Deadly Shores (42 page)

Irvin couldn't help hesitating just an instant, considering how dragging Miyata—or any other wounded—might slow them down, before shaking his head. “No,” he agreed. “We can't leave him. Bandage him as quickly as you can, and let's get going.”

C
ommander Simon Herring had never seen anything like the battle that sprawled around the great dome-shaped palace. He snorted.
Considering how often I realize things like that lately, it's really saying something,
he supposed. The panorama of the destroyed fleet was awesome and stirring to behold, but perhaps even more striking was the unrivaled, ceaseless, surging
noise
of it all. The surflike roar of thousands of warriors, continuous rifle fire, and the blended clatter and crash of weapons was all-encompassing. The bass
thud
of field guns, exploding shells, and mortar bombs wasn't as constant, but it was encouraging since few Grik guns could be firing anymore. And the deeper thunder of bigger naval guns was beginning to reassert itself. The DDs off the east coast were hard-pressed to fire over II Corps without risking harm to their own people, but
Salissa
and her battle group were edging closer to the harbor mouth, shrouded in smoke and stabbing gunfire. It looked like much of First Fleet South was finally coming in. As frightened as he was, Herring wouldn't have traded his vantage point with anyone just then.

He couldn't tell how things fared aboard distant
Walker
, but gouts of flame arising alongside indicated that the Nancys were covering her at last. And, of course, she'd have fleet support soon—if there was anyone left to support. He hoped so. He'd grown to admire Captain Reddy and his crew, and believed—despite the cock-up this operation had become—that Reddy had done all he could really do under the circumstances. Perhaps he'd known, even subconsciously, that it would take a fiasco like this to convince Adar and their allies that, much as they needed a single, supreme authority in the alliance, they still required another,
different
authority once the shooting started. Adar—or someone like him—clearly remained the best choice for the one, but he just didn't have the experience or talent for the other. One of Herring's secret early criticisms of Matt had grown out of his inability to understand why the man hadn't simply taken over himself. Now, even he had to admit that would have been disastrous. Reddy was probably the only one who could command everyone in battle, but he couldn't—didn't
want
to—lead the Alliance as a whole, and that created an interesting contradiction that Herring finally understood.

Many would've followed Captain Reddy as blindly as Alexander the Great's Macedonians followed him, but certainly not all. Even Alexander had to conquer many of the peoples who provided a large percentage of his later armies, and not only was that impractical here, but that behavior had led to chaos and the unraveling of most of Alexander's accomplishments after his death. Matt was uniquely suited to lead all the armed forces of the Alliance because he was good at it, and more important, everyone
knew
that—aside from his own “Navy clan”—he had no intention of ruling them! It was suddenly all so clear to Simon Herring now, and he only hoped he hadn't realized it too late. Now that he knew what had to be done, he'd like to live long enough to help it happen.

He couldn't see all of the battle in front of II Corps because the flank of the palace blocked his view, but what he saw was reassuring—and terrifying all at once. It was reassuring because it looked like General Queen Safir Maraan's attack on the last Grik trench was succeeding, and had at least partially driven the enemy from the position. It was terrifying because now it looked like countless thousands of Grik were streaming back, away from the fighting, directly toward him, Pack Rat, and five Lemurian Marines.

“Gunner, um . . .” He paused. “What
is
your real name?”

“Paak-Ras-Ar,” the Lemurian gunner's mate replied, then shrugged. “Pack Rat.”

“Very well.” Herring looked at the Marines. “And your names?” They told him, and he nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose it is an honor to be with you all, under the present circumstances, but I believe we should hurry and finish heaping these dead Grik atop our little barricade, because we're likely to have a great deal of company soon.”

Pack Rat glanced down at the tide of Grik, and his tail swished in agitation. “Ay, ay, Comaander. I think you right. You want me on the BAR . . . first? I purty good with it.”

“By all means. I can certainly operate it, but I'm probably better suited to a Springfield.”

Two Fleashooters strafed the leading edge of the Grik swarming toward them, and a pair of Nancys swooped low in their wake, dropping bombs. High-pitched screams reached them through the rushing, roiling flames. Burning Grik lapped against the base of the palace, falling, curling up . . . but it wasn't nearly enough, and hundreds burst through the flames, leaping the corpses, and starting up the steps.

