Straits of Hell: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “I doubt Colonel Yaar-Aaan is happier than you with his assignment,” Jindal said, noting the direction of her gaze. She huffed. Brevet Captain Enrico Galay, a former corporal in the Philippine Scouts who’d survived Mizuki Maru and who now commanded the 1st of the 1st Maroon, joined them with another man. Despite his dress that was just like everyone else’s, this other man was obviously a Maroon because he wore a long black beard, and the hair gushing from beneath his helmet reached past his shoulders. “Maroons are getting edgy,” Galay reported.

  “Why? What do they say?”

  “Christ,” Galay snorted. “How should I know? I can barely understand ’em.” He nodded at the man beside him who was supposed to be his exec, and Risa wondered how that worked if they couldn’t communicate. The “English” the Maroons spoke was very heavily—and oddly—accented, but Jindal and his Imperials seemed best able to decipher it. All their NCOs were Impies, but the Maroons were very strict about chain of command. This man had insisted they report to him, and he to Galay… . Risa shook her head. “You need to get that sorted out,” she warned Galay. “Learn to understand them, teach them to understand you, or get an interpreter! If you can’t do one of those things, I’m sure Major Jindal can find someone who can.”

  “Yes, Major,” Galay agreed.

  “Ay unnerstan’, Cap’n Galay,” the man insisted.

  “Very well,” Jindal said, “Then please repeat your report to us.”

  “Aye.” He hesitated. “Ay fare tha Garieks is camin’!”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “’Tis tha baesties! Tha baesties in yan jangle!”

  Risa peered over the peak of the wall. The rain was slacking, but she saw nothing alive below. “How can you tell? What’re they doing?”

  “Thay’s camin. Lak!” he said, pointing. “Look!” he repeated carefully. Risa still saw nothing—at first.

  “The lizardbirds?” she asked. Colorful flocks of the things were swirling through the trees as far as she could see in any direction like thick wisps of smoke, surging back and forth and exploding into the sky with muted, raucous cries. She supposed she’d noticed them, but there were always lizardbirds—or were there? “It’s raining,” she stated.

  “Aye. Bards danna fly mach an tha rain, less samthin’ scares am ap—an’ nathin’ scares sae many!”

  Far below, a me-naak burst from the jungle, bearing two riders, followed by several more, equally burdened. The long-legged crocodilians bounded directly toward the wall and scampered straight up amid the clatter and jangle of their riders’ dangling carbines and cutlasses like no horse ever could. Their claws made them far better at scaling steep slopes, particularly when they were made of spongy, eon-old tree trunks. The cav-’Cat on the leading me-naak urged his mount toward the 1st Raider Brigade flag, rain pasted tight to its staff, and Risa and her companions trotted to meet him.

  “Griks!” he shouted, saluting. The Maroon riding behind him made a parody of the salute and cried out, “Garieks!” as well.

  “How many? How far?” Galay demanded.

  The cav-’Cat blinked at him, then looked back at Risa and Jindal. “Thousands of ’em,” he stated simply. “An’ they is spreadin’ out in the jungle right behind us. Fixin’ to attack, I bet.”

  “What took you so long to report?” Jindal asked.

  “Garieks ain’t tha anly nasty baggers in tham jangle!” growled the Maroon.

  “We lost some troopers tryin’ to break back through,” the cav-’Cat confirmed. “The Griks is pushin’ all the bad boogers ahead of ’em, but then they break to the side, like, before they reach the clearing. We had to bust through. Some guys’re still out there”—he waved—“tryin’ to find the flanks. Maybe they get stuck behind ’em?”

  “They’re not all breaking to the side,” Galay said, pointing down at the killing ground between the wall and the woods. A pack of something like oversize Grik, but with spikes down their backs, bolted from the trees and raced to the south. Other, smaller creatures—just as bizarre—were doing the same, and what began as a trickle quickly became a flood. The 1st Raider Brigade—and the Maroons, of course—had encountered many of the island’s predators before. The Raiders couldn’t have told how many creatures fled their advance through the jungle when they marched across the island to attack Grik City, but an awful lot hadn’t fled. So, to see so many running now implied that a lot of weight was pushing them. And all the while, lizardbirds screeched and flocked overhead, nearing the edge of the jungle.

