irony. High on the spur, there was still sufficient light for Halik to see. “You wanted a tougher opponent? Don’t worry. We haave a long waay to go and I’m sure you’ll get one.” He pointed below. “You will note thaat, probably even without officers, they were well enough trained to pull themselves together, however briefly, and relatively few aactually fled? And thaat waas prob-aably just Esshk’s version of a picket to waarn of our approach. Now, with luck, we’ll caatch his next line equally unprepared. Sooner or later, though, you’ll meet troops thaat’re ready for you. Svec and I caan’t stop all the runners. When thaat haappens, you’ll prob-aably haave the fight of your life—and better appreciate whaat Gener-aal Aalden’s been up against.”
“Limber up the guns and let’s go,” he called aside. “Time to push paast Svec and stick our necks out!” he added cheerfully. The 2nd of the 5th had followed Svec around the mountain, broken into scouting companies, then pressed on. They’d stay high, for the most part, where Grik didn’t like to go—and wouldn’t be expecting an advance at any rate. Barring a report from Nika, Enaak would take the 1st of the 5th across the flat to contact. Svec’s Legion would finish up below, then reform into a heavy flanking force. “So long, Gener-aal Haalik!” Enaak said, whipping his reins. The me-naak under him trotted forward and two double lines of troopers flowed into column behind him. “Don’t daawdle, if you please,” he called back over his shoulder.
Halik harrumphed, then turned to a me-n
aak-mounted ’Cat. Enaak had left him a company of the 5th to act as runners, and another company to operate (and protect) the main comm-cart. The smaller sets on pack me-naaks had limited range in the mountain-bound bowl of Lake Galk. “My regards to General Niwa,” Halik told the ’Cat, “and the grand battery will advance.” That was essentially Yikkit’s artillery, backed by ten thousand of Halik’s longest-serving (and oldest) Grik. Yikkit was supposed to move as fast as he could and stay as close behind Enaak as possible. When he ran into something he couldn’t run over, his artillery and heavy reinforcements would be close, able to deploy at a decisive point. At least that was the idea. “General Niwa will follow, with General Ugla close behind.” Niwa and Ugla each had thirty thousand troops and a third of their artillery.
The ’Cat sketched an ironic salute and dashed down the slope, his me-naak throwing gravel at Halik’s command staff with its feet. Halik looked below. It was getting very dark down there and all he could see of Yikkit’s force was a dark line moving south across a desolate plain between the mountains and the water. Closer, Enaak’s column was already skirting the demolished camp. A few scattered fires still flickered there, but otherwise it looked like little more than a lumpy stain in the gloom. Halik gestured to another ’Cat. “Hurry to your radio cart. Have its operators inform General Alden we’ve engaged the enemy and are pressing south, as pledged. Operation Noose has commenced.”
CHAPTER 31
////// Southeast of Lake Galk
Grik Africa
More than two hundred cannon flared half a mile behind them in the night, spurting sparkling spears of flame, quickly dimmed by enveloping smoke. The gunline of 12 pdr smoothbores at the edge of the forest bordering the base of the escarpment was a mile long here and the blasting thunder and ripping-sheet shriek of projectiles reached them roughly two and a half seconds after the first bright flash, pounding and echoing off the cliffs as the first case shot began crackling over Grik positions above. A blizzard of hot iron casing fragments and balls sleeted down on the defenders. The Grik had already been firing on the gun line they saw begin assembling before dark, especially after it loosed a few ranging shots of its own, at roughly equal intervals, but as the light faded and their aim points vanished, Grik fire became desultory. Now, almost immediately, Grik cannon opened back up, pouring shells and solid shot back at their counterparts. More cannon responded from the Allied line, spitting brighter, sharper tongues of flame. These were Repub “Derby” guns, 75mm rifled breechloaders that could slam out three times as many shells a minute, faster than even the veteran Allied “Napoleon” gunners, and hit exactly what they were aiming for at this range. Though at near maximum elevation to reach this height, they fired at the muzzle flashes of Grik guns, wrecking them with direct hits or shredding their crews with shrapnel.
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