Silva pointed. “Form. Squares. By. Companies!” he yelled, carefully enunciating each word. And Milke saw. For an instant, he looked lost, helpless, but then grasped the whistle hanging around his neck and blew a series of blasts meant to translate his command to the battlefield. Few heard him at first and the battle thundered on, but his aide took it up, then his first sergeant. Soon the call was repeating all around the perimeter, joined by a bugler, and Marines started fighting even harder to disengage and cut their way into formation. Grik began leaking through.
With a roar of fury and regret, Silva snatched up his Doom Stomper and slammed it against the rock wall with all his strength. The buttstock shattered through the lock, and the breechblock broke off at the hinge and whirled away. Satisfied he’d sufficiently “spiked” his big gun, he slung his Thompson and grabbed a heavy ammo crate for the MG as its crew wheeled the weapon away from the wall and took off with it. He ran after them. Dumb-ass Milky, he seethed. Wouldn’t’a had to bust my favorite gun if he’d got a move on. But he couldn’t carry it in the fight he expected, and wouldn’t leave it in one piece.
He watched the MG in front of him, wheels bouncing on rubble. Those new carriages’re kinda shoddy, he reflected irrelevantly, cobbled up in Tara’s workshops. But the idea’s pretty bright. Lightweight, with tall, spoked wheels make ’em easy to move, an’ guys can pull the wheels to shoot ’em from behind lower cover. Even easier to tip ’em up an’ drop the wheels back on the axles an’ go, than waggin’ the heavy gun an’ tripod around, puttin’ ’em together an’ takin ’em apart. . . .
He was wondering why he never thought of it himself when a Grik loomed in front of him, jabbing with its bayonet. Silva used the crate as a shield and the bayonet drove into the wood. Rushing forward, he bowled the Grik over with the crate and slammed it down on the thing’s head. He felt a crunch, and then another bayonet slid through his right triceps and he saw the narrow triangular blade just . . . appear in front of him, barely missing his chest. There wasn’t any pain at first and he rolled away, off the blade, but then there was pain, lots of it. He tried to block it out, flipping open the flap holster protecting Captain Reddy’s Colt, but then there was Milke, smoking pistol in hand, dragging him back to the crate. Together, they picked it up and rushed, gasping, past the flashing muzzles of a growing mass of men jockeying to form a ragged rectangle.
Whistles still trilled and another bugle joined the first, but many of the defenders would never make it. Quite a few never even heard the calls and were swarmed under alone or in small groups because the attacking Grik didn’t let up. They just hopped the wall and came on, hot on the heels of fleeing Marines, and only the quickly stiffening defensive formation was able to blast or stab the closest down at last, finally stalling those behind. The three “company squares” never happened, nor would independent squares have been wise. Some of the new training at the ATCs had value after all. So instead of disorganized, panicked prey, the Grik suddenly faced a tight, disciplined, bayonet-bristling hollow rectangle—not unlike the wedge they’d initially charged with. Most were momentarily taken aback. Just in time, too, because the Grik on the shoreline below the retaining wall chose that moment to swarm over it and attack. Instead of the distracted backs of their foes, they were met by a withering fire that blew them back down into the river.
For a breathless moment, while Marines reloaded, there was almost silence—except for the thunder of the wind and sheeting rain, and the continued droning of Grik horns, of course. That’s when Silva was graphically reminded that whether Grik were willing to swim it or not, the river truly only belonged to other things. A lot of Grik still hadn’t reached the shore and many never would. Dark, scaly bodies rolled in the current, tearing swimmers apart. Enormous crocodiles lunged out of the water and snatched struggling, shrieking morsels from thicker ranks forming below the wall. And then something else, like Silva had never seen, reached out of the water and grabbed a Grik with a huge clawed paw and swept it into gaping jaws that barely appeared above the water. Just as quickly, it was gone.
“Did you see that?” Milke demanded in horrified wonder.
