Rising Tides: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  Several Hoosh-KAK! sounds split the incoming tide, and the veterans who’d heard them before called out “Firebombs!” or “Grik-fire!” in two tongues.

  “Cover yourselves!” roared Colonel Grisa, and he and Taa-leen attempted to tackle Rolak to the ground and cover him with their own bodies.

  Rolak twisted away. “I will stand,” he said. “My old hide is not so valuable that I must squirm in the dirt to protect it.”

  Taa-leen got another grip and roughly pulled him down. “With respect, Lord General,” he growled, “your ‘old hide’ covers the mind that will preserve our hides, and mine is quite important to me!”

  Rolak was laughing when the first bombs struck.

  “Grik-fire” was little more than a clay vessel wrapped in coarse cloth and painted with flammable resin. The contents were a mixture of other things, not necessarily always the same and still a little ill-defined. More resins, mostly. Some kind of tree sap. Maybe some petroleum. The result, however, was an effective incendiary that created an impressive fireball when the jar ruptured on impact and exposed the contents to the flaming wrap. There was no explosive force to speak of, but enough to blow the burning sap in all directions, and the stuff was incredibly hard to put out.

  The bombs streamed in, trailing smoke, and erupted with large mushrooms of roiling flame. One fell directly on an open ammunition chest for the six-pounders, and the combination went up with a dull fwump and a towering column of white smoke. Droplets of burning sap spattered the paalkas and they screeched in agony. Another bomb fell in the water and had little effect, but one ruptured in the trees over the shield wall and dozens of Aryaalan troops were burnt to death beneath the descending curtain of fire. Others scrambled to quench themselves either by abandoning their posts and leaping into the river or by rolling in the loamy sand.

  Rolak staggered to his feet. “Signalman! Please ask Dowden to hurry her barrage! Mortars may commence firing!”

  The Allies had done away with their original mortars, basically small bronze Coehorns that launched a copper shell with a powder charge. Now they had “real” mortars, the “drop and pop” kind, as Bernie Sandison called them. They were larger and shaped like an egg, with a finned tube protruding from the rear. They had to be handled with care, but in action all one had to do was drop them down a much-improved mortar tube and they launched themselves with an integral percussion-fired charge. A rod protruding from the nose of each “egg” fired another cap inside and detonated the bomb on impact.

  Two dozen mortarmen each removed an egg from a small padded box, gently inserted the rod in the nose, and poised their weapons over the mouths of the tubes. The tubes had already been adjusted for elevation by other mortarmen. There, they awaited the orders of their section commanders. The wait was short. The command to “drop” spread down the line, and with a rippling paFWOOMP, two dozen mortar bombs leaped skyward, trailing smoke from their expended launching charge. The resulting stuttering detonations in the jungle didn’t sound like much through the overall din, but the screams, and at least one secondary explosion, indicated the range estimate was good.

  “No change, no change!” Taa-leen bellowed. “Fire for effect!” Even as the mortars began coughing independently, Dowden’s guns sent heavy case shot flying as high overhead as elevation would allow, and the six-pounders positioned at the hasty breastworks bucked backward, sending canister scything through the vines, leaves, and bodies of the Grik front rank, finally visible through the trees.

  “Archers must wait for targets,” Rolak declared. “It is some denser here than the ground before the Queen. The trees will soak up too many arrows!” Grisa passed the word.

  Another salvo of firebombs dropped behind Lemurian lines, but there were only three this time. One wiped out an entire squad hurrying forward from the barge they’d just left, and their screaming antics were horrible to behold. Another fell in the water again, and the third fell close to the command tent but didn’t go off. By the look of it, it hadn’t even been lit.

  “Keep at it! Keep at it!” Rolak chanted aloud. “Punish them! Kill them!”

  The jungle pulsed with explosions, filling the air with hideous wails and acrid smoke. A huge fireball vomited into the sky, and after that there was no more Grik-fire.

  “We run low on mortar bombs!” Taa-leen observed.

  “Send to Donaghey that we need more ammunition!” Rolak shouted at the beleaguered signalman.

  “I already did. They have no more to send us. Most of our reserve was sent to the left by mistake!”

  “Then tell them we need it here!”

