A man leaped out of the forward cockpit, coveralls smoking, and did a somersault in the damp grass. Immediately, he jumped to his feet and tried to get around the collapsed port wing to the aft cockpit, where his observer/copilot sat. It was no use. The plane was fully involved by then. Ammunition for the.50 cal started cooking off and finally forced the man back.
“Look!” someone shouted. “The Grik!” A mob of the enemy several thousand strong was sweeping forward despite the fires and the other pursuit ships that had followed their comrade down. The planes began making strafing runs to keep the Grik back, but it wasn’t working.
“Damn it, they’re going for him!” Flynn growled, eyes darting from the Grik to Saachic’s cavalry, now streaming toward the man. It was going to be close. He had a sinking feeling; not only because of the danger to the flyer, but about the Grik they faced. Once, the trauma of the last quarter hour would have rattled them badly. They’d stood against unusually determined Grik in another pass, on Ceylon, but even they had finally broken off. The Grik trying to take the flyer showed no hesitation at all, and Flynn suddenly noticed that the vast majority of the rest of the army surrounding them had remained steady as well.
“I think we may really be in for it,” he whispered.
“Mortars!” Bekiaa roared. “Commence firing in support of Captain Saachic and the flyer!”
Saachic’s cavalry won the race, and Saachic himself scooped the pilot onto the me-naak’s back. A flurry of crossbow bolts and even some musket shots chased the squad as it bolted for the safety of the breastworks. Flynn wondered if the shots came from the new Grik matchlocks or weapons captured on South Hill. There was a flurry of toomp sounds as mortar bombs arced into the sky and began snapping among those closest Grik, sending geysers of earth, screaming Grik, and shredded grass into the air. The enemy fusillade was interrupted and none of the galloping cav ’Cats were hit. A couple of me-naaks may have been, but they all flowed back up over the barbed wired entanglements, and the hasty berm.
“They’re not stopping!” Bekiaa shouted suddenly, still staring at the Grik. The whole mob that had gone for the flyer—and some other groups as well—kept right on coming, straight for the south slope of the hill. A couple of planes dropped two more bombs into the mass, and the gun-armed Nancys made another firing pass but then they flew off, into the rising sun, maybe low on fuel but certainly out of ordnance.
“Battery!” Bekiaa yelled. “Load canister! Mortars, increase elevation. First Marines and Company-A Rangers, make ready!”
Saachic’s meanie picked its way through the fallen trees to rejoin Flynn and Bekiaa, and a bloodied, scorched man slid down from the animal and stood before them. He saluted absently.
“Goddamn!” he gasped, taking an offered canteen. “Thanks!”
“Leedom?” Flynn asked, remembering the man’s name.
“Yes, sir,” the man replied, taking a gulp and wiping his mouth. “Lieutenant Commander Mark Leedom, acting COFO for Army and Naval air out of Madras! You’re Colonel Flynn?”
“I am.”
“Battery!” Bekiaa roared again. “Marines and Rangers! At my command . . . Fire!”
The yellowish white smoke that always seemed to accompany their canister gushed downhill in an opaque, rolling wall, and the deafening thunder of the guns overwhelmed the volley of muskets.
“Independent, fire at will!” Bekiaa ordered, her voice cracking, and with a glance at Flynn, she dashed toward the guns for a better view. With the stirring breeze, the smoke would clear there soonest.
“What happened, Commander?” Flynn asked.
“I got shot down!” Leedom replied defiantly. “They had some kind of gun mounted in the gondola; like a little cannon loaded with shot. It hammered us just like a damn duck!” He looked at the plane, burning amid the surging Grik. “Tacos—my OC—got hit . . .” He looked down. “He was a good ’Cat. God, I hope he was already dead before . . .” He looked back at Flynn. “Colonel, you’re in the shit.” Artillery and the firing of the fast-loading Allin-Silvas almost drowned his words, but Flynn heard.
