With nods of acceptance for whatever was to come, the three friends retrieved and checked their weapons and followed in the wake of the battle.
They hadn’t gone far up the steeply ascending passageway when they heard the fighting reach a crescendo—then silence. Moving faster, they were met by a huffing ’Cat, who stopped in front of them and saluted Chack. “Sur, we got . . . a sitty-ay-shin.”
“Well, Corpor-aal?”
“We found it—her—I mean, the Grik high chief!” the Raider gushed, blinking with pride.
“Where?”
“A couple chambers baack. As ordered, we din’t kill her, but we ain’t actually got her yet. She haas guards bigger’n any Grik I ever saaw!”
“Her sisters,” Lawrence stated.
The Raider blinked questioningly at him, then lashed his tail and shrugged. “Whaatever. They’s holed up wit nowhere to go, but my lieuten-aant says get you. Don’t see how we gonna get her wit’out maybe killin’ her. All the regu-laar Griks is dead, but those laast guards is big,” he repeated, “an’ look ready to keep fightin’.”
“Did you catch Sergeant Pokey?” Silva asked. The ’Cat blinked annoyance. “Ay, but he’s goin’ nuts! Haard to hold wit’out hurtin’ him. He scraatched up some o’ my paals pretty baad.”
Chack looked at Lawrence. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Kinda odd,” Lawrence conceded, “’ut okay. I not going nuts,” he snorted.
“I wonder why all them Griks we killed defendin’ the joint didn’t lose it?” Silva suddenly speculated. “I mean, they ain’t no whole different breed like you, Larry. Differenter than a Peekin-ese from a coonhound. We’ll say you’re the coonhound,” he granted graciously aside to Lawrence, to everyone’s confusion. “But these’re just regular lizards to look at. Maybe scarier than average fighters, but nothin’ else. Why didn’t they go nuts like Pokey?”
“Perhaaps we’ll learn thaat at our destination,” Chack replied impatiently. “Lead on, Corpor-aal.”
CHAPTER 32
////// Tassanna’s Toehold
South bank of the Zambezi River
General of the Armies and Marines Pete Alden had never seen anything like the barrage that flailed the Grik positions. The effect of four hundred field guns and the Lord knew how many mortars was impressive enough, but add in the naval bombardment, and the land across the space between the two armies seemed to buck and thrash to the fireworks-inspired gyrations of a miles-long Chinese dragon. Regardless of Pete’s position, and in spite of all the action he’d seen on this world, he’d never been in anything beyond a few brushfire scraps before he came here. And the closest things to this he’d seen was the fighting around Flynn’s Lake and the Rocky Gap in Indiaa—yet those actions paled in terms of scale. He imagined Billy Flynn had seen something like this in France, in the Great War, but Flynn was dead and nobody else on this world probably ever had.
And the Grik return fire had been terrifying and damaging as well, at first. They had almost as many guns, most even bigger, but no matter how much their gunners improved, they still weren’t up to the standards of Pete’s veterans and those they trained. Hundreds of shells exploded in and over his trenches, heaving dirt, bodies, and supporting timbers in the air. Limber chests and some small “ready” magazines they’d scattered and protected as best they could detonated here and there, blowing craters in the earth or scything gun’s crews down. Hundreds, maybe many more, were surely killed back behind the line, but the Grik reply to the stupendous pounding Pete and Captain Reddy unleashed—in the wake of the Air Corps’ concentrated attack—was relatively short and increasingly sporadic.
Part of the reason was a lucky wind. It remained confused, blowing harder, but for now it betrayed the Grik. Their gun flashes were clearly distinct from the case shot exploding over them, and sometimes whole Allied batteries brought a single gun under fire, hammering its crew and the area around it until the gun was wrecked and nothing nearby could live. Then they engaged another. Slowly, surely, the return fire ebbed. And still the bombardment continued.
