Straits of Hell (45 page)

“Hey, fellas!” he managed. “Let go! I can do it!”

“Just a moment, Cap-i-taan! We almost there!” one gasped. Tikker didn't argue. He didn't feel like it.

“What about my plane?” he asked instead. “The motor craaped out, but it's a good plane.”

“You get another plane!” came an insistent voice. “The waves get that one, flop it over. An' when the Griks gather 'round it, an' they will,
blooie
!”

“Shut up! Is gonna be ‘blooie' for
us
right quick, we don't get him in the trench! This whole beach gonna be ‘blooie'!”

Tikker felt himself dropped, and then dragged up over a wood and earthen ramp of some sort before he fell down into a muddy pit. “Hey, daamnit!” he cursed, spitting sand—just as the second 'Cat was proved correct and the world around him erupted in thunder.

//////
The Wall of Trees

M
ajor Risa-Sab-At could barely see USS
Walker
's battle at sea; she could just make out sharp, distant gunflashes through the rain that was falling on her position west of the Cowflop atop the Wall of Trees. The growing fight northeast of where Safir Maraan had landed to help take Grik City in the first place, a stretch called “Lizard Beach One,” was partially obscured by the bulk of the ugly Grik palace, but she could see it better—and it was a “doozy.” More and more Grik ships were crowding in, piling up in the surf, spilling warriors. Cannon and mortar fire met them as they swarmed against the primary defensive line, and she imagined that the surf was quickly turning red. She snorted. The Grik were so wasteful! They built decent ships, good enough that the Allies were glad to make use of them, and the older “Indiamen” were particularly well made. She knew their wrights had Hij supervisors, and she
supposed the rest worked like insects constructing intricate hives, time after time, but to her, a Lemurian who'd always considered
Salissa
her Home, it remained difficult to comprehend the abandon with which the Grik destroyed their ships. They were wasteful of themselves as well, just as wasteful and careless as insects at war with others. At least
these
Grik remained so, she amended. Not all were like that anymore, and it had been a long time since they fought Grik that attacked with so little concern for loss. But did that mean the war had drained them of the “new” Grik such as Halik led, or that they were ridding themselves of the “old” Grik—the old ways of thinking—here, at last? The battle on the beach would be fearsome, she knew, and Safir Maraan's divisions would be hard-pressed before it was done, but Risa was confident, particularly with
Walker
's help, that they'd ultimately slaughter the invaders. Her greatest frustration just then was that the 1st Allied Raider Brigade, the 1st Maroon Regiment, and part of Lieutenant Colonel Saachic's 5th Division Cavalry—numbering a little more than five thousand troops—under her command, wouldn't be in on the kill.

Turning back to the west, she peered at the jungle across the killing ground through the driving rain and saw absolutely nothing. She growled exasperation deep in her throat.

“Our position is a strong one,” Major Alistair Jindal observed, twisting his long, dark mustaches with a wet grin and nodding at her 7th (Combined) Regiment standing on the newly built platform behind the towering, rotting, mountain-range-like pinnacle of the Wall of Trees. The platform was a firing step made from the remains of Grik City, or hacked directly from the mighty decaying trunks of the ancient Galla trees that the Grik had used to build the astonishing wall. They'd even cleared embrasures and built platforms for a number of light guns. She looked at her troops, both Lemurian and human. The 7th was composed of the 2nd and 3rd battalions of the 19th Baalkpan, and the 1st of the 11th Imperial Marines. Then she glanced back at Jindal, blinking, because his voice held a trace of irony that mocked her mood. Jindal was a good man and commanded the 21st (Combined) Regiment composed of the 1st and 2nd battalions of the 9th Maa-ni-la and the 1st Battalion of the 1st Respite. Ordinarily, he was Chack's executive officer, but Chack had left his sister in charge. If Jindal resented that, he made no sign. Risa was more experienced. But he'd clearly guessed the source of her frustration.

“But a useless position,” she replied. “They might need us at the shore.”

“They might need us here,” he countered philosophically. “We
know
a lot of Grik landed on the western coast this morning. That was what Captain Jarrik was trying to force them to do.”

