B00BPJL400 EBOK (31 page)

Pam Cross sighed, cutting her eyes at Dennis. “Well, I guess I do too, ’cause I’m goin’ with ya, Mr. Brassey.” She raised her Blitzer Bug. “This might come in handy, and it don’t go nowhere without me.” She returned Silva’s sudden glare with equal intensity. “What? You can swim with flashies an’ I can’t? Think again, you big jerk!”

Dennis took a breath to argue, but one of Tony’s human advisors spoke up. “You all swim if you want, but I ask why.” He pointed at the sky. Those who’d been on the expedition from Baalkpan realized this was the first good look at it they’d had in weeks. The moon had horns, and Venus was near it, bright and sharp. “Why not take boats instead? There enough light to see, but not so much they see you comin’ against dark water.”

“Boats are better,” Silva agreed, glaring at Lawrence. “Just because
somebody’s
worked up an obsession for swimmin’ with flashies don’t mean it’s a good idea.”

Abel nodded at the man. “Of course boats would be better. It should’ve occurred to me to ask if any were available.” He frowned at Dennis. “Perhaps it doesn’t always hurt to stand about for a moment or two, to think things through.”

Silva just shrugged and stifled a yawn, but Abel suddenly realized that the exchange had revealed something very profound. He was in command, but he’d always followed Silva’s lead. Always. For as long as he could remember, Silva had always saved the day with his impulsive snap decisions, but Abel had just seen how those decisions could lead to rash, possibly unnecessary risks. Not only by Silva himself, but everyone around him. Lawrence’s wild suggestion had been only that: a suggestion. But Abel was amazed how quickly everyone jumped at it as a viable option. Even Tony Scott, who clearly remained terrified of the water after all this time. That happened because Silva allowed a debate on the merits of the notion, instead of immediately proclaiming it a stupid idea.
He
obviously thought it was stupid and hadn’t been willing to do what Lawrence suggested, but he hadn’t seemed too concerned that someone else might try it—at least until Pam volunteered.

Abel still trusted Silva’s instincts and believed he was right about it being time to act. If Moe’s Marines had been discovered, it would heighten the enemy’s readiness, and the longer they delayed, the more likely Tony’s encircling Khonashis would be discovered and the readier each Japanese position would be. But Abel also recognized for the first time how narrow Silva’s focus could be. Of course Dennis should lead the attack against
Hidoiame
. If anyone could get aboard her, he would. But the “Lady Sandra” had been right so long ago when she said Silva had no business being an officer or being in a position of authority over anyone beyond his own, immediately personal objective. Abel would have to remember to bear that in mind.

He studied the map a moment longer, then glanced up at Tony. “With your permission, King Scott, may I suggest a plan?”

Tony waved a hand. “Sure, kid. I’m a coxswain who got elected king because I knew about a few weapons and married well.” Abel knew there had to be more to it than that and was anxious to hear the story, but now wasn’t the time.

“Okay. I suggest we gather as many small boats as necessary to move Mr. Brassey, Lieutenant Cross, and twenty or thirty volunteers out to
Fristar
without delay.” He looked at Brassey and the small woman. “Take the ship as quietly as possible, but if you draw attention, the rest of us will consider that our signal to begin the general attack. If you manage to take her quietly, wait for the fighting ashore to begin, then cut
Fristar
’s cables and get her underway. Hopefully there are enough ’Cats aboard to do the job. I’m betting nobody’ll think much about her once we get their attention. Regardless, I want you to move her out of the cove and
Hidoiame
’s line of fire. That’ll be one less thing to worry about.”

“I guess you’ve seen those cables before, Abel?” Brassey asked. “Cutting them won’t be a thirty-second job.”

Abel nodded. “Right. Leave a detail in the boats to cut them from the water as you board. The idea is to get her moving as fast as you can. . . . And if things don’t go well for us, make for Baalkpan. Bring help.” Pam shot a neutral glance at Dennis but nodded. “You got it, Mr. Cook.”

