Iron Gray Sea

CHAPTER 22

March 20, 1944

USS Walker

Northwest Fil-pin Sea

“Hold on!” shouted Super Bosun Fitzhugh Gray as he grabbed the little anchor crane far forward on Walker ’s fo’c’sle. The bullnose and jackstaff disappeared as the knife-sharp bow-just a few paces away-pitched down beneath another gray-green roller. The torrent of seawater would have swept his repair detail away like crumbs on a plate without his warning, and even Gray felt his feet leave the deck as the flood cascaded past, erupting against the splinter shield of the number one gun and booming against the bridge structure beyond. He glanced quickly around at the ’Cats in his detail, making sure he hadn’t lost anyone. Like him, they’d been scrambled around a bit, but they were all there. “Hurry the hell up!” he roared, regaining his feet with the help of the cold iron crane.

“We almost done!” cried Pack Rat, pounding a big, corklike plug into the hole in the deck where the starboard anchor chain vanished below. God knew what happened to the old cover; fell apart and washed away, most likely, but the chain locker was more than half-flooded and the pumps had more than enough to do.

Gray turned around. “How ’bout you?” he asked Jeek, the flight-crew chief for the Special Air Division. Jeek had a new plane now, a day out of Samaar, where they’d taken it aboard and filled Walker ’s growling bunkers with oil. But with the plane carefully stowed aft, he was part of Gray’s damage-control division, and it wasn’t like they’d be flying that day!

“This damn hatch cover leak no matter what I do,” Jeek said angrily. He was trying to seal the hatch over the forward companionway. “Them gals in chief’s quarters just gonna have to live with it. It ever not leak?”

“No,” Gray admitted. “Just thought we might try somethin’ while we was out here. Leave it be.” The hatch had always leaked, leaving the deck in the Chief’s quarters slick when the sea was high. The swooping, elevator-ride experience of living under the fo’c’sle was unpleasant enough even without the damp, but you got used to it. The only thing was, Diania lived in there now with Tabby, so she could be close to Sandra. She hadn’t made a peep about the conditions, but Gray could tell just by looking at her that she’d been miserable ever since the sea kicked up. He could spot that “look” a mile away after all these years. He shook his head, almost angrily. He’d tried. He looked back at Pack Rat, who’d sealed the opening as best he could. “C’mon, Jeek. Damn sure ain’t worth losin’ nobody over. Let’s get out of here.”

They waited until after the bow took another plunge, and then scampered aft across the fo’c’sle until they reached the starboard hatch below the bridge. One of Jeek’s ’Cats opened the hatch, and they all darted through. They barely had it shut before another surge slammed against it.

“Whew!” said Gray. “We’re done, for now. You guys can relax, but hang here until you’re relieved.” It had been a very wet, busy watch, and they’d spent it plugging leaks all over the forward half of the tired old ship. The worst had been a sprung plate in the forward berthing space, which wasn’t that bad in and of itself-except all the females aboard would have damp racks now-but a lot of seams were opening as the ship worked in the heavy seas and the pumps were starting to strain to keep up. The water in the chain locker had been just the latest concern, and they’d handled that quickly enough. “I’ll go report to the Skipper,” Gray said, turning for the stairs.

Captain Reddy was standing beside his chair when Gray entered the pilothouse. He’d obviously left it so Sandra and Diania would have something to hold on to while the ship pitched. They were the only humans on the bridge, and the rest of the watch was all Lemurian. That didn’t bother Gray at all. Just about everyone on Walker could stand a bridge watch now, and they’d had plenty of practice in all conditions.

“The old girl oughta ride easier after we get that water out of the chain locker,” Gray said, and Matt and the two women turned. Everyone was a little damp-that was the nature of things, and Walker ’s semiopen pilothouse didn’t help-but Gray was utterly drenched and dripping on the wooden strakes.

“Thank you for trying to fix the leak down the forward companionway,” Sandra said with a smile. She didn’t even look at Diania, but Gray felt his face heat. “I’m sure the ladies quartered there appreciate it.”

“Didn’t work,” Gray objected. “I think the goddamn hatch was designed to leak… if you’ll excuse my French.”

