Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “I’ve never ridden a horse!” Kari shouted uneasily, twisting her fingers in the thick mane. “I don’t know how!”

  “Learn quickly,” Anson advised, spinning his mount around. “Grasp the mane farther up. Try to force the animal to look whichever direction I go. It will quickly get the idea and follow.” He glanced around. Most of their companions had fled, but twenty or so had taken cover and were firing muskets, pistols, or arrows toward the gun flashes that were becoming harder to see as dense white smoke replaced the mist. What had been a peaceful morning camp just moments before had become a battlefield. “Hold on tight,” he added, then drove his boot heels into his animal’s flanks.

  Kari’s horse did get the idea, and soon they were loping away from the fight. The forest and poor visibility prevented them from moving as quickly as they’d like, but the moist air muffled their passage, and the sounds of battle quickly faded behind them. Sooner than Fred would’ve expected, Anson slowed their pace. “What now?” he demanded.

  “This fog is heaven-sent.” Anson pointed left, west, Fred thought, but he was disoriented and it was impossible to tell for sure. “We must work our way in that direction and try to slip past the enemy.”

  “Why don’t we just keep moving away from them?”

  “They’re expecting that. This attack was well planned. For them to find us in this”—he waved around—“they had to know where we were headed. That’s understandable, but they also had to know exactly where we would camp. That place, long considered safe, has been compromised. Obviously, there was a traitor among us.” He grinned at Fred’s belligerent frown. “No, I know it isn’t you! Even if I hadn’t been watching you, there’s no way you could have known the location of that camp or told anyone about it. Personally, I suspect it may have been the man Ensign Faask disposed of so efficiently. Well done, that!”

  “So that’s who you were about to shoot?”

  Anson shrugged. “I was prepared to shoot whoever required shooting, and moments like that often reveal who they are.” He shook his head. “Let’s discuss this later, once free of this box we’re in. I did mention I suspect the attack was designed to drive us into the arms of another force. Kari was the priority of the people we were with, but you, Lieutenant Reynolds, are the priority of our pursuers. They will want you very badly, no doubt.”

  Fred nodded. “Kari’s just an animal to them, but I know too much,” he agreed.

  “Exactly.”

  “Fine, let’s go. But when we’re in the clear, I think it’s time I knew more about you”—he looked pointedly at the flap holster at Anson’s side—“and that interesting pistol of yours.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  ////// Baalkpan ATC (Advanced Training Center)

  West Bank of Baalkpan Bay

  April 22, 1944

  M att had never seen the Baalkpan ATC; it hadn’t existed before he went east. Stepping ashore from the broad-beamed motor launch with his cane in his hand (he relied on it less and less), he saw that the facility was modeled after the Maara-vella ATC near the mouth of Maa-ni-la Bay. Much of the dense jungle along the shore had been cleared in places, but left in others so amphibious operations could be rehearsed against any kind of beach. Beyond that was a massive parade ground for assemblies and “traditional” linear drill, but the focus was on more open tactics the ever-improving weapons allowed them to employ. He’d come here today with Sandra, Chief Gray, Courtney Bradford, Alan Letts, and, to his continued consternation, Commander Simon Herring, to review Chack’s Raiders and see for themselves the new weapons they’d been issued.

  Chack, Major Jindal, and several other Lemurian and Imperial officers met them on the quay, and they exchanged salutes.

  “Hiya, Chackie,” Gray said, and Chack looked at the SB. Only Dennis Silva had ever called him that. He wasn’t offended. He recognized the term as an affectionate diminutive, but to hear it from the terrible Super Bosun was a shock. Then again, they weren’t aboard ship, he realized, and he’d heard Chief Gray was—or could become—a different man ashore. He wondered if the human female Diania had anything to do with that?

  “Hiya . . . ah, SB,” Chack replied. He looked at the others. “Cap-i-taan Reddy, Minister . . .” He still found this assuming of married names confusing and fell back on the Imperial usage he’d heard. “Minister Lady Saandra.” He greeted Bradford, Letts, and Herring as well, then turned back to Captain Reddy.

  “Good morning, Chack,” Matt said with a smile. “I hope we’re not too early. I’m pretty eager to see what you’ve got.”

  “Not at all, sir. We are eager to show you!”

