throwing, these were probably some of those early weapons. They might have been left here or off-loaded from the partially sunken ship. It didn’t matter. As long as they were shooting at the ships, they couldn’t do much damage even if they managed to hit one-and the Grik weren’t using them against his infantry anymore.
Pete took a huge chew of the yellowish “tobacco” leaves and trotted down off the dock where he’d been observing the action. Greg Garrett’s troops had a lot of the crummy city near the docks already, but the 1st Marines were still waiting for him to solidify the link with Queen Maraan’s forces upstream. The Marines had a long trot ahead of them on what promised to be a miserably humid day. They could fight a battle, run three miles or so and fight another, but he didn’t want them to if it wasn’t necessary. Besides, the end-around maneuver might wind up being a lot more than three miles. He joined his troops where they were strung out, resting on the shore under the protection of a high embankment.
“That’s it, fellas,” he said and spat. “Rest up while you can. One of the most important combat skills a Marine can ever learn.”
One of the somewhat dreaded and always poorly trusted me-naaks, or “meanies,” charged down among the Marines, sending several of them scattering. It loped right up to Pete and came to a mud-spraying halt. It stood there, glaring insolently with its tightly trussed, salivaoozing jaws and reptilian eyes. The damn things always reminded him of a cross between a horse-size dog and a crocodile. He looked up and goggled a little to see that the rider was none other than Captain Greg Garrett.
“What the devil are you doing on that monster? I can see it now; when the history of this war gets written, your story’ll be like ol’ Albert Sidney’s, who rode around all day while he was bleeding to death-except in your case, it’ll end with you getting ate by your horse! Don’t you have more important shit to do?”
Garrett chuckled and patted the animal affectionately. “Gracie’s no monster! You’ll hurt her feelings. She’s kind of sensitive. As for what I’m doing on her…” He shook his head and grinned. “I am from Tennessee! I’ve been riding since I was a kid. Shoot, I was in the Navy before I learned to drive a car! Besides, while I was recuperating and getting back in shape playing Devil Dog with you and your boys, I was also hanging around the Manilo Cavalry learning the monkey drill!”
One of the crudely cast Grik cannonballs moaned overhead, then kicked up a geyser of spray about halfway across the river, just short of Donaghey. Greg didn’t even flinch. Of course, commanding the veteran Donaghey, he’d probably had more Grik cannonballs fired at him than anyone else in the Alliance.
“But what are you doing here… now? You talked me into letting you command ground troops. Fine. Everybody’s done it but you, and I get it. All the higher-up Navy guys need it on their resume and we’ll need you at Ceylon, but your troops are over There, and you probably don’t need to be making such a target of yourself.”
“I could make the same argument about you,” Greg warned. “You’re our MacArthur-sorry, make that ‘Black’ Jack Pershing. You’re supposed to be moving the chess pieces, not running around like a rifleman.” He looked pointedly at the ’03 Springfield slung on Pete’s shoulder.
Pete rolled his eyes. “Don’t start that again. I’ve got to be with my Marines to evaluate the new tactics. Rolak and the Queen have done this sort of thing more often than I have. They’ll do fine. All they have to do is hold. I have to see what the enemy does when we change the rules!”
“ I didn’t start it again,” Greg reminded Pete. “I came here to report that my guys and gals have everything under control. The battle line’s secure for the moment and we have comm from one end to the other. Your Marines won’t be needed here, and you’re free to go ranting off on your own. You might want to hurry, though. General Rolak says things are starting to build on his right-like you figured. I don’t know if we drew as much down on us here as we’d hoped. Apparently they don’t think much more of their port than we do. Rolak thinks they’re trying to do unto us what we’re planning to do unto them.”
“Well… why didn’t you just say so?” Pete demanded, turning to his lounging troops.
“One other thing-may be nothing,” Greg said, regaining Pete’s attention. “These buggers we’ve been fighting here are pretty scruffy. Practically skeletons. They fight, but there’s not much fight in ’em. Rolak and Queen Maraan both report the ones they’re up against are skinny, but fit. I don’t know what it means, but I thought you should know.”
