CHAPTER 37
////// USS Walker
“Cast off!!” came the cry from a Lemurian bosun’s mate, aft.
The heavy hawser Big Sal used to pull Walker off the sandbar now sagged low in the water of the bay, and the battered old destroyer was drifting free. Matt had made his way through the carnage that littered his ship and now stood with a bloody, grimy, Spanky McFarlane atop the aft deckhouse near the auxiliary conn. Spanky looks . . . okay, he judged with cautious relief, discounting the broken crossbow bolt shaft sticking out close to his buttocks. He’ll rant about that later, he knew, but at least there’ll be a later. Must hurt, though, and he is chewing his ’Cat tobacco more vigorously than usual. . . . Solemnly, without a word, the two men shook hands. It was a spontaneous, congratulatory gesture. Their ship was free, and they were alive. Together, they watched the end of the hawser disappear from between the depth charge racks with a splash. Spanky sighed, and Matt leaned on the number four gun, smoke stained and blood spattered, still trained out to port. He savored the buoyant feel of the steel beneath his feet.
“Signal Admiral Keje that we appreciate his help and that Salissa’s now free to maneuver,” he ordered softly. “And ask Tabby to light a fire under her damage-control parties inspecting the hull. I want to know if we opened any more seams coming off.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan,” replied Minnie’s strained voice, and she passed the word to Ed Palmer through a speaking tube. Then she whistled up Tabby. Minnie had shown up shortly before and taken the place of Spanky’s dead talker without a word. Though liberally soaked with blood, she didn’t seem injured, and Matt was grateful for that. She’s just as exhausted, physically and emotionally, as anybody, he reflected, but at least she’s alive. Too many aren’t. He looked back at her and managed what he hoped was an encouraging smile. His gaze strayed to encompass the rest of his ship—and the recent battlefield beyond.
The Grik cruiser had finally almost burned itself out, and steam was streaking the smoke as the rising tide reached the hot iron and smoldering wood. The great heap of Grik bodies that had made a ramp to Matt’s ship was starting to diminish as well. The water around it was churning violently as the ocean predators swarmed to feed, and watching the mound shift and tumble reminded Matt of a pile of dirt being eroded by runoff. He blinked. The water around Walker also frothed, as grim, exhausted details rolled Grik corpses over the side. Too often they discovered one of their own buried in the grisly tangle, and these were carefully laid out beneath the amidships deckhouse. Earl Lanier had emerged from the galley and was helping arrange the dead with an unexpected tenderness. Matt couldn’t watch the progress of the detail working where Fitzhugh Gray went down. He clenched his teeth. Alongside to starboard, Walker’s own Nancy floated, nestled among barges of workers and Marines sent from Big Sal to help Walker’s depleted crew, and manhandle at least a little ammunition aboard. This was being handed up to fill the ship’s ready lockers, and nearly every ’Cat that came aboard was draped with belts of ammo for the machine guns. If they fell in the water, they’d sink like rocks, but with all the flashies around, that was probably best. . . . The Nancy’s pilot was yelling back and forth with a hoarse-voiced Jeek, who was telling the aviator to get his plane the hell out of the way. The pilot was equally insistent on refueling and rearming from Walker. Did they know what a crock it was trying to get replenished from Amerika? Jeek screamed back that it couldn’t be worse than here because they didn’t have anything! Matt shook his head. Jeek was losing it, which was understandable, and the pilot didn’t—couldn’t—understand.
Campeti painfully climbed the ladder from the deck below, catching Matt’s eye. “How much longer, Sonny?”
“Not long, Skipper. Keje didn’t send as much ammo as I’d like.” He shrugged. “Better than none, though, and it’s all ‘common.’ We still have a little AP.”
“Yeah. Tabby?” Matt asked, looking back at Minnie.
“She say we ready to maneuver now. She only lose some steam while the ’lectrics was out to the fuel an’ water pumps.”
“Leaks?”
Minnie shook her head, blinking apology. “Sorry, Cap-i-taan. I forgot to tell you. She says we weepin’ some under the for’ard fireroom, but Big Sal dragged us off real gentle. Nothin’ bad new. Aft stores is still flooded, but the engine room’s dryin’ out, an’ no more water’s comin’ in, now our ass ain’t draggin’ so.” Minnie blinked. “She’ll answer bells when you ring ’em.”
“Very well. Have her stand by.”