  “Thank you, Corp’raal,” Risa said, and nodded to all the riders. “Go join your companies. Messenger!” she called. “Get on the horn to Gener-aal Safir Maraan and tell her that an apparently sizable force of Grik is preparing to attack us here.” The Raiders had no wireless set, or even field telegraphs, but they did have the new field telephones that connected them to Safir’s HQ by the same wires used elsewhere. They also had other “new” technology of a more lethal nature that had proven itself in attack. Now they’d see how their still somewhat experimental equipment would fare at defense, it seemed. “I’ll report further when I know more!” she added, turning to the drummers standing beside the brigade standard, their instruments covered against the wet. “Beat ‘stand to,’” she ordered, then glanced at Jindal with a swish of her tail.

  “They might need us here after all,” he said, blinking irony.

  The drums thundered dully and whistles blew, not that they’d needed them to assemble their troops. Everyone was already in place, watching and waiting. The exodus of jungle predators finally thinned, and a pregnant near stillness ensued. Suddenly, here and there, Grik warriors crept out of the jungle, glancing around. None carried the now-ubiquitous Grik matchlock muskets—as if those would’ve been of any use on such a wet day—but were instead armed with the traditional spears, crossbows, and sickle-shaped swords that had equipped Grik armies since the beginning of time. Their crude leather armor and round leather shields strapped to their backs drew the thoughts of all the veterans who saw them back to earlier times, earlier battles, and most were surprised. The Grik scouts seemed surprised as well to find themselves in the open at last, but the high, massive Wall of Trees that loomed before them quickly caught their attention and they yipped back behind them at the jungle. Bellows-driven horns blapped in the trees, robbed of their impressive, menacing volume by the damp, but then the “thousands” of Grik they’d been warned about began to gush from the dark woods.

  Risa was stunned by the numbers that just kept coming, beginning to snarl and yip and bang their shields with weapons as they emerged—and they didn’t even pause or wait for their lines to firm up before they advanced. They just surged forward across the killing ground while more and more poured out of the jungle. Risa suspected there were already more Grik in view, appearing in a matter of moments, than she had defenders to stop, and knew that however many ships got past him to assail Safir Maraan, Captain Jarrik-Fas had been far more successful in his mission than anyone had imagined.

  “Tell Gener-aal Safir Maraan that we have many thousands of Grik attacking here, and that they come in the ‘same old way.’” She paused. The “same old way” hadn’t been much used for some time, but everyone still knew what it meant. More, from what she could see of the battle beyond the Cowflop, the seaborne Grik were doing the same. She couldn’t make sense of it, but despite their growing numbers, she much preferred that they approach like this than the ways they’d begun to use elsewhere. She turned to the Maroon standing beside Galay, suddenly transfixed by horror. “Get back to your battalion at once,” she ordered, “and remember one thing. Your people asked for this, and we’ve trained them as best we could in the time we had. But spread the word: if they break, all is lost and we’ll kill them ourselves. Is that perfectly clear?”

  The bearded man turned to her and a deadly resolve replaced the terror in his eyes. Apparently, he could understand her just fine.

  “We willna ran,” he said. “The Gareiks�
��ve kapt us as thar spart, thar playthans sance befare are paple can remamber. We willna ran,” he repeated simply, firmly.

  “Good,” Risa said, suddenly wishing Chack and Dennis Silva were there. Her brother had once been a pacifist, unable to fight, but had become one of the greatest leaders in the Alliance. She supposed she could lead here, for this, just as ably as he. But he’d also developed a talent she thought she lacked for inspiring troops under his command. Of course, the sight of thousands of Grik swarming to slaughter you would inspire just about anyone, she supposed. Anyone who knew the Grik—and the Maroons certainly did—fully understood that the Grik gave no quarter and their only hope lay in cooperative defense. Running only ensured defeat and death for everyone. Why did she wish Silva were there? She wasn’t sure. He was no leader, beyond the small-unit level, but he could inspire others in a singular way—if he was in the mood. And they were still great friends even now that their—mostly—pretend affair had run its course. Mainly she just yearned for his uncomplicated enthusiasm for a fight, his irrepressible humor—and his lethal competence, of course. She wished he were there to talk to just then, to lend her his peculiar confidence. And to fight beside.

