“We can put a single fifty-pounder on ’em, if we send ’em up without ammo for the guns in the wheel pants. Jumbo test dropped some, and we’ve been retrofitting hard points and attachments on all the Fleashooters, all the way from Baalkpan. They’re doin’ it on Baalkpan Bay too.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “They’ve even got you calling ’em Fleashooters? I was afraid that name would stick.” The new P-1 Mosquito Hawks looked a lot like the old P-26 Peashooter, only smaller, and Dennis Silva’s penchant for bestowing irreverent names on things had struck again.
Cecil Dixon shrugged. “Can’t help it.” He gestured back at the rest of the column of carts, animals, women, and ’Cats, stacked up behind him. “Now, Colonel sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to spread my goodies out where I can get at ’em, and start fixing all the planes you busted!”
“Carry on, Sergeant. By all means.”
CHAPTER
29
////// The Healer’s Section, near General Halik’s HQ
Grik India
D espite the best efforts of the various healers attached to General Halik’s army, General Orochi Niwa was dying. Granted, Grik military medicine was ridiculously primitive—there was so little call for it, after all—and it relied primarily on appeals to the mercy of the Celestial Mother and her ancestors. The only proactive measures employed were those any Uul might use if it ever occurred to one that a wounded warrior might constitute anything more valuable than rations. Niwa’s bleeding had been stopped and he’d been made comfortable. Beyond that, all the healers could do was chant loudly enough that the Celestial Mother might hear their pleas. The wonder of it all was that—for a time—Niwa seemed to improve. His wound sealed and he gained strength, but then he became feverish and began a long decline that left him wasted and near delirious, when he was conscious at all.
The head healer, normally a Chooser of meats, had approached General Halik earlier that day and abjectly apologized that the Giver of Life had clearly decided that General Niwa must die, within a few days at most. Halik went to his friend, hoping to add his own prayers to the chant, but when he arrived he knew it was no use. Niwa appeared comfortable enough, swaddled in furs and filthy blankets, but he’d clearly lost his personal battle against death. He was pale and slick with sweat, and though he could no longer fight his fate, it hadn’t made him prey. He was calm and still, and though sunken, his eyes were bright and aware when Halik crouched beside him.
“Hello, my friend,” Niwa said softly. “I’d hoped you would find time to come. There are things you need to know.”
“I have learned a great deal from you,” Halik replied. “I wanted to learn much more.”
“You will—if I have the time, and”—he paused, his eyes flitting to one of the chanting healers—“if you’ll get those idiots out of here. I’ve noticed that I’m the only patient in this . . . hospital, and suppose they have nothing better to do than pester me, but I would like to be alone with you now.”
“Get out!” Halik barked at the healers.
“But, Lord General!” one protested.
“Leave us!” Halik commanded, and reluctantly the creatures scurried away.
Niwa sighed. “Thank you for that. I think they have driven me mad, but at the moment, I am myself.”
“I have tried to get prisoners, to learn how enemy healers work, but without the general assault I have still not been allowed, we have taken none,” Halik apologized. Their enemy must have magical medicines indeed, because so many of his slain had clearly survived dreadful wounds before.
“Yet more information we should have extracted from the prisoners we took beyond the Gap,” Niwa said wistfully. “I have told you before: the enemy often has greater value than simply food.”
“I know, and you are right,” Halik soothed.
Niwa’s eyes turned hard. “Do not humor me, General Halik! As my friend, you must hear what I say and heed my warning.”
“Warning?”
“Yes.” Niwa seemed to drift a moment, then his eyes cleared and he managed to grasp Halik’s arm. “I am not the only one who faces doom in this place!”
Halik shifted uncomfortably. “Our situation remains grim,” he conceded, “but we still outnumber the foe by a great margin. We can destroy him as soon as the final orders come.”
“But why have they not?” Niwa demanded.
“General of the Sea Kurokawa has a strategy.”
