Straits of Hell (48 page)

Most of
Walker
's landing party carried Springfields, pistols, and cutlasses, but they also had four Thompsons, a BAR, and a dozen Blitzerbugs. Still, it was the.30-caliber machine guns, nine of them counting those they'd take from the PTs, that Matt hoped would turn the tide atop the Wall of Trees—if they could get there in time.

“All set?” he demanded of Chief Jeek, who was directing Gunner's Mate Pak-Ras-Ar's (Pack Rat's) number three gun crew in getting the weapons and ammunition secured.

“Ay, Skipper!”

“Then unhook from the fender and take in the lines!” He gestured for those still on
Walker
to pull up the cargo nets. “Let's go!” he shouted at the Lemurian ensign commanding the MTB. Nodding, the ensign spun his wheel and advanced the throttle. The two other boats quickly followed, roaring out of
Walker
's lee and back into the heavier seas. From there they steered almost due south, trying to keep to the channel through the harbor mouth. It wasn't raining just then, though the heavy spray made that irrelevant, and the battle on the beach was only evident by the darker smoke smudging the gray day above it. The sound of the sea and the roaring engines drowned any battle noise they might've heard. They could barely even see the peak of the Wall of Trees where the Raiders fought; the haze was too thick and there was more rain between them. Matt turned, and for a moment he watched
Walker
toss and roll in the swells as she gathered way, throwing streamers of spray aside as she churned east-northeast. Her sides were streaked with rust again, except for the bright dents where Grik shot had knocked away both rust and paint. Her number two and four stacks bled wisps of smoke from new punctures, and the shattered aft searchlight gaped at him like an empty eye socket. But she'd performed heroically that day, as she always did, and the big battle flag streaming from her foremast left a proud, wistful lump in his throat. He was glad Sandra was away from here, she and the child she carried, but he was almost as glad that whatever happened to him that day, his ship and all she represented
should
live to fight on and remain the inspiration she'd been for so long, for so many. But he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever set foot on her again. He shook his head.

The three PTs thundered through the channel, past the point where
Walker
had been stranded during the fight to take the city, the place where “Super Bosun” Fitzhugh Gray had died along with so many others. The only visible monument was the charred skeleton of a Grik cruiser that had grounded and burned beside Matt's ship, but Gray's real monument still lived in the hearts of all who'd known him.

“So much sacrifice for such a crummy place,” Bernie Sandison shouted beside him, gazing at the same spot, full of the same thoughts.

“Yeah, but like I told Spanky, we do what we can. And after the Battle of Baalkpan, our priority has always been to take the fight to the
Grik's front porch instead of our own.” He waved around. “And here we are, past the porch and right in the middle of their home. It's a crappy ‘home,'” he conceded again, “and I wouldn't give two bits for it if they gave me a choice. Christ, the city's a dump, and even the rest of the island is a wild, monster-infested nightmare now. Nothing like the ‘sacred homeland' Adar and all our Lemurian friends dreamed of and hoped it would be. I doubt even they still hold much regard for the place as anything
but
a place to fight the Grik.”

“I hope you're right, Skipper,” Bernie said, almost too quietly to hear. “But our problem—yours, mine, and all the gals and fellas on
Walker
—is that we always bring
our
home
to
the fight, wherever it is. And it always takes a beating,” he added bitterly. “We fight here to keep the Grik out of Aryaal and B'mbaado, Baalkpan, and Maa-ni-la, and the rest of the world eventually. But no matter what this new nation, this ‘Union' Mr. Letts is cooking up, winds up looking like,
Walker
is still the only ‘home,' the only ‘nation' Chief Gray was fighting for at the end, and her people, human and Lemurian, you, me—his
shipmates
—were the only ‘countrymen' he was defending.”

