Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen (37 page)

“As you command, my lord,” Ugla said, bowing. “But . . . what of the enemy that remains in possession of yonder hill?” he asked, gesturing vaguely northwest. “We cannot just leave them there . . . can we?”

“I would desire the warriors who guard them for this push,” Halik said thoughtfully. “The enemy on the hill has been sorely hurt and cannot remain strong. Pull everything away for our assault but those on guard to the north.” He paused. “They will join us as well—after they swarm over the top of the hill. Any of the enemy that escapes will have nowhere to go but toward us here, and they will be erased at last.”

“Very good, Lord General.”

North Hill, west of the Rocky Gap
March 20, 1944

Colonel William Flynn had watched the sun go down on the west side of his hill and now stood in the heavy darkness atop the eastern slope, watching the lightning storm of battle pulse against the low clouds above the Rocky Gap. The indomitable General Maraan had held her ground near the mouth of that pass for . . . could it be five days now? He tried to remember, but the exact number wouldn’t come. His time on North Hill with the shattered remnants of his division had blurred into what seemed a timeless span of misery.

There was precious little food and almost no water. Some food and ammunition had been air-dropped to the tattered remnants of Flynn’s Rangers, the 1st of the 2nd Marines, and the Sularans, by parachutes. Leedom had told him that his flyers were required to wear them now, but the ones designed to carry a ’Cat or human safely to the ground couldn’t land a water cask lightly enough to keep it from shattering. Larger, hastily made patchwork parachutes had been tried, but with only slightly better results. Enough food and water had arrived to keep the division alive, but only just, and fewer and fewer flights could be made because General-Queen Protector Safir Maraan’s much larger, equally trapped force required the greater effort. It was a terrible equation. A dwindling Air Corps had to choose between bombs to protect the isolated troops or supplies to sustain them—both of which were in equal demand—and it still had to guard against the occasional but dangerous zeppelin raid. The situation couldn’t go on much longer like this.

There had been growing assurances that it wouldn’t have to. Communications had finally completely failed the day before, but Flynn knew General Alden was making progress in his drive to relieve II Corps. If he reestablished the supply line, some of the pressure might fall away from General Maraan, and more air could be diverted to Flynn. There was even talk of support from First Fleet air, which would become available for some reason in a few days. The trouble was, none of that really mattered anymore to the survivors trapped on North Hill. Things had suddenly begun happening fast, and time was running out. Flynn could
feel
it.

Captain Saachic approached him in the near-perfect darkness lit only by the distant battle. “Col-nol,” he said quietly, “our scouts confirm it: The enemy has pulled everything out but the six or eight thousands that still block us from the north. The rest?” Saachic shrugged. “Maybe they join the attack in the Gap?”

“What about the ones that didn’t leave?”

“I think they are coming, Col-nol,” Saachic said grimly. “All of them. Why else remain?”

“I bet you’re right, Captain,” Flynn said, and sighed. Then he chuckled grimly. “Well, we can’t stop ’em if they all come at once. Between what we had left and the small-arms ammunition the Air Corps dropped us, we might’ve had a chance—if they could’ve given us some artillery ammo. We’re completely out of exploding case, roundshot, and mortar bombs—and we’ve got maybe three rounds of canister left per gun.” He looked southeast, toward the battle raging in the Gap. “And we damn sure can’t run away from ’em.” He almost laughed. “It always comes down to just three choices, doesn’t it? All that leaves us is to try to beat ’em to the punch. Attack downhill, concentrating everything we’ve got right at their gut, and blow through ’em like bowling pins!”

“Sir . . .” Saachic hesitated. “I think we can do that,” he said cautiously. “We might even scatter them . . . but most will chase us as they recover—and I think most
will
recover. These are not the same Grik we used to fight, and even if they were, the sight of fleeing prey . . . Our infantry cannot outrun them.” Lemurians as a species were amazingly strong and agile. They could even move pretty quickly when they had to and had decent endurance. Unlike humans, however, and particularly unlike Grik, they just weren’t built for sprinting.

