Straits of Hell (47 page)

Cannon, light six-pounders mostly, that had been easier to build platform embrasures for and haul close to the summit, spat double loads of canister into the howling horde, mulching great swaths of Grik into mewling heaps, but the mob closed over the bloody mounds and pressed on. Mortar bombs exploded near the tree line, making chaos in the mass still rushing into the open ground; but all was already chaos and the Grik knew the direction of their prey. Allin-Silva rifles crackled uninterrupted as human and Lemurian troopers fed their hungry breeches and Maroon muskets on the right made duller, slower, popping sounds, but not terribly slower after all. They were holding firm so far. Grenades thumped as they were rolled down the slope to geyser earth and rotten wood, mixed with downy fur, into the sodden sky.

“Blitzers!” Risa cried, hearing the command passed along. Almost immediately, the distinctive clacking stutter of the little submachine guns added to the noise, spitting their.45-caliber bullets into Grik, now almost crawling to the summit. Scores screeched and rolled away, but
more surged past them. Risa now wished she'd been given some of the new.30-cal “Brownings,” copies of the M1917 “light” machine guns that
Walker
brought to this world that were just now making their appearance. Though they might be considered “light” compared to a.50, it still took four men or 'Cats to lug the weapon, tripod, and enough ammunition to make it worthwhile, so none had yet found its way to the Raiders.

One “heavy” weapon the Raiders had was a number of “flamethrowers,” essentially just wands with an igniter attached by a hose to a fuel tank that was pressurized by a pair of 'Cats on a hand pump. Originally enclosed in a small, wheeled cart that could be drawn by a pair of men or 'Cats, the wheels had made the things impossible to transport through the jungle. The wheels were done away with, but then the same two troopers had to carry the cart/crate around. Everyone hated that duty, and most were terrified of the things—but so were the Grik, they'd learned.

“Flamethrowers!” Risa roared, judging that the climbing Grik were getting close enough for the short-range weapons. Pairs of Raiders went to work on the pumps while “fire-'Cats” edged their wands over the summit and pointed them down. Crossbow bolts sleeted over their heads or skated off their helmets, and they hunkered as low as they could before turning their valves and depressing their ignition triggers. A dozen gouts of orange flame roared down the slope in a rush of roiling black smoke, scorching the wet, rotting wood of the giant palisade and searing Grik. An unearthly keening wail accompanied the stench of burning flesh and fur that joined the fuel smoke, and the Grik beyond the reach of the flames recoiled as those in front writhed in agony or rolled and flopped amid horrible squealing screams like young rhino pigs being eaten alive.

“Cease fire, flamethrowers!” Risa called. There was little fuel in the weapons, and she had to reserve it. “Riflemen, pour it in!”

The torrent of flame receded, and the rifles and Blitzerbugs resumed their fire. The Maroons didn't have flamethrowers and had never stopped shooting. Far to the right, she could see the familiar wave of their bayonet-tipped muskets rising to be loaded, gray steel ramrods pushing charges of buck and ball down smoothbores, or heavy slugs down rifled barrels, and then lowering to fire. It hadn't been that long
ago that all Allied troops had carried muskets like those, but then it hadn't been long since they'd used longbows and spears either. Yet those few short years felt like an eternity.

A crossbow bolt glanced off Risa's helmet, knocking it askew. Sheets of bolts came now, from below and afar, but those from a distance were slow, wobbly things, falling from high trajectories. The Grik bowstrings were damp and that affected their power, but they were still lethal and there were so many! 'Cats and men around her screamed or roared in pain and anger. Others simply slumped down, silent, as the wickedly sharp bolt points plunging from the sky nailed their helmets to their heads or struck gullets and spines. A man from the 7th Regiment to her left where Jindal had gone ran to her on the firing step, crouching low. “Major Jindal's compliments,” he yelled over the fire, wind, and rain, “an' he begs ta' report he's runnin' low on ammunition for his rifles an' Blitzers! Voracious buggers they are!”

Risa gestured behind and below. “More is coming.” One of their magazines, the closest behind the 7th, had been hit by errant bombs dropped by a wind-tossed zep formation that morning, but they had several more. She wasn't much afraid they'd run out of ammunition, for the rifles and cannon at least. The mortars and Blitzers were another matter. But right now it was taking time to bring it forward, up the rain-slippery reverse slope of their position. “Tell him to send more bearers. Take all you need from the other bunkers.”

