Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “Ever’body shut up!” Silva roared.

  If the shout distracted the giant beast (an overgrown allosaur, Dennis remembered Courtney calling the things), it didn’t show it. It was wholly focused on the smaller animal that started hooting desperately—even as it tugged maniacally at the morsel Silva had baited it with. It apparently never even considered just letting go and running away. With a satisfied gurgle, the super lizard snatched up the smaller creature in its terrible jaws and silenced a last, desolate howl with a mighty crunch. One of Horn’s hammock lines parted and he fell, still clutching the BAR. He actually glanced off the monster’s right flank before landing on the soft, mushy ground. Apparently unhurt, he bolted around to the other side of the thick trunk.

  Several limbs were shaken loose and fell when Horn did, and the super lizard appeared not to notice as it chewed a few more times, then raised its head to let the morsel slide down its throat. All still might have been well if that motion hadn’t brought the great predator’s head frighteningly close to the Grik hammock.

  It’s like the worms in a apple screamin’ bloody murder when the bird flies by, Dennis thought with a sinking feeling. Unlike the other hammocks, the super lizard could reach that one with only the slightest hop—which it suddenly showed it was capable of. The jaws closed on the canvas package of flesh, and Dennis heard the same shrieks he’d listened to with perverse pleasure on many battlefields. Only this time, they came from “friendly Grik” who’d trusted him to keep them safe—and this whole mess was maybe just a little bit his fault.

  The hammock brought larger limbs down with it this time, and the whole cluster of trees shook violently. Pam was bounced from her bed and fell with a startled cry. Half of Stuart Brassey’s support lines parted and he slid out as well. Moe, Lawrence, both his Sa’aarans, and the two ’Cat Marines were already out of their beds and scrambling down the tree trunks.

  “Shit,” muttered Silva. He slid his giant rifle to the ground by the same line he’d hoisted it with, slung his web belt and bandoliers around his neck, clutched his hammock to him with one powerful arm, and slashed the line at his feet with his cutlass. The line parted with a snap, and he swayed out over the super lizard just as it stooped to examine the unexpected prize it plucked. To his amazement, Dennis saw one Grik bolt from the hammock and vanish in the dark. Horrible cries still came from within the Grik hammock, keeping the super lizard distracted while Dennis swayed. He wanted to throw himself clear, or at least bounce off the beast as Horn had done, but there was no way. “Shit,” he repeated. Sliding down as far as he could, he dropped on the monster’s back. For just an instant he stood there, teetering—and saw Pam’s terrified face reflected in the firelight. He flashed her a gap-toothed grin and was suddenly inspired to stab down as hard as he could with his trusty cutlass.

  That was stupid, he realized when the super lizard reacted as quick as a rattlesnake and spun around with an ear-splitting, indignant screech. Guess I missed anything important, he thought analytically when he was tossed away like a biting fly. He had just enough time to curl into a ball before he hit the ground rolling. A stick—something—poked him in the ribs, but he jumped to his feet just as Horn’s BAR shattered the night with its staccato roar. Dumb-ass! I told him these big’uns’ll soak up ’06 like a sponge—an’ this is the biggest bastard I ever saw!”

  The noisy, painful impacts did distract the monster, however, particularly when everyone else opened up as well. Maybe it’ll run away, Silva hoped. Didn’t think so, he thought when it immediately turned to face this latest nuisance. Moe had gathered the shooters behind the farthest of their trio of trees, and they were shooting through the branches. Clearly thinking the tree was its enemy, the monster proceeded to destroy it. Trying very hard not to draw its attention—which he probably couldn’t do with a bugle now that it was so focused on the enemy tree—Silva scrambled for his rifle. There! Still in one piece! All it would’ve taken was a stray step by the five-ton lizard to ruin it.

  The tree was almost done, and very quickly the super lizard would figure out that its real enemy was beyond it. The damn thing actually was pretty smart; smart enough to realize their little guard fires were no threat. Maybe it couldn’t see that well at night and the gun flashes likely had it confused, but in just a few seconds it would be chasing his friends in the dark, away from the light Dennis needed to kill it. He pulled a couple of the massive shells from the bandolier and raised the big rifle. Thumbing back the hammer, he aimed for what he hoped was the hip. Having studied the anatomy of super lizards with some interest, he wasn’t sure he could break its neck with one of the hard lead bullets he carried the most of—and he couldn’t tell in the dark if he’d chosen one of his “specials” with the bronze core penetrator.