“You’re probably right,” Matt admitted, “but it was thoughtful to try. The chain locker?”

“Tight, but that’s the only thing.” Gray hesitated. “Ah, Skipper? Maybe we ought not chase this Jap tin can right away. The ship’s tired, real tired, and she needs that dry-dock pretty bad. We could probably do most of the work at Manila in just a couple of weeks. Just tighten up the hull. We could tear down engineering once we catch the Jap and get back to Baalkpan.”

Matt nodded but turned back to face out the windows. From here, the sea looked like jagged, broken gray iron beneath a lighter gray sky. Sandra looked at Matt, and her expression… troubled Gray. He was glad she and the Skipper had finally taken the plunge, and their happiness had been an infectious thing for their first few days at sea, but the reports that continued coming in had turned the Skipper anxious and restless, kind of like he’d been when they were racing back to Baalkpan to face Amagi, but less focused. That had been a bad time, but now there was a lot more going on, and almost nothing Matt could personally do about most of it. The man was a born leader. Maybe not in a MacArthur sort of way, thank God, but the kind who inspired others to do their best because they knew he was doing his right alongside them. Regardless how worried he was about Keje, Rolak, Pete, Safir Maraan, and all of First Fleet, he wouldn’t give orders to Keje because Keje was on the spot and he wasn’t, but the situation had to be driving him nuts. Gray was suddenly glad the Skipper hadn’t left Sandra at Samaar to take an empty oiler back to Maa-ni-la, like he’d suggested. Sandra had refused, of course, as Walker ’s medical officer, and Matt hadn’t pressed. After all, they’d probably need her if they caught Hidoiame — and her just being around was good for the Skipper.

Gray noticed that Diania was still looking at him, a curious expression on her face. He probably hadn’t spoken a dozen words to her since that fine breakfast on Respite-but they were shipboard now, damn it! She shouldn’t even be here!

“Can’t, Boats,” Matt finally said, still looking forward. “I wish we did, but we just don’t have time to go in the yard. Mr. Palmer was just here with the latest”-he paused-“and things are getting desperate in the west. You know most of it, but now it looks like Keje’s going to go up against those Jap-Grik battlewagons in a straight-up fight with his flat-tops. What a damn mess! If he loses, not only could it cost us all our carriers in the area, but Pete and the entire expeditionary force will be cut off!

“On the good side, sort of, it looks like Jenks has made it to the Enchanted Isles in time to salvage the situation there, but there’s going to be a fight…”

“And all this fighting is too far away for you to do anything about,” Sandra said quietly.

“No!.. Well, yes, damn it, but we’ve still got that Jap ‘can’ out there, full of real bad Japs, and we’re all there is. We can’t help Keje or Jenks or anybody right now, except the people that ship has killed-and still will, if she’s not stopped. This is our fight, and nobody can do it for us. Our scouts are keeping an eye on her and she’s still headed southwest, but if she gets away now, we might never find her.”

“Okay,” Sandra said, “but just so long as Hidoiame hasn’t turned into your white whale.” One thing she and Matt discovered during their brief honeymoon was that both enjoyed Melville.

Matt snorted, and when he turned to look at Sandra, the intensity that must have been growing in his green eyes was already fading.

“No,” he said with a crooked smile. “The only white whale around here is Earl Lanier, and our peg-legged Filipino is more than a match for him.” His voice lowered. “This is just a job, and my only obsession is you. Maybe I’m a little obsessed with the bigger job of winning the war, but we’re not in the big picture right now.” He raised his voice again so all could hear. “ Hidoiame ’s just another job for Walker and her gallant crew,” he said in a light but serious tone, “but she is our job!”

