Firestorm

CHAPTER 19

Central Highlands Grik Ceylon

C olonel “Billy” Flynn was riding one of six paalkas, drawing a battery of light six-pounders on split-trail “galloper” carriages near the front of the column of his 1st Amalgamated. He still liked “Flynn’s Rangers” better, and through persistent repetition, he had enough people using the term that he was confident the moniker would stick. He had two more batteries of light guns along, one in the middle and another at the rear of the column. Looking back at the winding snake of Lemurians, he was proud of what he’d accomplished and what they’d achieved. They might not be Marines, or the Six Hundred, but he’d put his thousand-’Cat regiment up against any Army unit anywhere, especially with their new rifled muskets. Soon, they’d even have breechloaders, and he couldn’t wait. Since they’d been among the first to get rifles, they’d probably be the last to get the “Allin-Silva” conversions, however.

He guessed it was inevitable that he’d wound up “back” in the Army. He had good leadership skills and remembered by heart the infantry drill manual he’d been taught. For a while, Captain Reddy used him to help create a new manual that was applicable here. He’d modified and simplified the original in his head and unconsciously substituted a number of nautical terms and commands here and there, but it seemed to work okay. The new book-the first printed on this world with movable type-was titled Flynn’s Tactics. He wouldn’t admit it, but that “honor” actually embarrassed him. Ultimately, his manual set the stage for his getting his own regiment, and the irony of his command wasn’t lost on him. He’d made corporal in the 77th “Melting Pot” Division during the Great War, and now he had the “Amalgamated,” another “melting pot” of people from every Lemurian Home they were known to inhabit, mostly uniformed alike now, and many from places still trying to stay out of the war.

A good example of that was the nominal commander of his newest-if possibly temporary-company: Lieutenant Commander Saaran-Gaani, the brown-and-white-furred former exec of USS Donaghey. He was one of a few, but growing number of troops recruited from the Great South Island that really needed to be in the war. Not only was it a vast land with many resources, it was fairly well populated in the warmer north. He hoped ’Cats like Saaran could take their stories home and get their various Homes, or “city-states” on board. The allies needed the Great South Island much like the Brits and French needed the U.S. in the “last” war.

Billy’s contemplations were disturbed by a more immediate concern-his ass. He hated riding palkas. With their broad backs, it was probably about as comfortable as riding an elephant. He tried to sit as he’d seen folks do in movies, riding camels and such, but the damn pal-ka’s rolling gait and this unpredictable terrain made that almost suicidal. Therefore, whenever he was “aboard” one, he was perpetually doing the splits. He’d ride only a little while more, he decided; just long enough to give his knees and ankles a rest. He’d been a submariner too long, and honestly, he had some joint issues. Some of that likely stemmed from the near-scurvy he and the others experienced on Talaud Island while marooned for the better part of a year. He’d heard the island had blown itself apart, and though he was saddened by the loss of life and the damage to their Fil-pin allies, he was glad the island was gone.

“Somebody stop this goddamn thing,” he finally growled. “I’ve h all the ‘rest’ I can stand.” The Lemurian mahout stopped the beast by a means Billy didn’t see, and he slid gingerly down the animal’s flank, to be assisted to the ground by Captain Bekiaa-Sab-At. “Lemme go,” Flynn protested.

“Very well, Colonel, but if you break a leg or ankle in these rocks, you’ll have to ride a paalka all the time.”

“Yeah? Well, sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to snap. Just mad at my own worn-out carcass. Walk with me a little, wilya?”

“Of course.”

It was beautiful here; the mountains rising on either side of the valley, the heavy timber composed of something like ferny pines. It was cool, and for once the mosquitoes weren’t that bad except at dawn and dusk. Even the “Griklets,” the feral youngling Grik that dogged the column all the way up from the southern coast, screeching at them, throwing sticks, rocks, and feces, and occasionally even attacking, had finally laid off.

It did stink, though.

The valley they advanced through had been packed with Grik just a few days before, but after Alden’s breakthrough on the coastal plain, recon had reported the enemy abandoning the rough terrain to reinforce the southern approaches to the industrial heart of Ceylon; the area between “Colombo” and the natural low-tide causeway connecting the big island to the “Indian” subcontinent. The stench left by the departed Grik “Army” still lingered heavy in the valley, however. Grik didn’t use slit trenches, and the reek of their dung was all-pervasive. Billy wondered how on earth they avoided epidemics. Maybe they didn’t and just ate their dead. The stench of rotting flesh was strong as well.

Saaran joined them, wearing a bandanna over his face. “If this is what it smells like when the Grik leave, I’d hate to be in a confined place like this valley when they were here! I thought it was bad on the Sand Spit when we were downwind of them.”

Flynn’s brow furrowed. “Stink wouldn’t be the worst thing about being in a place like this!” he said, looking up at the wooded flanks of the mountains. “I wish we had comm down in here.” He glanced at his watch. “Another twenty minutes or so before our guardian angels check on us,” he added, referring to the four-plane flight tasked to watch over the long, winding column. “Anything from the flank pickets?”

“Just Grik… excrement, Colonel,” said Bekiaa. Her tail swished. “They abandoned a lot of their artillery, though. Orders from Colonel Grisa of the Ninth Aryaal behind us is not to destroy the guns, we might use them. Even if we don’t, they’ll certainly be easier to salvage on their carriages.”

“True.” Flynn rubbed his jaw. “Look, maybe I’m paranoid, but it wouldn’t be the first time the flyboys missed something. They have to key on movement like the rest of us, and it’s a lot harder to see when you’re moving yourself.”