  “Good,” she repeated. “Return to your posts—and good luck.” She raised her voice to that carrying tone unique to her species. “Blitzerbugs and flame weapons will hold until I give the command. All other guns, mortars, and riflemen—commence firing!” A sheet of fire, lead, and iron rolled down the extreme slope toward the enemy, shrouded in a dense white-yellow cloud of smoke, tearing at the leading edge of the mass of Grik already nearing the base of the wall. The Second Battle of Grik City had become a general engagement at last.

  CHAPTER 36

  ////// USS Walker

  The staccato hammering of Walker’s 4”-50s, firing in local control, was almost constant now, as were her 25s and.50s. Even the six scattered.30 cals, up on the fire-control platform, the amidships gun platform over the galley, and the aft deckhouse, opened up now and then when they got close enough to spray Grik crammed aboard the enemy ships. The old destroyer had moved into the tightest concentration of Grik Indiamen she’d tried to squirm through since Aryaal, and she was doing a terrible slaughter—but the Grik were fighting back, and even their wallowing wrecks were a menace. Light roundshot slammed her hull from a Grik warship far enough away that they didn’t penetrate, but they opened seams and more reports of flooding reached the bridge. Her funnels leaked smoke, and her searchlight on the tower aft had been shattered. The auxiliary conning station on the aft deckhouse had been damaged as well, with several casualties, and Matt felt a selfish sense of relief that Spanky’s bad leg had kept him from his usual battle station there. Its launch in the heavy seas unsuccessful, yet another Nancy had been turned to wood and fabric wreckage on its catapult. We’ve lost an awful lot of them that way, Matt thought glumly, but he’d always hated throwing perfectly good planes over the side. At least it hadn’t caught fire—and he’d given Bernie Sandison permission to use his torpedoes to get them off the ship before she closed with the enemy—all but the “spare” stuck in the inoperative number two tube. Torpedoes and their heavy, sensitive warheads were much too dangerous to have aboard in this kind of fight, and the five fish Bernie hurriedly fired at high speed in the chaotic sea had still managed to spectacularly account for two enemy ships. Granted, the range was ridiculously short, but after all the trouble they’d had with torpedoes—on this world and the last—it was nice to have weapons they could trust.

  “Caam-peeti says we gettin’ low on common shells in the for’ard maag-a-zeen!” Minnie reported. “An’ it’s not much better aft. We got less than tree hundreds left, total!” Matt considered. They’d begun the action with two hundred “common,” or contact fuse exploding shells for each of Walker’s four main guns. They had some of the new “Armor Piercing” (AP) shells as well, but they were less effective against wooden ships.

  “We’ve fired more than five hundred rounds,” Herring stated, impressed, “and accounted for what? Sixty enemy ships?”

  “The sea makes it tough,” Bernie defended.

  “No!” Herring objected. “I’m amazed how well we’ve done!”

  “Not well enough,” Spanky growled. “They just keep comin’! And too many are getting past us and piling up on the beach in front of Safir Maraan!”

  “And they keep throwing themselves between us and that white ship,” Matt added, stepping close to the battle shutters and peering through the slit. He couldn’t see anything.

  “Caam-peeti says she’s right ahead,” Minnie encouraged. “But… more ships is get in the way!”

  “We’ve done good work,” Herring began tactfully.

  “But we need to get that white ship—and whoever’s on it. We’ve been fighting the Grik awhile now, Mr. Herring, and you don’t need to be a snoop to know where their honchos are. Taking them out might not make any difference in the short run, but it could damn sure kick in later!” He paused. “Have all guns that will bear forward concentrate on the ships between us and the white one. Have them take potshots at it too, if they get a target.” He looked around the pilothouse. “We’re going after that ship.”