Risa didn't reply, but she secretly doubted Jarrik and his tiny, weak squadron had been very successful. Still, without aerial observations or communications, it was impossible to know, so there her brigade had to stay. She had scouts out; me-naak mounted cavalry accompanied by Maroons who knew the jungle, but there'd been no reports. She glanced resentfully at the roughly three thousand troops detached from 6th Division that were dug in to the brigade's far right, guarding the starving Grik “civvies” bottled up between the harbor and the northwesternmost section of the Wall of Trees.
Should've wiped them all out,
she thought, vaguely surprised by her bloody-mindedness. She'd understood and supported why they hadn't at the time. But now, if they had,
that
force could've taken this useless post and hers would've been free to fight.

“I doubt Colonel Yaar-Aaan is happier than you with his assignment,” Jindal said, noting the direction of her gaze. She huffed. Brevet Captain Enrico Galay, a former corporal in the Philippine Scouts who'd survived
Mizuki Maru
and who now commanded the 1st of the 1st Maroon, joined them with another man. Despite his dress that was just like everyone else's, this other man was obviously a Maroon because he wore a long black beard, and the hair gushing from beneath his helmet reached past his shoulders. “Maroons are getting edgy,” Galay reported.

“Why? What do they say?”

“Christ,” Galay snorted. “How should I know? I can barely understand 'em.” He nodded at the man beside him who was supposed to be his exec, and Risa wondered how that worked if they couldn't communicate. The “English” the Maroons spoke was very heavily—and oddly—accented, but Jindal and his Imperials seemed best able to decipher it. All their NCOs were Impies, but the Maroons were very strict about chain of command. This man had insisted they report to him, and he to Galay. . . . Risa shook her head. “You need to get that sorted out,” she warned Galay. “Learn to understand them, teach them to understand you, or get an interpreter! If you can't do one of those things, I'm sure Major Jindal can find someone who can.”

“Yes, Major,” Galay agreed.

“Ay unnerstan', Cap'n Galay,” the man insisted.

“Very well,” Jindal said, “Then please repeat your report to us.”

“Aye.” He hesitated. “Ay fare tha Garieks is camin'!”

“What makes you think that?”

“'Tis tha baesties! Tha baesties in yan jangle!”

Risa peered over the peak of the wall. The rain was slacking, but she saw nothing alive below. “How can you tell? What're they doing?”

“Thay's camin. Lak!” he said, pointing. “Look!” he repeated carefully. Risa still saw nothing—at first.

“The lizardbirds?” she asked. Colorful flocks of the things were swirling through the trees as far as she could see in any direction like thick wisps of smoke, surging back and forth and exploding into the sky with muted, raucous cries. She supposed she'd noticed them, but there were always lizardbirds—or were there? “It's raining,” she stated.

“Aye. Bards danna fly mach an tha rain, less samthin' scares am ap—an' nathin' scares sae many!”

Far below, a me-naak burst from the jungle, bearing two riders, followed by several more, equally burdened. The long-legged crocodilians bounded directly toward the wall and scampered straight up amid the clatter and jangle of their riders' dangling carbines and cutlasses like no horse ever could. Their claws made them far better at scaling steep slopes, particularly when they were made of spongy, eon-old tree trunks. The cav-'Cat on the leading me-naak urged his mount toward the 1st Raider Brigade flag, rain pasted tight to its staff, and Risa and her companions trotted to meet him.

“Griks!” he shouted, saluting. The Maroon riding behind him made a parody of the salute and cried out, “Garieks!” as well.

“How many? How far?” Galay demanded.

The cav-'Cat blinked at him, then looked back at Risa and Jindal. “Thousands of 'em,” he stated simply. “An' they is spreadin' out in the jungle right behind us. Fixin' to attack, I bet.”

“What took you so long to report?” Jindal asked.

“Garieks ain't tha anly nasty baggers in tham jangle!” growled the Maroon.

“We lost some troopers tryin' to break back through,” the cav-'Cat confirmed. “The Griks is pushin' all the bad boogers ahead of 'em, but
then they break to the side, like, before they reach the clearing. We had to bust through. Some guys're still out there”—he waved—“tryin' to find the flanks. Maybe they get stuck behind 'em?”

“They're not all breaking to the side,” Galay said, pointing down at the killing ground between the wall and the woods. A pack of something like oversize Grik, but with spikes down their backs, bolted from the trees and raced to the south. Other, smaller creatures—just as bizarre—were doing the same, and what began as a trickle quickly became a flood. The 1st Raider Brigade—and the Maroons, of course—had encountered many of the island's predators before. The Raiders couldn't have told how many creatures fled their advance through the jungle when they marched across the island to attack Grik City, but an awful lot
hadn't
fled. So, to see so many running now implied that a lot of weight was pushing them. And all the while, lizardbirds screeched and flocked overhead, nearing the edge of the jungle.