“The Third Maa-ni-lo Caav, under Cap-i-taan Saachic, scouted the whole area carefully this morning, and their… me-naaks did not alert,” Saaran reminded him thoughtfully, “but with the scent so thick, they may not have.” They used a vaguely similar, if smaller-and much more agreeable-version of “meanies” on the Great South Island to track game, and Saaran was familiar with them. They weren’t “pets” per se, but they did respond to affection and familiarity. Saaran respected the larger beasts’ capabilities but had no desire to befriend one.

“Yeah, but this valley is just too good a place to put cork in the bottle-hell, the Grik were here!” He shrugged. “I feel sorta like I’m on the conn tower of the old S-19 in the bottom of a big trough with all the hatches open.”

“I agree,” Bekiaa said, a little edgy. “As you say, something stinks here-besides the waste. But the pickets move all the way to the crests”-she pointed north and south-“and see no movement.”

“Hmm. I hate to string the poor guys out that far, where those damn Griklets might gang up on ’em, but signal the pickets to drop over the crest-in pairs-and see what they can over there.”

“We might not hear shots, or even see the puffs of smoke,” Saaran reminded him. “They certainly won’t be able to signal us visually.”

“Then they’ll just have to haul their asses to where we or other pickets can see or hear ’em if they spot anything,” Billy said. “Pass the word back to Grisa that he might want to do the same.” He looked back as far as he could see. His and Grisa’s regiments were fully committed to the valley now, but the rest of the division wasn’t yet. Was that good or bad? Both the Amalgamated and the 9th Aryaal were well trained, and the 9th was a hardened, veteran force. If this was a trap, could two thousand stand against whatever might be assembled against them? It occurred to him with a chill that if his instincts were correct, the Grik thought they could handle the entire division!

“Okay,” he said, a little tentatively, “I want another runner to suggest to Grisa that our two regiments go from column into line, act like we smell a rat. If the Grik are up to something, maybe that’ll prod them into showing us what it is. If they attack down one of these slopes, we can funnel the follow-on regiments in behind our lines.”

“What if they attack down both mountains?” Bekiaa asked.

“Then we’re screwed… but maybe the rest of the division can block the valley behind us, and we can retreat back to them.” He shrugged. “Prob’ly nothin’, anyway, just a superstitious old pigboater!”

They continued to advance a short distance until Grisa’s reply arrived. Apparently, he was superstitious too and fully endorsed the scheme. If nothing happened, the worst that would occur was perhaps an hour’s delay in their advance.

“Just a few minutes until the planes,” Flynn said, as much to himself as to Bekiaa who remained beside him. “If we do poke a hornet’s nest, maybe they’ll see it before it hits us.” He raised his voice. “Rangers!” he yelled, followed by other shouts up and down the column, crying out to their various companies or batteries. “Halt! Action left! Column into line by files…” He waited while his command was relayed and the appropriate drum cadence rumbled. “Execute!” (He’d always thought it was stupid to punctuate a command with the word “march”-particularly when troops were already marching.)

Despite the rocky, uneven ground, NCOs scampered out to the left, looking back at the troops, and the column of Lemurians that had been marching four abreast transformed into a battle line facing southwest, two ranks deep.

“Batteries! Action left!”

The “Gun ’Cats” wheeled their palkas to the right until their pieces were even with the infantry line; then the beasts were halted while the long, twin shafts were unhooked from either side of them. The animals were then moved to what was now the “rear,” where they were joined by more palkas pulling similarly hitched ammunition limbrs. The new twelve-pounders had single, “stock trail” carriages that hitched directly to the limbers, which were in turn drawn by a pair of palkas, but they’d been considered too heavy for the rough mountain trails.

In moments, thirty-six guns in six batteries were crewed and pointed up the slope of the mountainous ridge to the south, and two thousand Lemurians from the 1st Amalgamated and 9th Aryaal stood prepared for battle. Colonel Flynn studied the crest through his binoculars, but so far, there’d been no response to their maneuver. In the sudden near silence, he heard the sound of approaching planes.

“It’s about damn time!” he said as the four-ship formation swooped low over what had been the head of the column, and obviously seeing its deployment, banked left and climbed to investigate the flank. “This is probably all for nothing,” he admitted sheepishly to Bekiaa. “Everybody always says I give those Grik bastards too much credit for brains, but I spent some time talking to Rolak’s pet, Hij Geeky… or whatever.” He swatted at a mosquito. “He ain’t a genius, and he’s weird as hell, but he’s no dummy, you know? Anyway, maybe I’m bein’ a dope, but I didn’t last this long…” He stopped. A tiny, distant puff of smoke drifted up out of the trees; then another. “Pickets, I bet,” he murmured. Several more puffs appeared, but they never heard the sound of the shots over the diminishing engine noises. The planes must have seen as well, because they banked further, aiming for the crest of the mountain just west of Flynn’s Rangers. Barely an instant after the “Nancys” cleared that crest, the entire top of the mountain seemed to explode as hundreds of gouts of flame stabbed upward, shrouded in dense gray-white smoke. Two of the planes instantly crumpled and fell. One spiraled down, out of control, and painted a smear of orange fire and greasy black smoke on the skyline. A single ship staggered on, trailing smoke.

“Sonuva bitch!” Billy yelled, just as the thunderous reports of the enemy weapons began to reach them. They would echo in the valley for some time. “I wish for once I didn’t have to be right about how shitty a thing can turn! What were those things?”

“I would say they were either cannon on the extreme opposite slope, or they have something similar to our mortars for firing a heavy load of canister straight up. Either way, the range cannot be great,” Saaran said.

“Great enough,” Flynn seethed. “I hope that one plane is able to report, because whatever did that wasn’t here this morning. The Cav would’ve seen them.” The sporadic musket fire from the retreating pickets was diminishing. Either they were breaking contact-or being wiped out. “And whatever the hell else is up there all of a sudden.” He looked around.

