Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(99)
“They run away!” a ’Cat in the first rank cried triumphantly, followed by roars of satisfaction from his mates. Bekiaa had raised her glass. The trooper was partly right; the Grik had broken into a run, about three hundred tails to their front. But they weren’t running away. They were slanting forward, to Bekiaa’s left, trying to focus all their remaining forces against 3rd Army. That was when she knew exactly what the Grik commander planned. She spun. “Give ’em everything you’ve got!” she roared. They’d be harder targets for her riflemen, running from right to left, but they had little choice but to simply fire into the mass in any event. “Maa-sheen gunners! Hose ’em! We have to whittle ’em down. Optio Meek! Go to General Kim. I don’t know what’s happening in front of him or in front of Second Army, but every Grik we see is about to hit the Third. Kim must charge them before they can maass, or Third Army, at least, will be destroyed! Go!” she shouted at his stunned, blinking face.
“I—I can’t leave ye!” Meek protested. “Me duty’s here, with you!”
“Your duty’s where I say it is!”
“Charge them?” Courtney asked after Meek reluctantly trotted to the rear. His voice was milder than she would’ve expected.
“Yes, daamn it. Don’t you see what he’s done?” she demanded. By “he,” Courtney suspected she meant the Grik commander. She immediately confirmed it. “We deployed, thank the Maker, so he didn’t get to hit us on the march, or all scattered out—but by comin’ out across our whole front, he fixed us in place! We’re so spread out, Second Army can’t shift over to support the Third. Even if they got no fightin’, they’re a mile an’ a half away!” As usual, in times of stress, Bekiaa’s careful English was beginning to slip. The firing on the left was reaching a fever pitch, louder even than the fighting where they stood. And they hadn’t been forgotten by the enemy either. Close enough to Third Army to suit many charging Grik, and now only distinguishable from it or any other legion by the section of guns between, thousands of Grik were coming at them.
The tight, careful formations were gone, yielding to confusion at last, but the mass of the enemy was no less dense—and they were finally shooting back. Musket balls tore through overturned wagons and, often, bodies behind them. Splinters sprayed in all directions, blinding men and ’Cats. The troopers of the 23rd were through with volleys, though, and were firing as fast as they could. Maxims still chattered insistently, sweeping away great swathes, but each time one stopped to reload, more Grik surged closer, eyes wide with terror or anticipation, sharp teeth gnashing, shooting, reloading, roaring like the hellish fiends they were. The Derby guns slashed at them, muzzles depressed, blasting scores with every shot. They were using canister now, something they’d never expected to need, so there wasn’t much in their limber chests. Runners raced between the guns and caissons farther back, each with as many rounds as they could carry.
The wagons bulged inward with the press and many troops had to stop firing just to push back against the horde. One by one, however, the wagons tipped over, back on their wheels, crushing defenders underneath. Grik took advantage, leaping up and over, jumping down behind their thrusting bayonets. Most were quickly shot down, but they paved the way for more. Bekiaa was shooting now, firing her Springfield at gray-clad shapes in the smoke. She paused to insert another stripper clip and noticed Courtney standing beside her with his Krag, calmly killing Grik with unhurried shots. How he’d changed!
“We can’t hold them, Legate!” the third cohort senior centurion named Tinaas-Kus told her desperately. Tinaas was the only female officer in the legion, aside from Lok-Fon.
“Where’s the prefect?” Bekiaa demanded, eyes searching for the tall black man.
Tinaas motioned at the thickest fighting with her head. “He led the reserve cohort forward. We must form square!”
A musket ball vrooped past so close that Bekiaa felt it cut fur on her cheek. A defensive square was a common formation in the legions, and in the open, with a single legion, it might be the right thing to do. Here they’d have to contract away from the 10th and 5th to pull it off, and they couldn’t shoot toward them either. She remembered when Greg Garrett formed a desperate square on a little beach on the coast of Saay-lon. It held barely long enough that there were still survivors when help finally came. Here, a square might save the 23rd, but would totally shatter the line. “Never!” she snapped. “Send runners to the artillery sections. The one on the left’ll stand by to wheel forward an’ to the left. The one on the right’ll wait to advance with the legion. Then bring up everyone you can find—cooks, horse holders, I don’t care! General Kim will charge, and so will we! Trumpeter!” she shouted. “To me.” She looked back at Tinaas. “Spread the word as fast as you can.” She pointed toward 5th Legion, where the fighting was less intense. “And tell them to charge with us—or be destroyed after we’re dead!” She paused perhaps two seconds, staring at Centurion Tinaas, who blinked back in incredulous terror. “Now, Centurion!” she roared. Tinaas raced off.
Courtney had opened the loading gate of his Krag. “You’ll forgive me, I hope, my dear,” he said, as if speaking to the cartridges he dropped in the magazine, “if I can’t tell if you hate all this or love it.”