Authors: Taylor Anderson
Firestorm (28 page)
The shields were falling apart under the constant drumming of bolts, and more and more sailors and Marines fell in the painfully bright sand, staining it dark and red. Through it all, they continued to kill, and the enemy losses were disproportionately high, but Garrett had concluded that didn’t matter; the Grik reserves seemed infinite, and the square was all he knew anymore. He lost the musket, wrenched from his hands, and with none of the reservations he’d felt before, the cutlass came from its scabbard. Soon it was notched and black with blood.
He heard the surf, and thirst and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. The sun was high overhead, the sweltering heat a torment as harsh as death. He knew he couldn’t drink seawater, but he thought if they reached the ocean, he might take a moment to sip from his canteen. His personal war became one of reaching water, if only for the momentary relief it might bring. Smoke dried his throat even worse. It had reached a point where it stung his eyes and made it nearly impossible to breathe.
Donaghey must
be burning . . . yet her guns still fired. In his muddled mind, he couldn’t reconcile that.
Donaghey must
be burning . . . yet her guns still fired. In his muddled mind, he couldn’t reconcile that.
Through the gasping, panting, trilling, and screaming of his comrades, he heard a different sound; shouts of encouragement, congratulation, relief. Still the chant “Don’t stop!” continued, but in a stronger, persuasive tone. A nearby crash of an eighteen-pounder stunned him, but it brought him out of the metronomic, cutlass-swinging zone he’d entered, and he glanced to his right, through the pink smear of sweat and blood clouding his vision.
At the water’s edge, a new, hasty breastworks had been added to the old, and two guns barked again, geysering sand into the air and sweeping down a mass of Grik rushing to get between Bekiaa’s square and the haven the works represented. The avenue momentarily clear, the square shattered and raced for the trench.
“Hurry, hurry!” came the shouts now. “Get your tails clear!” Almost before the last survivors staggered over the barricade, a stunning volley of arrows and “buck and ball” slammed the pursuing Grik to a juddering halt.
“Lay it on!” came Pruit Barry’s voice. “Hammer ’em! Fire at will!” For a few moments, the faster-firing arrows took up the slack, but soon the first muskets began crackling again.Greg stumbled toward Barry.
“My God, Greg,” Pruit said, “you look awful!”
“I feel awful,” Greg croaked, opening his canteen at last and taking a long gulp. He looked at
Donaghey
a short distance away, surrounded by swirling foam. She looked worse than he felt, but there were no flames. “I thought she was burning,” he said. “Where’s all the smoke coming from?”
Donaghey
a short distance away, surrounded by swirling foam. She looked worse than he felt, but there were no flames. “I thought she was burning,” he said. “Where’s all the smoke coming from?”
Pruit shook his head. “Of the three sailing frigates we built, she’s always been charmed. Faster, tougher, prettier . . . She’s destroyed
six
gun-armed Grik ships while
beached
, for cryin’ out loud! All the smoke’s from one of the last three, half-sunk, aground, and burning a couple hundred yards to seaward. The other two were dismasted coming in. I bet they wind up near the one from last night.”
six
gun-armed Grik ships while
beached
, for cryin’ out loud! All the smoke’s from one of the last three, half-sunk, aground, and burning a couple hundred yards to seaward. The other two were dismasted coming in. I bet they wind up near the one from last night.”
“Not charmed,” Garrett said. “Just damn good gunnery. Smitty deserves a medal when we finally get around to making some. So do you.”
To punctuate the statement, one of
Donaghey
’s landward guns sent a roundshot churning through the momentarily checked Grik horde, spewing weapons and body parts in all directions. The Grik reacted little, beyond waving their weapons and hissing louder.
Donaghey
’s landward guns sent a roundshot churning through the momentarily checked Grik horde, spewing weapons and body parts in all directions. The Grik reacted little, beyond waving their weapons and hissing louder.
“I guess she’s out of canister,” Greg observed. “Roundshot’s okay with them bunched up like that, but canister would be better.” He pointed at Pruit’s magazine pouches, and Barry handed over a couple.
“I wonder why they stopped?” Bekiaa asked, referring to the Grik as she joined them. Her once-white leather armor no longer showed any white at all. She gasped her thanks when Pruit handed her his canteen.
“I don’t know. Orders, I guess. Imagine that. We stopped ’em, sure, but normally they’d’ve come on again by now.” He gestured around. “And we’ll stop ’em again. After that? I bet we’re down to three hundred effectives. God knows if Chapelle’s even alive.” He snorted. “Eventually, they can just walk across us and stomp us to death.”
“Cap-i-taan!” someone shouted. “Something happens!” Barry and Garrett both trotted to the breastworks. Resentful-looking Grik were making a lane for something coming through their ranks.
“What the hell?”
Oddly attired—uniformed—Grik trotted through the gap and formed two ranks facing the barricade. For a moment, the shooting stopped while the allies, amazed, watched this very un-Grik-like behavior.
“What are they carrying?” Bekiaa asked. They look like . . .” She hefted her weapon. “Kind of like muskets!”