“To your posts!” Herring ordered, nervously opening his bolt to ensure his rifle was loaded. “Commence firing at will!”

Pack Rat's BAR hammered loudly, launching spent brass and spitting bullets into the surge. Almost immediately, he was replacing the magazine. One of the Marines started rolling grenades down the steps, and they tore steaming gaps in the enemy mass. The other 'Cats fired steadily, as fast as they could, and it was impossible for them to miss, with each bullet sometimes passing through three or more of the enemy. Herring took more careful aim, being less familiar with small arms, and still emptied his rifle more quickly than he would've thought possible. He stared over the grisly barricade as he inserted another stripper clip with fumbling fingers, and any hope he might have cherished fluttered away. They were
slaughtering
the Grik, but they just couldn't possibly do it fast enough to make a difference. One of the 'Cat Marines tumbled back, his helmet spinning away, and Herring stared at the kicking corpse for a moment before he shook himself and closed his rifle bolt. There wasn't much incoming fire of any sort from this mob, but Herring realized that at least a few of the enemy's muskets were working, despite the damp. Unconsciously, he tried to make himself as small a target as possible as he aimed and fired again.

Relentlessly, the Grik charged up the steps.

“We already runnin' outa ammo!” one of the 'Cats cried out, groping in his cartridge box. Pack Rat slammed a fresh magazine in the BAR—he couldn't have many left, as fast as he'd been using them—and looked at the Marine.

“We ain't gonna run out,” he said simply. Herring knew he was right; they wouldn't live that long.

Inexplicably, the mass of Grik suddenly shuddered, as if struck by a blow from the side, and dozens dropped or tumbled back down the steps. Another blow slammed into them and more fell away. Herring didn't understand. He looked around, realizing he'd hunched down almost too far to shoot, and saw the Grik recoil back as if physically pushed away.

“Hot daamn!” Pack Rat shouted, rising up and emptying the BAR from his shoulder.

“Are you mad?” Herring demanded, and Pack Rat blinked relief and glee in reply.

“Maad? Hell no! I'm
haappy
! Look!” He pointed with his weapon. A column of 'Cats in the mottled tunics of the 1st Raider Brigade was streaming in from the right to interpose itself between the Grik and the arched entrance—between certain death and Simon Herring. Speechless, he slowly stood and watched. Whistles blew and the column quickly went into line, facing down the steps. Shouted commands raced down the line, and rifles came up—and fired a sharp, stunning volley directly into the reeling mob.

“Chack's here!” Pack Rat trilled, almost capering with excitement. “Chack's here!” he repeated, slapping one of the Marines on her armored shoulder.

A second volley swept the Grik farther down the flank, and a third seemed to turn the tide completely. As quickly as that, it looked as though the Grik, like a great, dark river, had been diverted away from the palace and down toward the city and the harbor beyond.

“Take positions around the entrance,” ordered a dark-complexioned man with black mustaches. “Respitans, in you go. Find someplace inside to stop anything coming out, and await further instructions!” Herring stood aside as men—Imperials—rushed past and clattered down the passageway behind him, their hobnailed shoes scritching loudly on the stones. He watched them for a moment, then turned to face a man who'd stopped in front of him, holding a salute. Instinctively, Herring returned it.

“Good afternoon, Commander Herring! We met once before. I'm . . .”

“You're Major Jindal!” Herring managed. “Alistair Jindal!”

“At your service, sir.”

“You are indeed!” Herring grinned, grabbing the man's hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “You are
indeed
!” he repeated. “Uh, where's Colonel Chack?”

“He's assaulting the south entrance. We secured the one on the east side of this”—Jindal's eyes flicked around—“this place, and came to your relief as quickly as we could.”

“You cut it a bit fine, Major,” Herring confided, relief still washing through him, “but I'm grateful all the same.”

“My pleasure, sir. If you please, could you tell me what my lads are liable to face in there?” he asked, nodding at the entrance.

Herring's grin faded. “I'm afraid not. Lieutenant Laumer and a small party of sailors and Marines went in some time ago, but I remained here. I can't tell you what's inside, but nothing has come out since they went in.”

