Pass of Fire

by Taylor Anderson

  Pulling off his own pack so he wouldn’t have to fumble with it, he bit through a leather strap securing a flap and exposed a little wooden handle with a thick string tied around the middle. Looking up, he saw a pause in the stream of prey exiting the structure and bolted for the door. One of the prey with a tail met him there, but he bowled it aside and raced in among the dimly lit machines. There must be two tens of them! he crowed to himself, firmly grasping the pack in one hand and the handle in the other. He pulled.

  One consequence of such a limited, focused consciousness that the First never appreciated was that armed with one of the wondrous new friction primers being developed for artillery and any number of other useful things, the fuses on his troops’ explosives were—ideally—instantaneous. Therefore, of course, if he performed his duty properly, as First General Esshk hoped and expected, he’d never actually need a name.

  * * *

  * * *

  “My God,” Sandra moaned as one of the new long hangars erupted in a quickly swelling ball of flame, and an entire squadron of Mark Leedom’s P-1C Mosquito Hawks, already fueled and armed with the heaviest bombs the little planes could carry, blew the place apart. Whether by accident—perhaps the wind showered it with flaming debris—or design, one of the tank batteries full of fuel went next.

  Keje’s conference room erupted in uproar, Lemurians and a few men shouting over the distant blasts, but Sandra knew their outbursts were fueled more by surprise and shock than anything. And frustration, of course, that they couldn’t do anything to help. Petey jumped off Sandra’s shoulder, squalling, “Goddamn! Goddamn!” and coasted to a corner of the room, wide eyes flicking back and forth.

  “Silence!” Keje roared, echoed by Commander Sandy Newman. “Sound ‘Gener-aal Quaarters,’” Keje told Newman. “We don’t know whaat happened, and the fleet may be in danger.” He spun to one of the signal-’Cats. “Try to contaact Col-nol Leedom. Find out whaat’s haappening. Whaat’s the nature of the attaack? Is there anything we caan do?” He turned to Captain Jis-Tikkar, COFO of Salissa’s 1st Naval Air Wing. The young ’Cat was better known as Tikker, and was absently fingering a polished 7.7 mm cartridge case thrust through a hole in his ear while he watched the disaster ashore. He did that sometimes, in stressful situations, and probably didn’t even realize it. Knowing he was next, however, his eyes fastened on Keje. “Aassume we just lost all our laand-based air,” Keje rumbled darkly. That was almost half of what they had in theater, and only the possibility they’d be needed elsewhere had kept their last two operational P-40Es this side of Baalkpan aboard Salissa. “Get with Madraas’s COFO and generate strike plaans based on thaat, and as maany contingencies as you caan imaa-gine!”

  “Ay, ay, Ahd-mi-raal,” Tikker replied, and rushed from the room.

  The noise started to rise again. “The rest of you!” Keje roared. “There’s a mighty baattle out there tonight—more thaan one! Caalm yourselves and focus!”

  Just as the chaos began to fade and ’Cats started moving and talking with a purpose again, Diania suddenly looked down at Sandra’s feet and covered her mouth with her scarred left hand. Sandra followed her gaze. “I’ll be,” she murmured distractedly. There was far more water on the deck than her damp clothes would account for. Petey had crept carefully forward and was standing by it, staring. Experimentally, he touched it with his long, thin tongue.

  “No, you little monster!” Sandra cried. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she told Keje, in the face of his astonished blinking.

  “There’s nothing to be . . .”

  Diania grabbed Sandra’s arm.

  “Wait!” Sandra objected. “Where are we going?”

  “Tae the infirm’ry, ye madwoman!”

  Sandra hesitated. “But I actually feel a little better now,” she insisted.

  “I’ve nae had a child meself,” Diania snorted, “but I’ve seen it done. Ye’ve seen it! I’ll warrant ye won’t feel better fer long, so come now, an’ gi’ me nae more guff.”

  “Go, my dear,” Keje commanded sensibly. “I’ll send a Sky Priest to attend. Haave you a preference?”

  “Sky Priest?” Sandra asked, confused. She was very confused about a lot all of a sudden.

  Keje blinked. “For the rites . . .”