Indiaa

General Halik’s HQ

General Halik brooded in frustration in the confined space of his bunker. He hated it! He felt like he’d been forced to hide in a hole like vermin, but the enemy aircraft had shown an unerring knack for targeting his command structure when it was exposed aboveground. It seemed the age-old way of moving proudly into battle beneath the streaming banners of the provincial regent were gone forever. The disciplined column of “new” warriors beneath the very banners of the Giver of Life had suffered cruelly as well, and he’d been forced to disperse the suddenly confused “hatchling host” to some degree. They, at least, could adjust, he told himself. They’d been designed primarily for defense, after all, and they could do that wherever they were-but he needed his attacking warriors to mass, and whenever they did that, they were vulnerable. The aircraft alone had forced him to turn this excruciatingly long battle into a series of night attacks, and the unexpected tenacity of his trapped opponent and the added confusion of darkness had caused a disturbing number of even his hardened, “improved” warriors to turn prey! He seethed. Tonight, he promised himself. Tonight will turn the tide!

Runners had come from General Niwa in the south, telling that General of the Sea Kurokawa had finally arrived with the Grand Fleet, and Niwa had received more hatchling warriors. Niwa could now use them to block the tongue, leaving him free to attack the enemy with all his might on the other side of the mountains at Madras. Niwa also promised that “much of what has been confusing will soon be clear,” and all their enemies in India would be under their power. The dispatch left Halik even more confused in some respects, but it remained implicit that he had to gain control of the pass for the victory to be complete.

He stopped his pacing, listening, as his aides accosted an arrival outside. “Let him in,” he said, and General Ugla clanked down the steps and parted the roughly woven curtain that kept dust from entering the bunker-and light from escaping at night.

“Lord General!” Ugla cried, preparing to throw himself on his belly.

“Do not!” Halik said sharply, then paused. “Consider it done, General Ugla,” he continued more softly. “We have much to discuss.”

“Lord General?”

“We must break the enemy tonight,” Halik said. “The battle progresses beyond our view.” His yellow eyes sharpened. “I do not know how it progresses in every way, and that does… concern me, but I believe our part is crucial.” He looked keenly at Ugla. “You were in the highlands on Ceylon and you have seen the fighting here from the very front. You have grown immensely, and I would value your comparisons.” Ugla was born to be a general, but this campaign had raised an awareness of war in him that Halik still strove to achieve-and others, like First General Esshk-might never be capable of. That disturbed him, but excited him as well.

“My lord,” Ugla began, but paused.

“Do not be concerned. I already know what is bad. Our losses have been crippling, and the battle remains set as it was when it began.”

“Then I will add that our warriors that do not lose themselves fight even better now than they did.” Ugla said, then snorted. “The bullet weapons are a great disappointment. Unlike the weapons of the enemy, ours do not work when it rains, or even when the air is wet. Many of our steadiest Uul have died relying on them.”

“Ours will improve,” Halik assured him. “We captured many of the enemy’s arms when we took the southern hill.”

“As you say, Lord. That will be a great help… someday. In the meantime, the enemy has improved as well, even beyond his skill in the highlands on Ceylon.” His crest rose. “Our warriors who have not turned prey do not fear the enemy, but the enemy does not fear us either! How can battles end if there is no fear?”

“They end when we kill them all,” Halik said softly. “And they will fear us soon.”

“Your orders, Lord General?”

“Tonight, we attack with everything! All our reserves, even the hatchlings, will move forward. They will follow behind, but they will not allow the attack to falter. They will kill any that come at them, even our own!”

“We will lose so many,” Ugla said in what approximated dismay for him.

“Yes. We may lose all of the attackers and that is a great tragedy, but it is the defenders that we must leave in possession of the pass!”

“As you command, my lord,” Ugla said, bowing. “But… what of the enemy that remains in possession of yonder hill?” he asked, gesturing vaguely northwest. “We cannot just leave them there… can we?”

“I would desire the warriors who guard them for this push,” Halik said thoughtfully. “The enemy on the hill has been sorely hurt and cannot remain strong. Pull everything away for our assault but those on guard to the north.” He paused. “They will join us as well-after they swarm over the top of the hill. Any of the enemy that escapes will have nowhere to go but toward us here, and they will be erased at last.”

“Very good, Lord General.”

North Hill, west of the Rocky Gap

March 20, 1944

Colonel William Flynn had watched the sun go down on the west side of his hill and now stood in the heavy darkness atop the eastern slope, watching the lightning storm of battle pulse against the low clouds above the Rocky Gap. The indomitable General Maraan had held her ground near the mouth of that pass for… could it be five days now? He tried to remember, but the exact number wouldn’t come. His time on North Hill with the shattered remnants of his division had blurred into what seemed a timeless span of misery.