Pete looked at his watch, the explosions reflecting off the clouds like lightning to reveal the face. “Five minutes!” he yelled, the words rushing outward in the packed forward trenches while he turned to look at the tankers standing in the open hatches of their vehicles. He energetically waved them forward. They’d restarted their engines shortly before, the raucous, unmuffled exhaust overwhelmed by the bombardment, but now they roared louder as gears clashed and the first Smushers lurched ahead. Pete, Rolak, Taa-leen, and the staff surrounding them stepped back and saluted the female commander of the first metal monster, and the ’Cat crisply returned the gesture. One after another, the Smushers clanked, rattled, and roared past the commanders of the First Fleet AEF; climbed the earthen ramp prepared for them; and thundered into the wasteland beyond, noisily accelerating and spreading out.
“Ain’t it wonderful?” Pete asked emotionally, raising his binoculars to gaze south where the other half of their latest tanks were joining the assault. The bombardment had reached a crescendo, and the mighty crescent of Grik works erupted under the planned final flurry of shells. “The guns and mortars closest to the line’ll keep pounding, reaching farther as long as they can,” he said, though the plan was fully understood by those around him. “And Captain Reddy’s naval support’ll parallel our advance for a time.” He looked at the sky, a growing, frenetic drizzle spritzing his face under his helmet. “But the weather’s going downhill fast.” Strangely, the gloomy words didn’t affect his cheerful tone. “I’m afraid we’re gonna lose our air support quicker than the Sky Priests said.”
“Most likely,” Rolak agreed. “But if we move quickly enough, it may not matter. Mud will hinder the enemy as much as we, and rain will be our ally, rendering the enemy’s weapons less effective.”
“But the chaos of fighting in a strakka . . .” Taa-leen began, blinking concern.
Rolak flashed a predatory grin. “Is whaat Gener-aal Aalden and I haave been praying for,” he stated definitively. “The Grik haave built a proper aarmy of real soldiers,” he conceded, “yet they’ve writhed in the fires of Chik-aash already. They’ll be hurt, demoralized, and afraid, and haave no idea whaat’s coming. More importaant, they still laack the essential elements to make them proper soldiers, equal to ours.”
Taa-leen blinked questioningly.
“Experience and motivation,” Rolak said. “Our troops are used to chaotic baattles, they know their objectives, and,” he stressed, “they know why they fight. Some of those Grik haave tasted the first, but their only real ’cause is survi-vaal. Fear not, all will be well.”
Pete hoped Rolak was right. “If we break through,” he cautioned, glancing irritably at a tardy Smusher—their last—just starting to climb the berm. The rest, all seventeen, were roaring full-out across the rough, putrid, corpse-strewn ground. At ten miles per hour, they’d already crossed a third of the distance to the enemy line and it seemed nobody had even noticed them yet. The shelling’s pushing back, though, and that won’t last. Even as Pete thought that, a Grik cannon snapped and a shell slammed against a Smusher, ricocheting up to explode high in the air. Another fired, then a third. All were shooting case shot, probably what they’d been loaded with, and it shouldn’t do much more than ring his tankers’ bells. No doubt they’d see how Smushers stood up to solid shot soon enough. Of course, cannon couldn’t shoot solid shot and canister at the same time. . . . Pete glanced at his watch and saw almost six minutes had passed, but no matter. The time was now. “Sound general advance!” he shouted.
Talkers yelled in the mouthpieces of their field telephones, whistles shrilled, even drums—still traditional in some units—rattled insistently. With a momentous roar, the thickly packed trenches seemed to convulse as every combatant in First Corps along a two-mile front scrambled up and out in the open, advancing with long, ground-eating strid
es that would take them across fairly quickly but not leave them exhausted. They knew what to do. These were 1st and 2nd Divisions, flying the proud regimental flags of the 1st and 2nd Maa-ni-la; 5th, 6th, 7th, and 10th Baalkpan; 4th, 6th, and 7th Aryaal; and the Stars and Stripes of the 1st Marines. All were Lemurians and many were veterans. Some had been with their regiments since they were formed and had fought and bled through the most desperate battles of the war. And this night, this battle, was why. They’d have their payoff or die trying.
General Rin-Taaka-Ar had the far left, and General Taa-leen was preparing to lead the right, following his own Triple I as it cleared the trench. There were twenty thousand ’Cats in that first wave, and Pete knew Rolak was right. Every heart and mind among them knew exactly what they were about—as did those who’d follow. Even as the forward trenches emptied, elements of VI Corps started filling it back up, awaiting their turn.