Niwa snorted. “Yes. Yes, he does. But I tell you again: his real strategy does not embrace, or even allow for, your survival or that of the Grik as they are! Kurokawa strives only to achieve victory for Kurokawa! I’ve told you he is mad—mind sick—and he is. But not in an Uul-turned-prey fashion. Kurokawa is vicious, dangerous, selfish mad—like those huge African predators you told me of, the radaachk’kar—that take a hundred Grik to slay.”
“But he explained his strategy to me!” Halik objected. “And as costly as it has been in Uul, it does make sense to keep Alden’s force as bait, to lure the rest of the prey to its destruction!”
“But how much more quickly would a more rapid attack have lured a weaker enemy to fight?” Niwa asked. “Or do you think the force Kurokawa now has must rely on defense to destroy the enemy fleet he faced before? All waiting has accomplished is to weaken you, General Halik, so the final battle will be more costly!” Niwa sighed. His forceful argument had taken its toll. “You must believe me, because I know the man’s mind,” he continued. “And I know a great deal more I could not tell you before. However this war began, perhaps thousands of years ago, the Lemurians are your mortal foe. They’ll eventually destroy you or die trying, and the Americans have given them the means to attempt it.” He gasped a moment, collecting his strength. “And I must admit, I admire them. I’m not sure your people don’t deserve destruction for what they—we—have done,” he continued. “But the greatest short-term threat to the Grik is not the enemy you know, but Kurokawa himself!
“You and I have become friends, and I value that friendship enough to tell you that I knew some of Kurokawa’s plans before we even met. He won’t exterminate the Grik, like your”—he paused and smiled ironically—“far more honorable Lemurian enemies will try. But he does mean to rule you, to enslave you himself.”
General Halik was stunned. “But . . . how? He is but a single Hij, and your Jaaphs a mere handful!”
Niwa’s head rolled back and forth on the dingy cushions supporting it. “You’ve already seen his first step,” he said, “or was it his fifth or sixth? His tenth? I don’t know how deep his scheme runs. But you were there when he proclaimed himself Regent of all India and Ceylon. Regent! I have no idea how he plans to proceed, but like all the various Regents, he is now second in authority only to the Celestial Mother herself. You met your Giver of Life after your elevation. I never have, of course, but I hear she’s a formidable creature. I did meet First General Esshk, and I fear Kurokawa may have surpassed him in cunning and ruthlessness. What do you think? Do you believe Esshk could even imagine the audacity of Kurokawa’s plan? With him deceived or out of the way, do you think your Celestial Mother would?”
“But . . . This is monstrous! How could you keep such suspicions from me if we are truly friends?”
“We weren’t friends then,” Niwa reminded. “And since we became such, I’ve given you hints.”
Halik suddenly remembered, and the hints were proof that Niwa was telling the truth. He and Niwa were friends, but it was no secret there was much about Halik’s people Niwa still despised. Yet he was willing to betray his own—to a friend. He suddenly closed his eyes and rocked back and forth, anticipating the pain he would feel when this, his only friend in the world, was gone.
“What must I do?” he asked, suddenly hoarse.
“You can’t wait any longer,” Niwa replied weakly. “You must attack General Alden immediately, with everything at your disposal, if you hope to retain any strength to confront Kurokawa.”
“What of the Hatch
ling Host?” Halik asked, oddly concerned for General Ugla, for whom he also felt a growing . . . respect. “Can I rely on it?”
“I think so, at least to hold in place,” Niwa replied. “But don’t forget that Kurokawa helped form it. It is his creation, to a large extent.”
Halik clasped Niwa’s bony hand. “I must go, my friend, and prepare. I . . . I wish I could save you.”
Niwa shook his head. “Just save yourself. But before you go, there is a little more you should know. . . .”
* * *
General Halik trudged quickly through the mud back toward his dreary HQ, pondering what he was sure had been his last conversation with General Niwa. Much of what he said before slipping back into a fitful sleep was hard to understand, but it explained a lot. This thing called radio that Niwa rambled about was totally beyond Halik’s comprehension, until Niwa said it was like the “ridiculous chanting” of the healers, except someone actually heard it—and could reply at once! Halik liked to believe the Giver of Life heard his words, but she hadn’t ever answered, and he suddenly understood how his enemies always managed to coordinate their battles so effectively and move troops exactly where they were needed so quickly. And he also knew how Kurokawa always knew so much about events beyond his view. He was absolutely sure that everything Niwa told him was the truth, and he alone knew the terrible secret Kurokawa kept. He’d deal with that as soon as he could, but first he had to deal with Alden at last.
