Maelstrom (44 page)

A rueful grin spread across Alden’s face as he looked at the fair-skinned . . . kid, in front of him. “You’re right. I
am
a Marine, and this standing around is kind of tough to do. But you’re not just a supply officer anymore; you’re the goddamn chief of staff!” His eyes twinkled. “So the next time I start to go off half-cocked, just keep yankin’ my leash!”

Perry Brister could barely talk. His voice was hoarse, and his throat hurt from all the yelling. Not that it mattered to most of the crews manning the big guns on the south and west sides of the fort; they were probably deaf as posts by now, and no longer needed his direction anyway. Their task was simple, if physically exhausting. As long as there were Grik ships below, they’d keep blasting them apart. They couldn’t get them all, of course—there were just too many—but there was no question the Grik knew they were in a fight. As the supply of ready ammunition dwindled, and more had to be brought from the magazines, their rate of fire inevitably fell off, and an ever-increasing number of the enemy slipped through the gauntlet of fire. Also, the guns of the fort simply wouldn’t reach clear across the mouth of the bay, and the enemy seemed to have realized that at last. More and more hugged the distant shore. Still, the slaughter Fort Atkinson had worked so far was beyond anything Brister had expected, and the sea frothed with flashies around the burning, sinking ships.

Brister’s most pressing concern, however, was what was taking place on the other side of the fort. Scores of small boats plied to and fro between half a hundred Grik ships and the shore. The guns on that side were smaller than those facing the sea—twelve-pounders—and were emplaced to defend against a landward assault. So far they’d been silent. Now those that would bear began firing at the boats full of warriors as they neared the beach. The range was extreme, and they had almost no chance of hitting the anchored ships, but an occasional lucky shot spilled a score or more Grik into the deadly surf. In spite of that, a truly terrifying number of the enemy had begun assembling onshore, their garish banners flapping overhead.

“Look!” cried Lord Rolak, pointing. A peninsula of the thick, impenetrable jungle running east and west between the coast and Baalkpan City had been spared the axes of the defenders, all the way up to the Fort Atkinson road. On the other side of the road, across a wide avenue allowing the movement of troops, as well as visual communications between the city and the fort, an isolated island of vegetation called the Clump had been allowed to remain. Now, as intended, the jungle acted as a formidable obstacle preventing a rapid advance from that direction. The only clear avenue of approach lay through a narrow gap between the jungle and the fort itself. What aroused Rolak’s attention was the disciplined column of Lemurian troops marching up the road out of the drifting haze.

Even as Brister raised his glasses, he saw a battery of four field pieces manhandled forward of the column, deploying in the gap. He felt a surge of sympathy for the gunners. The only large domestic animals the local Lemurians used were the pygmy “brontosauruses.” They were ideal for leisurely, long-distance transportation of heavy burdens, including artillery, but wholly unsuited to rapid tactical maneuvers. They were surprisingly quick in a sprint, but had no endurance. Besides, they were difficult to control. When frightened or confused, they were at least as dangerous to their owners as to the enemy. Rolak told him Aryaal had maintained a small number of them as warbeasts, and Captain Reddy himself had actually ridden one into battle. Perry was skeptical, and even Rolak admitted they weren’t much good for anything beyond mobile observation points. In any event, he wished there were some local equivalent of a horse. By the time the guns were in position, their sizable crews were clearly winded.

“Cease firing on the boats!” Brister croaked. “Target the concentration on the beach!”

“Perhaps we should hold fire until they are closer?” Rolak suggested. “I believe the main assembly area is nearly a thousand tails distant.”

“Yeah. But they’re so bunched up, all we have to do is shoot in among them. We’ll get a few with every shot—even with solid shot. Maybe it’ll make ’em think.”

“I doubt it,” Rolak remarked. “It’s gratifying to slay them even at such a great distance, however.”

“Sure is. The farther the better.”

North of their position, Major Shinya’s force began deploying from column into line, a short distance behind the guns. At the sight of them the Grik on the beach uttered a collective ululating shriek and surged toward the gap, even while others continued landing behind them. “Here they come,” Brister breathed.

