400 miles NNE
Near Maa-draas
Grik Indiaa
General Pete Alden, former Marine sergeant in USS Houston ’s Marine contingent, splashed across the last few feet between the barge and the moonlit beach. He did it quickly, with a chill down his spine. The thick forest beyond the beach might harbor unknown threats aplenty, along with an only guessed-at number of their enemies, but he had confidence he could deal with that. Any opponent he could shoot remained just that: an opponent that he had a growing confidence he could best. The waters around Indiaa were some of the most dangerous they’d encountered yet, however, and maybe a little like Tony Scott, Captain Reddy’s long-lost coxswain, any physical contact with them gave him an almost supernatural case of the creeps. Maybe there weren’t as many flasher fish- tuna-size piranha, for all intents and purposes-as they endured within the Malay Barrier, but there were sharks out there that could sink a ship!
His staff and their guards hopped across the gap with similar uneasiness and joined him amid the tumult of an army trying to sort itself out in the darkness of an unfriendly shore. In front of them was the malignant black blob of the forest. Behind, the wave tops glittered like they were strewn with floating foil. The deceptive peacefulness of the night was marred by the now-familiar chaos of amphibious operations. There was shouting, cursing, and the wailing of the vaguely moose-shape paalkas being hitched to clattering limber traces, and the deep creaking of wooden wheels as guns, wagons, forges, and all manner of vehicles were drawn through the sand. Drummers beat regimental tattoos, drawing wayward troops into growing formations-which were often thrown into confusion by other columns of troops or teams of paalkas grunting the heavy guns through their ranks. More shouting ensued. Occasional musket shots thumped in the forest as pickets or skirmishers from advancing regiments fired at lurking Grik, other frightening creatures, or perhaps nothing at all. Drowning out much of this was the constant surf sound of thousands of hushed voices and the sea.
“Thank God we took ’em by surprise,” Pete said, referring to the congestion. Really, though, he had to admit to himself that this seemed much better than when they went ashore on Ceylon, and it was infinitely better than the assault at Rangoon. Still… “I keep telling Alan we’ve got to have better landing craft,” he complained, “that don’t take so long to clear out of. We ever hit a heavily defended beach, we’re going to get our heads handed to us-or eaten.”
Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Salissa Home, Reserve “Ahd-mi-raal” in the American Navy, and Commander in Chief of operations in the West (CINCWEST), nodded. “I am sure Mr. Letts is working on it, along with countless other things. He may already have solved the problem, but much depends on supply priorities, and I maintain that new weapons and ammunition, not to mention troops and provisions, take precedence.” He grinned, and if his red- brown fur was indistinguishable from the night, his stocky form and bright teeth were plain. “And we do not need better landing craft as long as you continue to outwit our enemy into believing our blows fall elsewhere!”
Pete grunted. “You shouldn’t be here at all. It wasn’t exactly a cakewalk for the first wave. There was maybe a battalion of Grik with those weird matchlock muskets hanging around here-I don’t like the way we keep seeing more of those, by the way-and I doubt Billy Flynn and his Rangers got ’em all. There might be a sniper aimin’ at you right now!”
“Or you, General Aalden,” Keje said blithely.
Pete grunted again and continued churning forward in the loose sand toward a hastily erected CP tent. The frequent rains meant that their precious comm gear must always be protected, and there was usually someone near such devices who had some idea where people might be. “Either way,” Pete resumed, “the word’s going to get out, and we can expect company shortly. You belong on Big Sal.”
“And I shall return soon-I promise.” Keje paused and his voice changed. “I can only send my people into battle so often without at least standing on the same ground they strive for, from time to time.”
Pete had no response to that. He understood it perfectly. “Well, where the hell is everybody?” he demanded loudly of those under the tent.
“Just what I would like to know,” reinforced General Safir-Maraan, Queen Protector of the island of B’mbaado and commander of II Corps, as she appeared out of the gloom. Only her polished, silver-washed breastplate and helmet were visible at first in the dim gri-kakka oil lamps of the CP, but her exotically beautiful, sable-furred face and otherwise black raiment grew more resolved as she drew near. She saluted Alden, and he returned it as the comm ’Cats jumped to attention. “Where are my Sularans-and their aartillery?”
