Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen (38 page)

For the next several minutes while the remaining guns chewed the Grik before them into bleeding meat and shattered bone, the fight remained a fairly one-sided slaughter. The Grik
were
fighting back, but right then, where the weight of the blow had fallen, there was little they could do.

“Charge!” Flynn finally yelled, his voice cracking. Enough of the drummers had ignored his orders that the scratch division went forward accompanied by a mighty rumble. Muskets flared directly in toothy faces, and Rangers and Sularans crashed into the reeling Grik on the right, while Rangers and Marines drove left in a screaming, sweeping turn. A company of cavalry led by Captain Saachic dashed forward, down the middle, firing buckshot-loaded carbines and swinging their long, heavy swords, splashing themselves with blood as thickly as if they were crossing a stream. Nobody needed Flynn’s orders now; the fight was joined and they were stuck all the way in. The objective: Make a lane for the cavalry and the ambulances. That was it.

For the first time in a quarter century, William Flynn became nothing but an infantryman again. Incorporating much of what he’d learned from General Alden and Tamatsu Shinya and what he remembered from his own long-ago service, he’d basically written the new drill manual. He’d spent months teaching on the drill grounds at Baalkpan and later Andaman Island, demonstrating, remembering, adding, and writing it all down.
Flynn’s Tactics
had become the approved textbook for officer candidates throughout the Alliance.

Oddly, none of that meant anything at the moment as the muscle memory of battle, so long forgotten, came back as effortlessly as breath. He rammed his projectile, but just as he withdrew the iron rod, he was forced to lunge at one Grik with the bayonet as he stabbed another in the eye with the tapered, threaded end of his rammer. Backing away, he slammed the sticky, bloody rod back in its groove and lunged forward again, driving the long, triangular bayonet into a shadowy throat. Hot blood spurted at him and he spat the salty, raw-meat taste from his tongue. Grik were piling forward now, over the corpses and mewling bodies, trying to use their spears and small shields to batter the Gap closed.

The first ambulance plowed through, bouncing and grinding across the fallen. Fusillades of fire from the Marines atop the ambulances armed with Allin-Silva breechloaders punched through the puny shields and, usually, several enemies at once. The heavy bullets of the.50–80s were hard to stop, and the rapid-fire muzzle flashes cast plenty of light on the killing. Flynn stabbed again, twisted, withdrew, then drove the butt of his weapon down on the long nose bridge/forehead of a Grik that attacked from behind. Trotting alongside the converted caisson for a moment, he stabbed at charging shapes with his bayonet while trying to place a new cap on the nipple of his rifle.

The noise was tremendous, even with the guns now silent. ’Cats trilled defiant cries, muskets fired on both sides, and the Grik shrieked or snarled their rage. The combination created an incredible surge of sound that subdued even the Grik horns that continued to blare. For an instant, he wondered again what had ever come of the idea to use the horns they’d captured against the enemy. They would help right then, he reflected, to confuse the Grik response to the breakout. Such a tool could likely only be used once, however, and even if he had them then, he probably wouldn’t have used them. This fight was the biggest test his Rangers would ever face, most likely, but regardless how momentous to him and his comrades, the outcome here would have little effect on the war. He continued stabbing.

Leedom was down right in front of him, on his hands and knees. His helmet was gone and his head was bloody. Flynn didn’t even wonder how the kid had gotten so far ahead of him; he just jerked him to his feet.

“Where’s your—MY—weapon!” Flynn demanded. Leedom blinked, eyes unfocused.

“Here!” cried Bekiaa, running up behind them and scooping the Springfield off the ground.

“How’d you get back
there
?” Flynn asked.

“Got in a fight. There’s a big one, you know.”

Flynn barked a laugh, then looked back. For the moment, the Rangers and Marines were holding the Grik away, and the ambulances, screened by meanies, were surging through the bloody gash in the Grik horde. The sight gave him a thrill—until he looked north. The Grik were throwing warriors into the fight ahead of them, deepening the line they’d have to cut through. He calculated the odds for an instant, then shook his head. It was just too much. “Where’s Saachic?”

“Here, Col-nol,” the ’Cat yelled down at him, his meanie almost sliding to a stop on something slick in the grass. “I’m sorry,” he said miserably. “They react too fast! We’ll never get the wagons through, sir.”

“No shit,” Flynn agreed, thinking fast. “But
you
can still cut through if you do it quick!”

“Col-nol!”

