USNRS Salissa (CV-1)
“So, Dennis Silva really did ask you to marry him!” Surgeon Commander Sandra Tucker Reddy asserted triumphantly as she, Surgeon Lieutenant Pam Cross, Diania, and several ’Cat and Impie SBAs completed their rounds among the men, ’Cats, and Grik-like Khonashi still collected on the aft third of Big Sal’s hangar deck. These had been some of the most seriously wounded during the fighting over Santa Catalina and Tassanna’s Toehold onshore. Most still alive should remain so, but Sandra considered it too risky to move them. Keje agreed, and their presence hadn’t caused any inconvenience. Big Sal had been receiving treatment of her own, from Tarakaan Island, and her air wing was operating from Arracca Field. New planes were coming aboard the hangar deck in crates, and Diania had caused a great sailcloth partition to be rigged between the work and the wounded. It was still noisy, but the space aft was spared the bustle and the dust.
“Yah, I guess. So?” Pam finally replied defiantly, her Brooklyn accent most pronounced when she was annoyed, and in sharp contrast to Sandra’s softer Virginia inflection.
“I just think it’s amazing, that’s all,” Sandra said. Rumors had swirled for weeks now, never confirmed by Silva or denied by Pam, and it was fascinating how many humans and ’Cats were caught up in the speculation. Then again, Silva, Pam, and Risa had never been bothered by such gossip in the past. Something had changed, and it wasn’t just Risa’s death. Still, truth be known, Sandra was enjoying her friend’s discomfort a little. She couldn’t help it. She knew her own discomfort, caused by a rough and unpleasantly adventurous pregnancy nearing eight months, had left her somewhat unkind at times; a propensity that appeared to increase in proportion to her own ungainliness. “What did you say?”
“I told him ‘Hell, no!’ That’s what I said,” Pam answered forcefully. “An’ I wish everybody’d just lay off.”
“But . . . I thought that’s what ye wanted?” Diania said, utterly mystified. “Fer him tae ask ye, at long last!” If Pam and Sandra were small women, Diania was positively tiny. An “expat Impie gal,” she’d been the first woman on this world to join the American Navy Clan, and among the first to escape the now-abolished system of female indenture in the Empire of the New Britain Isles. She was also exotically beautiful, despite the terrible damage to her left hand, mangled by a musket ball on Zanzibar. She couldn’t do much with it and kept it wrapped, though she still had a thumb and two fingers. Sandra thought she’d eventually regain a lot of use from it, but knew it didn’t matter a damn to Gunny Horn, who was nuts about the girl.
“Yah, well . . .” Pam hesitated. “It was as much how an’ when he asked, as anything.”
Sandra stopped short of their next patient, a Grik-like Khonashi with no legs, mercifully asleep. She knew they’d started doing wonders with prosthetics back home—’Cats were so imaginative when it came to things like that—but the Khonashi were relatively new, unexpected allies, and little thought had gone into helping them cope with such wounds. She’d spoken to this one before and he was proud of his service—and his wounds—but what kind of life could he have in the jungle of North Borno? The thought made her angry. “You were both in battle, fighting for your lives, and thought you’d probably die. What better time?” Sandra demanded impatiently.
“That’s just it,” Pam replied stubbornly. “He only asked when he thought we were done for. I want him to do it when he thinks we’re gonna live!” She paused. “Besides, like I said, it was how he did it too. I’m not sure, under normal circumstances, it would even count as a proposal—an’ I just know he did it that way on purpose so he could wiggle out later!”
Sandra frowned. “You know, there might not be much ‘later’ for any of us.” She sighed and gestured around at the wounded. “Bad as it’s been, I don’t think we’ve seen anything yet.” What they knew of the upcoming push was left unspoken. They’d been told to be prepared, but the scuttlebutt was running pretty dry on this one, and unprecedented effort was underway to keep it that way. Even the normally almost helplessly loquacious ’Cats in the know were keeping mum. The Grik were the least of their worries when it came to spying and counterintelligence, but they had Ando and a few of his people. And Ando obviously had at least one radio. Then there were the Doms and League, of course. Even if they weren’t in contact with the Grik, if they learned too much about what was happening here, they could take advantage somewhere else. The Allies had been stung by slips too often, and even the ’Cats got that now.
“Yeah”—Pam had lowered her voice—“an’ whatever’s comin’, Dennis’ll be right in the middle of it,” she said disgustedly. “No reason; he doesn’t have to. He wants to. He doesn’t give a damn how I feel.”
