B00BPJL400 EBOK (45 page)

* * *

“Glory be!” Dean Laney shouted. “Glory BE! Wouldja look at that!”

The second Grik battleship had wallowed to a halt, trailing smoke and debris that was still falling in the water. “Damn things are tough as hell—till you take a real switch to ’em!” he chortled. “Who’d’ve ever thought we’d have to come to a whole new world to get torpedoes that actually work?”

“It is amazing,” Russ conceded, his tone still sharp, “but you’ll be even more amazed what I do to you if you don’t get your worthless, fat ass off my bridge and back to work where you belong!”

Laney finally bolted, and Russ took a deep breath, still wiping blood from his face with his sleeve.

“Lookout says the last Grik wagon turnin’ away,” the talker cried, “but S-Nineteen’s streakin’ straight in her teeth!”

Russ started to tell the talker to order Laumer to break off—he was charging directly at a full, fresh broadside in what amounted to a Dixie cup, by comparison—but what was the point? He raised his binoculars. S-19 must be at flank, racing right in with her 4"-50 booming away. The new torpedoes worked swell, there was no doubt now, and Laumer had a perfect target. He’d sink that ship if he lived long enough. He was already well in range of the enemy guns, and calling him off would only make him a bigger target when he turned. Right now he had a few things going for him: S-19 was small and pretty fast, both of which would make her hard to hit. The Grik would know what had happened behind them by now and had to be scared to death. Maybe they’d rush their fire? Finally no longer taking a pounding of her own,
Santa Catalina
and her 5.5s were getting good hits on the enemy. Maybe that would distract them too?

“Come left to two eight zero!” Russ commanded. “Drop a grenade down the voice tube to the engine room if you have to, to get their attention. If Laney ain’t there yet, he’s relieved—and whoever answers and gets me full ahead will have his job! Let’s get close enough to that damn thing that our five-fives’ll shoot right through her, if S-Nineteen doesn’t make it!”

“Ay, ay, Skipper!” the Lemurian at the helm replied.

34

//////
The Corral
I Corps

“W
e’re fighting on borrowed time,” General Pete Alden stated sourly to General Lord Muln-Rolak, when he and his cavalry escort finally found the old warrior a little before 1600 in the afternoon. Pete didn’t dismount from the grumpy me-naak he rode. First, to prevent the irritable creature from slapping him to the ground with its muzzled head full of teeth, and second, he didn’t mean to be there long. He needed to get back to Safir. Rolak stepped from within a cluster of his staff, where they’d been consulting a map held by an aide. Hij-Geerki followed, kind of hop-limping along. Rolak nodded at Pete’s words, blinking thoughtfully. He didn’t appear wounded, Pete noted with relief, but there was plenty of blood on his armor and matting his fur. There was blood on Hij-Geerki too, Pete realized with surprise, and then he saw the old Grik was actually wearing one of the Baalkpan Armory copies of a 1917 Navy cutlass!

“You speak truly,” Rolak agreed. Despite his appearance, his tone remained urbane as always. “We fought little to reach this place, so we brought plenty of ammunition to the battle.” He blinked wryly. “We have used much of it since.”

“What happened to your comm?” Pete asked.

Rolak blinked irritation. “The cart was destroyed by Grik roundshot. I get occasional reports dropped from aircraft, but I know little of how the greater battle progresses.”

“I’ve picked up some stuff here and there; kept runners going between us and Safir while we looked for you. The big picture’s not so bad. Most of the army’s objectives were achieved by, or a little after, twelve hundred. Even the Madras road’s been cut about five miles northeast of us and there should be enough troops there with enough ammunition to hold. Especially with most of the Grik still pounding on us. What’s more, General Linnaa’s Sixth Corps has landed, and as of fourteen thirty, some elements were already advancing down the road to reinforce that strongpoint. Seventh Corps is ashore too, moving to block any Grik approach from Madras itself. There hasn’t been a ground assault on the city yet, but nothing’s getting in or out except in the north or by sea. It
sounds
like the sea route’s been locked up, though, and nothing that gets out to the north can get here today, that’s for sure.” He paused, grimacing, because nothing he’d said really mattered much to them right then. Like a surging, living storm, the real battle for Grik India had turned into a knockdown slugfest in the vicinity of the abandoned corral.

“General Maraan’s attack shook the Grik up pretty bad,” Pete continued. “And the new weapons—the Blitzer Bugs in particular—mowed ’em down and scared the shit outa the rest.”

“No doubt you observed that firsthand,” Rolak said dryly.

Pete shrugged. “Yeah, and it was a sight to see. I figured it was all over, that Courtney Bradford’s ‘Grik Rout’ would kick in and they’d keep runnin’ till they dropped dead.” He nodded at Rolak. “Especially after your First Corps slammed into their right flank—that was great timing, by the way!” He stopped.

