“Colonel!” Bekiaa suddenly cried, pointing at the mountains to the north. There were small puffs of smoke there as well!
“That . . . ain’t good, huh? I bet this is how Custer felt.”
“How is that, Colonel?” Saaran asked.
“Like pukin’.”
“Who is Custer?” asked Bekiaa.
“A dead idiot,” Flynn said. Suddenly, the thunder echoing in the valley took on a different, more strident tone, with the power and malevolence of a typhoon sea. He’d heard this thunder before, just prior to the Grik assault on the south wall of Baalkpan. It was the mind-numbing, terrifying sound of thousands of Grik, roaring, screaming, pounding weapons on their shields. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “Except we ain’t gonna be dead idiots, see? Not if it kills us! We might still wind up dead—and I can live with that—so long as we’re dead heroes! I didn’t quit my sugar boat and join the Army to be remembered as the biggest military dunce of the war!”
“What shall we do?” Saaran asked, thrown a little by Flynn’s contradictory comments.
“Rangers!” Flynn roared in response. “From line into column to your left . . . execute!” Immediately, the nervous and confused, but motivated troops, re-formed their column, facing the direction they’d come.
Bekiaa had echoed the order like all the other company commanders. Technically, Saaran was senior, but here on land, they both knew who was really in charge of “their” company. She looked at Flynn. “What are we doing?”
“We’re going to run back there and double up with the Ninth, facing north. Then, if I can get Grisa to agree, we’ll try to ease back and form an arrowhead-shaped front with the First B’mbaado deploying from what will then be our right, and the third Sular extending Grisa’s left flank to the mountains. Eventually, as we suck the devils down, we’ll fall back into a continuous line and the other regiments behind us can reinforce as necessary! We’ll get ’em into a stand-up fight on our terms instead of givin’ them the ambush they wanted!”
Bekiaa glanced at the timber-cloaked mountains, wondering how far down the slopes the hidden enemy had advanced. “If we have the time,” she said, her tail swishing nervously behind her.
About then, more huge billows of smoke shrouded the opposing mountains as maybe a hundred guns commenced an erratic fire.
“That’s right, Captain. If we have the time.” Flynn raised his voice once more. “Artillery will return fire at the enemy smoke, then retire behind the infantry. Spike your guns if you can’t move ’em. Rangers! At the double time . . . march!” He saw Saaran begin to whirl and follow his company. “Saaran!” he shouted, and the brown and white ’Cat turned.
“Sir?”
Heavy roundshot began falling in the valley, followed by the heaviest rumble yet. Most fell short, but some was unnervingly close for a first attempt. Shards of rock and clouds of brown-black dust exploded from the iron spheres when they struck and bounded visibly on.
“Get your blotchy Navy ass out of here!”
Saaran blinked with fury.
“Don’t even start,” Flynn warned, “you’re the bravest ’Cat on the island! But in case that plane didn’t make it, or transmit, I need you to take the word, personally, to Queen Maraan that we’re about to have a hell of a fight on our hands!” The first trickle of sprinting, howling Grik finally appeared at the edge of the woods about four hundred yards to the south. The artillery that hadn’t already limbered up, nearly half, fired into them and the forest beyond, the guns jumping against their springy trail shafts and rolling backward—where impatient hands waited to hitch them to palkas. “Tell her I think we’ve set the hook pretty hard, and a little help would be appreciated. Also, unless the flyboys have been making up fairy tales, the fact this bunch is here probably means there ain’t really doodly in front of General Alden, no matter what it looks like! Got that?”
“Ay, ay, sir! If you . . . insist it must be I who goes!”
More roundshot struck, some among the artillery palkas, and the huge beasts screamed shrilly in agony and terror as some were sprayed with rock or iron fragments and others were simply shattered. A red mist flecked Saaran’s white fur.
“I do! Now git!”
With a lingering glance at Bekiaa, Saaran raced off.
“If they send any more planes up this way, tell ’em to watch their ass!” Flynn yelled after him, then looked at Bekiaa. She and several of her company, all sailors or Marines from TF Garrett, remained with him as the rest of the company trotted away. Flynn looked at the “Gun ’Cats,” still wrestling with maybe a dozen guns and their wounded or balky animals.
