Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  The flight back to the coast of Saa-lon was longer than Ben remembered. He loved his P-40s, but not for the first time now, he cursed the day he’d ever heard of them, lying in crates aboard the beached Santa Catalina in a Tjilatjap swamp. What good were they if he couldn’t use them? Adar had been right all along when he implied they’d be “hangar queens,” and the effort it took to get them would be better spent building their own planes. His mood darkened further when they crossed the coast and he saw Conrad Diebel’s plane standing on its nose on the sandy beach north of Trin-con-lee. Conrad waved at them as they passed, so they knew the Dutch flier was okay, but the plane would have a ruined prop, at least. He’d have to send palkas down to tow the ship all the way through the cruddy ex-Grik city and out to the grass strip they operated from. Shit.

  He and Shirley lined up on the strip, and, with canopies open and gear and flaps down, their engines grumbled and blatted as they throttled back to land. Ben felt the jolt of touchdown, and heard the rumble of the landing gear as he quickly lost speed. Almost at a stop, he goosed the engine and worked the pedals to bring the nose around and head toward the revetments they’d built to protect the planes in case the Grik ever surprised them with a zeppelin raid. In front of his own revetment, he spun the plane around, facing away from it, then cut the engine. Even as the prop wound down, he stood in the cockpit, yanked his leather helmet and goggles off his head, and practically flung them at his approaching ground crew in frustration. Suddenly, he blinked when he saw who stooped to pick them up.

  “Commander Greg Garrett?” he exclaimed, amazed. There’d been no warning that the man and his little task force (TFG-2) had arrived, only that he was on the way.

  Garrett held out his arms and looked at himself. “Yep,” he said in mock astonishment. “I guess it is me! Good to see you too, Colonel.”

  Ben hopped down and shook the man’s hand. “Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes! We’re down to exactly two ships, and little more than spitballs to throw at the Grik. I sure hope you brought some stuff along.”

  Greg nodded. “A little. We escorted a couple of freighters in with fuel, a few crated Nancys, and some of the ground crew kids from Kaufman Field. They brought you some ammo, and the most critical spares you asked for—a few weeks ago.” He gestured vaguely east in the dwindling light. “Good thing we missed that swarm of ships you were after! We must’ve just squeaked past.”

  Ben frowned. “You’d have done more damage to ’em than I could, and as for the list, I need ten times that now.”

  Greg nodded. “Sorry. Things are a mess. Sergeant Dixon’s en route to Andaman with every little thing your heart could desire, but it’ll still take a while to reach you.”

  Ben shrugged. “Hey, I’m one to bitch. I’ve been on my own hook longer than I hoped, but my jam’s not a patch to yours! Hell, do you even know where you’re going?”

  “Not really.” Greg chuckled. “I’ve been admonished to ‘go west, young man!’ and that’s about it.”

  “No shit?”

  Greg laughed. “My instructions are a little more specific than that! I’m sorry to miss the show brewing here, but I’ve got an exciting mission, my pick of a crew, a sound DE consort—and my old Donaghey, of course! What more could I ask?”

  “A lot,” Ben grumbled, shrugging out of his parachute and looking around. “Hey, Soupy!”

  “Sur?”

  “Take this, wilya? You’re in charge—of whatever there is to be in charge of. Commander Garrett and I are going down to Trin-con-lee to arrange transport for some supplies he brought us—and a certain stranded Dutchman.” He looked at Greg. “When do you sail?”

  “Hopefully, the day after tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Ben grinned. “That means you don’t have to wake up early! You got anything to drink on that tub of yours?”

  “Why, Colonel! You know ‘spirits other than medicinal or sufficient to decontaminate water’ are against regulations on Navy ships!”

  “That’s okay, the Navy ’Cats and the guys from PatWing Six have raised a joint like the Busted Screw in town. The seep’s no good, but the beer’s drinkable.” He looked back at Soupy. “You know where to find me, but I may not be back tonight. Commander Garrett and I are old friends, and we’ve got a lot of woes to compare!”

  CHAPTER

  10

  ////// The Wilds of Borno

  T he misty jungle dawn had barely reached them when Gunny Horn kicked Silva in his sore ribs. “Wake up, jerk. Looks like you might’a been right.”