“I agree completely with your previous statement,” Lord Rolak remarked. “Farther was better.” He stepped back from the wall and drew his long, curved sword. “First Aryaal! Sularan volunteers! Stand to!”

The devastation and slaughter on the bay was beyond incredible. The minefield had worked better than anyone hoped, and flames leaped high and spread from ship to ship. The debris and shattered timbers were so dense in the water, Matt was becoming concerned for
Walker
’s screws as she cruised slowly back and forth, firing into the mass of enemies.
Tolson
and
Kas
-
Ra
-
Ar
had finally joined the destroyer and added their guns to the massacre. The entire center of the Grik advance had ground to a halt. Dozens of ships were hopelessly entangled and had created a massive blockage in the channel. Only a few of these carried cannons, and their return fire was wild and desultory. So far,
Walker
and her consorts had suffered only superficial damage. Occasionally enemy firebombs arced out of the wreckage of ships, but the American squadron stayed beyond their range. The effort to use the things was far more dangerous to the Grik themselves. Matt was bitterly convinced that, with enough ammunition, his little squadron could stop this prong of the invasion all by itself.

They didn’t have enough, however. All the new copper bolts they’d taken aboard last night had been expended, and they’d dipped dangerously into their reserve of high-explosive shells. They’d discovered their star shells were highly effective against the wooden hulls of the enemy, able to penetrate and then set them afire when they burst. But they had only about ten salvos left, and they might need them for illumination when darkness fell. There were still a fair number of armor-piercing rounds in the magazines, but they’d been even less effective than the copper bolts against wooden-hulled ships. They just punched a four-inch hole in one side and out the other, and almost never exploded. It was better to save them for later. Riflemen and machine gunners fired at the barrels floating among the enemy ships. Many were decoys, of course, and a lot of ammunition was wasted sinking them. Silva tried to remember which ones were which, and concentrated only on those he felt sure supported a depth charge. Occasionally he was rewarded by a resounding blast and another expanding column of debris and spray.

The center, for the moment, was secure. The chaos and frustration there had become so intense, Grik could be seen actually fighting
one another
from ship to ship. It was on the flanks that things were getting out of hand. Ship after ship managed to squirm past the blockage and make its way into the clear. Some fell victim to the shallow water mines, but others got through. On the east side of the bay they came under the guns lining the southern waterfront, and a terrible destruction was heaped upon them. Regardless of losses, the Grik bored in, literally running their ships aground on the open beach between the Clump and the southwest wall of the city. Even as the warriors leaped into the surf and were shredded by the terrible fish, mortar bombs fell on the ships and set them ablaze. And
still
they came. What was more, an increasing number of the enemy were making it ashore. Whether because there were just so many of them or the carnivorous fish were strutted with their flesh was impossible to say. Whatever the reason, the road to Fort Atkinson was in growing danger of being cut.

Matt couldn’t do anything about that. If
Walker
moved closer to the waterfront, not only would she interfere with the gunnery from the city wall, but she risked accidental damage herself. Steel or not, the old destroyer’s thin skin wouldn’t stop a thirty-two-pound ball. She could do something about the Grik squeezing through the open lane in the channel, near the west side of the bay, however. Signaling the two frigates to hold where they were, she altered course and sprinted in that direction. An agonized, droning noise rose over the sound of the blower, and the PBY flashed by overhead, a depth charge slung beneath each wing, set to detonate at its minimum depth.
Just one more flight
, Matt hoped fervently as she passed.
Just one more
. . . With luck, Mallory would continue to contribute to the devastation in the center, while
Walker
raced to secure the flank.