  “We’ll take a beating from those we pass,” Spanky warned.

  “We already are. But not many of those left out here have cannon, and the secondaries will have to take care of them.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.”

  “Does that mean I can lift the shutters?” Paddy Rosen begged. He was clearly frustrated—and exhausted, after fighting the uneven thrust of the screws so long. It was better now, at their reduced speed, but the long sprint had taken its toll. “At least the one in front of the wheel?” he pleaded. “I can’t see anything, Captain.”

  “Very well, but only if you take a break.” He started to direct one of the ’Cats that had been standing, waiting to relieve Rosen, to take the wheel. “Now, Skipper?” Rosen demanded incredulously. In the ship- and wreckage-tangled sea, Rosen was still the best choice at the helm.

  “Not just yet, I guess,” Matt relented. “But soon. Raise the battle shutters in front of the wheel,” he ordered, and ’Cats sprang to comply. It was immediately lighter in the pilothouse, and they could all better see the confusion of fire- and storm-lashed destruction ahead. The salvo bell no longer rang, and the bright flame and overpressure of the number one gun on the fo’c’sle gave them a slight start, rattling the now-exposed window panes. A Grik ship, its red hull dark and marred with streaks of black, reared into view directly in their path. The number one gun fired again, joined by the number three, and the muzzle blast of that gun, so close behind the bridge, was stunning. More stunning to the Grik. Both shells struck near the waterline, amidships, and exploded in a welter of spinning timbers. The masts didn’t fall, but the hull buckled when the sea lurched up fore and aft. Its longitudinal integrity lost, the ship jackknifed, its back splintering, and quickly began sliding under, spilling hundreds of struggling Grik into the frothing waves.

  “Left standard rudder!” Matt ordered, and Rosen heaved at the wheel.

  “Left standard rudder, aye!” he gasped. Lancing through the debris-choked sea, Walker had to avoid the sinking ship that, perversely shifted by the waves, seemed to chase them even as it disappeared. Heavy pieces of wood banged against the hull, and the pitching bow came down on something that rattled down the ship’s length before they felt it no more. Matt had been gritting his teeth, half expecting whatever it was to foul the screws. “Rudder amidships!”

  “Rudder amidships, aye, Skipper!” Rosen cried just as Campeti reported from above.

  “There she is!” One or two of the ships still screening the white one had at least temporarily been displaced by the sea, leaving their target exposed less than four hundred yards away. But Walker was now aimed directly at one of the others. It had no guns, but its tossing deck teemed with Grik.

  “Right standard rudder! All guns fire on the white ship!” Matt commanded.


  “Right standard rudder aye!” Rosen replied, straining once more. “Here! Gimme a hand!” he shouted at one of the ’Cats. The Lemurian obeyed and grasped the big wheel with him, heaving it to the right—until it suddenly spun wildly and sent them both crashing to the deck strakes.

  “All astern, emergency!” Matt roared, realizing they’d had some kind of steering casualty. The ’Cat clutching the lee helm immediately shifted the levers, and the answering bells responded with a speed that made Matt proud—but they were still aimed right at the side of the Grik ship! The guns tried to fire at their target, but it was quickly concealed by the closer vessel and they fired at it instead, blasting great chunks out of its bulwarks and shredding bodies huddled behind them. The ship itself, however, seemed to remain relatively motionless as Walker bore down, and there seemed nothing they could do to avoid a collision. The screws wound down with a juddering vibration that shook the deck, but before they could bite again, Matt took a desperate chance. “Port engine, full ahead! Starboard engine will remain at full astern. Let’s see if we can twist her tail!”

  The ’Cat at the lee helm didn’t hesitate, but slammed the left lever forward. The starboard screw was turning now, throwing sheets of seawater all the way up to the top of the aft deckhouse. Walker slowed just a bit, but the sea was relentless, and waves kept trying to heave the ships closer together. Matt grabbed the back of his chair that Spanky still occupied, bracing for the impact that seemed sure to come. He was about to order Minnie to sound the collision alarm, when the port screw wound up.