Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “So what can we do?” Rolak asked. “We have stretched our ammunition as far as we can, farther than we thought possible. We still have bayonets and swords, and our hearts remain eager to kill the enemy, but I do not think that will be enough.”

  “I’ve called up all reserves not guarding the Rocky Gap, even started ferrying the troops over from the south side of the lake. They can’t bring much artillery, but their fight was so short, they should still have plenty of ammo. Every spare round will be distributed among what’s left of First and Second Corps.”

  “What if the Grik counterattack in the south?” Rolak asked.

  “Then they’ll capture the empty bank of a lake. Honestly, though, I figure any Grik left down there with any fight still in them have already gone downriver, crossed, and joined up with this bunch in front of us.”

  Rolak blinked grudging agreement. “With Halik,” he said.

  “I guess probably so.”

  “So, what is your plan?”

  Pete hesitated. He’d actually contemplated breaking off and pulling everything back to the Rocky Gap—he was still convinced they needed to keep it at all costs—and let VI and VII Corps come get them. But then those two new green corps would have to face this veteran Grik force and its wily commander, first rattle out of the box. That didn’t just smell like a lot of unnecessary casualties but a possible disaster that might leave him and all his people in the same fix they’d started with.

  “We wait a little longer until we’ve been replenished as much as possible, then at dusk we’ll go at Halik and Sklook—whatever—hammer and tongs. We kick their asses the old-fashioned way, with guts and steel if it comes to it, and take and hold our part of the Madras road until relieved.” He forced a smile. “Our guys can see better in the dark than theirs can, remember?” It wasn’t much of an advantage, but at that point, it was about all they had.

  Rolak blinked philosophically, then grinned. His old teeth were worn and yellowed but still sharp.

  A squad of Maa-ni-lo cavalry thundered out of the trees, carbines and accoutrements jangling and clattering. “Where Gen-raal Aalden? Gen-raal Rolak?” a disheveled cav ’Cat demanded.

  “Here!” Pete and Rolak chorused. The mounted Lemurian urged his meanie closer, and Pete’s animal snarled at the newcomer.

  “Gen-raals,” the ’Cat continued, nervous, almost shouting, “Gen-raal Queen Maraan sends her dearest love an’ begs you both to join her!”

  “What the hell? Have the Grik beat us to the punch after all?”

  “They no attaack harder,” the ’Cat replied, blinking something like utter confusion. “They stoppeen attaack! An’ Gen-raal Queen says you two is only ones who ever talk to Griks under . . . troose flag!”

  Pete and Rolak stared at each other. “A truce? Bullshit!” Pete growled. “They’ll get us all together and hit us for sure!”

  “I agree,” Rolak stated emphatically. “We must not gather our entire high command in one place the enemy can strike.” He looked at the cav ’Cat suspiciously. “And such my dear Queen Maraan would never counsel!”

  “She do!” the trooper insisted. “The whole Grik commaand is mustered before her with their Haalik! It’s him that ask to talk!”

  Pete and Rolak exchanged another stunned look. “Then why didn’t she just blast ’em?”

  “You aask her, Gen-raal,” the messenger pleaded. “I just folloween’ orders.”

  Rolak flicked his tail in the equivalent of a shrug. “You will have to loan me a mount . . . Lieuten-aant, isn’t it? We brought none with us.” He looked at his pet Grik. “Come along, Hij-Geerki! We may have need of your tongue—and at last you will ride upon a me-naak!”

  * * *

  Pete Alden had hoped to launch his final attack at dusk, but instead he was picking his way through the shattered trees in front of II Corps’s position toward a bright fire set to illuminate the large white flag erected on a charred sapling trunk. He wasn’t alone. Forty of Saachic’s troops with Blitzer Bugs and some of the last ammunition they’d scraped up for them escorted him, Rolak, Hij-Geerki, Colonel Mersaak, and Saachic out to what appeared to be less than a dozen Grik. Pete had flatly refused to let Safir Maraan accompany them. “What if they eat us?” he’d demanded. “You want me to hear what they have to say—all right. But somebody’s got to stay in charge if I buy it, see?”