“That’ll take weeks!” Silva objected. “Damn thing’s slow as hell.”

“So? Our only do-or-die mission is
Hidoiame
. If we take her, we’ll
have
weeks to wait for relief! All our shore-bound forces will have to do is contain the remaining Japanese.”

Dennis scratched his eye patch, nodding.

Abel looked at Tony. “Regarding the shore action, you and I should take your warriors and encircle the enemy perimeter. We’ll be on the right, with Sergeant Moe and his Marine. There we’ll be in a position to support the Lemurian breakout from their camp—if it comes. Mr. Silva, you, Gunny Horn, Lawrence, I’joorka, and one hundred Khonashis will attack from the left, along the beach on the west side.” He pointed. “Your objective, obviously, is to break through and secure the ship. If the assault on
Fristar
raises no alarm, wait for our attack to distract the enemy before you go. Once you break through, we’ll send more warriors from our left to widen the gap, hopefully rolling up the Japanese perimeter and reinforcing you.” Abel paused, looking at the map, wondering what he’d forgotten.

“Looks okay,” Horn said. “But what then?”

“With the enemy cut off from their ship and hopefully encircled by our forces and the Lemurians from the prison camp, the survivors will have no choice but to surrender.”

“With respect, Mr. Cook, Japs ain’t much for surrenderin’,” Horn objected.

Abel held his hands out at his side.

“One more thing,” Scott said. “What about the Japs at the well heads?”

“You’ll have to send blocking forces to keep them contained,” Abel replied, then realized what he’d said sounded like an order. “If you please,” he amended. “Their forces can’t be large enough to break back through to their perimeter—and maybe the Lemurians there will rise as well.”

“Or join ’em, if they think their Home’s at risk,” Pam suggested darkly.

Abel frowned. “With luck, Moe’s Marines contacted them and explained the situation before they were captured or killed.”

“So, what do we do once we’re on the tin can?” Gunny Horn asked.

“Simple,” Silva answered flatly. “Kill ever’body.” He looked at Moe and hesitantly handed the short Lemurian his giant rifle. “Thing’s not much good for what we’re up to tonight. You take care of it, wilya? Hide it someplace safe er somethin’. I’ll take one of the rifles and bayonets your Marines left behind.”

“Sure you don’t want to use it for a preparatory bombardment of the Jap position?” Horn asked innocently, and Silva rolled his eye.

24

//////
“B
attle of the
Hoo-dooy-yammy
”
May 6, 1944

“P
lans are all just a stupid waste of time,” Silva grumped softly. “Nobody ever uses the damn things when it gets down to it.”

The boarding party assigned to break through the Japanese closest to the ship had been waiting in place for almost three hours, and the general attack on the perimeter should’ve begun more than an hour before. This was on top of all the time it took everyone to get in position, and it had to be close to 0300. “If we don’t get on with it, we’ll be at ’em in the daylight, because we can’t just sit here and wait for ’em to see us. They’ll pick us off like flies.”

“Plans do seem highly overrated,” Horn agreed.

“It take longer to get Jaaphs surrounded than exkected, I guess,” I’joorka said. Silva looked at him in the gloom.

“Hey, do your fellas see pretty good in the dark? Larry sees better than me, but most folks do nowadays. Grik don’t fight a lot in the dark, though, an’ we always figgered it was because they got crummy night vision.”

I’joorka cocked his head. “I don’t see as good in night as day, ’ut I can still kill Jaaphs.”

Dennis looked at Lawrence, who seemed utterly motionless, peering from behind a big, gnarled root at the edge of the trees. Only a meager, telltale scritching sound betrayed that any part of him was moving. “What’re they doin’?”

“They changed their guards a little ago. I seen they clear. They got . . . phires in a circle around their shelters on the other side o’ they. Stu’id!”

“Yeah, stupid. They’re fine targets even for good crossbowmen. But what about that forted-up spot close the water? What do you think?”