With the snarling, hissing sound of a raging sea, the mass of Grik warriors crashed against the shield wall of the Second Marines and the Tenth Baalkpan, deployed across the gap. Still more lapped against the base of Fort Atkinson itself. Sheets of arrows and bounding round shot had torn at them as they charged, and still they came. At three hundred yards, canister and grape from the field battery, as well as the fort, scythed down great gaping swaths of the berserker horde, and still they came. Crossbow bolts and arrows from both sides passed one another in midair, to drive home in shields and flesh. With their smaller, less effective shields, the Grik were savaged by this final fusillade, but even then they didn’t falter. The clash of shields, the shrieks and screams, the bellowed curses, and the ring of weapons merged into a single cacophonous thunderclap of sound when the armies came together. The Lemurian line sagged in two places: first in the center, where the heaviest blow fell, where the walls of the Marines and the Guards came together. Second was at the point where the Guard right was anchored to the fort. Shinya bolstered the center by wading into the fight with his own guards and staff. It was, effectively, the only reserve he had. The pressure on the right was relieved when the two hundred Sularans under Lord Rolak’s command sortied from the fort behind the line, and drove a wedge into the brief gap the Grik had created.

Shinya’s modified cutlass parried and slashed across the top of the shield in front of him. Gaping jaws clamped down and tried to wrench it away, and a spear wielded by one of his staff drove into the top of the creature’s head. Tamatsu crouched down and slashed beneath the shield at feet and ankles on the other side as the wall began to stabilize. His wrist jarred painfully when the blade struck bone, and he was rewarded by a muted wail. A foot slammed down on his sword, pinning it to the ground. With all his strength he twisted the blade and wrenched it back, sharp side up. If there was a scream that time, it was drowned by others. His arms were already throbbing with pain. His left was in the shield straps, and the unending blows were starting to be felt. The awkward angle at which he was using his sword sent fire into his right chest and shoulder. The initial defiant yelling of the Lemurians had all but stopped, to be replaced by the panting and grunting of disciplined troops holding the wall, and heaving against the weight of ten times their number. Their only words were cries of instruction or encouragement to those behind, and the spears of the second rank remorselessly thrust and jabbed.

“Major Shinya!” came a cry behind Tamatsu. He spared a glance in that direction and saw an American shoulder his way through the second line. Without another word, the man rested the muzzle of a BAR atop Shinya’s shield and held the trigger down for a magazine’s burst, sweeping it back and forth. Then he dragged someone forward to take Tamatsu’s place. “C’mon, sir! You got more important shit to do!”

Without resisting, and still a little numbed by the fighting and the close report of the automatic rifle, Shinya allowed himself to be dragged out of the wall. Behind the spearmen, he looked at the sailor. He’d seen him before, he supposed, but they’d never met.

He’d called him sir.

“What are you doing here, ah . . .”

“Torpedoman First Russ Chapelle. USS
Mahan
, originally.
Donaghey
now.” He had to scream to be heard over the roar of battle. “I said I was bored, and Alden sent me and Flynn and some of his sub pukes up the Fort Road. I’m such a dumb ass. We barely made it! Lizards is landin’ hand over fist!”

Flynn joined him, panting. “God, what a snafu! Except there’s nothin’ ‘normal’ about
this
situation! Captain Reddy wasn’t kiddin’ when he said he’d pulled us out of a fryin’ pan just to throw us in a fire!”

Shinya whirled and looked at the hell below the fort, but couldn’t see beyond the Clump to tell what was happening to the north. “I left Ramik and his warriors from
Aracca
to guard that approach,” he insisted.

Russell nodded. “They’re moving up here. There’s nothing they could do. Goddamn lizards took us by surprise—started runnin’ their ships right up on the beach. Ol’ Ramic never even had a chance to deploy.”

“We’re completely cut off?”

“Looks that way. There’s no way back to the city with the lizards between us and there. If we hit ’em in the rear we might get through, but the Baalkpan guns would have to quit shooting or risk hitting us.” He shrugged and pointed past the shield wall, beyond the fighting and screaming and blood. “Besides, I don’t think they’re gonna let us disengage.”

Shinya agreed. His eyes flitted back and forth, between the fort, his own force, and the road. Ramic’s column was approaching at the double-quick. Individually, the warriors from
Aracca
Home couldn’t have looked less like soldiers, with their multicolored pelts and bright kilts, but together the
Aracca
regiment moved like the crack veteran infantry they were. “All right then, Torpedoman Chapelle, Chief Flynn,” he said with a sharp nod. “This is what we’re going to do. . . .”