“What the hell is this all about?” Pete growled when a lone Grik warrior stepped forward from the mass that had fallen back in front of the enemy camp the scouts had discovered. He watched in astonishment as the Grik poked its sword through a piece of white cloth and held it high, continuing forward. “No way!” he said, incredulous.
Lord General Rolak was equally shocked. The sounds of battle still seethed on the left, where Queen Maraan’s forces were pushing forward, but here, for a moment, except for the occasional shell from Donaghey detonating well forward of their position and just beyond the Grik, there was only stunned silence. “If I understand the meaning of such gestures-we have used them among ourselves and the Imperials before-it would seem the Grik Commander would have a parley.”
“Well… How in God’s name can he expect… It’s not like they ever… What makes him think… Well, he ain’t getting one!” Pete roared. Raising his Springfield, he shot the warrior directly in the snout at a range of about seventy yards. The back of the creature’s head erupted crimson clay and one of the warriors behind it squealed and fell when the bullet continued on and struck it in the torso. The Grik with the white rag collapsed instantly.
A strange sound, like an anxious moan, escaped some of the eight hundred to a thousand warriors still blocking the camp, but there was no other reaction. A few moments later, another Grik strode from the mass, again bearing a rag. Perhaps even more disconcerting and… well, creepy… the frightening creature showed no more hesitation than the last one. Pete swore and raised his rifle again, but Rolak stopped him. “I must confess a most profound, almost morbid curiosity, my friend,” he said, “to discover whether they would keep sending them regardless of how many you shoot-but let us see what we shall see.”
“Shit, Rolak,” Pete grumped, picking up his empty shell and putting it in his pocket. “What’s he going to say? We can’t talk to the damn things! Besides, how come they wait until we’re fixin’ to wipe ’em out before they want to talk?”
“Indeed,” agreed Rolak. “But they’ve never done that before. They could still flee-or attack and die. Indulge me, please. I am interested.”
“Well… okay.” Pete relented and ordered: “Hold fire. Pass it down!” He waited until the order was picked up and began to spread.
They waited expectantly while the lone warrior approached. The creature didn’t look like a Hij “officer”-its dress was too utilitarian, too drab. It did have an impressive crest flowing from beneath a hard leather cap, however. Probably an older NCO or something. Unlike the other, this one wasn’t armed-besides its natural battery of lethal teeth and claws-and merely held the rag above its head. Finally, a few paces short of Pete and Rolak, who’d moved slightly forward, it hissed and spat something that sounded like a piece of steel slapped against a grinding wheel. Tossing a piece of the heavy Grik parchment on the ground, it turned and stalked off. It was all Pete could do to keep from shooting it in the back.
“Fetch it,” he told a Marine nearby, and the ’Cat trotted the few steps and stooped, distastefully retrieving the object, like one might pick up a turd. Returning, he thoughtfully held it so Pete could see it without touching it himself. “Son of a…” Pete snatched the parchment and turned it right side up. “You can read, can’t you, Rolak?” he asked in a strange tone.
“I’ve learned to read English,” Rolak stressed, ignoring what he knew was not meant as an insult, “fairly well. Quite an accomplishment, considering my years.”
Pete held the parchment for him to see.
“Runner!” Pete demanded, as if expecting one to materialize out of nothing, and he scribbled something on the back of the parchment. A young ’Cat Marine raced to his side and he passed the note. “Get that to the CP, PDQ, see?”
The ’Cat saluted. “Aye, aye, Gen-er-aal!”
“What was that? What did you write?” Rolak asked, still stunned.
“Request for Dowden to cease firing. Also, those brand-new Naval Aviators’ll be swarming around here pretty soon. Might as well find out what the deal is with these guys before our flyboys bomb ’em.”