  “Course I was! ’Bout what?” Dennis grumbled, sitting up and flipping the nasty patch back over his destroyed eye. He wouldn’t holster the.45 he always held whenever they slept on the ground until he was fully alert. It was kind of strange that this little habit should be reassuring to those around him.

  Horn glared at him, then flicked his eyes significantly at Pam Cross, still sleeping next to Silva. He shrugged, then pointed beyond the dead super lizard they’d slept beside.

  “About the neighbors.”

  Silva rolled up on his knees, holstering his pistol, and slowly climbed the Doom Stomper like a pole. He’d left it leaning against the dead beast. “I can’t see crap,” he whispered, wiping goo out of his good eye with the back of his thumb. The three ’Cat Marines were already awake, as were Lawrence and his Sa’aarans. Moe was waking Abel Cook and Stuart Brassey. Pokey had returned during the night, but remained huddled at the base of one of their trees a short distance away. He was awake, trying to be still, since he had to be in view of their “guests,” but he seemed to be shivering in terror. Dennis tapped Pam’s shoe with his own.

  “Wake up, doll. We got comp’ny.”

  Pam’s eyes flickered open, and, noticing the stealthy preparations around her, she nodded and eased back the bolt on the Blitzer Bug. There was a muffled click when the sear caught. Dennis frowned. He wasn’t keen on the little submachine guns. The first batch were full auto only, which made them wasteful of ammo and nearly impossible to control, and therefore wildly inaccurate. They were smaller and much lighter than the Thompson they were meant to emulate, and were utterly idiot-proof. The commandos were training with them and might make good use of them, but Dennis preferred heavier, more accurate weapons. Pam was the only human to “come across” on Walker who was smaller than the average Lemurian, however. Even one of the precious Springfields would’ve worn her out, and she didn’t have the training to make it shine. Dennis cursed himself for not taking the time to teach her—but he’d never figured she’d really need a weapon. She was a nurse—and a dame. Until recently, both were ridiculously rare. He looked critically at the Blitzer. Maybe something like a Cutts compensator would tame the thing.

  Lawrence and his countrymen practically slithered up beside him, and Moe joined them with the two teenage officers.

  “You see them yet?” Horn asked.

  Silva rubbed his eye again. “Yeah. It’s kinda foggy, but there’s movement in the tree line yonder, where it gets thick.” He glanced at Moe. “Rust-colored critters, like before.”

  “Dey check us out,” Moe agreed quietly. “Prob’ly hear ruckus, smell smoke an’ meat like you figger, come see who in der territory.”

  “You think they seen us?”

  Moe blinked and swished his tail. “Dey workin’ der way round us now, but first t’ings dey see is dead super lizard an’ dat damn chikkin Grik over der. Dey know he ain’t one o’ dem, so prob’ly a enemy, but dey maybe be careful—wonder how he kill super lizard by hisself, with so much noise.”

  “Huh. ’Magine their surprise when I . . .” He paused and looked at Cook. “You mind if I rear up on this big lizard an’ p’rade myself in all my glory, wavin’ my rifle? If the same fellas we met before is amongst ’em, they might recognize me.”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Ensign Cook,” said Lawrence, his eyes flitting nervously, “they are . . . ’orking around us. Soon they’ll know ’ore o’ us than us know o’ they
—”

  “I think what Larry’s tryin’ to say with his polite, lipless gibberish is if these particular jungle Griks is hostile, keepin’ em off balance and a little shook up might be the best way to keep ’em from jumpin’ us. Right, Larry?”

  Lawrence hissed sullenly. “Right,” he admitted.

  “But . . . such an act might frighten them, precipitate an attack!” Abel objected.

  “Could be. Not if these are the exact Injun lizards we come lookin’ for, I bet. Either way, though, I’d rather precipitate an attack before they’re ready—and maybe have us plumb surrounded.”

  Cook finally nodded. “But why you?”

  “They got no reason to like Lemurians, an’ they’ll likely see Larry and his guys as a trespassin’ tribe. They shouldn’t know squat about humans—an’ I saved one of ’em once. Maybe that’ll count.”

  “Oh, very well.” Cook looked around. “Everyone stand ready—for anything. Just in case. But hold your fire unless I give the order!”

