“Caam-peeti says we gettin’ low on common shells in the for’ard maag-a-zeen!” Minnie reported. “An’ it’s not much better aft. We got less than tree hundreds left, total!” Matt considered. They’d begun the action with two hundred “common,” or contact fuse exploding shells for each of Walker’s four main guns. They had some of the new “Armor Piercing” (AP) shells as well, but they were less effective against wooden ships.
“We’ve fired more than five hundred rounds,” Herring stated, impressed, “and accounted for what? Sixty enemy ships?”
“The sea makes it tough,” Bernie defended.
“No!” Herring objected. “I’m amazed how well we’ve done!”
“Not well enough,” Spanky growled. “They just keep comin’! And too many are getting past us and piling up on the beach in front of Safir Maraan!”
“And they keep throwing themselves between us and that white ship,” Matt added, stepping close to the battle shutters and peering through the slit. He couldn’t see anything.
“Caam-peeti says she’s right ahead,” Minnie encouraged. “But . . . more ships is get in the way!”
“We’ve done good work,” Herring began tactfully.
“But we need to get that white ship—and whoever’s on it. We’ve been fighting the Grik awhile now, Mr. Herring, and you don’t need to be a snoop to know where their honchos are. Taking them out might not make any difference in the short run, but it could damn sure kick in later!” He paused. “Have all guns that will bear forward concentrate on the ships between us and the white one. Have them take potshots at it too, if they get a target.” He looked around the pilothouse. “We’re going after that ship.”
“We’ll take a beating from those we pass,” Spanky warned.
“We already are. But not many of those left out here have cannon, and the secondaries will have to take care of them.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
“Does that mean I can lift the shutters?” Paddy Rosen begged. He was clearly frustrated—and exhausted, after fighting the uneven thrust of the screws so long. It was better now, at their reduced speed, but the long sprint had taken its toll. “At least the one in front of the wheel?” he pleaded. “I can’t see anything, Captain.”
“Very well, but only if you take a break.” He started to direct one of the ’Cats that had been standing, waiting to relieve Rosen, to take the wheel. “Now, Skipper?” Rosen demanded incredulously. In the ship- and wreckage-tangled sea, Rosen was still the best choice at the helm.
“Not just yet, I guess,” Matt relented. “But soon. Raise the battle shutters in front of the wheel,” he ordered, and ’Cats sprang to comply. It was immediately lighter in the pilothouse, and they could all better see the confusion of fire- and storm-lashed destruction ahead. The salvo bell no longer rang, and the bright flame and overpressure of the number one gun on the fo’c’sle gave them a slight start, rattling the now-exposed window panes. A Grik ship, its red hull dark and marred with streaks of black, reared into view directly in their path. The number one gun fired again, joined by the number three, and the muzzle blast of that gun, so close behind the bridge, was stunning. More stunning to the Grik. Both shells struck near the waterline, amidships, and exploded in a welter of spinning timbers. The masts didn’t fall, but the hull buckled when the sea lurched up fore and aft. Its longitudinal integrity lost, the ship jackknifed, its back splintering, and quickly began sliding under, spilling hundreds of struggling Grik into the frothing waves.
“Left standard rudder!” Matt ordered, and Rosen heaved at the wheel.
“Left standard rudder, aye!” he gasped. Lancing through the debris-choked sea, Walker had to avoid the sinking ship that, perversely shifted by the waves, seemed to chase them even as it disappeared. Heavy pieces of wood banged against the hull, and the pitching bow came down on something that rattled down the ship’s length before they felt it no more. Matt had been gritting his teeth, half expecting whatever it was to foul the screws. “Rudder amidships!”
“Rudder amidships, aye, Skipper!” Rosen cried just as Campeti reported from above.
“There she is!” One or two of the ships still screening the white one had at least temporarily been displaced by the sea, leaving their target exposed less than four hundred yards away. But Walker was now aimed directly at one of the others. It had no guns, but its tossing deck teemed with Grik.
“Right standard rudder! All guns fire on the white ship!” Matt commanded.