“Yep,” Silva agreed, the pain in his arm reminding him to check the wound. It didn’t look too bad. Straight in and out. Since he wasn’t wearing a shirt, he ripped the soggy sleeve of a combat smock off a startled Marine in front of him. Instead of complaining, the Marine tied it around his upper arm. “Damnedest thing,” Silva continued. “’Member me mentionin’ swamp lizards a minute ago? They said the boogers had a big queen, or somethin’, mighta been kinda like that. Damn. And these Griks know there’s shit like that out there! Almost gotta admire their guts.” He shook his head. “Respect ’em or not, though, more’re pilin’ in around us. An’ them by the river gotta come again, as much to get at us as away from the water.”
Milke nodded. “Battalion!” he shouted, beginning the parade ground commands for the maneuver he planned. “Wounded to the center. Outer ranks, level bayonets. Inner ranks will fire at will at my command.” Whistles and bugles repeated the orders, as did hoarse-voiced NCOs. “Without interval,” Milke continued, meaning the rectangle would not revert to squares, “at the quickstep.” Damn risky, thought Silva, but he approved. “March!”
The short, fat, ragged column lurched into motion like a cross between a centipede and a porcupine, and the Grik jumped back at first, surprised. They’d known taking down the survivors of the 11th would require hard fighting, but even as well trained as they were compared to previous Grik armies, they’d never expected this. Belatedly, they pressed in.
“Commence firing!” Milke roared, and the “porcupinipede” exploded in a flash of fire and smoke and spitting lead. Silva started to laugh, rain washing down his face.
“What amuses you so?” Milke demanded hotly.
“You left out part of the order!” Silva shouted gleefully. “You didn’t tell ’em where to go! Wait’ll I tell Major Galay!”
Milke frowned, then actually managed a small smile of his own. “I should’ve thought the direction would be obvious,” he retorted.
“’Zactly!” Silva crowed, unslinging his Thompson again. He missed his Doom Stomper, but it would’ve only hindered him now—and there were still a couple more Stompers nobody else wanted. “You’re gonna do fine from here on, Cap’n Milky, ’cause you already learned one o’ the biggest lessons there is: they don’t fight wars on parade grounds, an’ sometimes shit just is, see? You gotta do what’s obvious, no matter what somebody who ain’t there told you. Maybe they see somethin’ you can’t from time to time, but usually you see shit they don’t.” He waved the muzzle of his Thompson around above the heads of those surrounding them. “These guys knew which direction you meant ’cause there ain’t but one way to go, even if there’s more Grik that way than the other. Nine times outa ten, with good troops, it’s as simple as that.”
Grik slammed into the rectangle from three sides, bowing it in with a clash of steel and a flurry of shots. Blitzers snarled and MGs paused to spray the flank of their advance, but the column slowed to a walk. Silva looked ahead at the swirling mass blocking their way. They’d made it seventy or eighty yards before the Grik tightened up, but even as he watched, the mass began to solidify into a solid, defiant formation. His first thought was to lead with the MGs, but they couldn’t shoot that direction, just as their friends couldn’t shoot this way. They’d have to cut their way through with bayonets and blades. Well, there’s plenty Griks on our flanks, he thought. “’Scuse me, Cap’n Milky,” he said lowly, unaware if he was heard or not. “It’s obvious to me we got a heap more killin’ to do.” Squeezing into the sidestepping ranks where men fired their rifles or plied their bayonets straight out or overhead like spears—and far too many were falling to Grik that did the same—he started firing controlled bursts. Good thing there’s only three, three fifty yards to go, he tried to cheer himself. He glanced ahead again as he reloaded and frowned.
Might as well be miles.
CHAPTER 42
////// Palace of Vanished Gods
Out! Out!” Chack bellowed back inside the palace. “Everybody out! The First North Borno will reinforce the right. Everyone else, form up to the left!”
“Whaat’s up, Col-nol?” Moe asked. He’d just reported on Lawrence’s progress upstairs, but things outside were changing rapidly. Chack’s eyes whipped back and forth, surveying the scene. He’d shifted the leftmost mountain howitzer to the right, where it joined the other, coughing gouts of canister into the charging Grik. The Khonashi already on the line were savaging the enemy with slashing rifle fire, two MGs were suppressing fire from the closest ruins, and two more clawed at the enemy sweeping down. “We should hold,” he murmured aloud. Those outside all night haave been through hell, but the fresh troops’ll stem the tide, he tried to reassure himself.
