Deadly Shores (36 page)

//////
PT-7

T
he “Seven boat,” or
Lucky Seven
, as Irvin Laumer called her since she had, after all, survived the sinking of
Respite Island
, crept slowly through the jutting, burning remains of the Grik fleet in the shallow harbor. It was a surrealistic sight, even blurred by the sudden downpour drenching everyone aboard. Blasted carcasses of mighty ships, laid open and gutted on their sides, bore stark testimony to the quality of Bernie Sandison's Baalkpan Naval Arsenal Mk-3 torpedoes. Between them,
Walker
's new armor-piercing shells and the work of
Big Sal
's 1st Naval Air Wing, it didn't look like a single capital ship had survived the predawn onslaught. It was possible a few cruisers remained, anchored beyond the cluster of Grik “Indiamen” deeper in the harbor, but none were reported by the flyboys. Many of the Indiamen themselves were burning too, but they hadn't been priority targets. They were crewed by warriors, and it was most likely they were abandoned while their crews fought on shore. Besides, considering the growing strain on Allied supply lines, captured Grik Indiamen, once despised, were now prized for their cargo capacity—and easy conversion to better ships, of course. They were helpless right now, and wouldn't all be destroyed until it was decided whether the Allies could get them or not.

Lieutenant Irvin Laumer had taken the wheel of the Seven boat himself, coaxing her through the treacherous anchorage like a trout in a rocky stream, while crewfolk on the fo'c'sle warned of hazards such as underwater obstacles or floating debris. It was hard to see. The rain was churning up the surface of the water, and the flashies were doing the same as they feasted on countless Grik corpses. All the nearby ships were burning brightly, and there wasn't a live Grik to be seen on any of them.

“Lawsy, what a awful place!” Isak Reuben muttered, clutching his Krag close to his skinny chest with one hand while he lit one of his vile, soggy cigarettes with the other, under the shelter of his helmet. “I bet I shoudn't'a come,” he added.

“Why
did
you, you nutty twerp?” Silva demanded, taking a chew. “Tabby'll have your skin when she finds out!” he mumbled around the yellowish leaves he stuffed in his cheek.

Isak shrugged. “She don't need me.
Walker
don't even need me anymore,” he added miserably. “Least not with her all scrunched up ashore.” His voice firmed and he glared up at Silva, the rain trying to quench the butt dangling from his lips. “An' besides, that sequittal, lizardy grub worm all the Griks is so worked up over has been havin' her nasty critters tryin' to kill my boilers ever since the day we brung 'em here.” He shrugged. “Gilbert's my half brother, you know.” Silva nodded, surprised by the sudden confession. Everybody knew, though the Mice had never openly admitted it before. “Well, he ain't here. He's off engineerin' in
Maaka-Kakja
, with Second Fleet, fightin' the Doms.” He took a long drag and coughed. “Just seems
one
of us ought'a try to hit a lick against the damn thing, after we come all this way.” He waved his hand helplessly.

“You're gonna get ate, Isak,” Silva stated matter-of-factly.

Isak shrugged again, but glanced back the way they'd come.
Walker
was barely visible through the smoke and rain several miles away, but her guns still flared against the dreary day and the deadly shore. “Could be,” he answered quietly, “but I bet I would have back yonder, anyway. Least this way, if I get ate, it'll be doin' somethin' different. Ever'body's always on me to try new things.”

“
I
didn't come along to get eaten,” Gunny Horn stated, and Silva looked at him.

“Why'd
you
come? You at least could'a been of use on the ship. I thought Marines always craved fightin' on ships!”

“He came for the same reason as me, stupid,” Pam snapped, speaking for the first time since she presented Silva with the knife. “Because you did.”

Horn regarded the woman strangely. She had a Blitzer Bug slung over her shoulder, and a bulky bag of magazines hung from a strap. The rain had turned her T-shirt translucent to the point that she might as well have worn nothing at all. Like the rest of them, she wore a “tin hat” helmet, but her dark hair was soaked and strands were plastered to her face. He knew how tough she was, but right then, she looked very small and vulnerable. “Maybe, in a way,” Horn admitted. “Me and that idiot ape have a long history, all the way back to the China Station, of getting into scrapes together.” He fingered a little leather thong around his neck that was threaded through a tooth with a hole in it. “Kind of unnatural, come to think of it, considering I'm a Marine, and he's . . . whatever the hell he is,” he continued. “But I surely doubt the
real
reason we both came is exactly the same.” He scratched his thick black beard. “I'm here because Dennis always throws a helluva party. I figure you tagged along to make sure he doesn't have too much fun.”

