Deadly Shores (32 page)

It was then that Safir suddenly decided that, despite his worth, General Grisa had spent far too much time in the trenches around Alden's Perimeter in India. “That is unacceptable! We cannot lie here and exchange jabs all day! And though Grik artillery practice remains poor compared to ours, either through inferior training or equipment, it is much better than it has been! We are too exposed, with nothing but the sea at our backs!”

“Exactly! With daylight, our navy will join the bombardment, as will our air power. That should discourage the Grik sufficiently to allow the fleet to pull us off the beach.” Grisa gestured at the slowly brightening sea. “Too many of our landing craft have been destroyed, so we must wait for more!”

“Pull us off?” Incredulous, Safir coughed, pointing to the south where the 5th Division was still leaping out of its own powered dories and scattering, prone, in open order. Roundshot was beginning to shower them with geysers of sand. “We are still only just
getting
here! We did not come all this way to drench this damp ground, however revered, with our own blood, take up handfuls of sand, and then depart! Are you mad? Soon the Grik will respond to our presence with
firebombs
as well as guns. We cannot survive that all day. We must move!”

“Where, my queen?”

“Toward the enemy, fool! While there remains some darkness. We must push the attack now or we
will
die here!” Her voice softened. “You are a good gener-aal, Grisa. One of the best. You have proven yourself many times, and your courage is not in question. But if you do not get these troops up out of the sand and attack this instant, I shall relieve you and do it myself! Is that clear?”

Grisa stared at her, stricken. “Y-yes, my queen. Very clear. But . . . I thought the whole point of this raid was to simply do it, to show the Grik that even their most important places are vulnerable, so they will slow their own attacks. If we press forward, might not our ‘raid' grow into something more, unprepared for by other elements?”

Safir realized he was right, and finally recognized the great mistake that had been made. The specific objective of the operation had always remained a simple, careful, hopefully destructive raid. But too many of the various hearts that conceived it (even hers, she admitted) had their own opinions of how the raid should
progress
, and had simply assumed all others would come to share them when the moment was at hand. Adar's ambiguous exhortations, despite his insistence on strategic control, and Captain Reddy's desire to support Adar's position, while sticking to the original concept in the vacuum of further discussion (that Adar had discouraged all along, she remembered now), had doubtless precipitated the current confusion. Grisa's reaction was a prime example.

The apparent readiness of the Grik was a surprise, and to him that meant they must resign themselves to what was achievable with the fewest losses. The stated, strategic goal of the raid had already been realized as soon as the first shots were fired, and now it was time to protect his troops. But Safir Maraan had bigger aims, as did many others, she knew. Adar's intent was utterly clear to
her
. She
believed
Captain Reddy, and even his mate, the Lady Saandra, ultimately shared Adar's desire, whether they were prepared to admit it or not. Most important, she was completely certain what
Chack
meant to do, and as long as he was somewhere on the island, enduring whatever his brigade was facing, she simply wouldn't leave. That left only one option for her, and by her next actions, every single soul engaged in the raid. She supposed some spontaneous act such as hers was what Adar had hoped for all along and she suddenly resented him for his unwillingness or inability to make it plain.
Adar has been right all along,
she decided.
Someone has to be in charge. But Adar quite possibly isn't the best choice for the job after all, at least not at the “pointy end.”
She felt a wave of sadness. What did that mean for them today? More important, perhaps, what did that mean for the entire Alliance, the new “Union,” tomorrow?

“Is the TBS up?” she demanded.

“Yes, my queen—and we are already connected to the Fifth Division by the new field tele-phones. The comm section was the first ashore.”

“Very well. You will inform everyone within range of our voices, regardless of what devices are required, that our ‘objective,' the ‘objective' of Second Corps and every Allied being here today on land, sea, or in the air, is to kill Grik, General Grisa,” she stated without inflection. “We will kill them until there are no more—or until there are no more of us. Now carry out your orders!”

“Orderly!” Grisa snapped, his tail swishing excitedly.

“Gener-aal?” replied a 'Cat nearby.

