"At my command, Jarrik-Fas . . ."
"Commence firing with the main battery, but at masts and rigging only, Mr. Garrett!" Even before the salvo buzzer sounded, Matt felt, as well as heard, a deep, muffled whuddump! from the direction of Big Sal. He looked, but at this distance all he saw was a massive fogbank of smoke dissipating to leeward. So far, so good, he thought, in spite of the heavier odds. Big Sal would face more warriors than expected and maybe a ship as well, but Walker's part remained essentially the same. He'd never really believed Letts could pull it off. The supply officer's ambitious plan to arm Big Sal with forty cannon had been reduced to five per side, but they were enormous thirty-two pounders—and long guns to boot. They were crudely shaped and probably heavier than necessary, but their bores were straight and true. He could only imagine what five hundred three-quarter-inch copper balls per gun had done to the Grik boats. For an instant, he even pondered later ramifications. History often showed that arming primitive people with artillery could be a very bad thing, but at this moment, under these conditions, he had no regrets. Besides, he had more-pressing matters at hand. The salvo buzzer shrieked.
Three guns fired as one. Only one round struck the target, but it was a perfect hit, exactly where Matt had hoped. A single high-explosive four-inch-fifty struck dead center beneath the maintop and detonated with devastating effect. Huge splinters and pieces of metal scythed through sails and rigging, and down upon the fo'c'sle. The mast and top above the impact were entirely severed, and the whole thing fell—canvas flailing and yards disintegrating in a mad carnival of destruction. Surviving stays stretched impossibly tight and parted like a volley of rifle fire. The fore-topmast snapped and added itself and everything above to the mass of debris that fell in an impenetrable heap amidships. A forestaysail billowed to leeward and fell into the sea. That, and the sails still set on the mizzen, caused the Grik to heave rapidly around to starboard and broach to, a wallowing, helpless wreck. As a final calamity resulting from that single salvo, the un-stayed mizzen sails were taken aback, and the entire mast snapped off at the deck and plummeted into the sea astern.
"Holy cow!" breathed Rick Tolson at the helm. Walker had closed to less than three hundred yards.
"Reduce speed!" commanded Matt. "All ahead slow. Helm, ease us in to one hundred yards and come left ten degrees on my mark." He turned to the talker. "Boarders to remain undercover, but . . ." He paused and cast a glance at Chack, standing nearby. "I don't suppose they'll surrender?"
The Lemurian just looked at him, uncomprehending. The Grik never gave quarter, or asked for it. They probably didn't understand the concept. Matt doubted that Chack did, even now, after he'd so carefully stressed the need to secure live prisoners. He rubbed his nose and gave the young warrior a grim smile. "Of course not. Never mind." To the talker: "Machine gunners may commence firing if they have a target, but don't waste ammunition!"
They'd left one of the .30s at the refinery as security against predators, but both .50s and the remaining .30 were all now on the starboard side.
Almost immediately, the .30 overhead began hammering. The two amidships .50s quickly joined it, shredding the dazed Grik as they emerged from beneath the wreckage. Splinters, shattered bone, and gobbets of flesh erupted along the bulwark amid a chorus of wailing shrieks. In the pilothouse there was silence. They were well within range of the Grik firebombs, but the attack came so swiftly and unexpectedly, either they hadn't prepared the weapons or they'd been buried by debris.
Walker edged closer to the rolling derelict, and the stutter of machine guns became less frequent as fewer targets presented themselves.
"Well," Matt said crisply, hoping his voice betrayed none of his nervousness. He tugged absently at the sword belt buckled around his tunic.
"Mr. Dowden, you have the deck. As we discussed, lay her alongside and try to keep station as best you can." He grinned. "Mind the Chief 's paintwork, though! If you have to break off, by all means, do so. But don't waste time getting back in contact." Tolson tossed a worried look over his shoulder at the captain.
"Yes, sir, I have the deck," responded Dowden grudgingly. "Should I have the whaleboat made ready to launch in case, well . . ."
Matt cast an appraising eye at the sea and quickly shook his head.
"Too dangerous. If anybody falls in, try to fish 'em out real fast, but there's no sense risking people in a boat. Not in this sea." He looked at the concerned faces on the bridge, meeting each eye. He prayed that if anything happened to him, they'd be all right. But he had to go. "Very well, carry on. You all know what to do." He removed his hat and handed it to Reynolds, exchanging it for one of the platter-shaped helmets. He buckled the chin strap and turned to Chack. "Let's go."
Together, they clomped down the ladder to join the boarding party sheltering beneath the bridge and the gun platform amidships. The party was as large as Walker could carry in such seas, numbering just over a hundred. Most were the cream of Alden's Lemurian Marines, armed with swords and spears. A few destroyermen would go as well, but only those who'd shown Shinya some proficiency with a blade. They were armed mostly with pistols and cutlasses, but Silva had one of the BARs and Tony Scott carried his personal Thompson. Matt shouldered his way forward to the hatch that led onto the fo'c'sle. There he ran into Chief Gray and Lieutenant Garrett.
"Boats," he said, nodding at the men. "Mr. Garrett. I don't remember mentioning either of your names when I put this boarding party together." Gray hitched his web belt, but it stayed right where it was. It couldn't ride any higher without being let out. He met Matt's gaze with an expression of determination.
"Well, Skipper," said Garrett, "you didn't exactly un-mention us either."
Matt frowned. "Be careful, then. We can't spare either of you."
"Like we can spare our captain?" questioned Alden as he squeezed his way to the front of the line. The crowd parted as best it could in the cramped space. There was an overwhelming sour odor of wet fur and sweat. "Captains don't lead boarding parties. As head of Walker's Marine contingent"—Alden grinned, but with a hint of reproach—"that's my job."
Matt grinned back, remembering when he'd made the appointment.
At the time, Alden was the only Marine in the world. "Nevertheless, I'm going. We've been over this before." He gestured at those around, destroyermen, as well as their shorter allies. "Don't worry. These are your troops. You trained them. You'll retain tactical command if we run into organized resistance. Just don't forget the priorities."
"Right," Alden agreed. "Secure the ship, and don't let 'em scuttle. Take prisoners, but kill 'em all if we have to. Nobody speaks Grik and we'll probably learn more from the ship than we will from the crew."
Matt nodded agreement. "Don't risk anybody's life to save any of theirs. While you're doing that, ten 'Cats"—he paused, looking at Garrett and Gray—"them too, I suppose, will accompany me into officers' country. We'll try to find any papers, maps, or other documents. Maybe we'll even catch their captain!"