  Pete felt fairly safe. A screen of me-naak-mounted cavalry patrolled ahead on the flanks as well, to make sure this was no trick, no ploy to assassinate the Allied leaders, and everybody in the little group was armed to the teeth. The Grik were armed too, Pete noted as they drew closer. It probably never even occurred to them that they shouldn’t be.

  “Let us try to talk to them before you shoot one this time, my friend,” Rolak whispered as they stepped into the firelight, and Pete couldn’t stop a snort.

  “I tell that?” Geerki asked anxiously.

  “No! Just tell ’em what we tell you to tell ’em, savvy?” Pete said, exasperated.

  One of the Grik stepped forward and spoke. That’s got to be Halik, Pete realized, without any doubt. He didn’t know what he expected, or why he came so quickly to that conclusion, but savage and frightening as all Grik were, this one just . . . carried himself differently. He wasn’t any taller than many Grik he’d seen, though he was far more muscular and wore the scars of many years. Maybe that’s it? He’s not old, exactly, not like Geerki, but he’s older than most of the others. The creature spoke again, looking right at Pete, its yellow eyes intent in the firelight. “General Alden,” it said with some difficulty, and Pete felt his skin crawl. So he guessed who I am too, he thought. No big deal, I’m the only human here, and we know they know stuff about us.

  “That’s General Halik,” Geerki confirmed, “and he hears English good. You talk; I tell you his talk.”

  Pete nodded, surprised, then wondered why he was. It was known that the Grik considered English the “scientific” tongue, and their Hij wrote in it. Halik had probably learned to understand it from Niwa, who likely understood spoken Grik.

  “Okay. What’s he want to talk about? We’ve got a perfectly good battle goin’ here and he’s wasting time.”

  Halik spoke, his voice harsh.

  “He say this is not a good . . . ’attle, to neither side,” Geerki translated.

  Pete could only blink in the Lemurian way and he looked at Rolak, who’d leaned forward.

  “I am General Lord Muln-Rolak, Protector of Aryaal—a city you slew and occupied and devoured! Any battle, any opportunity to kill Grik, is a great pleasure to me!”

  “I have slain no city,” Halik replied through Geerki. “I came late to this war and fight only as my Giver of Life commands. Why we fight is not my concern, only how, and . . . perhaps when and where.” He gestured around. “This battle cannot be won by either of us. We can only both lose.”

  Pete listened while Geerki repeated Halik’s words, and was more surprised than ever. When he spoke again, he was more careful. This really was no ordinary Grik! “You’ve already lost,” he said. “We’ve retaken Madras, and a great army moves to join us as we speak. Your army south of the lake is shattered, and the Gap remains blocked. You’ll get no help from that direction. Our flying machines tell us our numbers here are about even,” he lied, “and our weapons are better than yours. You have no place to go.” Pete shrugged. “If you surrender, you’ll live.” He pointed at Geerki. “We don’t eat our prisoners!”

  Geerki shrank back at Halik’s gurgling sound. “He laugh at you,” Geerki said in a small voice, then translated as Halik spoke again:

  “I too have reports of how the wider battle proceeds, and you have some information correct. You hear news from ray-dee-o, I have no doubt. Much of the Grand Fleet has been destroyed, Madras teeters as you say, and the traitor Kurokawa prepares to flee. When he is gone, the city will fall. But your relief is not so vast as you claim, nor are our numbers so nearly matched!”

  Pete shrugged when he heard
this, although the fact that Halik knew about radio surprised him. According to the Japanese sailor they’d found on Diego Garcia, Kurokawa was keeping it secret from the Grik. But what does he mean about Kurokawa? Is he still in the city? How does he intend to get out?

  “Kurokawa’s a nasty bastard,” he probed, “out for nobody but himself. I’m surprised you didn’t eat him a long time ago. As for our little fight here, you gotta know that even if we both lose, as you say, we still win. We may go down, but so will you—and with Madras in our hands and your navy licked, that leaves us on top.”

  “I thought you were more concerned for the lives of your warriors than that,” Halik said.

  “We are!” Rolak almost exploded when Geerki finished. “We care about all our troops, all our people, whom yours have tried to exterminate since before our history began! It is you who cares nothing for life, who lives only to conquer and kill! You who even eat your own!”