Suddenly, Matt’s heart leaped with relief when he saw Sandra’s concerned face appear at the top of the ladder. He’d known, intellectually, she had to be okay; the Grik had never penetrated down to the wardroom, thank God, and all the wounded that made it there were safe as well. Besides, somebody damn sure would’ve reported it if she wasn’t okay. Also, just as she’d been too occupied with her duty of saving lives—doubtless hearing word that he was okay as well—he’d been far too busy to surrender to the urge to check on her himself. But now, actually seeing her in the midst of all this relieved a terrible, constant weight that had lain heavy on his soul. “Hi,” he said simply as she stepped up on the platform. Like everyone, she was covered with blood, and it wasn’t confined to the apron secured around her neck and waist. She even had it in her hair, and there was a drying smear on her forehead where she’d wiped away sweat with her arm. Without a word, or any hesitation, she advanced and embraced him fiercely.
Just as unselfconsciously, he hugged her back, clutching her tight, but only for that crucial moment they both so desperately needed. Then, reluctantly, Matt released her, and she took a step back so she could make a report.
“It’s bad,” she said, knowing what his first question would be. “Almost a hundred wounded, not counting those still working who haven’t been treated.” She pushed her damp hair back with her wrist, spreading the blood on her forehead. “About that many dead, I think, but I don’t know how many came aboard, or might still be unaccounted for.” She noticed the change in Matt’s expression, saw the jaw muscles bulge and the pain in his eyes. “Who?” she whispered.
“Gray,” Spanky answered when Matt didn’t speak. He nodded in the direction of the number two torpedo mount where the detail was still excavating Grik. Sandra covered her mouth and closed her eyes. “Oh my God.”
“And a bunch more fine men and ’Cats,” Matt reminded sharply. Sandra looked at him, stung, but she nodded.
“Of course. I’ll . . . I better tell Diania before she, well, sees him. It would be better. . . .”
“Sure.”
Salissa’s big guns roared, and Sandra looked at her. She’d moved away, closer to the heart of the city, avoiding the wreckage of the Grik fleet. Splashes rose around her, so at least a few shore batteries were still in action, and she and the DDs were hammering back, even while scores of barges and landing craft motored in, toward an indistinct battle still raging at the foot of the distant palace.
“It’s not over yet, is it?” she asked.
“No,” Matt replied. “Not yet. And we’ve both still got work to do.” Sandra nodded, and touching his hand, she climbed back down the ladder. Matt looked at Spanky, and the shorter man was staring at him, chewing hard while waiting.
“You keep the conn back here until I reach the bridge,” Matt told him. “Bring us about and steer for where the Seven boat is waiting for Mr. Laumer.”
“What then?”
“Then we’ll see, Spanky,” Matt said with a harsh, thin smile. “You’ll go down to the wardroom and get your wound looked at, for one thing. This ship’s lost enough of her people today.” He looked toward the cowflop palace. “And if there’s any chance she might help save even one of those who left her to go ashore, I want her there to do it.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
* * *
Compared to the rest of the ship, the bridge actually looked fairly normal since there hadn’t been any fighting there. With the blower rumbling contentedly behind, and the fo’c’sle in front of the hastily formed bridge watch clear of bodies, it was easy to pretend Walker, and the lives of all her surviving crew, hadn’t been so traumatically violated that day. Perhaps not easy; there was too much blood on everyone for that, but it was tempting. Bernard Sandison and Paddy Rosen reported as Matt and Minnie were settling in. Neither man wore a shirt, and both were swaddled in bandages. Bernie’s left arm was in a sling. Rosen looked sheepish, but Matt nodded at the wheel. Spanky had turned the ship, and she was steaming down Big Sal’s unengaged side toward the waterfront where Silva’s party landed. “Tell Mr. McFarlane that I have the conn, Minnie,” Matt instructed. “And remind him that he’s ordered to go to the wardroom.”
“Ay, Cap-i-taan.”
“Steady as you go, Mr. Rosen. When we’re two hundred yards from the docks, come right to unmask all guns to port. Have Mr. Campeti stand by for action port,” he added over his shoulder at Minnie.
“The gun director is off line,” Minnie replied. “Caam-peeti is working on it.”
“Very well. All guns will stand by to commence firing in local control.” Matt raised his binoculars. He couldn’t see the base of the palace because the bulk of Grik City was in the way, but he saw the steps leading up the eastern and northern flanks where large arched entryways were framed by troops. He adjusted his objective. “All stop,” he told Rosen. “Open the shipwide circuit, Minnie!” he ordered with a sudden grin, stepping to take the Bakelite handset from the bulkhead. “Now hear this!” he said, crouching slightly so he could still use his binoculars. His voice reverberated around the ship. “Chack’s Brigade has the entrances to the palace!” he said triumphantly, realizing that meant Silva and the others had a chance after all. Cheers roared, and the deck vibrated with stamping feet. “It looks like Second Corps has the enemy on the run from the east and they’re flooding past the place, barely stopping long enough to get shot at.” He redirected the glasses. “Marines and sailors from Big Sal and the rest of the battle group are going in now—and Safir Maraan’s cavalry is sweeping in on her left flank to keep the Grik running past the palace! The effect seems to be to herd the whole mob out where we just came from! They’ll be trapped!” More cheering shook the ship. He returned the handset to its cradle.
