Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “The water is too shallow, even with this unending rain,” agreed Captain Jis-Tikkar. The sable-furred Tikker, as he was better known, was COFO (Commander of Flight Operations) aboard Salissa, or Big Sal, before the Battle of Madras. He was Leedom’s boss and had brought what remained of Salissa’s 1st Naval Air Wing to join Leedom’s pickup squadrons of Nancys after his ship was badly damaged by suicide glider bombs dropped by zeppelins, of all things. Some of the weapons had even made attacks within the perimeter, but most crashed harmlessly in the lake or surrounding jungle, and their carrier zeps had been shot down. “And there is the ford just east of the lake. Even we must transfer supplies to other barges to bring them here. No baatle-ship can pass the ford.”

  “They might think of something,” Leedom warned. “We can’t ever take for granted just because we can’t do something, they can’t. Not again. If one of their battlewagons—or anything with big guns—ever does make it to the lake, we’ll be in big trouble.” Nobody replied. It was obvious such a thing could be catastrophic.

  “There’s way too many worst-case scenarios for me, the way things stand,” Pete said at last. “We’re holding our own, barely, but the Grik keep growing stronger. We’re standing on the end of an awful thin twig, supply wise, and Keje’s got to figure some way to retake Madras!”

  “Keje will come,” Tikker said with conviction. “Salissa is under repair, and newer, better ships swell his fleet. Colonel Maallory is on Ceylon with his P-Forties, and they await only more powerful weapons.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Pete said, wishing he was. The Grik fleet in Madras was also swelling. He looked at his watch again. “Come on. The Clipper’ll be here shortly. I want to see what they brought.”

  General Alden ducked out into the slackening drizzle, followed by half a dozen men and ’Cats. The lake wasn’t far, its banks bordering the navigable portion lit by fires. There were a lot of fires in the damp forest: watch fires, campfires, places where wet troops could gather and dry their feet for a while and also clear beacons for the planes that came by night. From the sky, the lake would appear as an inky darkness surrounded by bright dots. Then, of course, there were the flashes of lightning and the seemingly endless battle that flared periodically. Even as Pete watched, the rumbling flashes quickened in the south, across the water, and he tensed. It’s so strange, he thought, how I’ve learned to gain a feel for the “life” of the battle by the surrealistic display that pulses in the night. “The Second and Ninth Aryaal are catching it,” he observed.

  “Yes, sir,” Daanis agreed. “That’s the second thrust there tonight. This Gener-aal Haalik tests us everywhere.”

  “Him or his pet Jap,” Pete grumbled, referring to the general, Niwa, whom Rolak’s personal Grik interpreter, Hij-Geerki, had identified for them. Pete wasn’t sure how “Geeky” got his information, since few Grik prisoners could ever be secured and those that were usually just . . . died. It was possible he went among the wounded after a fight and spoke to them as one of their own, but Rolak wouldn’t confirm that. Pete shook his head. It was hard to imagine that canny old warrior, Lord Muln-Rolak, trusting the weird little Grik so. “They’re not content to just keep us cornered here; they want us gone—or that damn Kurokawa does.” They’d also learned that General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa himself was in personal charge of this enemy campaign.

  “We still block the Rocky Gap; the most direct route to Madraas,” Major Daanis said. “His fleet is there, but he cannot feel secure as long as we are at his back. . . . There! I think I hear the large plane. It sounds different from the others.”

  Daanis was right. A crackling rumble of multiple engines throttling back reached their ears, and they saw the blue exhaust flares slide across the darkness, dropping toward the darker water. Torches flared to life in little boats on the lake so the pilot would have some reference for where the slick surface was, and the engines roared as the pilot advanced his throttles to check his descent. A moment later, a yellow-gray splash reflected the firelight and the glare of lightning and war as the big PB-5 “Clipper” slammed down on the lake. One of the powerboats raced to lead it in to the hasty docks. Pete and his companions strode out on the rough-hewn planks and edged away from the busy stevedores unloading a long train of barges recently arrived from the transfer point at the ford. Crates of ammunition, weapons, food, equipment, and medical supplies were piling high, waiting to be dispersed to the scattered, improvised supply sheds, or whisked away to needy troops.

