Rising Tides (19 page)

Tikker yawned hugely. The steady, reliable, workmanlike drone of the Nancy’s engine had a lulling effect, and after staying up most of the night going over last-minute details and sorting through maintenance issues with the crew chiefs, he’d had to get up early and meet with the pilots for a final, redundant briefing.
Salissa
hadn’t been commissioned into the U.S. Navy; she was still an independent Home, but all her pilots were duly sworn “Navy men,” and therefore “Americans.” As an “American” now himself, with somewhat unprecedented responsibility, Tikker had finally solved one of the great mysteries of his human clan-mates: their addiction to “coffee.” Despite its vile taste, he’d actually become as dependent on the stuff as any American. So had most of his pilots. They’d virtually emptied
Salissa
’s “medical lockers” of coffee the night before. Aahd-mah-raal Keje promised to send across to his other ships for more, but his human officers dipped into their own “stash” so Tikker’s fliers would have enough to “get their blood moving” before the mission.

This would be the First Naval Air Wing’s maiden combat operation, and the first almost entirely Lemurian and Lemurian-led air operation in all of history. Thirty-two planes would participate. Sixty-four young lives, not to mention endless months of training, preparation, and the very concept of naval aviation on this world were on the line—on Tikker’s shoulders. If he’d felt a little overwhelmed in the predawn hours, that was understandable.

This morning, Tikker commanded “A” flight of the 1st Naval Bomb Squadron, while Mark Leedom led “A” flight of the 1st Naval Pursuit Squadron. Only the names were different. All the planes were identically loaded with one fifty-pound bomb under each wing, and a crate of mortar bombs in front of the observer’s stick. Mark’s was the lead flight in the lead squadron and Tikker brought up the rear. Not long after takeoff, they’d lost a couple of planes to mechanical problems, but there’d been no issues since then. The planes that had to fall out of the formation had headed back to
Salissa
. The sea was flat and calm, so if they couldn’t make it, they would set down and wait for pickup. With most of four squadrons of the blue and white Nancys still in the air ahead of him, Tikker felt a flush of pride and accomplishment at the sight.

The voice tube beside his head whistled.

“What have you got, Cisco?” he shouted into it.

“There’s a big fight at Raan-goon,” Cisco said. Her voice sounded tinny and remote. Riggs had contrived a set of earphones that sort of worked on Lemurians, so the observer/wireless operators could actually hear signals in flight. “Big fight,” she continued. “Yasna-At, with Lieutenant Leedom, says they can see plenty of smoke.” Tikker could see the jungle peninsula ahead, the swampy marshland receding in the west, but couldn’t see any smoke yet. The overland sky was hazy, and almost the same color smoke would have been. “Commodore Ellis says that we must fly to the north end of the battle. He will place
Dowden
in the river there for a waypoint. Our new orders are to sweep west-southwest from there, and engage any substantial force but one. There is an enemy camp of some sort about a mile from the river, in front of Generals Alden and Rolak. Commodore Ellis says to leave it alone for now, but to save enough munitions and fuel to ‘paste’ it at his command!”

Tikker wondered what that was about. “Very well. Reply ‘Understood. Entire First Bomb Squadron will orbit area and remain at his service.’ Inform Lieutenant Leedom he will command all other attack elements and pursue the enemy. Make sure we have confirmation from all ships.”

“What the hell is this all about?” Pete growled when a lone Grik warrior stepped forward from the mass that had fallen back in front of the enemy camp the scouts had discovered. He watched in astonishment as the Grik poked its sword through a piece of white cloth and held it high, continuing forward. “No way!” he said, incredulous.

Lord General Rolak was equally shocked. The sounds of battle still seethed on the left, where Queen Maraan’s forces were pushing forward, but here, for a moment, except for the occasional shell from
Donaghey
detonating well forward of their position and just beyond the Grik, there was only stunned silence. “If I understand the meaning of such gestures—we have used them among ourselves and the Imperials before—it would seem the Grik Commander would have a parley.”

