Into the Storm d-1

by Taylor Anderson

  Terrifying banners of red and black unfurled above the boats, each festooned with some grim image or awful beast, and they rattled downwind in almost perfect profile. Long tufts of fur or feathers bordered each flag, and he assumed they were some sort of clan device. They’d crossed perhaps a third of the distance between them now.

  Keje turned to the acolyte. “I believe now is the moment we’ve awaited,” he said. The acolyte blinked wide-eyed acknowledgment. Reaching within the folds of his robe, he drew out a large brass-framed shape with a wooden grip on one end and a black pipe on the other. He pressed a button on the side, and the pipe tilted forward. Glancing in one end, he nodded to himself and closed it up again. With another glance at Keje, he wrenched the hammer spur back and pointed the thing at the sky, slightly into the wind. There was a muffled pop and a bright reddish object rocketed skyward, trailing a plume of smoke that vanished as quickly as it was made. A moment later, high above, a harsh pulse of unnatural light blossomed, unheard but visible for miles around. It sputtered and glowed impossibly bright as the wind carried it away. After only a few seconds, it went out. Together, they turned back to the Grik. “Now we will see,” Keje said.

  For a moment the Grik hesitated, apparently startled, but when nothing happened they resumed their approach. Onward they rowed, steady and malevolent. Individual Grik, dressed gaudier than others, stood in the prows of the boats, exhorting the rest with brandished blades. It wouldn’t be much longer before Keje would know if he and all his people would survive this day.

  “There!” Jarrik-Fas cried out and pointed. From behind the concealing point of land about three miles to the north, a pale gray shape, barely discernible against the stormy sky, lanced into view. The tiniest wisps of smoke hazed the tops of three of her funnels and a cascade of white foam sluiced along her flanks from the knife-sharp bow. A sensation of exultant satisfaction erased Keje’s dread. Their chore was bigger than expected, but they could handle that. They’d hoped for one, planned for two, but three should make scant difference. He turned and gauged the distance to the boats, now almost two-thirds to their objective. Sharp teeth were exposed as his grin became a snarl.

  “They’ve risen to the bait. All that remains is to close the trap! Shall we reveal our surprise?” Jarrik-Fas strode to the new “jan-raal ay-laarm,” a long bronze cylinder suspended in a gimbaled bracket. He struck it energetically with a heavy rod. The loud notes were clear, if somewhat flat, and experiments showed they carried well to all parts of the ship. Hundreds of Lemurian warriors erupted from belowdecks and raced to their posts along the seaward rail. In moments, Big Sal’s starboard side bristled with eager warriors-not all of whom called her home. Some represented other Homes that had come to Baalkpan, like Nerracca, Aracca, and Humfra-Dar, but most were Baalkpan land folk leavened by Alden’s Marines. Below the catwalk, five large ports opened, their doors raised by a pair of ropes and half a dozen crew folk each.

  The Grik slowed their advance momentarily when they realized they faced opposition. Keje hoped they wouldn’t break from tradition and cancel the attack. He’d carefully held back more than half his troops so they would think they still had the advantage. A preponderance of numbers in their enemy’s favor had never dissuaded the Grik before, but they’d been doing too many unexpected things of late. He needn’t have worried. With a crescendo of snarling shouts, the Grik plowed on, waving weapons in fierce defiance. Closer and closer, gnashing their teeth and pounding weapons against their shields. Their large eyes were opaque with a frenzy of rage. It was terrifying, regardless of his confidence.

  He spared a glance at the Grik ships, still hove to in the distance. Their remaining crews had not yet noticed Walker bearing down upon them. That was understandable, since the destroyer approached from directly downwind. There was no reason on earth to suspect trouble from that direction. He grunted. Finally some lookout must have seen, because sheets were loosed and sails began to shift. The thought of the pandemonium aboard the enemy when they first glimpsed Walker brought a predatory smile to his cleft lips. Slowly, chaotically, the Grik sails filled, and the first ship heaved far over onto its starboard side, quickly gathering way. The other two weren’t as fortunate. One attempted the same maneuver, but its head came around too far and smashed directly into one of the monolithic rocks, shattering the starboard bow and bringing down the masts in a rush of thundering, crackling devastation. It rebounded from the rock as though kicked in the nose by some terrible god and swirled away in the maelstrom, rapidly settling low.