“God almighty! I think they are!” Garrett said, recognizing the shape, if not the function. They were long, fish-tail-looking things, with levers underneath instead of trigger guards, and an odd arrangement on the side held what looked like a piece of smoldering match. “Shoot them!” he commanded.
‘What’s the matter with you, you bunch of fuzzy goofs?” Barry yelled. “Fire!”
Immediately, muskets resumed crackling and arrows swooshed. The uniformed Grik began to fall, and those behind them recoiled a bit from the renewed fusillade, bellowing their rage and frustration. But the front ranks of the Grik, even while taking casualties and blocking the replying bolts of those behind them, stood impassive, enduring the beating without apparent notice. One of the strange Grik horns brayed in the distance—a new note—and the enemy raised awkward-looking guns with all the appearance of taking deliberate aim.
“I’ll be da . . .” Pruit began, but the Grik volley silenced him forever. A ball—it had to be a ball—struck him above the left eye and the side of his head erupted pink, flinging him backward into the trench. He wasn’t alone, and there were cries of confusion and pain.
“Kill them!” Garrett roared, and the ’Cats around him roared as well, in anguish and anger. The horn squawked again, joined by many more, making a dreadful, familiar sound. The rest of the Grik charged.
“Now, at last I see what we face,” Halik remarked grimly, watching the final, remorseless assault. There’d be no stopping it this time; the numbers were too overwhelming for the pitifully few enemy survivors to resist. “That . . . formation . . . the enemy assumed, to join those others by the sea . . . masterful! How can they achieve such a thing, even in the face of certain defeat?”
Niwa recognized what could only be admiration in the Grik general’s voice. “It is called courage, General Halik,” he said, oddly sick at heart. “Grik Uul are capable of fantastic discipline; they fling themselves forward with no regard for themselves—usually—but they’re driven by instinct, urges they don’t understand. Much of that ‘instinct’ is conditioned, but it serves the same purpose. The vast difference is that they obey commands to do what they’re conditioned and instinctively inclined to do. Our enemies, the human Americans and Lemurians, ‘tree folk,’ each recognize the danger and challenge as well as any Hij, as I said. They stand and fight with their hearts and minds while retaining the ability to think and plan, even until the very end.” He gestured toward the distant ship and the rapidly shrinking semicircle around it in the surf. “They
know
they’re doomed, General, but still most do not ‘fall prey.’”
know
they’re doomed, General, but still most do not ‘fall prey.’”
“Our ‘special troops’ performed well in their initial trial,” Halik pointed out.
Niwa nodded. “Yes. I saw none flee. The survivors will make excellent trainers and ‘firsts of twenty’ or more, but was it courage that made them stand, or merely more intense conditioning? That’s the key question. How can we build true courage among ‘our’ warriors?”
Halik was at a loss. “I honestly do not know. How exactly is this ‘courage’ formed?”
“Think. You managed it on your own. It must be built atop a foundation few Uul survive to lay: character . . . and a cause.”
Halik’s crest suddenly rose. Distant from the fighting, he’d been holding his helmet under his arm. “What is that annoying sound?”
Niwa heard nothing over the climactic roar that heralded the final moments of the battle. Soon it would be over, and all the defenders slain. “I don’t know,” he said, surprisingly glum, but then he
did
.
did
.
Suddenly, six very peculiar-looking craft—
air
craft!—lumbered over the trailing mass of Grik warriors, jostling to get in the fight. They were clearly seaplanes, strangely reminiscent of the American PBY Niwa had seen. American insignias were distinct on their blue-and-white wings and forward fuselage. Over the horde, barrels detached and plummeted down, cracking open and spilling their contents in the sand. A few warriors were crushed, but Niwa was too stunned to suspect what was to come. The first flight pulled up and away, banking east over the water, their motors audible now over the hush that had fallen over the horde. Another flight came in, a little higher. Small objects fell, aarently thrown or dropped by someone in the back part of each plane. Realization dawned and despite their distance, Niwa pulled Halik to the ground as the beach erupted in a long, orange fireball that roiled with greasy black smoke.
air
craft!—lumbered over the trailing mass of Grik warriors, jostling to get in the fight. They were clearly seaplanes, strangely reminiscent of the American PBY Niwa had seen. American insignias were distinct on their blue-and-white wings and forward fuselage. Over the horde, barrels detached and plummeted down, cracking open and spilling their contents in the sand. A few warriors were crushed, but Niwa was too stunned to suspect what was to come. The first flight pulled up and away, banking east over the water, their motors audible now over the hush that had fallen over the horde. Another flight came in, a little higher. Small objects fell, aarently thrown or dropped by someone in the back part of each plane. Realization dawned and despite their distance, Niwa pulled Halik to the ground as the beach erupted in a long, orange fireball that roiled with greasy black smoke.