His gaze shifted to the left, where his greatest fear had been realized. The Grik had caught the 11th trying to rejoin and had it completely surrounded. At least whoever’s in chaarge over there haad the wits to maass an’ try to baash their way through. . . . But now the fighting rectangle had stalled under the sheer weight of the relentless onslaught and was withering as he watched.
“Those men’ll never reach us, Sergeant Moe,” Chack shouted, the wind suddenly gusting so hard, he had to practically scream in the old ’Cat’s ear. Men of the 1st Respite and Lemurians in the 9th Maa-ni-la and 19th Baalkpan were rushing past them now, running into the rain, gathering with their mates on the left side of the line.
“And it’s aall my fault,” Chack berated himself aloud. “I left the Eleventh out there to spare it from the bombaardment, and now it’s doomed unless I expose more of my brigade beyond the breastworks to bring it in.” He looked at Moe and blinked fury at himself. “Even if we’re successful, we’ll likely lose more troops in total thaan if I do nothing.”
“You caan’t do nothing,” Moe observed simply. “The First Raider Brigade doesn’t abaandon its people.”
If Chack had pondered it, he would’ve realized Moe’s statement was the most carefully enunciated thing he’d ever heard him say.
“No,” Chack agreed grimly. “Maker help me, we haave to go for them.” He nodded to the right. “Inform Major Cook he’s in chaarge of the defense. If he caan spare anyone, send them to me. I’ll lead the relief sortie myself.”
Moe jerked a nod. “Ay, ay, Col-nol.” He was gone.
The rush of troops from inside the palace became a flood, and Chack moved to join it.
“Col-nol,” came a cry from behind, and he whirled to see a female comm-’Cat. “Cap-i-taan Reddy’s on the horn!”
Chack shook his head. “I caan’t taalk. Tell him our situation. He’ll understaand.” He started to race out into the wind and rain but caught himself. “Aask him to hurry!” he added.
There was little fighting in front of the line on the left side of the breastworks. The Grik that veered against it had been repulsed, and with neither side able to shoot at the other, for different reasons, the Grik dribbled away, by what appeared to be squads and companies, to join the slaughter of the 11th Marines. That left a space in front of the breastworks closest to the river. Chack and Major Galay, arm in a sling, jogged back and forth, shouting at NCOs, and rushed to organize as solid a phalanx of their own as they could. Nothing like what they wanted—basically a massive square that would transform into a wedge on the move—had ever been contemplated at the Advanced Training Centers. Those at the point of the forming wedge would have to advance without firing, even as their front decreased in size. They’d be replaced or reinforced by fresh troops as they pressed forward, and the idea was to project a firing line out at a right angle to the breastworks. Hopefully they’d extend it far enough to reach the 11th, which—again, hopefully—could manage to fight its way a little closer. The right side of the forming line was free to fire on the enemy and should keep them far enough back that they wouldn’t get cut off themselves. If the line ultimately had to detach from the breastworks, their fire and that of those remaining under cover might be sufficient to keep the enemy from exploiting the new gap.
The rain had eased a bit by the time all this was ready, and a stray ray of sunshine even briefly lanced down before it was swallowed by more dark clouds, but the battle still raged, and the 11th was still fighting. “You should stay here,” Chack told Galay as he moved toward where the first point of contact would be.
“Fine. I’ll stay in the middle,” the Filipino responded.
“I meant you should remain behind.”
“Like hell,” Galay snapped back. “Those’re my men over there.” He raised the arm in the soggy gray sling. “I won’t be walking on my hands. Let’s go.”
Blinking exasperation at one of his female signal-’Cats, Chack merely nodded. “You heard him. Let’s go.”
The ’Cat’s whistle, quickly joined by a dozen more, signaled the advance and the leading edge of what Chack was thinking of as his “flying square into a wedge” formation surged over the barricade. Tight defensive formations were still practiced, but with the more open field tactics their better weapons allowed them to employ, nobody thought they’d have to resort to such bloody, brute-force offensive tactics again. So even if an instructor ever dreamed something like this up, it was never taught. Chack hoped it would be a one-time thing.
There was almost no resistance at first, but the Grik heard the whistles too and started turning to face them. Chack saw what had to be Grik NCOs roaring sharply at warriors around them, desperately flinging a defensive line together. The first was ground under as Chack’s wedge began to develop and slammed into it like a battering ram, bayonets and even a few cutlasses slashing, stabbing, hacking the enemy down.