“I know that, Saachic,” Flynn calmly agreed. “But I guess that’s not really the point, is it? Meanies
can
outrun ’em, and it’ll be your job to get as many out as you can.” Flynn interrupted Saachic’s dark thoughts with a slap on the shoulder. “Hey,” he said, suddenly grinning beneath the mustache that pulsed fire red under the cloud-reflected flashes. “This one’s
really
gonna make us famous!”

Saachic forced a grin. “Of course. There is that,” he said, then paused. “Assuming we do break through and escape our pursuers, where will we go?”

“Does it really matter?” Flynn asked. “Away, first. Anywhere but here. You can figure out
where
when you can take a breath.” He scratched his chin. He really hadn’t had time to give it any thought and doubted he’d be around to do so later. “North, I guess,” he finally suggested, “then try to find a way east through the mountains. I bet your meanies could do it almost anywhere, but you’ll have to get the wounded through in the ambulances—if they make it. Maybe you can rig travois?” He shook his head. “One thing at a time.”

Over the next hour, while the distant battle flared and pulsed, the eleven hundred or so effectives under Flynn’s command struggled to move every gun remaining on the hill to the northern slope. The maze of fallen trees made it extremely difficult, and several guns had to be disassembled and shifted over obstacles by hand, which caused many injuries in the darkness, but they didn’t dare make a light. If the Grik realized what they were doing, they would doubtless attack immediately, and the disorganized defenders wouldn’t have a chance. Finally, most of the guns were in position, placed nearly hub to hub, and those too badly damaged for the role they would soon play were spiked and their spokes were shattered.

Every able-bodied Ranger, Marine, and Sularan took his or her place behind the guns, rifled muskets loaded with the loose buck and ball they all still used in desperate situations. Most carried more loaded muskets, inherited from fallen comrades, slung diagonally across their backs. Many of the Marines carried similarly loaded muskets as well. Some would retain their precious breechloaders and serve as guards for the wounded loaded on the various caissons, carts, and other vehicles they’d converted or cobbled into ambulances and hitched to the few surviving paalkas. They were too low on ammunition for the new weapons for them to be of further use, so the rest of the 1st of the 2nd’s rifles lined the bottoms of the vehicles beneath the wounded. It was important they not be captured.

Saachic’s Maa-ni-lo cavalry waited behind the guns and infantry, carrying two and sometimes three riders each. The extra riders and all the unexpected activity in the dark made the irascible me-naaks nervous, but at least they weren’t hungry; there’d been plenty of Grik for them to feast upon. The animals were incredibly tough, naturally armored with thick cases like a rhino pig, so even Grik crossbow bolts didn’t bother them much from a distance, but there were fewer than two hundred of them left alive.

“They’re getting ready,” Bekiaa-Sab-At said, closing her telescope as Flynn joined her. Her head was still wrapped in a bloody bandage beneath her helmet where she’d taken a blow from the flat of a Grik sword. “I see little glowing dots. They are lighting their matchlocks.”

Mark Leedom stood beside her in the gloom, much taller than the Lemurian captain of Rangers and Marines. He still had Flynn’s ’03 Springfield and it was slung on his shoulder, bayonet fixed. “I guess this is it?” he asked nervously.

Flynn chuckled. “I swear, Leedom. I’d be scared to death to fly around in one of those kites like you do. Relax. Folks have been fightin’ on their own two feet since there have been folks—of any kind. It’s a cinch.”

Leedom chuckled back. “Yeah, well, you know? I’ve learned to prefer to stay
above
such things.”

“Just stay close to Bekiaa here and you’ll do fine.” He nodded in the darkness. “Let’s go.”

