“I was just on my way,” he said. “Cap-i-taan Atlaan-Fas called me over the bridge voice tube. Come, you can fill me in as we walk!”
“Yes, sir,” Sandy said, hurrying to keep up with the bear-shaped ’Cat. “One of Tikker’s scout planes spotted a fleet, sir, a hell of a fleet, about four hundred miles west-northwest, the other side of the south India coast. Two advanced pickets have confirmed; the DDs Naga and Bowles. They’re shadowing now, and also confirm the contact is definitely headed in this direction.”
They reached the companionway to the bridge, and took the steps two at a time.
“Ahd-mi-raal on the bridge!” someone cried, and Keje waved irritably. It was well-known he didn’t like to disturb the watch, and the warning was probably the result of a case of nerves.
“Ahd-mi-raal,” Captain Atlaan-Fas greeted him.
“Cap-i-taan. Show me.” They moved to the large chart table. Unlike on many other “Amer-i-caan” ships, Salissa ’s charts often retained the ancient texts of the prophet Siska-Ta written on the margins. Few passages were pertinent to this part of the world, however, so the margins on this chart were almost blank. Almost. There were a few passages, and they gave Keje comfort now as Sandy pointed to a place on the “scroll.”
“What do we know?”
“Little. There are many Grik ships of the type we’ve seen before, perhaps only a hundred, but all with cannon. There are also perhaps a dozen massive steamers, almost as big as Salissa herself, that look most odd, according to reports.”
“Speed?”
“Only five or six knots, Ahd-mi-raal, but there are zeppelins above them, perhaps being towed! The pickets report a string of three or four trailing above each steamer! This in addition to the zeppelins we know have been sneaking past our air patrols at night and landing on fields across the western coast. The Third Bomb Squadron located one of their fields this morning and destroyed as many as ten airships on the ground, but there must be more.” He blinked exasperation. “The Ancient Enemy learns to conceal himself from us.”
“They are learning far too many things of late!” Keje confirmed darkly, absently dragging a nail-claw around the bulging southern coast of India. “Order Naga, Bowles, and the other pickets to break contact and withdraw at their best possible speed to here, just off the cape. It concerns me that they are out there on their own, and if they can see the Grik, the Grik can see them. We will observe the enemy movements with aircraft. This battlegroup and Arracca ’s will join them at Point”-he squinted-“Point Comorin. Pass the word for COFO Jis-Tikkar. He must prepare a strike against the enemy fleet with every aircraft we have!”
Sandy shifted uneasily. “Uh, Admiral, as you know, General Alden’s in kind of a fix. He’s finally got a handle on what they ran into, and it’s bad. He’s ordered Fifth Corps to withdraw back south and dig in with Third Corps. He also ordered Rolak back to Madras, after all.” He shook his head. “Those poor guys pushed south all night without a break, and now they’ve got to turn back the way they came, and maybe fight their way through! Second Corps is way out on a limb, and one of its divisions-Colonel Flynn’s command-is dangling by the very last leaf. In the meantime, Madras itself is dangerously exposed. They’re all counting on us for air support!”
Keje was silent, and stared at the chart. Then he looked at the map that showed the updated disposition of the expeditionary elements. “What remains of Lieutenant Leedom’s squadrons?”
“They’re down about twenty percent, mostly mechanical casualties, but they’ve lost some planes and crews too. Leedom himself is with Flynn now, said he was ‘shot down,’ and the Grik zeps have some kind of defensive weapons now.”
“Make sure Cap-i-taan Tikkar is aware,” Keje warned.
“He is, sir.”
Keje sighed. “Very well. Ask Cap-i-taan Tassana-Ay-Arracca if she might spare General Alden one of her squadrons. We are all suddenly so very stretched and pulled in every direction. I cannot risk this fleet in close combat with the enemy until I know more about its capabilities, particularly of these new steamers of theirs!” He paused. “Advise General Alden that we will soon have a battle of our own. He may land every Marine from every support ship in Madraas to bolster his defenses there, and I will send him every plane I have when and if I can.”
Madras HQ
General Pete Alden was staring at his own map, the fingers of his left hand massaging his forehead. “So. No dice, huh?” he asked General Taa-leen.