  Sandra vaguely remembered something Adar once told her about that. Abruptly, one thing stood out crystal clear. “Sure, swell. Send whoever.” She looked around and recognized a Sky Priest named T’nis who’d been one of Adar’s acolytes. “Send him.” Her expression hardened with determination. “But whatever you do, don’t tell Matt,” she ordered fiercely.

  Keje blinked surprise. “Why not? Surely it caan only give him joy at a time he maay need it most.”

  “It might also distract him, right when he needs to concentrate on fighting a battle and staying alive,” Sandra countered sternly. “Promise you won’t tell him, or I swear I’ll stay and have this kid right here!”

  CHAPTER 39

  OPERATION WHIPSAW

  THE THIRD DAY

  ////// The Third Trench

  South bank of the Zambezi River

  0422

  March 16, 1945

  Keep firing! Pour it in!” General Pete Alden rasped, voice nearly gone, as he trudged through ankle-deep mud behind the Triple I’s decimated line. The rain had stopped—for now—but the wind had actually increased as the huge east-west, north-south backward-L-shaped line formed by I and VI Corps was slowly pushed back toward the river. Rolak had extended the east-west line with all their reserves, including cooks, clerks, supply personnel, and transport sailors. Even La-laanti stevedores, who’d never touched weapons like those they were handed, retrieved from the dead, joined the battle.

  “I’m almost out of aammo!” a ’Cat in front of Alden called back as the Grik surged against the line once more and were met by furious fire and the clash of steel.

  “More’s coming! Ammo’s on the way!” Pete shouted back, hoping it was true. They still held the line all the way back to the perimeter and now back down to the river, but the perimeter itself was virtually empty now. Who’d bring the ammo? Pete trusted Rolak. The old Lemurian warrior knew as well as anyone what battles required. He’d find a way to provide.

  The pressure was mounting everywhere as fresh Grik kept coming to fling themselves against them. Maybe my plan worked too well, Pete thought sheepishly, but he did know III and XII Corps had broken through to the south and doubted the Grik here did. The momentous question still remained: What would Esshk or Ign—whoever was here—do when he found out? Would he peel back and try to reestablish his blocking line to the west? Would he turn on Laan and try to shatter his strung-out divisions in the southeast? Pete doubted that. His own communications were so confused, he could barely control what was in front of him. It was wholly unrealistic to expect he could rush Laan and Mu-Tai, or coordinate their arrival with anything he could do. They know the fix we’re in, he consoled himself. He could keep them apprised of that. And they’ll do what they can.

  For the second or third time, Pete glimpsed a large, impressive-looking Grik general pacing behind his attacking warriors, bloodied bronze armor glaring red in the muzzle flashes and under the streaking lightning. Pete whipped the Springfield to his shoulder to take a shot but the opportunity passed. He fired at an ordinary Grik instead, blowing the top of his head, including the iron-scaled leather helmet, completely off. For an instant, he saw the Grik general again, glaring directly back. He worked the bolt, chambering another round, but the target was gone. No, Pete realized. He has even less control than I do, knows even less about what’s happening elsewhere. He’s totally focused on me—just like I wanted, he added ruefully. All he can do is fight what he sees, and he’ll keep coming until he smashes us back to the river and kills us all.

  For a fleeting instant, Pete almost wished that was Halik over there and he could call a truce and talk. Tell him he was o
utflanked, and Captain Reddy would have Sofesshk before he could stop it. But maybe it was just as well it wasn’t. Halik was too sharp. He’d honor the truce and they’d have their talk, but then he’d find a way to redeploy his force to counter Laan and still smash Pete. And he’d probably come up with something to stall Captain Reddy too.

  “Gener-aal!” cried a ’Cat runner, splashing up to him, his mud-plastered tail hanging limp. “Gener-aal Rin-Taaka-Ar is dead and the Second Maa-ni-la is buckling. . . .”

  “The Seventh Aryaal’ll have to stretch left, back ’em up.”

  “Gener-aal Grisa already ordered thaat, but the Aryaalans are haard-pressed as well.” The ’Cat’s voice rose to a near-hysterical pitch. “We haave no more reserves and the aammunition is gone!”

  “Calm down, young fella,” Pete said absently, scanning the Triple I. It was near the corner, at the bottom of the L, and seemed to be holding well enough. When its ammunition was entirely gone, however . . . Things were beginning to crack. “All right, lead on. Take me to Grisa.”

