Deadly Shores (10 page)

They may have slain much of the enemy's main band, but the drums still thundered, and the Doms continued inexorably forward.

*   *   *

“They're gettin' awful close!” Fred Reynolds murmured to Kari.

“Indeed,” Shinya agreed sourly. “I did not expect so many Grikbirds. Look at them all! I wanted COFO Reddy's planes to have a clear view of their targets, to avoid hitting any of our own people, but his planes may
collide
with Grikbirds if they remain so thick and low!” Decisively, he lowered his binoculars. “This to all commands,” he said tersely to the signal-'Cat. “Commence firing, but do not, repeat,
do not
employ mortars!” He looked at Fred. “We don't want Reddy's aircraft to collide with them either!” He stepped to the 'Cat, already tapping out the message. “The Grikbirds should rise with the smoke and the bombing squadrons will strike low, beneath most of them, I should think. Mr. Reddy's machine-gun-armed craft will drive through first, hopefully scattering any Grikbirds that remain.” He paused. “My desire is that the attacking division or corps, or however the enemy designates such things, should be annihilated, but no plane will drop without a visible target. We can afford no accidental gaps in our defenses! Pilots without such targets may drop on the enemy reserves, but they must clear the airspace above the battlefield as soon as possible so I may use my mortars. Subsequent air strikes will focus on the enemy reserves and rear areas.”

“What about those parts of the line the Doms aren't coming at yet?” Kari asked.

Shinya's brow rose. “All commands may shoot at whatever they think they can hit! The more smoke the better, I suppose.”

*   *   *

“Hold yer mortars, but commence firing! Commence firing, but hold yer mortars!” shouted an Imperial Marine on Blair's staff, galloping down the road behind, and parallel to the works. Blas nodded. The word about the mortars had already arrived via messenger from her comm shack. The final word had awaited only this runner, and guns north of her position, closer to the bay, had been pounding for several moments already. A crackle of musketry was growing to a roar. She glanced at Lieutenant Finny, who'd remained nearby with his adjoining company, and blinked an irony Finny caught with a swish of his tail. Neither was anxious for what was to come; they'd seen it often enough. But the waiting only intensified the dread, and they were glad it was over. “Mortar sections, hold,” Blas trilled. “Aar-tillery sections will load caanister!” She stared down the line of expectant faces turned to hers, “gun 'Cats” and Marines poised by and with their weapons. “Commence independent fire!” At this range, careful aim was more important than the stunning effect of a volley—and the approaching Doms ought to be sufficiently stunned by something else directly.

*   *   *

“Jeez! Look at that!” Orrin Reddy shouted at his OC through the plane's voice tube. He'd seen battles from the air before, first against the Japanese in the Philippines, then against the Doms on New Ireland, but never had they been so concentrated and on such a scale. The whole city seemed surrounded by a gigantic, rising doughnut of smoke, and he and his two squadrons of Nancys, racing in at low altitude after a swing around the bay, were headed right for it.

“I say jeez too—for all the Grikbirds!” came the reply.

Orrin sobered. Seepy was right. There were hundreds of the damn things, rising above the smoke and kiting on thermals over the city like monstrous reptilian vultures. “Yeah, and we have to run interference.” Orrin was personally leading the 9th Bomb Squadron on this mission. Their ship and Lieutenant Ninaar-Rin-Ar's (CO of the 11th Bomb Squadron) were the only ones armed with .50s in the nose. Every plane in both squadrons had Blitzer Bugs, but they'd be of limited use on a bomb run. But four more ships had been designated as “top cover” for the attack, and would follow Orrin and Ninaar straight in to blow a hole for the others.

“Remind everybody to be extra careful where they drop!” Orrin told Seepy one more time. The two bombs each Nancy carried were terrible things—one hundred pounds of gasoline mixed with obstinately flammable sap from the gimpra tree. The stuff didn't stay mixed very well, but it didn't really have to. Detonation, or a high-speed collision with the ground would recombine the substances sufficiently to provide an expanding inferno of sticky gobbets of flaming sap that could land as far as seventy-five yards from the detonation point. Other compounds had been considered, of course, as had airbursts, but fusing remained an issue in the second case, and in the first—what was the point? In any event, every aviator in the 3rd Naval Air Wing was more terrified of accidentally dropping one of the weapons on his own people than he was of death. Orrin was confident there'd be no accidents.