Tikker couldn’t believe his eyes. His squadron had been the last to use Dowden for a waypoint, and he’d easily caught her flag signal reinforcing the signal they’d received by wireless. Alden was talking with some Grik! When his eight-plane squadron buzzed over the Grik encampment, there’d been some evident confusion on the ground, but there stood two distinct forces-the Marines and a numerically roughly equal mob of Grik warriors staring at one another across a clearing about a hundred tails wide. From his plane, he could see Queen Maraan’s regiments proceeding past the “situation” to the south, followed by most of Rolak’s troops that had moved from line into column and were picking their way along in the Queen’s wake. Basically, all that remained facing this enemy concentration was the Marines, and they were more than a match for it. Tikker had received a final addendum to his orders: if the Marine guns began to fire, he was to bomb the enemy with everything he had. He glanced at his fuel gauge and hoped the standoff wouldn’t last long, one way or the other.
Rolak had placed his force under Colonel Grisa and remained with Alden. He couldn’t help it. He had to see how this was “sorted out.” Grisa would report to Safir Maraan and offer his regiments to her. Now Rolak stood with Pete Alden and a couple of Marines facing what was certainly the most formidable-looking Grik he’d ever seen alive. It was taller than most Grik, something they’d expected after examining dead Hij before, and it was dressed in relatively ornate, if garish, bronze armor over its chest, shins, and forearms. It was armed with one of the sickle-shaped swords favored by its kind, but the weapon remained sheathed and the pommel was well crafted if, again, somewhat grotesque. In contrast to the shining armor, the cape and kilt it wore were a somewhat battered red and black.
The creature called itself “General Arlskgter,” and the reason they knew that was because it was accompanied by three other Grik, one of which was stooped with age and not attired as a warrior. That one named itself Hij-Geerki. The very first thing they established was that Hij-Geerki had been liaison to a party of Japanese who’d been sent in search of undisclosed raw materials for the Ceylon war machine. For different reasons, English was the technical language of the Grik and Japanese, and though they couldn’t actually converse, Hij-Geerki could understand spoken English and the Japanese technicians had learned to understand some spoken Grik. Both could read the written words. Through a quick series of notes, Pete and Rolak learned that Hij-Geerki understood nearly everything they said and could form a very few words. Mostly, however, he would write English translations of what his master told him to say. In a few short minutes, they’d already confirmed everything Commander Okada had told them about how the Grik and Japanese managed to cooperate.
“Well,” Pete said, “let’s get on with this. We haven’t got all day.” He gestured up at the eight aircraft circling the clearing, their droning engines and passing shadows still clearly disconcerting to all the Grik, even their general, who glanced up at the planes each time they flew by, high behind Alden. He gave the impression it was all he could do not to stare at them continuously. “What do you want?”
“Terms,” Hij-Geerki wrote again in reply. “My General Arlskgter and all his Hij and Uul warriors would join you in the hunt.”
“Which ‘hunt’?” Rolak asked. “What does that mean?”
“The war hunt you wage against the… Ghaarrichk’k… others of our kind.”
“I’ll be damned,” Pete muttered. “They really do call themselves something like ‘Grik.’ And all this time, the Skipper always thought that was just somebody else’s rude name for ’em, kind of like the names we always got for Indian tribes-from other Indians.” Rolak looked at him questioningly, but Pete shook his head. “You, Geeky; you mean to tell me your General Alski-gator would just switch sides? That’s nuts.”
“The wise hunter joins the strongest pack,” Hij-Geerki wrote. “It is the same when
we wage the war hunt among ourselves. It is true that no Ghaarrichk’k… no ‘Grik’… has ever joined other hunters against Grik before, but the Grik have always been the strongest pack.”
When Rolak read this last, his tail went rigid with indignation. “General Alden,” he said formally, “I respectfully insist that you must entertain no notion of any… alliance”-he spat the word-“with these vermin!”
“Cool your guns, Rolak,” he said. “I’m just picking my way through this. You’re the one who wanted to talk to ’em. I’m just talking.” He looked at Hij-Geerki. “You seem like a smart cookie… ah, Grik. What would you have done if Alski-gator was dead?”
“I would have made the same offer,” Hij-Geerki wrote in reply. “It was my idea. I am no general, no warrior. I am Hij, but just a… procurer of supplies. My general requires that I obey him, so obey him I must while he lives.”
“Holy smokes,” Pete whispered to Rolak, realization dawning. “Geeky’s a civilian! I didn’t even know they had civilians!”