“No, sur… I mean, yes, we will have another squadron from Arracca, and it will provide support for General Rolak on its way here, but we cannot expect more from the Ahd-mi-raal at this time.”
“Yeah. And I can’t really blame him. We’re in the shit, but we know we’re in the shit now. He’s about to jump off the pier in the dark.” He snorted. “Glad he’s bein’ more careful than I was.”
“You couldn’t have known, General,” Taa-leen consoled.
“I should have! Damn it, we caught a glimpse of it on Ceylon!” He looked at the ancient Grik, Hij-Geerki, still curled on his cushion. As far as Pete knew, the lizard hadn’t left the room. Damn, he thought. Doesn’t he ever eat? Or take a dump? “Hell!” he continued, “Geeky there told us! Those nine civvy Grik we captured at Colombo told him about this new General Halik and his Jap sidekick, but I never dreamed they could pull something like this together. They saw what we were doing, what we wanted to do, then figured out a way to clobber us when we did it!”
“I ser’ you, lord!” Hij-Geerki croaked piously.
“Yes,” Taa-leen agreed, ignoring Hij-Geerki. “This Haa-lik, or his Jaap, can design battles. We know that now. We will design better ones! I am concerned only about that in the short term. What worries me most are the reports of how the individual Grik are fighting! Few are suffering from Braad-furd’s Grik Rout, and now there is this other report!”
Pete nodded, and felt a chill despite the hot afternoon. They knew a large force had been massing at what had been II Corps’s objective, but Leedom had been the first to report a very frightening thing. Subsequent flights sent to firebomb the Grik surrounding Flynn had carried on and confirmed what Leedom saw. The “many” Grik west of Rocky Gap were advancing. In the Grik scheme of things, the fresh force wasn’t particularly large, perhaps numbering less than fifty thousand. That was more troops than Alden had in all of India, but no more than a properly handled corps had defeated in the past. But this new force was no mob rampaging along like a plague of locusts; it was a real army, uniformly dressed and equipped with matchlock muskets and long spears, and it was marching toward the Rocky Gap-and Flynn-in a long, fat column, complete with a supply and artillery train.
Pete looked back at the map. Fifth Corps was having little trouble moving back south-so far-but Rolak was hitting some serious opposition. It was still mostly savage spoiling attacks, but each time he had to deploy part of his corps, and his troops were utterly exhausted. Once they made it back to Madras, they wouldn’t be of any use to Safir Maraan and II Corps. Pete thought Safir might hack her way back to Madras, but that still left Flynn. He rubbed his eyes.
“You know, General Taa-leen,” he said, “we’ve got a lot of wild-ass Grik causing us fits down here in the low country, but we’re kind of used to that. I’m like you. I don’t like what Second Corps is up against one damn bit. I think, all of a sudden, that stupid, shitty Rocky Gap is something we need to hang on to-if for little more reason than the Grik want it so bad. Besides, it’s the only place a real army can get through to Madras from the west. I hate to rush him, but I think we have to tell Rolak to punch back through to here quick as he can. His guys can rest up then. As soon as he gets here, we take your division, the Marines off the ships-hell, the sailors from the transports, if Keje’ll let us-and we punch through to Second Corps and keep that crummy gap!”
“Yes, sur, General. But what about Flynn?”
Pete shook his head. “I… don’t know. It all depends on his position and whether he has the
supplies-and troops to hold it.”
March 15, 1944
Below North Hill
“They cannot resist much longer!” Halik ranted aloud to himself as a third, properly coordinated (this time) attack ground up the corpse-choked slopes of that wickedly tenacious hill on the long grass prairie. The horns brayed insistently, and his army roared with something he remembered as akin to glee as the bloody banners swept forward and up. A thunderous staccato booming erupted in all directions and smoke churned down the slopes, engulfing the front ranks of the charge. Halik knew those first ranks had been flayed, but there were more behind them, many more. The stutter of enemy muskets- Better than mine, he seethed-became a continuous crackle, like dry sinik wood in a roaring flame. Still, this portion of his army, a quarter the size of that attacking the mouth of the mountain gap, still outnumbered the enemy at least eight to one, and he’d sent nearly all of it this time. The enemy had to be running out of ammunition-and warriors-by now.