  “They’re weird-lookin’ ducks,” Pete said as the shape of the PB-5 resolved itself, drawing near.

  “I think they’re swell,” Leedom said. “They look kind of like a Sikorsky S-40—with a proper tail.”

  “I do not care what they look like, only what they can do,” Tikker said. “They can carry a ton of supplies—or maybe bombs—and more people than anything else we have. Once they are equipped with Colonel Maallory’s rad-iaals, we will have true, long-range reconnaissance such as we haven’t enjoyed since we lost the old PBY.”

  “And a relatively heavy bomber,” Pete added. “I sure would like a heavy bomber!” He paused, looking at Leedom. “Anything else on those . . . mounted folks you and Captain Saachic reported when you broke out of the trap west of the Rocky Gap?” Pete immediately regretted asking. Leedom or Tikker would’ve reported if their pilots saw anything. Besides, what happened to Colonel Flynn and several thousand troops was still a very sore subject, and Leedom, shot down in the action, and the few others who made it out were amazingly lucky. Still puzzling, however, was that the survivors reported meeting some very oddly mounted . . . strangers, apparently led by some Czech guy. The mystery was driving Pete nuts.

  “Ah, no, sir,” Leedom said. “The guys are keeping their eyes peeled.”

  The big seaplane approached the dock and was fended off and secured while Pete and his staff waited expectantly. Finally, a hatch opened in the wood-and-fabric fuselage aft of the port wing, and a Lemurian face appeared.

  “Watcha got?” Pete cried out.

  “Mortar bombs, mostly,” the ’Cat replied. “An’ dispatches for you, Gener-aal.”

  “How many wounded can you take out this time?” Daanis asked.

  “Only ten, they say, which means I take fifteen, anyway,” the pilot grinned. “’Cats don’t weigh so much as hu-maans! I ordered to pick up passengers this time too. Don’t know who. They names in the dispatch.” He tossed a wrapped packet to Major Daanis, who’d jumped down on a floating gangway being pushed up to the hatch. Daanis nodded and blinked his thanks, then brought the packet to Pete.

  “It says COTGA, Gener-aal,” Daanis said. COTGA stood for “Chairman of the Grand Alliance,” which meant the dispatch was from Adar himself. A dispatch from Adar was akin to receiving direct orders from President Roosevelt on another world.

  Alden started to untie the string around the wrapping but hesitated. Despite weeks of assurances via wireless, he half expected the dispatch to carry orders for his relief, and he wasn’t sure he didn’t deserve it. He’d even offered to resign, but the wireless replies continued to express Adar’s trust. Of course, under the circumstances, he wouldn’t just blow “You’re fired” all over the sky, would he? He untied the string and unwrapped the waxy paper around the pages. “Gimme a light, wilya?” he asked, and someone raised a lantern.

  The rain had eased for the moment and just a few drops fell on the pages he quickly read. To his mixed relief, there was only a brief preface regarding his offer to step aside, consisting of a statement of full and unreserved confidence. The rest was mostly concerned with an appraisal of what was being done to sustain his position and the assets on their way to him or Keje. They were the commanders on the scene, and Adar wouldn’t tell them their business. Pete smiled at that. He and Keje had already discussed some possibilities via coded wireless, and the assets Adar was committing would be a big help. Finally, the pages described the overall strategic stance of the Grand Alliance. Adar’s careful scraw
l confirmed that Second Fleet and their Imperial Allies had secured the Enchanted Isles as a base to prepare operations directly against the Dominion, and reiterated that Captain Reddy and USS Walker continued to recover in Maa-ni-la. Finally, he expressed his view that Alden’s situation was a temporary setback that would soon be put to rights.

  Pete caught himself nodding in agreement, pleased by the note and impressed by the resources being lavished on First Fleet. If he could hold out long enough, he was sure Keje would deal with Kurokawa and retake Madras. He sobered. But Keje would have to hurry.