“Here we go!” he announced. A gaggle of Grikbirds had noticed them and was swooping down in front of them, still just above the battlesmoke. Ninaar was off his left wing and Orrin glanced down. He had his landmarks, and stabbing flashes of cannon fire confirmed his line. His eyes twitched to his mirror to confirm that both squadrons remained tucked in a tight column of twos behind the lead ships. As soon as he gave the order, Seepy would press his telegraph key and hold it down—until he had to start shooting. That would send the bombers diving through the smoke, and into the attack.

“Tally ho!” he shouted, and Seepy jammed his key. Immediately, eighteen Nancys dove, and Orrin centered his crude sights on the Grikbirds ahead and fired.

*   *   *

“Their artillery is disturbingly effective, considering its size,” General Nerino observed, maintaining an urbane façade. In truth, he'd been terrified when the heretics' shells began exploding among his advancing troops, and even disconcertingly close to
him.
The armies of the Holy Dominion used exploding shells in their monstrous twelve-inch mortars, but they had none of those here. They had nothing, in fact, that fired anything but solid shot and grape. Ramming a lit projectile down the long barrel of a field piece before firing it was considered far too dangerous and unpredictable. He wondered how his enemies had solved the problem with such apparent safety to their crews, and precision of effect. There'd been proposals that simply firing a gun would serve to ignite a fuse, he remembered, but few hereditary officers had given the notion much credibility. They might have to rethink that. At last, however, the guns had fallen silent, and his heart no longer raced as he sat on his gilded chair and watched his first shell-torn Corps, or “El Mano del Papa,” march across the broad gap to grasp the enemy at last. The red flags made a seamless, protective river of divine blood above his host, and the thundering drums echoed the pulsing rush of blood in his ears. The band advanced as well, providing a stirringly devout martial accompaniment to the dance of war. So thrilling! All his life, General Nerino had waited to see such a sight! He felt like falling to his knees and joining his priest in thanks to God and His Holiness for this opportunity.

He might have actually done so if two gray shell bursts hadn't suddenly, deliberately, slaughtered the noncombatant musicians.

“Qué terriblemente grosero!”
he exclaimed, stunned. Never had he imagined anyone capable of such rude behavior on a battlefield! An instant later, a great cheer built among the enemy, joined by an appalling squealing sound. Then the distant guns spat fire and smoke, and a rising crackle of musketry erupted.

“They do not even wait for the exchange of volleys!” the priest seethed. “They are
animals
, my general!”

“Perhaps not all,” Nerino said defensively. “The enemy army is a mixed force. Perhaps many are amateurs. To foul their weapons at such a hopeless distance certainly does not
seem
very professional!” The standard musket of the Holy Dominion was wildly inaccurate and couldn't strike any specific man-size target beyond seventy or eighty paces. Nerino had no reason to suspect Imperial muskets were any better, and frankly suspected the Imperials had armed what he considered their animalistic allies with spears at best. It never occurred to him that the Lemurian “Americans” might have their own, even better weapons. “Our noble Salvadores will show them what discipline in the ranks may achieve.” He paused. “But what is that absurd buzzing sound? Not more of their odd flying machines, I hope! Surely we have sufficient dragons above us to protect against any mischief they may cause?” He turned to his aide, the sound growing more insistent. “Captain, what . . .” Something flashed in the corner of his eye, and he turned back to the battlefield in time to see a great, sprawling mushroom of fire, crowned by greasy black smoke. “What?” he murmured again, just as an enemy machine darted past the white smoke of battle and climbed up and away to the south. Then there was another terrible, orange flash—and another! Even from where he sat, the screams were clear. Obviously, the heretics were dropping some kind of bomb, in much the same way that dragons had been taught to attack ships, but these were not the large rocks or roundshot the dragons carried, but some kind of demonic incendiary device.