  “Hey, you stupid, walkin’ backhoe!” he bellowed. “Get a load o’ this!” He fired. The recoil of the quarter-pound bullet atop nearly three hundred grains of first-class mil-spec black powder almost slammed him off his feet and actually left him a little dizzy for a moment. The super lizard staggered, its left leg trying to drop out from under it. With a mighty squeal of rage and agony that saturated the jungle around them and finally seemed to shake the rain from the heavy clouds above, the monster managed to straighten. Then it turned toward Dennis Silva.

  “Jeez. I think this sucker kicks even worse than the old Doom Whomper,” Dennis muttered, thumbing back the hammer and slapping the trapdoor breechblock up and forward. The big, empty shell casing clanged away amid a wisp of smoke as the extractor slammed it against the raised ejector knob toward the rear of the receiver. Dennis shoved another cartridge in the chamber and clapped the breech closed. All this was done with muscle memory, before he was completely recovered from the first shot. He could hear yelling and shooting but it barely registered, didn’t signify. He looked up.

  “Goddam!” he squeaked. The super lizard was almost on him, its mouth wide to gulp him down, strands of bloody saliva glistening in the firelight. Dennis snatched the big rifle back to his shoulder and fired in the general direction of the upper back of the great mouth that had grown to encompass all things.

  He was still standing there a few moments later, staring dumbly at the enormous dead head in front of him, when Pam Cross flung her arms around him, plastering herself to his side. “You’re somethin’ else,” she cried tearfully.

  “He’s a whopper, ain’t he?” Dennis finally managed. Then his voice grew hard. “Yeah, I am somethin’ else: a jerk.” He caught Abel’s eye as their teenage leader approached. “This was my fault,” he admitted.

  “How on earth?”

  “I tied a piece of fish to that line hangin’ from Gunny Horn’s hammock. I . . . sorta left the bait that lured this big bugger up. I only meant it as a gag.”

  “Why, you . . .” Horn began, but Moe stopped the Marine before he could take a swing.

  “Some gag,” Silva continued bitterly. “Almost got us all killed.”

  “Good gag,” Moe countered unexpectedly. He poked at the super lizard with Silva’s cutlass. He must’ve pulled it out. “Dat booger runnin’ roun’, he catch our smell, come for us. Him see dat little lizard hoppin roun’ save us. Udderwise, first t’ing we know ’bout him when he eatin’ dem damn Griks or somebody else.”

  Silva wasn’t convinced. He didn’t get introspective very often, but he still figured he’d screwed up. “How many o’ those Grik fellas did we lose? Is everybody else okay?”

  “Two of the Grik died of their wounds,” Abel said stiffly. “Pokey escaped. Barely. No one else was seriously injured. A few bumps and bruises.”

  “I guess that’s somethin.” Silva looked at Cook. “I’ll accept whatever punishment you choose to fling at me . . . sir.”

  “But it good gag!” Moe persisted. “Dem Griks gonna die, sleepin’ dat low, no matter what.” He shrugged. “You all miss bigger t’ing! Dat damn super lizard smell smoke way before he smell us.” He gestured around. “Out here, back home . . . anywhere . . . smoke
mean fire. Fire mean burn, choke, die. Even dat little rope tugger come troo smoke. How come both them boogers come rompin’ up like expectin’ somethin’ ta eat?”

  Stuart Brassey looked at Abel. “Because, around here at least, they’re used to fires—cookfires, perhaps. Fires that often mean food, or at least scraps.”

  “Indeed,” Abel said, sounding very much like Courtney Bradford when the man was deep in thought. He looked at Silva. “No punishment, but no more gags, if you please. At least not without discussing them first.”

  “So . . . what do we do now?” Horn asked. “Our camp’s pretty well trashed. No telling what else’ll come running up to that big pile of meat.”

  “I hate to add more bad news,” Brassey said, “but the transmitter casing is shattered. I think our big visitor may have stepped on it when it fell from the tree. I don’t know if I can salvage it or not.” The Imperial midshipman had become an avid electronics student and was their de facto wireless operator.