“Colonel!” Bekiaa suddenly cried, pointing at the mountains to the north. There were small puffs of smoke there as well!

“That… ain’t good, huh? I bet this is how Custer felt.”

“How is that, Colonel?” Saaran asked.

“Like pukin’.”

“Who is Custer?” asked Bekiaa.

“A dead idiot,” Flynn said. Suddenly, the thunder echoing in the valley took on a different, more strident tone, with the power and malevolence of a typhoon sea. He’d heard this thunder before, just prior to the Grik assault on the south wall of Baalkpan. It was the mind-numbing, terrifying sound of thousands of Grik, roaring, screaming, pounding weapons on their shields. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “Except we ain’t gonn be dead idiots, see? Not if it kills us! We might still wind up dead-and I can live with that-so long as we’re dead heroes! I didn’t quit my sugar boat and join the Army to be remembered as the biggest military dunce of the war!”

“What shall we do?” Saaran asked, thrown a little by Flynn’s contradictory comments.

“Rangers!” Flynn roared in response. “From line into column to your left… execute!” Immediately, the nervous and confused, but motivated troops, re-formed their column, facing the direction they’d come.

Bekiaa had echoed the order like all the other company commanders. Technically, Saaran was senior, but here on land, they both knew who was really in charge of “their” company. She looked at Flynn. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going to run back there and double up with the Ninth, facing north. Then, if I can get Grisa to agree, we’ll try to ease back and form an arrowhead-shaped front with the First B’mbaado deploying from what will then be our right, and the third Sular extending Grisa’s left flank to the mountains. Eventually, as we suck the devils down, we’ll fall back into a continuous line and the other regiments behind us can reinforce as necessary! We’ll get ’em into a stand-up fight on our terms instead of givin’ them the ambush they wanted!”

Bekiaa glanced at the timber-cloaked mountains, wondering how far down the slopes the hidden enemy had advanced. “If we have the time,” she said, her tail swishing nervously behind her.

About then, more huge billows of smoke shrouded the opposing mountains as maybe a hundred guns commenced an erratic fire.

“That’s right, Captain. If we have the time.” Flynn raised his voice once more. “Artillery will return fire at the enemy smoke, then retire behind the infantry. Spike your guns if you can’t move ’em. Rangers! At the double time… march!” He saw Saaran begin to whirl and follow his company. “Saaran!” he shouted, and the brown and white ’Cat turned.

“Sir?”

Heavy roundshot began falling in the valley, followed by the heaviest rumble yet. Most fell short, but some was unnervingly close for a first attempt. Shards of rock and clouds of brown-black dust exploded from the iron spheres when they struck and bounded visibly on.

“Get your blotchy Navy ass out of here!”

Saaran blinked with fury.

“Don’t even start,” Flynn warned, “you’re the bravest ’Cat on the island! But in case that plane didn’t make it, or transmit, I need you to take the word, personally, to Queen Maraan that we’re about to have a hell of a fight on our hands!” The first trickle of sprinting, howling Grik finally appeared at the edge of the woods about four hundred yards to the south. The artillery that hadn’t already limbered up, nearly half, fired into them and the forest beyond, the guns jumping against their springy trail shafts and rolling backward-where impatient hands waited to hitch them to palkas. “Tell her I think we’ve set the hook pretty hard, and a little help would be appreciated. Also, unless the flyboys have been making up fairy tales, the fact this bunch is here probably means there ain’t really doodly in front of General Alden, no matter what it looks like! Got that?”

“Ay, ay, sir! If you… insist it must be I who goes!”

More roundshot struck, some among the artillery palkas, and the huge beasts screamed shrilly in agony and terror as swas unnewere sprayed with rock or iron fragments and others were simply shattered. A red mist flecked Saaran’s white fur.

“I do! Now git!”

With a lingering glance at Bekiaa, Saaran raced off.

“If they send any more planes up this way, tell ’em to watch their ass!” Flynn yelled after him, then looked at Bekiaa. She and several of her company, all sailors or Marines from TF Garrett, remained with him as the rest of the company trotted away. Flynn looked at the “Gun ’Cats,” still wrestling with maybe a dozen guns and their wounded or balky animals.

“Leave ’em, fellas!” he shouted. “Spike ’em and go!” A solid mass of Grik was now descending as if being poured from the tops of the mountains. Crossbow bolts flew thick.

“If you don’t want to be a ‘dead idiot,’ Colonel, I recommend we do the same,” Bekiaa said sharply.

“Oh, all right. Just tryin’ to be the last, like in the movies, you know? We’re all gonna be heroes outta this one!”

“I for one cannot ‘live with being a dead hero,’ and the ‘last’ ones here are not going to survive.”

Flynn looked at the few remaining Gun ’Cats, utterly fixated on saving their weapons, oblivious to orders or danger. “Say, I bet you’re right. Let’s get the hell out of here!”

“Just what the hell’s going on up there?” General Pete Alden demanded angrily.

“It’s… confusing still, General,” Lord General Rolak replied. The overall commander and some of his personal staff (he’d temporarily swiped Alan Letts to lead it), as well as the division commanders of Task Force West (TFW), were under the protection of a field tent as a coastal squall lashed the plain around them. Those leaders included Rolak, General Rin-Taaka-Ar of the 1st Marine Division, (1st and 3rd Marines, and the 1st Battalion, 2nd Marines, with the 4th, 6th, and 7th Aryaal attached) and General Taa-leen of the 5th “Galla” Division, composed of the 5th, 6th, 7th, and 10th Baalkpan, as well as the 5th and 6th B’mbaado. Rolak was in charge of this oddly shaped I Corps. Outside, other staff, as well as some of the regimental commanders and a security company from the 1st Marines, stood stoically watching in the rain.