“The Seven boat is coming alongside,” Sandison announced from the starboard bridgewing.
“Good. Have Mr. Hardee stand by.”
“Sur! There somethin’ screwy goin’ on!” cried a lookout on the port bridgewing, pointing at the palace. Matt looked. For some reason, many of the Grik—thousands of them—had stopped their mad retreat and were staring up at the palace. Then, as if guided by some internal command only they could hear, they charged straight at Chack’s Brigade! “What the hell,” Matt muttered. “All guns,” he shouted, “commence firing at the leading edge of that attack, on the double!”
* * *
“That ain’t exactly what I figgered they’d do,” Isak Reuben complained loudly, “but it was Larry’s idea!”
“I didn’t think they’d do that either,” Lawrence protested as well.
They’d been lugging the dead head of the Celestial Mother down the curving passageway when they were met by Chack, Courtney Bradford, and a platoon of Raiders. Hearing their scheme for the head, Courtney thought it was “charming,” and Chack decided to give it a try. Isak had been relieved to see that Silva, Horn, and the ’Cat who wasn’t Dewy were already being removed on stretchers, supervised by Pam Cross, but he’d been forced to tell Chack about Irvin Laumer. Chack sent a detail to fetch him, and they hurried back out the way Irvin’s party came, meeting Major Jindal on the way. As far as they could tell, the upper levels of the palace were secure, though no one knew what had happened to the monster Risa’s platoon of Impies burned. Apparently, it had gone deep, and they’d look for it later.
Through the entranceway in the bright afternoon sun, Isak and Lawrence, full of nervous energy, supervised the impalement of the Celestial Mother’s head on a Grik spear, lashed to another for height, then helped hoist it up for all to see. The idea was, seeing their deity—likely for the first time—displayed in such a way, the Grik would lose heart. Instead, a fair percentage of them attacked with senseless abandon. Chack spared them a scolding blink before instructing Major Jindal to commence firing again. The raiders had stopped shooting some time ago when the Grik started ignoring them. Jindal was glad to oblige.
Volleys fired and walls of white smoke rolled down the steps, sending Grik tumbling back. A harsh, keening wail raised the hair on Isak’s back as he stared through the smoke. Suddenly, he saw Walker a little beyond the distant dock, and he and Lawrence started waving the head back and forth above them, without thinking. “Hey!” Isak shouted. “Looky there! It’s my ship, off the beach! Hey, darlin’! Looky what I brung ya!”
“Quit that!” Chack shouted at him, but it was no use—and there wasn’t really any point. He had plenty of firepower to blunt the rush of what were, after all, largely “civilian” Grik, and the ones crowding behind were merely making it easier for their pursuers to catch them. Chack supposed—he hoped—he’d feel more remorse for slaughtering Doms as they then began to do, but he wasn’t sure anymore. Besides, it didn’t matter. These were Grik. Blossoms of smoke opened aboard Walker, and her shells rained down amid the surging mob, snapping with flashes of orange fire and white smoke. Nancys swooped, and fat bombs tumbled from their wings to blow huge, gaping, burning holes in the swarm. The P-1s were done for the day, trying to set down on the muddy strip, but the big guns of the fleet chewed at the Grik even as the reinforcements linked up with II Corps, and they started rolling the enemy up. Even the most maniacal Grik finally broke when II Corps’s cavalry slashed deep into them aboard their terrifying mounts.
Above it all, yelling with squeaky incoherence, Isak Reuben, and now Lawrence again as well, waved the dripping, tongue-lolling head. Slowly, the whole army began to answer until the thunderous sound of victory was all that could be heard.
“Cease firing,” Chack told Jindal, and sat numbly on the steps to wait for Safir to come, as he knew she would.
“What’s all the racket?” Dennis Silva mumbled, some distance away, lying on the steps. “Did we win the damn war?”
“I doubt it. But I think we won the fight—you big jerk,” Pam shouted in his ear, her tears wetting his neck.
“Horn?”
Pam nodded past Dennis—he couldn’t see at what—but he was damned if he’d move. Everything hurt now. “Over there. There was a ’Cat Marine with you guys. He was kinda groggy, but he kept you both from leakin’ out worse than you did. Don’t know where he went.”
“His name’s Ain’t Dewy.” Silva smiled. “I guess I owe him one. Horn?” he repeated.
Pam shook her head and frowned. “He’ll live,” she snapped. “I just said so, didn’t I? Not that he deserves to,” she added darkly. “Not that you deserve to!” she emphasized furiously, returning to the business of bandaging his many wounds. “But you will,” she added, too softly for him to hear, “until the next time.”