  The last three pages were not for him, but he was grateful for them regardless. They were written orders from Adar himself for three very stubborn Lemurians to get aboard the Clipper and proceed to other assignments. The first, he knew, was pointless. It ordered General Queen Safir Maraan to Ceylon, to take command of IV Corps and prepare for the arrival of additional forces. Pete would pass the orders along, but there was no chance they’d be obeyed. Safir would never leave the troops she led now while they were in such a fix—and as a head of state in her own right within the Alliance, she couldn’t really be forced to. The second set of orders were for Captain Tikker, standing right beside Pete, to report in person to CINCWEST, to resume his duties as COFO aboard Big Sal. The veteran flyer with the polished 7.7-mm Japanese cartridge case thrust through a hole in his ear read the orders just as Pete did.

  “With respect, Gen-er-aal,” he said, “why don’t I take the next flight of Naan-cees out to Arracca, then catch a flight from her to Andaman? We have few enough pilots, and some of our remaining machines need a . . . steady hand.”

  In addition to their combat duties—the few machine gun–armed Nancys were hell on Grik zeps, and the rest were decent little dive-bombers—the planes were also making supply runs out to the Arracca battle group beyond the eastern horizon. Arracca was another Home-turned carrier, and the flights then returned with the small loads they could carry and repaired or replaced aircraft.

  “I guess I can let you do that,” Pete allowed, “but I may need your or”—he glanced significantly at Lieutenant Leedom—“his help making sure this last set of orders is obeyed.”

  Leedom took the page Pete handed him and read it. He swore. “You know she hasn’t even spoken to me since I carried her out of that mess on the other side of the gap? She blames me for her surviving when most everyone else didn’t. Hell,” he murmured, “I don’t much care for the thought of that myself.”

  “You’re her friend, though, and she’ll listen to you—maybe just because you feel the same way she does,” Pete said.

  Leedom’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, I’ll tell her. But where is she?”

  Pete gestured at the battle flaring on the other side of the lake. “Over there, most likely,” he said sadly. “Find her quick and get her back here and aboard that plane.” He paused. “And be careful! You’re acting COFO again. I can’t afford to lose you.”

  * * *

  Captain Bekiaa-Sab-At limped through the sucking mud at the bottom of the trench, Colonel Billy Flynn’s ’03 Springfield slung over her right shoulder. In her mind, Flynn’s confidence in her and his example of simple courage and self-sacrifice had been his greatest legacy to her, but the magnificent rifle from another world was his final, personal gift. Bekiaa meant to see that it was well employed in his honor. She wasn’t supposed to be on the line; the wounds to her left arm and leg had only torn the flesh, but they’d been ugly and painful. They were on the mend, though, and medical release or not, the battle line was the only place she could get even for all the friends she’d lost. Her left arm was almost numb and the fingers tingled strangely, but the leg hurt. A lot. Bekiaa welcomed the pain. It kept her rage hot and sharp—and kept her motivated to kill as many Grik as she could. Flynn’s old Springfield helped with that. There wasn’t a more accurate rifle in the world, as far as she knew, and she’d become an unattached sniper, for all intents and purposes, killing Grik at ranges unimaginable even for the few troops armed with the Allin-Silva conversions.

  Her delicate, feline features were hard set and no one, not even General Grisa, whom she trudged past without a word, dared question her right to be there. She was literally moving to the sound of the guns, as the fighting flared along a section of the line defended mostly by Aryaalans and B’mbaadans. Blinking troops watched her pass, and all knew who she was and what she’d been through. They even understood her urge to avenge her friends. Most knew she was an outstanding commander, however, and wished she had a regiment of her own instead of pursuing this single-minded, personal vendetta. She even agreed with some of the more reproachful blinking that reflected that opinion. She was shirking her duty to some extent. But the surgeons hadn’t officially released her yet, and until they did, she’d fight however she could. This was her notion of healing.

  The firing ahead grew more intense and a pair of guns snapped at the darkness, their tongues of flame and billowing smoke clawing at the forefront of a Grik charge boring in. She knew she wasn’t ready for bayonet work, and if she got any closer she’d just be in the way. Moving up on a firing step, she peered out at the battlefield. The Grik were coming in the same old way, mostly mindless, obsessed only with coming to grips with their enemy. The brass had begun to realize they faced almost two distinct species of Grik now: one that fought in this old, haphazard, wasteful style, and another that was more thoughtful, more disciplined. She wasn’t sure what to make of that, but the combination was both confusing and somewhat effective. The Grik that General Rolak faced at the far end of the rising gap would rarely attack like this, but they couldn’t be shifted either. They were clearly protecting something—defending like no Grik they’d ever known. Bekiaa didn’t know if they were protecting Grik generals or simply trying to keep the allies off the high plains where they might threaten Grik supplies, but the point was they’d never met Grik who could—or would—defend at all. Even Hij-Geerki considered it an alien concept and had no explanation. Bekiaa, like General Alden, she suspected, was sure this new General Halik had something to do with it, but what he’d done, she had no idea.