Alden’s Perimeter, Indiaa
June 6, 1944
General Lord Muln-Rolak arrived at Alden’s HQ shortly before 0100. He knew the time by the large Imperial “waatch” he kept in a pouch on his belt. He loved his waatch, and despite a period of getting used to the Amer-i-caan’s concept of time, he couldn’t do without the thing anymore.
“We are early after all,” he told his aide, his tone surprised. The ordeal of just getting here, down the Rocky Gap, where his corps was deployed, through the maze of trenches, across a landscape he remembered as jungle but that had become a surrealistic, shattered plain of death, had taken several hours. A crescent of the Sun Brother—the moon, the Amer-i-caans called it—was visible overhead, and he was struck by how much his face resembled the battlefield he’d crossed. At no time had he felt threatened by the enemy, but the trenches were infested with vicious little scavengers, like skuggiks, that could be dangerous. Most were so fat they were easily slain or avoided, and were tolerated to a degree because they helped control the stench of the dead Grik lying heaped too close to the breastworks for their comrades to collect. The stench of excrement was at least as bad, though. . . .
The troops he passed among, B’mbaadans, Maa-ni-los, Sularans, his own Aryaalans, or those from Baalkpan, barely paid his little party any heed. He wondered at the transformation that had overcome them, so used had they become to this terrible, endless condition of constant fear, misery, filth, and deprivation. He thought he’d come to understand a little of why Gener-aal Aalden despised trench warfare so. Not only was it essentially defensive in nature, but it seemed to sap the life out of the army. The fighting had been almost constant for months, but the Allied Expeditionary Force appeared increasingly content to let the Grik come to the slaughter. Rolak had to wonder how hard it would be to get it moving at last.
For once, nearly all was quiet on both sides. The Allies never used ammunition anymore unless attacked, so the redeployments shouldn’t attract undue attention from the enemy. But there was no harassing fire from the Grik this night. The word was, Grik supplies were low as well, but Rolak wondered if the Grik might also be shifting their forces? He shook his head. Hopefully, Gener-aal Aalden would have reports. He strode to the camouflaged HQ near the lake, where the trees still remained tall and thick. Only Grik zeppelins could reach so far beyond Allied lines, and those that tried had been destroyed by Leedom’s dwindling Air Corps.
“Wait here,” he told his escort, and entered the HQ tent with only his aide. Inside, he was met by many faces he’d come to love like family over the last two years, though far too many were absent now forever. He realized that even if he was early, nearly everyone else was there already. He wasn’t the only one who’d waited anxiously for this summons.
“Morning, General Rolak,” Pete Alden greeted him. General Queen Protector Safir Maraan, immaculate despite everything in a fresh black cape, embraced him. Not quite so immaculate as in the past, Rolak noted. Her silver helmet and armor are brightly polished, but the brass beneath the wash is beginning to show through.
“I am happy to see you,” Safir said.
“And I you, my dear.” Rolak looked at Pete. “Since we meet here in person”—he gestured around the large tent; all three corps commanders were present, as were all the surviving division commanders, acting COFO Leedom, and Alden’s staff—“I assume the time has come?”
Pete grinned strangely. “In a manner of speaking. I guess you already did your part?”
Rolak nodded. There’d be no unusual wireless traffic the Grik might monitor. They still had no idea if the enemy could do that or not, but they wouldn’t take the chance. The coded summons that brought him here had also meant that Rolak should deploy the bulk of his I Corps near the eastern end of the Rocky Gap, leaving only two regiments to face perhaps fifty thousand Grik beyond it to the west. He could only ever deploy a front of two regiments there anyway, and that had been enough, with the corps artillery, to keep the Grik out in the past. The regiments were rotated to keep them fresh, of course, but that wouldn’t be required today. They just had to be there so the Grik wouldn’t know the rest of the corps had gone. Fierce fighting in the craggy ridges above the Gap had long established Allied pickets that should ensure the Grik would see nothing from above.