“Shut up! Call all your troopers here now. Bekiaa! Get over there and tell them to direct the ambulances to gather here as well. We’ll never get them into anything organized, but we can throw ’em over, fort up, wreck the breechloaders!”

Saachic began blowing the three shrill recall notes on his whistle, over and over, and other whistles dully repeated them over the tumult.

“Is this loaded?” Bekiaa asked Leedom, raising the Springfield. The flyer still seemed stunned, blood leaking from his forehead and down each side of his nose, but he nodded.

“Yeah. I just used the sticker . . . not very well.” Bekiaa was already gone.

No longer quite like ants, perhaps, the Grik horde began to encircle its prey, even as that prey fought to consolidate itself, to fend off the gnashing jaws that prepared to close on it. Quickly, the remaining ambulances joined the hasty laager, but not all of them made it. Out of ammunition, paalkas killed, Marines and wounded fought to the last and died in little clots. Captain Bekiaa’s chore complete, she raced back toward where she’d left Colonel Flynn, but spun when a crossbow bolt slammed into her side. She tried to continue on through the sharp, searing agony that made her left arm and leg almost useless, but a Grik musket ball sent her helmet flying and she dropped like a stone. She couldn’t know it, but the shot that ended the battle for her was one of the last ones fired by the Grik. A mist had moved in. Slow match fizzled, and fouling-caked priming pans turned into slimy black soup bowls. The allied caplocks would still shoot, but the ammunition was almost gone. The bayonet, spear, and sword had replaced most of the firing as the roar of battle turned even more primal. Bekiaa never felt the hands that lifted her from the high, bloody grass. She would never even know whose they’d been.

“You guys better go!” Colonel William Flynn roared over his shoulder, Baalkpan Armory rifled musket in his hands, bayonet fixed. His helmet was gone and his thinning red hair was sweat glued to his scalp. The eyes were sunken with exhaustion but bright with excitement. Lieutenant Mark Leedom knew that was how he would always remember the man.

“We can’t hold ’em much longer,” Flynn continued as the Grik surged relentlessly closer, “and they’re getting thicker over there.” He tossed his head northward, then nodded at Bekiaa’s still, bloody form. “You gotta get her out of here!”

Leedom’s eyes filled with red tears as he looked helplessly back at Flynn, the unconscious, bandage-wrapped ’Cat held close at his side on top of one of the scary-looking me-naaks. “But . . . God damn it, Colonel, I ought to stay. Give her to one of the other fellas! I don’t even know how to . . . to control this damn thing!” Every single paalka was dead now, and fewer than 150 meanies remained, their riders doubled, even tripled up with wounded. Leedom watched with suddenly wide eyes while NCOs grimly strode among the meanies, cutting away the muzzles that protected the riders from their terrible jaws. “What the hell?”

“Don’t worry,” Captain Saachic said, his voice dull with sadness and exhaustion. “You don’t have to control him. He’ll follow the rest of us. Just hang on.”

“But . . . what if he tries to eat me?”

“He won’t. He’ll snatch something to munch on along the way.” Saachic shrugged. “If he
does
try to eat you though, shoot him a couple of times in the side of the head with your pistol. He’ll leave you alone after that.”

Leedom blinked, then looked back at Flynn. “But . . . why me?”

Flynn actually laughed. “Hell, boy. We’d all be dead already if it weren’t for your planes. We need you. The
war
needs you. I’m just an old pig-boat chief who took up a rifle. Nothin’ special about me.” He pointed at Bekiaa. “
She
’s special, and so are you.” He paused. “And so are my Rangers. Don’t let ’em forget us!” He looked around. “Remind ’em there was Marines here too! And Sularans, by God!” A ragged, gasping cheer built around them. “Besides, we ain’t finished yet. We’ll form a square and bust one more hole for the meanies!”

“What then?” Leedom demanded.

Flynn shrugged. “We’ll kill Grik until we can’t kill anymore. Who knows?” He pointed at Bekiaa. “She and Garrett did it at the Sand Spit, and Captain Reddy did it at Aryaal! Maybe we’ve got a little farther to go, but there’s more of us!” He grinned. “If you get through to General Maraan, tell her to come get us. Hear?”

Leedom nodded woodenly. “I will, Colonel. I’ll tell her that and more.” Everyone knew there would be nothing left to “get.” This wasn’t Aryaal—or the Sand Spit.

Flynn looked at Saachic. “Remember, when you toot your whistle, everything we’ve got will surge ahead of you and make a hole. Keep going and don’t slow down for anything, or it’ll all be for nothing.”