Pam looked away. “Just shut up, wilya?”

Laumer coughed. “
I'm
here to get your crazy butts ashore. Lieutenant Miyata? You've been here before. Point the way, if you please, to the best place to land.”

Miyata complied, indicating a long section of dock, crowded with small boats a little beyond the jutting funnels of another dead Grik ship. This one had some survivors, crowded atop the exposed casemate, but they weren't any threat. As far as they could see, the dock was deserted.

“It looks like you may have been right,” Herring told Silva. He hadn't said much either. Now he was looking through an Imperial telescope. “I don't see any Grik at all, ashore.”

“There may be quite a few in those warehouses and shops beyond the dock,” Miyata advised, “or in the—I think you would say ‘shantytown'—between them and the palace.”

Herring grunted. “What does the Jap say about palace guards?” he asked. He'd rarely been able to bring himself to address Miyata directly.

Miyata bristled. “Commander Herring, we are about to go into action together, and if you want my best assistance, I hope you will remember that my name is not ‘the Jap'!”

“Settle down, Lieutenant,” Silva soothed. “Mr. Herring's only met the kinda Japs that murder pris'ners. He ain't as forgivin' an' open-minded as me an' Larry are. Hell, I even got a Jap friend! Gen'ral Shinya's a right guy!” His face turned serious and his tone hard. “Now, that said, you an' me don't know each other very well, but anybody'll tell you that if I do get a notion you're settin' us up for any Grik or Jap buddies o' yours, I'll feed you to Petey a strip at a time!”

“Eat?” Petey chirped happily.

“I am on your side!” Miyata objected. “Surely Becher Lange has convinced you of that by now.”

“Don't personally know the Kraut neither,” Silva replied reasonably.

“Leave Lieutenant Miyata alone,” Irvin Laumer ordered with an authority Silva didn't remember. “He's okay.”

Silva sniffed.

“The ‘palace guard,' as you call it, is quite numerous,” Miyata said crisply. “But its members are dispersed between several levels, and more entrances that we can see from here. I doubt they have ever considered a need to practice massing in one part of the palace to prevent an actual attack, and they may not know how—or even be able to.” He considered. “There
is
another possible reserve the palace might call on that could prove even more problematic, if it has not already been sent to the fighting.”

“What's that?” Irvin asked.

“The ‘sport fighters.' Consider them like ‘gladiators.' They are all skilled warriors with considerable experience. It is that experience, in fact, that makes them ‘entertaining' to watch, I understand.” He looked at Herring. “You may recall that I reported that it was from that group that Kurokawa initially selected leaders for their ‘new' army, and their General Halik rose.”

Herring nodded. “I remember,” he said, finally looking straight at Miyata. “How many?”

“I cannot say. There
were
several hundred, at least.” He glanced at the gloomy palace growing near. “There may be even more now—or perhaps there are none, if they have all entered their armies.”

Lawrence looked from one man to the other. He hadn't said anything at all, but had observed his friends and all the strangers on PT-7 with considerable interest. He'd learned a lot about humans and Lemurians in the last couple of years and recognized that there were a lot of differences between his kind and theirs. His folk were much less emotionally complicated; that was certain. He sensed many emotional undercurrents on the boat just then, and like the predator he was, he wondered who might be the weak link in their little pack of “hunters,” and how that might affect their mission. He sensed a lot of fear, and that was normal. He was afraid himself. He didn't remember when he hadn't been afraid, on some level, since he'd set out on his “awakening,” or “rite of passage” voyage so long ago. That was what brought him in contact with humans and Lemurians in the first place. It was also what truly “awakened” him to what he could become, and he was wholly devoted to his friends. He wasn't worried how
they
would perform—even Pam. He already knew. As usual, he was utterly content to follow Silva's lead while he watched for the weak link. If necessary, he'd cut it out himself before it had a chance to break.

They motored closer to the dock in silence, always on the alert for threats. Laumer coaxed his boat between a pair of smaller vessels that looked a lot like Lemurian feluccas, and a pair of 'Cats leaped across to the dock. One had a coil of rope, and the other stood by to fend off, as Laumer cut his throttles.

“Single up there,” Laumer called in a loud whisper, wondering as he did it why he was trying to be so quiet. The rain and the battle raging behind and to the east were sufficiently loud to keep his voice from carrying far. Almost immediately, Lawrence scampered ashore, his head bobbing as he tasted unfamiliar scents. Silva jumped after him, followed by the rest of the party in a rush. After a moment, and without a word, Laumer chose a shortened smoothbore Allin-Silva from the rack beside him in the cockpit of the boat and slung a bandolier of 20-gauge shells over his shoulder. The shells were made of thick, waxed paper with a brass base, and were loaded with a dozen roughly .30-caliber balls on top of one hundred grains of powder. Initially called “buckshot,” the shells had quickly been renamed “Grikshot.” The weapon that fired it, so similar to the standard issue rifle in every other way, was simply called a shotgun. Winny Rominger had lobbied for their issue to the PTs in addition to some of Chack's Raiders on the grounds that if one of his boats ever lost power, its small crew would need all the antipersonnel firepower it could get.

