Pass of Fire

by Taylor Anderson

  The Streets of Old Sofesshk

  Little clusters of Raiders and members of the 1st North Borno, wildly mixed together, gathered to Chack and Silva like iron filings to a magnet as they fought their way closer to the palace. But Chack had been right and the resistance they met tightened commensurately, turning their initial rush into a bloody, ammo-gulping slog, fighting from one weird Grik house to another.

  The architecture was different from anything they’d ever seen Grik build. If anything, it looked a little like some of the stone ruins they’d run across in Indiaa, but few had time to contemplate that. At least it was substantial enough to provide some cover, which helped them more than the Grik. The enemy seemed fresh and well equipped but not seasoned. Leaderless packs attacked them on sight, probably reverting to instinct. Larger, more disciplined groups tried to block their advance by forming firing lines in the streets. Those were quickly shredded by fire from protected vantage points.

  And the closer they worked to the towering Cowflop, the more worried about Lawrence, Moe, and the rest of his platoon Silva became. Two or three had joined them but had no more idea about the rest than he. Trying to envision where most should’ve landed, considering the bearing of the plane, and backtracking in his mind from where he’d jumped and wound up was impossible. Everything was too confused, and even the little maps everyone carried didn’t help much. The streets were laid out more geometrically than in any other Grik city, but the only real landmarks were the river and the palace itself. All Silva could do was hope Lawrence, in particular, wasn’t alone. He looked way too much like a Grik for his own good, especially in the dark, and could easily get shot by some trigger-happy Raider.

  After what seemed like half the night but was probably less than two hours, Chack and Silva’s force, more than a hundred now, had fought to within just a couple hundred yards of the dark, towering palace. Most of the closest Grik seemed to have pulled back into a defensive perimeter behind low walls and ornamental trees and shrubs. It was the first time Silva ever saw evidence the Grik engaged in any kind of decorative landscaping. Oh, well, we’ll do a touch o’ landscapin’ ourselves, before this is done, he told himself. More Raiders had already assembled there, spreading out and concealing themselves around the enemy perimeter. They sniped at Grik inside and any they spotted trying to join them. The mixed company Chack and Silva brought increased the attackers’ strength to nearly three hundred. They were still heavily outnumbered by those they’d surrounded, but the enemy couldn’t know that. They gotta be more confused than we are, Silva reasoned. ’Specially since we can put out more fire than them. Probl’y think there’s five thousand of us. That won’t last after sunup, though, when they can see better.

  A small, two-story structure bordering the brick-paved road approaching the palace entrance from the west had been seized for Chack’s HQ—when he arrived—and he and Silva were directed there by relieved troopers guarding it. Come daylight, it’ll give a good view of the palace, the river, an’ New Sofesshk beyond, Silva surmised. “Fancy digs,” he appraised, stepping inside. The lamp-lit interior was full of ’Cats and Khonashi, and a battered wooden table had been moved to the center of the room. Another table already supported a comm-’Cat’s heavy radio pack, the wires for the aerial trailing up rough-cut stairs. Another comm-’Cat was sitting in front of a collapsible tripod-mounted generator, spinning the handles on each side. “Practically a mansion, for Grik,” he added, as Chack returned salutes. There was little more floor space than in the two-story shack Silva grew up in, but the place was well maintained (discounting the bullet holes in the walls and drying blood on the tile floor). It stank of Grik, but not so bad that the smell of sweaty ’Cats and Impie humans hadn’t almost covered it.

  “Took you long enou’ to get here,” came a familiar voice that filled Silva with relief. “I thought you is dead,” Lawrence told him. The Sa’aaran was in a corner, an Impie corpsman wrapping his arm while Moe tried to arrange a sling. That was always awkward for Grik-like beings, since their shoulders weren’t very broad.

  “There you are!” Silva exclaimed when he saw his friends. “Where’s my Doom Stomper?”

  “O’er there,” Lawrence exclaimed angrily, nodding his snout at a corner of the room. Moe grunted at him to hold still.

  “Whaat haappened to you?” Chack asked, concerned.

  Lawrence looked accusingly at Silva. “His dan gun. He ne’er took it, so I did. Didn’t sling it though, and it nearly tore this arn out. I such a dun-ass,” he said, shaking his head. “Should’a go hithout it, then should’a let go ’hen it yanked I arn.” He closed his eyes. “Hut nooo, I a dun-ass.”