  The third ship shaped a course that might bring it in collision with Salissa. Very well, Keje thought. An even greater test, and one just as important. He ground his teeth and waited. The first Grik ship was clear of the rocks, but there’d be no escape. Walker was flying down upon her prey, and pure joyful wonder at her speed flooded through him. Formal supplication had been made before they set out from Baalkpan, but he sent a quick prayer to the hidden Sun and those who had gone before to watch over his friends and brothers. Then he returned his attention to the role he had to play. The Grik in the boats had no inkling of anything taking place behind. They might if the ship overtook them, but for now they were entirely focused on closing with Salissa.

  “At my command, Jarrik-Fas…”

  “Commence firing with the main battery, but at masts and rigging only, Mr. Garrett!” Even before the salvo buzzer sounded, Matt felt, as well as heard, a deep, muffled whuddump! from the direction of Big Sal. He looked, but at this distance all he saw was a massive fogbank of smoke dissipating to leeward. So far, so good, he thought, in spite of the heavier odds. Big Sal would face more warriors than expected and maybe a ship as well, but Walker’s part remained essentially the same. He’d never really believed Letts could pull it off. The supply officer’s ambitious plan to arm Big Sal with forty cannon had been reduced to five per side, but they were enormous thirty-two pounders-and long guns to boot. They were crudely shaped and probably heavier than necessary, but their bores were straight and true. He could only imagine what five hundred three-quarter-inch copper balls per gun had done to the Grik boats. For an instant, he even pondered later ramifications. History often showed that 3 arming primitive people with artillery could be a very bad thing, but at this moment, under these conditions, he had no regrets. Besides, he had more-pressing matters at hand. The salvo buzzer shrieked.

  Three guns fired as one. Only one round struck the target, but it was a perfect hit, exactly where Matt had hoped. A single high-explosive four-inch-fifty struck dead center beneath the maintop and detonated with devastating effect. Huge splinters and pieces of metal scythed through sails and rigging, and down upon the fo’c’sle. The mast and top above the impact were entirely severed, and the whole thing fell-canvas flailing and yards disintegrating in a mad carnival of destruction. Surviving stays stretched impossibly tight and parted like a volley of rifle fire. The foretopmast snapped and added itself and everything above to the mass of debris that fell in an impenetrable heap amidships. A forestaysail billowed to leeward and fell into the sea. That, and the sails still set on the mizzen, caused the Grik to heave rapidly around to starboard and broach to, a wallowing, helpless wreck. As a final calamity resulting from that single salvo, the un-stayed mizzen sails were taken aback, and the entire mast snapped off at the deck and plummeted into the sea astern.

  “Holy cow!” breathed Rick Tolson at the helm. Walker had closed to less than three hundred yards.

  “Reduce speed!” commanded Matt. “All ahead slow. Helm, ease us in to one hundred yards and come left ten degrees on my mark.” He turned to the talker. “Boarders to remain undercover, but…” He paused and cast a glance at Chack, standing nearby. “I don’t suppose they’ll surrender?” The Lemurian just looked at him, uncomprehending. The Grik never gave quarter, or asked for it. They probably didn’t understand the concept. Matt doubted that Chack did, even now, after he’d so carefully stressed the need to secure live prisoners. He rubbed his nose and gave the young
warrior a grim smile. “Of course not. Never mind.” To the talker: “Machine gunners may commence firing if they have a target, but don’t waste ammunition!”

  They’d left one of the. 30s at the refinery as security against predators, but both. 50s and the remaining. 30 were all now on the starboard side. Almost immediately, the. 30 overhead began hammering. The two amidships. 50s quickly joined it, shredding the dazed Grik as they emerged from beneath the wreckage. Splinters, shattered bone, and gobbets of flesh erupted along the bulwark amid a chorus of wailing shrieks. In the pilothouse there was silence. They were well within range of the Grik firebombs, but the attack came so swiftly and unexpectedly, either they hadn’t prepared the weapons or they’d been buried by debris.

  Walker edged closer to the rolling derelict, and the stutter of machine guns became less frequent as fewer targets presented themselves.