“We could have broken out . . . like this—just leaving you behind—from the hill!” Saachic blurted accusingly.

Flynn nodded, but gestured at the overturned ambulances. “Yeah, and I probably should’ve made you do it . . . but I had to try.” He looked back at Leedom. “You’ve got my Springfield. Tell Bekiaa she can use it . . . till I want it back.” Suddenly, he shifted back and forth on his feet. “Hey! You know, my muscles are kinda sore—but my joints ain’t hurtin’ anymore!” With that, he turned back to face the thickening mob of Grik.

A long, harsh whistle blast shrilled above the sound of battle.

CHAPTER
23

////// Enchanted Isles

March 22, 1944

L
ord High Admiral Harvey Jenks entered Elizabeth Bay in the predawn darkness aboard his old
Achilles
, commanded by his former first lieutenant—now Captain—Grimsley. USS
Mertz
and USS
Tindal
followed him in. Elizabeth Bay, located on the southwest coast of Albermarl Island, was the largest anchorage in all the Enchanted Isles, and Elizabethtown, nestled on the north side of the bay between two great, looming peaks, was the capital of the far-flung outpost. As they approached the batteries guarding the harbor, all three frigates, or DDs, fired the green recognition rockets the leaflets dropped by the aviators told the defenders to expect, but a measure of tension lingered. The defenders had fired on the planes, after all, and they’d had no contact with other Imperial forces for months. They might even be suspicious that three ships had so easily evaded the Dom blockade. As for that, it had not been too difficult. The Doms were dedicated sailors, and the steamers had only to wait until they could pass to windward—but that might not be clear to the defenders. Jenks had added a greeting to Governor Sir Thomas Humphries in the leaflets, with a personal reference the man should understand and appreciate, but that was no guarantee. Sir Thomas might be dead.

Besides, a lot had been going on that night, and even now the northern sky pulsed with sharp, distant lights. The mountains of Albermarl blocked much of the show, but it looked as if one of the mountains itself had come to life. That happened sometimes, but Jenks knew that wasn’t the case now. At that moment, the bulk of Second Fleet was pummeling the Dom encampment and positions on the northern part of the island, and soon three thousand Lemurian troops and roughly the same number of Imperial Marines, all led by the enigmatic General Shinya, would launch what promised to be the largest amphibious assault of the war in the east—so far. Most of the visible flashes likely came from the mighty guns of the Second Fleet flagship,
Maaka-Kakja,
herself.

It was likely the defenders were unnerved by the distant spectacle, not knowing what it was, but there was no way Jenks could have warned them about it. Some of the leaflets might have fallen into enemy hands and the Allied invasion had to be a surprise.

The forts answered the signal with rockets of their own—instead of roundshot from their formidable guns—and Jenks’s tension ebbed a notch. Cannon suddenly lit the sea to the southwest, opening what should be a fairly one-sided mauling of the Dom blockade, and Jenks ordered several troop transports that had been hanging back to join the three DDs. Soon, the entire squadron passed beneath the quiet guns into the confines of the bay, and saw the greatfish oil lamps of Elizabethtown glowing dimly off
Achilles
’ larboard bow. Another rocket arced, sputtering into the sky from the surface of the water just ahead.

“Picket boat,” Grimsley suggested, and Jenks nodded in the darkness.

“I shouldn’t wonder. Ring ‘steerageway only,’ and send ‘reduce speed’ to all ships. Stand by to heave to—we shall see what the picket has to say.”

“Very good, sir.”

Jenks hurried down from
Achilles
’ flying bridge amidships, between the two great paddle boxes, and moved forward while Grimsley repeated his orders. Gun’s crews stood ready around their squat, heavy weapons, and the men brought their forefingers to their brows as he passed. Reaching the fo’c’sle, he found the Lemurian Marine captain Blas-Ma-Ar with several of her contingent who’d joined
Achilles
from
Maaka-Kakja
. One of
Walker
’s Lemurian gunner’s mates was also there—Stumpy, he was called, because of some misfortune that had significantly shortened his tail. Jenks had kind of temporarily inherited him after the fierce running fight south of Saint Francis. Someone had to remain with him as a technical liaison, and Stumpy had volunteered. The ’Cat liked Jenks, and with all the Imperial backstabbing that had been going on, he also considered himself “on loan” as one of Jenks’s personal guards. Currently, Stumpy was poised by the American searchlight mounted at the bow. The light was powered by electrical generators spun by steam from
Achilles
’ own boiler. It wasn’t as large as the lights on
Walker
, but Jenks remained amazed by the ingenious device.

