“But what of our ‘miracles’?” N’galsh insisted. “I know they exist! General of the Sea Kurokawa promised them, and they must be nearing completion by now. Why else break the blockade? Why else send all the materials-ship after shipload of them!-away just now if they weren’t essential to the weapons he makes? I’ve seen some; those strange tubes a few of your guards carry, but there must be more!”
“There are,” Halik assured him, “but they may not be finished yet. They will come when they are ready, if they are ready in time. They cannot be just dribbled in; they must arrive in sufficient numbers to be decisive. The Sacred Lands must be provided for first, but if we hold, we will get what we need. Help may even come in forms we cannot imagine. You speak of our guards and the guns they carry, the ‘matchlocks’ such as General Niwa’s people once used. We will employ them, if only to test their effectiveness.”
Halik’s pupils suddenly thinned and he spoke with a new, bitter intensity. “But most of the troops here could no more learn to use them than flap their arms and fly. For ages, the most complicated arm Grik warriors learned was the crossbow-and only the smartest Uul use them! Perhaps our very society is to blame; intelligence among Uul has never been prized. But it has been ‘the Way’ for countless generations, and it has worked… until now.”
He looked hard at N’galsh. “Report my words if you like, but things will change; they have already begun to. Compared to the eons before now, change is coming impossibly fast and it cannot be stopped. I was a sport fighter. Look at me now; listen to my words! Do I sound like a senseless Uul, destined by age for the cook pots so short a time ago?” He pondered his own words. “Maybe this change will be good. More such as I will become more than they are-more than they have ever been allowed to become. But what of you, N’galsh? How will you like that? We may save Ceylon for you and Regent Tsalka, but we have to become something completely different to succeed. I have no real notion what that ‘something’ will be, but it will most assuredly be other than what it now is, and it’s possible none of us will like it very much.”
CHAPTER 6
Task Force Garrett-Ceylon them! /i› SS Donaghey was hard aground on the mushy, sandy beach of south Ceylon. She’d driven in under all the canvas she could spread and the tide and swells cooperated nicely to deposit her as high on the beach as anyone had a right to expect. Mighty waves pounded her stern, bashing in the windows and slowly heaving her around until she was almost beam-on to the marching surf, but she was in no immediate danger of breaking up. Tolson hadn’t been so lucky. She’d struck and stuck almost a quarter mile out and almost immediately turned beam-on to the wind and sea. She was a stout ship and it would take time for her to break, but unless the sea settled down, she certainly would eventually. Right now, she was in even more danger of rolling, and the first priority was getting her people ashore with everything they could bring with them.
Greg Garrett paced the enemy beach, looking out to sea. He hadn’t yet fully absorbed the emotional impact of “losing” his entire squadron; he was too good an officer to dwell on that in the midst of the emergency. He was heartsick to see Donaghey and Tolson as they lay, still just shadowy shapes shrouded in night, but his most immediate concern was saving what he could and preparing for the inevitable storm to come-from the Grik. Despite everything, their landfall had apparently been almost perfect. They’d grounded on what amounted to a little isthmus of sorts, protected on one side by the sea, and on the other by a swampy river mouth. It wasn’t much, but it could have been a lot worse. Smitty remained by his side as he continued marching through the sand, examining the ground through the blowing grains and atomized spray, seeing what he could of the peninsula in the dark.
Marines had been the first ashore, and he encountered them from time to time, lone figures, watching for signs of life or distant lights that might indicate habitation. So far, there was nothing. Maybe their arrival had gone unnoticed and they’d have time to prepare. Smitty hadn’t said a word during their inspection. He was waiting for Garrett to get the “big picture” in his mind. He was good at that. He didn’t have long to wait.
“This is a good, defensible position,” Garrett shouted at last, over the wind and crashing sea, “provided we can get enough provisions and fresh water ashore. There’s no apparent source for either. That river’ll be too salty. We’ll leave Donaghey ’s guns aboard her for now. She should hold together, and if she stays put, she’ll make a fine flanking battery against any force coming along the peninsula at us, not to mention protecting us from a sea approach. We ’ve got to get Tolson ’s guns out of her, though, before she flips.” He paused. “The bad thing is, there’s nothing here to use as breastworks, nothing to fort up behind. No big rocks, no trees to knock down, nothing.”
“ Tolson ’ll break up eventually,” Smitty said. “We can use her timbers as they wash ashore.”
“Maybe. That might take a while, though, and what if she doesn’t? What if this storm plays out before then?” He shook his head. “After we get what we can out of her, if she’s still holding together, we’ll have to break her ourselves; then build trenches and reinforce them with her planks and beams.”
“Cap’n Chapelle’s gonna hate that.”
“So do I. It’s one thing to use what the sea takes off her; it’s another to kill her ourselves.” He shook his head. “Nothing for it.” They’d returned to that portion of the beach being used to stack supplies and equipment taken from the ships. Hundreds of ’Cats scurried around, carrying barrels and crates from the few boats and dozens of makeshift raftsthat labored ashore. Getting back out to the ships was the hard part. They had to pull themselves along heavy cables anchored to the land. Marine Lieutenant Bekiaa-Sab-At and Shipfitter Stanley “Dobbin” Dobson, both from Tolson, hurried up and hastily saluted. They were soaking wet.
“Respects from Cap’n Chaa-pelle,” Bekiaa said. “Almost half Tolson ’s people are ashore… there have been a few accidents… and we’re getting the supplies out that are in the most danger from the flooding. Skipper wants to know how you want to get the guns ashore.” Garrett was glad Chapelle’s priorities mirrored his. Surviving the night would be an accomplishment, but it would mean nothing without the guns to defend them.
“Float them in if you can,” Garrett said. “If that can’t be managed, we’ll have to drag them.”
“Drag them!” Dobbin sputtered. “Drag them two-ton monsters a quarter mile through the sand and surf?”
“Yeah,” Garrett replied. “Secure them to cables and throw them off their carriages. Donaghey can pull them most of the way with her capstan. We’ve got almost a thousand men and ’Cats, probably three hundred already ashore. We’ll drag them ourselves if we have to. The carriages too. They’ll sink, but they’re mostly wood. They won’t weigh nearly as much in the water.”
“Oh,” Dobbin said thoughtfully. “I guess fellas do become officers for a reason.”
Garrett chuckled at Dobson’s unconscious, backhanded compliment. “Lieutenant,” he said, addressing Bekiaa, “stay here on the beach. Any more Marines that come ashore, send them to Lieutenant Graana-Fas; he’s with the supplies. I expect he’ll send any Marines with dry muskets or bows to bolster our pickets. If any arrive with wet weapons or none, he’ll probably give them something dry or put them to work here.” He glanced at his watch. Fortunately, the precious device hadn’t gotten wet. ‘This night may be all the time we have; our only grace period. We’d better be prepared for a Grik probe, at least, by dawn. Maybe it’ll come then, maybe it won’t, but we have to be ready if it does. When it does, we can expect exponentially stronger Grik attacks very soon thereafter. If we’re not dug in tighter than a tick, with heavy guns ready and waiting, we will die here.”