This was the first time General Halik had led an entire battle alone. He and General Niwa had realized that staying together had been the greatest mistake they’d made on Ceylon. Neither had been in a position to avert several disasters that occurred too far away for them to influence, and they’d determined never to allow such a concentration of command again. Niwa was in the south, coordinating the various actions there, and Halik wasn’t nervous, exactly, but he did feel a measure of unease. He believed he’d planned this battle well, and the enemy had done exactly as he hoped-at first. The resilience of the defenders on that cursed northern hill and the speed with which the force in the pass had reacted to his attack there had surprised him, but he didn’t think he needed Niwa here. His battle was taking longer than expected, but he believed it was still in his grasp-yet he missed the Jaaph officer. Niwa’s cool counsel was always welcome at times like this, when Halik’s blood began to boil.
A shadow flitted across him, and he looked up. Not again! Several of the blue-and-white enemy aircraft swooped low, directly over his converging horde, and released more of their hideous firebombs. The things exploded, flinging streams of fire among his precious, disciplined Uul more vigorously than his own similar weapons could ever manage. He raged. He didn’t have any of the large fire throwers here, nor did he have enough artillery. What guns he had were deployed against the force in the gap. Worse, he had no more airships to use here either-all that remained in India had been taken from his command for “something else,” even General Niwa had no details about. He assumed General Esshk and General of the Sea Kurokawa were coming at last, but he had no confirmation. His rage dampened just a bit. It barely mattered. The enemy machines would make short work of his airships again, even if he still had them at his disposal.
This fight would have to be decided the old-fashioned way, but he still needed to win it quickly. The first “new” Uul had been landed a few weeks before in the Cambay Gulf, just as he’d asked. He’d actually been surprised by that, but he was grateful. Now they were hurrying here, even as the battle raged. They were not “attack” troops. Not yet. They had been designed from birth to defend. They were very young, barely mature, but he’d been assured they could do what they were made to do: stand and fight to the bitter end-just as his enemies now did atop that thrice-cursed hill!
This attack had to succeed, but at what cost? What price could he pay for that wretched hill? He still needed these attack warriors in the gap, and they were withering before his eyes! Had he become distracted from his own plan? He might yet win the hill and lose his primary objective. Only once the enemy in the gap had been pushed back could he fortify a defensive, impervious position with invincible troops! The enemy would never break out onto the prairie where its better, more coordinated mobility could be fully employed. Again he wished he had fast animals his own troops could ride! The enemy cavalry, as Niwa called it, had been nearly as dreadful a surprise as its aircraft! He wondered if there was not something, somewhere, in all the realms of the Grik, that could be tamed for such a purpose.
More bombs fell, and now the summit of the hill was all but invisible through the roiling black smoke of burning fuel and bodies, and the white smoke of guns. He tensed, watching closely.
Flynn’s defenses had been forced back into secondary positions all around the perimeter by the amazingly well-executed attack. A couple of Sularan guns had been overrun in their forward positions, but not before they’d been disabled. Most of the paalkas were dead, either riddled by Grik bolts or burned to death two nights before. Unlike meanies, the stupid damn things wouldn’t lie down under cover. Billy Flynn had heard from the Maa-ni-los that they couldn’t lie down or they’d suffocate. He figured they would know, but the result was that his draft animals had been effectively exterminated. The rest of the guns had been heaved, by hand, into a contracting circle around the central hospital stockade, where new positions had already been dug. At the moment, it didn’t look like it would matter. Ammunition was dwindling fast, particularly for the new breechloaders and mortars, and they were almost out of canister. All they had was what they’d brought with them, and there was little possibility of resupply. General Maraan probably had the power to reach them, but she couldn’t deploy it in the narrow gap and pop the cork the Grik had shoved in. Worse, from what Flynn heard through Madras HQ, if she did break through to them before General Alden could support her, Flynn would probably have to find room on North Hill for all of II Corps! What a crazy mess.