“Well ... How in God’s name can he expect ... It’s not like they ever ... What makes him think ... Well, he ain’t getting one!” Pete roared. Raising his Springfield, he shot the warrior directly in the snout at a range of about seventy yards. The back of the creature’s head erupted crimson clay and one of the warriors behind it squealed and fell when the bullet continued on and struck it in the torso. The Grik with the white rag collapsed instantly.

A strange sound, like an anxious moan, escaped some of the eight hundred to a thousand warriors still blocking the camp, but there was no other reaction. A few moments later, another Grik strode from the mass, again bearing a rag. Perhaps even more disconcerting and ... well, creepy ... the frightening creature showed no more hesitation than the last one. Pete swore and raised his rifle again, but Rolak stopped him. “I must confess a most profound, almost morbid curiosity, my friend,” he said, “to discover whether they would keep sending them regardless of how many you shoot—but let us see what we shall see.”

“Shit, Rolak,” Pete grumped, picking up his empty shell and putting it in his pocket. “What’s he going to say? We can’t talk to the damn things! Besides, how come they wait until we’re fixin’ to wipe ’em out before they want to talk?”

“Indeed,” agreed Rolak. “But they’ve never done that before. They could still flee—or attack and die. Indulge me, please. I am interested.”

“Well ... okay.” Pete relented and ordered: “Hold fire. Pass it down!” He waited until the order was picked up and began to spread.

They waited expectantly while the lone warrior approached. The creature didn’t look like a Hij “officer”—its dress was too utilitarian, too drab. It did have an impressive crest flowing from beneath a hard leather cap, however. Probably an older NCO or something. Unlike the other, this one wasn’t armed—besides its natural battery of lethal teeth and claws—and merely held the rag above its head. Finally, a few paces short of Pete and Rolak, who’d moved slightly forward, it hissed and spat something that sounded like a piece of steel slapped against a grinding wheel. Tossing a piece of the heavy Grik parchment on the ground, it turned and stalked off. It was all Pete could do to keep from shooting it in the back.

“Fetch it,” he told a Marine nearby, and the ’Cat trotted the few steps and stooped, distastefully retrieving the object, like one might pick up a turd. Returning, he thoughtfully held it so Pete could see it without touching it himself. “Son of a ...” Pete snatched the parchment and turned it right side up. “You can read, can’t you, Rolak?” he asked in a strange tone.

“I’ve learned to read
English
,” Rolak stressed, ignoring what he knew was not meant as an insult, “fairly well. Quite an accomplishment, considering my years.”

Pete held the parchment for him to see.

“Runner!” Pete demanded, as if expecting one to materialize out of nothing, and he scribbled something on the back of the parchment. A young ’Cat Marine raced to his side and he passed the note. “Get that to the CP, PDQ, see?”

The ’Cat saluted. “Aye, aye, Gen-er-aal!”

“What was that? What did you write?” Rolak asked, still stunned.

“Request for
Dowden
to cease firing. Also, those brand-new Naval Aviators’ll be swarming around here pretty soon. Might as well find out what the deal is with these guys before our flyboys bomb ’em.”

Tikker couldn’t believe his eyes. His squadron had been the last to use
Dowden
for a waypoint, and he’d easily caught her flag signal reinforcing the signal they’d received by wireless. Alden was talking with some Grik! When his eight-plane squadron buzzed over the Grik encampment, there’d been some evident confusion on the ground, but there stood two distinct forces—the Marines and a numerically roughly equal mob of Grik warriors staring at one another across a clearing about a hundred tails wide. From his plane, he could see Queen Maraan’s regiments proceeding past the “situation” to the south, followed by most of Rolak’s troops that had moved from line into column and were picking their way along in the Queen’s wake. Basically, all that remained facing this enemy concentration was the Marines, and they were more than a match for it. Tikker had received a final addendum to his orders: if the Marine guns began to fire, he was to bomb the enemy with everything he had. He glanced at his fuel gauge and hoped the standoff wouldn’t last long, one way or the other.