  They found him sitting on a crate. He was wounded again, in the upper chest this time, and Pete realized the very competent Lemurian commander seemed to get hurt, somehow, in every fight he participated in. He was directly behind the 6th Aryaal and the whole division was bulging back, getting closer to where he sat. There was little firing, the Grik weapons useless as anything other than spears, but on equal footing with empty Allin-Silvas. Bodies lay everywhere: ’Cats, as well as Grik that had broken through and been slain. One of these had slashed Grisa deeply with its footclaws as he shot it down with his pistol. Even now, the teeming horde of snarling Grik was only yards away, checked by a thinning, bloody line of exhausted ’Cats, superior training, experience, and resolve their only advantage. Grisa didn’t seem to care.

  “What can I do, General?” Pete shouted over the roar of battle. Grisa looked up.

  “Whaat caan anyone do?” he asked dejectedly, shaking his head. A corps-’Cat was trying to bandage the wound but a lot of blood was spilling out.

  “Just a little longer,” Pete shouted, hoping the confidence in his voice would reach the Aryaalans fighting nearby—and didn’t sound too artificial.

  “Just a little longer left, you mean,” Grisa murmured. He looked at Pete. “I favored this plaan, as you know, but considered my Queen Safir Maraan’s part in it too aambitious for her and dangerous for us.” He looked around, blinking bleakly. “If all of Second Corps waas here . . . Just another division . . .”

  “There’ll be two more corps before much longer,” Pete assured.

  Grisa smiled. “Too long for us,” he said. “Too long for me.”

  Several Grik broke through and came charging at them. Pete shot one and drove his bayonet into another, slamming it onto its back. It screeched and bloody froth spewed in his face. The couriers who’d followed him slashed and hacked at others with their bayonets and cutlasses. Pistols popped. For just an instant, everything seemed to hang in the balance. Aryaalans were trying the seal the gap, but Grik were fighting just as hard to widen it. Pete knew if the Aryaalans broke now, all was lost. The troops to the right would recoil into a square—they’d have to—and those to the left would have no choice but to withdraw back to the second Grik line, at least. There’d be no chance to reinforce or resupply those who were cut off.

  Pete pulled his bloody bayonet from the flopping Grik and shot another—just as a rising roar reached him from the left. His first thought was that the Grik had broken through elsewhere, and Grisa’s despair gripped him as well. Then, to his amazement, he saw a tight knot of La-laantis, of all people, the scales of their fish-skin kilts wet and glistening in the stuttering light. They gouged more Grik aside, fighting without art but with brutal competence. Some rushed into the gap while more raced ahead. And behind them came a stream of moose-shaped paalkas. Eyes rolling in terror but harnessed to the weight of limbers and guns, they charged as fast as they could. Rooster tails of muddy water kicked up by the wheels made their advance even more dramatic. Gun-’Cats rode the animals and limbers, bashing Grik with their implements as they passed, and more than one Grik was run down and crushed by a paalka or gun. More gun-’Cats trotted alongside, armed with carbines they’d been issued or weapons they’d picked up.

  That’s when Pete realized that Rolak had dipped into their final “reserve,” and it made perfect sense. More than five thousand artillerymen had been left behind in the perimeter, but even if they could range on targets now, they couldn’t see them. And their guns! Smoothbore 12 pdr “Napoleons” couldn’t compete with the Republic’s Derby guns at range, but were still brutally lethal up close. Particularly with canister. Even as Pete watched, one paalka veered away, gun crew leaping from its back and off the limber. And they loaded the gun even as they heaved it forward in the mud, its gunmetal snout nosing for the gap the La-laantis just filled. Screeched warnings shoved the La-laantis aside, and the great gun took their place. Even as the trail splashed down in the mud, the gunner stretched his lanyard and a vast gout of smoke and flame exploded in the face of the foe.

  Scores of Grik went down in a broadening swath and dozens more were pelted by shards of bone, fragments of shattered weapons, and gobbets of flesh. The La-laantis immediately resumed a spirited if somewhat awkward fire, covering for the gunners as they reloaded. Another cannon blast churned the Grik, off to the right, as more guns rapidly came on line. Soon the fire was continuous and it began to rain once more.