“You heard?”

“Yes, Gener-aal!”

“See that the order is sent at once! Whistler!” he added to another 'Cat crouching beyond the first. Lemurians couldn't manage bugles, but they made do with shrill whistles and drums. “Blow a preparatory call! Then, when I give the word, you will sound the charge!”

The sky over the harbor lit up, painfully bright, with a series of monstrous flashes. A few seconds later, there came another and another. Moments after that, the rumble of heavy detonations reached them where they were, all but silencing the Grik guns for an instant.

“Now, Grisa!” Safir cried. “Cap-i-taan Reddy has commenced his attack on the Grik fleet in the harbor! Sound the charge now!”

The whistler didn't even wait for Grisa to repeat the command.

USS
Walker

“My course is one two zero, Skipper!” Rosen cried, staring in the dimly lit pelorus. The flashing explosions amid the anchored Grik dreadnaughts actually made it harder for him to see the dark numbers on the card.

“Very well! Steady as you go! Mr. Sandison, stand by for torpedo action starboard! All lookouts will keep particular watch for shoaling water! Have Mr. Campeti commence firing at the cruisers with the main battery!”

Walker
had just finished her turn after launching her port torpedoes, and that first salvo had been stunningly effective. At least two Grik ironclads had been completely destroyed by solid hits at a range of a thousand yards. One fish had missed, but apparently hit a pier where ammunition and other inflammables were stored, and the resulting concussive display was a magnificent thing to see. The PTs were doing good work too, having accounted for another pair of enemy dreadnaughts already, and their racing wakes were clear against the calm harbor waters as they jockeyed to make more attacks. Minnie was reporting Ed Palmer's play-by-play account of overheard TBS traffic as Irvin Laumer coordinated his little mosquito fleet with a calm professionalism that made Matt proud. The biggest problems
Walker
faced now were the discovery that the deep water channel was much narrower than they'd assumed from the aerial recon, and the old destroyer had already actually dragged her groaning bottom across an unsuspected sandbar. Now, everyone was afraid they'd find another, more tenacious one—particularly when Commander Herring stated that, according to his calculations, the tide was on the ebb. Even more critical, the Grik were starting to “get their shit in the sock” faster than anyone had ever seen them do before, and
Walker
was taking return fire from undamaged dreadnaughts, as well as from a few of the cruisers nearby.

The salvo bell rang, still a little strange to those who'd served aboard from the beginning, since the old buzzer had been replaced by a Japanese alarm bell. The bright bloom of the salvo that followed was familiar, even if the converging tracers weren't quite the right color anymore. The new “common” shells performed just fine when they hit the first cruiser, however, causing a series of bright yellow-orange flashes along its side.

“Cap-i-taan!” Minnie cried. “Mr. Paal-mer says Second Corps is chargeen the Griks! They goin' for broke, and Generaal Queen Maraan says we
takin
' this place!”

Matt took a deep breath. He felt a little sick, but had to admit he wasn't really surprised. He'd known it.
Known
it, all along. Adar's hints, Safir's enthusiasm, Chack's drive . . . It had been inevitable that when they actually got here and got stuck in, there'd be no stopping them. He sighed. He'd warned, he'd cautioned, he'd practically pleaded—but deep inside, he'd known. Despite how close he'd grown to his Lemurian friends, there remained a fundamental difference between them. He hated the Grik, and the war had turned very personal for him after all the people he'd lost, but to him, Madagascar remained just a place, another strange chunk of land occupied by the enemy on a very strange world. He'd go there and fight the Grik because that was where they were, and the place was important to them. Ultimately, though, Madagascar was far more than just a “chunk of land” to the Lemurians; it was their sacred, ancient homeland. There'd never really been a realistic chance they wouldn't try to wrest it away once they returned at last.

“Very well,” he acknowledged, rubbing his eyes. The churning in his stomach was passing, crowded out by a familiar exhilaration he never could explain. “Make sure everybody got that, and knows we just went all in. Oh, and send to Adar that I'm okay with it—nothing I can do about it now, anyway—but we need to have a long talk when all this is done.” He hoped his failure to confront Adar, to confront
any
of his friends and force a commitment to stick to the plan or confess their true intentions, wouldn't come back to bite them in the ass.