“But they did not rout,” Rolak said as softly as could be heard over the fighting now raging in a vast semicircle, with the sparse, spread-out Allied forces somewhat wrapped around the concentrated Grik. The mental image forming in Pete’s mind was a soap bubble surrounding a grenade. “They did not run themselves to death,” Rolak continued. “They were stunned and dispirited, I think. At least at first. But then they . . . gathered themselves. I have not seen this before. Once, the initial shock of my dear queen’s attack would have been sufficient to end the battle. All would have been over but the chasing and slaying. If that were not enough, my corps’s attack
would
have induced Grik Rout if anything possibly could anymore.” He shook his head and his tail swished irritably. “They recoiled and contracted away from our mighty assaults,” he mused, “but did not flee.”

“No,” Pete agreed, “they
dug in and held
, then counterattacked!”

“I feared as much,” Rolak confessed. “I heard the renewed fighting—and then they did much the same to me!” He looked intently at Pete. “Something has happened. Something profound has occurred to stop the Grik retreat in its tracks.”

“Halik?” Pete guessed, looking at Hij-Geerki, who seemed to tremble. “I thought he was in the south.”

“Is! Is at start!” Geerki pleaded.

“He could have escaped and crossed the river to Shlook’s aid. There
was
time,” Rolak countered.

Pete nodded reluctantly. “I’m afraid you’re right, and that ain’t the worst of it. We’ve kicked their asses everywhere but here, and more Grik keep flocking to those damn horns that’ve been brayin’ all day long. Grik that must’ve already been beaten somewhere else,” he added significantly. “Which suddenly makes more sense if Halik’s leading them. He’s one scary, dangerous lizard.” He took a deep breath, then smirked and pointed up. “Message streamers dropped by Nancys say we’re ‘surrounding’ the biggest concentration of Grik ever seen in so small an area.”

Rolak couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony.

“It ain’t all bad,” Pete assured. “We
are
killin’ the hell out of ’em. We’ve got constant air strikes hammerin’ ’em from the lake. Lieutenant Leedom says he’s just about out of gas, though, and I told him to start rearming and refueling at
Arracca
and
Baalkpan Bay
if he can—but we’ve got air from the fleet now too. We’re absolutely slaughtering the bastards.”

Rolak nodded. Aircraft were overhead almost constantly, and the jungle forest occupied by the enemy seethed and pulsed with so many explosions, so much fire and choking smoke, it was difficult to imagine anything surviving within it—but air power could only do so much.

Pete saw his doubtful blinking. “Yeah,” he said. “I know. I wish we could kick off a firestorm like they did on New Ireland, but it’s different here. Even though it hasn’t rained today, the ground, trees, hell, even the damn air is wet. We ain’t gonna be burnin’ the vermin out.”

“So what can we do?” Rolak asked. “We have stretched our ammunition as far as we can, farther than we thought possible. We still have bayonets and swords, and our hearts remain eager to kill the enemy, but I do not think that will be enough.”

“I’ve called up all reserves not guarding the Rocky Gap, even started ferrying the troops over from the south side of the lake. They can’t bring much artillery, but their fight was so short, they should still have plenty of ammo. Every spare round will be distributed among what’s left of First and Second Corps.”

“What if the Grik counterattack in the south?” Rolak asked.

“Then they’ll capture the empty bank of a lake. Honestly, though, I figure any Grik left down there with any fight still in them have already gone downriver, crossed, and joined up with this bunch in front of us.”

Rolak blinked grudging agreement. “With Halik,” he said.

“I guess probably so.”

“So, what is your plan?”

Pete hesitated. He’d actually contemplated breaking off and pulling everything back to the Rocky Gap—he was still convinced they needed to keep it at all costs—and let VI and VII Corps come get them. But then those two new green corps would have to face this veteran Grik force and its wily commander, first rattle out of the box. That didn’t just smell like a lot of unnecessary casualties but a possible disaster that might leave him and all his people in the same fix they’d started with.

“We wait a little longer until we’ve been replenished as much as possible, then at dusk we’ll go at Halik and Sklook—whatever—hammer and tongs. We kick their asses the old-fashioned way, with guts and steel if it comes to it, and take and hold our part of the Madras road until relieved.” He forced a smile. “Our guys can see better in the dark than theirs can, remember?” It wasn’t much of an advantage, but at that point, it was about all they had.

Rolak blinked philosophically, then grinned. His old teeth were worn and yellowed but still sharp.

A squad of Maa-ni-lo cavalry thundered out of the trees, carbines and accoutrements jangling and clattering. “Where Gen-raal Aalden? Gen-raal Rolak?” a disheveled cav ’Cat demanded.

“Here!” Pete and Rolak chorused. The mounted Lemurian urged his meanie closer, and Pete’s animal snarled at the newcomer.

“Gen-raals,” the ’Cat continued, nervous, almost shouting, “Gen-raal Queen Maraan sends her dearest love an’ begs you both to join her!”

“What the hell? Have the Grik beat us to the punch after all?”

“They no attaack harder,” the ’Cat replied, blinking something like utter confusion. “They
stoppeen
attaack! An’ Gen-raal Queen says you two is only ones who ever talk to Griks under . . . troose flag!”

Pete and Rolak stared at each other. “A
truce
? Bullshit!” Pete growled. “They’ll get us all together and hit us for sure!”

