Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(126)
The lifting barrage didn’t mean it went quiet, and the Grik fire redoubled, but the first howitzers were up now, sending heavy doses of canister slashing to the front, and the stutter of Blitzerbugs and the crackle of rifles resumed. “Major Jindal,” he shouted, pointing to the left. “Organize those troops and prepare to advance.” Jindal nodded and raced away. Chack took the Krag off his shoulder. “Fix bayonets!” he bellowed, latching on his own.
“Sur,” came a distinctive, toothless voice beside him, and even in the dark Chack recognized Sergeant Major Moe. He was an ancient ’Cat who’d made his living hunting the wilds of Borno. Despite his unremembered but extraordinarily advanced age, he was apparently simply too tough to die and had advanced from scout to militia sergeant, then from first sergeant to sergeant major of the 1st North Borno, even though he was the only Lemurian in its ranks.
“Sergeant Major,” Chack greeted him. “Where are I’joorka and Mr. Cook?”
“To de right,” Moe said, waving. “Dey was first ashore an’ got pinned down. Shit get baad wit-out nobody see-um, but Risa’s M’reens git ashore an’ sweep far anuff up to un-pin ’em. Dey send me to tell you dey’s gonna advaance.”
Chack looked behind him. More dories were still coming through the withering fire, followed by the four larger, flat-faced barges. Facing that, there probably weren’t more than five or six hundred defenders—yet—with maybe six or eight cannon left. But more would be rushing to the sound of the guns and they had to secure the beach and break through before the defense grew strong enough to stop them. After that, there’d probably be a ten-or twelve-mile running fight to the harbor. If they moved fast enough up the wide pathway Fiedler drew and Saansa confirmed, they should roll the Grik up in squad and company packets before they reached the only other place they could establish a proper defensive line: at the edge of the harbor itself. “Very well. Tell Major I’joorka we’re about to push forward as well. Whoever moves first will be the signal for the rest.”
Moe touched his brow and scampered off in that weird, bow-legged gait he had.
Musket balls whickered overhead or struck the ground and spewed clouds of sand. Others slapped flesh, raising cries of pain. The last wave of dories was landing now, and suddenly enemy tracers started chewing at them. Maa-sheen guns! Chack raged. The Grik have maa-sheen guns! “Suppress that fire!” he shouted, and rifles and Blitzerbugs hammered at the source of the flicking lights. A heavy blast, almost directly to their front, revealed another cannon, and its shot struck one of the four barges right at the waterline. It quickly filled, its heavy load taking it down just thirty yards from shore. The other barges were drawing a lot of fire as well. Being larger and coming up last, the Grik must’ve thought there was something particularly dangerous or worthwhile about them. Another Grik machine gun opened up, spraying the next barge as it touched shore.
“Everybody up!” Chack shouted, his voice carrying above the sound of battle. “Sound chaarge!” NCOs raised their whistles and blew one long burst. “Up and aat ’em!”
With a roar that sounded as terrified as it was savage, the hundreds of Respitans, Maa-ni-los, and Khonashis gathered near him leaped to their feet and raced ahead, firing as they went. Mortar bombs still fell in the woods, and there’d been enough fiery attention there that a few trees had begun to burn. Chack’s troops had targets now, in the flickering light, and less ammunition was wasted. Grik, rising behind their breastworks to shoot at the barges, tumbled back, stitched by yammering Blitzerbugs or clutching terrible wounds inflicted by the .50-80 Allin-Silvas. One machine gun to their front redirected its fire and dozens of Chack’s troops fell screaming. Something snatched at his smock and he felt a stunning blow on his helmet, but he rushed forward, gasping, his feet heavy in the deep, soft sand. The front of the mob—for that was what it had become—swept up and over the Grik position, shooting and stabbing, their bayonets flashing in the flickering light of growing flames.
Most of the cannon crew, still trying to load another stand of grape, fell sprawling and flailing. Chack shot a Grik in the face, blowing its bottom jaw away, then stabbed another in the side with his bayonet. It nearly yanked the Krag from his hands, raking spastically at the barrel and stock with vicious claws, but the press of stabbing and shooting attackers carried it away. Suddenly in the chaos, a man stood in front of Chack beside a strange-looking machine gun, its belt of ammunition protruding rigidly to the side in a curious fashion. Chack thought his face was vaguely similar to Tomatsu Shinya’s, with the same narrow eyes and an expression just like Shinya made when he was utterly focused. He also had a two-handed sword, cocked back, ready to strike. For an instant they just stood like that, staring. Then the man’s eyes darted down at the bayonet-tipped muzzle of Chack’s Krag, held low but aimed unwaveringly at his chest. His eyes came up again, wider, desperate, face twisting, posture stiffening. Chack pulled his trigger and the man cried out, toppling to his side. Blinking harshly, Chack pressed on, thrusting at another Grik with his bayonet. In the frenzied, kaleidoscopic, ear-numbing moments that followed, the fight reached a terrible crescendo of furious, blood-spattering, flame-and-steel-flashing, shrieking, squealing death. And then, with a stunning abruptness, it was over . . . there.
Chest heaving to suck smoky air in his lungs, Chack hopped on the breastworks they’d overcome and looked east. “Re-form!” He gasped. “We’ll attaack to the right and roll up the enemy in front of I’joorka and Risa!” The charge on the right was stalling, machine-gun bullets and canister tearing at its front. Behind, however, the bows of all three remaining barges slid to a stop in the shallows, dropping heavy ramps in the sand. Amid a thunderous roar of exhaust, their burdens pitched down into the surf and rumbled forward, shedding water from churning tracks and heavy, riveted plates.