“Well, get it unconfused, fast!” Pete demanded.

“We’re trying, sir,” Alan said. Pete’s borrowed “chief of staff” looked pretty rough. He hadn’t slept much over the last few weeks, and it was beginning to show. He had his “combat experience” now, and he’d learned an awful lot about logistics in the field. When this campaign was over, he’d decided to return to his old job in Baalkpan. Not because he couldn’t take it; he’d finally proven to his own satisfaction that he could-despite the daily assaults on life, limb, fair skin, and sanity. But he’d seen just how important it was for him to start a real, live, staff college. This war was growing beyond what a meager handful of talented “logistics types” could handle, and they needed more support personnel even worse than they needed more troops.

“Something big popped in front of Second Corps; something recon didn’t detect. Only one of our air patrol ships made it back, and it was shot to pieces. No radio, spotter dead. The pilot said it was as if the whole mountain ‘shot at them’ all at once.”

“Artillery?” Rolak asked.

Alan shrugged. “My guess is something more like mortar tubes stuffed with junk, by what the pilot said. Anyway, he also saw ‘swarms of Grik’ jumping right up out of the ground and running to the attack.”

“They must have been camouflaged, so the recon flights and scouts didn’t see ’em. Damn, I never would’ve thought it!”

“Hij Geerki has hinted that, after the Battle of Baalkpan, some in their leadership developed… radical views,” Rolak reminded him.

“Sure, but he didn’t know what they’d do, or even if they’d get to live,” Pete growled. “I guess they did. That damn ‘General Esshk,’ at least.”

“So it would seem.”

“What else do we know? I mean, now that some Grik have conjured up an imagination, what’s it going to cost us? What kind of crack have Second Corps and Safir-Maraan got their tails stuck in?”

“Reports are just now coming in from her HQ,” Alan said, reading a dripping message form passed to him by an aide. “Oh crap. They nearly got sucked into an ambush… here,” he said, stepping to a damp map laid out on a table under the dripping canvas above. “In this pass, or valley-whatever it is. Pretty high. Anyway, somebody must’ve smelled a rat, because the first two regiments, the Amalgamated and the Ninth Aryaal, deployed about the time the recon flight got hammered. The combination of those two things must’ve tripped the trap the Grik must’ve hoped would catch the whole division, maybe the whole corps.” His brows arched. “Lucky. Anyway, those two regiments pulled back and formed with others behind them to create a division-size front across the valley, with fairly secure flanks. General-Queen-Maraan’s moving up now to support what’s shaping into a knock-down drag-out.”

“Enemy numbers?”

“Best guess is twenty-five to thirty thousand. You know how it is-it’s not as if you can count ’em when they’re all gaggled up.” Alan watched Pete’s expression morph from shock and horror to concern, and finally, tentative confidence. They’d faced worse odds before; II Corps apparently had a good position, and nearly all its eight thousand troops carried muskets with bayonets. Some had rifles. It would be a hell of a fight, one for the books, but the Corps should survive.

Pete swore and stared hard at the map. “Okay, I can see that… but why? And where’d the bastards come from? I mean, recon this morning showed about as many Grik in front of us as would be there if those attacking Second Corps had come down. Hell, our spotters saw them come down!”

“ ‘Why’ is obvious, General,” Lord Rolak grumbled, his old eyes also exploring the map. “To strike a decisive blow. Their attacks on us have delayed our advance but have nearly bled out the forces opposing us… and still we advance. Their ‘straa-ti-gees’ have changed, even improved in terms of maneuver, but the ‘taac-tics’ remain much the same. They cannot cope with our training, discipline, and modern weapons in an open-field contest.” He blinked a Lemurian shrug and added a human one for emphasis. “They try something different… significant in itself, hoping we’ll grind to a halt and lick our wounds-further delay our push on Colombo. They fight for time, and that’s another… straa-ti-gee I would never have credited them with.”

“That is significant… if true, and I’m inclined to agree it is. Damn. I hate smart Grik!”

“Perhaps too smart for their own good,” Alan med.

“What?”

“Okay. I’m just a supply guy, remember, but if we’re right about why, then we have to figure how. Our planes combed this joint from top to bottom, and we’ve had a good idea where all their major troop concentrations are, or where they were headed, for a while. As of right now, all they have unengaged is a really big wad up north around that land bridge that splits Palk Bay from the Mannar Gulf, see? I’d bet my last Navy pencil they don’t have what it takes to pull what they did today against Second Corps-and still keep what they’ve got in front of us.”

“But it is there!” General Taa-leen interrupted. “The fliers watch constantly. They bomb! They see!”

“Maybe they see what the enemy wants them to,” Alan said softly. “Throughout our advance, we’ve only ever seen a few ‘civilian’ Grik-besides those…” He shuddered and took a breath. He hated the young, feral Grik. A pack had ganged up on him while he was alone at night, using the latrine! Only his 1911 had saved him from a terrible and ignominious end. “Those Griklets,” he said, finishing the thought. “But we know they exist. They’ve either been rounded up and herded before us, or refugee’d out on their own. Anyway, where are they?”

“You think whoever this sneaky Grik commander is, has dumped them in with his warriors facing us, to swell their apparent numbers?”

“I do.”

“I’ll be damned,” Pete said, staring at his friend. “You really do!”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“Rolak?”

The old Lemurian warrior stared out at the Marines surrounding the tent. The rain was passing and the sun already glared down.

