Choon chuckled, then blinked pensively. “Much rests upon your observations, Mr. Bradford. One way or another, we’ve cast the die, as your people say.”
Courtney nodded and smiled a bit wistfully, plopping the sombrero on his head. “True, I suppose,” he agreed. “But I only told General Kim what Grik normally do. I wonder what truly is normal for Grik these days? Still, I’m amazed how quickly Kim acted. The responsibility’s ultimately his, and he shouldered it magnificently!”
“Nonsense,” Choon denied. “You gave him what he’s craved since the Battle of Gaughala: an excuse to run wild against the enemy, with a reasonable chance of success. If, that is, Captain Reddy’s prepared to act as . . . precipitously.”
Courtney snorted. “It’s been my experience, sometimes to my extreme unease, that Captain Reddy’s always prepared to act precipitously if lives, his ship, or his cause is at stake.” He blinked reflectively. “And it does generally turn out for the best.” He sobered and promptly began striding toward his own horse, a short-legged, potbellied thing, calm and docile as a lamb and utterly unfit for cavalry service. “But for now,” he said louder, “I fear the greatest burden rests on our dear Legate Bekiaa-Sab-At and her brave division once more. I serve no further purpose fluttering about here, so I’ll join my friend.” His Lemurian orderly handed him his Krag. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder and across his back, he rose awkwardly in the saddle.
“Kim said an hour,” Courtney called back to Choon, “but it’ll be two or three at best before more than just the closest divisions reach the Fifth. If Bekiaa can’t hold that long, the whole army’ll get bogged down pushing through her straggling survivors and the rampaging horde behind. We could lose it all today.”
Choon blinked, then straightened his colorful waistcoat and nodded. “I serve little purpose here either, now that General Kim has set his course,” he decided aloud. “A horse for me as well!” he called.
A short distance to the rear of the command HQ, several guns barked, their projectiles shrieking away on high trajectories to the west. Minutes later, two more fired. Finding the range, Courtney guessed. I hope they get it quickly! His wish became reality when thirty guns, 3″ Derby guns and 4″ howitzers, all fired at once.
CHAPTER 11
Pour it in!” Bekiaa roared as volley after volley slashed out from her own 23rd, right in front of her. And regiment after regiment of Grik, carefully aligned, shoulder to shoulder as if on parade, seemed to magically appear in the dense cloud of smoke, marching steadily forward—only to wither under the incessant fire. Bekiaa was almost incredulous, but somewhat gleefully so. They learned this from us too, these lineaar taactics, she realized. An’ they worked—when we haad smoothbore muskets, like they do now. But they only haad spears an’ crossbows then. We got breechloading rifles! And though in line, the best they could do without trenches, Bekiaa’s three ranks of infantry were more spread out.
The first rank, lying prone, fired again at the shouted command. They immediately started reloading as the next rank, kneeling, fired over them. The rear rank stood, firing offhand, and taking most of the casualties when the approaching Grik clung to their composure long enough to return a volley. One did so now, and Bekiaa heard the meaty slap of musket balls hitting muscle and bone, or the hollow thumps when they hit torsos. Screams arose, but even so close, they just couldn’t compete with the unending squeals of wounded Grik, the rattle and crash of rifles and muskets, and the ear-slamming pressure of Derby guns coughing canister as fast as their crews could slam shells in their breeches.
Above it all came the shriek of incoming shells. Bekiaa couldn’t see where they burst, but runners raced back from several vantage points, heading for the comm cart. One man sprawled on his face, a gaping red hole in his back. Minutes later, more shrieks filled the sky, joined by the first pair of Cantets swooping down to drop firebombs beyond her view. Caantets look very sleek, she thought, almost like flying fishes. An’ I hear their plywood bodies are stronger thaan our Mosquito Hawks an’ Naancys. But thaat top wing makes ’em look kinda fraagile. Black smoke roiled in the air, but one of the Cantets staggered as it climbed, streaming smoke.