“It… is confused,” admitted a ’Cat lieutenant whose Home regiment could only be discerned by the crest on his rhino pig-leather armor. As the war in the West became less… linear, the Sa’aaran practice of tie-dyeing a kind of camouflage pattern in Army kilts and smocks and the painting of armor had grown almost universal. It made eminent sense, and not only did it simplify production and supply; it made troops harder to see from the air, which was a growing concern. As new supplies came forward, the regional uniforms were steadily being replaced. Even the Marines painted their field armor now, though they insisted on keeping their blue kilts. Blue blended well enough in the dense forest, Pete rationalized, as did the black of Queen Maraan’s regiments, who similarly clung to their traditions-although they also darkened their armor now.
“ How confused?” Pete demanded.
“Well… General Rolak has apparently personally supported Colonel Flynn’s push inland, with elements of General Taa-leen’s First Division and most of the First Battalion, Second Marines, and perhaps some of Colonel Enaak’s Maa-ni-la Cavalry…”
“Goddammit!” Pete seethed almost resignedly, and the lieutenant flinched, but the Army and Marine commander’s wrath was not aimed at him. “Which elements? Flynn was supposed to lead his Rangers and the Second to find that road or path junction-whatever it is-and seize it, then send runners back to show the others the way! You mean Taa-leen and Rolak just… went along? Besides, General Rolak’s a corps commander, not a brigadier! What the hell does he think he’s doing?”
“He is an old warrior ‘marching to the sound of the guns,’ as I think you would say, Gener-aal,” Safir soothed in a softer tone. “He must see some advantage.”
“I know what he’s trying to do,” Pete admitted. “He’s trying to do Flynn ’s job! Well, Flynn knows what to do. Once we control that junction, that goofy Grik berg where Madras should be will be cut off. We need Madras and its port to keep the beans and bullets on the road! I’m not really worried Rolak’ll get in the way, but he does have a real job of his very own, and he’s liable to get his overeager ass killed!” He looked almost pleadingly at Safir. Possibly she alone knew how much Pete counted on the old Aryaalan. “I just wish he wouldn’t go romping off like this,” he added.
For the first time, really, with Hij-Geerki’s aid, some odd but decent captured maps, and aerial reconnaissance, the Allies had a good idea of the geography of their objectives and could finally make strategic plans. They’d spent the last month sucking the vast majority of Grik combatants into South India, and now they meant to cut them off and destroy them before possibly countless reinforcements could be summoned. Their main goal in this, besides killing Grik, was to destroy what Pete suspected was this dangerous new team of Grik leaders. After that, they would establish a temporary defensive perimeter around what they saw as the resource-rich- including iron ore, some coal, and perhaps just as important, a kind of rubber-producing forest-industrial heartland of Grik India. That should oblige what they hoped was some ordinary Grik commander to come at them in the same old way, and they’d bleed him white before resuming offensive operations.
Pete admired Rolak’s guts and initiative; he just wished the wily old warrior would finally come to grips with how important he was and quit taking such spontaneous personal risks. The fact that Pete sometimes did the same thing himself didn’t even enter his thoughts.
“Okay,” he said with a sigh, squinting in the darkness toward where he heard the snuffling and heavy breathing of muzzled me-naaks, or “meanies,” the long-legged, crocodilian, Maa-ni-la Cavalry mounts. “We’ll send runners ahead to drag our… fiery old gentleman back here, where he can resume his proper duties and get this mess squared away.” He looked at Safir. “How’s Second Corps shaping up?”
Safir Maraan flicked her long black tail. “Third Division landed north of Maa-draas, as planned, and moves against the city. I came ashore on the south bank with the Third B’mbaado and Sixth Maa-ni-la Caav. I have, as yet, no idea where Colonel Grisa’s Ninth Aryaal or the First and Third Sular have found themselves, and they, of course, bear the bulk of my aar-tillery.” Somehow, Sularans were natural artillerymen who had an almost instinctive grasp of ballistics. Maybe that was a result of their millennia-long reliance on slings and thrown missiles instead of arrows? There was no telling. Regardless, their regiments were always gun-heavy. Safir suddenly went silent, and
