“Mallory must’ve tried to drop on Amagi,” Larry said. “Crazy bastard. Now the plane’s shot to pieces! I thought you told him to stay away from her.”
Matt nodded. He had. He also knew Mallory’s view of the battle was better than anyone else’s. Only Ben Mallory knew exactly how the enemy was deployed, and he must have thought things were desperate indeed to try to tip the balance single-handedly. Amagi must be getting close, and Ben must have thought the defenders couldn’t take it.
The plane rumbled forced tby, heading for the north inlet, where a backup landing ramp and fueling pier had been established. Up close now, Matt saw it was riddled with holes, and a wisp of smoke trailed the port engine as well. Ben obviously had his hands full just keeping it in the air. The navigation lights flashed Morse.
“ Amagi,” Dowden said.
As they watched, orange flames sprouted around the port engine and leaped along the wing, consuming leaking fuel. Black smoke billowed.
“Oh, no,” Matt breathed.
The plane turned into the failing engine, but with an apparently herculean effort, Ben managed to straighten her out with the big rudder and claw for the nearest shore.
“Come on!” someone murmured.
Even as the lumbering fireball fought for altitude, however, throttles at the stops, the fight ended with a suddenness as appalling as it was inevitable. The port support struts gave way, and the plane staggered in agony. An instant later the wing around the engine, weakened by fire, simply folded upward. Flaming fuel erupted, spewing from the sky with a heavy, distant whoosh! and the brave PBY Catalina and its gallant crew plummeted into the sea.
“Get a squad of Marines into the launch to look for survivors,” Matt said huskily. By his tone he didn’t expect them to find any. “Then you’d better resume your station, Larry,” he added, referring to the auxiliary conn. With only the Grik to fight so far, he’d allowed Dowden to remain on the bridge.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Larry said, still staring at the erratic plume of smoke hovering above the burning, sinking wreckage of the plane. He took a deep breath and looked at Matt. “Good luck, sir.”
“You too.”
Keje-Fris-Ar paced the battlement spanning the width of his Home, his fond eye tracing details he’d so long taken for granted. Even if all went well, his ship-his Home-would likely be reduced to a smoking, sunken wreck in the shallow water off the fitting-out pier. The distant sound of battle in the south had become a living, gasping, thundering throb, and the guns behind the fishing fleet wharf had begun booming as the Grik drew ever closer to his beloved Salissa. They were so densely packed he couldn’t even count them. Far to the west, he saw Walker beneath her massive flag, racing to intercept a red ship that had strayed too close to the inlet. Tiny waterspouts erupted around the Grik as one of Walker ’s machine guns came into play. In spite of his dread of what lay in store for his own ship, he felt a surge of guilt, mingled with gratitude for all Walker and her people had done for them. What they had yet to do. He sent a prayer to the Heavens for their safety, and added one for Mahan as well. The thick smoke had prevented him from seeing the PBY go down.
He knew some still believed the Amer-i-caans had brought this upon them, that the horror they faced was somehow connected to the arrival of the slender iron ships. He also knew that was ridiculous. The Grik had always been there, and today was but a reenactment of that terrible, prehistoric conflict that fraeje grunted. “How did he get up there?” He shook his head. “Never mind. He knows the Jaaps may target the tree and the Great Hall?”
“He does. Suddenly he seems aware of quite a lot. He hopes his prayers will protect them.”
“Do you think they will?”
“No.”
Keje nodded. “Then surely mine won’t do much good,” he muttered wryly. He looked down. When he spoke again, his voice sounded sad, almost… desolate. “Will you pray with me now, Sky Priest?”
Adar blinked rapidly, overcome by emotion. “Of course.” Together with Selass and the few others on Salissa ’s battlement, they faced in the direction the sun had set and spread their arms wide. As one, they intoned the ancient, simple plea:
“Maker of All Things, I beg Your protection, but if it is my time, light my spirit’s path to its Home in the Heavens.”
The traditional prayer was over, but before they could complete the customary gestures, Adar’s voice continued: “I also beseech You to extend Your protection beyond our simple selves to include all here who fight in Your name, even those with a different understanding of Your glory. Aryaalans, B’mbaadans, Sularans, and the others, all perceive You differently, but they do know and revere You… as do our Amer-i-caan friends. Our hateful enemy does not. I know it is.. . selfish of me to ask You to deny so many of Your children their rightful, timely reward in the Heavens, but Maker, we do so desperately need their swords! I beg You not to gather too many in this fight, for even should we be victorious, the struggle must continue, and it will be long, long. Instead, let those You spare be rewarded later, with a brighter glow in the night sky, so all will remember the sacrifice they made!” he lowered his head. “I alone ask this of You. If it is Your will to deny my own ascension in return, so let it be.”
The rest of those present stared at him, shocked by the bargain he’d made, and Keje’s red-brown eyes were wet with tears. Following Adar’s example, together they crossed their arms on their chests and knelt to the deck, ending the prayer at last.
“You take too much on yourself,” Keje insisted.
Adar blinked disagreement. “I only wish I had more to offer than my own meager spirit.”
“Then you may add mine as well,” Keje said, and Adar looked at him in alarm. Once spoken, the bargain could not be taken back. “Idiot. Do you think I would be separated from you in this life or the next, brother? The boredom would destroy me.” He paused. “Two last things; then you must leave. First, if we are victorious but I do not survive, send my soul skyward with wood from Salissa.” He grinned. “Perhaps the Maker did not hear me. Finally, I will trust you to give Cap-i-taan Reddy my thanks.”
Adar embraced him then, wrapping him in the folds of his cloak. “I shall.”
“I say,” exclaimed Courtney Bradford. “I believeejeblock of elevated dwellings and shops, half a mile southeast of the Great Hall. The sheltered area covered almost six acres, and as the hours passed the space was filling with wounded. Nothing of the battle could be seen from where he stood, gazing westward, but the noise was overwhelming, even over the cries of the wounded.
“I think you’re right,” Sandra said tersely. “Now put that rifle down this instant and help me with this patient!”
Self-consciously, Bradford leaned the Krag against a massive “bamboo” support and peered at the limp form placed before her. All around them, other nurses and Lemurian surgeons fought their own battles to save the wounded, even while ever more arrived. Many had terrible, purplish red burns, and their fur was scorched and blackened. Others had been slashed by sword or axe, and many were pierced by the wicked crossbow bolts with the cruelly barbed points. There were few minor wounds. Those were tended by medical corpsmen right amid the fighting, or in one of the several field hospitals or aid stations. Those who were able returned to their posts with a bandage and some antiseptic paste on their wound. Only the most severely hurt were brought before Sandra. In spite of the fact that she was, after all, still just a nurse, she’d become the most experienced trauma nurse in the world. An orderly passed by, lighting lamps with a taper.
“I’d love to help you, of course, but I fear there’s little point,” Bradford said. Sandra spared him a harsh glance, then looked at her patient’s face. The jaw was slack and the eyes empty and staring, reflecting the flickering flame. “Dead, you see,” Courtney continued bleakly. “Perhaps the orderlies would be good enough to fetch us another?”