The remaining silky stuff at the base of the “service load”-consisting of a. 60-caliber lead ball with three roughly quarter-inch balls stacked atop it-was wadded up and the whole thing was seated on top of the charge with a glittering flourish of eight hundred bright ramrods. The weapons were then brought up to an almost precise forty- five degrees, hammers placed on half-cock, and tiny copper caps were pushed onto the nipple-shaped cones at their breeches. Again, with a simultaneity achievable only after long, repetitive drill, nearly every musket landed back on its owner’s shoulder.
Pete climbed to the top of the breastworks, looking back at his creation. The Marines were his, of course, but even the various national regiments were “his” in a way. The tactics were Captain Reddy’s, but he was the one who, with-now Colonel-Tamatsu Shinya’s help, had formed the Armies of the Alliance. Currently, Shinya was still doing the same job in Maa-ni-la. For a moment, oblivious to the growing tide that prepared to thunder down upon it, he took time to admire what he’d achieved. Ostentatiously, he unslung his own M-1903 Springfield, with “S.A. 1-21” stamped prominently near the muzzle, and pulled his sixteen-inch bayonet from its scabbard. The bayonet was dated 1917. Strangely, it suddenly occurred to him that he’d been nine then. Thirteen when his beloved rifle was made. Odd, The sort of Things that go Through your mind at Times like This. He shook his head. The Grik tide had been released.
“First Marines! Fix… bayonets!”
Weapons came back off the shoulders they’d been resting on, and the twenty-inch, triangular-bladed socket bayonets were jerked from their scabbards. Adding an historical flourish that Captain Reddy had thought of and Pete just loved, every Marine brandished his bayonet with a roar, as if showing it to the enemy. Then, with a satisfying clatter, the wicked weapons were affixed to the muzzles of eight hundred muskets.
There was no Grik-fire this time. It had all apparently been destroyed by the earlier bombardment, but swarms of crossbow bolts filled the air. Pete stepped down, grinning, from the breastworks, and rejoined Rolak, who’d been watching him with interest.
“You are a most unusual creature, General Aal-den,” Rolak said. “In some ways you remind me of Cap-i-taan Reddy. Even as I grow to dislike this war, I believe you are learning to enjoy it!”
“God help me, Rolak, I think I do-but not the way you think. I purely do enjoy killin’ the literal hell outta those nasty Grik bastards, and I’m proud of the tools we’ve put together to do it. But you got the Skipper wrong if you think he likes all this. He doesn’t, really.” Pete paused a moment, thoughtful, while the Grik horde swept down upon them. “Not usually, anyway,” he said at last. “It does bring out the best in him, though, doesn’t it?” He glanced quickly over the breastworks. It was time. “You may employ your artillery now, General Rolak!”
Firing off the muzzle blast of the next gun in line, one after another, two batteries of five light six-pounders each sprayed canister into the face of the charging mass of Grik. Again the distinctive yellowish-white smoke accompanied the thunderclaps, and through the smoke the roar became mixed with the wails and shrieks of countless wounded. The guns pulled back and the shield wall closed before them once more. With a momentous crash of bodies, weapons, and shields against shields, the Grik slammed into the wall. Again, the wall bowed, but with all the might of the first two ranks, doing nothing but pushing against the enemy, the wall regained its place.
“First rank, First Marines, pre-sent!” Pete bellowed. Youngling Marine drummers, ranged behind the line, relayed the command with a staccato tattoo.
“Fire!”
Four hundred loads of buck and ball slashed into the gaping jaws of the Grik warriors. Through the smoke, a perceptible cloud of downy fuzz from the feathery-furry bodies mingled with the misty red spray from so many simultaneous impacts. The shield wall almost collapsed forward into thin air when the pressure against it abruptly lifted.
“Second rank, First Marines, pre-sent!” Pete called, even as that rank stepped forward to the right and the first rank stepped back to the left and began reloading. Pete waited a few moments to let the first rank get well underway with their task and allow the enemy to press forward once again.
“Fire!” Horizontal jets of flame lit the lingering, choking smoke of the first volley, and again the pressure against the wall fell away. A collective loud, keening moan had replaced the anticipatory roar.
“First rank!” Pete yelled relentlessly. “Present! Independent, fire at will.” The drummers altered their cadence. “Commence firing!”
The ensuing shots were almost desultory. A volley would have been wasted, since there was little left to shoot at. A few Marines got to practice their new combined drill, skewering Grik from behind the protection of the shield wall with their bayonets, just like spearmen would do, but then being free to shoot other enemies when none were directly in front of them or within reach. That was the real test Pete had hoped for: the bayonet as a primary weapon and the musket fire just the music before the dance-as well as an added “killer of opportunity” that spearmen could never indulge in with their bows. He’d hoped the initial volleys would provide a psychological effect, but they’d been unable to really evaluate that. The Grik hadn’t had time to “break” into Courtney’s Grik Rout. A lot did run, but most of the Grik force in front of the shield wall had been eviscerated before it had a chance to make up its mind what to do.
“Marvelous! Utterly marvelous!” Rolak chortled, yellowed teeth showing in a genuine, delighted grin. “I did enjoy that! We will pursue them now, of course?”
“Yeah. As soon as we kill the enemy wounded in front of us. Even if they are Grik, it ain’t decent to let the damn things suffer. Besides, some might still be dangerous.”
“Generals!” cried a runner from the command post tent. “The aarplaanes from Salissa Home draw near! They report seeing smoke from the city, and smoke from this fight. The wing commander, Cap-i-taan Jis-Tikkar, asks how his force might best be employed.”
“Tell ’em to bomb the hell out of any large collection of Grik they see southwest of our current position. Try to herd ’em toward the swamplands. I’d also appreciate a look at our far right, northwest along the river, to make sure there’s nothing else out there. Mainly, though, advise Captain Tikker that we’ll be pushing forward momentarily, so he should watch where he drops his eggs! Oh, and give my respects to Queen Maraan, and tell her we’re about to advance. I want the shield wall to stick together as much as possible, just like in the plan.”
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