“Ahd-mi-raal,” Blas greeted Jenks with a salute.

“Captain Blas. You are ready?”

“Of course, sur.” Blas and her mixed regiment of Lemurian and Imperial Marines, apportioned between the three DDs, would go ashore immediately, with Jenks to organize the landing and deployment of the Marines on the transports.

“Very well,” Jenks said, and turned to the short-tailed ’Cat near the light. “Do not blind them, Mr. . . . Stumpy,” he cautioned. “Cast the beam above them, if you can.”

“Ay, sur,” Stumpy replied, and twisted a large switch.

A solid beam of light stabbed into the dark, humid air, the peripheral glow revealing a small cutter off the starboard bow. Men could be seen scrambling about excitedly on her deck, clearly startled by the blinding light.

“Ahoy the cutter!” cried Jenks through a speaking trumpet. “I am Lord High Admiral Jenks—perhaps better remembered here as Commodore. I command the Allied fleet here to relieve the Enchanted Isles at last! I beg to meet with Governor Sir Thomas Humphries!”

“Aye! Aye!” came a tinny voice in response. “Which we were sent ta meet ye—but could ye stysh that infernal light!”

“You may secure your searchlight, Mr. Stumpy,” Jenks said, then raised the trumpet to his lips again as the searing beam faded. “Make a light of your own,” he instructed the men on the cutter, “and we will follow you in. Be quick about it; there is no time to lose!”

Achilles
,
Mertz
, and
Tindal
moved alongside the government docks, where their lines were secured by excited, willing hands. There was some confusion and considerable shouting back and forth between
Tindal
,
Mertz,
and the shore, since the two screw steamers didn’t need the long boom bumpers that Imperial side-wheelers required—and, of course, there was considerable surprise when Lemurian Marines began streaming ashore and demanding cooperation and assembly areas from stunned locals who’d never seen a Lemurian before. The ’Cats were accustomed to Imperials, and humans in general, so it was no big deal to them, and Jenks was relieved and impressed by the way they deflected a potentially tense time by simply and professionally carrying out their assigned tasks with occasional reassuring shouts of “Don’t worry about it, fellas. We’re on your side!” The mixture of well-fed, fresh-uniformed Imperial Marines helped, no doubt, but the long-suffering garrison of the Enchanted Isles was surprisingly willing to take them at their word and any fear that Elizabethtown was being invaded by “creatures” was short-lived.

“Admiral Jenks! Admiral Jenks!” came the excited shout of a thin man dressed in bedraggled civilian clothes, pressing his way through the disembarking troops with a small, wide-eyed escort of equally thin and somewhat shabby garrison regulars. “Sir Humphries’s factor for Admiral Harvey Jenks!”

“Here I am, sir,” Jenks said, striding down with Captain Blas, Stumpy, and some other officers in tow. Stumpy wore a Navy khaki kilt and T-shirt and still carried the ’03 Springfield he’d had since Saint Francis. Blas wore her blue Marine kilt and the new camouflage battle dress with the tie-dyed tunic and painted rhino-pig armor. Her black cartridge box and bright Baalkpan Arsenal musket were ready for business.

The civilian looked at her, his dark eyes stilled by wonder before fixing on Jenks. “Lord High Admiral!” he said, and bowed, removing the large tricorn from his head. “Your . . . astonishingly delivered message was received with great relief, sir, but I frankly confess a personal unpreparedness for the appearance of the allies you mentioned! I thank God for them, and no mistake, but they are not the only surprise. There would also seem to be a battle in the north. . . .”

“Indeed. Where is Sir Humphries?” Jenks demanded.

“He awaits you yonder”—the man pointed—“beyond the press. He craves that you enlighten him further about your plans.”

“Take me to him, and I shall do so at once.”

“Of course.” There was just enough light upon the dockyards to see the factor’s expression change. “A word first, sir. The governor is . . . not the man he was. None of us are, I fear—our resources and resilience have nearly reached the bitter end. But Sir Humphries has suffered even more than most, for many reasons.”