  The light guns spat another load of canister into the smoke-shrouded woods, and then the crews pulled them back so the shield wall could close the gaps where they’d been. With a stunning crash, like the one they’d heard to their left near dawn but much, much louder, the Grik slammed into the interlocked shields in front of Lord General Rolak.

  The shield wall bowed inward alarmingly in several places, but nowhere did it break. The front rank merely hunkered down and heaved against the blow, with the second rank pushing against them with its shields. Over their heads, the spearmen of the third rank probed and stabbed at the attackers. Rolak had seen it many times now—the determined wall of people, his people all, now standing and struggling against the vicious jaws and curved talons of purest evil. Individually, hand to hand, Grik warriors had no equal. Braad-furd had once called them “perfect killing machines.” “The top of the Darwinian predatory heap.” But individually, mind to mind, the Grik simply couldn’t cope. They carried wicked swords, but used them poorly. They had crossbows, but often fired them indiscriminately. Some were better than others, of course, and though not up to Allied standards, their gunnery was improving, so they could learn. They might even be cultivating specialized elites within the ranks of the Uul. That was an unpleasant thought. But only the Hij, the “elevated ones”—probably naturally elevated, if allowed—could devise and implement a strategy, or even a more involved tactic than “up and at ’em.”

  But Hij didn’t fight in the line. Regardless of their ferocity and physical superiority, the average Grik warrior stood no chance against the skill, discipline, and training of the average Lemurian soldier. The problem was, they never fought “one on one.” When given time to think about it, they did seem to understand the principle of “mass” as Captain Reddy taught it, and they knew where and when to apply it. Crossbow bolts streaked by, mostly overhead but in almost continuous sheets. Nearly as continuous were the stretcher bearers carrying wounded to the barges. Corpsmen worked frantically near the beach, in a little muddy recession, but many would have to be carried to the ship for a proper surgeon—Jamie Miller—to look at. Jamie had started out a mere pharmacist’s mate on Walker, but everyone was filling bigger shoes nowadays.

  “Lord General!” cried the signalman, rushing from the tent. “The B’mbaadan Queen asks if we can hold a little longer. She has observed how closely we are engaged, and though she is pressed now as well, she will gladly send the Black Battalion to our aid. Scouts from her left have determined we face the deepest enemy reserves ...” He paused as one of the signalman’s mates joined him, speaking quickly. “Lord General, the first elements of the First Marines are passing behind the Queen’s position!”

  “Excellent. We would hold regardless, but send my—” A Grik bolt nailed the signalman’s helmet to his head and he dropped instantly, his tail quivering. Rolak paused for the slightest instant, then looked at the other “comm-’Cat,” staring down at his companion. “Send my appreciation for the Queen’s gracious offer, but we will hold. The enemy is gutting himself on our spears.” The signalman’s mate saluted shakily and dashed for the tent.

  “Colonel Taa-leen, your B’mbaadans are heavily engaged, but you have some reserves yet. Grisa does as well, but his are still coming straight from the barges into the fight. They plug holes. Can you move anything behind him?”

  A triumphant roar built on the far righ
t and spread across the front. A suddenly unmasked four-gun battery spewed double loads of canister, and the distinctive yellowish smoke drifted back across the shredded landing zone between the battle line and the shore. The roar of battle slowly dwindled, as did the flurry of bolts overhead. Another battery, closer to the center, unleashed its own swath of canister, lunging back until the double-pole trails buried in the loam. The cheering grew.

  “Thank you, General,” Grisa said, “but that is not necessary! We have repelled them!”

  “They will be back,” Rolak assured him. “The question is, will they strike the same place again, hoping they have weakened it, or somewhere else, hoping we have weakened it?”

  “Surely you give them too much credit?” Grisa asked. “I was at Baalkpan, sir.”

  “I give most of them too much credit,” Rolak agreed, “but the ‘stratait-gee’ at Baalkpan nearly succeeded. I will never be guilty of giving too little credit to their ones who design battles.”

  A troop of six me-naaks loped near, out of the smoke. One of the yellow-and-black-uniformed riders noticed Rolak and steered the rest of his troop toward the old Lemurian. The me-naaks were clearly restless in this environment of smoke and noise, and though they’d been exposed to cannon fire as often as possible, they still flinched a little when the guns boomed again, bidding the fleeing Grik farewell. They were also drooling buckets, probably due to the smell of so much blood.

