As a result, the Fighters, who were only able to grab odd moments of sleep and ate only the unwary local water dwellers they managed to snag on their patrols, were less than fully diligent in their execution. More than one broke surface in chase of a fish creature that leaped for a flying insectoid or to escape the hunting Skink. One did so some sixty meters ahead of Lance Corporal Schultz’s advance. A nearby Leader, also fatigued and hungry, was infuriated by this breach of discipline and overreacted.
“Second squad,” Rokmonov softly ordered on the all-hands circuit. “Echelon right, form on Schultz. Guns, put one gun on each flank of second squad. First squad, on line facing front, link with the gun on second squad’s left flank. Get behind cover.”
Before the Marines got into position, a shrill, barking voice shattered the marsh quiet from the direction of the splash. The Marines all instantly went for the nearest cover. For some that meant dropping into the water. They waited tensely, blasters ready, for the Skink assault they expected to come bursting at them through the marsh. The assault didn’t come; instead, the shrill, barking voice continued its shouting.
Claypoole listened for a moment, then exclaimed on the squad circuit, “That’s a sergeant chewing out his troops!”
“No shit, Claypoole,” Sergeant Linsman snapped back. Humor was audible in his voice when he added, “Maybe you can learn to be a corporal.”
Lieutenant Rokmonov had come to the same conclusion. Excited, he acted on it. “First squad, guns, head for that long dry place,” he ordered. He slid his infra shield into place. It showed the two squads advancing toward an elongated islet about thirty meters ahead of them; they advanced more rapidly than they had before. As he followed he murmured additional orders: “First squad, up thirty, maintain visual contact with guns. Assault section, one squad trail second squad, the other squad trail first squad. Five is with you.” “Five” was shorthand for Staff Sergeant Hyakowa, the platoon sergeant, whom the new order put in command of first squad and one assault squad. He heard but didn’t pay attention to the assault section leader give movement orders to his squads.
The Marines advancing toward the angry voice didn’t maintain their line. All of them were still watching their footing on the marsh bottom, and each went at the fastest speed he thought he could go without tripping or falling into a hole. Schultz was the first to reach the islet, Doyle was the last, even behind Rokmonov, who had a later start and farther to go. None of them tripped or fell.
Schultz’s heart rat-a-tatted in his chest as he bellied his way up the side of the islet to where he could see across it through the trees and clumps of grass. An amazing sight met his fright-widened eyes and drove away his fear.
Two Skinks, one armed with an acid shooter, stood facing each other in water to their knees. One violently waved his arms about as he shouted in the face of the one with the acid shooter, his flying hands smacking the armed Skink repeatedly in the face and on the shoulders. Small spurts of water shot from the gill slits in his sides with each shout. The other cringed, but was silent and did nothing to ward off the blows. Water slowly dribbled from his gill slits. A quick scan showed Schultz ten more Skinks surrounding the two, at a safe distance from the striking hands. Those ten were mostly submerged. Some had only the tops of their heads exposed, others had heads and shoulders above water—those frequently ducked their heads and gulped water. None of the Skinks seemed to be paying attention to anything but the standing duo.
Rokmonov arrived and took in the scene. He used his UPUD to get a real-time download from the string-of-pearls. Its infra display clearly showed the two segments of third platoon. The two standing Skinks were barely visible as a faint pink spot; the others didn’t show. No other red or pink was visible on the display. That could mean no more Skinks were in the immediate vicinity, or that the string-of-pearls simply didn’t pick up infrared signals from any others. He placed more trust in the UPUD’s motion detector function; its display didn’t show any movement he couldn’t see for himself.
“Does anybody have movement or scent from anywhere else?” the lieutenant asked on the all-hands circuit.
Nobody did.
“Second squad, guns, pick targets.” He paused a moment while the squad leaders assigned fields of fire and the fire team leaders assigned individual targets to their men. “Fire!”
Nine blasters sizzle-cracked and the two guns buzzed their rapid-fire sizzle-cracks, and all the Skinks flashed into vapor.