  Dennis nodded approval and immediately scrambled atop the dead allosaur. He moved to the bloody hip area, as high as he could get, and stood as straight and tall as possible.

  “Hey, fellas!” he shouted, his loud voice shattering the morning quiet. Lizard birds protested the noise, and a flock of batlike creatures with long tails stirred from the tops of what remained of the trees they’d started the night in. “Hey, there!” he continued, waving his big rifle over his head. “It’s me, ol’ Silva! Come ta visit them three of you guys I saved from bein’ ate!”

  Almost immediately, a harsh yelp answered from the jungle, taken up and repeated many times. Directly opposite Dennis, maybe seventy yards away, a rust-colored Grik emerged, pointing a fire-hardened spear in their direction. He had to be some kind of chief or leader. His tall black crest was festooned with colorful feathers and the furry tails of small creatures. Some of the decorations looked like the tail feathers of the smaller but clearly dangerous creature that drew the super lizard. The chief also wore something shiny around his neck, but was otherwise naked—as were the hundred or so similar creatures that emerged from the trees to join him, forming a semicircle before them.

  “They were moving to encircle us!” Brassey gasped, his voice a little higher than normal because the creatures didn’t seem friendly at all.

  “Hey, guys!” Dennis shouted. “Any of you remember me? We came to say howdy. Don’t mean no harm a’tall!”

  The chief made thrusting motions with his spear and voiced a loud, shrill croak. Again, his warriors followed suit.

  “You want this dead lizard?” Dennis jumped up and down on the corpse. “Pull up a chair, fix yerselfs a plate! Hell, we can’t eat it all.”

  The chief roared again. This time the answering roar and militant demonstration was too much for Pokey, and he bolted to join his protectors from the base of the tree. An incredulous, furious roar ensued, and with a distinct pointing gesture, the chief urged his warriors forward.

  “Shit,” Dennis mumbled.

  “Maybe it’s a bluff,” Abel cried.

  “No bluff,” Moe shouted with certainty.

  “It’s a hundred to twelve,” Pam almost snarled, “not countin’ Pokey. If we’re gonna shoot, we only got a few seconds to do it!”

  “Oh! Yes, certainly. Ah, commence firing!”

  Dennis fired first, but not without a twinge of regret. He didn’t have a problem killing whatever needed killing, but it was kind of disappointing that nearly everything they met seemed to fall in that category. And, besides, after their last encounter with these creatures, he’d had high hopes. Oh, well. He quickly took a knee and literally spattered the chief like a ripe melon, just as Horn opened up with his BAR, using controlled bursts, and Pam tried to do the same with the Blitzer. Rust-colored forms began falling, screaming, crying out. Moe directed a volley of rifle fire from the Sa’aarans and ’Cat Marines, and the charging line staggered in the middle, some looking at their fallen comrades with astonishment. Too bad they’d been too close and coming too fast for a few warning shots, Dennis suddenly thought, but dismissed the notion. The survivors surged forward just like any Grik he’d ever fought. Damn. He fired again, bowling down at least two jungle Griks with one of his big bullets, but Pam’s Blitzer stuttered empty just as Horn’s BAR did. The Marines and Sa’aarans raced to the flanks, bayonets ready, just as a tide of lizards slammed into the super-lizard breastworks and started clawing their way up or throwing their spears at Dennis. The spears clearly weren’t meant for throwing and most went wild, but a few came too close for comfort. Dennis fired again, then smashed a pair of jaws with his buttplate. He was done with his rifle. He let it drop behind him and out came his cutlass and.45.

  The BAR opened up again on his left, the Blitzer on his right, but everyone seemed to have forgotten he was holding the “middle” by himself. He hacked with the cutlass, shearing flesh with the heavy blade, then took an ugly slash from Grik talons down his back. He whirled to fire his pistol—but the attacker fell away as Cook and Brassey joined him, firing their ’03s and stabbing forward with their bayonets. He grinned. Both boys were young and unsure of themselves, but he’d never thought they were chickens. Pam joined them, then Larry, pushing her up from behind. Pam stabbed another Thompson magazine in the bottom of the Blitzer and sprayed around them, the little gun bucking like mad. Dennis hacked another attacker off their high point, then glimpsed more rust-colored creatures streaming from the trees! This group wasn’t as big as the first, but it moved with far greater discipline, racing out in a column of twos, then splitting into what looked like a supporting line behind the first wave.

