Niwa said nothing, but Halik caught the . . . different . . . expression. He gurgled understanding. “I know it is not your way to feed on the bodies of your enemies. To you they are not ‘prey’ in the manner they are to us. You fight them, subjugate them, but do not eat them. To me, that is as incomprehensible as what we do is to you. I foresee no meeting of minds on this issue. Even were I inclined to bow to your sensibilities regarding those we defeat, particularly those of your species, I could not.”
Niwa seemed to shrug it off. “It’s not the way of my people to surrender in the first place. If any of the enemy do, I wouldn’t see them eaten, but they deserve no respect.”
Halik looked at him a long moment. “Even so, my friend, if the time comes, I might save some few as ‘pets’ or ‘advisors,’ but that is the most I could do. In that event, choose carefully.”
“My choice was made by General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa,” Niwa said simply. “On this world, he stands in my emperor’s stead and I obey his orders. It is fortunate for me that those orders paired me with you.” He glanced at N’galsh. “Even with our perfect understanding, I feel compelled to go. I’d hate to learn survivors were slain by . . . overeager Hij on the scene.”
“That will not happen,” Halik warned the official. “See to it.”
“I shall.”
“Excellent. You are dismissed.” The official bowed and backed from the chamber. Halik again looked at Niwa. “You seem to have settled in well,” he ventured.
“Well enough,” Niwa confirmed. “Under the circumstances. My orders are rarely questioned anymore.”
“They should not be questioned at all! You bear a commission from the First General himself.”
“There have apparently been few generals other than Grik for quite some time,” Niwa observed dryly. “Perhaps they must grow . . . accustomed.”
Halik nodded thoughtfully. He’d learned that, through the ages, “other hunters” were sometimes considered worthy enough to join the “Great Hunt” as partners to the Grik. To these, “the Offer” was made, just as it had been to Kurokawa—after conquest of his people and their mighty ship proved too costly. He sometimes wondered what had become of those earlier, “other hunters.”
“Indeed,” he said, looking at N’galsh, who’d remained uncharacteristically silent. “Excuse me, General Niwa. You have questions, Vice Regent?”
“I do.” N’galsh took a breath. “My lords, you have now visited all the island. You have not seen India proper, but I have to ask: what now are your views? Can this land be saved?”
“That depends on a great many things,” Halik replied. “That ‘view’ hasn’t changed in the least.” He dipped his head in a Grik shrug. “There are more, older Uul here, ready for the ‘change’ than I expected to find. Perhaps that is the way of things on the frontier. Nearer the Sacred Lands, the choosers would have taken most for the cook pots by now, or younger warriors would have slain and eaten them as they weakened . . . as I did. That guiding principle has now changed, of course, as have many others, and we have gathered in as many as we could. But the effort to identify the ‘special ones’ must not cease.”
“No, Lord General. But beyond that, what are your thoughts?”
Ha lik looked at Niwa, and the Japanese officer began to answer for him.
“As General Halik said, it depends. Yes, we’ve seen the land, and some parts are defensible—with warriors trained in defense. Most Grik can’t even comprehend the concept, and we’re not authorized to waste many we find that can. We’ll use some, but as we’ve discussed, most must be saved for ‘proper’ elevation, to become generals, officers, or under officers themselves. The bulk of our defensive strategy must rely on spoiling attacks, things the warriors here understand. We’ll bleed the enemy as much as possible, but they’ll expect it. That’s the only way ‘we’ve’ ever fought. We might surprise them from time to time. In fact we’ve seen some good places to do that if they land where we think they will, and if they advance as we hope. Remember, we likely know less about them than they know about us, and they may have new technological miracles to throw against us.”
“But what of our ‘miracles’?” N’galsh insisted. “I know they exist! General of the Sea Kurokawa promised them, and they must be nearing completion by now. Why else break the blockade? Why else send all the materials—ship after shipload of them!—away just now if they weren’t essential to the weapons he makes? I’ve seen some; those strange tubes a few of your guards carry, but there must be more!”