Pete Alden was suddenly distracted from the grim, beautiful purpose of the moment when the Smusher on the berm jerked and died. He supposed it was inevitable they’d have breakdowns and was actually surprised all the other tanks were still going, but his gut told him this wasn’t a mechanical failure. Trotting to the tank, he climbed the rungs welded to the back and stepped on the sloping deck over the engine compartment. It’s hot as hell up here, he realized, watching raindrops sizzle on the steel. He jumped closer to the hatch on the low turret and slapped the commander, who was shouting down below, on his padded leather helmet. It reminded Pete of a tight-fitting football helmet, except the ear holes were higher—and bigger—so ears could actually protrude. The ’Cat spun with a snarl, but blinked terror when he saw who was standing over him.
“What’s the problem?” Pete demanded. “Pop the clutch?”
“Aah, ay, sur. We don’t get to praac-tice much, aan my driver, she’s . . . could be not the best.”
Pete heard the distant clatter of machine guns and looked up. The first Smushers were firing on the Grik line now and not a single one had stopped, despite the growing fusillade of musket fire and the attention of a lot more heavy guns than Pete hoped would survive the bombardment. He raised his binoculars and saw the dark shadow of I Corps surging like the tide. Some of those troops were already dying, but they weren’t shooting yet, and most of the Grik might not even see them. They had a closer, more terrifying concern. “Get this thing started. The war’s that way,” he pointed.
“I do!” the tank commander practically wailed, nodding behind them. All the tanks’ support crews had followed the column, and a pair of Khonashi had already unclamped the crank and were about to turn the engine over.
“Is your radio up?” he demanded of the ’Cat below him.
“Not with the engine off,” the Lemurian replied, careful to avoid sounding like he would’ve added “idiot” if he was speaking to anyone else. Next thing we really need to focus on, for everything, is electric starters, Pete grumbled to himself. And better batteries, of course. Always better batteries!
The engine roared to life and the Khonashi hastened to clamp the crank back in place, but Pete was watching the assault again and didn’t move. Most of the enemy fire was still directed at the tanks, but more and more was pecking at I Corps. Pete glanced down, impatient with something ill-defined in his mind, and realized Rolak and his staff, even General Taa-leen, who should’ve already gone with his troops, were staring at him.
“What’re you lookin’ at?” he demanded over the loudly idling engine.
Rolak made a very human, almost Gallic shrug. “You, Gener-aal,” he shouted in reply. “I wonder whaat your intentions are.”
Pete was confused, then realized Rolak had known his mind before he did. He grinned and shrugged as well. “Oh, I don’t know. Guess maybe I’ll tag along this time. Tired of sitting on my ass, watching everyone else fight.”
“This aarmy needs its gener-aal,” Rolak admonished. “How often haave you told me thaat?”
“Pretty often,” Pete agreed, “but the army’s got you—and you aren’t going anywhere.” Pete pointed at the light show and leaping earth under the barrage creeping ever onward. First Corps was taking a lot of fire now, but it and the Smushers were dishing it back. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, “but I have to go—I have to see.” Suddenly he sounded almost like he was pleading for Rolak’s understanding. And with himself.
“It would be silly of you to just walk out there with your rifle,” Rolak stated matter-of-factly, and Pete wondered if the old warrior would physically try to stop him if he tried. He patted the turret in front of him. “I’m not walking anywhere. You, what’s your name?” he asked the tanker.
“Aah, Sergeant Kaalo!”
“You a better driver than your driver?”
“Yes, sur.”
“Then throw her out and take her place.” He looked down. “Get up here, Taa-leen! You’re a division commander and tank commander now! We’re goin’ into battle in style.”
General Taa-leen blinked amazement mixed with horror. His tail dropped limp. “I don’t haave the first idea . . .”
“You can shoot a machine gun, can’t you?”
“I’ve been . . . faa-miliarized with one.”
“Good. Then get up here. I’ll give you a refresher.” Pete pointed in the hatch Kaalo just vacated. “You don’t think I’ll fit in there, do you?”
“Whaat are you going to do?” Rolak asked, sounding less severe than before.