  “Well,” Matt said crisply, hoping his voice betrayed none of his nervousness. He tugged absently at the sword belt buckled around his tunic. “Mr. Dowden, you have the deck. As we discussed, lay her alongside and try to keep station as best you can.” He grinned. “Mind the Chief’s paintwork, though! If you have to break off, by all means, do so. But don’t waste time getting back in contact.” Tolson tossed a worried look over his shoulder at the captain.

  “Yes, sir, I have the deck,” responded Dowden grudgingly. “Should I have the whaleboat made ready to launch in case, well…”

  Matt cast an appraising eye at the sea and quickly shook his head. “Too dangerous. If anybody falls in, try to fish ’em out real fast, but there’s no sense risking people in a boat. Not in this sea.” He looked at the concerned faces on the bridge, meeting each eye. He prayed that if anything happened to him, they’d be all right. But he had to go. “Very well, carry on. You all know what to do.” He removed his hat and handed it to Reynolds, exchanging it for one of the platter-shaped helmets. He buckled the chin strap and turned to Chack. “Let’s go.”

  Together, they clomped down the ladder to join the boarding party sheltering beneath the bridge and the gun platform amidships. The party was as large as Walker could carry in such seas, numbering just over a hundred. Most were the cream of Alden’s Lemurian Marines, armed with swords and spears. A few destroyermen would go as well, but only those who’d shown Shinya some proficiency with a blade. They were armed mostly with pistols and cutlasses, but Silva had one of the BARs and Tony Scott carried his personal Thompson. Matt shouldered his way forward to the hatch that led onto the fo’c’sle. There he ran into Chief Gray and Lieutenant Garrett.

  “Boats,” he said, nodding at the men. “Mr. Garrett. I don’t remember mentioning either of your names when I put this boarding party together.” Gray hitched his web belt, but it stayed right where it was. It couldn’t ride any higher without being let out. He met Matt’s gaze with an expression of determination.

  “Well, Skipper,” said Garrett, “you didn’t exactly un-mention us either.”

  Matt frowned. “Be careful, then. We can’t spare either of you.”

  “Like we can spare our captain?” questioned Alden as he squeezed his way to the front of the line. The crowd parted as best it could in the cramped space. There was an overwhelming sour odor of wet fur and sweat. “Captains don’t lead boarding parties. As head of Walker’s Marine contingent”-Alden grinned, but with a hint of reproach-“that’s my job.”

  Matt grinned back, remembering when he’d made the appointment. At the time, Alden was the only Marine in the world. “Nevertheless, I’m going. We’ve been over this before.” He gestured at those around, destroyermen, as well as their shorter allies. “Don’t worry. These are your troops. You trained them. You’ll retain tactical command if we run into organized resistance. Just don’t forget the priorities.”

  “Right,” Alden agreed. “Secure the ship, and don’t let ’em scuttle. Take prisoners, but kill ’em all if we have to. Nobody speaks Grik and we’ll probably learn more from the ship than we will from the crew.”

  Matt nodded agreement. “Don’t risk anybody’s life to save any of theirs. While you’re doing that, ten ’Cats”-he paused, looking at Garrett and Gray-“them too, I suppose, will accompany me into officers’ country. We’ll try to find any papers, maps, or other documents. Maybe we’ll even catch their captain!”

  Alden glanced through the small rectangular window near the hatchway to the foredeck and squinted through the spray that left it almost opaque. It was nearly time. “Maybe so, Skipper. But if he was on deck, he’s a goner for sure.” He whistled at the nightmare tangle of heaving debris. The machine guns had stopped firing and there wasn’t a living thing in sight. “What a train wreck!”

  “Hell,” said Gray, “they might keep him in a bucket down in the hold, for all we know. Just because that thing has stern galleries like an Indiaman don’t mean their leaders stay in ’em. They’re as likely to hold Hindoo revivals there.”

  The men laughed, and many of the Lemurians grinned too. None, not even Chack, understood what he meant, but humor for any reason was good at moments like this. Alden moved to the hatch and turned.