Rolak had placed his force under Colonel Grisa and remained with Alden. He couldn’t help it. He had to see how this was “sorted out.” Grisa would report to Safir Maraan and offer his regiments to her. Now Rolak stood with Pete Alden and a couple of Marines facing what was certainly the most formidable-looking Grik he’d ever seen alive. It was taller than most Grik, something they’d expected after examining dead Hij before, and it was dressed in relatively ornate, if garish, bronze armor over its chest, shins, and forearms. It was armed with one of the sickle-shaped swords favored by its kind, but the weapon remained sheathed and the pommel was well crafted if, again, somewhat grotesque. In contrast to the shining armor, the cape and kilt it wore were a somewhat battered red and black.

The creature called itself “General Arlskgter,” and the reason they knew that was because it was accompanied by three other Grik, one of which was stooped with age and not attired as a warrior. That one named itself Hij-Geerki. The very first thing they established was that Hij-Geerki had been liaison to a party of Japanese who’d been sent in search of undisclosed raw materials for the Ceylon war machine. For different reasons, English was the technical language of the Grik and Japanese, and though they couldn’t actually converse, Hij-Geerki could understand spoken English and the Japanese technicians had learned to understand some spoken Grik. Both could read the written words. Through a quick series of notes, Pete and Rolak learned that Hij-Geerki understood nearly everything they said and could form a very few words. Mostly, however, he would write English translations of what his master told him to say. In a few short minutes, they’d already confirmed everything Commander Okada had told them about how the Grik and Japanese managed to cooperate.

“Well,” Pete said, “let’s get on with this. We haven’t got all day.” He gestured up at the eight aircraft circling the clearing, their droning engines and passing shadows still clearly disconcerting to all the Grik, even their general, who glanced up at the planes each time they flew by, high behind Alden. He gave the impression it was all he could do not to stare at them continuously. “What do you want?”

“Terms,” Hij-Geerki wrote again in reply. “My General Arlskgter and all his Hij and Uul warriors would join you in the hunt.”

“Which ‘hunt’?” Rolak asked. “What does that mean?”

“The war hunt you wage against the ... Ghaarrichk’k ... others of our kind.”

“I’ll be damned,” Pete muttered. “They really
do
call themselves something like ‘Grik.’ And all this time, the Skipper always thought that was just somebody else’s rude name for ’em, kind of like the names we always got for Indian tribes—from other Indians.” Rolak looked at him questioningly, but Pete shook his head. “You, Geeky; you mean to tell me your General Alski-gator would just switch sides? That’s nuts.”

“The wise hunter joins the strongest pack,” Hij-Geerki wrote. “It is the same when we wage the war hunt among ourselves. It is true that no Ghaarrichk’k ... no ‘Grik’ ... has ever joined other hunters against Grik before, but the Grik have always been the strongest pack.”

When Rolak read this last, his tail went rigid with indignation. “General Alden,” he said formally, “I respectfully insist that you must entertain no notion of any ... alliance”—he spat the word—“with these vermin!”

“Cool your guns, Rolak,” he said. “I’m just picking my way through this. You’re the one who wanted to talk to ’em. I’m just talking.” He looked at Hij-Geerki. “You seem like a smart cookie ... ah, Grik. What would you have done if Alski-gator was dead?”

“I would have made the same offer,” Hij-Geerki wrote in reply. “It was my idea. I am no general, no warrior. I am Hij, but just a ... procurer of supplies. My general requires that I obey him, so obey him I must while he lives.”

“Holy smokes,” Pete whispered to Rolak, realization dawning. “Geeky’s a
civilian
! I didn’t even know they
had
civilians!”

“It would seem they do, after all. It makes sense. We know they must have females, though we’ve never seen one.”

“Yeah, but we’re starting to knock on their own door for a change. This might make a big difference when we move on Ceylon.” He turned back to Hij-Geerki. “What about the other Grik, the ones around the town, or port? By all reports, they seem like a whole other command. Weaker. Can he make them switch sides too?”