“The machine guns are empty, and I ordered the others to stay on the wall. They’re of little use in this type of fight. If all had bayonets it might be different…”
“Never mind. You did right. Have them prepare to cover our withdrawal. I’m going to try to pull back to the wall.”
“It will be risky. The enemy will sense victory and strike even harder.”
“I know, but that’s all there is. We can’t move forward and we can’t stay here. There’re just too damn many.” Chack blinked reluctant agreement. He turned to run back to the wall and prepare his troops. Then he stopped. Alden looked in the direction he faced and was stunned to see hundreds of Lemurians pouring over the wall and racing over the ground he’d been preparing to yield. More than hundreds, perhaps a few thousand in all, and he had no idea where they’d come from. There simply were no more reserves. Then he saw the proud regimental flags whipping in the breeze as their bearers crossed the wall in the wake of the charge. The Second Aryaal, the Second B’mbaado, and the Third Baalkpan were three he recognized. All were “veteran” units that had been deployed in defense of the shipyard and the north wall.
Screaming their rage, they streamed across the abattoir and surged directly into the faltering line. The weight of their unexpected charge carried the entire shield wall forward into the face of the enemy, and once again there was a distinct change in the Grik. Once again those facing the added spears turned on those behind them, slashing and screaming in panic, and slaying their unprepared comrades before they had a chance to even realize what had happened. The rout began to grow, and the air of terror was 3'› the shield wall churned forward again, it became apparent that many Grik still fighting bore the same wild-eyed expressions as those trying to get away. Something was pushing them from behind, just as the reinforced attack was driving them back. Almost as if it shared a single collective awareness, the entire host suddenly shifted in the one direction it perceived safety might still be found: toward the sea.
What began as a steadily growing tendency to move west quickly built into a panicked rush. Soon the horde of Grik was flowing past the shield wall from left to right with the unstoppable chaotic urgency of a massive, flooding river. Spears continued to slay them as they hurried past, but there was no reaction from those around the victims except, perhaps, to quicken their pace. It was shocking and amazing and dreadful all at once, and a vague cheer began to build as Alden’s troops realized that this time there’d be no stopping the rout. Whatever force enabled the Grik to operate with some semblance of cooperation, cunning, and courage had disappeared just as surely as if the strings of a marionette had been cut.
The cheering grew frenzied when the flag of the Second Marines resolved itself in the flickering gloom beyond the raging torrent of Grik.
“It’s Shinya! Shinya!” came a gleeful shout at Alden’s side. He turned and saw Alan Letts actually jumping up and down and waving his arms in the air. His hat was gone and his red hair was plastered to his scalp with blood and sweat. Mueer from the pilothouse. And so it was there, on Walker ’s bridge, that Matt played tag with the devil.
With the loss of the foremast, the radio was out, and Clancy had been ordered to remove it and place it in the whaleboat-the only boat left. The launch was a shattered wreck, and the other launch never returned from searching for survivors of the PBY. Of course, they’d been steaming at high speed ever since it left. Maybe it was still out there somewhere, vainly trying to catch them.
An intermittent pounding, metallic drumming, came from the front of the pilothouse where bullets struck, but the enemy fire had begun to slacken. Matt saw Spanky crawling across the strakes from the ladders. He was bleeding and seemed disoriented. Matt risked a peek out the window to make sure their position relative to Amagi was unchanged. His hat had been snatched off his head during a recent similar check. “Are you all right?” he shouted.
McFarlane shook his head. “I’m shot, God damn it. How’re you?”
The captain almost laughed. “Nothing, would you believe it?” A throbbing pain resurfaced. “Busted nose, a few scratches,” he amended. “How’s she holding up?”
“The bow’s a sieve, and she’s down four feet by the head. I just came from there. A Jap bullet came through the goddamn hull and got me in the goddamn ass! Everybody’s out of the aft fireroom but the Mice, and they’re in water up to their shins. If we don’t head for shore right damn now, the fish’ll get us all!”