  The “commandos,” or 1st Raider Brigade, were composed of two newly formed regiments: the 7th commanded by Risa-Sab-At, and the 21st under Major Jindal. Both had a battalion of Imperial Marines, including one from the island of Respite (in the 7th). The Lemurian battalions came from Baalkpan (also in the 7th) and Maa-ni-la, (attached to the 21st). Chack was in overall command, and the force—which included light artillery and an impressive logistics train that Letts had helped create—totaled almost three thousand troops. The organization was impressive, as was the mix of weapons and capabilities. Chack, Risa, and Jindal had been given a free hand in the formation of the brigade, and what they’d come up with might not be ideal for a static defense like Alden was stuck in, but seemed perfect for Matt’s raid. Each battalion had its own artillery, sappers, engineers, and cavalry company—though how the long-legged, crocodilian me-naaks would cope with such a long voyage was a mystery—and each company had mortar tubes and a squad of crude, crew-served flamethrowers, of all things, pressurized by a pump.

  The devices were short-ranged and gave Matt the creeps, but seemed to work well enough when he saw them demonstrated. He wouldn’t want to operate one. Otherwise, the weapons mix on the platoon level was intriguing and exciting. Riflemen carried a slightly shorter version of the newly standard, single-shot “Allin-Silva” breechloaders that fired the powerful.50-80 fixed, metallic cartridge. Those weapons were formidable enough, with their wicked bayonets and high rate of fire compared to muzzle loaders. Matt knew similar weapons (and ammunition) were being sent to Alden, but the supply effort there was slow. It would also be a long time before they could spare enough of the new rifles for Second Fleet—and even longer before they could get there. It bothered him that some of his troops had to risk their lives with outmoded weapons while others got the very best. There was little he could do about that. It was a matter of logistics and priorities, and a feature of the vast scope the war had assumed.

  In addition, each commando squad had several troops armed with Blitzer Bug submachine guns. These newest versions were still basically a pipe with a barrel, shoulder stock, and Thompson-style magazine, and looked a lot like the bug sprayers they’d initially been called. But now they fired their.45 ACP cartridge either fully or semiautomatically. They were light and handy and easy to make compared to a Thompson, and could spray a lot of lead. Letts assured Matt they’d have light machine guns like the 1919 Browning very soon. The issues had been better barrel metal required by the necessarily jacketed bullets, as well as a better brass-drawing process for the higher-pressure, bottlenecked cartridges. The earlier methods worked well enough for the.50-80s and the.45s, but to Bernie Sandison’s mortification, resulted in far too many case head and shoulder ruptures in the.30-06,.30-40, and particularly the.50 BMG. They could be used in the dwindling, scattered, ’03 Springfields and Krags (preferably for slow, long-range work) but for now, the ship’s machine guns and those mounted in Ben’s P-40s—as well as some of the Nancys—still had to rely on the ammo they’d recovered aboard Santa Catalina.

  There were other new weapons; copies of 1911 pistols Matt had already seen, better grenades, and breechloading 20-gauge “buckshot” carbines for some of the cavalry, converted from the earliest smoothbores. Matt was pleased and impressed. Still, he didn’t notice one of the most impressive innovations until they were actually reviewing
the troops drawn up in ordered ranks for his inspection.

  They all looked fine, Lemurians and Imperials, standing at ease in full combat kit. They still wore the rhino-pig leather cuirass over mottled, camouflage tunics and trousers (for humans) or long smocks (for ’Cats), but the armor had been stained dark. This was a departure for both races, who’d been accustomed to fighting in bright armor or uniforms. All had copies of the 1917 cutlass (nobody was ready to fight Grik without a sword of some kind to fall back on, and the cutlasses really were the ultimate expression of edged weapon design), and their helmets were stamped and painted steel instead of polished bronze. Some of the troops wore large rectangular boxes strapped to their backs, however. At first, Matt assumed they were meant to transport ammo, but they were just too big; about two by three feet, and at least six inches deep. Nobody could carry as much ammo as one of those things would hold, not very far. Not even the strongest Lemurian.

  “What are those leather boxes some of the guys have?”

  Letts grinned. “Field telephones, Skipper,” he said. “That Marine corporal—Miles—working for Bernie came up with the idea, and Riggs had Ronson draw one up. The ’Cats in his division built the first ones in their spare time!”