There was precious little food and almost no water. Some food and ammunition had been air-dropped to the tattered remnants of Flynn’s Rangers, the 1st of the 2nd Marines, and the Sularans, by parachutes. Leedom had told him that his flyers were required to wear them now, but the ones designed to carry a ’Cat or human safely to the ground couldn’t land a water cask lightly enough to keep it from shattering. Larger, hastily made patchwork parachutes had been tried, but with only slightly better results. Enough food and water had arrived to keep the division alive, but only just, and fewer and fewer flights could be made because General-Queen Protector Safir Maraan’s much larger, equally trapped force required the greater effort. It was a terrible equation. A dwindling Air Corps had to choose between bombs to protect the isolated troops or supplies to sustain them-both of which were in equal demand-and it still had to guard against the occasional but dangerous zeppelin raid. The situation couldn’t go on much longer like this.

There had been growing assurances that it wouldn’t have to. Communications had finally completely failed the day before, but Flynn knew General Alden was making progress in his drive to relieve II Corps. If he reestablished the supply line, some of the pressure might fall away from General Maraan, and more air could be diverted to Flynn. There was even talk of support from First Fleet air, which would become available for some reason in a few days. The trouble was, none of that really mattered anymore to the survivors trapped on North Hill. Things had suddenly begun happening fast, and time was running out. Flynn could feel it.

Captain Saachic approached him in the near-perfect darkness lit only by the distant battle. “Col-nol,” he said quietly, “our scouts confirm it: The enemy has pulled everything out but the six or eight thousands that still block us from the north. The rest?” Saachic shrugged. “Maybe they join the attack in the Gap?”

“What about the ones that didn’t leave?”

“I think they are coming, Col-nol,” Saachic said grimly. “All of them. Why else remain?”

“I bet you’re right, Captain,” Flynn said, and sighed. Then he chuckled grimly. “Well, we can’t stop ’em if they all come at once. Between what we had left and the small-arms ammunition the Air Corps dropped us, we might’ve had a chance-if they could’ve given us some artillery ammo. We’re completely out of exploding case, roundshot, and mortar bombs-and we’ve got maybe three rounds of canister left per gun.” He looked southeast, toward the battle raging in the Gap. “And we damn sure can’t run away from ’em.” He almost laughed. “It always comes down to just three choices, doesn’t it? All that leaves us is to try to beat ’em to the punch. Attack downhill, concentrating everything we’ve got right at their gut, and blow through ’em like bowling pins!”

“Sir…” Saachic hesitated. “I think we can do that,” he said cautiously. “We might even scatter them… but most will chase us as they recover-and I think most will recover. These are not the same Grik we used to fight, and even if they were, the sight of fleeing prey… Our infantry cannot outrun them.” Lemurians as a species were amazingly strong and agile. They could even move pretty quickly when they had to and had decent endurance. Unlike humans, however, and particularly unlike Grik, they just weren’t built for sprinting.

“I know that, Saachic,” Flynn calmly agreed. “But I guess that’s not really the point, is it? Meanies can outrun ’em, and it’ll be your job to get as many out as you can.” Flynn interrupted Saachic’s dark thoughts with a slap on the shoulder. “Hey,” he said, suddenly grinning beneath the mustache that pulsed fire red under the cloud-reflected flashes. “This one’s really gonna make us famous!”

Saachic forced a grin. “Of course. There is that,” he said, then paused. “Assuming we do break through and escape our pursuers, where will we go?”

“Does it really matter?” Flynn asked. “Away, first. Anywhere but here. You can figure out where when you can take a breath.” He scratched his chin. He really hadn’t had time to give it any thought and doubted he’d be around to do so later. “North, I guess,” he finally suggested, “then try to find a way east through the mountains. I bet your meanies could do it almost anywhere, but you’ll have to get the wounded through in the ambulances-if they make it. Maybe you can rig travois?” He shook his head. “One thing at a time.”