“Leave ’em, fellas!” he shouted. “Spike ’em and go!” A solid mass of Grik was now descending as if being poured from the tops of the mountains. Crossbow bolts flew thick.
“If you don’t want to be a ‘dead idiot,’ Colonel, I recommend we do the same,” Bekiaa said sharply.
“Oh, all right. Just tryin’ to be the last, like in the movies, you know? We’re all gonna be heroes outta this one!”
“I for one cannot ‘live with being a dead hero,’ and the ‘last’ ones here are not going to survive.”
Flynn looked at the few remaining Gun ’Cats, utterly fixated on saving their weapons, oblivious to orders or danger. “Say, I bet you’re right. Let’s get the hell out of here!”
“Just what the hell’s going on up there?” General Pete Alden demanded angrily.
“It’s . . . confusing still, General,” Lord General Rolak replied. The overall commander and some of his personal staff (he’d temporarily swiped Alan Letts to lead it), as well as the division commanders of Task Force West (TFW), were under the protection of a field tent as a coastal squall lashed the plain around them. Those leaders included Rolak, General Rin-Taaka-Ar of the 1st Marine Division, (1st and 3rd Marines, and the 1st Battalion, 2nd Marines, with the 4th, 6th, and 7th Aryaal attached) and General Taa-leen of the 5th “Galla” Division, composed of the 5th, 6th, 7th, and 10th Baalkpan, as well as the 5th and 6th B’mbaado. Rolak was in charge of this oddly shaped I Corps. Outside, other staff, as well as some of the regimental commanders and a security company from the 1st Marines, stood stoically watching in the rain.
“Well, get it unconfused, fast!” Pete demanded.
“We’re trying, sir,” Alan said. Pete’s borrowed “chief of staff” looked pretty rough. He hadn’t slept much over the last few weeks, and it was beginning to show. He had his “combat experience” now, and he’d learned an awful lot about logistics in the field. When this campaign was over, he’d decided to return to his old job in Baalkpan. Not because he couldn’t take it; he’d finally proven to his own satisfaction that he could—despite the daily assaults on life, limb, fair skin, and sanity. But he’d seen just how important it was for him to start a real, live, staff college. This war was growing beyond what a meager handful of talented “logistics types” could handle, and they needed more support personnel even worse than they needed more troops.
“Something big popped in front of Second Corps; something recon didn’t detect. Only one of our air patrol ships made it back, and it was shot to pieces. No radio, spotter dead. The pilot said it was as if the whole mountain ‘shot at them’ all at once.”
“Artillery?” Rolak asked.
Alan shrugged. “My guess is something more like mortar tubes stuffed with junk, by what the pilot said. Anyway, he also saw ‘swarms of Grik’ jumping right up out of the ground and running to the attack.”
“They must have been camouflaged, so the recon flights and scouts didn’t see ’em. Damn, I never would’ve thought it!”
“Hij Geerki has hinted that, after the Battle of Baalkpan, some in their leadership developed . . . radical views,” Rolak reminded him.
“Sure, but he didn’t know what they’d do, or even if they’d get to live,” Pete growled. “I guess they did. That damn ‘General Esshk,’ at least.”
“So it would seem.”
“What else
do we know? I mean, now that some Grik have conjured up an imagination, what’s it going to cost us? What kind of crack have Second Corps and Safir-Maraan got their tails stuck in?”
“Reports are just now coming in from her HQ,” Alan said, reading a dripping message form passed to him by an aide. “Oh crap. They nearly got sucked into an ambush . . . here,” he said, stepping to a damp map laid out on a table under the dripping canvas above. “In this pass, or valley—whatever it is. Pretty high. Anyway, somebody must’ve smelled a rat, because the first two regiments, the Amalgamated and the Ninth Aryaal, deployed about the time the recon flight got hammered. The combination of those two things must’ve tripped the trap the Grik must’ve hoped would catch the whole division, maybe the whole corps.” His brows arched. “Lucky. Anyway, those two regiments pulled back and formed with others behind them to create a division-size front across the valley, with fairly secure flanks. General—Queen—Maraan’s moving up now to support what’s shaping into a knock-down drag-out.”