“Don’t I know it,” he agreed grimly, watching the slope below the guns, willing the Grik to break. But they just kept coming, running or crawling over their own dead in places. “Shit! Just a minute!” He spun toward a ’Cat beside him wearing the painted bars of a captain on his leather armor. “Get your company up there right damn now! They ain’t stopping!” The ’Cat bolted, and the crackle of rifles increased amid the hissing roar of the Grik. Two guns bucked at once, spewing canister and scything down dozens, maybe a hundred of the enemy, they were so tightly packed. Mortar ’Cats, no longer able to bring their primary weapons to bear, were throwing grenades like baseballs, as fast as they could pull the pins. The wailing shrieks were terrible, and with the combination of concentrated fire, canister, and now the storm of grenade fragments, the swarm finally seemed to balk.
“Reserves already, Colonel?” Leedom muttered. “God, I hope not!”
“Flying reserves,” Flynn admitted, troubled. “We have more—but we’re surrounded, as you can see, and I can’t strip much around the perimeter.” He pointed at the south slope. “So far, this is the only attack, but if they see a hole somewhere else, they might go for it.” He hesitated. “Why? What did you see?”
Leedom stripped the goggles off his head and threw them on the ground. “Colonel, you have no idea how surrounded you are.” He snorted. “We are.”
The reserve company formed, standing, behind the junction of the Marines and Rangers, where the two battalions had become intermingled, firing as quickly as they could. That’s where the most densely packed Grik thrust seemed to be headed, as if deliberately aimed there, like a wedge.
“What the hell?” Flynn murmured.
Four guns snarled with distinct, separate thunderclaps of fire, and the reserve company poured in a volley of buck and ball at less than thirty yards. Finally, finally, the Grik charge staggered, shrouded in smoke, lead, and a blizzard of downy fur and reddish vapor. Only then did something like Grik Rout grip what remained of the bloody stump of the enemy thrust. Maddened by wounds, pain, and panic, some Grik turned on each other, fighting to get back, aside, away from the hail of bullets and buzzing canister. These, as always, were hacked down by their comrades, but not before the charge stacked up behind them and the withering fire spread the effect. Hundreds fell in the next few moments while those behind pressed against others that retained no notion other than an instinctual imperative to escape.
All the veteran troops had seen Grik Rout before, and they cheered when they saw the symptoms now—but the cheer slowly died and the stunned Marines and Rangers resumed firing with a will when it didn’t really happen. The charge came apart, and many did flee mindlessly, but the great bulk of the surviving attackers backed away, still shooting crossbows or firing the weird matchlocks, if they had them. Only the Rangers had ever seen the enemy retire before, and they’d been beyond musket shot then. The rifled muskets still picked at them and so did the big guns, but it hadn’t really been a retreat under fire. Not like this.
Flynn gave the order to cease firing after the Grik moved beyond a hundred yards. Leedom’s words still echoed in his mind, even without a proper explanation, and he instinctively knew that explanation would mean they had to conserve ammunition. The smoke slowly drifted away and dissipated in time for them all to see the attacking force rejoin the multitudes that ringed them—and be welcomed back into those ranks.
“A hell of a thing,” Flynn muttered. His gaze turned to the field below the breastworks and the dark mounds bearing down on the tall grass. He couldn’t see them all, of course, but there were surely thousands; maybe half the force that broke ranks to go after the fallen plane to start with. He could see inside the breastworks as well, now that the smoke was gone, and stretcher bearers climbed out of the ditch with their grisly, moaning burdens. These were carried to the centrally located medical section that had set to work under lean-tos er
ected around a tree-trunk stockade. After they deposited their burdens with the surgeons, the stretcher bearers returned to the ditch for more.
Bekiaa rejoined them. The white fur around her mouth was smudged black with powder from tearing open musket cartridges with her teeth, and her painted armor was dingy and streaked with blood. She’d slung her rifled musket, but seemed to sag under its weight.
“That was . . . closer than I expected,” she said softly, barely audible over a loud, eerie chant the Grik had begun. None of them had ever heard anything like it, but its newness didn’t compare to the other changes they’d seen in the short fight.
“Yeah,” Flynn agreed. He turned to Leedom. “What were you saying? What did you mean?”
Bekiaa looked at the flyer and blinked tired curiosity.
“I’m afraid we’re cooked,” Leedom said, almost matter-of-factly. “Have you got comm?”