Over the next hour, while the distant battle flared and pulsed, the eleven hundred or so effectives under Flynn’s command struggled to move every gun remaining on the hill to the northern slope. The maze of fallen trees made it extremely difficult, and several guns had to be disassembled and shifted over obstacles by hand, which caused many injuries in the darkness, but they didn’t dare make a light. If the Grik realized what they were doing, they would doubtless attack immediately, and the disorganized defenders wouldn’t have a chance. Finally, most of the guns were in position, placed nearly hub to hub, and those too badly damaged for the role they would soon play were spiked and their spokes were shattered.

Every able-bodied Ranger, Marine, and Sularan took his or her place behind the guns, rifled muskets loaded with the loose buck and ball they all still used in desperate situations. Most carried more loaded muskets, inherited from fallen comrades, slung diagonally across their backs. Many of the Marines carried similarly loaded muskets as well. Some would retain their precious breechloaders and serve as guards for the wounded loaded on the various caissons, carts, and other vehicles they’d converted or cobbled into ambulances and hitched to the few surviving paalkas. They were too low on ammunition for the new weapons for them to be of further use, so the rest of the 1st of the 2nd’s rifles lined the bottoms of the vehicles beneath the wounded. It was important they not be captured.

Saachic’s Maa-ni-lo cavalry waited behind the guns and infantry, carrying two and sometimes three riders each. The extra riders and all the unexpected activity in the dark made the irascible me-naaks nervous, but at least they weren’t hungry; there’d been plenty of Grik for them to feast upon. The animals were incredibly tough, naturally armored with thick cases like a rhino pig, so even Grik crossbow bolts didn’t bother them much from a distance, but there were fewer than two hundred of them left alive.

“They’re getting ready,” Bekiaa-Sab-At said, closing her telescope as Flynn joined her. Her head was still wrapped in a bloody bandage beneath her helmet where she’d taken a blow from the flat of a Grik sword. “I see little glowing dots. They are lighting their matchlocks.”

Mark Leedom stood beside her in the gloom, much taller than the Lemurian captain of Rangers and Marines. He still had Flynn’s ’03 Springfield and it was slung on his shoulder, bayonet fixed. “I guess this is it?” he asked nervously.

Flynn chuckled. “I swear, Leedom. I’d be scared to death to fly around in one of those kites like you do. Relax. Folks have been fightin’ on their own two feet since there have been folks-of any kind. It’s a cinch.”

Leedom chuckled back. “Yeah, well, you know? I’ve learned to prefer to stay above such things.”

“Just stay close to Bekiaa here and you’ll do fine.” He nodded in the darkness. “Let’s go.”

There were no drums, no whistles. There was no audible command at all beyond Flynn’s soft words. As he stepped forward, the troops around him did the same, and each company down the line moved off the company beside it. The guns crept forward as well, with pairs of cannoneers on each wheel straining against the weight. Spokes creaked and small stones crunched beneath the iron tires. Prolong ropes trailed behind, held by the rest of the gun’s crews, ready to slow them as they reached the gradual slope. Flynn looked around him. He couldn’t see much in the dark, but what he could see in the brief, dull, distant flashes made him proud. He didn’t have much of a division left, but he was thrilled by the discipline, professionalism, and determination he felt around him. These ’Cats, his troops, had been through hell, and every one of them had to know what lay before them that night, yet there was no complaint. Even the wounded stifled their cries as the ambulances began to move behind the lines, painfully jolting the occupants. The paalkas lowed sadly, but it was a sound the enemy would be used to. Around the ambulances, now lost to view, Saachic’s cavalry would be moving.

God above, Flynn thought, focusing as hard as he could on the prayer. Even if this is it-you know, the End-thank you, Sir, for the opportunity to die with such fine folks!

Almost silently, the collection of shattered regiments swept down the slope as if they’d drilled alongside each other many times. At the bottom, as the ground leveled out, the cannoneers on the wheels of their pieces were joined by others, to preserve their strength. Each gun would fire its three shots as fast as possible, and to hell with the sponge-or any other safety measure-before its crew disabled it and joined the charge. On they moved, farther and longer than Flynn ever dreamed they would make it without discovery. No Grik horn had sounded yet, but time had to be running out. The enemy had been about five hundred yards away to start-beyond effective canister range-but they’d closed that distance to two hundred now, maybe one fifty, he estimated. It was impossible to be sure. Closer is better, he thought anxiously. It takes them half a minute or more to get rolling after the horns — Jesus! I think I can see their match cherries without a glass!