  “Is it broken?” Chack asked the corpsman.

  “No. Overextended, maybe torn muscles. Don’t know how he hung on.”

  “Good thing he did,” Silva grumped, moving to the big rifle and examining it. “Prob’ly his most important contribution to the whole damn war.”

  “You’re an asshole,” Lawrence stated.

  Chack nodded, blinking at Silva with something like surprise. “Yes, he is,” he said. Then he looked at the comm-’Cat. “You’ve made contaact? Staatus report,” he demanded.

  “Two Clippers didn’t make it baack. Nobody seen whaat got the other one. Thirteen haas loaded an’ took off wit’ most o’ the second haaff o’ Major Jindal’s Twenty-First Regiment. He’s wit’ ’em.”

  “Good,” Chack breathed.

  “The next run’ll bring Major Cook an’ more Khonaashis. Thaat’ll complete the command element. Following flights’ll bring us up to strength . . . hopefully.”

  “What about supplies?”

  “Bombers loaded ’em an’ turned around just before the traansports.” The comm-’Cat blinked skepticism. “Course, they’ll drop stuff all over the place, just like they did us. We’ll haafta go find ever-ting. Colonel Maallory aasks caan we secure the supplies quickly.”

  Chack snorted. “It took almost two hours to secure ourselves, and only a little more thaan haaf our force haas fought its way here so faar.” He blinked annoyed acceptance. “The rest of the Raiders’ll haave to do the same, bringing whaat supplies they find in with them.”

  “That’s about what we figgered,” Silva put in, satisfied with his huge rifle. “We knew it was gonna be a circus from the start.”

  “Grik!” somebody shouted outside, and they funneled out the door, ducking behind a low wall.

  “Hold your fire!” Chack hissed loudly when he saw twenty or thirty Grik-like forms double-timing up the street. “Bandaannas,” he explained. “First North Borno, over here!” he called. The trotting troops veered toward them, and NCOs directed them forward. Grik muskets thumped and flashed in the darkness, shooting at movement.

  “Stupid,” Silva growled. “Never should’a brung Khonashi to fight Griks. They look too much like ’em. Should’a sent ’em east to kill Doms.” He chuckled. “Them Doms would’a wet theirselfs.”

  “And got whaat in return?” Chack countered. “Jindaal’s regiment’s the only orgaanized force of Imperiaals in this theater. Do you think they would’ve sent more in exchange? They haave their own problems.”

  “Still,” Silva grumped, glancing back at the door to the HQ. “Havin’ just one lizardy-lookin’ pal to watch over is nerve-rackin’ enough.” Chack nodded, realizing—again—that Silva wasn’t as big an asshole as he pretended to be. He’d probably transferred all his concern for Lawrence onto his Doom Stomper to avoid embarrassment for them both. And he’d been doing more and more of that, Chack realized, since they lost Risa. She was my sister, he thought, but her death tore Silvaa’s soul as deeply as mine. If not for my beloved Safir, I don’t know whaat I would’ve done. Yet Silva haas no similaar source of solace. Paam could be, but often tears him even more, in her way. He didn’t have an answer.

  Rockets flared, reaching for more droning engines. It looked to Silva like they were still shooting
high, the bursting charges exploding above the planes. Somebody must’ve gotten wise, however, because a cluster of rockets suddenly erupted all around a couple of Clippers. One caught fire and fell away, beginning to spin. It impacted in the rubble of New Sofesshk with a roiling gout of flame, followed by an extended sputter of secondary explosions as its cargo of munitions went up.

  A couple of armored Grik battleships anchored downriver, pinpointed on the maps but forgotten till then, opened up with antiair mortars emplaced on top of their high, sloping casemates. The spherical case shot they lofted could reach two thousand feet—barely—but all detonated well behind their targets.

  “Wonder what them Grik sailors think is goin’ on?” Silva said.

  “Who knows?” Chack replied. “But right now they’re only adding to the confusion. The longer thaat persists, the better. Each of those ships haave sufficient crews to overwhelm us if the notion struck their commaanders to put them aashore.”