“There’s lizaards on the riverbaank!” somebody shouted, and those at what was becoming the bottom of the wedge started shooting down at Grik, strung out at the base of the retaining wall. There weren’t very many—yet—and most looked like damp, bedraggled stragglers from the fight ahead, wary of the water and unwilling to climb the wall. Crackling shots mowed them down. More and more Grik rounded on them, though, slamming into the point of the wedge with fierce resolve, bashing with muskets, stabbing with bayonets, slashing with teeth, their jaws agape. The trickle of wounded moving to the rear became a flood, and the wedge rushed on over a growing number of dead.
Nearing the point of contact himself, Chack finally unslung the long Krag-Jorgensen from his shoulder. Beads of water formed on the dull gray blade of his bayonet and were whipped away by the wind. A Grik bashed through the narrow line ahead, taking a hacking blow from a cutlass and two bayonets, but more Grik used its sacrifice to force their own wedge into the press. Chack stabbed one in the throat just under the jaw. Blood spewed back, carried by the wind. Another tried to duck under his rifle, but a Respitan crushed its skull with the butt of his rifle. Then he went down, a bayonet slammed through his chest, hands grasping the musket barrel. The Grik released the weapon and flailed about with long claws on its left hand. Just like Laaw-rence and the Khonaashi filed them off their right haands long ago so they could haandle caartridges and weapons better, these Grik haave done the same, Chack noted. But men and ’Cats screamed as the remaining claws tore flesh. More bayonets quickly finished the creature.
So odd, Chack reflected. For this kind of fighting, the Grik would’ve been better off with swords and spears—and us with shields. But only the weather makes it so. If the Grik muskets weren’t soaked, the Eleventh would already be dead and we’d be taking even more casualties, still behind the breastworks.
Such thoughts evaporated as he suddenly became the point of the wedge and all he could do was jab, parry, and thrust in a whirl of muscle-memory responses. It was simply impossible to think as fast as he had to fight. He could hardly breathe in the sodden air, and each gasp was almost a shout. Painful blows fell on his helmet and rhino-pig
armor, but none disabled him, so they must not’ve been serious. He knew men and ’Cats were still around him; he could hear them shouting, feel their presence, but it was easy to sense that he was entirely alone against the ravening mass of Grik. His vision began to blur with rain and blood and tears, and everything turned into a surrealistic smear of motion accompanied by howls, shrieks, the clash of steel, bellowing cries, and the thunder of the storm. Then even the sounds merged into a thudding, booming, indistinguishable roar.
An instant of near panic seized him, and he felt almost like he had that day so long ago, at the base of Salissa’s forward wing. He’d never intentionally harmed anyone before, yet the Grik had come, he was expected to fight them, and he was afraid. That’s when he’d seen his sister Risa wounded and he’d become a killer. The path between what he’d been and what he was had been long and bloody, but he’d learned to follow it in his sleep. And just as Risa, who’d been the warrior then, had lost her heart for fighting at the end, he’d come to love it in a way, for the satisfaction it gave him to kill those who hurt so many he cared about—had come to love—and had finally taken even Risa herself. He was a machine of death, uncontrolled, that only death could still.
“Whoa there, Chackie!” shouted a voice, only vaguely familiar in the state he was in. A big, blood-blurry shape redirected the equally bloody bayonet and muzzle of his Krag up and away. “Hold it, goddammit!” the shape insisted, dodging the butt of the rifle that Chack tried to slam into his head. “It’s me, Chackie! Dennis! What’re you so mad at me for?”
Chack suddenly felt like all his tendons had been slashed and burned, and he slumped against supporting hands. He blinked rapidly and shakily tried to wipe his eyes, but the rain, foamy sweat, and blood-soaked fur on his arm only made it worse. For the first time in longer than he recalled, the cacophony of battle drifted back to his consciousness. It sounded even fiercer than he remembered, with more shooting, but there was also cheering now; damp, dull, exhausted, but real. Someone had produced a field dressing and was wiping his face while Silva held him and his Krag. He knew it was Silva by the distinctive smell of his battle sweat.
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