  Halik was silent a long moment while Rolak seethed. Finally, he replied, “Again, I know nothing of what has gone before my . . . life as a general, but I have come to care for my army as my people. I really have no other. I expend them in battle, and we consume our slain, as you say, but I would not see them all destroyed any more than you would enjoy the consequences of the final battle you contemplate.” He gestured at the officers around him. “These other generals and I live to serve our creator, but we have agreed that this campaign, designed by Kurokawa, serves only him. We would gladly die for the Celestial Mother or First General Esshk, but we would not gladly do so for General of the Sea Kurokawa!”

  “What the hell does he mean by that?” Pete demanded after he got the gist of Geerki’s convoluted translation.

  “Kuroka’a took the regency here,” Geerki explained. “He say all India is his, and all Grik here is his. I thought you knew. I tole you!”

  Pete frowned. Maybe Geerki had told them, but it never occurred to anyone that the Grik might not like it. “So,” he said slowly, “what you’re saying is that we have a common enemy!”

  “We do NOT!” Rolak protested hotly. “The Grik are the enemy, and Kurokawa is merely their tool! There can never be cooperation between us! All Grik must be destroyed if we are to survive!”

  Pete held up his hand. “Just hold your horses, Rolak. Nobody’s talking about spoonin’ with ’em.” He looked squarely at Halik. “That’s never going to happen,” he said simply. “But we already know not all Grik are Grik, if you know what I mean. Some are even friends of ours, like Lawrence. That’s not because of what he is, but who he is. Let’s hear what Halik has to say.” He looked at the Grik general. “I know you understood that, so what’s on your mind?”

  “Simply this: Kurokawa claimed all India as his regency, but only ever controlled the part that even I will admit you seem capable of wresting away. But you will have conquered it from him, not the Grik.”

  “And he’ll be blamed!” Saachic said, a note of genuine delight in his voice.

  “He will be blamed,” Halik confirmed coldly.

  “So what will you do?” Pete asked.

  “Kurokawa has failed to rule all India, and with victory impossible, my army will cease fighting for him and move to defend that part of India he did not control,” Halik said simply.

  “What part will you leave?”

  “From here to Madras.”

  “No. We’ve got three corps moving virtually unopposed across the low-tide crossing from Ceylon. All southern India to the escarpment, and north to the end of the world will be our cease-fire line.” He gestured at the craggy ridge to the west where the Rocky Gap was. “Those mountains are the boundary—for now. Take it or leave it.”

  Halik began talking to his generals, and Pete felt a chill. He may’ve demanded too much, right when he was beginning to think his army might just survive the night.

  “Very well,” Halik said at last. “I agree—for now. My army will disengage and move through the river gap to our side of the escarpment immediately.”

  “No!” Rolak growled, looking at Pete. “He cannot go through the Rocky Gap! He could change his mind and decide to attack our troops within from east and west! He still has the army beyond. Why else would he desire to join it there?”

  Pete held out his hands. “General Rolak has a point. Our forces in the Gap must remain in place as our defense against you, and I won’t have them pull out to let you through—where you can get at ’em in the open, or maybe decide to fortify this side of the Gap!”

  “Then how will we pass across?” Halik demanded.

  “March back south, across the river, then down and around. I know you can reach the escarpment from Madurai, maybe closer. You know better than I do.”

  Halik discussed this with his generals again, once glancing at what looked like a pile of dingy blankets. Finally, he jerked his head in a nod. “On one condition.” He gestured for the blankets to be brought, and personally knelt beside them and raised a corner. “This is General Orochi Niwa. He . . . he is my friend. He is near death, as you can see, so I do not demand that you heal him, only that you try.” He paused. “And if he should live,” he said quietly, “I would speak to him again someday.”

  “Okay,” Pete said, a little flustered, but recognizing an opportunity. “On our condition that any of our people, any prisoners or wounded you might’ve captured, be returned as well—alive. We don’t have any Grik prisoners I know of, but we’ll have Geeky here tell any isolated groups we run across that they’re free to follow you south.”