“Right standard rudder aye!” Rosen replied, straining once more. “Here! Gimme a hand!” he shouted at one of the ’Cats. The Lemurian obeyed and grasped the big wheel with him, heaving it to the right—until it suddenly spun wildly and sent them both crashing to the deck strakes.
“All astern, emergency!” Matt roared, realizing they’d had some kind of steering casualty. The ’Cat clutching the lee helm immediately shifted the levers, and the answering bells responded with a speed that made Matt proud—but they were still aimed right at the side of the Grik ship! The guns tried to fire at their target, but it was quickly concealed by the closer vessel and they fired at it instead, blasting great chunks out of its bulwarks and shredding bodies huddled behind them. The ship itself, however, seemed to remain relatively motionless as Walker bore down, and there seemed nothing they could do to avoid a collision. The screws wound down with a juddering vibration that shook the deck, but before they could bite again, Matt took a desperate chance. “Port engine, full ahead! Starboard engine will remain at full astern. Let’s see if we can twist her tail!”
The ’Cat at the lee helm didn’t hesitate, but slammed the left lever forward. The starboard screw was turning now, throwing sheets of seawater all the way up to the top of the aft deckhouse. Walker slowed just a bit, but the sea was relentless, and waves kept trying to heave the ships closer together. Matt grabbed the back of his chair that Spanky still occupied, bracing for the impact that seemed sure to come. He was about to order Minnie to sound the collision alarm, when the port screw wound up.
“C’mon, baby!” Bernie Sandison crooned nervously. “C’mon!”
Only a combination of the engine orders and the capricious sea saved them. Ever so slightly, the waves pitched the Grik forward and Walker’s stern began shifting to the left. Even so, a collision seemed inevitable, side to side now instead of head-on, but that could be just as bad—or worse. “Port engine, full astern! Starboard engine, ahead full! Now we’ll try to twist around it!” he explained to the men and ’Cats around him who all seemed to be holding their breath. Slowly, the old ship responded, her momentum carrying her bow past the Grik’s stern galleries while the stern twisted slightly right. A sudden hail of crossbow bolts sheeted in at the ’Cats crewing the number one gun, and they tried to hide behind it or the splinter shield. One was struck in the back and fell, but another dragged him to safety. Machine guns raked the Grik, blasting bright splinters among its thick horde of warriors, mowing them down, toppling them into the churning water. None of the big guns fired, all their crews were taking cover, but only because Campeti, who knew they didn’t want to do anything to slow the enemy’s forward progress, told them to. Now, as the range gradually increased and fewer crossbow bolts touched the ship, Campeti ordered the number two gun in the port side of the amidships gun platform to “blow that damn thing all over the water.”
“That was . . . a close one,” Commander Herring said, his shaky tone belying his calm words. “I . . .” He was interrupted by a roiling explosion to port as the number two gun found the Grik Fire magazine aboard the ship they almost hit. Matt didn’t speak at all for a moment as he paced quickly out on the wet starboard bridgewing. “All ahead one-third,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll steer with the engines. Damage report!”
“Steer-een casul-tee!” Minnie answered.
“No shit,” Spanky seethed. “Beggin’ your pardon, Skipper.”
&nb
sp; “No need,” he said, staring out to starboard at the white-hulled ship, now at their mercy. It had tried to turn directly away, an act of sheer panic, but the wind was still blasting out of the south and it simply stalled there, tossing drunkenly, as its bow came back around. “How bad is it?” he asked.
“Tabby says we fight uneven thrust so long, the steer-een engine work too hard, blow a steam line. Space all fulla’ steam, but they bypassed fast and is ventin’ it. The chains from the helm just broke. Too old, too rusty, an’ too much stress from uneven thrust again, to turn the rudder without the steer-een engine . . . Tabby says we can splice the chain, but wi’out the engine, it’ll prob’ly just break again, someplace else.”