“Thank you, Corp'raal,” Risa said, and nodded to all the riders. “Go join your companies. Messenger!” she called. “Get on the horn to Gener-aal Safir Maraan and tell her that an apparently sizable force of Grik is preparing to attack us here.” The Raiders had no wireless set, or even field telegraphs, but they did have the new field telephones that connected them to Safir's HQ by the same wires used elsewhere. They also had other “new” technology of a more lethal nature that had proven itself in attack. Now they'd see how their still somewhat experimental equipment would fare at defense, it seemed. “I'll report further when I know more!” she added, turning to the drummers standing beside the brigade standard, their instruments covered against the wet. “Beat ‘stand to,'” she ordered, then glanced at Jindal with a swish of her tail.

“They might need us here after all,” he said, blinking irony.

The drums thundered dully and whistles blew, not that they'd needed them to assemble their troops. Everyone was already in place, watching and waiting. The exodus of jungle predators finally thinned, and a pregnant near stillness ensued. Suddenly, here and there, Grik warriors crept out of the jungle, glancing around. None carried the now-ubiquitous Grik matchlock muskets—as if those would've been of any use on such a wet day—but were instead armed with the traditional spears, crossbows, and sickle-shaped swords that had equipped Grik armies since the beginning of time. Their crude leather armor and
round leather shields strapped to their backs drew the thoughts of all the veterans who saw them back to earlier times, earlier battles, and most were surprised. The Grik scouts seemed surprised as well to find themselves in the open at last, but the high, massive Wall of Trees that loomed before them quickly caught their attention and they yipped back behind them at the jungle. Bellows-driven horns
blapped
in the trees, robbed of their impressive, menacing volume by the damp, but then the “thousands” of Grik they'd been warned about began to gush from the dark woods.

Risa was stunned by the numbers that just kept coming, beginning to snarl and yip and bang their shields with weapons as they emerged—and they didn't even pause or wait for their lines to firm up before they advanced. They just surged forward across the killing ground while more and more poured out of the jungle. Risa suspected there were already more Grik in view, appearing in a matter of moments, than she had defenders to stop, and knew that however many ships got past him to assail Safir Maraan, Captain Jarrik-Fas had been far more successful in his mission than anyone had imagined.

“Tell Gener-aal Safir Maraan that we have many thousands of Grik attacking here, and that they come in the ‘same old way.'” She paused. The “same old way” hadn't been much used for some time, but everyone still knew what it meant. More, from what she could see of the battle beyond the Cowflop, the seaborne Grik were doing the same. She couldn't make sense of it, but despite their growing numbers, she much preferred that they approach like this than the ways they'd begun to use elsewhere. She turned to the Maroon standing beside Galay, suddenly transfixed by horror. “Get back to your battalion at once,” she ordered, “and remember one thing. Your people asked for this, and we've trained them as best we could in the time we had. But spread the word: if they break, all is lost and we'll kill them ourselves. Is that perfectly clear?”

The bearded man turned to her and a deadly resolve replaced the terror in his eyes. Apparently, he could understand her just fine.

“We willna ran,” he said. “The Gareiks've kapt us as thar spart, thar playthans sance befare are paple can remamber. We willna ran,” he repeated simply, firmly.

“Good,” Risa said, suddenly wishing Chack and Dennis Silva were there. Her brother had once been a pacifist, unable to fight, but had
become one of the greatest leaders in the Alliance. She supposed she could lead here, for this, just as ably as he. But he'd also developed a talent she thought she lacked for inspiring troops under his command. Of course, the sight of thousands of Grik swarming to slaughter you would inspire just about anyone, she supposed. Anyone who knew the Grik—and the Maroons certainly did—fully understood that the Grik gave no quarter and their only hope lay in cooperative defense. Running only ensured defeat and death for everyone. Why did she wish Silva were there? She wasn't sure. He was no leader, beyond the small-unit level, but he could inspire others in a singular way—if he was in the mood. And they were still great friends even now that their—mostly—pretend affair had run its course. Mainly she just yearned for his uncomplicated enthusiasm for a fight, his irrepressible humor—and his lethal competence, of course. She wished he were there to talk to just then, to lend her his peculiar confidence. And to fight beside.