“What did General Lord Rolak’s pet Grik, Hij-Geerki say about it? And weren’t a few prisoners taken at Colombo?”
“Geeky didn’t know what happened. Said he never heard of such a thing. Of course, he was just a clerk… sorta… at Rangoon. He was from Ceylon, originally, but hadn’t ever been anywhere else. Besides, we caught him before all this new stuff kicked in.” He paused. “He does seem loyal to Lord Rolak now, though, and everybody’s pretty sure he’s adopted the glorious old goat as his new pack leader, or whatever. He questioned the prisoners, but all he got was a little more about that new Grik General Halik”-Jim’s face turned grim-“with a Jap tagging along, who seemed to throw just as much weight.”
“Kuro-kawaa himself, perhaps?”
“No such luck. Kurokawa’s apparently General of the Sea, or something, for the whole Grik Empire now. This new Jap is a soldier. My guess is he’s one of those special Navy Jap Marines, or something, who was part of a contingent on Amagi, kind of like Alden was a shipboard Marine himself.”
“That could be… bad.”
“Right. All the more reason to stay on our toes.” He nodded at the seething shoreline. Case shot continued to burst among the trees a mile or more inland, and he imagined what it must be like to be caught beneath that clawing, shrieking hell. “At least we’re killing ’em now, and I bet we have their undivided attention!”
“Indeed.”
“We’ll keep this up all night. At dusk, Arracca will ‘secure from air ops in all respects’ and move in to replace the DDs with her big guns.” Lemurian/American carriers were also heavily armed with large guns, but after Humfra-Dar, they’d determined they shouldn’t function as battleships and aircraft carriers at the same time. The combination of bombs and highly flammable aviation gasoline was bad enough, but add gunpowder and open magazines to the mix, and they’d just been asking for trouble. With the freak hits on Humfra-Dar at exactly the wrong time, probably nothing would have made any difference, but they’d made as many adaptations as they could to prevent accidents from achieving the same results. Everyone knew the new safety procedures were stopgaps, but for now, it was the best they could do. “We’ll get ammunition lighters to replenish the DDs; then we’ll spread things out a little.”
“Does that mean we will get in on the fun ourselves, at long last?” Niaal asked.
“Sure. Everyone will. We want it to look like we’re building for the jump-off here, so the Grik’ll keep swarming in. It’s the most logical place, after all. When the sun comes up, Arracca will ‘secure from surface action’ and launch everything she’s got, loaded to the gills with incendiaries-those gasoline and sticky-sap bombs.” His eyes narrowed. “Then we’ll burn this whole corner of India to the ground! Even if they’re starting to get reports from other places, they’ll have to worry those are the diversions. One way or another, they should stay tied up in knots for at least a couple of days!”
400 miles NNE
Near Maa-draas
Grik Indiaa
General Pete Alden, former Marine sergeant in USS Houston ’s Marine contingent, splashed across the last few feet between the barge and the moonlit beach. He did it quickly, with a chill down his spine. The thick forest beyond the beach might harbor unknown threats aplenty, along with an only guessed-at number of their enemies, but he had confidence he could deal with that. Any opponent he could shoot remained just that: an opponent that he had a growing confidence he could best. The waters around Indiaa were some of the most dangerous they’d encountered yet, however, and maybe a little like Tony Scott, Captain Reddy’s long-lost coxswain, any physical contact with them gave him an almost supernatural case of the creeps. Maybe there weren’t as many flasher fish-tuna-size piranha, for all intents and purposes-as they endured within the Malay Barrier, but there were sharks out there that could sink a ship!
His staff and their guards hopped across the gap with similar uneasiness and joined him amid the tumult of an army trying to sort itself out in the darkness of an unfriendly shore. In front of them was the malignant black blob of the forest. Behind, the wave tops glittered like they were strewn with floating foil. The deceptive peacefulness of the night was marred by the now-familiar chaos of amphibious operations. There was shouting, cursing, and the wailing of the vaguely moose-shape paalkas being hitched to clattering limber traces, and the deep creaking of wooden wheels as guns, wagons, forges, and all manner of vehicles were drawn through the sand. Drummers beat regimental tattoos, drawing wayward troops into growing formations-which were often thrown into confusion by other columns of troops or teams of paalkas grunting the heavy guns through their ranks. More shouting ensued. Occasional musket shots thumped in the forest as pickets or skirmishers from advancing regiments fired at lurking Grik, other frightening creatures, or perhaps nothing at all. Drowning out much of this was the constant surf sound of thousands of hushed voices and the sea.
“Thank God we took ’em by surprise,” Pete said, referring to the congestion. Really, though, he had to admit to himself that this seemed much better than when they went ashore on Ceylon, and it was infinitely better than the assault at Rangoon. Still… “I keep telling Alan we’ve got to have better landing craft,” he complained, “that don’t take so long to clear out of. We ever hit a heavily defended beach, we’re going to get our heads handed to us-or eaten.”
Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Salissa Home, Reserve “Ahd-mi-raal” in the American Navy, and Commander in Chief of operations in the West (CINCWEST), nodded. “I am sure Mr. Letts is working on it, along with countless other things. He may already have solved the problem, but much depends on supply priorities, and I maintain that new weapons and ammunition, not to mention troops and provisions, take precedence.” He grinned, and if his red-brown fur was indistinguishable from the night, his stocky form and bright teeth were plain. “And we do not need better landing craft as long as you continue to outwit our enemy into believing our blows fall elsewhere!”
Pete grunted. “You shouldn’t be here at all. It wasn’t exactly a cakewalk for the first wave. There was maybe a battalion of Grik with those weird matchlock muskets hanging around here-I don’t like the way we keep seeing more of those, by the way-and I doubt Billy Flynn and his Rangers got ’em all. There might be a sniper aimin’ at you right now!”
“Or you, General Aalden,” Keje said blithely.
Pete grunted again and continued churning forward in the loose sand toward a hastily erected CP tent. The frequent rains meant that their precious comm gear must always be protected, and there was usually someone near such devices who had some idea where people might be. “Either way,” Pete resumed, “the word’s going to get out, and we can expect company shortly. You belong on Big Sal.”
“And I shall return soon-I promise.” Keje paused and his voice changed. “I can only send my people into battle so often without at least standing on the same ground they strive for, from time to time.”
Pete had no response to that. He understood it perfectly. “Well, where the hell is everybody?” he demanded loudly of those under the tent.
“Just what I would like to know,” reinforced General Safir-Maraan, Queen Protector of the island of B’mbaado and commander of II Corps, as she appeared out of the gloom. Only her polished, silver-washed breastplate and helmet were visible at first in the dim gri-kakka oil lamps of the CP, but her exotically beautiful, sable-furred face and otherwise black raiment grew more resolved as she drew near. She saluted Alden, and he returned it as the comm ’Cats jumped to attention. “Where are my Sularans-and their aartillery?”