Palmer must’ve been working on it already, because the talker immediately repeated what Ed replied. “Nancys is working over the Griks in front of Second Corps. They gotta fly out to Amer-i-kaa an’ rearm before they come here. We got all the Fleashooters, an’ more o’ them is rearming with bombs on Big Sal, but it take a little before the Nancys get here. They is movin’ Amer-i-kaa closer, an’ she ain’t fuelin’ an’ armin’ nothin’ right now!”
Matt ground his teeth. The Grik were almost on them, and it would soon be down to the bayonet. “Tell Mr. Palmer to inform Adar, Captain Von Melhausen, Keje, or anybody he can get ahold of, that Amerika needs to stop right now, wherever she is, regardless of whatever scheme they’re cooking up. If she doesn’t start getting our air support turned around as fast as she can, there won’t be anything left of us to support!” The ’Cat blinked wide eyes and then spoke quickly to Palmer.
The pair of Fleashooters came back, their blue paint difficult to distinguish against the darkening sky. There were none of the antiair mortars, like giant shotguns mounted on a baseplate and aimed by hand, among the mobs surging against Walker, but the incoming fusillade of musket fire paused while what must’ve been nearly every matchlock in the horde puffed smoke at the diving planes. The little pursuit ships had to get low for the short-range Blitzers to be effective, and countless crossbow bolts rose as well. It was impossible to say which weapons were responsible for savaging one of the planes so badly that it sprouted flames and spun into the burning remains of the Grik ironclad cruiser. A ball of fire roiled into the air, and flaming gasoline spattered the Grik crowding forward, closest to the beached wreck. The other P-1 clawed at the sky and staggered away, trailing a thin stream of smoke.
There remained a lull in the fire directed at the ship while the Grik reloaded, and the defenders rose up and poured it in. Rifles flashed. The 25 mm pounded with a metronomic booming, machine guns and Blitzer Bugs chattered, and the big 4"-50s roared defiance—and still the Grik came. There’d be no stopping them, Matt realized. It was as though they somehow knew that USS Walker was the heart of the Allied fleet. These warriors were mostly young and almost crestless, so maybe they actually believed that, having been taught it since birth. Their motivation hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. What did matter was that they were about to reach the deck of Matt’s ship, over the mounded bodies of the slain, and it didn’t look like there was a thing in the world he could do to stop it.
“Marines!” Matt roared, mostly addressing those who’d come aboard from the PTs. “Take shields and move to the front!” Allied Marines had gone back and forth between using their bronze-faced shields and discarding them, but it had been shown that, in fights like this, shields still served a valuable purpose. “Riflemen, behind them! Bayonets forward!” He looked at the excited torpedo talker. “Everyone on the ship, but the seriously wounded, a minimal watch in the firerooms, and the repair party in the aft engine room will report to the point of contact, between the bridge and the port torpedo mount! Secure all hatches from the inside and keep them that way until further notice!”
“Even to the wardroom?” the ’Cat asked. “Where’ll we take the wounded?”
“Especially the companionway hatch to the wardroom!” Matt ordered. He suddenly noticed Earl Lanier standing just under the overhang, between the aft galley bulkhead and the number three ’stack. The obese cook had a Thompson, but was just looking around, wide-eyed. “Lanier! Get your mates and what corps-’Cats you can find, and set up a dressing station on the starboard side of the galley! The amidships deckhouse, the bridge, and the aft deckhouse will be our battlements, and the last places we retreat to. Spread the word!” he added for the talker.
“But Captain!” Earl finally managed. “I never got my Coke machine struck down below! It’s still sittin’ where you want the dressing station! There’ll be a buncha m’lingerin’ bastards tryin’ to get away from the fight with a scratch er scrape wallowin’ all over it, dentin’ the lid!”
Matt shook his head, struck by the weird things people thought of at times like this. The Coke machine was usually empty, but despite repeated battle damage, it still worked. It had become a kind of talisman for many of the old crew—and particularly Earl Lanier.
“If it gets in the way one little bit, you’ll heave it over the side! Is that absolutely clear? Now go!” Matt snapped at Earl’s hesitant nodding.