Sandra started to say something to the effect that he was doing it for her, so she’d be safe. That he was doing it for the cause. All that might even be true, to a degree, but she knew Dennis Silva very well. Maybe better than Pam, in some ways. She knew what he was capable of when it came to protecting people he cared about, but that he thrived on chaos and calamity, mayhem and destruction. Thank God we have him, because we need him, but sooner or later his number will be up. And Matt’s the same way, sort of, she realized. He doesn’t love it, like Silva does. He hates it. But when they ‘loose the dogs,’ his capacity for violence is just as great. Maybe more so because he’s so much more cold-blooded about it. Silva’s all passion; he’s hate and love, anger and obligation. He’s vengeance unchained, all wrapped up in the joy of battle. Matt becomes his ship; a steaming, deadly instrument of destruction. And sooner or later, no matter how often they’ve dodged it, he and USS Walker will both take the big bullet. After so many have been shot at them, it’s inevitable that the law of averages will eventually win.
“All our numbers may be up soon,” she murmured softly, then glanced apologetically at her friends. “Our men aren’t the only ones in danger, you know. They could lose us.” She glared at Pam. “And if you think that doesn’t make them crazy, you’re nuts. I heard about what Silva did on Santy Cat when he was out of his head. Didn’t think about anything but making sure you were safe.” She took a deep breath. “So. It’s stupid to blame them for it when they’re in danger, and just as stupid for us not to make the most of life with them when they’re not.”
“You . . . think I oughta said yes to Dennis?” Pam asked slowly, and Sandra burst out laughing. She couldn’t help herself. “Maybe, though it sounds like you should’ve gotten witnesses and made him spell things out a little better.” She looked at Diania. “What about you and Gunny—I mean Acting Lieutenant—Horn?”
Diania looked down but smiled. “We hae an . . . understandin’.” Then she looked up, brows knitting. “But Arnold said we had tae hae a ring tae seal it—an’ that before we’re even wed, mind.” She blinked confusion in the Lemurian way. “Can ye tell me what that’s aboot? I dinnae understand. He wasnae sure how he’d get a ring, but t’was clearly important tae him. “
Sandra and Pam both chuckled. Sandra and Matt had been married in a huge ceremony on Respite Island, part of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and she proudly wore the simple gold band he’d given her there. One reason I guess I do owe Muriname, she realized uncomfortably. He could’ve taken it but he didn’t. Then she suddenly remembered engagement rings weren’t used in the Empire. With women practically being property until recently, why would they be? Briefly, she explained a little of that, then smiled. “Just roll with it, sweetheart. I’m so happy for you.” She genuinely was. Diania had suffered as much as she had, right on the heels of her one great love being snuffed out. And Horn was a good man. He’d make her happy, if he lived. Sandra grinned mischievously. “And on a battleship, where will he find a suitable engagement ring, or something to make one from? It’ll be a good test of his resourcefulness!”
She glanced at Pam and was surprised to see her suddenly looking very low.
“Dennis tried to give me a piece of a sling swivel he’d
bent into a ring with some pliers. What a joke,” Pam said quietly. “I threw it at him.”
They continued on past the crippled Khonashi, and Sandra heard Pam muttering behind her. She was pretty sure she heard her say “What an idiot,” but had no idea if she was talking about Dennis—or herself.
CHAPTER 10
////// Army of the Republic
North of Soala
Grik Africa
February 18, 1945
This don’t look much like the flaat ground Courtney said this stretch of laand should be,” groused Colonel (Legate) Bekiaa-Sab-At, staring out at the dusty, convoluted landscape beneath the hot afternoon sun as equally dusty, sun-faded troops of her own 23rd Legion marched past. Bekiaa commanded the newly designated 5th Division of the Army of the Republic, consisting of the 23rd, 1st, and 14th Legions. Each was “heavy,” flush with replacements after the Battle of Soala. Counting support personnel, the new division designations resulted in somewhat larger forces than their counterparts in the Imperial and Union armies, numbering close to eight thousand men, ’Cats, and Gentaa. That would’ve made Bekiaa’s force practically a corps, in the old way of thinking, but she knew Alden’s I, III, and VI Corps on the Zambezi each had fifteen to twenty thousand now, and Safir Maraan’s II Corps boasted thirty thousand or more.