  “That don’t matter,” Silva said. “We was bound to lose contact sooner or later—an’ it ain’t like anybody can help us now, anyway.” He looked at Horn. “No reason to get all worked up either. We ought’a be safe as can be for the night.” He hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry about the gag, but maybe Moe’s right. Super lizards are top dog wherever their territory is. Blood or not, nothin’ll pester us here until he starts smellin’ dead, instead of like a big-ass super lizard.”

  “So . . . what do we do? Use the big bastard for a pillow?”

  “Can if you want, if you can stand the smell. He is a bit rank. Besides”—Dennis’s expression lightened—“meat’s meat, and we already got fires.” He shrugged. “And who knows? Maybe a little smoke an’ cookin’ meat’ll lure up whatever else is out here startin’ fires that critters ain’t afraid of.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  ////// The Enchanted Isles (Galápagos)

  Elizabeth Bay

  H igh Admiral Harvey Jenks, CINCEAST, impatiently paced the broad bridgewing of USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-4) while staring out at the already-impressive collection of warships anchored around the flagship of Second Fleet. Maaka-Kakja had been the first purpose-built aircraft carrier/tender in the Alliance, and currently, on paper, Second Fleet was the most powerful naval force in the Grand Alliance—particularly after the mauling First Fleet took at the hands of the Grik. In reality, though, the fleet’s assets were still so strung out across the vast reaches of the Pacific—or Eastern Sea, as the Lemurians called it—that Harvey Jenks was confident only that he could hold the Enchanted Isles against any currently imaginable Dominion threat. But he chafed at the time it was taking to consolidate sufficient forces to take the war to the bloody Doms.

  He’d always known that would take time. The Empire of the New Britain Isles had absolutely no experience at projecting such power, particularly over such distances. And if his American-Lemurian allies had deployed comparably large fleets, even they’d never attempted it so incredibly far from their primary base of supply. Jenks had the colonial possessions in the northern Americas to draw from to some extent, but they were no closer. Besides, the shattered “Honorable” New Britain Company had jealously guarded against the rise of major industries in Saint Francis. The shipyards there were necessarily impressive by prewar standards, but the foundries were puny and the workforce sparse. It was never intended that the colonies should be able to sustain themselves without importing expensive manufactured goods—much less sustain a major fleet and thousands of troops so far from their shores.

  That was changing. Even as the bulk of the Imperial Navy and most Allied assets in the theater moved to the Enchanted Isles, much of the Empire’s extensive merchant marine was shipping the tools of industry to the colonies. Captain Reddy had even asked for and received permission to establish a Lemurian-American base as far south as (what they called) San Diego. The place had long been recognized as a potentially excellent port, but its proximity to the Dom frontier had made establishing one a dangerous, perhaps provocative act. Provocation was no longer a concern, and the new, slightly closer American port would help ease the strain—eventually. But that was all in the future. After what the Doms did to his country and to his people here in the Enchanted Isles, Harvey Jenks wanted to get at them as soon as possible.

  He suddenly realized, not only was he pacing, but he’d begun twisting his braided mustaches again. Abruptly he dropped his hand and stopped to lean against the rail overhanging the flight deck below.

  “Um. Any word from Admiral Monroe?” he asked Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, who’d been—if not more patiently, at least more resignedly—pacing alongside him. Admiral Lelaa commanded Maaka-Kakja, and ultimately all Allied naval forces in the East. She wore the white kilt and neatly tailored blouse required of female Lemurian naval officers over her brindled fur, and she looked at him with her large, wide eyes.

  “No, High Ahd-mi-raal. Not today—but I presume Monroe and his squadron of Imperial ships of the line is somewhat closer than when Lieutenant Haan-Sor-Plaar of the DD escort USS Finir-Pel sent their position report yesterday. Lieutenant Haan is a conscientious young officer, and I’m sure he would have sent a special report if, say, Ahd-mi-raal Monroe’s squadron was suddenly destroyed by a herd of mountain fishes.”

  Jenks glanced sharply at Lelaa and caught her grin. He sighed. “I apologize, Admiral. It’s just that those bloody things—the liners, you call them—are so damned slow!”