Ensign Hardee looked at Laumer with wide eyes. “You're not going with them, are you, sir?” the sixteen-year-old boy almost squeaked.

“Yes, I am,” Irvin replied. “You can handle the Seven boat as well as I can, and they might need the help.” He frowned. “Besides . . . I have to. For S-Nineteen, and, well, other reasons too.” He patted Hardee's shoulder. “You're in command. Back her off and keep station by that wreck we passed—not the one with the Grik on it!” He grinned. “Keep an eye on the dock here. If you see us running back, we might need a lift in a hurry!” He paused. “Get on the TBS and report that we're ashore, and anything else you see, got it?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Irvin Laumer nodded, then trotted forward and hopped off the boat, joining the others as they prepared to enter Grik City itself.

//////
II Corps

G
eneral Queen Safir Maraan and 6th Division were in the first Grik trenchline now, and the bright morning had been strangled by an opaque haze of smoke and dust beneath a growing pall of darkening skies. A few raindrops were beginning to fall, as if shaken from the air by the concussive thud of artillery and constant crackle of rifle fire. She'd lost track of General Grisa somewhere on the long, corpse-strewn beach behind, between their initial landing point and here. But a pair of signal 'Cats with one of the new field telephones remained beside her, unspooling wire. The charge across the naked beach had been one of the most unnerving events of the entire war for her thus far. She knew her beloved Chack had done much the same against equally implacable foes in the East, and she'd run into a defensive Grik position herself once before, but this was the first time she'd ever slammed a charge home, directly into bristling spears, cannon muzzles, and withering crossbow and musket fire. The 6th was fortunate that these Grik, though clearly able to defend, didn't have much practice at it, and the wild melee in the trench itself had been equally awkward and terrifying for both sides. The better discipline and firepower of Safir's troops had been the only, final, advantage.

She looked around at the panting faces nearby, and saw the furtive, fearful blinking of those who were scampering back and forth, rejoining their companies and squads, all while nervously wading through the carpet of dead in the bottom of the trench. Fortunately, most of those corpses were Grik, but many troopers bayoneted bodies as a matter of course before moving along. She understood how they felt. These were veteran troops, but though they'd fought from trenches before, this was the first time they'd ever captured one. With so many Grik this close, actually
touching
them, after what they'd just been through . . . it was only natural they wanted to make sure they were all entirely dead.

She looked back to the front, taking a small sip from her canteen, and noticed her hand was trembling. She quickly lowered it, hoping no one had seen. By the Sun above, she wished Chack were beside her! Or perhaps even better just then, her old nemesis turned virtual father, General Lord Muln Rolak! Doubtless he'd be chatting away about the situation in his calming way. She took a deep breath and almost gagged. The stench of the dead, of the gore and voided bowels, was bad enough, but the reek of the
place
itself was beginning to get to her. It was an ancient, all-pervading thing that she'd begun to notice as they advanced farther from the cleansing shore. The Jaap, Mi-yaata, had warned them of it, proposing that it was caused by eons of Grik, defecating wherever they liked outside, and Safir uncomfortably wondered how much of the dusty soil she'd breathed was composed of age-old Grik dung. She shook her head and coughed.

“If it rains, it might settle this dust, and perhaps some of the smoke,” one of the comm-'Cats suggested hopefully, as if reading her thoughts.

“Let us hope so,” she replied. “It may render their matchlock muskets useless as well. Contact the comm section on the beach and have them move the TBS set forward to the trench where it will be better protected. I also want a line to all other division commanders as soon as possible, so we may better coordinate our next advance. The Grik have retreated, but only to another defensive line. I want naval gunfire from the frigates offshore placed on that position, and as much air support as can be spared.” She paused. “Any word yet on General Grisa's whereabouts?”

“I will ask if he has . . . gone back to the beach,” the 'Cat said, and Safir nodded solemnly. The wounded and dead were being taken there to be carried out to the ships in their remaining landing boats.