There were no drums, no whistles. There was no audible command at all beyond Flynn’s soft words. As he stepped forward, the troops around him did the same, and each company down the line moved off the company beside it. The guns crept forward as well, with pairs of cannoneers on each wheel straining against the weight. Spokes creaked and small stones crunched beneath the iron tires. Prolong ropes trailed behind, held by the rest of the gun’s crews, ready to slow them as they reached the gradual slope. Flynn looked around him. He couldn’t see much in the dark, but what he could see in the brief, dull, distant flashes made him proud. He didn’t have much of a division left, but he was thrilled by the discipline, professionalism, and determination he felt around him. These ’Cats, his
troops
, had been through hell, and every one of them had to know what lay before them that night, yet there was no complaint. Even the wounded stifled their cries as the ambulances began to move behind the lines, painfully jolting the occupants. The paalkas lowed sadly, but it was a sound the enemy would be used to. Around the ambulances, now lost to view, Saachic’s cavalry would be moving.

God above,
Flynn thought, focusing as hard as he could on the prayer.
Even if this is it—you know, the End—thank you, Sir, for the opportunity to die with such fine folks!

Almost silently, the collection of shattered regiments swept down the slope as if they’d drilled alongside each other many times. At the bottom, as the ground leveled out, the cannoneers on the wheels of their pieces were joined by others, to preserve their strength. Each gun would fire its three shots as fast as possible, and to hell with the sponge—or any other safety measure—before its crew disabled it and joined the charge. On they moved, farther and longer than Flynn ever dreamed they would make it without discovery. No Grik horn had sounded yet, but time had to be running out. The enemy had been about five hundred yards away to start—beyond effective canister range—but they’d closed that distance to two hundred now, maybe one fifty, he estimated. It was impossible to be sure.
Closer is better,
he thought anxiously.
It takes them half a minute or more to get rolling after the horns
—Jesus!
I think I can see their match cherries without a glass!

A deep, thrumming roar exploded in front of them with an almost physical force. Maybe it was an illusion, but it seemed impossibly close.

“Drummers!” Flynn immediately roared.

Drums thundered up and down the line, plied by younglings too young or small to carry a musket. Flynn had ordered that they jump on the ambulances when their job was done, but the blinking he’d seen when he gave that command made him doubt that many would. The cannons were already loaded; their vent pricks thrust into the charges to keep them in place during the advance. The drums had been the signal for the gunners to pull the pricks and prime their pieces.

“Division Artillery!” Bekiaa roared grandly. “At my command . . . Fire!”

Flynn clenched his eyes shut and opened his mouth—as he hoped everyone had done—and felt the rippling concussions pound his chest and ears and squeeze his eyeballs into their sockets. Thousands of pieces of canister moaned and whistled, but the sound was quickly replaced by a mounting shriek of terror and agony, and the staccato wooden, metallic, fleshy drumming of high-velocity metal slashing into an army.

“Muskets!” Flynn bellowed, echoed by the cries of the regimental and company commanders. “Present! Fire!”

A scorching volley seared out, the long jets of flame from crackling muskets finally showing Flynn the enemy—less than fifty paces away!
My God!
he thought.
They’re right
there
!

“Independent, fire at will!” he roared, raising his own musket and shooting into the ragged mass of wailing, writhing Grik. The canister and musket volleys had been delivered so close and so suddenly that they’d hacked a gaping, gory hole in the center of the Grik line. Shredded grass fluttered down like red-green snow, and a haze of downy fur competed with the billowing smoke. The guns barked again, jolting back across the level ground in the knee-high grass, flashing like smoke-shrouded strobes, their muzzles slamming down before tipping up again, the breeches clanking hard against elevation screws.

Some Grik were already shooting back, shockingly fast after such a devastating surprise. Large balls
verp
ed past Flynn amid the swish of crossbow bolts, but judging by the flashes, a lot of Grik were still shooting wild, maybe blinded by the cannon fire. Flynn heard a metallic
clung
, and a ’Cat beside him pitched to the ground, a huge hole in the front of his helmet. He jerked his eyes away and concentrated on reloading his musket. With a skin-crawling swiftness that would never have been tolerated under other circumstances, some of the guns were already belching their
third
round of canister. Flynn looked just in time to see a gun ’Cat ram a charge down a smoking tube—and be shredded by the premature discharge caused by lingering embers. The rammer staff—and much of the ’Cat—added themselves to the projectiles the gun coughed at the Grik.