  “Looks like the regulars is here,” Silva grumped, shooting down another Grik with his.45. The slide locked back and he grabbed for another magazine. “Maybe they’ll call this the ‘Last Stand on Lizard Lump’!”

  “Shut up,” Pam snarled. Her dark hair was matted with blood. “I ain’t gonna die here, an’ you ain’t gonna let me!”

  “Just joshin’, doll,” Silva replied lightly, but he wasn’t. Not this time. It may have started to settle in the night before, when he tacitly accepted that maybe he really did “belong” to Pam, but somewhere between then and now, he’d come to realize he probably wasn’t going to live forever after all. That Jap, Shinya, had kind of warned him such a day might come, but he hadn’t paid much attention at the time. To end like this, though, kind of . . . stupid, in the grand scheme of things, wounded his sensibilities. Why couldn’t it at least have been aboard Walker, doing something important? Crap.

  He mashed the slide release with his thumb and started firing again. Brassey was down, stunned, it looked like, but the kid was sliding off the super lizard into the grasping claws and teeth below! Silva grabbed an arm and heaved back—but he’d dropped the pistol to do it. He’d never drop his cutlass. It didn’t run out of bullets. He stabbed a Grik going for Pam, but the thing shrieked and grabbed at him. Sharp claws sank into his right forearm, and he bellowed in rage and pain. He couldn’t free the cutlass and couldn’t drop Brassey. He was helpless to stop the rusty Grik lunging at him with a scorched spear tip.

  He couldn’t have been more surprised when a double-fletched crossbow bolt suddenly bloomed in the thing’s neck and it dropped the spear and clutched the bolt. Silva finally wrenched his cutlass free and hacked down the other wounded creature. Slinging Brassey up behind him, he drew Linus Truelove’s long-barreled flintlock pistol from his belt and stood for a moment, watching.

  “I’ll be damned!” He hooted. “I’m charmed after all!”

  The second Grik force was attacking the first! Crossbow bolts thrummed through the press on shockingly flat trajectories, thumping into their attackers or festooning the dead super lizard. The first group, stunned, reacted in a fashion once predictable for all their enemies: faced with fierce, unwavering resistance and attacked without warning from the rear, it started to rout. These creatures didn’t kill those that ran away, but they did catch the panic.
Soon, more were trying to flee than fight. Dennis slid down from the massive carcass, followed by Lawrence. “Moe!” he called. “Moe! Are you still alive?”

  “I still alive,” came a pained voice, “but I lose half my guys down here! Bad fight!” Silva saw then that two Lemurian Marines and one of the Sa’aarans lay dead in the heap of corpses. They’d sold their lives dearly, but that was small consolation.

  “Shit,” Silva murmured. He looked at Moe. “You don’t look so hot either.”

  “I had worse.”

  “I know.”

  All the attackers had vanished now, hounded by teams of their “rescuers.” A small group of those now approached. Physically, they were identical to the others, covered in the same rusty brown, feathery fur—Almost the same color as Keje’s pelt, Silva suddenly thought—but they were lightly striped with a darker shade of brown. They were a little taller than Lawrence, but that might have been because they stood straighter, with shorter tails. They were just as formidably armed as any Grik-like being they’d ever met, though, with wicked black claws on hands and feet, and mouths full of sharp, tearing teeth. Also unlike their attackers, these creatures wore pieces of copper jewelry—wristbands, neck rings, tiny cones that rustled and lightly clattered in their crests. They also carried crossbows, of course, amazingly similar to the ones Lemurians once used. Copper-tipped, broad fletched bolts protruded from quivers carried like shoulder bags. Most amazing, some of the creatures had bronze swords—shaped strikingly like the pattern of a 1917 Navy cutlass! The bronze, and particularly the weapons, were evidence of a far more advanced material culture than the creatures they’d just fought, or even the ones Silva, Lawrence, and Moe had seen before.

  The small procession stopped near the tail of the dead super lizard, and a couple of its number gazed at the monster appraisingly. The rest stared expectantly at the survivors of the expedition.

  “Well, these don’t seem like the same lizard folks we was sent to meet,” Dennis said softly, “but they did just save our asses, and that’s a fact.”