So these Grik have aanti-air mortars after all, Bekiaa guessed dispassionately. Sneaky baastards hid their force just by not shootin’ at our planes. Smaart. The wounded plane was trying to make it back over her line but it suddenly spun out of control and simply plunged straight down, adding its own impact to the new flurry of shells. Still more Cantets roared over, dropping bombs, even as what must’ve been half a hundred shells fell in the depression ahead. Those pilots’re all green as graass, she realized, an’ the Maker help ’em if the Grik throw any of their Jaap planes against ’em. But they have plenty of guts, to fly right in with the big bullets!
A long series of explosions erupted in the canyon, throwing smoke and dust plumes high in the air. She expected the Grik in front to react in some way, but they didn’t waver. Either they had no idea what was happening behind, or were just that well-trained and disciplined. In spite of the afternoon heat, a chill went down her spine. Whaat if we caan’t break this aattack? she wondered. Gener-aal Kim thinks this could be a third of the whole Grik aarmy chasin’ us. We’re just one division—an’ we’re gonna run out of aammo faast.
Prefect Bele joined her, striding briskly. He was pressing a bandage where a musket ball had torn a deep furrow in the flesh between his neck and shoulder, and his tunic was dark with blood. “As we feared, Legate,” he began without preamble. “The enemy is deploying out of the canyon farther back”—he pointed—“pulling guns up on the flat and emplacing them to smash our left. Infantry is moving up behind them. I think you should order the First Legion to pull back slightly to face that threat more squarely.”
Bekiaa blinked agreement. “Very well. The First can add little to the slaughter here. So far the Grik seem content to maarch straight against the Twenty-Third and Fourteenth. Perhaaps the grade’s too steep elsewhere an’ a slope funnels ’em to us?” She turned to a runner from the 1st Legion. “Did you hear?” she shouted over the roar of firing and the thunder of exploding shells. “Very well. My compliments to Col-nol Naaris, an’ he’s to move to refuse our flaank, his baattery an’ best maarksmen to engage the enemy guns an’ their crews. Under no circumstances will his right lose contaact with the Twenty-Third’s left.”
“Yes, Legate!”
A Grik ball ricocheted off Bekiaa’s helmet, knocking it askew and leaving a deep gray dent. She dropped as if poleaxed.
* * *
* * *
“A true ‘meeting engagement,’” Courtney Bradford shouted as he and Choon, their aides and guards, rode briskly to the sound of the guns. They’d passed a division already loping west at the double time and had been passed in turn by a hard-riding regiment of General Taal’s cavalry that Kim had allowed him to send. It was a good thing. They were a little higher than the developing battle and could see how it was shaping better than Bekiaa could. So could the cavalry, and they spurred their mounts from a canter to a gallop and veered left. A female Lemurian optio trotted back and saluted Choon and Bradford.
“My centurion asks if you’ll remain here to direct the infantry to the left as it arrives,” she said. As always, Courtney was a little surprised by the Repub ’Cat’s enunciation. Of course, Lemurians in the Republic had been speaking human languages longer than anyone.
“We’re heading down to join Legate Bekiaa,” Courtney replied impatiently.
“Of course,” Choon told the optio, blinking admonishment at his companion. “I want to be with the Legate as much as you, Mr. Bradford, but we came to support her. Can we do that better by directing troops where they’re most needed, or adding our own few weapons to her firing line?”
“The former, of course,” Courtney replied, then grinned. “Which you can do without me.” He nodded toward the rising smoke and dust of battle. “I’ll go on—and se
nd back word if the Legate has a different idea about what support she needs. Sometimes the big picture isn’t as critical as the small. She may need direct reinforcement, for example. I’m sure she needs more ammunition by now.”
Choon blinked rapidly, a combination of anger, frustration, and agreement. No doubt he wished he’d thought of that first and it was he, not Courtney, who’d continue on.
“Let’s go, mates!” Courtney called, kicking his plump mount with his heels, his sombrero falling back, suspended by the stampede string around his neck. His aide and several guards followed.
“Blast that preposterous, irrepressible, brilliant . . . buffoon,” Choon fumed. “I’ll never forgive him. Particularly if he’s killed!”
* * *
* * *
“Mr. Bradford!”