Pete unslung his Springfield and opened the bolt to check his magazine while Taa-leen scampered onto the tank. Patting his ammo pouches and shaking his canteen, Pete grinned down at Rolak. “I’m gonna hide behind this turret and shoot Grik. I’ll meet you at the rally point!”
The rally point was ten miles away, beyond the last Grik strongpoint for the forward defenses, and was considered an ambitious objective for the night’s assault. But that was as far as the tanks could go and was where fuel and ammunition would be waiting—if Captain Reddy made it that far upriver.
Taa-leen squeezed down into the turret behind the gun, and the normally stoic ’Cat suddenly grinned back up at Pete like a youngling. “Let’s go!”
“Right,” Pete shouted down past him. “Let’s go, Sergeant Kaalo! I’m all dressed up, the music’s playin’, an’ I wanna cut a rug!” The engine roared and the Smusher rumbled up the berm and into the fight.
“Gener-aal!” cried one of Muln Rolak’s aides, pointing. “How caan you let him go? Exposed up there on thaat great, slow taarget, he will surely die!”
“Perhaaps,” Rolak agreed, “but it’s his choice and he out-raanks me. And he’s right: the baattle will go as plaanned or not. If not, there are other plaans I will resort to. I know which ones he would waant.”
“But . . . whaat if he’s killed?” the aide persisted.
Rolak blinked sternly at him. “Then Gener-aal Aalden will die as a fighting Maa-rine.” He paused before continuing, as if to himself. “He’s been a good gener-aal of the Army and Maa-rines, though he never waanted the job, any more than Cap-i-taan Reddy waanted his responsibilities. But someone haad to do it and no others could at first.” Rolak straightened. “Thaat’s changed, on laand at least, and Gener-aal Aalden knows it.” He blinked extreme weariness and regret, and the dampness around his eyes was only partly due to the rain whipping harder. “This waar will soon end in defeat or glory.” He blinked wistfulness and his tail slashed. “So we’ll all be dead, or, as Gener-aal Aalden says himself, must ‘endure our glory behind a desk for the rest of our lives.’”
“So he’ll throw himself away?” the aide demanded hotly.
Rolak blinked admonition. “Of course not! His aact isn’t suicidaal, and it’s only paartly selfish. He merely . . . senses—as do I,” Rolak confessed, “thaat he’ll be needed more out there thaan here.” He gave the aide a benevolent pat. “Don’t worry,” he added wryly. “I expect we’ll all be out there
before this is done.” He turned away, but called over his shoulder, “And if he lives, I won’t let him do it again.” Because it’ll be my turn then, Rolak promised himself. He raised his voice. “Sixth Corps! Prepare to ad-vaance!”
* * *
* * *
Batteries and springs, Pete thought, adding to the mental list of things the new tanks needed, as he hung on to the handholds welded to the low turret and bounced on the hot deck over the engine compartment. Smushers had big, fat leaf springs under the road-wheel axles, but large spring technology was still new to Lemurians. They were good at the small springs they made thousands of, for firearms, for example, but tended to overdo the big stuff they had less experience with. So Smushers needed better springs that wouldn’t shake the teeth out of the crew. And this is over fairly level ground, Pete thought with growing concern. Up ahead, past the backs of the advancing troops, he saw the first tank about to reach the enemy trench.
“Go! Go! Go!” he urged. Then, to his horror, he watched it slow down. Its gunner/commander was still firing, but the tank was just creeping ahead. “What the hell? No! Gun it!” Pete shouted.
Aerial photographs had shown the Grik trenches weren’t very wide in most places. Where they were, mostly around gun emplacements, there were ramps behind them to ease ammo delivery and allow shells landing around them to bound onward, exploding well behind. That probably even worked when the ground was dry and hard. But they’d calculated that their tanks needed to take the trenches at speed. They couldn’t jump them, obviously, but needed their tractorlike treads to get a solid bite on the far wall and let their inertia—hopefully—help them crash and gouge their way along. It would be rough as hell, probably even dangerous for those inside the tanks, and those who did cross at gun positions might drop three or more bone-jarring feet before crawling up the other side—if they and their machines were able. But what Pete watched now was exactly what they’d all agreed the tankers must not do.
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