“You want my riflemen down there?” Campeti called from above.
“Not yet, Sonny. Use ’em to try to keep the Grik off us. Otherwise, you’re our last reserve. You can see where they’ll be needed better from up there than I can!” Matt racked the slide on his Colt, chambering a round, then flipped the thumb safety up. Releasing the magazine, he thumbed an extra .45 ACP cartridge on top of the remaining six before slamming it back in the well. “It’s about to get a bit frisky, as Silva would say,” he added to those around him, managing a slight grin despite the turmoil in his chest. It had been a long time since he’d faced the Grik at such close quarters. He was better with his sword than he’d been before, he reflected absently, but fervently hoped it wouldn’t come to that. An instant later, the first Grik began swarming up, over the mattresses, and somehow he knew it would.
CHAPTER 27
////// PT-7
The “Seven boat,” or Lucky Seven, as Irvin Laumer called her since she had, after all, survived the sinking of Respite Island, crept slowly through the jutting, burning remains of the Grik fleet in the shallow harbor. It was a surrealistic sight, even blurred by the sudden downpour drenching everyone aboard. Blasted carcasses of mighty ships, laid open and gutted on their sides, bore stark testimony to the quality of Bernie Sandison’s Baalkpan Naval Arsenal Mk-3 torpedoes. Between them, Walker’s new armor-piercing shells and the work of Big Sal’s 1st Naval Air Wing, it didn’t look like a single capital ship had survived the predawn onslaught. It was possible a few cruisers remained, anchored beyond the cluster of Grik “Indiamen” deeper in the harbor, but none were reported by the flyboys. Many of the Indiamen themselves were burning too, but they hadn’t been priority targets. They were crewed by warriors, and it was most likely they were abandoned while their crews fought on shore. Besides, considering the growing strain on Allied supply lines, captured Grik Indiamen, once despised, were now prized for their cargo capacity—and easy conversion to better ships, of course. They were helpless right now, and wouldn’t all be destroyed until it was decided whether the Allies could get them or not.
Lieutenant Irvin Laumer had taken the wheel of the Seven boat himself, coaxing her through the treacherous anchorage like a trout in a rocky stream, while crewfolk on the fo’c’sle warned of hazards such as underwater obstacles or floating debris. It was hard to see. The rain was churning up the surface of the water, and the flashies were doing the same as they feasted on countless Grik corpses. All the nearby ships were burning brightly, and there wasn’t a live Grik to be seen on any of them.
“Lawsy, what a awful place!” Isak Reuben muttered, clutching his Krag close to his skinny chest with one hand while he lit one of his vile, soggy cigarettes with the other, under the shelter of his helmet. “I bet I shoudn’t’a come,” he added.
“Why did you, you nutty twerp?” Silva demanded, taking a chew. “Tabby’ll have your skin when she finds out!” he mumbled around the yellowish leaves he stuffed in his cheek.
Isak shrugged. “She don’t need me. Walker don’t even need me anymore,” he added miserably. “Least not with her all scrunched up ashore.” His voice firmed and he glared up at Silva, the rain trying to quench the butt dangling from his lips. “An’ besides, that sequittal, lizardy grub worm all the Griks is so worked up over has been havin’ her nasty critters tryin’ to kill my boilers ever since the day we brung ’em here.” He shrugged. “Gilbert’s my half brother, you know.” Silva nodded, surprised by the sudden confession. Everybody knew, though the Mice had never openly admitted it be
fore. “Well, he ain’t here. He’s off engineerin’ in Maaka-Kakja, with Second Fleet, fightin’ the Doms.” He took a long drag and coughed. “Just seems one of us ought’a try to hit a lick against the damn thing, after we come all this way.” He waved his hand helplessly.
“You’re gonna get ate, Isak,” Silva stated matter-of-factly.
Isak shrugged again, but glanced back the way they’d come. Walker was barely visible through the smoke and rain several miles away, but her guns still flared against the dreary day and the deadly shore. “Could be,” he answered quietly, “but I bet I would have back yonder, anyway. Least this way, if I get ate, it’ll be doin’ somethin’ different. Ever’body’s always on me to try new things.”
