With an audible
Thwack!
followed by a diminishing, low-pitched
whawha-wha
sound, Juan’s leg jerked from under him and he fell against the crate and slid down, flat on his face. He’d been kneeling on his right knee and his left leg had strayed from behind cover. Gray quickly dragged him back and inspected the wreckage of his lower leg.
“Shit. Smack in the middle of the shin,” he said, tearing his T-shirt and tying the strips tightly just under the knee. Juan hadn’t made a peep. He didn’t seem sure what had happened. Gray caught Matt’s eye and jerked his head significantly from side to side, mouthing, “It’s gone.” Juan tried to get back up, but Gray held him down. “No, goddamn it, you stay put! You wanna bleed out?” With that, the Bosun replaced the magazine in his Thompson and fired a long, smoky burst over the top of the crate.
They were nearly out of ammunition for the .30-cal. The tiny cart they’d hired the day before simply hadn’t been able to carry much beyond the weight of the large, inconspicuously armored crate—not to mention the heavy weapons inside. Of course, they hadn’t expected to fight a pitched battle all alone, and that’s basically what they had on their hands. The crate was riddled with holes, but few balls had passed all the way through, courtesy of the two Marine shields inside. Stites had been grazed along the ribs, but otherwise, besides a few splinters, they were unhurt. Until Juan was hit.
They’d drawn most of the enemy fire on themselves, giving the bleachers a chance to empty, and Matt concentrated on the cannons when he could, keeping them from firing at them now. The guns were effectively silenced, but enemy troops continued to pour forward to take the place of the countless slain. They’d been preparing to pull back straightaway behind the crate, and then sprint for the protection of the wall that funneled spectators into the bleachers. With Juan hurt, that was out. They couldn’t leave him, and any man who tried to carry him was doomed. All they could do now was hold their ground and hope Chack got there in time.
The machine gun had done the most damage, and Matt was constantly revising upward the number of enemies they faced. He’d never seen human troops take such punishment and just keep pushing, especially into the mouth of something like the Browning, which they’d never encountered before. It was nuts. Twice, the “Doms” tried to cross the open ground on their left flank and come at them from that direction, but Stites literally butchered the attempts. Since then, it was pretty straight up: five men (including Courtney’s occasional shot) with modern weapons against an army. Jenks finally figured out how stripper clips worked, and fired away with his ’03, with telling effect. Still, they wouldn’t last long when the .30-cal ran dry.
“What
is
it with those people?” Matt demanded. “Why don’t they break?”
“They are ‘Blood Drinkers,’ ” Jenks snarled. “Elite troops. See their red neckcloths? They are the very ‘Swords of the Pope.’ ” He looked at Gray, almost apologetically. “I’m sorry—that’s what they call the fiend. That, or ‘His Supreme Holiness.’ ”
“No sweat,” Gray replied. “I ain’t much of a Catholic these days.” He nodded at Juan, who’d managed to rise, regardless. His left leg was relatively straight now, except for where it bent a little at the shattered bone. He’d grasped his Springfield again and took careful aim with gritted teeth. “He is, though, and he’s pissed.”
Juan nailed another yellow-and-red-clad man. “Pissed,” he agreed harshly, almost moaning with the agony that had finally come.
“Their pope ain’t our pope, so don’t worry about it. We’ve even had a few doozies of our own, but this beats me. Do they really drink blood?”
“I’ve heard so. They believe death in battle, for ‘God,’ brings them instant paradise. Retreat brings eternal damnation.”
“Empty,” Stites announced, crouching down. The balls whizzing by the crate or slapping into it became a blizzard. “Whoa, boy!” he yelped, clenching his eyes shut when a ball snatched at his hair. “Sumbitches is gonna drink my blood!”
“Shut up, you nitwit!” Gray said, also taking cover. “Maybe they will, and it’ll poison the lot of ’em!”
Finally even Juan fell back down when a cascade of splinters left his face bloody. Remaining exposed now was suicide. The Filipino’s bloody fingers groped inside his shirt for a small golden cross and he closed his eyes. “You must leave me, Cap-tan,” he said hoarsely.
“Not a chance,” Matt said severely. “Who’ll cut my hair?”