  “Lance Corporal Miles,” Herring corrected. “He came here with me. The design is based on the Double-E-Eight, and in this one instance, I’m surprised you didn’t come up with the idea on your own.”

  Matt couldn’t decide if that was another criticism or backhanded compliment. He let it slide.

  “They’re ridiculously simple,” Herring continued, “and have been in service for nearly a decade.” He shrugged. “At least in the Army and Marines.”

  “I’ve seen them before,” Matt admitted, “but there’s not much call for them aboard ship. Honestly, I never looked at one very closely. I figured they’d be complicated.”

  “No more complicated than the field telegraph apparatus you’ve made such extensive use of here and on the battlefield,” Herring said.

  “Alan?”

  “He’s right, Skipper,” Letts confirmed. “The only thing we couldn’t’ve done until recently was the receive and transmit elements in the handset, but we’d already sorted that out for the TBS and other things before Miles came along. It just took somebody with a fresh eye.”

  “As I have said in many contexts,” Herring prodded.

  “But they still need wires?”

  “Right,” Letts confirmed. “But you can string them out like a party line or run them through a switchboard, and they take even less power than a telegraph.”

  “I’ll be derned.” Matt gestured at one of the boxes. “Can we get these to Alden? I take it you’ve looked into that?”

  “Yes, sir. And I’ve discussed it with him via wireless, but since he already has secure internal telegraph and wireless comm, he told us to keep ’em for now. They’re not as heavy as they look, but they’re bulky, and he doesn’t want so much as a toothbrush taking up room on a transport plane or barge if we can fit an extra bullet in the same space.”

  “Understandable,” Matt muttered. “When the curtain goes up on the final act at Madras, he’s going to need all the ammo he can get. What’s the latest estimate?”

  The Grik were still forcing Pete to burn ammunition at a prodigious rate, and supply wasn’t keeping up, particularly with his artillery. Matt was only peripherally engaged in the planning for the upcoming combined offensive, but they’d been basing expectations for what Alden could do to help on projections regarding how long he, Rolak, and Safir Maraan could sustain full-blown assaults of their own against the forces surrounding them.

  Alan looked grim. “Right now, it stands at about seven hours, give or take. That goes up and down every day, of course, but that’s all the reserve he’s got. If he has to keep up what he’s doing now for the next three weeks, he has enough held back to unleash absolute, total hell on the Grik for about seven hours before running completely dry.” Alan grimaced. “If the relief takes longer than three weeks, or if his own part of the plan doesn’t work and he runs out of steam before he can break out . . .”

  “He’s finished,” Sandra whispered. “And so are Rolak, Safir, Leedom, and maybe thirty-five thousand troops.”

  Matt looked stonily at the assembled brigade, then his gaze fell on Chack. General Queen Protector Safir Maraan was affianced to Chack, and they’d been separated for a very long time. Matt knew Chack had to be thinking how much his brigade could do to help the Allied Expeditionary Force—and the female he loved—but he blinked no indication of his inner turmoil, and his expressive tail remained rigidly still. Maybe they should use this force to help relieve Alden. Maybe the raid was a waste of time and resources after all. No, Matt thought. Sandra’s right. The force assembling to break the enemy at Madras was far more impressive. It had been training for the operation and should be able to do the job. But what then? Even if First Fleet and all its troops accomplished its mission, the Grik would reinforce and the battle for India would degenerate into a war of attrition that the Grand Alliance simply couldn’t win. Maybe they wouldn’t lose it, but it could go on for years, and despite what Herring implied, Matt was sick to death of the war and all the suffering it caused.

  Herring’s comment made him think, though. What would he do if the war ever ended? In many ways, he’d become the war and his very identity was consumed by it. Yet . . . he had Sandra, and he had his ship. He—and Walker—would always be needed on this strange, strange world. The raid’s critical, and it will cause chaos among the Grik, he determined. The little, almost insignificant raid his cousin Orrin told him Colonel Doolittle pulled on the Old World, the one his was loosely based on, may have even turned the tide by causing the Japanese to stop their steamroller advance, take a breath, and redeploy to protect their homeland. It had definitely compelled them to focus on eliminating the American carrier threat for good—which cost them their precious ass at Midway! This was about all Matt knew of that “other” war he and his people had escaped, but it was enough.

