Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(124)
“I suppose it’s time,” Jindal said, twisting his long, dark mustaches as he peered over Tarakaan Island’s side at a capering, forty-foot motor dory packed with troops. Tara was half-flooded down, but the dory—and the deadly, boisterous sea—still seemed at the bottom of a high cliff. Dozens more ghostly dories bobbed and pitched erratically nearby, and some motored in circles a short distance away. As busy as it seemed in the huge ship’s lee, it was even more chaotic behind them inside the great repair basin, where nearly seventy more dories waited impatiently to join those in the rougher water outside.
Chack shifted the sling of his trusty Krag on his shoulder and flashed teeth at his Imperial friend. “Should I lower you down with a rope?”
Jindal glared at his commander but managed a small smile. “I can manage.”
“Then it is time. After you, Major.” Together, they descended a cargo net down to the dory. Chack hopped lightly across, and well-meaning ’Cats guided Jindal’s feet, nearly causing him to fall. Finally, he was safely aboard and the coxswain steered away from Tara’s side. It had begun. Barely seen, except for the phosphorescent wakes they kicked up, eight torpedo boats of Lieutenant Nat Hardee’s MTB-Ron 1 burst from Tara’s open stern and fanned out in a protective arc. Almost immediately, the first cluster of dories, packed with Grik-like members of I’Joorka’s 1st North Borno, rumbled into the offshore swells at a more sedate pace and turned for the invisible shore of Zanzibar. They’d be the first to land. With any luck, sentries would think they were Grik, performing some predawn exercise they hadn’t been expecting, and I’joorka himself, leading the first wave, would achieve a toehold on the beach west of Saansa Point before the enemy knew what was happening.
The first flotilla disappeared in the gloom, followed by the second, carrying the human Khonashis. They wouldn’t be separated from the rest of their clan for long. As soon as they passed from view, the rest of the brigade began to spread out and head for shore. They traveled more slowly, pacing larger barges loaded with light artillery and paalkas to pull them. Heavy mortars were already set up in the pitching boats, ready to rain shells behind the enemy, if necessary. Their fire couldn’t be very effective until they got ashore, but it might be unnerving. Finally, they’d brought some other surprises. Instead of the flamethrowers they’d used in the past—which everyone hated and were nearly as dangerous to them as to the enemy, they had twenty of what Matt called mountain howitzers. They were very small 12 pdr muzzle-loaders weighing only about five hundred pounds, which could be quickly moved and operated by very small crews. They were too light to fire solid shot but could deliver exploding case to a range of a thousand yards. More to the point, they also fired a devastating load of canister from their stubby little barrels, consisting of three hundred half-inch balls. Between them and the light machine-gun sections attached to each company, they should be in good shape—unless opposed by enemy machine guns and dug-in artillery. Bringing up the rear, in four even larger barges, was their final “surprise,” but Chack still believed he’d be more surprised than the enemy if they were actually of any use.
They never heard the big Clippers pass high overhead; their own engines and the sound of the sea drowned them out. But new, sharper stabs of lightning, about fifteen miles to the northwest, joined the more distant, natural sort flickering on the horizon. Orange flashes popped, unheard, in the sky over Lizard Ass Bay. There were quite a few, Chack realized, and he wondered if enemy planes would rise as well. Strobing pulses of fire outlined the jungle treetops ahead and he knew those must be the bombs hitting the ground, hopefully burning ships, planes, and Grik. So far, none of the ships offshore had opened fire. They’d be completely invisible from the beach and wanted to stay that way as long as possible to aid I’joorka’s surprise. There’d be covering fire for a while, if asked for, but even then it had to be done with care, and its effectiveness would be questionable. With their own people in contact with the enemy, they had to shoot cautiously long, and couldn’t keep it up for any length of time, even if asked. Salissa, most of the auxiliaries, and the sail-steam DDs had already departed for other positions, and Walker, James Ellis, and the MTBs had specific places to be before dawn. Tarakaan Island must be gone by then as well. With no protection, she’d be a sitting duck. The ground-assault force of Operation Outhouse Rat would be on its own.
“Major I’joorka should be landing now,” Jindal observed, putting his watch back in a pocket he’d sewn to his combat smock. Chack doubted he’d seen what time it was, but thought he was probably right. Long moments went by and nothing disturbed them but packets of spray dashing back from the blunt bow of the dory. They could see the darker black outline of the jungle against the sky, still silhouetted by distant bombs, antiaircraft fire, and flames on the ground or sea, but the first-and second-wave dories remained invisible. The first, at least, must be ashore. The problem was, Grik-like though they appeared, albeit dressed somewhat strangely, none of I’joorka’s Khonashi actually spoke Grik. Confused or not, sentries wouldn’t put up with being ignored for long. Conversely, Chack was also concerned about I’joorka’s Grik-like Khonashi being accidentally shot by friends. The different dress should help, but ironically, he suspected more such mistakes from veterans than newies. They were used to identifying enemies more by general shape and how they moved. Not by what they wore. Grik had only recently begun making widespread use of anything resembling a uniform.