“There are,” Halik assured him, “but they may not be finished yet. They will come when they are ready, if they are ready in time. They cannot be just dribbled in; they must arrive in sufficient numbers to be decisive. The Sacred Lands must be provided for first, but if we hold, we will get what we need. Help may even come in forms we cannot imagine. You speak of our guards and the guns they carry, the ‘matchlocks’ such as General Niwa’s people once used. We will employ them, if only to test their effectiveness.”
Halik’s pupils suddenly thinned and he spoke with a new, bitter intensity. “But most of the troops here could no more learn to use them than flap their arms and fly. For ages, the most complicated arm Grik warriors learned was the crossbow—and only the smartest Uul use them! Perhaps our very society is to blame; intelligence among Uul has never been prized. But it has been ‘the Way’ for countless generations, and it has worked . . . until now.”
He looked hard at N’galsh. “Report my words if you like, but things will change; they have already begun to. Compared to the eons before now, change is coming impossibly fast and it cannot be stopped. I was a sport fighter. Look at me now; listen to my words! Do I sound like a senseless Uul, destined by age for the cook pots so short a time ago?” He pondered his own words. “Maybe this change will be good. More such as I will become more than they are—more than they have ever been allowed to become. But what of you, N’galsh? How will you like that? We may save Ceylon for you and Regent Tsalka, but we have to become something completely different to succeed. I have no real notion what that ‘something’ will be, but it will most assuredly be other than what it now is, and it’s possible none of us will like it very much.”
CHAPTER 6
Task Force Garrett—Ceylon
them! /i>SS Donaghey was hard aground on the mushy, sandy beach of south Ceylon. She’d driven in under all the canvas she could spread and the tide and swells cooperated nicely to deposit her as high on the beach as anyone had a right to expect. Mighty waves pounded her stern, bashing in the windows and slowly heaving her around until she was almost beam-on to the marching surf, but she was in no immediate danger of breaking up. Tolson hadn’t been so lucky. She’d struck and stuck almost a quarter mile out and almost immediately turned beam-on to the wind and sea. She was a stout ship and it would take time for her to break, but unless the sea settled down, she certainly would eventually. Right now, she was in even more danger of rolling, and the first priority was getting her people ashore with everything they could bring with them.
Greg Garrett paced the enemy beach, looking out to sea. He hadn’t yet fully absorbed the emotional impact of “losing” his entire squadron; he was too good an officer to dwell on that in the midst of the emergency. He was heartsick to see Donaghey and Tolson as they lay, still just shadowy shapes shrouded in night, but his most immediate concern was saving what he could and preparing for the inevitable storm to come—from the Grik. Despite everything, their landfall had apparently been almost perfect. They’d grounded on what amounted to a little isthmus of sorts, protected on one side by the sea, and on the other by a swampy river mouth. It wasn’t much, but it could have been a lot worse. Smitty remained by his side as he continued marching through the sand, examining the ground through the blowing grains and atomized spray, seeing what he could of the peninsula in the dark.
Marines had been the first ashore, and he encountered them from time to time, lone figures, watching for signs of life or dist
ant lights that might indicate habitation. So far, there was nothing. Maybe their arrival had gone unnoticed and they’d have time to prepare. Smitty hadn’t said a word during their inspection. He was waiting for Garrett to get the “big picture” in his mind. He was good at that. He didn’t have long to wait.
“This is a good, defensible position,” Garrett shouted at last, over the wind and crashing sea, “provided we can get enough provisions and fresh water ashore. There’s no apparent source for either. That river’ll be too salty. We’ll leave Donaghey’s guns aboard her for now. She should hold together, and if she stays put, she’ll make a fine flanking battery against any force coming along the peninsula at us, not to mention protecting us from a sea approach. We ’ve got to get Tolson’s guns out of her, though, before she flips.” He paused. “The bad thing is, there’s nothing here to use as breastworks, nothing to fort up behind. No big rocks, no trees to knock down, nothing.”
“Tolson’ll break up eventually,” Smitty said. “We can use her timbers as they wash ashore.”
“Maybe. That might take a while, though, and what if she doesn’t? What if this storm plays out before then?” He shook his head. “After we get what we can out of her, if she’s still holding together, we’ll have to break her ourselves; then build trenches and reinforce them with her planks and beams.”