After an intense fusillade that left them all cringing together behind the disintegrating crate, the firing abruptly ceased, and Matt risked a quick glance. Yellow-and-red-uniformed men had begun to form up on the dueling ground. More and more troops streamed from the woods and spilled out from under the bleachers, adding to the ranks. “Jesus,” he said, “I bet there’s still three or four hundred of ’em. Maybe five.”
“Now will come the charge,” Jenks said quietly. “They’ll sweep right over us and into the city.”
They were startled by a sudden loud drumroll and the initial hesitant skirl of a bagpipe, of all things. Matt turned and looked behind them.
“It’s Chack!” he said excitedly.
“About damn time!” the Bosun grumbled.
“Close up, close up!” Chack roared at the “pickup” infantry they’d assembled at the dock. Blair had managed to scrape up about two hundred and thirty Marines, including those from the ships they thought they could count on. With Chack’s fifty and Blair’s initial dozen, they’d double-timed to the sound of the guns, their shoes and Lemurian sandals echoing off the buildings and stone streets leading through the city from the waterfront. Crowds of panicked civilians cleared a lane in the face of the bizarre collection of troops. Other units were expected, but none had been prepared. It would still be some time before they arrived. One of Blair’s volunteers found his note on the bagpipe and launched into a martial tune that was simultaneously stirring and nerve-racking to Chack. “What in the name of the Heavens
is
that thing?” he demanded.
The drums continued to roll as the Imperial Marines jockeyed into the unfamiliar formation Chack and Blair had imposed, and once it looked something like they’d envisioned, Chack raised his voice.
“Battalion!” he roared, “Forward,
march
! Shields,
up
!” The entire first rank was composed of Chack’s Lemurian and Blair’s human Marines. They’d been marching with their muskets slung and shields trailing to their left. Now they brought the shields around, facing the enemy. A compact block of troops sixty wide and five ranks deep split and surged past the beleaguered men behind the crate, re-forming on the other side, just under seventy yards short of the growing Dominion line.
“Corpsman!” Matt shouted, standing and looking around. Selass, complete with Marine armor, scrambled forward from the rear rank with a pair of assistants.
“Cap-i-taan Reddy!” she chattered. “Thank the Heavens you are safe!’
“I’m fine. Juan’s hurt.”
“Cap-i-taan!” greeted Chack, bringing up the rear with Imperial file closers. Blair was with him. “Thank the Heavens!” he repeated. “I’m sorry we did not arrive sooner. All is chaos in the harbor. Reynolds reports a large Dominion fleet approaching from the south, and a signal calling all Imperial subjects to arms flies above Government House.
Walker
,
Euripides
, and
Tacitus
have sailed, and at first it seemed as though other ships and the forts might actually
fire
on them! Word is spreading quickly, though, and other ships may now join them. It is like your ‘Pearl Harbor’ all over again!”
“Let’s pray not,” Matt said grimly. “Goddamn it!” he swore, uncharacteristically strongly. “My ship’s steaming into battle, and here I am!”
“You planned for as much,” Jenks reminded him. “Trust your first officer and let us finish the fight ‘we’re at,’ yes?” He looked around. “Where’s Bates—‘O’Casey?’ ”
“In the front rank, holding a shield. He insisted,” Chack replied.
“Fool!”
“Chack,” Matt said, “listen. This is your battle now. Fight it your way. You’ve got to hold them here, but if you get a chance, stick it in!” He paused. Lemurians were only now beginning to grasp the concept of quarter, since the Grik never asked or gave it. “Take prisoners at your discretion,” he said at last. “We need to scram. Jenks has to find the Governor-Emperor and report the big picture. If something’s happened to him, Jenks needs to be ready to sort stuff out. No telling for sure who’s on whose side right now.” Matt looked at Jenks. “Find that pretty wife of yours too, make sure she’s safe!”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to borrow half a dozen Marines and get that bastard Reed. Where do you think he’ll be?”
“The Dominion embassy, I shouldn’t wonder,” Jenks hissed. “He’ll be awaiting the outcome with Don Hernan. I expect he’ll seek his protection if they lose!”
“What protection, after this?” Matt challenged.
Jenks blinked, then nodded. “Indeed.”
Chack detailed an even dozen Imperial Marines (amazing how readily they followed his orders. Kipling was right about “keeping your head”) and Matt, Gray, Stites—and for some reason Courtney—disappeared in the direction of the embassy.