“I have to agree with Mr. Letts. His reasoning is sound, particularly in light of what has transpired today. It would seem the enemy commander is clever, and that bodes ill for the future, but fortunately for us here, now, his army cannot match him. I believe we have a grand opportunity.”

Pete grunted. “Yeah… I hate it for more reasons than I care to name, but I guess it does make sense. God help us if we’re wrong.”

“God help us if we’re right, in the long haul,” Letts said. “They’ve always had us outnumbered, but our noodles gave us an edge-even if we’re making up most of what we do as we go. Cancel that advantage and…” He shook his head.

Pete glanced at the wide-eyed aide who’d brought the message. “Send to Admiral Keje,” he said. “Request the whole damn fleet move up and start hammering Colombo. All air to focus on the Grik formations in front of us and in the city; firebomb the hell out of them! Hold back enough to assist Second Corps in the valley, if requested, but remind them there’re some scary plane-swatting weapons there. Maybe in front of us too.” He looked at the faces around him. “Return to your commands, bring everything up! Lord Rolak, you and Alan stay here. There’s not much to plan; our standard ‘march up and piss ’em off’ play ought to do it, but we need an order of battle and to make sure everybody has what they need.”

“Okay,” Alan said, praying very hard they were right after all. “When do we start the dance?”

Pete looked at his watch. “Dark in nine hours. If ‘General Grik’ isn’t stuck all the way in with Second Corps, he might try "›“ove something back. If he does it in daylight, we can cut him up from the air, once he’s in the open. We can’t stop him in the dark, so… we need to make sure he has nothing to come back to before the sun goes down. We’ll have to hustle, but everything’s nearly in place now.” He looked up. “We go in two hours. Start the bombardment in one. Ships offshore now will begin simultaneously, and the others can join in as they arrive.”

“Some won’t be here for hours, General,” Alan said.

“That’s okay. Reasonable care should be taken to avoid the docks and manufacturing facilities we’ve pinpointed from the air, but the latecomers’ll still have plenty to shoot at. I want Colombo-the disgusting, puss-filled sore it is on this world-turned into a gravel pit.”

“Ah, should we pass the word to try to take any prisoners?” Alan asked.

“What for? We don’t eat them! Oh never mind, I know what you mean. Orders are don’t kill any Japs you see, and try to catch a few hon- chos in fancy clothes so we can find out more about ‘General Grik,’ and what else might be up. Besides that, take no risks to secure prisoners! In other words, don’t kill ’em if they throw themselves at your feet, but for God’s sake, cut their claws and bind their jaws-and kill ’em anyway if they twitch while you’re doing it.”

General Halik snarled with fury and literally flung the abject messenger away from him, drawing his sword as he did so.

“If you kill messengers that bring ill tidings, soon you’ll have none willing to bring you any, ill or good,” General Niwa said mildly. “Your messengers are not Uul, after all. They are… fairly valuable.”

“N’galsh, that… traitor!… has fled the city with the cream of the cadre we’ve spent these long months forming! He didn’t even test them against the enemy-he just took them and ran away!”

“Can you blame him? Honestly? He’s no general. I told you one of us should have remained behind.”

Halik and Niwa were standing near the crest of the highland range overlooking the cauldron of death the valley below had become. Both were filthy and a little scorched by a firebomb that landed nearby earlier in the day, destroying several large guns and roasting their carefully trained crews. Unlike the first such weapons they’d seen deployed in the south, these detonated on impact. The enemy revised and adapted their tools so quickly!

It was late afternoon now, and even Halik had long since wished he could end this battle. He wouldn’t have started it at all, if he’d been able to properly communicate with the forces on the northern slope. He’d been forced to rely on rote memorization of the “plan,” based on “you see this, you do that.” Even now, few of his Firsts of a Thousand (Niwa called them colonels) were willing to exercise initiative, even if they could. Now, having insisted Niwa accompany him here, he’d compounded that error by insisting he remain by his side. Had it been nerves? Insecurity? Halik suspected so. This had been his first real test, and he’d wanted the Japh with him… but then he’d ignored almost all his advice! He wasn’t really angry at the messenger, or really even N’galsh. N’galsh had done the only thing he knew to do. Halik was angry at himself.

“You speak truth, General Niwa,” he said, sheathing his blade and staring at the smoke-choked abattoir below. He couldn’t see much from where he stood, but even after the long hours of figheverhe enemy guns still thundered as frequently as they had all day, and the stutter of their “muskets” only wavered when the diminishing horde fell back out of range. Even then, curiously, some of the enemy small arms continued firing-and taking a toll-far beyond what he knew their own new “muskets” were capable of hitting anything. None of his “special” warriors armed with the things were down there, of course; they remained an elite guard for him and Niwa, but after their first blooding in the south, and what he’d seen here, he knew they were the future of this war.

“Call them back; end this,” Niwa said softly. “They’re not yet what we would make of them, but they’re becoming good troops, General. None I’ve seen have run as prey, even in the face of that impenetrable wall of fire. They are beginning to revert, however, and many are bunching up rather badly. The enemy planes will likely return, and their mortars…”

“Yes, yes! I know all that! It’s just… hard! In this one day, we’ve lost everything! With a single ‘plan,’ all is undone!”

“No, my… friend. Nothing is undone. As I’ve said many times, we’ve accomplished our mission here. We learned about the enemy, and he’s learned little new of us. Even more important is what we ’ ve learned about us! It’s long been an axiom among my… species that one often learns more from failure than success; more from defeat than victory. Not least among those lessons, I think, is that defeat is possible, even likely, if one has never seen its signs before.”

“There are ‘signs’ all around us!” Halik snorted.