Both Greg’s pistols were empty; his own, and the one he’d taken from Captain Barry. He didn’t know where the dead man’s ’03 Springfield wound up. Still conscientious, he’d thrust the Colts in his belt, and his pockets clacked with empty magazines even though he doubted he’d ever refill them. His cutlass was now scarred and stained, and he had a wide, bloody cut on his forehead from a blow that left him dazed and more than half-blinded with blood. Bekiaa had dragged him into the water where, hopefully, someone would hoist him onto his ship. It was probably appropriate that he should die on
Donaghey
, but there were still others fighting here, knee-deep in the surf, and he couldn’t leave them. Bekiaa had vanished.
Donaghey
, but there were still others fighting here, knee-deep in the surf, and he couldn’t leave them. Bekiaa had vanished.
He heard the planes, but the sound didn’t register. A Grik warrior lunged at him, off balance in the surf, and Greg hacked down across its neck, driving it into the pinkish foam. He hacked it again for good measure. There were more Grik, though, many more, and he raised the cutlass again. An unnatural, all-consuming
goosh!
interspersed with a staccato of small detonations heated his face, and an eerie brightness glowed through the bloody film in his eyes. It was followed by the most unearthly shriek of agony and terror he’d ever heard before.
goosh!
interspersed with a staccato of small detonations heated his face, and an eerie brightness glowed through the bloody film in his eyes. It was followed by the most unearthly shriek of agony and terror he’d ever heard before.
Donaghey
’s guns, silent for some time as she conserved her final shots, barked almost over his head, and the concussion sent him reeling forward. Deafened, he almost fell. Exhausted as he was, he might have drowned in the knee-deep water. Bekiaa suddenly had him again, dragging him forward,
toward
the enemy! Her helmet was gone, and several crossbow bolts dangled from her leather armor like ornaments. He had no idea if any had found her flesh, but she didn’t care if they had. She was blinking with joy, and her ears were flattened against her skull in feral satisfaction. He almost fell again as they reached the sand, but she continued urging him forward. Others joined them, their harsh voices cracking with thirst and savage delight. Ahead, he finally saw the flames and caught the distinctive smell of burning gasoline, combined with the equally singular stench of cooking flesh and burning leather.
’s guns, silent for some time as she conserved her final shots, barked almost over his head, and the concussion sent him reeling forward. Deafened, he almost fell. Exhausted as he was, he might have drowned in the knee-deep water. Bekiaa suddenly had him again, dragging him forward,
toward
the enemy! Her helmet was gone, and several crossbow bolts dangled from her leather armor like ornaments. He had no idea if any had found her flesh, but she didn’t care if they had. She was blinking with joy, and her ears were flattened against her skull in feral satisfaction. He almost fell again as they reached the sand, but she continued urging him forward. Others joined them, their harsh voices cracking with thirst and savage delight. Ahead, he finally saw the flames and caught the distinctive smell of burning gasoline, combined with the equally singular stench of cooking flesh and burning leather.
Wild shapes convulsed and capered in the flames, amid the continuous anguished squeals. Grik warriors on this side of the inferno fought with frantic abandon, slaying one another to escape the maniacal rush of survivors and the hellish fire behind. Steadily, they were pushed back, past the breastworks they’d so recently overrun. Some broke and ran through the flames, mostly dying in the attempt. A pair of the uniformed Grik still stood, mechanically loading their weird guns, seemingly oblivious, until they were cut down. Garrett remained confused, his head throbbed, and he couldn’t focus. All he knew was that something astonishing must have occurred. He
should
be dead already.
should
be dead already.
Another flight of planes, “CV-1” boldly stenciled on their tails, rumbled past, bombs tumbling amid the enemy beyond the fire, and suddenly Greg Garrett
knew
. First Fleet had arrived at last. He spun and wiped his eyes with his salty wet sleeve. His vision remained blurry, but he stared hard out to sea. Far to the south, near the hazy horizon, he could just distinguish the range-distorted shapes of ships and smoke, stretching as far as he could see in either direction.
knew
. First Fleet had arrived at last. He spun and wiped his eyes with his salty wet sleeve. His vision remained blurry, but he stared hard out to sea. Far to the south, near the hazy horizon, he could just distinguish the range-distorted shapes of ships and smoke, stretching as far as he could see in either direction.
“It’s
Big Sal
and
Humfra-Dar
!” he croaked, dropping to his knees in the sand. “God bless Ben Mallory and his ‘Nancys’!”
Big Sal
and
Humfra-Dar
!” he croaked, dropping to his knees in the sand. “God bless Ben Mallory and his ‘Nancys’!”
Bekiaa collapsed beside him. “I am going to be very nice to the Air Corps, in the future,” she gasped.
General Halik was hissing words Niwa didn’t understand. He assumed they were profane.
“We must withdraw,” Niwa said. More planes were bombing the artillery positions. A bright flash amid a thunderclap of sound and a cloud of white smoke testified to the almost-certain eradication of a battery nearby.
“This army is largely intact! We can still finish the enemy on the beach!” Halik insisted.
“Spoken just like Regent Tsalka or General Esshk at Baalkpan,” Niwa sneered. “Think! With those things”—he pointed at a passing plane—“pounding your Uul at will, most will turn prey and be of no use even if they’re successful! Call them back, General, withdraw and re-form. Then we can consider what to do next!”
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