“I didn’t come along to get eaten,” Gunny Horn stated, and Silva looked at him.
“Why’d you come? You at least could’a been of use on the ship. I thought Marines always craved fightin’ on ships!”
“He came for the same reason as me, stupid,” Pam snapped, speaking for the first time since she presented Silva with the knife. “Because you did.”
Horn regarded the woman strangely. She had a Blitzer Bug slung over her shoulder, and a bulky bag of magazines hung from a strap. The rain had turned her T-shirt translucent to the point that she might as well have worn nothing at all. Like the rest of them, she wore a “tin hat” helmet, but her dark hair was soaked and strands were plastered to her face. He knew how tough she was, but right then, she looked very small and vulnerable. “Maybe, in a way,” Horn admitted. “Me and that idiot ape have a long history, all the way back to the China Station, of getting into scrapes together.” He fingered a little leather thong around his neck that was threaded through a tooth with a hole in it. “Kind of unnatural, come to think of it, considering I’m a Marine, and he’s . . . whatever the hell he is,” he continued. “But I surely doubt the real reason we both came is exactly the same.” He scratched his thick black beard. “I’m here because Dennis always throws a helluva party. I figure you tagged along to make sure he doesn’t have too much fun.”
Pam looked away. “Just shut up, wilya?”
Laumer coughed. “I’m here to get your crazy butts ashore. Lieutenant Miyata? You’ve been here before. Point the way, if you please, to the best place to land.”
Miyata complied, indicating a long section of dock, crowded with small boats a little beyond the jutting funnels of another dead Grik ship. This one had some survivors, crowded atop the exposed casemate, but they weren’t any threat. As far as they could see, the dock was deserted.
“It looks like you may have been right,” Herring told Silva. He hadn’t said much either. Now he was looking through an Imperial telescope. “I don’t see any Grik at all, ashore.”
“There may be quite a few in those warehouses and shops beyond the dock,” Miyata advised, “or in the—I think you would say ‘shantytown’—between them and the palace.”
Herring grunted. “What does the Jap say about palace guards?” he asked. He’d rarely been able to bring himself to address Miyata directly.
Miyata bristled. “Commander Herring, we are about to go into action together, and if you want my best assistance, I hope you will remember that my name is not ‘the Jap’!”
“Settle down, Lieutenant,” Silva soothed. “Mr. Herring’s only met the kinda Japs that murder pris’ners. He ain’t as forgivin’ an’ open-minded as me an’ Larry are. Hell, I even got a Jap friend! Gen’ral Shinya’s a right guy!” His face turned serious and his tone hard. “Now, that said, you an’ me don’t know each other very well, but anybody’ll tell you that if I do get a notion you’re settin’ us up for any Grik or Jap buddies o’ yours, I’ll feed you to Petey a strip at a time!”
“Eat?” Petey chirped happily.
“I am on your side!” Miyata objected. “Surely Becher Lange has convinced you of that by now.”
“Don’t personally know the Kraut neither,” Silva replied reasonably.
“Leave Lieutenant Miyata alone,” Irvin Laumer ordered with an authority Silva didn’t remember. “He’s okay.”
Silva sniffed.
“The ‘palace guard,’ as you call it, is quite numerous,” Miyata said crisply. “But its members are dispersed between several levels, and more entrances that we can see from here. I doubt they have ever considered a need to practice massing in one part of the palace to prevent an actual attack, and they may not know how—or even be able to.” He considered. “There is another possible reserve the palace might call on that could prove even more problematic, if it has not already been sent to the fighting.”
“What’s that?” Irvin asked.
“The ‘sport fighters.’ Consider them like ‘gladiators.’ They are all skilled warriors with considerable experience. It is that experience, in fact, that makes them ‘entertaining’ to watch, I understand.” He looked at Herring. “You may recall that I reported that it was from that group that Kurokawa initially selected leaders for their ‘new’ army, and their General Halik rose.”
Herring nodded. “I remember,” he said, finally looking straight at Miyata. “How many?”
“I cannot say. There were several hundred, at least.” He glanced at the gloomy palace growing near. “There may be even more now—or perhaps there are none, if they have all entered their armies.”