“I think they got a light ’achine gun there, like you say.”

Dennis scooted back and turned to sit in the sand. “Yeah. Figgers. They may be stupid, but we can’t count on ’em bein’ nuts. I would’a put machine guns all around the perimeter if I was them and had ’em—which I guess they do. Wish we had grenades!”

“Look at the bright side,” Horn urged absently, staring at Lawrence. “There shouldn’t be many, if any, light machine guns left on the ship.”

“I bet there’ll be
one
,” Silva predicted. “At least one. Right at the top of that brushy gangplank we gotta go up!”

“Hey!” Horn hissed. “Why so gloomy? I’ve never seen you like this.” He took a breath, realization dawning. “It’s that gal! You’re worried about Lieutenant Cross!”

“Am not!” Dennis denied. “That’s the stupidest thing you ever said. Besides, even if I was a little partial to her, she’s probably got the easiest job tonight—and she can take care of herself.”

“Sure. You always were a bad liar.”

“That’s a lie!” Silva denied, indignantly. “You’d be amazed what I’ve got away with lately!”

Horn chuckled quietly, but looked back at Lawrence. “Say, what the hell’s he scritchin’ on? He got a case of the jitters?”

“Not much gives my little lizard buddy pause,” Silva stated. “He’s just manicurin’ his claws.”

“Sharpening them?” Horn guessed.

“Nah. Dullin’ a few of ’em up on a rock. He does that now and then to handle cartridges for his rifle better. His finger claws ain’t as big as a Grik’s, but they can make ’eem fumble a bit. He rakes ’em off to where his finger pads can get a grip. Not as likely to set his damn rifle off by accident either.”

“Huh.” Horn settled back. “A
real
bad liar, if I recall,” he continued.

“Maybe I’ve took a stone to
that
skill,” Silva defended.

“You didn’t beat the rap at the Fourth Marines Club in Shanghai,” Horn reminded, and they both chuckled. “I think you broke every specification under Rule Nine: intoxication, misconduct, destruction of club property,
skylarking
! What the hell’s that?”

“I think it’s aimed mostly at Navy men,” Dennis snorted.

“Then they tacked on ‘objectionable conduct’! I figured misconduct would’ve covered that.”

“They just threw that in because somebody objected extra loud to my misconduct.”

Horn looked at I’joorka, who was staring at them. “Got us both thrown out of the club for good!” he explained. “Not that it mattered. Lotsa better places to kick up your heels in Shanghai.” I’joorka nodded politely, but had no clue what they were talking about. Horn frowned. “Not counting the fight with the super lizard and the Akashis, since those just fell on us, this’ll be the first fight we’ve been in together since that goose pull-down on Soochow Creek.”

“We got a
medal
for that,” Dennis practically giggled.

“Shoosh!” Lawrence hissed.

“Shoosh yerself!” Dennis whispered back. “We can hear you preenin’ yer nails from here!” He eyed Horn. “Course, that one wasn’t real.”

“They might’ve given us
real
medals if it wouldn’t’ve pissed off half the world,” Horn reminded.

Silva’s smile faded. “Yeah.”

They both sat silent after that, contemplating an anecdotal episode that they alone in all the world—except Dean Laney, whom neither liked—remembered, and the only sounds were buzzing, rattling insects, punctuated by the harsh shrieks of night creatures. Then, suddenly, from half a mile out over the water came the muffled but distinctive clattering
burrrrup!
of Pam’s Blitzer Bug. Lawrence tensed, but it didn’t look like any of the Japanese paid much attention until it came again, and heads began to bob behind the perimeter breastworks.

Silva shifted back to look for himself. “Damn it, I hope Cook heard that!”

He must have, because just then, whether he was ready to attack or not, a terrible ululating screech arose, gathering voices until it thundered all around the enemy camp. More heads bobbed, but then, with a muffled, whickering hiss, hundreds of crossbow bolts and arrows streaked through the dark, slashing across the firelight. Some must’ve found a mark, because terrified, agonized shrieks and cries erupted here and there. A machine gun stuttered. Then another.

