Straits of Hell (46 page)

“Good,” she repeated. “Return to your posts—and good luck.” She raised her voice to that carrying tone unique to her species. “Blitzerbugs and flame weapons will hold until I give the command. All other guns, mortars, and riflemen—commence firing!” A sheet of fire, lead, and iron rolled down the extreme slope toward the enemy, shrouded in a dense white-yellow cloud of smoke, tearing at the leading edge of the mass of Grik already nearing the base of the wall. The Second Battle of Grik City had become a general engagement at last.

//////
USS
Walker

The staccato hammering of
Walker
's 4"-50s, firing in local control, was almost constant now, as were her 25s and.50s. Even the six scattered.30 cals, up on the fire-control platform, the amidships gun platform over the galley, and the aft deckhouse, opened up now and then when they got close enough to spray Grik crammed aboard the enemy ships. The old destroyer had moved into the tightest concentration of Grik Indiamen she'd tried to squirm through since Aryaal, and she was doing a terrible slaughter—but the Grik were fighting back, and even their wallowing wrecks were a menace. Light roundshot slammed her hull from a Grik warship far enough away that they didn't penetrate, but they opened seams and more reports of flooding reached the bridge. Her funnels leaked smoke, and her searchlight on the tower aft had been shattered. The auxiliary conning station on the aft deckhouse had been damaged as well, with several casualties, and Matt felt a selfish sense of relief that Spanky's bad leg had
kept him from his usual battle station there. Its launch in the heavy seas unsuccessful, yet another Nancy had been turned to wood and fabric wreckage on its catapult.
We've lost an awful lot of them that way,
Matt thought glumly, but he'd always hated throwing perfectly good planes over the side. At least it hadn't caught fire—and he'd given Bernie Sandison permission to use his torpedoes to get them off the ship before she closed with the enemy—all but the “spare” stuck in the inoperative number two tube. Torpedoes and their heavy, sensitive warheads were much too dangerous to have aboard in this kind of fight, and the five fish Bernie hurriedly fired at high speed in the chaotic sea had still managed to spectacularly account for two enemy ships. Granted, the range was ridiculously short, but after all the trouble they'd had with torpedoes—on this world and the last—it was nice to have weapons they could trust.

“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.”

“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.