Matt nodded. He'd been thinking much the same ever since that fight—but he'd been wrong, and so was Bernie. “But that's the way it always is,” he insisted. “In the heat of action, you fight for yourself, your buddies, your ship”—he waved at the crest of the Wall of Trees ahead—“and your position. That's what keeps you going. Sometimes it's the only thing. But that doesn't mean you're not fighting for something bigger too.” He smiled. “My wife once told me, a long time ago it seems now, to ‘decide what was right and then fight my ship.' Well, that's what I've tried to do. Not always well,” he admitted, “but I try. And by doing so, I,
we
, also fight for the bigger ‘right thing' of defeating the Grik so our people, old and new, will be safe. Period.
Our people
, Bernie: human and Lemurian, my wife and child, our friends back home or on other ships, other battlefields—even that pretty Impie gal you're sweet on back in Baalkpan!” he added, and saw Bernie blush. “I don't know as much about this ‘Union' Alan Letts is cooking up as I'd like, but I know he hates fascism and communism—and do you think any 'Cats would join a system that stank of totalitarianism? So I think he'll get it right, and I bet he's doing his best to make sure its first goal is to keep the people we care about safe. And if that's the case, I'm fighting for it too, and
no ‘Home,' not Aryaal, Baalkpan, even
Walker
, is more important than the people that make them one—and make that ‘Union.'” He shrugged. “You're right about Chief Gray, though. And at the very end, his focus narrowed even further; from defending his ‘home' ship, to saving my life. And insignificant as that may seem in the grand scheme of things, that doesn't mean he ever stopped fighting for his ship, the Alliance, or even the ‘Union' he didn't know any more about than I did. Does that make sense?”

“I guess so,” Bernie grudged. “It's just hard to keep things in perspective sometimes.”

“You're telling me!” Matt agreed. “I always preferred to keep things black-and-white, good and bad, but it's just not always that simple. Sometimes I envy that idiot Silva. Even he's run into a gray area from time to time, I understand, and he sure thrives on stirring them up! But generally he's still a light switch. Switch on; let 'em live. Switch off; kill everything you're pointed at. And he sleeps like a rock,” he added wistfully.

“I wish he were here. And Chack too,” Bernie said.

“Yeah. Look, time to get ready. We're getting close to the wrecked Grik BBs, and as soon as we squirm through them, we'll go ashore at the dock. When we do, make sure all the heavy weapons are organized. You're in charge of them.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

When Bernie moved aft, against the pitching motion of the boat, Matt realized Commander Simon Herring had replaced him. “Did you mean what you said, about nothing mattering but the people we defend?” Herring asked.

“Of course.”

“No land, no ‘Home,' not even your ship, in the end?”

“That's what I told Bernie,” Matt stated, implying that Herring was intruding to listen. Herring caught the reprimand and spread his hands. “I'm a snoop, remember? And your position is somewhat . . . modified from others you've taken in the past.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Perhaps not. The subtle progression of attitudes from one to another, often quite diverse, is rarely noted by those who experience them.”

“You've been using shrinkery on me!” Matt suddenly realized.

“Shrinkery! Ha! Excellent. I'll have to remember that.” He looked at Matt. “Of course I have. That's part of my job; a large part, if I ever return to Baalkpan and the specific duties I was assigned. As you should certainly know, my initial evaluation of, and esteem for you, have both undergone a significant ‘progression' as well, but I've remained . . . concerned about certain aspects of your overall strategy.” He nodded at Bernie. “Now I wonder if I've clung to that concern too long.”

“What are you getting at, Commander?”

“Only that, as I hinted earlier, I'd like to request a private, perhaps even lengthy discussion of an idea I have.”

“If you've got an idea that might help out now, you'd better spill it,” Matt warned. Herring waved it away. “It can have no bearing on today's events, I assure you. It's . . . much too late for that. But it could well have a decisive effect at a later date.”

“If we survive today,” Matt interjected, and Herring blinked.

“If, indeed.”

Matt looked forward as the boat bounced close to a bomb-ravaged dock. 'Cats were waiting there, backed by others mounted on vicious-looking me-naaks, or “meanies.” There were more than a hundred, and all were dirty, powder smudged, even blood streaked, and he wondered where they came from. “We'll have our talk, Mr. Herring, as soon as we finish up here,” he said, hopping across to the dock and returning the salute of a Maa-ni-lo cav-'Cat, standing by a meanie with its jaws lashed shut. “Corporal,” Matt said, “what are you doing here?”