“I get the picture,” Matt said. Of all the things they’d replaced on his old ship, they’d left the steering chains alone because they were, well, chains, and not only difficult to make, but hungry for iron. They could’ve used rope or cable, and probably should have, but the chain seemed better—at the time. He was tempted to view the failure as another example of how his ship was getting too old and beat-up to keep fighting her like they did, but she wasn’t, he insisted to himself. She’d been rebuilt and maintained on this world better than she ever had been at home. Just a stupid chain. “With the auxiliary conn damaged, Tabby’ll have to rig the tiller on the rudder post between the depth charge racks,” he said, knowing the wet, dangerous duty he was ordering; to manually steer the ship from the confined space, entirely exposed to the elements. “We’ll steer with the engines in the meantime,” he repeated, but pointed out at the white Grik ship. “But let’s kill that damn thing first, if you please.”
Having broken through the thickest mass of Grik still offshore, Matt was surprised to see so few left at sea after they left the burning white hulk in their wake. A lot of Grik were still afloat, waiting to join the attack on Safir Maraan, but they were stacked up, grinding together in the shallows, beginning to break on one another in the churning surf as their warriors crossed from ship to ship to gain the shore. He was about to order a turn to the southeast, taking them to point-blank range to fire on those ships from seaward. It would be a largely ineffectual gesture at this point, but it was something his battered, balky ship could still do. Then, one of Ed’s signal strikers brought a hastily scribbled message form. Matt read it and scowled. Ed Palmer’s always been good about that, he reflected, delivering news like this by message form instead of just calling it up. Lets me think about what to do before everybody knows the situation—and he obviously thinks I’ll want to do something about it.
The Wall of Trees
Despite all her “modern” weapons, Major Risa-Sab-At wished the 1st Raider Brigade still had shields. Shields had been taken up, discarded, and then taken up again numerous times by various outfits as their tactics changed. They might’ve saved Flynn’s Rangers on North Hill in Indiaa if they’d had them. They had saved Walker when her Marines defended her decks, and the Marines in the East, fighting the Doms, still used them to good effect. But the whole purpose of the 1st Raider Brigade was to move swiftly with its lethal weapons mix and plenty of ammunition. It wasn’t an outfit intended for defense, and shields were heavy.
It was a passing thought she had no time for now. She’d seen—participated in—numerous epic slaughters of Grik before, but had to think that nothing she’d experienced could possibly compare with this. For one thing, she had more Grik coming at her than she’d ever seen so concentrated in one place, and for another, she had more terrible weapons than ever before to slay them with. But shields would be nice, when they reach the top of the wall, she added wistfully, and it looked like, in spite of her cannon, mortars, Blitzerbugs, grenades, rifles, and even flamethrowers, the Grik would reach the top.
Cannon, light six-pounders mostly, that had been easier to build platform embrasures for and haul close to the summit, spat double loads of canister into the howling horde, mulching great swaths of Grik into mewling heaps, but the mob closed over the bloody mounds and pressed on. Mortar bombs exploded near the tree line, making chaos in the mass still rushing into the open ground; but all was already chaos and the Grik knew the direction of their prey. Allin-Silva rifles crackled uninterrupted as human and Lemurian troopers fed their hungry breeches and Maroon muskets on the right made duller, slower, popping sounds, but not terribly slower after all. They were holding firm so far. Grenades thumped as they were rolled down the slope to geyser earth and rotten wood, mixed with downy fur, into the sodden sky.
“Blitzers!” Risa cried, hearing the command passed along. Almost immediately, the distinctive clacking stutter of the little submachine guns added to the noise, spitting their.45-caliber bullets into Grik, now almost crawling to the summit. Scores screeched and rolled away, but more surged past them. Risa now wished she’d been given some of the new.30-cal “Brownings,” copies of the M1917 “light” machine guns that Walker brought to this world that were just now making their appearance. Though they might be considered “light” compared to a.50, it still took four men or ’Cats to lug the weapon, tripod, and enough ammunition to make it worthwhile, so none had yet found its way to the Raiders.
One “heavy” weapon the Raiders had was a number of “flamethrowers,” essentially just wands with an igniter attached by a hose to a fuel tank that was pressurized by a pair of ’Cats on a hand pump. Originally enclosed in a small, wheeled cart that could be drawn by a pair of men or ’Cats, the wheels had made the things impossible to transport through the jungle. The wheels were done away with, but then the same two troopers had to carry the cart/crate around. Everyone hated that duty, and most were terrified of the things—but so were the Grik, they’d learned.