Gunny Horn hefted his BAR in his left hand and absently patted the belt of magazine pouches encircling his torso. Dennis nodded to himself and slid the triangular bayonet out of the scabbard he’d added to his pistol belt and quietly affixed it to the muzzle of his borrowed rifle, twisting it until it latched on the front sight lug, then turning the locking ring. Lawrence had already fixed his bayonet, and his yellowish eyes glowed in the light of the fires and sudden, flashing shots as he stared back at Dennis. I’joorka had a crossbow, like most of his warriors, and he edged forward. The woods behind him were filled with shifting, jostling, whispering Khonashis as they prepared for their part in the attack.

The Japanese perimeter was becoming a place of nervous chaos. Sailors awakened by the growing fight on the south breastworks dashed out of shelters, carrying Arisaka rifles and even a few spears. An officer hurried them along, waving a sword. Several men snatched up a light machine gun at the foot of the gangplank and awkwardly carried it and two crates of ammunition toward the sound of battle.

“That’s handy,” Silva murmured. “Didn’t even suspect that one.” He frowned. “How many of the damn things do they have?”

“Figure one on the other side of the perimeter, like the one in front of us. That one . . . and it sounds like maybe three more already shooting. Six, at least. I guess that’s about right, but they may still have some mounted on the ship.” He looked at I’joorka. “Remember what to do?”

The Khonashi jerked his head in agreement.

“Then good luck.”

“No such t’ing as yuck,” I’joorka said. He grasped a handful of leafy, moldy turf. “This is the skin o’ our God,” he said, then gestured around. “The trees is his crest. He is
ours
. Jaaphs is like nasty ticks, an’ us gotta yank they out!”

“Okay. Well . . . happy yankin’,” Dennis said dubiously, and looked at Horn. “I thought I was gettin’ used to runnin’ into crackpot religions, but
dirt worshippers
?” he said when I’joorka moved down to the very edge of the trees.

“Who cares, as long as they’re on our side?” Horn replied. “I figure a fella can pray to a toad as long as he doesn’t try to make me do it.”

“But that’s always the itch, ain’t it?”

Before Silva or Horn could continue their theological discussion, something neither was particularly comfortable with, I’joorka trilled a distinctive, hair-raising cry unlike anything they’d heard before. It was like a Grik war cry in a way, but it was a singular thing, unaccompanied by thousands of voices, like Dennis had always heard before. He stood, along with Horn and Lawrence, and most of I’joorka’s force burst from the trees and down to the beach, where they quickly formed a ragged line. At another shrill cry, every crossbow and longbow was raised and pointed at the Japanese machine-gun position about seventy yards away. Without any further command, the missiles were released in a whickering wave of twanging strings or clacking rollers, and a hundred bolts and arrows converged on the suddenly terrified, staring Japanese machine gunners. The sharp projectiles festooned the area around the weapon—and the half dozen men within. Only one even managed a scream.

“Let’s go!” Silva roared, and he, Horn, Lawrence, and ten human Khonashis armed with longbows and swords charged through I’joorka’s troops toward the Japanese perimeter. Other longbowmen joined them as they passed, and Silva shouted, “Even better than a grenade!” as he ran by I’joorka. The Khonashi war leader was already trilling for his warriors to launch another flight of bolts beyond their initial aiming point.

Lawrence reached the gun pit first but saw nothing alive. He immediately detailed several men to turn the weapon south. Horn’s BAR hammered up the line at Japanese firing down the breastworks. A Khonashi man screamed and fell, then another. Dennis jumped down beside the machine gun and looked at it for a second. He snatched a pair of paint-daubed men to help him. “One o’ those Type Eleven heaps,” he declared. “Okay, I’m a little rusty on these, but here goes!” He felt in the hopper mounted on the side of the weapon to ensure it was loaded, then racked the bolt back. Settling down behind the buttstock, he aimed up the perimeter as best he could and squeezed the trigger. The thing didn’t kick at all, with its bipod and relatively light 6.5-millimeter cartridges, but the report of his three- and four-round bursts echoed back from the trees with a harsh, crackling rush. “Crap! No tracers!” he complained, but he hadn’t really expected them. The Type 11 was designed to be loaded with standard five-round stripper clips, the same that Japanese rifles used, fed in the hopper. The incoming fire tapered off, and Dennis stood and flung one of the men he’d grabbed behind the gun.