“Be alert, everybody!” Rokmonov ordered. He heard the squad and fire team leaders giving the same command at the same instant he did.
The marsh was silent, the constant background of insectoid buzzing was gone. It seemed that even the breeze stopped ruffling through the leaves and grasses.
“Detectors, report,” Rokmonov ordered as he studied the displays on his UPUD. He thought the foliage of the marsh would muffle the brief sounds of fire so it didn’t carry far, but he knew that sometimes sounds in wooded areas can travel farther than expected. The Marines with the motion and scent detectors reported no suspicious movement or scents. The UPUD was equally negative. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Hundreds of Skinks could be converging on third platoon beneath the surface of the water.
Rokmonov made a snap decision, one that should draw any nearby Skinks. “Rat, secure an acid shooter to take back. Collect the rest of them and stack them by me.”
“Aye aye,” Sergeant Linsman replied. He rattled off orders to his squad. Second and third fire teams crossed the islet to the water where the Skinks had died, while first fire team stayed in position to cover them. The recovery took three minutes.
“Humpf,” Claypoole snorted when he dropped an acid gun next to Linsman. “These things are heavy. How do those little bastards carry them?”
“You’ve got three of them hanging from your arms, Rock,” Linsman said. “They carry one in a harness on their backs. That’s easier.”
Claypoole looked at the two acid shooters he still held and briefly considered trying one on, but the straps looked too short to fit him. He carried them to Rokmonov’s position. One hanging from each hand was easier than hauling three had been. He added the two to the growing pile.
While second squad was gathering the acid shooters, Rokmonov studied the UPUD map display. He wasn’t looking for any indication of Skinks, he was examining the terrain. The display, in the scale at which he had it set, was detailed enough to show individual trees. He looked up a few times to make visual comparisons between what he could see and what the display showed. He finished annotating the display seconds after the last acid shooter clunked onto the pile.
“Listen up,” he said into the all-hands circuit. “We’re going into the trees. Squad leaders, here are your positions.” He transmitted the map, his annotations marking the trees he wanted the Marines to climb. Neither Rokmonov nor anyone else in the platoon knew if the Skinks would fail to spot Marines in trees, but from time immemorial, ambushers and snipers in trees had been very effective at surprising foes who weren’t looking up—and none of the Marines had ever noticed the Skinks looking up into trees as they moved. The Skinks seemed to be oriented downward, toward the depths of caves and water.
The marked trees formed a narrow ellipse about fifty meters on its long axis, less than half that on its short; the nearest marked tree to the islet was thirty-five meters back. Two Marines were to mount each tree. Two trees, one along each long side, were marked for the guns. Two others, again one on each side, were marked for the assault guns.
After allowing a moment for the squad leaders to assign trees to their Marines, Rokmonov said, “Move out.”
Claypoole smiled. Lieutenant Rokmonov was going to work out—this was exactly the kind of unorthodox tactic Gunny Bass would have come up with.
“Sir?” Sergeant N’ton, the assault section leader, said on the command circuit. “I can’t get my guns up in the trees.”
“Yes you can,” Rokmonov replied, surprised by N’ton’s
statement. “Leave the mounts on the ground. The guns can go up.” Assault guns in the trees was a trick he himself had used when he was a lance corporal. He was surprised that a section leader didn’t know about it.
Minutes later the Marines were all in position. Placing the assault guns was the only tricky part of the deployment. The guns normally fired from tripod mounts; the technique for mounting them in trees was different. Also, an assault squad was three Marines—a gunner who fired it, an assistant gunner who helped the gunner and reloaded it, and a squad leader who spotted for the gun. The squads had to be divided. Rokmonov saw to the assault gun placement himself. He consoled himself with the thought that Sergeant N’ton was new to assault guns.
“Second assault squad,” he said when he finally took his own position, “can you see the acid shooters?” The question wasn’t necessary—he’d put it where it could see the weapons stack. Second assault squad was on the far side of the ellipse from the islet.
“Clearly, sir,” came the response.