“Indeed. You’ve seen much that doesn’t work today: too rigidly adhering to a plan, assuming that plan is too clever for the enemy to divine, overconcentration of command-all these and many more you won’t do again-if you and some portion of this army live to fight another time.” He put his hands behind his back. “General Halik, there are.. . some things… General of the Sea Kurokawa admires about your Uul. He admires what he calls their ‘discipline,’ their willingness to do anything they’re told, within the context of their understanding. Tell them to charge into certain death and they do-because few have any real con- cept of death, what it means, and that it will happen to them. They are told and they obey. We once watched hundreds dive into the water to assist with repairs to Amagi, my lost ship. They were torn to shreds by the fish. They finally managed the simple task set them, but hundreds died to accomplish what might have been achieved with no loss had any real thought been given to the assignment. Kurokawa believed that was discipline, but it wasn’t.” He paused. “I don’t know if you’re ready to discuss what I think it was, but it wasn’t discipline.”

He pointed down at the battle. “Those… creatures and their Americans have true discipline! They move and fight as a team, like a machine-and not the way your laborer Uul behave, with no thought or understanding of what they do. Our enemy, each and every one of them that performed that admirable maneuver to evade your trap, knows what is expected of them, knows they can die-they are as intelligent as you or I, it seems; yet even though they’re likely terrified, they do their duty. That is discipline! The contrast between that and your average Uul couldn’t be more striking.

“Now we’ve begun to form troops with a measure of understanding for what they do. Some are even afraid, I think; yet they don’t ‘turn prey,’ as you put it. They begin to know, as you once did, yet still they do. We must preserve that!”

Halik hissed a long sigh, looking to the west where a great column of smoke rose above Colombo. “I will end this, if I can. Some will not retreat; others will turn prey at last, once they show their backs to the enemy…”

“Perhaps.” Niwa stared down at the milling, dying army. “Perhaps not. If so, you can’t help that. Save what you can.”

Halik raised his voice. “The horns will sound the ‘gathering’ call!” He listened as his order was obeyed and the horns boomed along the crest, answered by others on the far slope. Almost immediately, the Grik horde, savagely depleted, began to stir; to disengage.

“See?” Niwa said with satisfaction. Greater, stricter “horn” training had been one of his own contributions. The horns not only told the warriors what to do, they gave them direction and ensured them that “someone” was watching over them, leading them. The sound of the horns gave them something to cling to when they were confused. “They’ve learned that well enough. Their obedience to the horns has become even stronger than their urge to attack-or break!”

“What now? Will the enemy pursue?”

Niwa glanced at the sun nearing the horizon. “I think not. He’s been mauled as well. He’ll expect us to move to the relief of the city, and if it has truly fallen as the message suggests, he’ll move to intercept us. I recommend we retreat north, as quickly as we can. We may have time to destroy some of the factories and other facilities, but I submit our greatest imperative is to save as much of the Army, this one and that to the north, as possible; to prevent a rapid enemy advance across to India. The factories may be here, but the things that feed them are there. You must decide on which side of the land bridge to try to stop them. Once that’s done, you must also decide if we should stay, or if it’s time to leave at last, to pass what we’ve learned to others.”

“It will be as you advise,” Halik hissed. “I will decide that last question when the time comes.”

“Jesus, they’re pullin’ back!” Colonel Flynn gasped, pausing his attempt to pound a stuck “Minie” bullet down the fouling choked barrel of his Baalkpan Arsenal rifled musket. A few of his Rangers also paused to look, to realize what he said. They’d never had a chance to throw up a proper breastworks, but they’d improvised one during the battle with the bodies of the Grik dead. Those with shields had tried to protect the firing line from the hail of crossbow bolts, but the killed and wounded in almost every engaged regiment approached thirty percent. Naturally, the Rangers and the 9th Aryaal had been hardest hit, being in the center, and the 1st Amalgamated had been forced into close combat with their slightly slower-loading rifles. Flynn vaguely suspected there’d always be a place for the “buck and ball” smoothbores as long as the fights remained such close-quarters affairs.

The Grik had paused about two hundred yards away after their most recent rush was blunted. Even they had to rest a while, though their attacks had been unnervingly well coordinated for a change. Their ranks remained disorganized, but they seemed to have adopted the concept of successive “surges” that allowed those most closely engaged to fade back and be replaced by others at the point of contact. This allowed them to keep the pressure up far longer-and more exhaustingly-than ever before. The change was a… chilling development. Finally, they’d pulled back en masse beyond what they must have considered “musket shot,” apparently to sortthings out a bit. They weren’t out of range of the new rifles-or canister from the artillery, of course. For the last ten minutes, the Grik just stood there and took it as if unsure what to do while the battered II Corps obligingly poured it in. Flynn had been wishing for the hundredth time he had one of Hij Geerki’s “recall” horns, when suddenly the things began to thrum in the valley, and the massive Grik swarm began obediently withdrawing.

He was stunned. Never had the Grik just backed away from contact-never. In the past, they always either fought until they died, or ran. This was completely new. Alden hadn’t reported seeing anything like it during his march up the coast.

“Jumpin’ Jehosephat! They’re licked!” Billy paused, his eyes widening. “And they know they’re licked! Goddamn! Let ’em have it! Pound’em! Don’t let ’em just walk the hell away!” The firing around him redoubled, and he tamped the misshapen projectile the rest of the way down the barrel. Putting a copper percussion cap on the cone at the breech, he thumbed the hammer to full cock, aimed into the departing mass, and fired. The recoil of the weapon wasn’t really all that bad-unless one had already fired it a couple of hundred times. His shoulder felt as if somebody had been whacking it with a baseball bat. “Mortars, damn it! Hit ’em now, while they’re bunched up!”

“We’re out of bombs!” someone hollered. “More are on the way, but we have none now!”