Lawrence looked from one man to the other. He hadn’t said anything at all, but had observed his friends and all the strangers on PT-7 with considerable interest. He’d learned a lot about humans and Lemurians in the last couple of years and recognized that there were a lot of differences between his kind and theirs. His folk were much less emotionally complicated; that was certain. He sensed many emotional undercurrents on the boat just then, and like the predator he was, he wondered who might be the weak link in their little pack of “hunters,” and how that might affect their mission. He sensed a lot of fear, and that was normal. He was afraid himself. He didn’t remember when he hadn’t been afraid, on some level, since he’d set out on his “awakening,” or “rite of passage” voyage so long ago. That was what brought him in contact with humans and Lemurians in the first place. It was also what truly “awakened” him to what he could become, and he was wholly devoted to his friends. He wasn’t worried how they would perform—even Pam. He already knew. As usual, he was utterly content to follow Silva’s lead while he watched for the weak link. If necessary, he’d cut it out himself before it had a chance to break.
They motored closer to the dock in silence, always on the alert for threats. Laumer coaxed his boat between a pair of smaller vessels that looked a lot like Lemurian feluccas, and a pair of ’Cats leaped across to the dock. One had a coil of rope, and the other stood by to fend off, as Laumer cut his throttles.
“Single up there,” Laumer called in a loud whisper, wondering as he did it why he was trying to be so quiet. The rain and the battle raging behind and to the east were sufficiently loud to keep his voice from carrying far. Almost immediately, Lawrence scampered ashore, his head bobbing as he tasted unfamiliar scents. Silva jumped after him, followed by the rest of the party in a rush. After a moment, and without a word, Laumer chose a shortened smoothbore Allin-Silva from the rack beside him in the cockpit of the boat and slung a bandolier of 20-gauge shells over his shoulder. The shells were made of thick, waxed paper with a brass base, and were loaded with a dozen roughly .30-caliber balls on top of one hundred grains of powder. Initially called “buckshot,” the shells had quickly been renamed “Grikshot.” The weapon that fired it, so similar to the standard issue rifle in every other way, was simply called a shotgun. Winny Rominger had lobbied for their issue to the PTs in addition to some of Chack’s Raiders on the grounds that if one of his boats ever lost power, its small crew would need all the antipersonnel firepower it could get.
Ensign Hardee looked at Laumer with wide eyes. “You’re not going with them, are you, sir?” the sixteen-ye
ar-old boy almost squeaked.
“Yes, I am,” Irvin replied. “You can handle the Seven boat as well as I can, and they might need the help.” He frowned. “Besides . . . I have to. For S-Nineteen, and, well, other reasons too.” He patted Hardee’s shoulder. “You’re in command. Back her off and keep station by that wreck we passed—not the one with the Grik on it!” He grinned. “Keep an eye on the dock here. If you see us running back, we might need a lift in a hurry!” He paused. “Get on the TBS and report that we’re ashore, and anything else you see, got it?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Irvin Laumer nodded, then trotted forward and hopped off the boat, joining the others as they prepared to enter Grik City itself.
CHAPTER 28
////// II Corps
General Queen Safir Maraan and 6th Division were in the first Grik trenchline now, and the bright morning had been strangled by an opaque haze of smoke and dust beneath a growing pall of darkening skies. A few raindrops were beginning to fall, as if shaken from the air by the concussive thud of artillery and constant crackle of rifle fire. She’d lost track of General Grisa somewhere on the long, corpse-strewn beach behind, between their initial landing point and here. But a pair of signal ’Cats with one of the new field telephones remained beside her, unspooling wire. The charge across the naked beach had been one of the most unnerving events of the entire war for her thus far. She knew her beloved Chack had done much the same against equally implacable foes in the East, and she’d run into a defensive Grik position herself once before, but this was the first time she’d ever slammed a charge home, directly into bristling spears, cannon muzzles, and withering crossbow and musket fire. The 6th was fortunate that these Grik, though clearly able to defend, didn’t have much practice at it, and the wild melee in the trench itself had been equally awkward and terrifying for both sides. The better discipline and firepower of Safir’s troops had been the only, final, advantage.
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