“Everybody, get a tree trunk between you and the acid shooters. Second assault squad, rain some fire on those shooters, let’s see if they explode or just melt down.” Rokmonov knew this wasn’t a safe operation. But he wanted to attract Skinks, and he was certain this would bring them. The compressed air tanks might explode if they didn’t melt down fast enough to let the compressed air leak out before the pressure ruptured weakened tanks. They might throw fragments a fair distance, which was why he had everybody behind tree trunks—it wasn’t likely fragments would reach second assault squad. Exploding pressure tanks could throw acid from the acid tanks. The impregnated chameleons gave the Marines protection from the acid. So did the intervening trunks. Anyway, they were in combat, and combat was inherently unsafe.
The assault gun shrieked, and a line of plasma bolts so close together they looked like a solid stream of star fire angled at the pile of acid shooters fifty meters away. The webbing and nonmetallic supports of the harnesses vaporized almost instantly. An instant later three air tanks poofed open, heated and softened too quickly for the compressed air to burst them in an eruption of fragments. The weapons pile, no longer supported by harnesses, collapsed. Metal clanked on metal, breaking through soft spots in another three, poofing out more air, flowing acid. The compressed air in another tank burst it, and a ruptured acid tank spun upward, spewing deadly fluid in a gracefully widening spiral. The shock of the explosion weakened the remaining air tanks enough for the overheated gas in them to burst them apart. Metal fragments whizzed through the air, mowed down swaths of reeds, sliced small branches from trees, thunked into tree trunks, splatted into water. Broken acid tanks tumbled into the air, skittered and bounced through the islet’s grasses, and threw greenish death into the air, onto the grasses, and into the water.
“Squad leaders, report,” Rokmonov ordered. The squad leaders reported almost immediately: no casualties. He huffed out a held breath. His gamble had worked. He hadn’t been positive that none of the Marines would be injured. Now to see if the trick paid off.
Five hundred meters away a Master spun toward the explosions that crackled over the marsh. The three Leaders he was supervising also turned and looked. He had been intent on finding other entrances to the cave system. Now he barked a command at the Leaders, who instantly dove underwater and began tearing their Fighters from their search mission. In moments thirty Fighters were arrayed before the Master. Their heads broke the surface only high enough for their ears to clear the water so they could hear the Master’s words.
The Master growled commands and pointed toward the source of the explosions. Two Fighters submerged and began swimming in that direction. The Master growled more orders, then he and the three Leaders submerged and purged their lungs of air to free their gills to breathe.
The scene was replicated in two other locations in different directions at different distances. Three groups of Skinks began to converge on the islet on which third platoon had destroyed the weapons. The three groups didn’t coordinate their movements. They couldn’t. The Skinks didn’t dare use radios for communication because of the danger of the Earthman string-of-pearls intercepting their signals and pinpointing their locations.
Guards in four aboveground cave mouths also heard the explosions. The guards had closed-circuit communications with their headquarters. They reported the explosions. Within minutes the Over Master in command of defense of the caves knew about the explosions. He hastily made plans that would send three thousand Fighters sweeping through the area in search of the Earthman Marines who had penetrated so close.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
“I see them!” Lance Corporal Godenov exclaimed.
“Where?” Corporal Dean asked.
Sergeant Ratliff simultaneously wanted to know, “How many?”
“Two of them, approaching the east end of the islet. They’re underwater.”
“Everybody, look alive,” Lieutenant Rokmonov said on the all-hands circuit. “Company’s coming, they can be anywhere. Hold your fire, the first ones are probably scouts. We don’t want to alert whoever’s following them.”
Ten meters up in his tree, Dean was surprised at how clearly he could see into the water. At the east end of the islet he saw what Godenov had spotted—two indistinct shapes under the surface of the marsh water. They could have been a couple of large pieces of flotsam, or tightly packed shoals of tiny fish. After several seconds of observation, he made out their kicking legs. Godenov must have seen that motion right away.