Flynn swore and looked around. “Corporal, gimme some water!” he cried to a ’Cat hurrying by with a bucket. The corporal paused while Billy threw some salty-tasting water at his mouth with the floating cup, then spat some down the barrel of his rifle. “Ghaa!” he said, spitting out the foul remainder. He plugged the muzzle of the weapon with his finger and tilted it in a seesaw motion so the water would slosh back and forth in the bore. “Musta been an artillery sponge bucket!” he said, spitting again and pouring the black water from his rifle onto the ground. He placed a piece of cloth over the muzzle and ran it down with his jag-shaped rammer head. Withdrawing the rammer, he stuck it in the ground at his side, and the now-soggy, blackened cloth fell away. He popped two percussion caps and blew down the barrel, then snatched another paper-wrapped cartridge from the box at his side and tore it open with his teeth.

The firing around him was diminishing, except the artillery, which was now shooting the lighter spherical case-he could tell by the report. White puffs cracked and blossomed over the retreating enemy, spraying shell fragments among them, but still they moved away-as a mob certainly, but a controlled mob.

“It is over, Col-nol Flynn,” said a familiar voice behind him. He turned and quickly saluted Safir-Maraan, throwing most of the powder in his cartridge at his face. Self-consciously, he wadded the torn paper around the bullet and dropped it back in his cartridge box.

“Aye, uh, General,” he said. Regardless of her various other titles, on the battlefield, she was “general” first. “It looks that way,” Billy added. He reached up and pulled the helmet off his head, revealing his thinning mat of sweaty red hair. He started to slick it back but was shocked to see how badly his hand had begun to shake.

Safir took a deep breath and almost gagged herself. The stench of the morning had grown exponentially worse with the addition of the mangled corpses all around and the fog of smoke that clung near the blood-drenched ground. Her normally resplendent silver-washed armor was stained with red turning to black, and her black cloak was torn and tingeed th shiny reddish patches. Knowing her, she’d probably been right up on the line with a musket and bayonet at some point, Billy thought. Not the best place for a corps commander!

“But they retire in… I think you say ‘good order’?” she said huskily, holding her hand over her mouth. “Oh, surely this is the stench of the unlighted void! I barely noticed it before.” She fumbled for her water bottle and took a long swig. “Odd, the things one perceives immediately after these ‘new’ battles-at least I’ve found it so,” she almost whispered. She composed herself and gestured toward the retreating Grik. “I do not like to see that.”

“Me neither,” Billy agreed, stunned to see even an instant of weakness from the indomitable Safir. “It was a hell of a fight, but we’d turned the corner-even if there was a bunch more than I thought at first. Sorry about that. It’s hard to count ’em when they’re all wadded up. Anyway, any battle in the past, we would’ve about wiped ’em out. This retreatin’ crap, instead of just runnin’ away, gives me the creeps.”

“I feel ‘creeps’ as well,” Safir admitted. “We must report this immediately.” She looked at him. “Thank you Col-nol,” she said sincerely. “I admit, I didn’t know what to think of you and your Amaal-gaa-mated before today. You are a strange man, originally from a very strange craft! But your and Col-nol Grisa’s regiments likely saved my entire corps today when you ‘smelled a rat,’ as Lieutenant Saaran-Gaani put it. You have my most profound appreciation.”

“More like ‘smelled a turd,’ General, but thanks. How’s Saaran? He never came back. We have to come up with a portable wireless we can use on the march! It would still be line o’ sight, but we wouldn’t have to send runners up and down the line!”

“Yes. I see no practical way to use wire as we did at Raan-goon! They say we will have better baater-ees and wireless sets soon.” She blinked a shrug. “Saaran is lightly injured, but fine. He tried to return, but tumbled from the back of a paalka!”

Billy laughed, then sobered. “I lost a lot of good guys today.”

“As did we all.”

Bekiaa-Sab-At finally gave the belated order for the nearest artillery to cease firing, and its example was soon followed by the other batteries up and down the line. She stepped wearily up beside Flynn and also exchanged salutes with Safir Maraan. Bekiaa looked terrible-again-and this time she had a Grik crossbow bolt buried between the twinbones of her left forearm. She’d refused to leave the front. “Shall we chase ’em?” she asked.

“No,” Safir said reluctantly. “They outnumber us still. I estimate now that we engaged upward of forty thousand today. Even if we’ve killed half the vermin, they could still overwhelm us in the open, in the dark, and we suffered sorely as well. No, we will consolidate the line and stand down those who were most heavily engaged. I’ve already sent cavalry to scout the high flanks, but I do think it’s over. Here.” She looked at Billy. “Tend to this stubborn Maa-reen female.. . and your Flynn’s Raangers! We will need you all again!”

“We’ve got the city, Admiral,” Alden said when Keje-Fris-Ar entered his tent, now erected inside the original Grik defenses.

Keje was in his martial best: his new white Navy tunic and blue Marine-style kilt. The polished, chased, copper scale armor he’d always worn battle was fastened over the tunic, though, and he still wore his old helmet. He also had standard-issue leggings and a web belt with a 1911 Colt holstered on one side and his old “skota” or “working sword” hanging from the other. He looked like a short, armored Navy bear.

“Splendid news, Generaal Aalden,” Keje replied. “When I got word that you desired the fleet to shift our fire to the north, I suspected as much and promptly came ashore! I hope I do not intrude.”

“Of course not!” Pete grinned. “This is a big deal, sir. The first time we’ve ever kicked the bastards out of one of their own provincial capitals! At least, Rolak’s pet Grik claims that’s what Colombo is. The little creep even acts excited for us, if you believe that!”