A deep, thrumming roar exploded in front of them with an almost physical force. Maybe it was an illusion, but it seemed impossibly close.

“Drummers!” Flynn immediately roared.

Drums thundered up and down the line, plied by younglings too young or small to carry a musket. Flynn had ordered that they jump on the ambulances when their job was done, but the blinking he’d seen when he gave that command made him doubt that many would. The cannons were already loaded; their vent pricks thrust into the charges to keep them in place during the advance. The drums had been the signal for the gunners to pull the pricks and prime their pieces.

“Division Artillery!” Bekiaa roared grandly. “At my command… Fire!”

Flynn clenched his eyes shut and opened his mouth-as he hoped everyone had done-and felt the rippling concussions pound his chest and ears and squeeze his eyeballs into their sockets. Thousands of pieces of canister moaned and whistled, but the sound was quickly replaced by a mounting shriek of terror and agony, and the staccato wooden, metallic, fleshy drumming of high-velocity metal slashing into an army.

“Muskets!” Flynn bellowed, echoed by the cries of the regimental and company commanders. “Present! Fire!”

A scorching volley seared out, the long jets of flame from crackling muskets finally showing Flynn the enemy-less than fifty paces away! My God! he thought. They’re right there!

“Independent, fire at will!” he roared, raising his own musket and shooting into the ragged mass of wailing, writhing Grik. The canister and musket volleys had been delivered so close and so suddenly that they’d hacked a gaping, gory hole in the center of the Grik line. Shredded grass fluttered down like red-green snow, and a haze of downy fur competed with the billowing smoke. The guns barked again, jolting back across the level ground in the knee-high grass, flashing like smoke-shrouded strobes, their muzzles slamming down before tipping up again, the breeches clanking hard against elevation screws.

Some Grik were already shooting back, shockingly fast after such a devastating surprise. Large balls verp ed past Flynn amid the swish of crossbow bolts, but judging by the flashes, a lot of Grik were still shooting wild, maybe blinded by the cannon fire. Flynn heard a metallic clung, and a ’Cat beside him pitched to the ground, a huge hole in the front of his helmet. He jerked his eyes away and concentrated on reloading his musket. With a skin-crawling swiftness that would never have been tolerated under other circumstances, some of the guns were already belching their third round of canister. Flynn looked just in time to see a gun ’Cat ram a charge down a smoking tube-and be shredded by the premature discharge caused by lingering embers. The rammer staff-and much of the ’Cat-added themselves to the projectiles the gun coughed at the Grik.

For the next several minutes while the remaining guns chewed the Grik before them into bleeding meat and shattered bone, the fight remained a fairly one-sided slaughter. The Grik were fighting back, but right then, where the weight of the blow had fallen, there was little they could do.

“Charge!” Flynn finally yelled, his voice cracking. Enough of the drummers had ignored his orders that the scratch division went forward accompanied by a mighty rumble. Muskets flared directly in toothy faces, and Rangers and Sularans crashed into the reeling Grik on the right, while Rangers and Marines drove left in a screaming, sweeping turn. A company of cavalry led by Captain Saachic dashed forward, down the middle, firing buckshot-loaded carbines and swinging their long, heavy swords, splashing themselves with blood as thickly as if they were crossing a stream. Nobody needed Flynn’s orders now; the fight was joined and they were stuck all the way in. The objective: Make a lane for the cavalry and the ambulances. That was it.

For the first time in a quarter century, William Flynn became nothing but an infantryman again. Incorporating much of what he’d learned from General Alden and Tamatsu Shinya and what he remembered from his own long-ago service, he’d basically written the new drill manual. He’d spent months teaching on the drill grounds at Baalkpan and later Andaman Island, demonstrating, remembering, adding, and writing it all down. Flynn’s Tactics had become the approved textbook for officer candidates throughout the Alliance.