Chack turned to face forward. This would be his first test against an equally armed foe. True, his Lemurian Marines had percussion muskets with tighter tolerances, sights, and therefore better accuracy, but they were holding the shields and their weapons might not load as fast as flintlocks anyway. The “Doms” seemed to be waiting for him, as if battles of this nature, like this one had suddenly become, should have “rules” of sportsmanship. What were they waiting for? he wondered. A pre-battle chat? He looked at the Imperial bleachers, and the bloody corpses heaped and scattered there. His lips curled, exposing sharp canines. Captain Reddy
had
given him “discretion,” after all.
“Prepare to fix bayonets!” he cried. The troops shifted slightly, anticipating, and the drumroll became a staccato rumble.
“Fix!”
As his Marines had trained, and the Imperials had been instructed, three hundred bayonets were jerked from their scabbards with a bloodthirsty roar and brandished menacingly at the enemy.
“Bayonets!”
With a metallic clatter, the weapons were attached to muzzles.
“Front rank, present!”
The Lemurians’ muskets were already loaded, and they would be too busy to shoot in a moment at any rate.
“Aim!”
Hammers clicked back and polished barrels steadied at the surprised foe.
“Fire!”
Even before the smoke cleared, exposing the carnage of that first volley, Chack was already shouting: “Front rank, guard against muskets! Shields at an angle! Get them up! Lean them back! Second rank, present!”
“The Nancy in trouble!” shouted Minnie, the talker, relaying the message from the crow’s nest. Frankie had been staring at the Dominion battle line through his binoculars, amazed at the size of some of the ships. They weren’t nearly as big as a Lemurian Home, but they were easily half again bigger than the largest Grik ship they’d seen—and they appeared to carry a
lot
of metal. He redirected his binoculars skyward. The little blue plane was coming right at them, purple-white smoke trailing its engine. “They no call ‘May-Day,’ ” the talker finished.
So
, Frankie thought,
either The Transmitter’s out or Kari’s been hit
. Reynolds seemed to be having increased difficulty keeping the plane in the air. “Range to target?” he called.
“Seven zero, double zero, closing at thirty knots” came the reply, relayed from Campeti above on the fire control platform.
Walker
was making twenty knots, so the enemy must be making ten. Damn. Big
and
fast. Of course, they had the wind off their port quarter, and that was probably their very best point.
“Very well. Slow to one-third. Stand by to recover aircraft and hoist the ‘return to ship’ flag!”
Even as
Walker
slowed and the whaleboat was readied to launch, the plane began belching black smoke, and with the reduced roar from the blower, they could hear the death rattle of its engine. Fred seemed intent on a spot just ahead, off what would soon be
Walker
’s starboard beam.
“Ahead slow! Stand by to come to course three double oh. We’ll try to put her in our lee. Launch the whaleboat as soon as practical and have the gun’s crews stand by for ‘surface action, port.’ ”
The Nancy wheezed and clattered past the pilothouse, gouging roughly into the sea with a wrenching splash. Even before the propeller stuttered to a stop, Fred Reynolds dove out of his cockpit into the water.
“All stop!” Frankie cried, a chill going down his spine. There were no flashies in these seas, but there were smaller fish that acted like them. There were also a hell of a lot of sharks. Big ones, little ones, a few truly humongous ones ... and there was a type of gri-kakka—as well as other things. “Get that whaleboat in the water!” Frankie yelled, even as the boat slid down the falls and smacked into the sea. Fred had swum around to the observer’s seat and was trying to claw his way up the oilstreaked fuselage. Kari wasn’t moving. Somehow, Fred managed to climb high enough to get the Lemurian by the long hair on her head and drag her from the plane just as the overheated engine burst into flames. Almost immediately, the fuel tank directly above it ignited with a searing
whoosh
and a mushroom of orange flame and black smoke. The right wing folded and the fuselage rolled on its side, and in what seemed a matter of seconds, the entire plane was consumed by fire, its charred skeleton drawn beneath the waves by the weight of the engine.
There in the water, Fred Reynolds was stroking mightily toward the oncoming boat, one arm clawing at the water, the other trying to hold Kari’s head above it. “C’mon!” urged someone on the bridge. A dull moan reached their ears and a huge splash erupted a few dozen yards off the port bow. Another splash arose a quarter of a mile short.