too stunned to suspect what was to come. The first flight pulled up and away, banking east over the water, their motors audible now over the hush that had fallen over the horde. Another flight came in, a little higher. Small objects fell, aarently thrown or dropped by someone in the back part of each plane. Realization dawned and despite their distance, Niwa pulled Halik to the ground as the beach erupted in a long, orange fireball that roiled with greasy black smoke.
Both Greg’s pistols were empty; his own, and the one he’d taken from Captain Barry. He didn’t know where the dead man’s ’03 Springfield wound up. Still conscientious, he’d thrust the Colts in his belt, and his pockets clacked with empty magazines even though he doubted he’d ever refill them. His cutlass was now scarred and stained, and he had a wide, bloody cut on his forehead from a blow that left him dazed and more than half-blinded with blood. Bekiaa had dragged him into the water where, hopefully, someone would hoist him onto his ship. It was probably appropriate that he should die on Donaghey, but there were still others fighting here, knee-deep in the surf, and he couldn’t leave them. Bekiaa had vanished.
He heard the planes, but the sound didn’t register. A Grik warrior lunged at him, off balance in the surf, and Greg hacked down across its neck, driving it into the pinkish foam. He hacked it again for good measure. There were more Grik, though, many more, and he raised the cutlass again. An unnatural, all-consuming goosh! interspersed with a staccato of small detonations heated his face, and an eerie brightness glowed through the bloody film in his eyes. It was followed by the most unearthly shriek of agony and terror he’d ever heard before.
Donaghey ’s guns, silent for some time as she conserved her final shots, barked almost over his head, and the concussion sent him reeling forward. Deafened, he almost fell. Exhausted as he was, he might have drowned in the knee-deep water. Bekiaa suddenly had him again, dragging him forward, toward the enemy! Her helmet was gone, and several crossbow bolts dangled from her leather armor like ornaments. He had no idea if any had found her flesh, but she didn’t care if they had. She was blinking with joy, and her ears were flattened against her skull in feral satisfaction. He almost fell again as they reached the sand, but she continued urging him forward. Others joined them, their harsh voices cracking with thirst and savage delight. Ahead, he finally saw the flames and caught the distinctive smell of burning gasoline, combined with the equally singular stench of cooking flesh and burning leather.
Wild shapes convulsed and capered in the flames, amid the continuous anguished squeals. Grik warriors on this side of the inferno fought with frantic abandon, slaying one another to escape the maniacal rush of survivors and the hellish fire behind. Steadily, they were pushed back, past the breastworks they’d so recently overrun. Some broke and ran through the flames, mostly dying in the attempt. A pair of the uniformed Grik still stood, mechanically loading their weird guns, seemingly oblivious, until they were cut down. Garrett remained confused, his head throbbed, and he couldn’t focus. All he knew was that something astonishing must have occurred. He should be dead already.
Another flight of planes, “CV-1” boldly stenciled on their tails, rumbled past, bombs tumbling amid the enemy beyond the fire, and suddenly Greg Garrett knew. First Fleet had arrived at last. He spun and wiped his eyes with his salty wet sleeve. His vision remained blurry, but he stared hard out to sea. Far to the south, near the hazy horizon, he could just distinguish the range-distorted shapes of ships and smoke, stretching as far as he could see in either direction.
“It’s Big Sal and Humfra-Dar!” he croaked, dropping to his knees in the sand. “God bless Ben Mallory and his ‘Nancys’!”
Bekiaa collapsed beside him. “I am going to be very nice to the Air Corps, in the future,” she gasped.
General Halik was hissing words Niwa didn’t understand. He assumed they were profane.
“We must withdraw,” Niwa said. More planes were bombing the artillery positions. A bright flash amid a thunderclap of sound and a cloud of white smoke testified to the almost-certain eradication of a battery nearby.
“This army is largely intact! We can still finish the enemy on the beach!” Halik insisted.
“Spoken just like Regent Tsalka or General Esshk at Baalkpan,” Niwa sneered. “Think! With those things”-he pointed at a passing plane-“pounding your Uul at will, most will turn prey and be of no use even if they’re successful! Call them back, General, withdraw and re-form. Then we can consider what to do next!”