  “Not so easy,” countered Moe, to Silva’s surprise. The old ’Cat usually wasn’t one for offering opinions in combat situations. “The waater by the docks on this side o’ the river is too shaallow for ’em, I bet. An’ no Grik waarship ever haave lifeboats. Whaat for? Griks is just Griks. They make more. They ships only ever caarry a couple o’ boats to tote they officers aa-roun’.” He shook his head. “They haafta raam theyselfs haard aground to laand they crews.” He hacked a gristly laugh. “Be a while before thaat occurs to anybody, an’ they maybe won’t even suggest it. Daamn sure won’t do it widdout permission—which’ll take even longer to get.” He blinked amusement at them. “You’d do it, no aaskin’, if you thought you should. You both been runnin’ aroun’ doin’ whaat you waant so long, you never even ask youselfs if the higher-ups’ll baack you. Thaat don’t work for me, so it daamn sure don’t work for Griks.” He nodded out where the battleships lay, invisible now that they weren’t firing. “They may give us fits later, but don’t waste your thinkin’ on Griks surprisin’ us—while we’re still surprisin’ them.”

  “You’re a philosophyzer, Moe,” Silva said admiringly. “I’ve always said so. Just stay the hell away from me. If your broad really conjured up some sweet fantasy o’ you croakin’ ’cause you’re fightin’ with me, let’s stay split up. Better for us both. You might take me with ya.”

  The Clippers were almost overhead now, parachutes silhouetted once again against the flashing rockets. Another volley of the weapons, maybe directed by the same commander as before, shattered another of the big planes. A wing fluttered away amid a smear of fire, and the burning wreckage fell on Old Sofesshk barely a mile away. A rising toadstool of orange flame marked the death of another brave crew. “Been a rough night for Pat-Squad Twenty-Two,” Silva muttered grimly.

  “Yes,” Chack agreed. “But the next wave of reinforcements will approach from a different direction.”

  “Maybe should’a had ’em keep comin’ as they have,” Silva countered. “Griks’re gettin’ better with their rockets, sure, but they ain’t got as many as they did. Might’ve used up mosta the ones they had on that flight path.”

  Chack shook his head. “Not my caall, thaank the Maker. I haave enough to worry about. Imaagine how Cap-i-taan Reddy must feel at times, at the top of the heap, as you say. All caalls are his, whether he makes them or not, since his plaan required others to.”

  “Yeah.”

  Several of the supply parachutes fell within sight and details went to get them. This initiated more musket fire from the Grik, shooting at shadows, but Chack spread the word for the Raiders to hold their fire. Supply drops or not, they were liable to run very low on ammunition. Best not to waste it.

  Apparently, Colonel Mallory’s decision to vary the direction of approach was correct, because no more Clippers fell that night. Fighting dropped off in the city, and with excruciating slowness Chack’s entire brigade was drawn to the position encircling the Palace of Vanished Gods. Major Jindal reported, armed only with a naked sword in his right hand. “Can’t use a rifle, and can’t reload a pistol,” he explained cheerfully, “but I’m honored to be back in it with you fellows at last!” Major Cook finally arrived as well, surrounded by almost an entire company of Khonashi loaded down with crates of mortar bombs. Nearly everyone coming in after the first wave carried something; machine guns, ammunition, mortar tubes, food. The stuff wasn’t hard to find, still attached to parachutes fluttering fitfully in the streets. The chutes were all wadded up so others wouldn’t risk their lives to retrieve something already claimed.

  “We all leaped from the planes so quickly, we nearly became entangled on the way down!” Cook excitedly exclaimed and grinned. “I must confess, I’ve never been so terrified—and exhilarated—in my life!”

  A helluva thing for him to say, Silva thought, considerin’ how young he is—an’ how much exhilaratin’ shit he’s done already. “I’m glad you enjoyed yerself, Mr. Cook,” he said aloud. Major in the 1st North Borno or not, Cook was still a lieutenant (jg) in the American Navy Clan.

  “As am I,” Chack agreed dryly. “I’m sure I can aarrange for you to leap from aircraft more often. Now please move to the left. Most of your commaand haas already been deployed on the northeast side of the palaace.”