“Can't spare too many from the wall,” the man said, peeking over it. Ever more Grik surged from the jungle, even as the mortars kept slaughtering them, and they were building for another push.

“Tell him to do it now,” she began, but a bolt slammed down past the man's collarbone to bury itself deep in his chest. With a blood-hacking moan, he clutched the dark feathers at the end of the shaft and sank to his knees. “Corps-'Cats! On the double!” she shouted, then snatched a 'Cat out of the firing line. “Did you hear what I told that maan?”

“Ay, Major.”

“Then take the message to Major Jindal, and hurry back as quick as you can!”

“Ay, ay!”

She glanced back over the wall at the seething mass of Grik, still climbing relentlessly against the merciless fire from above.
“Flamethrowers, stand by!” she cried, making her way to the comm-'Cat crouched over his field telephone, protecting it from the rain with his body.

“You still connected?” she demanded. The delicate wires they strung behind the “Double E-ates” somebody had dubbed the things for no reason she could imagine, were always breaking. They needed braided wire for strength, and that she understood. “Get Second Corps HQ on the horn. Gener-aal Maraan if possible, but don't let 'em give you the runaround! I know they're busy too, but the Gener-aal has to know that we're in a jaam here, with probably just as many Grik as she has. Sure, our position's better, but we got just a brigade, the Maroons, an' a few of Col-nol Saachic's cav to stop 'em. An' if we
don't
stop 'em, it won't matter what she does, 'cause they'll be climbin' up her aass! You got that?”

“Yes, Major!”

“Then wind it up!” She turned and looked down, from the relative peace and security that momentarily surrounded her to the surf of yipping, roaring Grik clawing close once more. “Flamethrowers! Fire!” she yelled again, and once more the leading edge of the Grik horde withered under the hellish flames, shrieking, squealing, leaping in the air, trying to jump over those pressing from behind. Those were immediately slain in the “same old way” the Grik had always killed those that tried to flee, that “turned prey,” she noticed with interest, but the rest kept coming this time. One reason she saw to her dismay was that the flamethrowers didn't reach as far or as vigorously, and she knew they must already be running out of fuel. Not quite, unfortunately, she saw to her horror, because amid startled cries to her right that rose to shrieks of terror, a fire-'Cat stumbled back, a crossbow bolt jutting from his eye, and he went down—his wand spraying his last flaming fuel on his comrades nearby. Most recoiled away in time, but more than a dozen Impie Marines of the 1st of the 11th got a murderous dose, and the screams tore her soul. She shook it off; she had no choice. These Grik might be the same mindless monsters they'd faced early in the war, but they'd definitely see and exploit an opportunity like the smoldering gap that had just opened before them.

“Fill that hole!” she roared, racing forward, stepping over burning, bawling men, and unslinging her own Blitzerbug. Others hurried to join her, but it might have already been too late. “Meet 'em with your
bayonets!” she cried, racking her bolt back and firing quick bursts into slathering, toothy faces that appeared in front of her. Bayonets stabbed into the mass, thrusting, twisting, and rifles fired the big.50-80s to tear through two or three Grik at a time. Even the comm-'Cat she'd just spoken to was beside her now, hacking with his cutlass at a leather shield. Risa fired through it and the Grik fell away with a squawk, but another barged up, trying to skewer her with a spear. An Impie Marine drove his bayonet into the monster's neck, and she shot a Grik trying to hack him with its sword.

“I got through!” the comm-'Cat gasped beside her.

“What did they say?” she demanded, slamming another magazine in her Blitzer.

“Dat dey got a wider front, an' the Griks is maybe get past aroun' dem. Dey can't spare nobody right now. But dey say you right!” he added with a quick, angry blink. “We got de ‘better position,' an' we got to hold it!”

Risa fired a long, frustrated burst that toppled several Grik. The gap was closing, finally, but more Grik were reaching the top of the Wall of Trees at last, all along the line.

“Right,” Risa said grimly.

USS
Walker

“Risa and Chack's Brigade, and all our new ‘Maroon' friends under her command are catching hell on the Wall of Trees west of the harbor,” Matt told the others in the pilothouse. Spanky rubbed his chin, and Bernie looked alarmed. Herring just stared, his expression unreadable. Doocy Meek had rejoined them on the bridge. Though he didn't know Risa well, he knew she was important to these people. “And Safir says she doesn't have anything she can send to help,” Matt added.

