“Very well,” he said. “Hoist the signal to proceed.”
* * *
“We’re moving in, Sir,” PO Hahlys said, and Zoshua Makadoo finished chewing and swallowed hastily.
“Got it,” he said, and shoved the rest of the sandwich into his pocket and crawled forward. Hahlys squirmed past him as they exchanged positions and the lieutenant settled back into place with his double-glass. After better than six hours aloft, he and Hahlys had been ravenously hungry when Bosun Mykgylykudi sent their lunch up on the powered messenger line. Hahlys had eaten first, while Makadoo maintained a lookout, then the petty officer had relieved him.
And I almost got done eating, the lieutenant thought with a chuckle as he raised the double-glass.
It was a bit strained, that chuckle. Zoshua Makadoo was about as irrepressible as a young man came, but his wyvern’s eye view had shown him far too much carnage this day. He’d seen everything, and it was almost worse that it had been so far away, so tiny. He’d heard the thunder of the squadron’s guns and watched shells bursting all over the Dohlaran fortifications, but it had been like watching toys fighting toys … until he raised his double-glass and saw the dying “toys” writhing in broken agony whenever the smoke parted. He’d seen Dohlaran shells hitting Eraystor, Riverbend, and Gairmyn, as well, and he wondered how many men he knew aboard those ships had been killed or wounded.
No one ever promised it would be easy, he reminded himself, focusing the double-glass on Eraystor as she steamed steadily towards the enemy once again.
“Message from Admiral Sarmouth, Sir,” Hahlys said. Makadoo looked over his shoulder at the petty officer, who held up the slip of paper he’d just taken from the message cylinder.
“Read it.”
“Yes, Sir. ‘Remember to report anything—’ that word’s underlined twice, Sir ‘—out of the ordinary. Especially—’ three underlines on that one, Sir ‘—any warships or floating rocket launchers.’ That’s it, Sir.”
Makadoo grunted in acknowledgment and frowned as he turned back to the vista below, swinging his double-glass across to Wreckers’ Island. Admiral Sarmouth had personally briefed them before they launched, and his instructions had been very clear. It was unlike him to repeat himself—and, especially, to repeat himself this often—and Makadoo couldn’t help wondering if the admiral knew something the rest of them didn’t. If he did, the lieutenant couldn’t imagine what it might be. He’d already examined Wreckers’ Island as meticulously as he could from this distance, and reported everything he’d seen.
It was obvious this target was going to be a tougher slabnut than Cape Toe had been. Only the very muzzles of the battery’s long, lethal Fultyn Rifles were visible, peeking out of much smaller—and harder to hit—embrasures than the Cape Toe batteries had shown. The parapet itself looked half again as thick, as well. He’d already passed that information along, and he was just as glad they hadn’t waited another few five-days, since it was clear the Dohlarans had still been piling up fresh dirt to add even more breadth and depth to the parapet. In fact, they must have been doing that right up to the very last minute, he thought, as he studied the half-dozen barges moored behind the island. They were obviously very shallow draft, given how little depth of water there was on Broken Keel Shoal, between the island and the mainland. In fact, given the state of the tide, they had to be hard aground at the moment, which probably explained why they hadn’t run away. Two of them—quite a bit smaller than the others—were empty, although there were still a few heaps of dirt scattered around their open-topped holds. Clearly whoever had been swinging the shovels hadn’t been all that worried about getting all of it. But the other four were mounded high with still more dirt destined for the parapet. In fact, the dirt was heaped so high he was surprised they’d been able to float the damned things across the shoal at all.
Left it just a little late, though, he thought with a thin smile. Don’t know how much the extra dirt would’ve helped, but we’ll never find out now, will we?
* * *
“Looks like they’re finally getting down to it, Sir,” Lieutenant Commander Zhordyn Kortez said grimly.
“Surprised it’s taken them this long,” Captain Ezeekyl Mahntayl replied. Mahntayl was forty-six, ten years older than his executive officer, and he’d lost a leg and an eye in the Kaudzhu Narrows. He was also one of the Royal Dohlaran Navy’s two or three most expert gunners, which explained his present command.
“I guess Captain Dynnysyn’s boys hammered them pretty hard,” Kortez observed.
“Probably. Not hard enough, though,” Mahntayl growled. “Should’ve done a lot better!”
“Yes, Sir.”
Some people would have taken Mahntayl’s words as a criticism of Cape Toe’s CO, but Kortez knew better. Mahntayl and Cayleb Dynnysyn had been friends for years. The anger in Mahntayl’s voice had a lot more to do with that friendship and the reports they’d received about Cape Toe’s casualties than with the fact that the heretics hadn’t lost a single ship … so far, at least.
“I know the lads are ready,” the captain went on now. “But there’s still time for another walk-through. Well, for somebody who still has both feet, anyway.” He actually managed a smile. “See to that for me, if you would.”
“Of course, Sir.” Kortez saluted and headed for the deeply dug-in and heavily sandbagged command post’s entrance. Unlike Cape Toe, the garrison of Wreckers’ Island could depend on the enemy coming in close enough to be seen from sea level. There was an observation tower in the center of the island, but it was unmanned at the moment. If the heretics wanted to waste a few shells demolishing it instead of shooting at his artillery, Mahntayl would be delighted.
And the guns aren’t all I have for you, either, you bastards, he thought harshly, peering through the tripod-mounted spyglass. You just keep right on coming. I don’t think you’re going to enjoy your reception very much.
* * *
“Open fire!”
The first broadside thundered from Eraystor’s larboard broadside in a fresh volcanic cloud bank of brown smoke, and Sir Hainz Zhaztro found himself—again—wishing he was still on the bridge wing.
But I don’t wish it very hard at the moment, he told himself, peering through a view slit as the Wreckers’ Island battery disappeared behind a swirling cloud of its own gunsmoke.
Shells screamed overhead or hurled up huge columns of white, mud-stained water, and he felt his belly muscles tighten as the size of those fountains confirmed the weight of the artillery his men were about to face.
* * *
“What the hell?” Ezeekyl Mahntayl muttered.
The heretics’ shells came shrieking in like vengeful demons, slamming into his battery’s earthem defenses, blasting craters deep into them. But some of those shells didn’t explode. Some of them gushed dense billows of smoke, instead. Which had to be the most unnecessary thing he’d ever seen in his life! His guns were already making plenty of smoke. Even with the brisk northeasterly blowing lengthwise down the Zhulyet Channel, it was thick enough to severely restrict his gunners’ visibility, and that could only get worse, despite the 12-inch rifles’ slow rate of fire. For that matter, the heretics were producing more than enough gunsmoke of their own to obscure their ironclads! Surely they’d be better served hammering Wreckers’ Island with explosives than churning up still more smoke!