“Enemy numbers?”
“Best guess is twenty-five to thirty thousand. You know how it is—it’s not as if you can count ’em when they’re all gaggled up.” Alan watched Pete’s expression morph from shock and horror to concern, and finally, tentative confidence. They’d faced worse odds before; II Corps apparently had a good position, and nearly all its eight thousand troops carried muskets with bayonets. Some had rifles. It would be a hell of a fight, one for the books, but the Corps should survive.
Pete swore and stared hard at the map. “Okay, I can see that . . . but why? And where’d the bastards come from? I mean, recon this morning showed about as many Grik in front of us as would be there if those attacking Second Corps had come down. Hell, our spotters saw them come down!”
“ ‘Why’ is obvious, General,” Lord Rolak grumbled, his old eyes also exploring the map. “To strike a decisive blow. Their attacks on us have delayed our advance but have nearly bled out the forces opposing us . . . and still we advance. Their ‘straa-ti-gees’ have changed, even improved in terms of maneuver, but the ‘taac-tics’ remain much the same. They cannot cope with our training, discipline, and modern weapons in an open-field contest.” He blinked a Lemurian shrug and added a human one for emphasis. “They try something different . . . significant in itself, hoping we’ll grind to a halt and lick our wounds—further delay our push on Colombo. They fight for time, and that’s another . . . straa-ti-gee I would never have credited them with.”
“That is significant . . . if true, and I’m inclined to agree it is. Damn. I hate smart Grik!”
“Perhaps too smart for their own good,” Alan mumbled.
“What?”
“Okay. I’m just a supply guy, remember, but if we’re right about why, then we have to figure how. Our planes combed this joint from top to bottom, and we’ve had a good idea where all their major troop concentrations are, or where they were headed, for a while. As of right now, all they have unengaged is a really big wad up north around that land bridge that splits Palk Bay from the Mannar Gulf, see? I’d bet my last Navy pencil they don’t have what it takes to pull what they did today against Second Corps—and still keep what they’ve got in front of us.”
“But it is there!” General Taa-leen interrupted. “The fliers watch constantly. They bomb! They see!”
“Maybe they see what the enemy wants them to,” Alan said softly. “Throughout our advance, we’ve only ever seen a few ‘civilian’ Grik—besides those . . .” He shuddered and took a breath. He hated the young, feral Grik. A pack had ganged up on him while he was alone at night, using the latrine! Only his 1911 had saved him from a terrible and ignominious end. “Those Griklets,” he said, finishing the thought. “But we know they exist. They’ve either been rounded up and herded before us, or refugee’d out on their own. Anyway, where are they?”
“You think whoever this sneaky Grik commander is, has dumped them in with his warriors facing us, to swell their apparent numbers?”
“I do.”
“I’ll be damned,” Pete said, staring at his friend. “You really do!”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
“Rolak?”
The old Lemurian warrior stared out at the Marines surrounding the tent. The rain was passing and the sun already glared down.
“I have to agree with Mr. Letts. His reasoning is sound, particularly in light of what has transpired today. It would seem the enemy commander is clever, and that bodes ill for the future, but fortunately for us here, now, his army cannot match him. I believe we have a grand opportunity.”
Pete grunted. “Yeah . . . I hate it for more reasons than I care to name, but I guess it does make sense. God help us if we’re wrong.”
“God help us if we’re right, in the long haul,” Letts said. “They’ve always had us outnumbered, but our noodles gave us an edge—even if we’re making up most of what we do as we go. Cancel that advantage and . . .” He shook his head.
Pete glanced at the wide-eyed aide who’d brought the message. “Send to Admiral Keje,” he said. “Request the whole damn fleet move up and start hammering Colombo. All air to focus on the Grik formations in front of us and in the city; firebomb the hell out of them! Hold back enough to assist Second Corps in the valley, if requested, but remind them there’re some scary plane-swatting weapons there. Maybe in front of us too.” He looked at the faces around him. “Return to your commands, bring everything up! Lord Rolak, you and Alan stay here. There’s not much to plan; our standard ‘march up and piss ’em off’ play ought to do it, but we need an order of battle and to make sure everybody has what they need.”