  “You should’ve taken guns from the staart,” a familiar voice scolded Pete, and he turned to see Muln Rolak himself slide down from atop another paalka. This one drew only a sled but it was heaped with ammunition crates. ’Cats swarmed them like flashies, bashing the crates open with their rifle butts or prying off the lids with bayonets. Snatching handfuls of oilcloth-wrapped packages of fifty rounds, they raced back to the firing line with an energy most probably thought they’d lost forever. They were keen to get back to the killing.

  “What’re you doing here?” Pete growled.

  Rolak blinked false remorse. “You protest? Perhaaps I should not haa—” He stopped and looked at the ground behind his friend. Pete turned. There, beside the crate he’d been sitting on and cradled by the corps-’Cat, lay General Grisa. Eyes open, jaw slack, he was dead. “Perhaaps I should not haave waited so long,” Rolak continued bitterly. “But I waanted to make sure of Third Corps’ arrival first. General’s Loi and Priaa . . . blundered about somewhaat before making contaact on my left. Perhaaps they were waiting for their taanks.” He shook his head.

  “Where’s Laan?” Pete demanded.

  “With Twelfth Corps. It broke through to the Repubs and they come. I doubt they’ll arrive in time, but perhaaps we won’t need them.” He nodded at the seething mass of Grik. They’d been thrown into confusion by the point-blank barrage and renewed rifle fire. Rolak pointed southwest. “And Third Corps is attaacking there now. The enemy will feel it soon.” He managed a small, satisfied smile. “Just as decisive, I think, will be Colonel Saachic’s arrival in the enemy rear with two thousand hungry me-naaks. Even Gener-aal Haalik disliked our me-naaks, and these Grik haave never seen them. I expect even greater disaarray thaan the taanks wrought—and Colonel Saachic haas always haad a taalent for choosing his moment well.” Rolak glanced back at Grisa, smile fading. “Unlike me.”

  “Shut up,” Pete growled. “He was finished. At least maybe he saw you and knew the rest of us aren’t.”

  Cannon snapped and recoiled back, digging deep trenches with their wheels and trails. Torrents of rain were shaken from the pregnant clouds. The roar of battle had intensified, but there was also a roar of triumph as Grik, now practically helpless, were slaughtered with near impunity. Still, Pete’s fury rose, his bloodlust spiked. Those . . . animals brought this on themselves; they drove us to this. . . . A gust of wind revealed the Grik general once again, standing defiantly, virtually alone for an in
stant before new guards could replace others that had fallen. Rolak saw him too. With a snarl, Pete raised his Springfield.

  “No,” Rolak said.

  “Why the hell not?” Pete demanded, still aiming, finger taking up the slack in the trigger.

  “Because he’s beaten,” Rolak replied. “He may already know thaat, but if he doesn’t, he will soon enough.”

  “So?”

  “So, if you kill him, who will lead the survivors of his aarmy—or the next one they raise against us? It may not be as good as this, but they haave the numbers.”

  “All the more reason to wipe the good ones out!” Pete snapped, still aiming. The Grik general just stared.

  Rolak actually chuckled. “Oh no, my friend. We spare the smaart ones, remember? The ones who know how baadly we beat them. And if the mission upriver succeeds . . .”

  Reluctantly, skeptically, Pete lowered his rifle. The Grik general stared a moment longer, then whirled away. Seconds later, a gust of smoke and canister whirred across the space, chopping more Grik down. Pete felt vaguely cheated. “If those redleg gun-kitties got him after you made me let him go, I’ll bust you back to private!”

  “Please do,” Rolak said.

  * * *

  * * *

  “He could have slain me twice, I think,” Second General Ign gasped as his guards swept him away, practically carrying him to the trench. A hundred more warriors crowded around, led by a ker-noll that must’ve just arrived from somewhere else. His gray armor was soaking wet, some of the dye running from the leather, but he wasn’t splashed with blood and mud. “Why not?” Ign demanded. “I’m sure that was their General Alden, and I’ve no doubt he knew me. At least as his counterpart. Yet he didn’t even do me the . . . the courtesy of killing me when he could!” The last came as a bitter roar. “I would’ve slain him without thought,” he added, as if that made him more virtuous. Suddenly, just as they reached the trench, he seized a musket from one of the guards and hurled it into the mud. “To the smelting fires with these useless garraks—and this whole new way of war!”