  “But damned powerful, and I will be glad to have them when they arrive. And there is no need to apologize. I am as anxious as you.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  Lelaa blinked and swished her tail. “Yes, but I have learned a few things over the past few years. First, no matter how I may chafe against it, very few things can be made to happen more quickly than is possible. I am never satisfied by that, but I may have learned to accept it better than you.” She flicked her ears. “Perhaps a lifetime under sail alone has prepared me for that revelation”—she gestured around at her massive ship and the planes on the flight deck and almost giggled—“despite what might seem somewhat significant evidence to the contrary!” She looked back at Jenks and blinked seriousness. “I have also come to know you well, I think.” She pointed at the Imperial frigate Achilles, anchored nearby. Maaka-Kakja’s immediate battle group all rode at anchor within the confines of the port city and territorial capital of Elizabethtown, on the main island of Albermarl. “I suspect you miss having your own deck beneath your feet. You commanded Aa-chill-ees a great while, and now, though you command our entire effort in the East, you have no ship of your own. I would miss that.”

  Jenks rubbed his chin. “That may be part of it,” he conceded. “I had Achilles for almost five years. I commanded other ships for twelve years before that. I’ve belonged to one ship or another all my life, it seems. It does feel a bit, well, unnatural to step beyond that. I suppose I envy your Captain Reddy in that respect. Militarily, he outranks us all, I suppose, yet he gets to keep his ship!” He smiled. “Not that he—or the entire Grand Alliance—would have it any other way!”

  Tex Sheider, Maaka-Kakja’s exec, stepped out on the bridgewing. “Admirals,” he said, “it’s fifteen hundred. You told me to remind you.”

  “Thank you,” Lelaa said, looking at Jenks. “We will be along immediately.” Sheider nodded and turned away. Lelaa blinked concern and lowered her voice so only Jenks could hear. “I do hope Governor Humphries is feeling better today. Such an interesting person, and such a waste if he should remain . . . as he has been . . . forever.”

  * * *

  Maaka-Kakja’s big steam launch plied back and forth between the ship and the government docks in Elizabeth Bay almost constantly. This time it carried Jenks and Lelaa, as well as General Tamatsu Shinya and Lieutenant Orrin Reddy. Shinya had been a lieutenant aboard a Japanese destroyer that Walker sank with a stray torpedo right before she steamed into the Squall that brought her to this world. Shinya had been to
rn by divided loyalties for a time, but was ultimately accepted by the vast majority of his former enemies. His strict sense of honor and devotion to the Allied cause helped bridge any remaining obstacles between him and Captain Reddy becoming close and trusted friends, and his talent as a field commander brought him his current appointment as commander of 2nd Fleet’s Allied Expeditionary Force (AEF-2).

  Orrin Reddy was COFO of Maaka-Kakja’s 3rd Naval Air Wing—which was strange in itself, because he’d belonged to the 3rd Pursuit Squadron in the Philippines when the Japanese attacked. Additionally strange because even here he remained enough of an Army pilot that he’d refused the naval rank of commander. He’d been offered the army rank of captain, but declined that too on the grounds that one Captain Reddy, regardless of branch seniority, was enough for this screwed-up world. He meant no disrespect by that because, perhaps strangest of all, Captain Matthew Reddy was Orrin’s much-admired first cousin. Whatever twisted fate had brought any of them to this world had been particularly cruel to the Reddy family back home.

  The view from the launch was breathtaking. The sheer tonnage of shipping that choked the anchorage was impressive, but the sky was bright and the bay almost surreally clear. Most of the island itself was a dark, rocky heap of long-cold lava, but despite Orrin’s initial description of the place from the air as hell, this part, at least, was lush with vegetation, and the saddles between the distant, craggy volcanoes were filled with tall trees and flurries of colorful flying creatures. Elizabethtown reflected the architecture that prevailed elsewhere in the Empire; an odd mixture of the classical with blocky stucco and wood. New London, on New Britain Isle (what should’ve been Honolulu) was reminiscent of “old” London in many ways, but here, as just about everywhere else except perhaps Respite City, simpler, more practical buildings sufficed. Still, the place had an odd, almost Mediterranean beauty to it—or would have before one noticed the virtual sea of tents that had sprouted on the broad plain south of the city, where the AEF was beginning to make its home.