“Marvelous! Utterly marvelous!” Rolak chortled, yellowed teeth showing in a genuine, delighted grin. “I did enjoy that! We will pursue them now, of course?”
“Yeah. As soon as we kill the enemy wounded in front of us. Even if they are Grik, it ain’t decent to let the damn things suffer. Besides, some might still be dangerous.”
“Generals!” cried a runner from the command post tent. “The aarplaanes from Salissa Home draw near! They report seeing smoke from the city, and smoke from this fight. The wing commander, Cap-i-taan Jis-Tikkar, asks how his force might best be employed.”
“Tell ’em to bomb the hell out of any large collection of Grik they see southwest of our current position. Try to herd ’em toward the swamplands. I’d also appreciate a look at our far right, northwest along the river, to make sure there’s nothing else out there. Mainly, though, advise Captain Tikker that we’ll be pushing forward momentarily, so he should watch where he drops his eggs! Oh, and give my respects to Queen Maraan, and tell her we’re about to advance. I want the shield wall to stick together as much as possible, just like in the plan.”
Tikker yawned hugely. The steady, reliable, workmanlike drone of the Nancy’s engine had a lulling effect, and after staying up most of the night going over last-minute details and sorting through maintenance issues with the crew chiefs, he’d had to get up early and meet with the pilots for a final, redundant briefing. Salissa hadn’t been commissioned into the U.S. Navy; she was still an independent Home, but all her pilots were duly sworn “Navy men,” and therefore “Americans.” As an “American” now himself, with somewhat unprecedented responsibility, Tikker had finally solved one of the great mysteries of his human clan-mates: their addiction to “coffee.” Despite its vile taste, he’d actually become as dependent on the stuff as any American. So had most of his pilots. They’d virtually emptied Salissa ’s “medical lockers” of coffee the night before. Aahd-mah-raal Keje promised to send across to his other ships for more, but his human officers dipped into their own “stash” so Tikker’s fliers would have enough to “get their blood moving” before the mission.
This would be the First Naval Air Wing’s maiden combat operation, and the first almost entirely Lemurian and Lemurian-led air operation in all of history. Thirty-two planes would participate. Sixty-four young lives, not to mention endless months of training, preparation, and the very concept of naval aviation on this world were on the line-on Tikker’s shoulders. If he’d felt a little overwhelmed in the predawn hours, that was understandable.
This morning, Tikker commanded “A” flight of the 1st Naval Bomb Squadron, while Mark Leedom led “A” flight of the 1st Naval Pursuit Squadron. Only the names were different. All the planes were identically loaded with one fifty-pound bomb under each wing, and a crate of mortar bombs in front of the observer’s stick. Mark’s was the lead flight in the lead squadron and Tikker brought up the rear. Not long after takeoff, they’d lost a couple of planes to mechanical problems, but there’d been no issues since then. The planes that had to fall out of the formation had headed back to Salissa. The sea was flat and calm, so if they couldn’t make it, they would set down and wait for pickup. With most of four squadrons of the blue and white Nancys still in the air ahead of him, Tikker felt a flush of pride and accomplishment at the sight.
The voice tube beside his head whistled.
“What have you got, Cisco?” he shouted into it.
“There’s a big fight at Raan-goon,” Cisco said. Her voice sounded tinny and remote. Riggs had contrived a set of earphones that sort of worked on Lemurians, so the observer/wireless operators could actually hear signals in flight. “Big fight,” she continued. “Yasna-At, with Lieutenant Leedom, says they can see plenty of smoke.” Tikker could see the jungle peninsula ahead, the swampy marshland receding in the west, but couldn’t see any smoke yet. The overland sky was hazy, and almost the same color smoke would have been. “Commodore Ellis says that we must fly to the north end of the battle. He will place Dowden in the river there for a waypoint. Our new orders are to sweep west-southwest from there, and engage any substantial force but one. There is an enemy camp of some sort about a mile from the river, in front of Generals Alden and Rolak. Commodore Ellis says to leave it alone for now, but to save enough munitions and fuel to ‘paste’ it at his command!”
Tikker wondered what that was about. “Very well. Reply ‘Understood. Entire First Bomb Squadron will orbit area and remain at his service.’ Inform Lieutenant Leedom he will command all other attack elements and pursue the enemy. Make sure we have confirmation from all ships.”
“What the hell is this all about?” Pete growled when a lone Grik warrior stepped forward from the mass that had fallen back in front of the enemy camp the scouts had discovered. He watched in astonishment as the Grik poked its sword through a piece of white cloth and held it high, continuing forward. “No way!” he said, incredulous.
Lord General Rolak was equally shocked. The sounds of battle still seethed on the left, where Queen Maraan’s forces were pushing forward, but here, for a moment, except for the occasional shell from Donaghey detonating well forward of their position and just beyond the Grik, there was only stunned silence. “If I understand the meaning of such gestures-we have used them among ourselves and the Imperials before-it would seem the Grik Commander would have a parley.”
“Well… How in God’s name can he expect… It’s not like they ever… What makes him think… Well, he ain’t getting one!” Pete roared. Raising his Springfield, he shot the warrior directly in the snout at a range of about seventy yards. The back of the creature’s head erupted crimson clay and one of the warriors behind it squealed and fell when the bullet continued on and struck it in the torso. The Grik with the white rag collapsed instantly.
A strange sound, like an anxious moan, escaped some of the eight hundred to a thousand warriors still blocking the camp, but there was no other reaction. A few moments later, another Grik strode from the mass, again bearing a rag. Perhaps even more disconcerting and… well, creepy… the frightening creature showed no more hesitation than the last one. Pete swore and raised his rifle again, but Rolak stopped him. “I must confess a most profound, almost morbid curiosity, my friend,” he said, “to discover whether they would keep sending them regardless of how many you shoot-but let us see what we shall see.”
“Shit, Rolak,” Pete grumped, picking up his empty shell and putting it in his pocket. “What’s he going to say? We can’t talk to the damn things! Besides, how come they wait until we’re fixin’ to wipe ’em out before they want to talk?”
“Indeed,” agreed Rolak. “But they’ve never done that before. They could still flee-or attack and die. Indulge me, please. I am interested.”
“Well… okay.” Pete relented and ordered: “Hold fire. Pass it down!” He waited until the order was picked up and began to spread.
They waited expectantly while the lone warrior approached. The creature didn’t look like a Hij “officer”-its dress was too utilitarian, too drab. It did have an impressive crest flowing from beneath a hard leather cap, however. Probably an older NCO or something. Unlike the other, this one wasn’t armed-besides its natural battery of lethal teeth and claws-and merely held the rag above its head. Finally, a few paces short of Pete and Rolak, who’d moved slightly forward, it hissed and spat something that sounded like a piece of steel slapped against a grinding wheel. Tossing a piece of the heavy Grik parchment on the ground, it turned and stalked off. It was all Pete could do to keep from shooting it in the back.
“Fetch it,” he told a Marine nearby, and the ’Cat trotted the few steps and stooped, distastefully retrieving the object, like one might pick up a turd. Returning, he thoughtfully held it so Pete could see it without touching it himself. “Son of a…” Pete snatched the parchment and turned it right side up. “You can read, can’t you, Rolak?” he asked in a strange tone.