  “Lieu-ten-aant Saachic, General,” announced the trooper, saluting. “Third Maa-ni-lo Caav-alry. I have the honor of informing you that Gener-aal Aal-den and the First Maa-reens will be at your service presently.”

  Rolak returned the salute. “That is excellent news, Lieutenant. Now, if you might ride back to the general and give him a message for me, I would be most appreciative.”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell him if he can manage to arrive and position his troops within the next one, perhaps as much as two handspans of the sun, I believe I can promise him exactly the battle—the ‘test’—he seeks!”

  The Grik did nothing for the next hour, but horns continued sounding in the jungle. All the vegetation except the larger, harder trees in front of the fighting position had been sheared away by the coming and going of the Grik horde, and the canister that had churned all the vines, small trees, and low-hanging branches to mulch. Equally mulched were the countless Grik dead heaped at the base of the breastworks and scattered on the ground as far as the eye could penetrate into the once dense foliage. Many had already been buried by the falling leaves. Visibility was good now, with the sun well up in the midmorning sky. Scattered cottony clouds had begun to form. Dowden continued a desultory barrage, a round or two every quarter hour, as if to goad the Grik into remembering and concentrating on this supposedly exposed flank.

  Garrett reported that the “city” was secure at last and his cavalry was busy chasing those who had fled toward the mouths of the Irrawaddy. Behind them, Garrett dug in beyond the city with a Baalkpan regiment while the rest of his troops went to bolster his connection with the center line and reinforce Queen Maraan. A few squads still roamed the city, torching anything that would burn. Most important, Pete Alden finally arrived at Rolak’s position with eight hundred of the 1st Marines. He was breathing hard, but not exhausted after his slog through the calfhigh sand. He’d lost a few Marines to straggling and injuries along the way, but those who made it were ready to fight. Company commanders and NCOs were already deploying the Marines when Pete went to find Rolak.

  Rolak saluted him when he appeared at the command post and Pete waved back.

  “I could use a drink,” Pete said, grinning.

  “Water?”

  “Not unless it’s ship’s water, boiled—or maybe mixed with something stronger. The last thing I need right now is the screamers. I still have my canteen, so something stronger would be nice.”

  “Orderly,” Rolak called, “bring chilled beer for the general.” He huffed apologetically. “I fear ‘chilled’ will be a relative term, General Alden.”

  “Anything below eighty degrees will be plenty refreshing, Lord Rolak. Could you send a few water buckets to my Marines so they can drink and refill their bottles?”

  “Of course. Colonel Grisa?”

  Grisa called one of his own orderlies to delegate a detail.

  Pete gulped the sweet Lemurian beer that was brought to him. “My God, but that hits the spot! War’s getting downright civilized around here.”

  “It was not so ‘civilized’ a short while ago, I assure you. We held well enough, but it was costly.”

  Pete nodded grimly. “Sorry about that. You did swell.” He shook his head. “Logistics was a goose-screw in a sack. We have to sort that out.”

  “We must, or those who died here today will have done so for nothing.”

  “Not nothing. We’ve already learned a lot. I hope we learn a lot more. Weird fight, though. Going by what Captain Garrett’s faced and what you’ve been facing here, it’s almost like we’ve got two entirely different Grik tribes.”

  Rolak nodded. “Yes, I ‘got the word.’ The ones he faced were ... less healthy, it seems.”

  “Yeah. You had it tougher. Glad we got here during a lull. You think they’ll hit the same place?”

  “I am as certain of it as one can be about such things,” Rolak replied. “Our scouts, and those attached to the Queen, say they are massing everything that faced us both into a single concerted effort against us here. The fighting was fiercest here, so they must believe us the weakest.” The grin that stretched across his teeth was feral. It faded. “I do wish Salissa’s planes would arrive and confirm that, however.”

  “Another hour or so, according to the report I heard from Queen Maraan’s command post.”

  Rolak nodded. “We heard the same. We can hear the planes themselves report, but they cannot yet hear us.”

  Pete pointed at the aerial. “Not enough antenna, I guess. Too many trees too. Too much interference. The ships can talk to ’em.”

  “That will have to do.”

  “Maybe it’ll get better when they’re closer. It’ll be tough coordinating everything through the ships.”

