Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(125)
This train of thought shattered when the orange tongue of flame from a rifle or musket lit the beach ahead, much closer than Chack expected. Perhaps he’d been expecting breakers or something to define the beach, but there was nothing. The shot was answered by another, then several at once. Immediately, he suspected sentries. The second wave, humans also Khonashi, were the least likely to fire on their own. But very quickly, the flashes became continuous.
“I’joorka’s troops are either very excited or ran into more than just a few lookouts,” Chack shouted at Jindal. Just then, a great gash of flame lit the shore and muffled screams arose from boats somewhere ahead as the pressure of the muzzle blast hit them and thunder rolled from the woods beyond the beach. “Shore baat-tery!” Chack yelled at the closest boats alongside. “Paass the word! Step on it! We must get ashore as quickly as we can.” He turned to Jindal. “A red signal rocket, if you please.”
Jindal had already opened the waterproof wooden box and was selecting a rocket from the right side. In the darkness, colors were indistinguishable. He placed the guide rod in a hole bored in the bulwark and lit the fuse with a borrowed Zippo. With a gout of yellow-red sparks and a great whooshing sound, the rocket leaped into the air. It burst high above them moments later and a bright red ball appeared like a tiny comet, trailing sparkling streamers downwind. Another gun boomed in the woods beyond the beach, spraying grapeshot or canister into the running shapes the muzzle flash lit. Almost immediately, nine impossibly bright, white-yellow spears of flame lit Walker, James Ellis, and Tarakaan Island as they commenced firing with the three guns aboard each ship that would bear. The MTBs had nothing to contribute and had probably already dashed off in the direction of their next assignment. Chack heard the harsh shriek of shells whip overhead before they impacted in the trees past the shore. Yellow flashes erupted in the limbs and on the ground, geysering brief images of earth and splinters in the air, or scything hot iron and more shards of wood on the foe. A huge splash alongside nearly swamped his dory, and another wide pattern of grapeshot smote another to his left, leaving it spinning and sinking in a welter of blood and screams. Mortar bombs thumped in the air from heaving barges, their explosions adding to the chaos ashore, but Chack doubted they did much good.
Salvo after salvo flashed from the ships, churning the jungle with brilliant strobes of light, but cannon still snapped back at the landing force, on the beach and beyond.
“How many guns can they have here? And why?” Jindal yelled. Chack had no answer. He’d personally chosen the spot, close enough to the harbor that they could reach it quickly, yet far enough not to require a shore battery to protect it. And it wasn’t really a shore battery. The cannon firing at them were comparatively light; “standard” Grik nine-or sixteen-pounders like they’d faced many times. They were using more effective munitions than usual, however, which was relatively new to Chack’s experience and a complete surprise to most. And though the guns were incapable of seriously damaging the ships offshore, they were perfectly suitable against an amphibious assault. Apparently, Kurokawa had seen the same vulnerability as Chack and prepared accordingly.
His dory roared up on the beach at last, and ’Cats of the 9th Maa-ni-la poured out onto the sand. Machine guns were stuttering now, and white tracers probed the trees and bounced manically away in the night. A disorganized line of riflemen was lying in the sand, fully exposed except for the shallow depressions they’d scooped or scrunched under themselves, firing back at the sparkling flashes of Grik muskets as fast as they could. Chack followed Jindal out of the dory and they strode among the whizzing bees of musket balls, calling for I’joorka. A Khonashi rushed up, keeping low, but sprawled on his face before he could report.
“Who’s in charge here? Where’s I’joorka? Mr. Cook?”
“Get down!” yelled a human Khonashi lying nearby. “They all dead! Griks kill us all!”
A dory slamming up the beach just a dozen yards away was shattered by another Grik gun, parts of it and its occupants twirling in all directions, wounded troops spilling out the sides and writhing in the surf. Two lines of tracers converged on the muzzle flash and sparkled as they ricocheted amid a chorus of unearthly Grik squeals.
“They certainly will kill you if you lay there and let them. Get up, daamn you!” Chack roared back at the cringing soldier, reaching the line at last. It was quickly becoming a huddled mass, a perfect target, as more troops raced ashore, stopping at the growing obstacle made by their hesitant comrades. A green signal rocket popped overhead, launched from somewhere to the right. It was the signal that the beach was secure and the ships offshore should proceed to their next objectives. Of course, the beach wasn’t secure, but the fire support might be doing more harm than good, Chack realized. Somebody else must’ve thought that too. The baarrage’s probably killing Grik, but nobody wants to run toward it either. For safety’s sake, the ill-aimed, exploding hell in the jungle is too far inland to affect the closest defenders, and might be doing more to staall the assault than the enemy. A few more rounds landed in the trees, but the sea was dark again. Somewhere out there, the task force would be securing its guns and steaming away, even though they doubtless saw for themselves that the fight was just getting started. Captain Reddy would guess exactly why whoever fired the green rocket did so, dooming the brigade to win or die. He might’ve even thought it was Chack himself. No maatter, Chack thought. There’d been no choice and he completely agreed with the decision. We all knew “win or die” was the deal from the start.