“That's tough,” Spanky growled. “Wish
we
could help.” He gestured at the mass of Grik ships ahead. “But we got a target here that needs attention,” he reminded. “Can't be two places at once. And even if we steamed into the harbor, we couldn't give Risa any supporting fire with the Griks so close under the wall. Shooting high enough to clear it, all our fire would fall way past, back in the jungle.”

“That's better than nothing,” Bernie insisted. “The Grik hitting her are coming from the jungle.”

Matt shook his head. “Too dangerous. Even the water in the bay is too rough to risk shooting right over our friends' heads. One short round and we're Grik heroes. But Spanky's wrong. We
can
be in two places at once.” Spanky looked at him, brows arching, and Matt turned to the signal striker. “Have Mr. Palmer instruct the PTs to meet us in the lee of those big rocks off the harbor mouth. We'll hook on and transfer as heavy a landing party as we can, with all the thirty cals and modern small arms on the ship. They'll take us ashore and join us with their new thirties too. The PTs can't do much else today,” he added, looking at the surprised expressions.

“We?” Spanky growled.

“Well, not you, of course,” Matt answered.

“That's not what I meant!”

“I know, but
you
can't go. Starboard engine back one-third. Port ahead two-thirds,” he called to the 'Cat at the engine order telegraph. “That area just off the harbor mouth is liable to be the calmest place we can find. We'll hold the ship so the PTs can approach under our lee as well.” He looked back at Spanky. “You'll stay with the ship. They should be finished rigging the tiller soon enough, and I want
Walker
back off the beach as soon as you can get her there, to keep blasting the Grik in front of Safir Maraan. You'll still have the twenty-fives and fifties, but I'd rather you didn't get any closer than they will reach.”

Spanky grimaced, glancing at his crutch wedged between the chair and the forward bulkhead, then finally nodded. “When I said I figured you might have to whip things in shape ashore for a while, this isn't what I had in mind.”

“Me either, but we do what we can. And this is what we can do.” Matt looked at Minnie. “Pass the word to issue small arms and dismount the thirties from the rails. We'll take everybody not shooting, passing ammunition, keeping the screws turning, or fixing leaks.” He considered. “That'll give us maybe fifty, counting the Marines. I'll take one of the gun crews off the amidships platform and one of the twenty-five-millimeter crews too. That's a dozen more. You'll
stand off
,” he stressed to Spanky, “so you won't need to fight both sides at once.” He looked at the others. “The rest of us are going to help Risa.”

Transferring sixty-five men and 'Cats from the wallowing destroyer to the three bouncing, capering MTBs was a harrowing experience, but with a spiderweb of lines and cargo nets prerigged for safety as soon as the word was passed, and a long fender supported by the lifting boom on the mainmast aft, it all went fairly quickly. Everybody had friends with the Raiders. Matt turned Pam Cross away, even though his ship had suffered few casualties in the fighting so far. Those on the aft deckhouse had been either lightly wounded or killed outright. She might still be needed aboard, and there were plenty of corps-'Cats where they were going. He was still amused when she tried to swing down to one of the pitching boats anyway, just like she'd done to go with Silva's party to assault the Cowflop, but where Silva couldn't really give her orders, he could, and he harshly commanded her to remain with
Walker
. He also had to order Juan Marcos to stay behind, but the short, one-legged Filipino took it more gracefully until the bloated cook, Earl Lanier, whom Matt had somehow missed sliding down the line—and what a spectacle that must've been—waved jauntily at his little nemesis. Juan became exercised then, shouting unheard epithets, complete with imaginative gestures. Earl just grinned. Matt didn't know what use Lanier would be until he saw that the fat cook was possessively supporting the muzzle of one of the.30s, its grip end lightly gouging the PT's deck. Earl was a blob, but he was strong. Commander Herring had volunteered, somewhat to Matt's surprise, with a vague mention of something important he had to tell him when they had the chance. Commander Bernard Sandison came against his wishes, though he hadn't ordered the young man to stay. Of all
Walker
's remaining human officers still with the ship, Matt probably felt most protective of the young torpedoman. Others could carry on his torpedo work by now, but Bernie was just . . . a really good kid. And he'd been grievously wounded before.