“Col-nol Saachic sent us, to fetch you an' your destroyermen—an' your weapons—to Major Risa-Sab-At an' Major Jin-daal. Tings is tight, an' there's not a moment to spare. He figgered you wouldn't want to run all the way.”

Matt stared at the me-naak. He'd never ridden one of the terrifying creatures and didn't want to, but like the corporal said, it beat running. “Commander Sandison, Chief Jeek, get our people paired off and mounted up.” He stared dubiously at Earl Lanier, stepping across the gap between the boat and the dock, “his” Browning machine gun, one of
Walker
's originals with its battered water jacket resting heavily on his shoulder. Earl stopped and took a wide-eyed step back when it became clear he'd have to ride a meanie.

“He ain't too heavy. Barely,” the 'Cat assured. “You hafta ride him single, less you strap that gun on another,” he called.

Earl set his jaw and stepped forward again. “I'll keep my gun,” he snarled. “And I've rode a horse before. How different can it be? He'll just follow along, right?”

Another 'Cat snorted a laugh. “Sure—if you can hold on. You fall off, bust open, he gonna eat you! Them straps won't hold his mouth shut long, he gets tempted by too sweet a snack!”

“Shut up, you fish-faced little monkey!” Earl roared. “I'll stay on! I can ride anything with feet. Gimme a hand with this gun!”

Matt rode behind the corporal, his Springfield slung across his back. He was a little unsteady and wasn't sure what to do with his hands until the 'Cat told him to “grab on me”! After that, it was easy. The me-naak had a smooth, sure-footed gait even through the muddy debris, and its back was steady as a rock. Matt knew the creatures grew tolerant, even apparently fond of longtime riders, and the cav-'Cats often became very attached to them as well. Their thick thoracic case and rough hide made them nearly bullet- and arrow-proof, and they were more terrifying that any medieval warhorse when their muzzles were removed in close combat. If it weren't for their occasional tendency to try to eat their riders in a fit of pique, they'd be better than horses.
Of course, horses bite, stomp on your feet, and sometimes try to throw you,
Matt reflected. He looked around.

The column that left the docks was making good time, and there was a minimum of straggling. He knew his destroyermen and 'Cats had been just as hesitant to ride as he, but riding double, there seemed to be few problems. One beast was far behind, acting up, but it was starting to rain again and he couldn't see who rode it.
Probably Lanier,
he supposed,
with one of the guns
.
Never should've let him keep the thing, but there's nothing for it now
. Passing the rearward trenches of the troops guarding the Grik civvies, he saw another cluster of riders trotting toward the charred hovels those creatures dwelt in, and wondered what that was about. He looked forward. Suddenly, they were at the base of the Wall of Trees. Looking high above, he saw the flash of rifles and the cloud of gun smoke swirling at its peak for a good distance to the left and right.

“Hold on!” the cav-'Cat warned. “We goin' straight up, an' it's kinda steep!”

“Straight to the center?” Matt asked as the meanie made its first lunge upward.

“Ay. The Maroons is holdin' well enough on the right,” the 'Cat admitted grudgingly, “but these Griks is hittin' the center hardest. Major Risa don't know if they doin' it on purpose, to break through an' roll up either side, or they doin' it by accident, just chargin' at the middle like they always used to do. Don't matter. It'll work just the same if the Raiders break.” Matt could see that was close to happening. The firing was intense, and crossbow bolts fluttered by them even here, but now bayonets flashed and the defenders were edging back as more and more Grik gained the crest.

“Bring us up behind the Raiders, parallel to their position!” Matt ordered.

“That's what I's gonna do!” the 'Cat shouted back to be heard over the fighting. Curving to the left on the high angle, reverse side of the wall, the ride was much more frightening—but it didn't last long. “Off here!” the 'Cat cried. “Holders!” he shouted. Even as Matt's landing party dropped from the animals, one 'Cat in four gathered the reins to hold the me-naaks as their riders raced up the slope with their carbines.

“Riflemen! With me!” Matt shouted, taking the Springfield off his back and affixing the bayonet. Others were doing the same.