“I hope so. The guys were trying to patch up the generator,” Flynn admitted.
“Listen, sir, I gotta report what shot me down so other guys don’t get it!”
“You need to tell me what you saw!” Flynn demanded.
“Okay. General Alden needs to hear it too. If comm’s up, I’ll tell you while we send it. Fair?” He suddenly looked around with an almost-desperate expression for the first time, and patted the holster under his arm. “Say, uh, I sure could use a weapon besides my pistol!” He looked dubiously at Bekiaa’s rifle musket. “You got any oh-threes around here?”
CHAPTER 15
////// March 14, 1944
USS Salissa (CV-1)
Lieutenant Sandy Newman banged on the bulkhead beside the door, or “hatch,” to Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar’s quarters, despite the Marine sentry standing there, who blinked astonishment at the breach of protocol. Keje opened the heavy door and stepped into the passageway.
“I was just on my way,” he said. “Cap-i-taan Atlaan-Fas called me over the bridge voice tube. Come, you can fill me in as we walk!”
“Yes, sir,” Sandy said, hurrying to keep up with the bear-shaped ’Cat. “One of Tikker’s scout planes spotted a fleet, sir, a hell of a fleet, about four hundred miles west-northwest, the other side of the south India coast. Two advanced pickets have confirmed; the DDs Naga and Bowles. They’re shadowing now, and also confirm the contact is definitely headed in this direction.”
They reached the companionway to the bridge, and took the steps two at a time.
“Ahd-mi-raal on the bridge!” someone cried, and Keje waved irritably. It was well-known he didn’t like to disturb the watch, and the warning was probably the result of a case of nerves.
“Ahd-mi-raal,” Captain Atlaan-Fas greeted him.
“Cap-i-taan. Show me.” They moved to the large chart table. Unlike on many other “Amer-i-caan” ships, Salissa’s charts often retained the ancient texts of the prophet Siska-Ta written on the margins. Few passages were pertinent to this part of the world, however, so the margins on this chart were almost blank. Almost. There were a few passages, and they gave Keje comfort now as Sandy pointed to a place on the “scroll.”
“What do we know?”
“Little. There are many Grik ships of the type we’ve seen before, perhaps only a hundred, but all with cannon. There are also perhaps a dozen massive steamers, almost as big as Salissa herself, that look most odd, according to reports.”
“Speed?”
“Only five or six knots, Ahd-mi-raal, but there are zeppelins above them, perhaps being towed! The pickets report a string of three or four trailing above each steamer! This in addition to the zeppelins we know have been sneaking past our air patrols at night and landing on fields across the western coast. The Third Bomb Squadron located one of their fields this morning and destroyed as many as ten airships on the ground, but there must be more.” He blinked exasperation. “The Ancient Enemy learns to conceal himself from us.”
“They are learning far too many things of late!” Keje confirmed darkly, absently dragging a nail-claw around the bulging southern coast of India. “Order Naga, Bowles, and the other pickets to break contact and withdraw at their best possible speed to here, just off the cape. It concerns me that they are out there on their own, and if they can see the Grik, the Grik can see them. We will observe the enemy movements with aircraft. This battlegroup and Arracca’s will join them at Point”—he squinted—“Point Comorin. Pass the word for COFO Jis-Tikkar. He must prepare a strike against the enemy fleet with every aircraft we have!”
Sandy shifted uneasily. “Uh, Admiral, as you know, General Alden’s in kind of a fix. He’s finally got a handle on what they ran into, and it’s bad. He’s ordered Fifth Corps to withdraw back south and dig in with Third Corps. He also ordered Rolak back to Madras, after all.” He shook his head. “Those poor guys pushed south all night without a break, and now they’ve got to turn back the way they came, and maybe fight their way through! Second Corps is way out on a limb, and one of its divisions—Colonel Flynn’s command—is dangling by the very last leaf. In the meantime, Madras itself is dangerously exposed. They’re all counting on us for air support!”
Keje was silent, and stared at the chart. Then he looked at the map that showed the updated disposition of the expeditionary elements. “What remains of Lieutenant Leedom’s squadrons?”