“It would seem they do, after all. It makes sense. We know they must have females, though we’ve never seen one.”
“Yeah, but we’re starting to knock on their own door for a change. This might make a big difference when we move on Ceylon.” He turned back to Hij-Geerki. “What about the other Grik, the ones around the town, or port? By all reports, they seem like a whole other command. Weaker. Can he make them switch sides too?”
Hij-Geerki spoke with his general before replying. “Why? They are of no use except for fodder. They believed the Celestial Mother would not forsake them and remained overlong near the harbor where there was little food. We foraged and remained strong. Eventually, we came to feed on them with almost no resistance. Do you not now easily drive them like prey yourselves?”
Pete shuddered. He’d begun to suspect something like that. He could almost understand a rebel force, in this situation, separating itself from some Pollyanna leader who couldn’t read the writing on the wall, but to then prey on former comrades, to eat them like cattle! His skin crawled. The Grik were like Martians or something, totally unlike anything he could imagine, unworthy of existence. When he spoke again, his tone was wooden.
“We’ve heard your general’s terms. Here are mine. He and all his warriors will surrender at discretion, unconditionally, and take whatever I decide he has coming. That’s it.”
Hij-Geerki was practically wringing his hands. He could barely hold them still enough to write. The general spoke harshly to him and he made some sort of reply that didn’t seem to mollify his master. “He will not accept that!” he wrote. “He cannot accept that!”
“Sorry,” Pete snarled. “We don’t allow cannibals in my Marine Corps. We don’t even let ’em in the Army. Besides, if he changes sides once, he’ll do it again, and I don’t keep copperheads in my shirt pocket!”
Rolak looked at Pete. He knew what was about to happen, and knew it would happen fast. He agreed completely with the decision, but also feared losing an opportunity. “Hij-Geerki,” he said quickly, almost interrupting Pete’s last words, “you are not a warrior and you make no decisions here, correct?”
Geerki responded with a large, hasty “NO” on his tablet.
“You seem like a sensible creature that does not want to die, yes?”
“YES!”
“Then I suggest you lie down.”
Hij-Geerki flung himself to the ground just as Rolak drew his sword and slashed across the throat of one of the Grik guards in one continuous motion. General Arlskgter opened his terrible jaws in a shriek of fury and had his sword half out when Pete fired two shots with his. 45 that came so close together it was difficult to distinguish the reports. He still carried standard military ammo, and the empty shells dutifully ejected high and to the right amid the smallest wisp of brown smoke. Both 230-grain copper-jacketed slugs struck within two inches of each other, punching deeply recessed round holes in the general’s polished breastplate. At least one bullet must have severed the spine because General Arlskgter crumpled to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. Both of the Marine guards had driven their long bayonets into the remaining Grik, and it squalled hideously as they twisted their triangular blades and jerked them free.
For just an instant the Grik horde seemed stunned. This whole activity had been beyond their experience from beginning to end, and a little confusion was understandable.
“Come along quickly now, Hij-Geerki,” Rolak said. “You will live, but you are mine, understand?”
Hij-Geerki croaked something unintelligible, but punctuated it with a definitive nod. Together, the four “delegates” and their new, possibly priceless acquisition, scampered back to the Marine lines, just as crossbow bolts began thrumming past. Each of the eight light guns of the 1st Marines fired double canister off the muzzle flash of the closest gun on the right, creating a rolling, booming thunder, punctuated by the shrill screech of projectiles and the horrible screams of the enemy.