  Grik horns brayed in the woods, interrupting their conversation. Many horns. More than before, Rolak thought.

  Pete finished his beer and wiped his lips. “Here we go again,” he said, turning for the front.

  “Do you mean to stand in the line?” Rolak asked accusingly.

  “Yep. I have to, to see what happens.”

  “Unfair!” Rolak protested. “You ordered me to stay back and I spent the entire last fight strolling about with nothing to do!”

  “That’s your job. Normally, it’d be mine too, but I have to see this.”

  “Then perhaps I ‘have to see’ it too!”

  “Well ... what if I get knocked off? You know the plan. You can still carry it out.”

  “Everyone here knows the plan, General Aal-den. But if you are ‘knocked off,’ who else here has my experience in war? Who else would be better to observe the enemy reaction than I?”

  Pete shook his head and shifted the sling of his Springfield. “Aww, hell. C’mon!”

  The Lemurian “phalanx,” as Captain Reddy had helped create it, worked much like its historical predecessors on that other earth. No physical activity ever conceived could possibly be as exhausting as prolonged hand-to-hand combat over a shield wall. The tactic was therefore designed to allow periodic rotation of combatants from the front rank to the rear, where they might manage a little rest until they started forward in the rotation again. Ideally. The trouble was, Grik assaults were usually so relentless and chaotic, there was rarely a “good” time to rotate troops. In this war, the ’Cats had learned to do it by “feel” and fleeting opportunity more than any other way. The system worked after a fashion, but some fought, by necessity, until they were nearly dead from fatigue, and that often resulted in them being completely dead. The fighters in the front ranks relied
on the spearmen behind them to give them the break they needed, and woe was he or she who did not learn spearwork well, because in this business, what went around came around ... literally.

  Rotation must have been fairly steady in this fight, Pete thought, looking at the blood-spattered troops. “Okay, fellas,” he shouted, his words echoed by NCOs down the length of the line. He always used the term “fellas” inclusively, whether his troops were male or female. Here, with B’mbaadans and Aryaalans predominating, there were still few females in their ranks, although that was changing. It was impossible to ignore the fact that Pete Alden’s Marine Corps ran about half and half, and it was composed of volunteers from every “nation” in the Alliance. It was equally clear that even the best-trained, most-conservative Aryaalan regiment would never want to tangle with the Marines. Queen Maraan’s Six Hundred were on a par with them, but it also accepted females now. Nobody was really happy with that arrangement, least of all Pete and the human destroyermen, but the Baalkpans, Manilos, and various sea folk insisted on it. It was their way. It also worked.

  “You’ve had a tough fight and killed the bastards like proper devils,” Pete continued over the growing tumult of the Grik horns as the enemy prepared for its next attack, “but this time we’re going to play something new. At my command, the first and second ranks will remain in place. Third and fourth ranks will step to the rear, behind the First Marines!” He waited while the order was relayed. “Execute!”

  The two rearward ranks, gore-streaked spears on their shoulders, about-faced and marched through the waiting ranks of Marines. “First Marines! Take positions ... March!”

  The two ranks of Marines that stretched the entire length of the line, except for the most extreme right, stepped forward in near unison, their blue kilts and largely unblemished white leather armor a stark contrast to the troops they’d replaced.

  “Load!” Pete roared.

  Eight hundred of the new muzzle-loading Baalkpan Arsenal muskets were removed from shoulders and placed butt down on the ground. Almost in unison, each Marine shifted his or her black leather cartridge box around, closer to their front, and proceeded to load their weapons by silent but endlessly practiced detail. Finely woven, almost silk cartridges made from the webs of some kind of long-bodied spider were handled and torn open with sharp teeth—the Alliance still didn’t have any real paper—and the gunpowder within was poured down eight hundred 36-inch barrels. The remaining silky stuff at the base of the “service load”—consisting of a .60-caliber lead ball with three roughly quarter-inch balls stacked atop it—was wadded up and the whole thing was seated on top of the charge with a glittering flourish of eight hundred bright ramrods. The weapons were then brought up to an almost precise forty-five degrees, hammers placed on half-cock, and tiny copper caps were pushed onto the nipple-shaped cones at their breeches. Again, with a simultaneity achievable only after long, repetitive drill, nearly every musket landed back on its owner’s shoulder.