“Stand by!” Bernie cried. “Fire one! Fire three! Fire five!”

The ship jolted slightly with each impulse charge from the rigged-out torpedo tubes, and Matt saw the concave splashes of the weapons. It was much lighter now, and he even saw the churning, bubbling wakes rise to the surface and lance toward the enemy. Then, without even the warning of near-miss splashes, several heavy shots struck
Walker
almost simultaneously in what was likely the greatest example of Grik gunnery ever performed. The lights went out, and the ship staggered beneath Matt's feet with an audible screech of pain. A bright flash aft lit the right side of his face, and he suspected the fuel drums for the Nancy had been hit. The plane itself had been launched some time ago and was orbiting now, sending reports of the action. He looked toward the stern. Sure enough, at least one drum had ignited, and even as he watched, hoses tried to spray the burning fuel over the side. Spanky's gun crew on the aft deckhouse had probably been singed, but wasn't even paying attention, so fixed on plying the number four gun. “Damage report,” he demanded.

*   *   *

Lieutenant Tab-At had been at her preferred combat station near the throttle control, but now she bolted aft through the forward engine room, undogged the hatch, and ducked into the aft engine room. The only light was the dawning gleam coming from the overhead skylights, and it wasn't much. As her eyes adjusted, she was immediately met by a body, facedown, lying on the grating at her feet. There was a tremendous amount of noise in the space, mostly yelling, but some screaming too. All came to her over the thunder of rushing water. “What the hell's goin' on in here?” she roared.

An ex-pat “Impie gal,” machinist's mate 3rd, named Sitia, met her with wide eyes and a bloody forehead. “We took two rounds in here!” she cried. “One was high in the side, an' didn't do much damage, but the other came in at the waterline right behind the aft main junction box! Pieces o' that hit me—an' others.”

“Reroute all power through the forward main!”

“We tried!” The girl seemed close to panic. “There's nothin' left to do it with! I already called damage-control parties aft. There's a bigger leak in ship's stores, under the guinea pullman, an' we had to send guys. We musta took another hit there!”

Tabby trotted on until she saw the wound in the compartment. A lot of water was coming in, pouring directly down on the still-spinning 25-kilowatt generator that was atomizing the spray. She swore. “Close the steam line an' secure the damn generator! Call the guys back. Seal off stores, an' get 'em to work patchin'
that
! We gonna lose the engine room an' starboard shaft, we don't stop this water!” She moved toward the heavy Bakelite handset but swore. Instead, she dashed to the voice tube. “Bridge!” she shouted. “Aft stores is gone, an' we got floodin' in the aft engine room! I need more help back here, an' 'specially EMs if you want 'lectricity back!”

“How bad's the floodin?” came Minnie's tiny, tinny voice.

Tabby gauged the inrushing water. The hole was
big
, and the more water they took, the more they'd take. If the weight pulled the stern down low enough, they'd take water from the higher puncture too. “We don't stop it in ten damn minutes, we gonna lose the space, the engine, an' maybe the whole goddamn ship!”

*   *   *

“We must break off, Captain Reddy!” Commander Herring insisted. “We have crippled the enemy fleet, but your ship is badly damaged and we can't afford to lose her!”

“I'm well aware of that, Commander,” Matt replied, still staring through his binoculars at the effect of their salvos on the “cruisers.” Some were burning, but a few had raised steam. Bernie shouted, “Now!” and Matt redirected his attention to the BBs they'd targeted with their torpedoes. Several seconds later, tall columns of water rose alongside two more of them and collapsed down across the armored casemates. Even as he watched, a flight of Nancys stooped on the remaining ships, protected from his fire by their sinking sisters, and bombs tumbled away from the planes, impacting with yellow flashes and white clouds of smoke.

“We're running out of room, Skipper,” Rosen reminded.