  Cook’s boyish face fell. “I’d hoped the First North Borno would have the honor of storming the entrance. The Grik-like appearance of some of my troops might cause confusion.”

  “Not as much as they once did,” Silva countered. “I figger the enemy got a fine look at ’em on the ol’ Santy Cat an’ when we took the beachhead.” He nodded toward the palace in the humid gloom. “An’ we ain’t gonna storm the outside o’ that joint till we have to,” he added cryptically. “For now, we’re still just tryin’ to keep more Griks out.”

  The rest of the night passed in relative quiet. Occasional furious fighting erupted on the perimeter as more Grik did indeed attempt to join their comrades, but the rest of the city grew eerily still and silent. Raiders crept in, some that were injured in the drop, and details still searched for packets of supplies, but all reported that the city had become like a tomb. Fires burned out of control in several sections, the worst centered where the Clipper augured in, but nobody fought them. No doubt many Hij were still in hiding, but there appeared to be no more Grik combatants beyond the perimeter they’d established around the palace. It was surreal. Gradually, the sky in the east took on the slightest hint of a cloudy dawn. Their long, eventful night would soon be over and Chack’s Brigade’s mission could begin in earnest.

  CHAPTER 17

  BATTLE OF THE PASS

  ////// El Corazon

  Holy Dominion

  March 14, 1945

  It was mid-morning under a sharp, bright sky that crisply illuminated the dormant volcanoes flanking the brilliant white city of El Corazon. There were no clouds, and the only imperfection in the clear blue above was the distant, dark, ever-present smudge rising at a slant from the live volcano across the mouth of El Paso del Fuego. The Sister’s Own Division was arrayed for battle on the plain seven hundred yards to the south of the city wall, near the very center of General James Blair’s X Corps. The massed ranks of more than thirty thousand men and Lemurians ranged from the flanks of one tall mountain on the coast to a smaller one roughly three miles east. Angling from there northward to the pass itself was XI Corps, under General Ansik-Talaa, with another thirty thousand Imperial Marines and Maa-ni-lo Filpin Scouts. They were also poised to assault the city, as well as prevent the arrival of any unexpected enemy reinforcements from the east. The formations weren’t particularly tight—shoulder-to-shoulder tactics had disappeared with the smoothbore musket—but they were impressively deep.

  The Sister’s Own was composed of Major Blas-Ma-Ar’s 2nd Battalion; 2nd (Lemurian) Marines, which included the human Ocelomeh, or Jaguar Warriors; and Colonel Arano Garcia’s Vengadores de Dios. The Ocelomeh with Blas had taken the Navy Clan oath
and were armed, equipped, and trained as the Marines they’d become. On paper, Blas’s 2nd of the 2nd was still just a battalion, but it had swollen to the size of a brigade. The same was even more true for Garcia’s Vengadores, now almost a division by itself. It could’ve been one, in fact, but not only was Garcia keenly conscious that his core regiment once fought for the other side before coming to the light, he was also canny enough to understand, regardless of their record, many Imperials would deeply resent his Vengadores if they became independent of Blas. It didn’t matter. Garcia knew how passionately loyal his men were to Colonel Sister Audry.

  At least the Vengadores finally had breechloading Allin-Silvas. And somewhat ironically, theirs came from a brand-new factory established on the main island of the Empire of the New Britain Isles. All “regular” troops in the Second Fleet Allied Expeditionary Force had the new weapons now, finally replacing the mishmash of Imperial and captured Dom smoothbores and Union rifle-muskets. Not only did that make them more lethal, it also relieved the logistical strain of supplying such a variety of small arms, despite the flood of ammunition the faster-firing breechloaders consumed. The only Allied force still carrying muzzle-loading muskets was a single large division of indigenous volunteers from as close as the outskirts of Dulce and as far as Guayak in the south.

  This auxiliary division, called the Pegadores, styled itself after Garcia’s Vengadores, but was largely composed of his castoffs: poorly trained (and somewhat suspect) new arrivals, and even a sprinkling of regular Dom deserters. Blas figured most were sincere because, unless they were actual spies, their membership in the Pegadores would mark them for death. She was uncomfortable around their leadership, though. Garcia and his officers wanted to save their people from Dom rule. The Pegadores seemed more focused on punishing the Doms, and boasted they’d take no prisoners.