*   *   *

Dennis Silva and Gunny Horn dashed up the long, coarse-cut stairway and arrived at the top amid a swarm of musket balls that spattered them with lead and stone chips.
Course the Grik's matchlocks work in here,
Silva realized.
It's damp an' mucky, but it ain't rainin'!
He cursed himself for an idiot even as he dove to the floor, firing his Thompson into a
lot
of Grik that must've been waiting for them. “We got a respectable reception up here!” he shouted over his shoulder. Horn's rifle cracked, and then a staccato of shots erupted as the rest of their party joined them, taking cover as well. Pam dropped to Silva's left and fired a stick into the Grik. “Gaa!” Silva shouted. “You're rainin' hot brass all down my shirt!”

“Better that than a musket ball in your good eye!”

“I guess,” Silva conceded after a shorter burst of his own that sent several Grik clattering and kicking on the stones. “I mean, what's a little hot brass between us, doll?”

“Not near enough misery for you, after what you've caused me.”

“
Now
what are you sore about?”

“This!”

“Hey! This ain't my fault!”

“It was your idea.”

“So? We shoulda stayed on the ship?”

“Maybe.”

“Let's go!” Laumer ordered, rising up and trotting across the bodies sprawled before them in the lingering smoke. “Make for the center. We should either find the Grik leaders there, or another stairway.”

Silva followed, but he could still see Grik down the long corridor in front of them, flitting from side to side. “Lots of Grik here, sir,” he cautioned. “Up ahead. They'll come at us from the sides or behind.” The lamplight made it immediately obvious that this level was similar to the first in construction, but the layout was entirely different. Where the lower level was a maze of right angles that didn't seem to have any purpose but to confuse, this one was almost perfectly geometrical, like a grid, or more accurately, a series of square chambers separated by long passageways that intersected others at precise intervals.

“They will,” Laumer agreed, taking it in as well, “but another monster,” he said, smiling ironically, “another ‘dragon poodle,' is still behind us. We have to push on.”

Silva shrugged and trotted past Laumer. Lawrence was already casting ahead, like a hunting dog, scouting the cross-corridors and urging them on. It struck Dennis that the little guy probably counted on any Grik seeing him thinking he was one of them, for an instant.
That'll make all the difference, him bein' smaller than most Grik, after all. Not that he's at too much of a disadvantage. Little booger's grown up fightin'
.
Shoulda thought o' that myself, though,
he judged.
I ain't been thinkin' right about any of this little caper,
he suddenly realized, glancing back at Pam. She was covering the rear with her Blitzer, behind the 'Cat helping Miyata.
Jap musta not wanted to be carried after all
.
Just as well. That'd only get him and two others dead at once
.

They rushed past several of the large squares—they
were
chambers, with arched entrances, Dennis saw—and Lawrence was sniffing and checking inside each as they passed. Once, he fired into one and raced in with his bayonet, only to emerge a moment later and scurry on. When Dennis passed the entrance, he saw lots of blood pooling on the floor, and three dead Grik. None seemed to have weapons, besides the ones they were made with, but ol' Larry could sure be a ring-tooter in a fight, as he well knew. Add the sight of something that looked so much like them bursting in among them, and the surprise would definitely give him a brief advantage. All the chambers stank even worse than the corridor, and Silva began to realize they were finally seeing “how the other half lived.” There was dingy bedding inside, heaped in the corners, along with clay jars full of water and who knew what else. There was no provision for a fire, but charred bones were scattered around, so the inhabitants probably ate there after their food was prepared elsewhere.
Not much decoration,
he observed dryly;
none at all, in fact. Grik sure are dreary-minded critters,
he thought.
No landscapes, no pictures of bananas an' grapes heaped up next to a bottle o' booze
. Then he realized there
was
graffiti, or at least some scratches on the walls. He wondered if it was writing of some kind and squinted.
Nope. Well, maybe. Some is pictures, like I've seen scrawled on the walls o' brigs all over China and the Philippines
. He snorted
. I doubt this is a brig,
he decided
, but whoever hangs out here must get as bored as prisoners
.