“Will they land here? It makes no sense,” Halik replied after a moment, taking Niwa’s advice and beginning to think critically again. “We are far from any industrial centers.”
“I don’t know,” Niwa confessed, “but there’s a good harbor nearby. Regardless, with their planes and likely big guns, we can’t stop them on the beach, in the open.” He sighed. “We must let them land, wherever they choose, and see what develops. Attack them in the jungles perhaps, where their planes will help them little. However we proceed, for now this army must withdraw with its will and experience intact. Remember, we weren’t sent to save Ceylon, as much as to learn what we can of the enemy and how to counter him.”
Halik nodded. “You are right, my friend. I fear my blood began to boil with the passion of the arena. We will pull back what we can. As you know, sometimes that is not easy. We have other armies at our disposal, but this one has faced the enemy. It might be easier to teach what we desire.” He paused. “We will let the enemy land and see how he deploys. Try to discover his intent, then devise a strategy based on that.” He raised a clawed hand. “I remember our instructions, but I am not ready to concede Ceylon just yet.”
By nightfall, the beach around Donaghey was packed with Marines, as well as both the Silver and Black Battalions of Safir Maraan’s “Six Hundred.” The bulk of the fleet had moved up the coast a short distance to a more protected anchorage where it launched the first “official” invasion of Grik Ceylon. There was little resistance. For the most part, it seemed as if the army that nearly exterminated the survivors of Revenge, Tolson, and Donaghey had simply vanished. Of those survivors, fewer than four hundred still lived, mostly wounded, and Kathy McCoy came ashore with a large medical contingent to triage and stabilize the injured before sending them out to Dowden, which stood offshore to defend against more Grik naval attacks. Ultimately, the wounded would be moved to Salissa or Humfra-Dar.
“It must have been a great battle,” Safir Maraan said softly, gazing at the sea of enemy dead. The stench of their cooked flesh was still strong, despite the wind that drove it inland.
“It wasn’t so great,” Greg quipped, sitting on a crate in the sand while Kathy herself stitched his scalp. Russ Chapelle was patiently waiting his turn under the nurse’s needle. He had several long claw gashes on his chest, but he’d survived, as had a fair percentage of those near the river. It was almost as if they’d been forgotten for a time, once the main line collapsed.
“It looked pretty ‘great’ to me,” Russ said, “Especially the way you pulled everybody into a square to save what you could. Then, of course, the planes’ cooking the Grik was swell!”
“I didn’t do the square,” Greg admitted. “Lieutenant Bekiaa did that. She did nearly everything that kept us alive. Her and Smitty.”
“That’s ‘Cap-i-taan’ Bekiaa now, according to General Aalden,” Safir said.
“Any sign of my exec? Lieutenant Saaran-Gaani?” Garrett asked.
“He’s okay,” Russ told him. “A little worse for wear, like all of us, but he made it to us on the left when things fell apart.” He pointed at the sea. “Already out on Dowden.”
Garrett sighed with relief. “Good. We lost so many… I saw Barry buy it. One of those goofy Grik muskets.”
“They’re matchlocks,” Russ said. “I bet that was a nasty surprise. We sent some to Alden. The good thing is, they won’t be worth a damn in the rain. We might use that.”
“What about Jamie?” Kathy asked, finishing her sewing.
“Dead,” Garrett said simply. “I… saw that too.”
“Well,” said Russ after a silent moment, “I guess us Navy types are out of it for a while. They’re gonna try to patch Donaghey up and pull her off, but it’s Pete’s, Rolak’s, and Her Highness’s fight now.” He nodded at the “Orphan Queen.”
“Not if I can help it,” Garrett swore. “ Donaghey ’ll be out of the war for months. Pete had better find me an infantry assignment or, by God, I’ll scratch up a regiment out of the guys we had here!”
Russ brightened. “Hey! That’s not a bad idea! You rig it; I’ll join it. Maybe they’ll give us that spitfire Bekiaa.