  He turned to Letts. “We leave one week from today,” he said, “except you, Alan. You’ve got to stay.”

  “But, Skipper!” Alan pleaded.

  “No, you’ve got to stay. I need you here, the war needs you here, and Adar does too.” Alan started to speak, but Matt stopped him. “I know you’re pissed that he kept you in the dark. I am too. But he didn’t do it because he doesn’t trust you, he did it because he loves you, damn it! He’s never taken a mate—how could he right now?—and you’re like a son to him. Besides, I’m going to need a lot of the old fellas for this one. Brister has Mahan, and he needs some guys, probably Ronson and some of her old torpedomen and engineers, at least. I’ve got to have Bernie with his torpedoes. You and Riggs might be all that’s left to keep the wheels from falling off.”

  “Most things run themselves now,” Alan protested.

  “Sure, but that’s because of you. And who’ll sort things out if things . . . go sour? Besides”—Matt’s tone softened—“I’m not having that little girl of yours grow up without a dad, and that’s final.” He smiled a little sadly. “She was the first small trace of hope that we might leave some legacy here besides pain and suffering—and that somebody’ll always remember our lost shipmates.” He shrugged. “And us, I guess, in the end.” He looked at the others and the assembled troops and raised his voice. “I wish you guys could be in on the show at Madras, but the raid you’ve been training for is important. Too important, I think, for you to get plugged in and stuck in someplace I might never get you out of, and we should already have sufficient forces to relieve General Alden. That said, our little raid may not be for all the marbles, but if we can take the Grik’s best shooter out of the game, we’ll have the ring—and the initiative—all to ourselves.”

  “At least for a while,” Gray agreed, looking appraisingly at Chack. The ’Cat knew “marbles” now; this other game that came with the destroyermen had become even more universal than b
aseball, and glassmakers made crude marbles like mad in their off-duty hours to keep up with demand.

  “No,” Chack said grimly. “This game is for ‘keeps,’ and we’re going to knock every one of the Grik’s damn marbles out of the ring!”

  CHAPTER

  20

  ////// TFG-2

  USS Donaghey

  Western Ocean

  April 23, 1944

  T he horizon was milky, but the sky above was a brilliant blue. A steady, easterly wind had prevailed for the better part of a week, and Commander Greg Garrett was pleased that his little squadron had logged more than one hundred twenty miles each day they’d been at sea since weighing anchor at Trin-con-lee. There was just the slightest pitch as the blue-green water foamed to white alongside USS Donaghey’s smooth, firm sides, and the rumbling rush was music to his ears. He leaned over the port, windward rail of the flush quarterdeck and watched the froth for a moment, then looked back at the big double wheel forward of the mizzenmast. His exec, Lieutenant Saama-Kera, Sammy, was standing beside the ’Cat at the helm, and grinned back at him, blinking delight. Sammy had been Chapelle’s exec on Tolson, and if Greg’s old executive officer, Lieutenant Saaran-Gaani was unavailable, hurrying to Andaman with troops recruited in the Great South Isles, Greg was happy to have Sammy. He grinned back at the dark-striped ’Cat and looked to the horizon. The “milk” was turning darker, and there’d be squalls in the afternoon.

  USS Donaghey, recently designated DDS-2 to signify she’d been the second of three sailing destroyers built on this world, was slanting southwest under a full press of canvas across the great Western or Indian Ocean. The designation seemed odd to Garrett, since Donaghey was the last of those first three ships. The others had been lost in combat—as had Donaghey for a time—but she’d been refloated and undergone a major refit that included a number of upgrades that made her perhaps uniquely qualified for her current mission. She and her consort, the “razeed” Grik “Indiaman” USS Sineaa (DE-48), keeping station several miles to leeward, constituted the second Task Force Garrett (TFG-2), and as dedicated sailors with no need to carry fuel for anything but auxiliary generators and the Nancy flying boats struck down in their holds, they could push back the mysterious boundary of the known world. Exploring the extent of the Grik Empire in the vicinity of Madagasgar was their primary goal, but other tasks had been added to that mission, and Garrett was excited by what they implied. Still, he was even more anxious to proceed with his secondary, lengthier, and perhaps most dangerous mission: to round the southern tip of Africa and see what lay beyond.