“They are burning our army!” Nerino shrieked, standing from his chair.
Whump! Whump! Whump!
went the bombs and more screams mounted, even while the fire from the enemy earthworks redoubled. More flying machines roared by, rising in the sky. Nerino saw one, diving down to the north. Two pointed cylinders fell away and tumbled to the ground, igniting among his terrified, surging troops. He continued watching as it too pulled up and away, but then saw several dragons slash into the thing and carry it tumbling to the ground.

“They only have the two bombs each,” he cried. “Doubtless, they go back for more, but it will take time. We must push the next Hand of the Pope forward immediately!”

“It is already formed, my general!” the aide assured him.

“Send it!” Nerino waved his hands manically. “Send
everything
! I want a general attack around the entire perimeter at the rush!”

*   *   *

“Wow,” said First Sergeant Spook. “Lookie at 'em burn!”

“They're not all burnin',” Blas muttered. “Them flyboys were maybe a little too careful not to hit us. A buncha Doms were already past the drop point!” Even as she watched, a second Nancy staggered in the sky as a pair of Grikbirds fastened onto its port wing and sent it into a helpless spin. It impacted on the other side of the line of fire, and as far as she could tell, the Grikbirds never let go. She felt bad for the brave aviators she'd just seen die, but she had more pressing problems. Thousands of Doms were literally running at them now, partly to escape the fire, no doubt, but also to come to grips with their tormenters. She raised her voice. “Let 'em have it! Keep firing! Chew 'em up! Kill 'em!”

“Load double canister! Load and hold!” the section chief to her left cried out, and she nodded on hearing his words. The Doms were coming fast, and the lieutenant's guns would get only one more shot before the wave hit. Clearly he meant to make the most of it. At that moment, another rider galloped past on the road behind. “Commence firing mortars!” he yelled, over and over. Almost instantly, the distinctive
toomp!
sounds stuttered behind the lines. Blas turned back to her troops, tightening her helmet strap. “Fix bayonets!” she trilled.

“Comin' just like Grik!” Spook shouted over the growing roar.

“No! These Doms have minds, and they'll fight with 'em—if we don't change 'em first. Take your Bee Ayy Arr and cover the gunners after they fire. Maybe they can keep shootin' if you keep the Doms off 'em!”

“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan Blas,” Spook replied, then blinked irony. “Watch yer tail!”

Blas unslung her Baalkpan arsenal musket and affixed the bayonet. In seconds, she'd be needed more on the firing line than standing back, giving orders. She disagreed with Spook in more ways than she'd had time to explain, however. Wild as the Dom charge had become, no similar Grik assault ever came at her with more than a single thought behind the onslaught. These Doms, these
men
, each had their own thoughts just as surely as her troops had theirs. Did that mean they'd be easier to break—or fight even more ferociously than any Grik she'd ever faced? On the other hand, from what she'd heard, the Grik were fighting with their minds now too. . . . Added to this was the conflict many Lemurians faced, a lingering discomfort at the prospect of killing humans with the same ruthlessness they killed Grik. It was hard sometimes to reconcile what this war had become with how it started. “Shields up!” she roared at her Marines, who still carried the things, and stepped into the line. “Brace for it!”

Horns sounded and loud cries of
“Alto! Alto!”
rose above the tumult, even as the defenders continued pouring in loads of “buck and ball” at a mere thirty yards or so. Sluggishly, like an animal goaded beyond endurance, the charging horde managed to arrest its sprint and try to dress its ranks in the face of the withering fire.
“Escopetas aplomo!”
came another repeated shout. One officer, just across from Blas, never finished the command, thrown back by the heavy slug of a militiaman's rifle. Around him, however, gasping, bloodied Doms raised their muskets and took a wavering aim.

“Down!” Blas shrieked, ducking behind a Marine's angled shield.

“Disparar!”

A ragged but thundering volley churned at the earthworks, pitching Marines backward amid a hail of
vipping
balls and screaming rocks and gravel. A ball whacked the shield just in front of Blas's face and moaned away overhead, and just as suddenly as the volley came, the screams of her own troops filled the air. She noticed a stinging pain in her left thigh and glanced down to see the twisted tang of a buttplate, a jagged splinter of wood still attached, sticking out of her leg. She'd been hit by a piece of a musket, struck by a Dom ball. She yanked it out with a gush of breath.