Pete Alden nodded thoughtfully. “Form up!” he bellowed, and the drums began to roll.
“Very much as expected, only somewhat more so,” Rolak replied to the signalman who’d requested a status report for Queen Maraan. The signalman ducked back into the tent and the “tele-graaph” key began to clatter. A most remarkable invention, he mused again; instant communication on a battlefield. Throughout his life, signal flags had served well enough, but before this war, his people had never fought battles on such a grand scale. They still used signal flags, but now distance, gunsmoke, and intervening terrain and foliage made them unreliable. He loved the tele-graaph.
The last of the Maa-ni-la Cavalry scouts he’d sent to investigate their flank leaped back over the hastily constructed breastworks. The rider was winded but unharmed, although the me-naak had two of the wickedly barbed Grik crossbow bolts embedded in its right quarter. The scout dismounted, handing his reins to a pair of cavalrymen who’d already returned. With a regretful backward glance at his suffering mount, he raced to stand before Rolak. The me-naak snorted shrilly through its nostrils and tried to smash one of the cavalrymen against its flank with its head when she jerked the first bolt free.
The scout saluted in the Amer-i-caan way he’d been taught, and Rolak returned it.
“Beg to report, sir,’ he said. “Our troop encountered a few Grik as we set out, but most seemed to be running for the port in response to the earlier horns. We left them alone, as ordered, and found a place where we could spread out a little, beyond the thickest jungle, and observe a large enemy camp. The commander there sent out some scouts of his own, and we tried to kill them all in the woods, but I fear we failed. After a while, horns began sounding from the camp itself-you must have heard them-and they just seemed to suck Grik out of the jungle. I presume, with the isolated nature of this Raan-goon, the enemy has dispersed most of his force to forage for itself. That seems consistent with the fact that we encountered almost nothing in the way of wildlife. In any event, a surprisingly large enemy force has assembled on your right front.”
“An excellent report, ah, Corporal,” Rolak said, glancing at the stripes on the hem of the trooper’s black and yellow kilt. “What is your estimate of the size of this force?”
The corporal blinked uncertainty. “Perhaps two thousands, Lord General. More? It was impossible to tell for sure, and our presence was discovered, interfering with our estimate. They pursued us very near.” He paused. “We lost two troopers to their crossbows.”
“Very well. Thank you, Corporal. It is not their nature to linger overlong when their prey is in sight. Tend your mount. We might expect their full attention at any moment.” He turned. “Colonel Taa-leen, Colonel Grisa, you heard?”
“Indeed,” replied both officers. They’d arrived nearly as quickly as the scout.
“Signalman,” Rolak called, “acquaint my dear Queen Maraan that we will likely have visitors shortly. I may call on her Black Battalion of the Six Hundred as a reserve if she has no objection and General Alden does not arrive in time.”
“Lord General,” the signalman replied, “General Alden and the First Marines have left the port at the double time.”
Rolak’s response was interrupted by braying, thrumming horns, quite close. An expectant roar thundered in the trees. “Send to Dowden ,” Rolak yelled over the sudden cacophony. “‘Concentrate fire two hundred tails-I mean “yaards” forward of our position.’ ” He took a breath. “Mortar teams, make ready! Archers and artillery will commence firing at my command. Lock shields!”
Several Hoosh-KAK! sounds split the incoming tide, and the veterans who’d heard them before called out “Firebombs!” or “Grik-fire!” in two tongues.
“Cover yourselves!” roared Colonel Grisa, and he and Taa-leen attempted to tackle Rolak to the ground and cover him with their own bodies.
Rolak twisted away. “I will stand,” he said. “My old hide is not so valuable that I must squirm in the dirt to protect it.”
Taa-leen got another grip and roughly pulled him down. “With respect, Lord General,” he growled, “your ‘old hide’ covers the mind that will preserve our hides, and mine is quite important to me!”
Rolak was laughing when the first bombs struck.
“Grik-fire” was little more than a clay vessel wrapped in coarse cloth and painted with flammable resin. The