“Hammer ’em,” Flynn yelled as he moved, crouching, behind the secondary breastworks. The Grik crowded so densely in front of it that it was impossible for a shot to miss. Crossbow bolts thrummed past or stuck in the shields that a pair of Marines insisted on defending him with as he moved. “Chew ’em up! Shred ’em!” he chanted. “Stomp ’em like the goddamn lizardy roaches they are!” He wasn’t even sure his troops could hear him, but they poured in the fire or stabbed with their bayonets at anything that got close enough. This would be a swell time for grenades, he thought, but they’d already run out of those. It was terrible and horrifying-and magnificent all at once.
One of his Marine guards dropped suddenly, his head misshapen by a Grik musket ball that punched right through the shield and hit him above the ear, sending his helmet flying. A Sularan quickly slung his musket and snatched up the shield. Dammit, I wish they’d just use their weapons! Flynn seethed to himself, angry that yet another of his guards was dead-but this was the crisis, the tipping point, and he thought he had no choice but to expose himself so. If there was any consolation, he didn’t think he was being specifically targeted. The smoke was so dense and visibility so poor, few of the enemy could even see him. Besides, the Grik leaders in this attack, if there were any, seemed to be leading from the pack, and the common Grik warrior probably didn’t know to single him out.
“Captain Bekiaa!” he shouted, finally slipping down into the trench beside the female ’Cat, where he sensed the greatest enemy pressure. Trust her to find the hottest spot first! His guards followed and he yelled for them to get back in the fight, which they gladly did.
“So, you’re our reserve now. Huh, Colonel?” Lieutenant Leedom asked ironically. He’d found a bloody Lemurian helmet and had tied the straps beneath his chin. He also had Flynn’s own ’03 Springfield, since he wasn’t as familiar with a musket. Flynn had kept the weapon but hadn’t used it himself since they invaded Ceylon. Apparently, the ’03 was in good hands. The long bayonet was reddish black, and Leedom was pushing bright brass shells through a stripper clip into the magazine.
“I’m all that’s left,” Flynn confirmed, raising his musket and firing. He nodded at the guards as he started to reload. “Me and those fellas.”
“We’re almost out of ammunition!” Bekiaa yelled.
“There’s more on the way,” Flynn assured her, “but it’s about the last of it.” He nodded at the surging enemy. “Won’t need it in a second. Bayonets!” he roared as the Grik hurtled forward.
Few in what
remained of Flynn’s division had shields anymore. Only the Marines still habitually carried them, and that was mainly because the Marines at the Dueling Ground had done so, and it had been reported that they could turn musket balls-for a while-if held at an angle. Flynn realized now that letting his Rangers discard their shields had been a mistake. The weird Grik matchlocks fired bigger balls than the Dom muskets did, and if they didn’t always punch through a shield, they made very short work of it. But shields still came in very handy against crossbow bolts, and at that moment, as in the jungles around Raan-goon, a wall of shields would have been very welcome. The Grik must have recognized that too, because the biggest Grik charge didn’t come against the Marines; it came right at Flynn, Bekiaa, and Leedom, and the now utterly mixed “company” of Rangers and Sularans.
One very important thing Flynn suddenly-vividly-remembered from his time in France was that once the enemy reached your trench, you didn’t stay in it and let him land on top of you unless you wanted to die.
“Up!” he roared. “Up and at ’em! Charge bayonets!” Shrilly, the order swept down the defending line like a crackling electric current. Even as the Grik charge waded through the entanglements and reached the breastworks beyond, the Rangers and Sularans flowed up out of their trench and met them in a slashing, shooting, stabbing melee. As had long been observed, the Grik were better armed, physically, for such a fight, but the training and discipline-not to mention the bristling bayonets and thundering muskets that fired in their faces-left the Grik stunned for an instant. An instant was all it took.
Saachic’s cavalry, dismounted and without orders, joined the countercharge with a stutter of carbine fire and their long, deadly blades. A clawing, shrieking, hacking brawl ensued like hadn’t been seen since the fighting for the south wall during the battle of Baalkpan. Grik claws slashed and tore past their own small shields, which were suddenly in the way. ’Cats screamed and rolled back into the trench, bleeding or dead, but the long bayonets on the Allied muskets were sharper, better, and more horrible than any spear. Also, if a ’Cat had a chance, he or she could still load and shoot-and the steel butt plate on the other end of the musket was a far better weapon than the butt of a spear.
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