  She shook her head. That was not her concern at present. Carefully, she eased farther up for a better view. Many Grik had muskets now; powerful, if ridiculously crude. They were also matchlocks and almost useless in this weather. Still, some few Grik had learned to use them effectively, even at relatively long ranges, so Bekiaa was careful as she exposed herself. She’d feel awfully stupid if she got her head blown off by some half-wit Grik and his stupid musket, particularly armed as she was. With her muddy, blood-blackened, rhino-pig armor and brindled fur, she was almost indistinguishable from the terrain and she made the most of it, sliding the Springfield up through a gap between a shattered tree stump and lump of mud. Nothing was coming directly at her, though a few musket balls fluttered overhead or spattered her with mud. She strained her eyes—much better in the dark than her enemies’—looking for a Grik leader of some kind. She dreamed of catching Halik himself in her sights, but knew there was no way she’d ever know if she did. Grik officers, even senior noncoms, she supposed—wore taller helmets to accommodate the crests they grew with maturity. Some even wore metal breastplates and capes, but they all looked the same to her. She scanned the press for the taller, metal helmets.

  There! A Grik fitting her criteria had paused on the flank of the charge boring in to her right. For a moment it just stood there, waving its warriors on, sometimes whacking them with its sword. Encouraging them. That was new, disconcerting behavior they’d also seen more and more. Bekiaa flipped the safety from the right to the left side of the bolt and took aim. The range was about three hundred tails, she guessed, a convenient range for the sights—if somewhat difficult in the darkness. She squeezed the trigger, and the rifle bucked against her shoulder. The Grik dropped like a stone. Smoothly working the bolt, she spotted another target.

  The defenders to her right fired a volley, and choking smoke blanketed her field of view,
engulfing the Grik charge as it bored in. Another heavy volley stuttered, stabbing through the smoke with jets of fire as the second rank joined the fight. Firing came from the Grik too somehow, and Lemurian screams joined the shrieks of Grik before the charge ever went home. Some of the firing might be coming from rifled muskets captured from the First Sular and most of Flynn’s Rangers. There’d been little ammunition left for anything, and practically none for the breechloaders carried by the 1st of the 2nd Marines, but the enemy had the design now. They’d have designs for lots of things. The Nancy that crashed on the field below the hill had burned completely, but they’d have its engine to look at. The far-superior carriage design of Allied artillery would be theirs to study, as would the mortars, comm gear, and small arms, of course. Besides the loss of Colonel Flynn and so many brave Lemurians, the massacre was a disaster in terms of intelligence.

  Bekiaa lost her target and had to give up looking for a while as mud-spattered troops streamed past in the trench, moving to reinforce the part of the line under attack. She didn’t know where they came from and hoped there wouldn’t now be an attack wherever they’d been. She shook her head. The war had been terrible, but almost simple, in a way, for a long time. The Grik had been fiercely lethal, almost numberless, but utterly predictable. Ever since the arrival of this new General Halik, however, that had changed. He was clearly still burdened with a lot of “ordinary” Grik, and likely ordinary Grik leaders, but he’d brought new thinking to the war, and a new kind of Grik as well. As General Muln-Rolak often said, this was not a “fun” war, but it was increasingly interesting—and dangerous.

  The last reinforcements hurried past just as the Grik charge struck with a crashing metallic thunder, and Bekiaa started looking for targets again. There, barely visible in the flash-lit gloom about four hundred tails distant, just at the limit of the killing field hacked out of the forest. If that’s not a Grik general surrounded by his staff, I shall eat my helmet! She flipped up the sight and raised the slide to the appropriate mark, then settled the rifle into a rigid rest. The curved steel trigger was cool against her finger pad as she took up the lash and held it near the breaking point. Just a gentle squeeze now, and the report and recoil of the rifle would come as a great surprise if all went well.