  “All right,” he bellowed. “Listen up! We’re goin’ out there to activate Captain Reddy’s contraption. When we do, I’ll blow this whistle.” He held up a chrome whistle in his left hand. “When you hear it, go! Single file, as fast as you can! No goofing around or gawking! It’s gonna be tough for the ship to keep station in this sea, and we’ve got to get as many aboard as fast as we can. We could lose the bridge at any moment! If we do, those left behind will try again. There’s bound to be lizards left and they’re not gonna be happy to see us!” He waved at Lieutenant Shinya, about midway down the press of boarders. The Japanese officer waved back and repeated Alden’s instructions to those behind. “Good luck!” Alden roared, and opening the hatch, he dashed onto the fo’c’sle. Matt and the others quickly followed.

  Atomized seawater drenched them immediately as they ran to a pair of heavy cleats on the forward bridge plating. Matt looked over his shoulder at the wallowing derelict and then up at Dowden leaning over the wing rail. Dowden was gauging the distance. Suddenly he pointed at Matt with an exaggerated gesture and yelled, but the words were lost in the crashing waves. Garrett and Gray released the cables holding the “contraption” upright against the side of the bridge, and it plunged down to starboard. Matt watched it fall with a fist on his heart, hoping it wouldn’t just disintegrate when it struck.

  It was a corvus, a device inspired by his interest in history. Specifically, in this case, the first Punic War. A corvus was basically a long, rigid ramp that dropped upon the deck of an enemy ship so troops could sprint across. A sharp spike attached to the descending end was supposed to drive itself into the deck, holding the ships fast together and forming a temporary bridge. It should work. It hadn’t worked well for the Romans, he reflected bleakly, but they’d never had a chance to try it.

  As advertised, the weight and inertia of Walker’s corvus drove the spike into the enemy ship with a tremendous crash. The entire structure bowed alarmingly, but sprang back to its original shape. The frame, like almost everything else from Baalkpan, was made of the heavy bamboo. Alden blew a long, shrill blast on his whistle. Sword in one hand, pistol in the other, Matt followed the Marine across the bouncing bridge. The rest of his immediate party raced after him, followed by a closely packed line of yelling destroyermen and chittering Lemurian Marines. As soon as they gained the enemy deck, they deployed into a protective semicircle, which quickly expanded as more boarders joined them. Grik bodies were everywhere. Some were shot to pieces, while others had been crushed by falling debris. The foamy water coursing across the deck was dark with their blood.

  Matt glanced back. The second wave, led by Shinya, was just starting across. The dismasted hulk wallowed horribly and the strain on the corvus was unbelievable. The spike was battering a growing hole in the deck and despite Dowden’s best efforts, the bridge began to fail. “Quickly, quickly!” he shouted.
They couldn’t be quick enough. Ultimately, it was the attachment to Walker that parted, not the spike in the deck. Shinya had almost reached them when the corvus behind sagged under the reinforcements and then, with a deafening crack! fell into the sea.

  “Grab the manropes!” Alden screamed as the spike jerked out of the hole and the whole thing tilted over. Dozens did so, and fortunately it was already so entangled in the debris of the rigging that it couldn’t have fallen completely, but Matt dreaded what he would see when he looked over the rail. At least a dozen men and ’Cats dangled by the ropes. Some were actually in the water, holding on for dear life. A few disappeared astern, waving their arms in the air.

  “Get them up!” Gray leaned over, snatched Shinya like a doll, and threw him on the deck. Others joined him, hauling the men and ’Cats up as fast as they could. Silva’s BAR hammered. The Grik were coming up too.

  Tony Scott stood by Walker’s rail, wide-eyed, watching the figures struggling in the water or clinging to the ropes. He’d been next to cross. His foot was on the corvus when it failed. For a moment, all he could do was stand there, clinging to the chain. He would have been in the water! So far, none of the terrible fish had arrived. Maybe the heavy seas kept them deep or disoriented, but he doubted they’d stay away long. And there were still people in the water. One wore a helmet, like most of the destroyermen did, but seemed too stunned or injured to do more than hold a rope. With quickening dread, he saw the long brownish blond hair unfurl and stream out from beneath it when a wave washed over the helmet. He gulped.

  “God in heaven! That’s Lieutenant Tucker!” He glanced wildly around. No one could have known she was there! What was she doing there? He screamed, trying to be heard on the Grik ship, but the waves and growing gunfire drowned him out. Laney heard him, though; he was right beside him.