“I cannot fathom the Grik mind, Generaal. Even Lawrence has… exceedingly odd notions, and he is not Grik. Perhaps Hij Geerki is sincere, but I could not care less. Your victory here today, and Queen Protector Safir Maraan’s victory in the highlands are the greatest acts of the age! They will be recorded in the very scrolls!”

“Those scrolls of yours are going to get mighty long if we keep adding to them at this rate,” Pete said less enthusiastically. “We need to keep a history of this war, damn straight, but your ‘scrolls’ are sacred-and these battles today were an unholy mess. You know the details of the battle in the mountains?” Keje nodded. “Yeah, well, that was a real fight,” Pete continued. “This here was mostly just butchery once we broke through the first couple of countercharges. Rolak was right. General Grik filled his ranks with civilians; fishermen, artisans, builders, farmers-most were a buncha fogies by Grik standards. More head crests, like officers have, than we’ve ever seen before. A few females too, apparently, though you can hardly tell by lookin’ at ’em. Fatter, no crest, that sort of thing. Same teeth and claws.”

“Have any been found like Lawrence’s ‘Great Mother’?”

“No. Thousands of eggs left in joints like chicken coops, probably laid by the regular Grik broads hereabouts, but no big mama.” He looked away a moment. “I ordered all the eggs smashed. The few prisoners we took so far didn’t give a shit. You know? That part still gives me the heebie-jeebies. Wild Griklets runnin’ loose all through the woods, and nobody gives a damn about the eggs. Hell. According to Geeky, they used to eat the little buggers when they hatched. He doesn’t know why they’re takin’ over the jungle.”

“But you did secure prisoners? Any of account?”

“How should I know? Word is-again through Geeky-that the city manager, or whatever the hell he is, hauled his ass outta here with the ‘special warriors,’ whatever the hell that means. No word on General Grik, the guy in overall command. Maybe he knocked himself off like all the rest we’ve come across. Hope so. He’s no Napoleon, but he was startin’ to bark up some of the right trees.”

“Naa-po-leon?”

“Skip it.”

“What is the situation now?”

“Pretty much unchanged from my last wireless report. Victory in the mountains, but those forces didn’t come back here as I’d hoped. We were waiting if they did. General Maraan says they disengaged and retreated in an orderly fashion! Must’ve headed north.”

“I would wager that is where your ‘General Grik’ was.”

Pete sighed. “Probably o. His stunt almost worked, you know? I can hope his bones are smashed under one of the goofy buildings they build around here, that First Fleet knocked flat. At least for a while.” He held up his hand. “I ain’t going to count on it, just hope it!” He grinned.

“You are pleased with the fleet’s gunnery?”

“Oh, you bet. Naval Air did a great job too. Whatever they used to knock those planes down this morning wasn’t here. They must’ve cobbled’em together in a hurry and taken them all. Bet we see ’em again, though, so the Airedales need to watch out. Anyway, like I said, the city’s knocked flat. Grik don’t go in much for fancy digs. Mostly adobe, either kind of sensible multistory, rectangular structures, or like… I don’t know, domes, I guess. Not much reinforcing. There’re a couple of exceptions, big buildings made of stone. You clobbered a couple; the forts overlooking the harbor, but there are more that didn’t take such a beating. Look like temples or something.” Pete shook his head. “I have some squads going through those, rooting out some really wild lizards, but maybe we’ll find something useful. I’ll send another squad with Geeky once the holdouts are hacked out. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to the little shit; he’s the only interpreter to the other Grik we caught.”

“Yes, and not only those, but the ones being held in Baalkpan all this time! How many did you take alive?” Keje asked.

“Altogether?” Pete’s expression turned to stone. “You know, I gave strict orders that nobody risk his life to take prisoners. Most think that seeing a Grik is too risky to let it live, and you know, I’m fine with that after the hell we’ve had trying to take ’em in the past. Some of the Ma-nilos and Sularans actually went out of their way to capture a few in ‘fancy dress,’ like I sorta asked.” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll never do that again.” He looked at Keje. “They captured nine, all civvies, who might’ve been willing to fold anyway, like Geeky, but the warriors defended ’em or killed ’em themselves. I’m pretty sure they killed more Grik here today than we did! As soon as it went in the pot, it was as if they had orders to kill every one of their own people they could catch! It cost me almost thirty good troops to capture-hell, rescue -nine of those lizard bastards. Regardless of what we might learn from ’em, it ain’t worth it, and I’ll never ask it again! Kill ’em all; that’s what they’d do.”

Keje said nothing for a long moment. He knew Pete was angry; so was he. Nine out of a city of thousands! But he also knew the Marine would see reason… if they ever needed prisoners again. “So… how do you think we should proceed from here?” he asked.

“There’s still fighting in the northern part of the city, so I don’t know how much of the industrial works we’ll get-whatever it is-but there’re fires even farther north, farther than our deepest penetration, so it looks as though they’re wrecking what they can.”

“Hmm. Further evidence this ‘General Grik’ has escaped, I fear,” Keje said.

“Well… yeah, maybe so.”

Keje looked out at the ruined city in the dark. Some parts burned brightly while others smoldered like coals in a fire. “We must pursue,” he said simply. “We have a chance to annihilate them in the northern plains before they cross the land bridge to Indiaa.”

“You got it, Admiral,” Alden said. “That’s what I was going to suggest. We needto finish rooting this dump out, but we can handle that and be back on the move in a few days. If you head north along the coast, bomb or shell anything you see, then park your ships to cover that low-tide causeway…”

“If the water is deep enough…”

“Well, sure. Anyway, we can sweep up behind you, guided by the ‘Nancys,’ and maybe we can catch ’em between us, out of hope, out of gas, out of supplies and artillery, and hopefully by then, out of their goddamn minds!”