“I agree,” Rolak stated emphatically. “We must not gather our entire high command in one place the enemy can strike.” He looked at the cav ’Cat suspiciously. “And such my dear Queen Maraan would never counsel!”

“She do!” the trooper insisted. “The whole Grik commaand is mustered before her with their Haalik! It’s him that ask to talk!”

Pete and Rolak exchanged another stunned look. “Then why didn’t she just blast ’em?”

“You aask her, Gen-raal,” the messenger pleaded. “I just folloween’ orders.”

Rolak flicked his tail in the equivalent of a shrug. “You will have to loan me a mount . . . Lieuten-aant, isn’t it? We brought none with us.” He looked at his pet Grik. “Come along, Hij-Geerki! We may have need of your tongue—and at last you will ride upon a me-naak!”

* * *

Pete Alden had hoped to launch his final attack at dusk, but instead he was picking his way through the shattered trees in front of II Corps’s position toward a bright fire set to illuminate the large white flag erected on a charred sapling trunk. He wasn’t alone. Forty of Saachic’s troops with Blitzer Bugs and some of the last ammunition they’d scraped up for them escorted him, Rolak, Hij-Geerki, Colonel Mersaak, and Saachic out to what appeared to be less than a dozen Grik. Pete had flatly refused to let Safir Maraan accompany them. “What if they eat us?” he’d demanded. “You want me to hear what they have to say—all right. But somebody’s got to stay in charge if I buy it, see?”

Pete felt fairly safe. A screen of me-naak-mounted cavalry patrolled ahead on the flanks as well, to make sure this was no trick, no ploy to assassinate the Allied leaders, and everybody in the little group was armed to the teeth. The Grik were armed too, Pete noted as they drew closer. It probably never even occurred to them that they shouldn’t be.

“Let us try to talk to them
before
you shoot one this time, my friend,” Rolak whispered as they stepped into the firelight, and Pete couldn’t stop a snort.

“I tell that?” Geerki asked anxiously.

“No! Just tell ’em what we
tell
you to tell ’em, savvy?” Pete said, exasperated.

One of the Grik stepped forward and spoke.
That’s got to be Halik,
Pete realized, without any doubt. He didn’t know what he expected, or why he came so quickly to that conclusion, but savage and frightening as all Grik were, this one just . . . carried himself differently. He wasn’t any taller than many Grik he’d seen, though he was far more muscular and wore the scars of many years.
Maybe that’s it? He’s not old, exactly, not like Geerki, but he’s older than most of the others.
The creature spoke again, looking right at Pete, its yellow eyes intent in the firelight. “General Alden,” it said with some difficulty, and Pete felt his skin crawl.
So he guessed who I am too,
he thought.
No big deal, I’m the only human here, and we know they know stuff about us.

“That’s General Halik,” Geerki confirmed, “and he hears English good. You talk; I tell you his talk.”

Pete nodded, surprised, then wondered why he was. It was known that the Grik considered English the “scientific” tongue, and their Hij wrote in it. Halik had probably learned to understand it from Niwa, who likely understood spoken Grik.

“Okay. What’s he want to talk about? We’ve got a perfectly good battle goin’ here and he’s wasting time.”

Halik spoke, his voice harsh.

“He say this is not a good . . . ’attle, to neither side,” Geerki translated.

Pete could only blink in the Lemurian way and he looked at Rolak, who’d leaned forward.

“I am General Lord Muln-Rolak, Protector of Aryaal—a city you slew and occupied and devoured! Any battle, any opportunity to kill Grik, is a great pleasure to
me
!”

“I have slain no city,” Halik replied through Geerki. “I came late to this war and fight only as my Giver of Life commands. Why we fight is not my concern, only how, and . . . perhaps when and where.” He gestured around. “This battle cannot be won by either of us. We can only both lose.”

Pete listened while Geerki repeated Halik’s words, and was more surprised than ever. When he spoke again, he was more careful. This really was no ordinary Grik! “You’ve already lost,” he said. “We’ve retaken Madras, and a great army moves to join us as we speak. Your army south of the lake is shattered, and the Gap remains blocked. You’ll get no help from that direction. Our flying machines tell us our numbers here are about even,” he lied, “and our weapons are better than yours. You have no place to go.” Pete shrugged. “If you surrender, you’ll live.” He pointed at Geerki. “We don’t
eat
our prisoners!”

Geerki shrank back at Halik’s gurgling sound. “He laugh at you,” Geerki said in a small voice, then translated as Halik spoke again:

“I too have reports of how the wider battle proceeds, and you have some information correct. You hear news from ray-dee-o, I have no doubt. Much of the Grand Fleet has been destroyed, Madras teeters as you say, and the traitor Kurokawa prepares to flee. When he is gone, the city will fall. But your relief is not so vast as you claim, nor are our numbers so nearly matched!”

Pete shrugged when he heard this, although the fact that Halik knew about radio surprised him. According to the Japanese sailor they’d found on Diego Garcia, Kurokawa was keeping it secret from the Grik.
But what does he mean about Kurokawa? Is he still in the city? How does he intend to get out?