“Flamethrowers!” Risa roared, judging that the climbing Grik were getting close enough for the short-range weapons. Pairs of Raiders went to work on the pumps while “fire-’Cats” edged their wands over the summit and pointed them down. Crossbow bolts sleeted over their heads or skated off their helmets, and they hunkered as low as they could before turning their valves and depressing their ignition triggers. A dozen gouts of orange flame roared down the slope in a rush of roiling black smoke, scorching the wet, rotting wood of the giant palisade and searing Grik. An unearthly keening wail accompanied the stench of burning flesh and fur that joined the fuel smoke, and the Grik beyond the reach of the flames recoiled as those in front writhed in agony or rolled and flopped amid horrible squealing screams like young rhino pigs being eaten alive.
“Cease fire, flamethrowers!” Risa called. There was little fuel in the weapons, and she had to reserve it. “Riflemen, pour it in!”
The torrent of flame receded, and the rifles and Blitzerbugs resumed their fire. The Maroons didn’t have flamethrowers and had never stopped shooting. Far to the right, she could see the familiar wave of their bayonet-tipped muskets rising to be loaded, gray steel ramrods pushing charges of buck and ball down smoothbores, or heavy slugs down rifled barrels, and then lowering to fire. It hadn’t been that long ago that all Allied troops had carried muskets like those, but then it hadn’t been long since they’d used longbows and spears either. Yet those few short years felt like an eternity.
A crossbow bolt glanced off Risa’s helmet, knocking it askew. Sheets of bolts came now, from below and afar, but those from a distance were slow, wobbly things, falling from high trajectories. The Grik bowstrings were damp and that affected their power, but they were still lethal and there were so many! ’Cats and men around her screamed or roared in pain and anger. Others simply slumped down, silent, as the wickedly sharp bolt points plunging from the sky nailed their helmets to their heads or struck gullets and spines. A man from the 7th Regiment to her left where Jindal had gone ran to her on the firing step, crouching low. “Major Jindal’s compliments,” he yelled over the fire, wind, and rain, “an’ he begs ta’ report he’s runnin’ low on ammunition for his rifles an’ Blitzers! Voracious buggers they are!”
Risa gestured behind and
below. “More is coming.” One of their magazines, the closest behind the 7th, had been hit by errant bombs dropped by a wind-tossed zep formation that morning, but they had several more. She wasn’t much afraid they’d run out of ammunition, for the rifles and cannon at least. The mortars and Blitzers were another matter. But right now it was taking time to bring it forward, up the rain-slippery reverse slope of their position. “Tell him to send more bearers. Take all you need from the other bunkers.”
“Can’t spare too many from the wall,” the man said, peeking over it. Ever more Grik surged from the jungle, even as the mortars kept slaughtering them, and they were building for another push.
“Tell him to do it now,” she began, but a bolt slammed down past the man’s collarbone to bury itself deep in his chest. With a blood-hacking moan, he clutched the dark feathers at the end of the shaft and sank to his knees. “Corps-’Cats! On the double!” she shouted, then snatched a ’Cat out of the firing line. “Did you hear what I told that maan?”
“Ay, Major.”
“Then take the message to Major Jindal, and hurry back as quick as you can!”
“Ay, ay!”
She glanced back over the wall at the seething mass of Grik, still climbing relentlessly against the merciless fire from above. “Flamethrowers, stand by!” she cried, making her way to the comm-’Cat crouched over his field telephone, protecting it from the rain with his body.
“You still connected?” she demanded. The delicate wires they strung behind the “Double E-ates” somebody had dubbed the things for no reason she could imagine, were always breaking. They needed braided wire for strength, and that she understood. “Get Second Corps HQ on the horn. Gener-aal Maraan if possible, but don’t let ’em give you the runaround! I know they’re busy too, but the Gener-aal has to know that we’re in a jaam here, with probably just as many Grik as she has. Sure, our position’s better, but we got just a brigade, the Maroons, an’ a few of Col-nol Saachic’s cav to stop ’em. An’ if we don’t stop ’em, it won’t matter what she does, ’cause they’ll be climbin’ up her aass! You got that?”
Straits of Hell Page 45