Courtney somehow heard the familiar voice of Optio Meek over the tumult of battle, yet he spun his horse and looked around in vain. The Grik were right there, their thickening ranks surging just sixty yards in front of Bekiaa’s thinning lines, doggedly, manically trading volleys at ranges even smoothbores could hardly miss. And the space behind the line was choked with wounded, corps-’Cats treating or carrying them, and runners dashing back and forth. The noise was stunning, all encompassing, and it was no longer possible to separate the sounds of small arms, mortars, artillery, or planes flying overhead. Courtney was sure the bombs and artillery must be doing terrible work, but their gunners were still inexperienced with the new art of precision, indirect fire. They simply wouldn’t risk firing too close to their own people. Courtney understood that, but the very effectiveness of the barrage falling on the bulk of the enemy might be pushing the leading edge more determinedly on.
His horse squealed in anguish and spun faster. He tried to hold on but the saddle had no horn or anything else to grab. He fell and hit awkwardly, trying to roll as best he could with the Krag on his back. The bolt handle gouged his side over his short rib and he gasped, but he looked in time to see his poor horse stop, shudder, and fall to the ground, nearly pinning his legs. He scrambled back until he came up against a corpse, and his aide and Optio Meek were beside him at once. “Are ye all right?” Meek demanded.
“Ah . . . yes. I believe so. Just a few bumps, I’m sure. I fall off horses quite often, you know,” Courtney assured, trying to stand and frowning unhappily at this latest horse to be shot out from under him. “Poor fellow,” he murmured. He managed to straighten, with Meek’s assistance, and immediately looked around. “Where’s Legate Bekiaa?”
“Down,” Meek stated flatly. Then seeing Courtney’s expression, he hastened to add, “But not badly wounded. Knocked on the head an’ just a bit addled, but in no shape for this at the moment.” Meek nodded around. “Prefect Bele’s taken charge. That’d be well enough, but Colonel Naaris o’ the First is senior an’ he’s arguin’ with Bele that we must retreat!”
“Where?” Courtney demanded. “Take me at once!”
It wasn’t far, but even if Naaris’s verbal assault on Bele was almost as violent as the Grik’s, it couldn’t be heard more than half a dozen paces away. And Bele stood, arms crossed, taking the abuse as unshakably as the 23rd and 14th had withstood the Grik so far.
“You’re disobeying a direct order from a superior officer in the face of the enemy!” Naaris ranted. Courtney actually had to stifle a laugh at the sight of the small Lemurian Naaris yelling up at the towering, immovable Bele. “And I can’t withdraw the First unless the Twenty-Third and Fourteenth fall back in concert. We’d all be overwhelmed piecemeal.” He gestured at the relentless Grik, shrouded in musket smoke, balls whizzing past. “Yet if we stay, we’ll be overwhelmed together. We must retreat!”
Courtney formed a disparaging retort but stifled it. Naaris was no coward; he was merely reacting to what he saw from his limited perspective. With the pressure mounted by the Grik, it seemed impossible the 5th Division could stall them much longer—Yet they must, Courtney knew.
“Legate Bekiaa is our commanding officer,” Bele replied respectfully, “and her orders are to hold.”
“She’s incapacitated!” Naaris spat, blinking furiously.
“She is . . . vertiginous,” Bele conceded, “but in no other way impaired.”
“That alone is sufficient impairment for me to assume command,” Naaris shouted. “And I order you, once more, to prepare to fall back!”
“No!” Courtney interjected. “You must hold this position at all costs!”
Naaris looked at him, probably noticing him for the first time, and blinked incredulously. “With all respect, Mr. Ambassador, you’ve no place in the chain of command and no authority here.”
“I bear the authority of Inquisitor Choon, awaiting my report less than a kilometer away,” Courtney shouted, gesturing back the way he came, “and the trust of General Kim and Kaiser Nig-Taak. I know more about your battle than you, and have seen it with better eyes.” Not better literally, Courtney amended to himself, but hopefully Naaris will get my point. “I really haven’t time to explain, but the fate of the entire army, probably the war, truly depends on the Fifth Division holding here.”
Bele nodded. He’d suspected as much, and Bekiaa somehow knew. She’d told him so herself. Even Naaris suddenly deflated, apparently convinced by Courtney’s intensity.