“All right,” Pete said brusquely. “We’ve all talked about this often enough, and planned it long enough, that everybody ought to know what to do by the numbers.” He smirked. “As you know, the numbers have been known to change from time to time, but we’ll just have to deal with that when it happens. I’ll keep this short and sweet and just a little rough. The short part is, Follow the plan. When you run into something unexpected, kick it upstairs and you’ll get what help there is to send, but in the meantime, double-clutch it, downshift if you gotta, but stick with the plan.” Few present fully appreciated Pete’s metaphors, but they understood what he meant. “That said, don’t sit on your ass and watch a golden opportunity go down the drain. Use initiative, as always, but be cautious! This Halik Grik is a bastard. If something looks too good to be true, it just might be. I honestly think we’re gonna catch him on the pot, but watch your stripey tails. Got it?”
There were definitive nods.
“Also, once the show starts, all comm silence is done. Report what you’re running into and where you are.” He nodded at Leedom. “Our flyboys can’t support you if they don’t know those things.” He took a breath. There was a big map drawn directly on the tent wall, but he didn’t reference it. Everyone knew their objectives by heart. “Finally, whatever you do, whatever you run into, keep pushing. It’s gonna be dirty and it’s gonna get bloody, but your objectives are the only things that matter once the ball gets rolling. You absolutely have to hit your marks at any cost, or it’s all for nothing, and”—he paused to grimace at his new chief of logistics—“and you’ve only got five or six hours to do it. That’s what I’m told we have the ammunition and avgas for the pace of operations we have to maintain to get the job done!” He waved a hand. “Obviously, that could change. We might have longer or shorter, depending on what we run into, but that’s the timetable we’re working on.”
There was murmuring at that and reflective blinking. Pete scratched his beard. “Why now? you might be asking yourselves, and there’s several reasons. Two that really matter. We’ve spent weeks making the Grik think we’re running out of juice, lulling them while we hoard supplies for this stunt. Well, we’re not playacting anymore. All the dino-cows are gone, and we’re nearly out of food. Als
o, the Grik finally got wise about the barges bringing us stuff up the river, and they shut it down. They’ve pushed all the way up to the ford on the south side of the Tacos River, just east of the lake, and the river’s too dangerous to rely on anymore. Because of that, we’re starting to dip into the ammo we’ve been hoarding. Like I said, we’ve still got enough to dump about five hours of absolute savage hell on their lizardy heads, but after that, artillery and air, at least, will probably be spent.
“Now the kinda rough part, and the second reason that matters most right now.” He looked around. “Rolak’s pet Grik, Hij-Geerki, has been on loan to HQ for the last few weeks, and the little bastard’s turned into a pretty good spy.” Alden nodded at the ancient Grik, who always seemed to be relaxing on a cushion like a dog. Geerki raised his head and somehow managed a smug expression. Pete continued. “Between him and Lieutenant Leedom’s air reports, I’m convinced the Grik are about to hit us, whole hog, at any time. We have to beat them to the punch!”
There was alarmed murmuring this time, but Pete held up both hands. “That’s okay, because now comes the sweet part. We’re only starting the show a few days earlier than I’d planned, and I’m told that if we hit our marks, we won’t have long to wait before help arrives!” There was an expectant silence, and Pete nodded. “I don’t have all the details because we’re using comm discipline everywhere, but it’s the traffic we’re keeping down, not the content, so I can tell you some.” He didn’t tell them he also didn’t want to take the chance someone might talk if they were taken. He forced a grin. “This Grik movement has pushed things up a bit, but most of our ducks were already in a row. One way or another, Kurokawa’s fleet at Madras is about to get a really nasty surprise, and if all goes to plan, the city should be back in our hands directly!”
There was cheering and stamping feet. Pete grinned even bigger. “Not only that, but Captain Reddy himself and his leaky old tin can might have something to do with it.” There was even more cheering, and Pete caught himself almost wishing Kurokawa could find out about that part. There was ample evidence he might behave . . . rashly if he knew he was up against his old nemesis.
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