Governor Sir Thomas Humphries had been a cheerful, corpulent man, devoted to his studies of the natural world, when last he and Harvey Jenks met. He’d been an effective governor of this tenuous outpost—in his spare time, he’d often joked—but in reality, there hadn’t been much for him to do, and the Enchanted Isles had been the perfect posting for a man of his interests. Seeing him now, Jenks realized Sir Humphries had changed as much as anything else he’d ever known before he met the Americans, before the war began. Where once Humphries would have been fascinated by the appearance of the Lemurians, now his eyes darted fretfully back and forth in the gloom. He was no longer overweight or cheerful either, and seemed to wear his former self like a baggy suit.

“Damn me, Jenks, it
is
you conducting this circus!” the diminished man managed, gazing about. “Thank God you’re here! Too late for so many, I’m afraid—my poor tortoises!—but here you are at last. The princess?”

“Safe, Sir Humphries.” It occurred to Jenks that the last the governor would have heard of him was his expedition to seek the lost princess, and there was no way he could know of all that transpired since. Some few ships had escaped the Enchanted Isles to report that the Doms were coming, but apparently no word had made it back until the leaflets were dropped. Well, this wasn’t the time to catch him up on everything.

“Thank heavens the dear child is safe,” Humphries continued. “I met her once, you know? I believe she was two or three. Couldn’t possibly remember me . . .” His voice trailed off; then he spoke with more energy. “I’ve read of these ape folk, of course, in the Founders’ logs. You’ve found them again, have you? However did you train them as troops?” He paused, scrutinizing Blas. “And females! Extraordinary!”

“Sir Humphries, I cannot even begin to tell you all that has occurred these last months in the time we have, but these”—he nodded at Blas and Stumpy—“are not ape folk; they are Mi-Anaaka, or Lemurians, and firm allies of the Empire against the bloody Doms. And honestly, sir, if anyone has been training troops, theirs have been training ours!”

“Extraordinary!” Humphries repeated. “Are there tortoises in their lands? There are none left here, you see, except for a very few I could not bear to see eaten. But the Doms have all the other islands, and the tortoises and other creatures that lived on them were different, unique!” His expression became desolate. “All gone, most likely.”

“A great tragedy, Sir Humphries,” Jenks said, “but we must look to the present for now.” The transports were coming alongside the dock. “You have noticed the battle in the north? Our troops are landing there as we speak under the command of a most able officer, but we must land more forces here to march to his relief as quickly as we can. The enemy will have turned to face him and may yet retain the advantage of numbers. If we strike quickly across the frontier you have maintained, we should catch the enemy in the rear, perhaps even while he is redeploying.”

“What remains of our garrison is in no condition for an attack,” the factor said doubtfully.

“I expected that,” Jenks agreed, “but if you shift all you have to face the enemy beachhead in the east, surely it can no longer threaten the city here. We will destroy it at our leisure. Once the sun is up, our aircraft—”

“Aircraft? You mean the flying machines that brought your note?” Humphries asked, seizing upon the unfamiliar word.

“Yes. A gift from our allies. They will bomb the enemy in the east and prevent resupply. Soon the Doms there will be in worse straits than you were.”

“Extraordinary,” Humphries muttered. His sunken eyes grew earnest. “Your . . . Lemooans. They will not eat any tortoises they stumble across? Perhaps a few others have survived?”

“You have my word, Sir Humphries,” Jenks said gently.

“Sir,” Blas said to Jenks, motioning at the transports. “Colonel Blair will soon be ashore.”

“Of course. You have duties. Good hunting, Captain, and God bless.”

“Thank you, sir, and may the Maker be with you.” Saluting the governor, Blas backed away, then darted through the jumble of forming companies.

“Extraordinary,” Humphries repeated again, watching Blas depart. “Such a polite little thing.”

Jenks smiled. “I assure you, sir, the enemy will not think so.”

* * * 

Nancys started landing in Elizabeth Bay by early afternoon. Most of these were damaged to some degree, by ground fire or Grikbirds, but some were just low on fuel or out of ordnance. They gathered around a tender to be refueled and rearmed or hoisted out of the water for repairs. The citizens of Elizabethtown lined the shore, watching the strange machines come and go, as fascinated by the Nancys as they were the people who flew them. Supplies were landed on the dock to be distributed among the people. Guards stood around the bales and crates, but hungry as the people had to be, there was no rush, no misbehavior. The island had been relieved and there would be food. They could wait a little longer. The wind carried the sound of the great battle in the north, but the same wind swept the thunder of the closer battle in the east completely away. The only evidence of the fighting there was the quick return of aircraft that flew in that direction, and the steady trickle of wounded that wound back down the high-pass road.