“Yet bayonets and worn and bloody flesh alone can only do so much,” Bele said. “We’re almost out of ammunition.”
Courtney turned to his aide, staring in awe at the interesting but often absent-minded man he’d only recently been assigned to serve. He’d never suspected the strength of will lurking below the surface, that could so quickly dominate a monolith like Bele, or subdue a veteran like Naaris.
“Gallop back to Inquisitor Choon at once!” Courtney ordered. “Tell him, as I predicted, we need ammunition and direct reinforcement immediately, or all is lost!” He looked at Naaris. “Your legion’s hardly in contact at all. Shift it to the right, behind the others.” He looked at Bele. “How can that best be done?”
“Have them form two more ranks behind those already on the line. Leave your artillery, but bring what canister there might be.”
“But what of the enemy massing on the left, around their guns?” Naaris objected.
“They’ll be dealt with,” Courtney assured. “More infantry and some cavalry are already moving to strike them on the flank! We must hold here until further reinforcements arrive.” He glanced furtively to the rear, hoping to see those promised troops now. He saw only the little cluster of horsemen surrounding Inquisitor Choon. But was that dust rising beyond, perhaps stirred by thousands of feet? He prayed so.
With a final measuring glance at Courtney, Colonel Naaris trotted to the left, to coordinate the movement of his legion. It would still take time, and the pressure in front was unbelievable. Yet Courtney’s heart swelled with pride. These Repubs were not the same men and ’Cats who’d faced the Grik at Gaughala for the first time. Then he did a double take, realizing that several guns, their crews slaughtered, were being served by Gentaa! He knew the creatures—resembling a cross between humans and Lemurians—trained with weapons, but he’d never actually seen them fight. Even when things got desperate before, they’d always remained aloof, highly protective of their role as dedicated support personnel, somehow above the direct butchery their countrymen engaged in. That had somehow changed, and Courtney even saw a fair number of Gentaa right in the firing line, loading and shooting rifles—and dying as well.
Bele must’ve guessed what astonished him so. “I was amazed myself,” he said. “But when Legate Bekiaa fell, they all just pitched in. It was a wonder to see.” He cleared his throat. “Are reinforcements truly coming?” he asked pointedly.
“Yes,” Courtney replied, unslinging the Krag from his shoulder. The first scattering of troops from the 1st Legion were starting to rush past. They’d be welcome when they were in place, but the Grik could see th
e movement and were sure to push even harder. “I’d recommend, however, that you order your troops to affix their bayonets.”
“How many?” Bele pressed, growing somewhat suspicious. “If they’re sending a division to deal with the Grik on the left, what are they sending us? A couple of legions?” He paused. “How much of the Army of the Republic can we really expect to join us?” he demanded.
“Honestly?” Courtney asked, then smiled. “All of it, Prefect Bele. The whole bloody thing. We’re going to smash through this mob in front of us and push straight on to Sofesshk without looking back. How does that sound to you?”
The Grik fired another whickering volley, and several ’Cat and human troops very close went down. They were only about ten yards behind the third rank. Courtney blinked and reached down to pick up his sombrero. The stampede string had been cut.
“Back to work!” Bele shouted, then nodded at Courtney’s Krag. “Do you mean to use that or merely pose with it?”
“I’ve used it quite a lot before,” Courtney replied gamely, opening the side loading gate to ensure there were cartridges inside. Bele grinned but the expression quickly faded. “Are you sure we’re the ones who’ll be doing the smashing?”
“Absolutely,” Courtney assured, grinning back, but his eyes said nothing.
CHAPTER 12
////// USS Tarakaan Island
At the mouth of the Zambezi River
February 20, 1945
Fiery arcs of sparkling, molten metal showered down to die amid squeaking spurts of steam on the wet deck of the repair bay aboard USS Tarakaan Island. Matt Reddy, Spanky McFarlane, Lieutenant Tab-At, and Dennis Silva (with Petey wrapped around his neck, of course) all stared up at the hasty modifications being made to USS Walker, and all wore identical frowns. Tabby’s may not have looked precisely the same, with her cleft upper lip, but the sentiment was the same.
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