Matt nodded, but at the same time he knew he couldn’t give up. Amagi might be finished- Walker certainly was-but as long as the battle cruiser was afloat, she was a threat. He couldn’t break off before the task was done- not as long as they had a single shell for the number one gun. It had to end here, now. If Amagi got away and somehow survived, Baalkpan would never survive her eventual return. Worse than that, the sacrifice of all those who’d died and suffered this long day and night would have been for nothing.
“Soon,” Matt promised. “We’ll break off soon.”
“God damn it! Why won’t that unholy bitch just sink?!” Silva raged into the night. He could barely see through the blood clouding his vision, and he suspected his left eye was ruined. A swarm of paint chips and bullet fragments were the cause. Even so, he could tell Amagi was listing twenty-five or thirty degrees-but that was where it stopped. Low in the water and creeping along at barely five knots, the Jap was still underway and entering the center of the channel. He’d thrown shell after shell into her stern, and there’d been no visible effect other than a growing, gaping hole in her fantail. Now, no matter how hard they searched, the runners who’d been bringing him shells couldn’t find any more.
Machine-gun bullets still rattled off the splinter shield, but only a few. It was as if the Japanese sailors knew Walker had done her worst, and had nothing left to throw at them. They were going to get away.
“Mr. Silva!” came a cry behind him, and he whirled in shock. Thvis“What the hell are you doing here?” he choked. “Goddamn, there’s bullets and bombs… and we’re fixin’ to sink! Get your stupid asses under cover, for crissakes!”
Rebecca looked at her companion. “Well, Lawrence, clearly we’re not wanted, and apparently they don’t need this as badly as we thought-with everyone running around looking for them!” It was only then that Silva realized the small girl and large, but still sore lizard were struggling with a heavy, four-inch-fifty shell suspended between them.
Torn, he glanced at the retreating battle cruiser. For the moment the incoming fire had stopped completely. Maybe the enemy gunner was out of ammunition-or he’d simply given up. “Shit!” he groaned disgustedly. “Gimme that; then get the hell outta here!” He sprinted across the blood-slick deck to meet them. “Let me guess: Lieutenant Tucker still thinks you’re with O’Casey and vicey-versey?”
“I tried to sto’ her,” Lawrence announced virtuously, but the girl only grinned.
“My safety is still primarily your responsibility, Mr. Silva. I have no control over assumptions others might make,” Rebecca stated sternly. “Besides, whether they like it or not, or even know it, my people must be represented in this fight!”
“Skipper’s gonna kill me,” Silva muttered with absolute certainty, taking the shell in his massive hands. He noticed with a sinking feeling that it was high-explosive. “Here,” he said, resignedly, handing it to the loader, “let’s make it count!” He glared back at the girl. “I’ve pulled some stupid stunts, but this… at least get behind the splinter shield!”
Rebecca’s grin faded. “Your eye!”
“Just a scratch.” Silva turned to Pack Rat, the Lemurian pointer. “Well? Quit screwin’ around, and let ’em have it!”
“You gonna aim for us?” Pack Rat cried sarcastically. His gunners were all Lemurians, too short to look through the sight and push the trigger pedal too. They could elevate and traverse if he guided them, though. He was positive just a few more rounds would finish Amagi, but they just didn’t have them. A single HE shell wouldn’t make much difference.
“Yeah, if somebody’ll load the goddamn thing!” he growled disgustedly. It was then that he saw his trainer was down. “Hey… Lawrence! Get your stripey ass on the training wheel!”
Lawrence’s jaw went slack. “Trainer? I?”
“Yeah, trainer, you! Step on it!”
The breech slammed shut, and Silva squinted with his good eye through the telescopic sight mounted on the left side of the gun. Only the smallest part of his consciousness even noticed when a tiny hand squirmed its way into his clenched, bloody fist.
“Port a little,” he crooned, “port… port… Good! Up, up. .. Good. Shit! Stop when I say ‘good,’ damn you!