“Well,” Tikker said, sighing theatrically to himself when he saw the gouts of smoke belch from the Marine line, “I knew it would never last.” He shifted his face so he could speak more directly into the voice tube. “‘A’ flight to form on us,” he instructed. “Send ‘Apparent failure of “diplomatic” effort. Will proceed with final instructions to “kill them all,” unless ordered otherwise. Inform Commodore Ellis we are only a little over half fuel level any way.’ ”
“Roger,” Cisco replied, again reminding Tikker that someday, he’d have to ask why they said that. It was a name, wasn’t it? There was a Mahan destroyerman in Ordnance named “Roger.” Maybe he would know? He banked a little left and pulled back on the stick until his compass indicated north. He’d gain a little altitude, then roll out on a reverse course and align his attack on a north-south orientation. He didn’t want to risk hitting any Marines, and he’d still have to be careful not to release too late, or he might drop an egg on the force moving past the target to the south. He glanced around, confirming that the flight was with him-including a stray he’d picked up from “B” flight. He shrugged. There was too much comm traffic as it was, with everybody stepping all over one another. He’d let the pilot’s flight leader deal with it later.
Judging that his distance was just about right, he banked hard left and gave it some rudder until his nose started to drop, then he leveled out and pushed the stick forward. Ben Mallory had passed on what he knew of dive-bombing attacks and the information was good, but Nancys were a little different. With their very high wing and considerable engine and radiator drag, one had to be careful with the rudder so as not to release one’s bombs into one’s own plane. Steadying up, he concentrated on the target below. For once, he didn’t check behind him to make sure everyone else had executed the maneuver properly. He was going in hot, and there was nothing he could do about it. Either they had or they hadn’t.
The dingy sailcloth tents and rude makeshift shelters grew rapidly in size. The Grik were running in all directions: toward the Marines, away from them, and into the surrounding jungle. Smoke still drifted downwind from the Marine line, and it even seemed as if some of the enemy were trying to hide in it-from him! That was it. The air attack was panicking them! Whether it started the panic or not was unclear, but it was definitely making it worse. A large jumble of Grik gathered near the center of the camp, either for protection or for orders from some leader. Tikker aimed for that.
Their altimeters were always slow, but they were taught to compensate. Judging his altitude, he pulled back on the stick, counted “one, two, three” to adjust for the relatively low angle of attack, and yanked back on the lever attached to two cables that in turn pulled the pins that held the bombs secured to the hardpoints under the wings. It was a ridiculously simple release. Bernie Sandison had actually been a little ashamed of its lack of ingenuity, but it worked every time they tested it, and it worked again now. The Nancy literally leaped upward when the bombs fell away, and Tikker continued clim
bing, bleeding off the airspeed he’d gained in the dive. Finally, he banked left again and turned to see the show.
His bombs had already gone off, unheard and unfelt. Smoke and debris filled the air around his target and pieces of bodies were beginning to fall back to earth. As he watched, the next plane in line performed an almost identical attack, and this time he witnessed the impressive effects of the fifty-pounders going off. They weren’t in the same league with Amagi ’s ten-inch guns, but they appeared at least equal to Walker ’s four-inchers. They were far more destructive than the little mortar bombs. He whooped with glee when two plumes of smoke and earth rocketed into the sky a third time, and a fourth. So far, the pilots were being careful not to drop on the exact spot he had. They were trying to saturate the clearing with the heavy explosions and lethal, whizzing fragments of crude cast iron. He’d almost reached the point where he first began his dive when he watched the last ship go in. He was preparing to make another pass, low and slow, so Cisco could hand-drop mortar bombs on the enemy, when he realized the last plane was still barreling in.
Even as he watched, knowing with sick certainty what had happened, he saw the plane lurch upward, apparently dropping its bombs at last, but it was too late. Against a floating target on the open sea, the air crew of the last Nancy might have had a chance, but here… there were trees. Even so, miraculously, the plane almost made it, clearing the first trees by the width of a whisker. Tikker had never believed in anything like the human concept of “luck” before he became an aviator. He did now, with good reason, and thought he had it in spades. But he also knew “luck” was a fickle phenomenon. Just when it looked like the Nancy below might actually survive, it clipped a treetop with its fuselage and created a small explosion of leaves. The contact slowed the plane just enough to force it into another treetop, then another. It collided head-on with the fourth tree, the pilot’s compartment crumpling under the engine, the wing wrapping around the trunk. The ruptured fuel tank ignited almost instantly with a hungry rush of flame, and the tangled wreckage of the fragile plane tumbled to the jungle floor, leaving a dwindling fire in the treetops and a chalky black pall of smoke.
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