“Okay,” Alan said, praying very hard they were right after all. “When do we start the dance?”
Pete looked at his watch. “Dark in nine hours. If ‘General Grik’ isn’t stuck all the way in with Second Corps, he might try to move something back. If he does it in daylight, we can cut him up from the air, once he’s in the open. We can’t stop him in the dark, so . . . we need to make sure he has nothing to come back to before the sun goes down. We’ll have to hustle, but everything’s nearly in place now.” He looked up. “We go in two hours. Start the bombardment in one. Ships offshore now will begin simultaneously, and the others can join in as they arrive.”
“Some won’t be here for hours, General,” Alan said.
“That’s okay. Reasonable care should be taken to avoid the docks and manufacturing facilities we’ve pinpointed from the air, but the latecomers’ll still have plenty to shoot at. I want Colombo—the disgusting, puss-filled sore it is on this world—turned into a gravel pit.”
“Ah, should we pass the word to try to take any prisoners?” Alan asked.
“What for? We don’t eat them! Oh never mind, I know what you mean. Orders are don’t kill any Japs you see, and try to catch a few hon- chos in fancy clothes so we can find out more about ‘General Grik,’ and what else might be up. Besides that, take no risks to secure prisoners! In other words, don’t kill ’em if they throw themselves at your feet, but for God’s sake, cut their claws and bind their jaws—and kill ’em anyway if they twitch while you’re doing it.”
General Halik snarled with fury and literally flung the abject messenger away from him, drawing his sword as he did so.
“If you kill messengers that bring ill tidings, soon you’ll have none willing to bring you any, ill or good,” General Niwa said mildly. “Your messengers are not Uul, after all. They are . . . fairly valuable.”
“N’galsh, that . . . traitor! . . . has fled the city with the cream of the cadre we’ve spent these long months forming! He didn’t even test them against the enemy—he just took them and ran away!”
“Can you blame him? Honestly? He’s no general. I told you one of us should have remained behind.”
Halik and Niwa were standing near the crest of the highland range overlooking the cauldron of death the valley below had become. Both were filthy and a little scorched by a firebomb that landed nearby ea
rlier in the day, destroying several large guns and roasting their carefully trained crews. Unlike the first such weapons they’d seen deployed in the south, these detonated on impact. The enemy revised and adapted their tools so quickly!
It was late afternoon now, and even Halik had long since wished he could end this battle. He wouldn’t have started it at all, if he’d been able to properly communicate with the forces on the northern slope. He’d been forced to rely on rote memorization of the “plan,” based on “you see this, you do that.” Even now, few of his Firsts of a Thousand (Niwa called them colonels) were willing to exercise initiative, even if they could. Now, having insisted Niwa accompany him here, he’d compounded that error by insisting he remain by his side. Had it been nerves? Insecurity? Halik suspected so. This had been his first real test, and he’d wanted the Japh with him . . . but then he’d ignored almost all his advice! He wasn’t really angry at the messenger, or really even N’galsh. N’galsh had done the only thing he knew to do. Halik was angry at himself.
“You speak truth, General Niwa,” he said, sheathing his blade and staring at the smoke-choked abattoir below. He couldn’t see much from where he stood, but even after the long hours of fighting, the enemy guns still thundered as frequently as they had all day, and the stutter of their “muskets” only wavered when the diminishing horde fell back out of range. Even then, curiously, some of the enemy small arms continued firing—and taking a toll—far beyond what he knew their own new “muskets” were capable of hitting anything. None of his “special” warriors armed with the things were down there, of course; they remained an elite guard for him and Niwa, but after their first blooding in the south, and what he’d seen here, he knew they were the future of this war.
“Call them back; end this,” Niwa said softly. “They’re not yet what we would make of them, but they’re becoming good troops, General. None I’ve seen have run as prey, even in the face of that impenetrable wall of fire. They are beginning to revert, however, and many are bunching up rather badly. The enemy planes will likely return, and their mortars . . .”
Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Page 39