“They’re down about twenty percent, mostly mechanical casualties, but they’ve lost some planes and crews too. Leedom himself is with Flynn now, said he was ‘shot down,’ and the Grik zeps have some kind of defensive weapons now.”
“Make sure Cap-i-taan Tikkar is aware,” Keje warned.
“He is, sir.”
Keje sighed. “Very well. Ask Cap-i-taan Tassana-Ay-Arracca if she might spare General Alden one of her squadrons. We are all suddenly so very stretched and pulled in every direction. I cannot risk this fleet in close combat with the enemy until I know more about its capabilities, particularly of these new steamers of theirs!” He paused. “Advise General Alden that we will soon have a battle of our own. He may land every Marine from every support ship in Madraas to bolster his defenses there, and I will send him every plane I have when and if I can.”
Madras HQ
General Pete Alden was staring at his own map, the fingers of his left hand massaging his forehead. “So. No dice, huh?” he asked General Taa-leen.
“No, sur . . . I mean, yes, we will have another squadron from Arracca, and it will provide support for General Rolak on its way here, but we cannot expect more from the Ahd-mi-raal at this time.”
“Yeah. And I can’t really blame him. We’re in the shit, but we know we’re in the shit now. He’s about to jump off the pier in the dark.” He snorted. “Glad he’s bein’ more careful than I was.”
“You couldn’t have known, General,” Taa-leen consoled.
“I should have! Damn it, we caught a glimpse of it on Ceylon!” He looked at the ancient Grik, Hij-Geerki, still curled on his cushion. As far as Pete knew, the lizard hadn’t left the room. Damn, he thought. Doesn’t he ever eat? Or take a dump? “Hell!” he continued, “Geeky there told us! Those nine civvy Grik we captured at Colombo told him about this new General Halik and his Jap sidekick, but I never dreamed they could pull something like this together. They saw what we were doing, what we wanted to do, then figured out a way to clobber us when we did it!”
“I ser’ you, lord!” Hij-Geerki croaked piously.
“Yes,” Taa-leen agreed, ignoring Hij-Geerki. “This Haa-lik, or his Jaap, can design battles. We know that now. We will design better ones! I am concerned only about that in the short term. What worries me most are the reports of how the individual Grik are fighting! Few are suffering from Braad-furd’s Grik Rout, and now there is this other report!”
Pete nodded, and felt a chill despite the hot afternoon. They knew a large force had been massing at what had been II Corps’s objective, but Leedom had been the first to report a very frightening thing. Subsequent flights sent to firebomb the Grik surrounding Flynn had carried on and confir
med what Leedom saw. The “many” Grik west of Rocky Gap were advancing. In the Grik scheme of things, the fresh force wasn’t particularly large, perhaps numbering less than fifty thousand. That was more troops than Alden had in all of India, but no more than a properly handled corps had defeated in the past. But this new force was no mob rampaging along like a plague of locusts; it was a real army, uniformly dressed and equipped with matchlock muskets and long spears, and it was marching toward the Rocky Gap—and Flynn—in a long, fat column, complete with a supply and artillery train.
Pete looked back at the map. Fifth Corps was having little trouble moving back south—so far—but Rolak was hitting some serious opposition. It was still mostly savage spoiling attacks, but each time he had to deploy part of his corps, and his troops were utterly exhausted. Once they made it back to Madras, they wouldn’t be of any use to Safir Maraan and II Corps. Pete thought Safir might hack her way back to Madras, but that still left Flynn. He rubbed his eyes.
“You know, General Taa-leen,” he said, “we’ve got a lot of wild-ass Grik causing us fits down here in the low country, but we’re kind of used to that. I’m like you. I don’t like what Second Corps is up against one damn bit. I think, all of a sudden, that stupid, shitty Rocky Gap is something we need to hang on to—if for little more reason than the Grik want it so bad. Besides, it’s the only place a real army can get through to Madras from the west. I hate to rush him, but I think we have to tell Rolak to punch back through to here quick as he can. His guys can rest up then. As soon as he gets here, we take your division, the Marines off the ships—hell, the sailors from the transports, if Keje’ll let us—and we punch through to Second Corps and keep that crummy gap!”
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