Oddly, none of that meant anything at the moment as the muscle memory of battle, so long forgotten, came back as effortlessly as breath. He rammed his projectile, but just as he withdrew the iron rod, he was forced to lunge at one Grik with the bayonet as he stabbed another in the eye with the tapered, threaded end of his rammer. Backing away, he slammed the sticky, bloody rod back in its groove and lunged forward again, driving the long, triangular bayonet into a shadowy throat. Hot blood spurted at him and he spat the salty, raw-meat taste from his tongue. Grik were piling forward now, over the corpses and mewling bodies, trying to use their spears and small shields to batter the Gap closed.

The first ambulance plowed through, bouncing and grinding across the fallen. Fusillades of fire from the Marines atop the ambulances armed with Allin-Silva breechloaders punched through the puny shields and, usually, several enemies at once. The heavy bullets of the. 50-80s were hard to stop, and the rapid-fire muzzle flashes cast plenty of light on the killing. Flynn stabbed again, twisted, withdrew, then drove the butt of his weapon down on the long nose bridge/forehead of a Grik that attacked from behind. Trotting alongside the converted caisson for a moment, he stabbed at charging shapes with his bayonet while trying to place a new cap on the nipple of his rifle.

The noise was tremendous, even with the guns now silent. ’Cats trilled defiant cries, muskets fired on both sides, and the Grik shrieked or snarled their rage. The combination created an incredible surge of sound that subdued even the Grik horns that continued to blare. For an instant, he wondered again what had ever come of the idea to use the horns they’d captured against the enemy. They would help right then, he reflected, to confuse the Grik response to the breakout. Such a tool could likely only be used once, however, and even if he had them then, he probably wouldn’t have used them. This fight was the biggest test his Rangers would ever face, most likely, but regardless how momentous to him and his comrades, the outcome here would have little effect on the war. He continued stabbing.

Leedom was down right in front of him, on his hands and knees. His helmet was gone and his head was bloody. Flynn didn’t even wonder how the kid had gotten so far ahead of him; he just jerked him to his feet.

“Where’s your-MY-weapon!” Flynn demanded. Leedom blinked, eyes unfocused.

“Here!” cried Bekiaa, running up behind them and scooping the Springfield off the ground.

“How’d you get back there?” Flynn asked.

“Got in a fight. There’s a big one, you know.”

Flynn barked a laugh, then looked back. For the moment, the Rangers and Marines were holding the Grik away, and the ambulances, screened by meanies, were surging through the bloody gash in the Grik horde. The sight gave him a thrill-until he looked north. The Grik were throwing warriors into the fight ahead of them, deepening the line they’d have to cut through. He calculated the odds for an instant, then shook his head. It was just too much. “Where’s Saachic?”

“Here, Col-nol,” the ’Cat yelled down at him, his meanie almost sliding to a stop on something slick in the grass. “I’m sorry,” he said miserably. “They react too fast! We’ll never get the wagons through, sir.”

“No shit,” Flynn agreed, thinking fast. “But you can still cut through if you do it quick!”

“Col-nol!”

“Shut up! Call all your troopers here now. Bekiaa! Get over there and tell them to direct the ambulances to gather here as well. We’ll never get them into anything organized, but we can throw ’em over, fort up, wreck the breechloaders!”

Saachic began blowing the three shrill recall notes on his whistle, over and over, and other whistles dully repeated them over the tumult.

“Is this loaded?” Bekiaa asked Leedom, raising the Springfield. The flyer still seemed stunned, blood leaking from his forehead and down each side of his nose, but he nodded.

“Yeah. I just used the sticker… not very well.” Bekiaa was already gone.