“Please do, and have someone look for him specifically if he has not been seen.” She felt a twinge of guilt over the harsh words she'd spoken to Grisa. He'd only been doing what he thought was expected of him before, but he'd charged just as enthusiastically as anyone when she made his orders more specific. She prayed he was well. A squall marched across the anchorage in the distance, but didn't quell the smoke; it only added vast plumes of steam to the impenetrable curtain over the remains of the Grik fleet. She was satisfied with that, at least. As always, Captain Reddy and USS
Walker
had done their part. She suspected that Irvin Laumer's “mosquito fleet” had done much as well. She heard the comm-'Cat talking but was too absorbed by the sight of the destruction they'd wrought on this vile, ancient city, and her gaze was drawn past the next enemy trenchline to the vast, round-topped structure south of the harbor, just beginning to appear through the haze.
There you are,
she thought.
And we are coming for you!

Mortar crews were clearing bodies and hacking at the earthen trench to give themselves a better angle, but at present, no Allied cannon were firing except those out on the ships, their smoke-tailed case shot beginning to explode on or above the enemy. Safir's light guns couldn't be brought down in the trench, and even if they were, they couldn't fire westward. Not yet. For now they stood in the open, having been brought up by hand, their crews safely under cover while they too labored to clear emplacements for them. Quite a few Grik guns had been captured, but even as they turned them against their former owners, they faced a similar problem.

“My queen!” the comm-'Cat said urgently. “
Waa-kur
is aground at the mouth of the bay! Thousands of Grik are massing to attack her across a low-tide sandbar! Chairman Adar asks if we can press the enemy here more vigorously to prevent more Grik being sent against Cap-i-taan Reddy! He also desires to know if we can secure the zeppelin field closer to the city for our planes with fixed landing gear to use.”

Safir blinked concern, but then her tail slashed the air indignantly. “Tell Chairman Adar that we already press the Grik as hard as we can, and will resume our advance as soon as we reorganize from the last one!” She regretted her harsh tone as soon as the words left her mouth, but continued without altering it. “More air and naval artillery support will help, as would the reserve division aboard
Amer-i-ka
! Our losses have not been insignificant!”

The comm-'Cat repeated her words, then listened for a moment. He looked at her, blinking, his own tail swishing back and forth. “Chairman Adar says it is imperative that we take the airfield, because
Salissa
may not be able to launch or recover aircraft much longer. In the meantime, we will get all the air support that can be spared,” he told her, “but there will be no more ships than those already at our disposal—and no reinforcements either. Every other ship, and anyone able to bear arms, in fact, will make another landing in the harbor itself, after the tide turns! Chairman Adar says that he would be . . . obliged if Second Corps might meet him there!”

Safir Maraan swore softly, closing her eyes. Then she looked at the strengthening enemy position about two hundred tails away, and knew the airfield lay a few hundred tails beyond. The new line didn't have as much artillery as the first one, it didn't seem, but their attack would be costly. The Grik might not have proper canister—which suddenly made a kind of sense to her. Canister was a strictly defensive weapon, and if the enemy was just learning the concept of defense, the proper tools might take a while to be employed. But it
had
learned to stuff its barrels with whatever was at hand, from nails, to rocks and musket balls. There were many more Grik awaiting them now as well, and the next line was all that remained between II Corps and the bizarre warren of mud hovels that was Grik City itself.

“Tell Chairman Adar that we will try,” she said at last. Just then, several sputtering arcs of flame hurtled skyward from the Grik position, almost simultaneously, trailing large, burning spheres. With uncanny, unprecedented accuracy, all of them came down right in the very trench the 6th Division occupied. The spheres burst on contact, washing dozens of Lemurian troops with a viscous, flaring, saplike compound they'd always called “Grik Fire.” Horrible screams tortured Safir's soul, and many screamed in sympathetic pain or outrage. “They
knew
we would take this trench!” Safir cried in fury. “They knew—and they already had it targeted!” She spun to the comm'Cat, who'd essentially become her personal talker. “Inform the other commands immediately!” she shouted, then turned in time to see another pair of flaming spheres climb into the gray sky. “Tell Adar we will meet him at the harbor or
die
trying. We certainly cannot stay here!”

Grik City

Silva's landing party trotted carefully, watchfully, through the empty warehouses bordering the waterfront. Their shoes and the sandaled feet of the Lemurian Marines on the concrete-hard earth inside echoed loudly in the cavernous buildings. There was a jangle of equipment and weapons too. Silva was as well armed as usual, even if he'd left his precious “Doom Stomper” behind. He had a Thompson SMG, his 1911 Colt, trusty cutlass, and 1903 Springfield bayonet. He also carried a shoulder bag full of grenades and had magazine pouches all over him. Oddly, as always, an ornately made, long-barreled flintlock pistol dangled from his belt by a hook. Only a few people knew why. Gunny Horn was actually more heavily laden for once, with a BAR, pistol, and just as many magazines and grenades. Herring and Pack Rat both had Springfields, Pam carried her Blitzer Bug, and Laumer had his shotgun. Like the Lemurian Marines that accompanied them, Lawrence carried an Allin-Silva breechloader. Everyone had cutlasses, pistols, and a bayonet, if their weapon would accept one. Isak carried the only Krag, which didn't make sense from a perspective of ammo interchangeability, but he liked it because it didn't kick much.