As he watched, the two Skinks reached the water on the far side of the islet, where the Skinks they ambushed had been. The scouts flitted about as though examining signs of the one-sided fight. He wondered if there was some taste of plasma or essence-of-Skink left behind in the water. More likely, he thought, they saw fragments of metal from the exploding tanks. Either that or second squad had disturbed the bottom when they retrieved the weapons. After a moment the Skinks swam to the islet and cautiously raised their heads. The tanks of acid guns were visible on their backs, the nozzles in their hands. They quickly scanned the burned surface of the islet and its shattered vegetation, then slid back into the water and swam back the way they’d come.
“More coming from the west,” Corporal Dornhofer reported. I see three, underwater.”
“Hold your fire,” Rokmonov reminded the Marines.
Dornhofer was watching the new trio of Skinks repeat the activity pattern of the previous duo when Corporal Claypoole said, “They’re behind us too. I’ve got two going around my island. I can see back about sixty meters and the water looks darker, like maybe Skinks are in it.”
“Keep an eye on the dark area,” Sergeant Linsman said. Seconds later he added, “I’ve got them. He had both his squad circuit and the command circuit open. “Buddha’s balls, they’re only a couple meters from the base of my tree!” The Marines waited tensely. The Skinks were well within the range of whatever sense they had that allowed them to detect chameleoned Marines, but the aliens passed by without noticing the Marines in the trees above them.
“Their detection sense, whatever it is,” Linsman said, “doesn’t seem to work between water and air!”
A minute later the three Skinks who came from the west were leaving. They reached the western end of the islet at the same time the two from the south rounded it. For a second it looked as though they were going to fight, but they recognized each other and stopped. One from each team stood and flushed water from his breathing organs. They spoke briefly, then the two scouting teams headed back where they came from.
Claypoole watched the two swim to the darker area of water, where one of them stood. A piece broke off the dark water and rose, becoming a Skink who faced the first one. Water cascaded down their sides. Claypoole couldn’t hear any voices, but the two seemed to be talking. They looked exactly like an officer debriefing a scout. After a moment they submerged and blended into the dark patch of water. Claypoole reported what he saw.
“Hold your fire,” Rokmonov murmured. “Remember, there are probably two more groups coming.”
Dean watched as a moving darkness under the surface slowly resolved into saffron-colored individual Skinks. They split into two groups. The smaller group, about a dozen individuals, went behind the islet to the area where the Marines had killed the Skinks. The other group, about twice as large, swam to the near side. Dean reported the numbers and disposition.
The Skinks arrayed in what appeared to be defensive positions, except for two, who swam around in the killing zone, examining the bottom. First one of them, then two others, rose from the water. They stood for a moment with their chests heaving. Water cascaded down their sides from their gill slits. They climbed onto the islet. Two of them carried acid gun tanks on their backs, nozzles in their hands. The one who had examined the bottom wasn’t armed, unless the pouch on his belt that resembled a holster carried a sidearm of some sort.
“I see them,” Rokmonov said. Dean stopped reporting.
The unarmed Skink walked the width of the islet, eyes scanning the ground, while the other two guarded him. He kicked through the charred area where the pile of acid guns had been destroyed, bent down to pick up something, looked at it, flipped it away. He squatted on the near bank and brushed his fingers over a scrape mark left by a crawling Marine. He stood and paced the length of the islet, examining the ground. The marks were there, bent and crushed grass, flattened patches of mud, footprints. It looked to Dean as though the Skink saw every mark the Marines had left behind and understood their meaning. He returned to the center of the islet, where the guns had been destroyed, and peered at the burned ground for a moment. Then he barked something. The two guards rushed into the water, one on each side of the islet. Seconds later all of the Skinks broke surface far enough to expose their ears. The officer—or so he appeared to be—growled and barked at them. He swept his arm in an arc to the south, through the Marine position. The Skinks in the water bobbed their heads in a very human way. I understand, they seemed to signal. The officer thrust his hand to the south and gave a final bark. The Skinks submerged and fanned out in an east-west line. The officer re-entered the water.
Starfist: Kingdom's Fury Page 19