No longer quite like ants, perhaps, the Grik horde began to encircle its prey, even as that prey fought to consolidate itself, to fend off the gnashing jaws that prepared to close on it. Quickly, the remaining ambulances joined the hasty laager, but not all of them made it. Out of ammunition, paalkas killed, Marines and wounded fought to the last and died in little clots. Captain Bekiaa’s chore complete, she raced back toward where she’d left Colonel Flynn, but spun when a crossbow bolt slammed into her side. She tried to continue on through the sharp, searing agony that made her left arm and leg almost useless, but a Grik musket ball sent her helmet flying and she dropped like a stone. She couldn’t know it, but the shot that ended the battle for her was one of the last ones fired by the Grik. A mist had moved in. Slow match fizzled, and fouling-caked priming pans turned into slimy black soup bowls. The allied caplocks would still shoot, but the ammunition was almost gone. The bayonet, spear, and sword had replaced most of the firing as the roar of battle turned even more primal. Bekiaa never felt the hands that lifted her from the high, bloody grass. She would never even know whose they’d been.

“You guys better go!” Colonel William Flynn roared over his shoulder, Baalkpan Armory rifled musket in his hands, bayonet fixed. His helmet was gone and his thinning red hair was sweat glued to his scalp. The eyes were sunken with exhaustion but bright with excitement. Lieutenant Mark Leedom knew that was how he would always remember the man.

“We can’t hold ’em much longer,” Flynn continued as the Grik surged relentlessly closer, “and they’re getting thicker over there.” He tossed his head northward, then nodded at Bekiaa’s still, bloody form. “You gotta get her out of here!”

Leedom’s eyes filled with red tears as he looked helplessly back at Flynn, the unconscious, bandage-wrapped ’Cat held close at his side on top of one of the scary-looking me-naaks. “But… God damn it, Colonel, I ought to stay. Give her to one of the other fellas! I don’t even know how to… to control this damn thing!” Every single paalka was dead now, and fewer than 150 meanies remained, their riders doubled, even tripled up with wounded. Leedom watched with suddenly wide eyes while NCOs grimly strode among the meanies, cutting away the muzzles that protected the riders from their terrible jaws. “What the hell?”

“Don’t worry,” Captain Saachic said, his voice dull with sadness and exhaustion. “You don’t have to control him. He’ll follow the rest of us. Just hang on.”

“But… what if he tries to eat me?”

“He won’t. He’ll snatch something to munch on along the way.” Saachic shrugged. “If he does try to eat you though, shoot him a couple of times in the side of the head with your pistol. He’ll leave you alone after that.”

Leedom blinked, then looked back at Flynn. “But… why me?”

Flynn actually laughed. “Hell, boy. We’d all be dead already if it weren’t for your planes. We need you. The war needs you. I’m just an old pig-boat chief who took up a rifle. Nothin’ special about me.” He pointed at Bekiaa. “ She ’s special, and so are you.” He paused. “And so are my Rangers. Don’t let ’em forget us!” He looked around. “Remind ’em there was Marines here too! And Sularans, by God!” A ragged, gasping cheer built around them. “Besides, we ain’t finished yet. We’ll form a square and bust one more hole for the meanies!”

“What then?” Leedom demanded.

Flynn shrugged. “We’ll kill Grik until we can’t kill anymore. Who knows?” He pointed at Bekiaa. “She and Garrett did it at the Sand Spit, and Captain Reddy did it at Aryaal! Maybe we’ve got a little farther to go, but there’s more of us!” He grinned. “If you get through to General Maraan, tell her to come get us. Hear?”

Leedom nodded woodenly. “I will, Colonel. I’ll tell her that and more.” Everyone knew there would be nothing left to “get.” This wasn’t Aryaal-or the Sand Spit.

Flynn looked at Saachic. “Remember, when you toot your whistle, everything we’ve got will surge ahead of you and make a hole. Keep going and don’t slow down for anything, or it’ll all be for nothing.”

“We could have broken out… like this-just leaving you behind-from the hill!” Saachic blurted accusingly.

Flynn nodded, but gestured at the overturned ambulances. “Yeah, and I probably should’ve made you do it… but I had to try.” He looked back at Leedom. “You’ve got my Springfield. Tell Bekiaa she can use it… till I want it back.” Suddenly, he shifted back and forth on his feet. “Hey! You know, my muscles are kinda sore-but my joints ain’t hurtin’ anymore!” With that, he turned back to face the thickening mob of Grik.

A long, harsh whistle blast shrilled above the sound of battle.