“You speakee English?” he demanded.

“Some . . . little . . .”

“Good enough. You’re a machine gunner now. No! Put the butt
to
your shoulder, not under your damn arm! There! Keep that knob up there in the notch, if you can see it, and put it on the Japs! Short bursts—just squeeze the trigger and let it go. It’s up to you to keep those bastards back.” He grabbed the other man. “See these clips?” he demanded, snatching one from the metal crate. “Keep stackin’ ’em in the hopper here, like this.” He demonstrated. He got the gunner’s attention again. “When it jams or quits shootin’—an’ it will—just yank this bolt back and try again.” He looked around at the Khonashis Lawrence had detailed to assist. “You keep the Japs off ’em with your bows.” He waved at a couple of rifles lying in the pit. “Don’t fool with those. You’ll get killed while you’re trying to figure ’em out.” He pointed at the Type 11. “But if that thing quits and you can’t get it goin’ again, throw it in the water, if it’s the last thing you ever do!” With that, he raced after Lawrence and Gunny Horn, who’d already charged forward with I’joorka’s advancing ranks. I’joorka was shouting something that must’ve meant “Here, here,” as he placed Khonashis in a skirmish line in the brush along the shore. They were nearly invisible against the dark water and should be able to discourage any enemies that got past the machine gun and tried to come around behind them.

Silva moved among the trees alongside the big Japanese destroyer, which was snugged to a makeshift timber dock. Horn’s BAR hammered up ahead in the tangle of wooden cranes and camouflage, and Lawrence’s rifle boomed and flashed. Other muzzle flashes sparkled in the dark amid a swirl of foreign, alien shouts and screams, and the clash of steel as swords met rifle barrels and bayonets. Wood shattered, and blizzards of splinters flew as a heavy automatic weapon on the ship joined the fight with pounding, thunderous reports, but its crew had to be careful because the melee had become so mixed. Dennis saw a Japanese sailor right in front of him, aiming his rifle at somebody, and he slammed his bayonet into the exposed chest behind the man’s elbow. There was a scream, and Silva twisted his rifle away and thrust again, even as the man crumpled to the ground. Another man ran at him and nearly got shot before they both realized they were on the same side. The dark man made a strange, apologetic gesture, then turned and vanished in the night.

“Dennis! Dennis!” Lawrence was shouting, and Silva hurried to catch his friend. The lizard was panting, his tongue lolling, bayonet black with blood. Horn’s BAR slashed at a stuttering gun through the tree cranes, and Dennis realized it must be the one they’d seen carried away. “Quit skylarking,” Lawrence admonished. He must’ve been listening earlier. “Us gotta get on the shi’ afore the Jaaphs get their shit in their socks!” he shouted over the noise.

“What’s up the ramp?”

“There’s no ’achine gun!”

“How ’bout that? Where’s I’joorka? I’joorka!” he yelled.

“Here!”

Small exploding shells erupted among them, shattering trees and bodies and throwing clouds of sand in the air. Dennis spat bloody grit and dragged Lawrence from the dubious protection of a teetering tree he’d ducked behind. “We gotta silence that big boy up there, that twenty-five millimeter, or it’ll chew us up on the gangplank!” A bullet splintered the butt of Silva’s rifle and snatched it out of his hand.

“Goddammit, Gunny. Can’t you shut that machine gun up? We need you to put fire on that gun tub up there!” He pointed high amidships on the destroyer.