  For a very long moment, Halik looked into Pete’s eyes, then finally jerked a diagonal nod. “It will be so,” he barked, and turning away, he paced into the dark with his officers.

  Pete could only stand staring after them for quite a while, and no one around him spoke. Finally, he shook his head as if clearing it. “Did that just happen?” he asked Rolak.

  As carefully as they could, members of the escort carried Niwa back to the Allied line, while Pete and his companions walked slowly, talking, within the safety of the rest of their cavalry.

  “Do you think he will live?” Mersaak asked. He hadn’t spoken at all during the parlay.

  “The Jap? Who knows. Who cares?” Pete asked. “We just won the battle I was pretty sure would kill us, and got a big chunk of India in the bargain.”

  “For a while,” Rolak reminded.

  “Yeah. But Captain Reddy’s little expedition might just sort it all out.”

  “That would be pleasant,” Rolak agreed. “We must do our best to save this Jaap, though.”

  “To interrogate? Sure. And we will.”

  “Not only for that,” Rolak said, looking back. “But because it is the honorable thing to do—and this deed of honor was asked of us by a Grik.”

  “Whoa, Rolak! I thought you hated the whole idea of this cease-fire! What about all you said?”

  “I meant every word,” Rolak replied. “We can never have peace with the Grik—as long as they are Grik. But I played the . . . skeptic? The unpleasable? For purposes of the negotiation. I am personally thrilled that the killing will end,” he smiled, blinking sadly, “for a while. I am also, oh, I do not know . . . ‘Encouraged’ is not the right word. Less heart weary, perhaps, to learn at last that our enemy is capable of understanding honor. Not only that, but he expects it of us! Halik must have learned that from General Niwa, and for that the man must be saved.”

  “Hmm,” Pete grunted. “If he knows what honor is, that means he—Halik at least—ain’t just a damn animal anymore. I don’t know how I like that.”

  CHAPTER

  35

  ////// USS Santa Catalina

  R uss Chapelle descended wearily down the companionway to the gun deck within the ship’s armored casemate. The area had once been devoted to a dining salon, quarters for the ship’s officers, and staterooms for higher-paying passengers. All that was gone now, leaving only an open space filled with 5.5-inch guns and support structures for the deck above. Residual smoke
from the long fight still blurred Russ’s vision, but he also saw the Lemurian guns’ crews cleaning their heavy weapons with a practiced diligence that made him proud. There’d been no serious casualties inside the casemate, beyond some likely permanent hearing loss, and the ’Cats seemed if not happy—all knew there’d been hefty casualties elsewhere on the ship—then certainly satisfied with their work that day. Satisfied but tired, Russ reflected. Some of the ’Cats, youngling shell handlers mostly, were tucked away in little alcoves, fast asleep, despite the loud, ongoing work. There was noise everywhere. Repair parties were shoring sprung plates all over the ship, and the general uproar was profound. But they weren’t sinking and they’d helped destroy nearly every enemy ship that steamed out of the port of Madras. A few may have gotten away, there’d been no word from the Air Corps about one of the damaged battleships and a couple of cruisers, but everyone knew they’d scored a great victory and taken a step toward avenging the Allied losses at the first Battle of Madras, not to mention their own shipmates—and one in particular. The scuttlebutt is the fastest means of communication ever devised by any creature, Russ supposed grimly.

  “Caap’n on deck!” several ’Cats called at once, but he waved at them. “As you were! You’ve got work. I just wanted to tell you all well done and thanks. Otherwise, I’m only passing through.” There were tired cheers, but the gunners quickly returned to their duties. They knew where he was going. Suddenly reluctant to proceed, he paused a moment longer to look around before shaking his head and continuing down the companionway. There’d once been more staterooms on this level and were again, in a sense, for officers and POs. There was also a pharmacy, a real sick bay, and the wardroom that had once been a lounge. Just then, the sick bay and wardroom were crammed with wounded, and Surgeon Commander Kathy McCoy and her mates, corps ’Cats and SBAs (sick-berth attendants) were very busy treating what seemed to be mostly broken bones caused by the concussion of heavy shot hitting the ship, and lots of moderate to severe cuts and gashes made by iron and wooden splinters and flying fragments of enemy shot.