“Cap’n Chapelle’s gonna hate that.”
“So do I. It’s one thing to use what the sea takes off her; it’s another to kill her ourselves.” He shook his head. “Nothing for it.” They’d returned to that portion of the beach being used to stack supplies and equipment taken from the ships. Hundreds of ’Cats scurried around, carrying barrels and crates from the few boats and dozens of makeshift raftsthat labored ashore. Getting back out to the ships was the hard part. They had to pull themselves along heavy cables anchored to the land. Marine Lieutenant Bekiaa-Sab-At and Shipfitter Stanley “Dobbin” Dobson, both from Tolson, hurried up and hastily saluted. They were soaking wet.
“Respects from Cap’n Chaa-pelle,” Bekiaa said. “Almost half Tolson’s people are ashore . . . there have been a few accidents . . . and we’re getting the supplies out that are in the most danger from the flooding. Skipper wants to know how you want to get the guns ashore.” Garrett was glad Chapelle’s priorities mirrored his. Surviving the night would be an accomplishment, but it would mean nothing without the guns to defend them.
“Float them in if you can,” Garrett said. “If that can’t be managed, we’ll have to drag them.”
“Drag them!” Dobbin sputtered. “Drag them two-ton monsters a quarter mile through the sand and surf?”
“Yeah,” Garrett replied. “Secure them to cables and throw them off their carriages. Donaghey can pull them most of the way with her capstan. We’ve got almost a thousand men and ’Cats, probably three hundred already ashore. We’ll drag them ourselves if we have to. The carriages too. They’ll sink, but they’re mostly wood. They won’t weigh nearly as much in the water.”
“Oh,” Dobbin said thoughtfully. “I guess fellas do become officers for a reason.”
Garrett chuckled at Dobson’s unconscious, backhanded compliment. “Lieutenant,” he said, addressing Bekiaa, “stay here on the beach. Any more Marines that come ashore, send them to Lieutenant Graana-Fas; he’s with the supplies. I expect he’ll send any Marines with dry muskets or bows to bolster our pickets. If any arrive with wet weapons or none, he’ll probably give them something dry or put them to work here.” He glanced at his watch. Fortunately, the precious device hadn’t gotten wet. ‘This night may be all the time we have; our only grace period. We’d better be prepared for a Grik probe, at least, by dawn. Maybe it’ll come then, maybe it won’t, but we have to be ready if it does. When it does, we can expect exponentially stronger Grik attacks very soon thereafter. If we’re not dug in tighter than a tick, with heavy guns ready and waiting, we will die here.”
“Ay, ay, sur!”
First Fleet
Like a massive herd of brontasarries, interspersed with the smaller, swifter, horned beasts they cooperated with in the wild, First Fleet raised its anchors and began to steam or sail forth from Andaman harbor. Salissa’s battle group was the first to leave, shaking out into its underway formation with the first rays of the sun. She was screened by the steam frigates, or “DDs” Scott, Dowden, Nakja-Mur, and Kas-Ra-Ar, which made up “Des-Div 1.” The fleet oilers and transports followed, screened by the steam frigates of Des-Div 3; Tassat, Haakar-Faask, Naga, and Bowles, along with the swift, razeed corvettes, or “DEs.” By the time Humfra-Dar’s battle group, consisting of the carrier, Felts, Saak-Fas, Davis, and Ramic-Sa-Ar of Des-Div 2, cleared the harbor entrance, everyone knew it would be dawn on Ceylon, and the risk of discovery to TF Garrett increased with every hour.
At least they knew most aboard the two stranded ships had survived the night. Everyone had been surprised when the transmissions never ceased. Chief Signalman (“radioman” just didn’t seem appropriate anymore) Clancy, aboard Donaghey, had apparently managed to preserve his equipment and there’d been a blow-by-blow account of the grounding and the following, feverish effort to establish a defensive position. So far, the defenses sounded awfully thin, but ingenious attempts were underway to bolster them. Given enough time, the castaways might just manage to hold until help arrived. Occasionally, “Nancys” from Andaman’s patrol wing (PatWing) 2 buzzed the ships on their predetermined scouting missions to ensure no Grik ships lurked nearby to observe the departure of the fleet. Once they were out of range of the island-based planes, Tikker and Humfra-Dar’s COFO would coordinate an almost-continuous CAP, or “Combat Air Patrol” to cover the fleet’s advance. They might have to launch the long-awaited invasion of Ceylon at a time and place not of their choosing, but the enemy didn’t have to know that. Chances were, even after TF Garrett was discovered, it would never dawn on the Grik that that was where the invasion would come.