Her XO, Prefect Bele, was the tallest human she’d ever known and as black as Safir Maraan’s fur. Bekiaa sometimes wondered about that. The majority of humans in the Republic of Real People were generally kind of brown, like everywhere else, though some were just as pale as a few of the old destroyermen from Walker and Mahan who spent most of their time belowdecks. But there were a lot of darker-colored people in the Republic, and—she’d heard—in the NUS as well. She’d never seen any before she came here. Maybe there aren’t any on the world Cap-i-taan Reddy came from? she speculated.
“It is relatively flat here . . . if one concentrates one’s gaze solely on the distant mountains,” Bele countered, amused, “and avoids looking at the eroded landscape. Washed out by runoff from those very mountains, I suspect.” The flatland Courtney Bradford predicted might’ve looked that way at a cursory glance from the air, the general cover of scrubby, brushy acacia defying a proper appreciation for the contours, but on the ground it was anything but. The whole plain was crisscrossed and gouged by winding gullies, arroyos, even valleys. More detailed surveys and better maps had been made and those very features provided good cover from the Grik at points where the armies were in contact, as well as concealing avenues of advance and maneuver. Unfortunately, the Grik used the terrain as well, moving troops at night to avoid observation from the air, and probing for the flanks of the Republic advance—much like what Bekiaa and her division were trying to do. It made her nervous.
They knew large numbers of Grik were hurrying south to halt their advance. No restrictions remained on the exposure of Repub aircraft—the Grik knew they had them now—and swift, biplane Cantets combed the ground between their forces and the AEF almost at will. They’d even staged a couple of symbolic raids on the Grik trenches surrounding the AEF, firebombing positions across from their allies to boost their morale and prove they were drawing near. But every time massed reinforcements were reported heading south, they somehow dispersed, vanished, in the countless cracks and crevices, or under the insubstantial-looking ground cover, before airstrikes could be called against them. That told Bekiaa the terrain ahead must be working with Grik like maggots in meat. They just couldn’t find them. Nor did they dare weaken their main force, now numbering close to eighty thousand troops, to look too far afield. Even heavy scouts like hers couldn’t search too far and had to stay in constant contact with General Kim’s HQ.
“But it’s dry now, thaank the Maker,” Bekiaa countered, “yet only dry at this time of year, most likely. If we caan’t push through to join the First Fleet AEF at the Zaam-bezi before the rains come again, we could be cut off from them and our base at So-aala!”
“Possibly,” Bele conceded, repositioning the sling of his rifle on his tired shoulder. Like those of their allies, all standard Repub rifles fired heavy black powder cartridges. They had more modern propellants feeding their Maxim-type machine guns, much like their allies used in their Browning-style .30s and .50s. But their infantry rifles, basically single-shot bolt-action copies of M-1871 Mausers, were little better suited to higher-pressure propellants than the Allin-Silva “trapdoor” rifles and carbines, though they were more adaptable to modifications for a magazine of some sort. That was one of many long-promised improvements.
All the Allies could’ve fielded better small arms by now, but the middle of a definitive campaign wasn’t the time to make such profound changes and their industrial focus was on other things. Besides, not only did the Allin-Silva’s .50-80, and Repub 11 x 60mm (.43 cal) kill Grik and Doms quite satisfactorily, they were also very accurate and still shot much faster than the enemy’s smoothbore muzzle-loaders. Just as important, they were effective against some of the large, terrifying predators on this world.
Bekiaa adjusted her own sling, supporting the precious .30-06, 1903 Springfield that Colonel Billy Flynn gave her before he died. It might not be as effective against “big boogers” close up, but her ’03 (and Courtney Bradford’s Krag-Jorgensen, to a lesser extent) had the flatter trajectory required to hit anything she could see through its ingenious adjustable sight. And Flynn had replaced the front sight with a taller blade. That allowed precise point-of-aim shooting without the “foot below hold” prescribed in the 1940 copy of The Bluejacket’s Manual he also gave her after incorporating the pertinent parts in his new manual for infantry tactics, used for the basic training of all Army and Marine recruits in the United Homes. Just as important to Bekiaa, her ’03 and Courtney’s Krag held five rounds. I hope we get more rifles like them someday if we ever haave to go against the League, she thought.