At first, they'd advanced in rushes, covering one another as they did, but so far they hadn't encountered any Grik at all, not even the “civilian” sort that were a kind of nonmilitary Hij. They'd first encountered such as those when they “captured” Hij Geerki at Raan-goon, but there were many more in Colombo at Saay-lon. Strangely, most of those had been slaughtered by their own kind, or took their own lives. Nothing like that seemed to have happened here, though; the warehouses were just empty of life. That didn't mean they were empty of other things, and first Herring, then Pam and Pack Rat, stopped to gaze about at the tons and tons of crudely made but now-familiar Grik ordnance arrayed within the recently constructed buildings.

“Quit loafin'!” Silva called back from the lead. “So there's a bunch o' cannons and such. Whoop-te-do. We got a chore to attend to!” He coughed. “Gaad, Larry! Was that you?”

Lawrence stared daggers at Dennis. “No! It's not I!”

“Wull . . .
somethin
' sure stinks!”

“Somethin' Stinks!” Petey whined on Silva's shoulder as he gaped nervously about.

“I told everyone at a meeting Commander Herring attended that the city had an . . . unpleasant odor,” Miyata informed him. Herring had raised a cloth to his nose when they stopped.

“Did you tell 'em it stinks worse than a dead skunk's ass? 'Cause Mr. Herring didn't see fit to pass that along.”

“I meant to say something about it,” Herring gasped. “I'm afraid, under the circumstances, I entirely forgot.”

“Hard to forget,” Horn hacked.

“I personally would not know to compare this smell to a, um, ‘dead skunk's ass,'” Miyata said, “though I am pleased to defer to your greater knowledge, Chief Silva.”

Dennis looked at the Japanese officer, stunned. Then he barked a laugh. “I'll be damned! I
like
you.”

“Si-vaa's an expert on all kinds o' stinky stuff,” Pack Rat supplied, blinking amusement.

“Shuddup, you. I know you're the stinkiest 'Cat I know.” He cocked his head back at Miyata. “Never met a Jap with a sense of humor before, not even Shinya,” he complimented in his way. “Is it as bad as this in the palace?”

Miyata considered. “No. I only ever visited the lower regions—the ‘dungeon,' perhaps?—and even there it was not as bad. It was not really
better
, but it was more bearable.”

“At this rate we'll be used to it by the time we get there,” Pam said with a snort. “I thought we were in a hurry.”

Dennis ignored her jab. “Not many more o' these warehouses up ahead,” he judged, looking through a gaping opening before him. There were no doors on the buildings. “Just adobe-like huts an' such like they have ever'where else we been. Kinda tangly lookin' too. If they're gonna jump us, in amongst that rat maze is where I'd expect trouble.”

Laumer hefted his shotgun. “Then we may as well get on with it.”

Grik City really was a maze in the sense that there was no organization to the various pathways at all, and the “rat” part of the description was reinforced by the profound and comprehensive nature of the filth and detritus they hurried through. The rain had stopped, but the hard-packed ground had turned to a sticky, slippery caliche that clung to their shoes, weighting their steps, and making their footing treacherous. Pam constantly murmured about disease and warned them all against cutting themselves on the shards of bone as thickly mixed with the dull mud as gravel might've been. Despite all that, the 'Cats finally removed their sandals with her reluctant blessing. They blinked disgust at the thought of what they were treading through, but it was getting between their feet and their hard soles, making injuries more likely, not less. There was no help for it.

Every so often they saw a Grik, or a small group of them hurrying in a generally eastward direction, and those in the party slammed to a stop or flattened themselves against one of the muddy buildings. Few of the Grik they saw appeared to be warriors, however, and all were moving with an apparently single-minded purpose that helped prevent them from noticing the intruders. Of course, they were deep within the very loathsome center of all Grik existence, and it likely never occurred to any of them that there might possibly be intruders there. Dennis, Laumer, and Commander Herring all concurred that they must not shoot unless absolutely necessary. With all the tumult, the firing might never be noticed, but if it was, they could be badly surrounded very quickly. At the very least, they might get cut off from their objective.