There was a brisk wind, more out of the south now, when Alan Letts stepped to Salissa’s starboard bridgewing rail. He’d come to find Keje, but the “Ahd-mi-raal” wasn’t on the bridge. Drawn by the panorama of the mighty fleet they’d built, he forgot his errand and couldn’t help but stand and stare.
“It’s a . . . stunning spectacle, is it not?” came a voice beside him. Letts turned to see Captain Risa-Sab-At, Chack’s sister, standing beside him. Once a “wing runner” like her brother, a member of the “forewing clan” on this very ship, she commanded “Big Sal’s” Marine contingent these days.
“It is,” he said, almost wonderingly. “I’ve seen these things built”—he gestured around at the frigates—“or turned into flat-tops like Big Sal, but the only time I’ve ever seen them move is when I’d shove wooden boats around on a map in Baalkpan. My God, I needed this! I love my job, my wife, my daughter; shoot, I love my life in Baalkpan, working for Chairman Adar. But finally seeing all this, being part of it . . . makes me realize how important everything I’ve been doing back home is.”
“You are both glad you came, yet wish you were home?” Risa asked with a rumbling chuckle.
“Yeah . . .” Alan said thoughtfully. He shrugged. “But I had to come; somebody needed to sort out the logistical mess, and I’ve made a start. Besides, maybe desk weenies like me need to see the sharp end once in a while to keep a grip on what they do best”—he grinned—“ just like crazed killing machines like you ought to push wooden boats around a map every now and then.”
Risa coughed and swished her tail. “No thank you! I’m a Marine now, but being attached to the ship keeps me out of the fighting enough as it is. This war has changed a lot. Marines don’t fight on the ships so much anymore.”
Below them, on the flight deck, a PB-1B “Nancy” floatplane brought its engine up, and the noise stifled their conversation for a moment. With a signal to one of the ’Cats to the side, the plane plunged forward amid a kind of vapor of hydraulic oil and soared away over the purple-blue sea. A crew of Lemurians retrieved the cr
adle trolley from the end of the flight deck and hauled it back into position where the crane would place another plane upon it.
“Ingenious,” Alan remarked.
“But slow,” Keje said, joining them at the rail. “Humfra-Dar has two catapults,” he added enviously, “that don’t spray oil all over the deck. We don’t he to use them when the wind is fair, such as now, but the pilots need the practice. I’m told the experience is quite exhilarating . . . much like being fired from a cannon, no doubt.” He looked at Alan. “You were looking for me?”
Suddenly at a loss, Letts had to concentrate to remember why. “Oh yeah. Actually, I was looking for you, Pete, Lord Rolak . . . and Rolak’s pet Grik. I was going over all the jillion things an operation like this involves when I had a weird thought. . . .”
Gathered in Keje’s sprawling quarters, joined not only by those Alan requested, but by Risa, Nurse Lieutenant Kathy McCoy, General Queen Safir Maraan, and several other ground force commanders including even Billy Flynn, Letts seemed a little self-conscious. “Gee, guys,” he said defensively. “I just got struck by a cockeyed notion. I didn’t expect a staff meeting over it.”
“This ain’t a staff meeting,” Pete said, “but a lot of the stuff you dream up is worth paying attention to.”
“Are we still in contact with Donaghey?” Alan hastened to ask.
“Yeah,” Pete confirmed. “They’re digging in, hand over fist. Haven’t seen so much as a sand crab so far, but I doubt that’ll last.”
“Maybe it will,” Letts hoped. “Maybe the spot they went aground is secluded enough, the lizards won’t notice.”
“Maybe,” said Pete doubtfully.
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