She and Bele resumed their march, near the head of the column. A shallow gorge lay before them, the object of their probe, and skirmishers had bailed over the edge to scout it. Bekiaa had no doubt there’d be Grik down there somewhere. The absence of other fleeing or attacking animals, already spooked out, was virtual proof of that. Still, she didn’t expect too much yet; certainly not the enemy’s extreme right flank, which was her personal pursuit.
A sultry breeze was their only relief from the oppressive dust and heat, and she paused again to take a sip from her canteen. Water butts on wagons drawn by suikaas traveled up and down the line of advance and Bekiaa encouraged her troops to send canteens with one member of each squad at every opportunity. She’d been desperately thirsty in battle before and couldn’t imagine anything more miserable or easily preventable when they had the means. She’d spare her troops that experience if she could.
The dull crack of a rifle shot distracted her, and she put the stopper back in her canteen. Another shot followed the first, joined by a sudden flurry.
“Skirmishers probably found a few skulking Grik,” Bele speculated.
“Prob-aably.” Even as Bekiaa agreed, however, the firing steadily increased. They had two centuries of skirmishers ahead, about 160 troops, and within seconds she figured she’d heard that many shots, at least. “More thaan just a few skulkers,” she decided, an ominous feeling rising in her chest. “I know it’ll delay us, but let’s deploy the legions to be safe.”
Any sense such a measure might merely prove an overcautious inconvenience quickly dissipated as the now-frantic crackle of constant rifle fire was answered by the thump of Grik muskets. Lots of muskets.
“Bugler!” Bele called. “Sound column into line!” A man, one of several horsemen and ’Cats riding slowly behind their commander, raised his bugle to his lips and blew a series of sharp notes. Only humans could handle bugles. ’Cats used whistles in other allied armies or aboard ships, able to mimic a bosun’s pipe and its many calls by varying the force of the blow. High-pitched whistles could fall on e
ars deafened by the thunder of guns, however, while bugles might still be heard.
The long column of troops marching eight abreast hadn’t been a pretty thing in the first place, due to the rough terrain, but it hadn’t lost its cohesion. And all Bekiaa’s legions knew her reputation and that something beyond mere excellence would always be expected. Their deployment wasn’t pretty either, across such broken ground. It was noisy, a little confused, and accompanied by irate bellows of NCOs, but it was accomplished with a speed and efficiency any other division would have to envy. The 1st Legion spread out on the left, three ranks deep, troops hacking at the thorny acacia and stacking the brush in front of their line. That helped clear the line of fire and give them some defense. The ground was too hard to dig in. The 23rd was doing the same in the middle; the 14th on the right.
“Courier!” Bekiaa cried, staring downslope at what she’d decided must be an ancient, dry riverbed. A few skirmishers were moving back now, some wounded, others helping those who were, and the volume of musket fire had eclipsed the rifles. There’s a lot o’ Grik down there, she realized, more thaan should’a been able to hide from our planes, based on the crummy maaps I haave. They show the thing as a shaallow, kinda narrow caan-yon—an’ I guess it might look thaat way from the air. But how long is it? It could stretch for miles, an’ we know the Grik been usin’ such things to funnel troops in front of our advaance. Her annoyance regarding their imperfect maps and recon evaporated. An’ I nearly led my whole division to its doom, most likely.
“Your orders, Legate?” one of the mounted ’Cats prompted.
Bekiaa shook herself. “Bring up haaf the aartillery an’ put it in the line. Just like we did at Gaughaala,” she added resignedly. “Range is gonna be too short for the guns to fire over our heads, for the close-up work. We’ll try the new caan-ister rounds, or set fuses for muzzle bursts. The rest of the aar-tillery’ll stay baack an’ fire long, into the vaalley for now. If there’s as maany Grik down there as I think, maybe thaat’ll chop ’em up too.” More skirmishers were pulling back, some turning to fire as balls and the occasional crossbow bolt vrooped past. Bekiaa still couldn’t see the enemy, though a lot of dust and gunsmoke was rising beyond the canyon rim just a couple hundred yards ahead. “Take this mess-aage to the comm waagon,” Bekiaa told another rider. “‘Haave encountered a laarge force of Grik infantry in the defile across my paath. I don’t know how laarge, but it seems prepared to press an aassault. I’ve deployed to meet it. Maybe we stumbled on an isolated brigade an’ they’re just chasin’ our skirmishers, but it could be the main force lookin’ for our flaank. Some air recon an’ support would be aappreciated,’” she added dryly, then blinked concern.
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