Taylor Anderson - Destroyermen

"What the hell are you doin'?" Laney demanded, incredulous. Scott just looked at him, slapped him in the gut with his helmet, and leaped over the side.

The water was warm and familiar, but the memories of a lifetime spent within its comforting embrace couldn't prevent his shriek of terror when he thrashed to the surface. There, just a few yards away, was Lieutenant Tucker, eyes shut tight, trying desperately to pull herself along the rope. He looked up at the ship and saw that nearly everyone else was safely aboard or climbing out of the water. Either they hadn't noticed her or the rope was fouled and they couldn't pull her up. Something slammed into the heel of his shoe. He lunged for the rope, right in front of her, and shouted over the crashing sea: "Put your arms around my neck, Lieutenant! I'll pull us up!" He never heard her reply, but she did as instructed and he hauled against the rope with maniacal strength. In moments, he crashed against the side of the ship. Nearly stunned, he just hung for a moment. Something that felt like oak bark dragged across his leg.

"Help!" he screamed. "Help, goddammit! I've got Lieutenant Tucker here!"

Almost immediately, the captain himself was hanging above him by the wrecked corvus. Garrett and Chack and a couple of others too. Garrett was hacking at something with his cutlass while the rest tried to heave them aboard. Suddenly the rope was free, and Tony and Sandra snaked up the side and sprawled on the deck.

Scott got to his hands and knees and vomited into the water swirling around him. Then he felt himself rising, and there was Silva's grinning mug in front of his face.

"Here," he said, pushing the Thompson into his hands. "You idiot!"

Before he could respond, Sandra had her arms around his neck again, kissing his cheek. Blood thundered in his ears.

"Thank you!" she said, and kissed him again. His legs felt like melted wax. For the moment, the shooting had stopped. They must have chased the lizards back below.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Scott!" Matt said earnestly, squeezing his shoulder hard. He looked at Sandra. The mixture of profound relief and rage on his face was something to behold.

"What on earth were you thinking?"

Her wet chin came up. "I was thinking, Captain Reddy, that you might need medical help over here!"

"And because of that thinking, I . . . We almost lost you!"

"Captain," Alden interrupted, "we have to push 'em before they get their act together! We're a little shorthanded, and it looks like there's more of 'em crammed below than we figured."

"Of course, Sergeant. Carry on. I'll deal with Lieutenant Tucker!"

Alden nodded. "Mr. Shinya . . ." He hesitated only an instant. "Take A company. Work your way forward! Be sure and check under all this shit before you pass it by. Chack, take C company and follow 'em. Find a way below from the fo'c'sle! We'll get 'em stirred up amidships and you can hit 'em in the rear! B company, with me!"

They'd gathered near the wreck of the mainmast on the raised quarterdeck, with an open companionway gaping in front of them.

"Grenade!"

Silva slung the BAR and fished in a satchel at his side. Retrieving a grenade, he pulled the pin and lobbed it into the hole. There was a muffled whump and the deck shivered beneath their feet. A chorus of shrieks and snarls punctuated the blast.

"Guess somebody is home," Silva quipped.

"Another!" shouted Alden. "Scott, you okay? You and your Thompson follow the grenade with first squad. We'll be right behind you!"

Tony jerked a quick nod and poised himself near the ladder. After what he'd just been through, a battle was a cinch. In the water he'd been helpless. Now there was something he could shoot. Silva pitched a second grenade. More screams accompanied the explosion, and the coxswain bolted down the hatch with a dozen yowling Marines. Bra-ba-bap!

Bra-ba-bap ! roared the Thompson amid yells and screams and clashing weapons.

"Second squad, with me!" Alden cried, leading the second wave into the belly of the ship. He had a pistol on his belt, but he charged down the steps holding a spear like a bayonet-tipped Springfield. He would fight as he'd trained his Marines. Gray grabbed at Silva's satchel as he brought up the rear.

"Gimme some of those!" he ordered. Silva quickly opened the flap so Gray could snatch grenades, then he bolted down the ladder. A moment later, the heavier bark of the BAR was heard.

"More down there than we thought," Garrett mused worriedly. "It may be a while before we can get through that way!"

One of the Marines in Matt's guard detail "oofed" and crumpled to the deck with a crossbow-bolt high in his chest. Sandra rushed to him, opening her soggy bag.

"Aft!" cried Gray. "That skylight in front of the tiller!"

Matt grabbed one of the Marines by the arm. "Five of you stay with Lieutenant Tucker and the wounded!" Sandra started to protest. "That's why you said you came," he accused harshly, opening his holster and taking out his .45.

"But I don't need that many. You do!"

"Nevertheless—" He pushed the pistol into her hand. "Can you use that?" She nodded, terrified, but not of the gun.

"Of course! But you're not going to fight them with just that stupid sword!"

He quickly stooped and whispered in her ear. "I wouldn't have to if you'd stayed where you belong!" He took a deep breath. "I think I love you, Sandra Tucker, but you're an idiot!" He flashed a quick smile and stood. "The rest of you, with me!"

Together, they rushed the skylight, hoping to make it before another bolt flew. They didn't quite, but the next went wide and thunked into the bulwark. Gray flung a grenade into the opening and dropped down beside it. Smoke and splinters rocketed from the hole, mixed with red droplets and a fuzz of downy fur.

"In!" Captain Reddy yelled, and he dropped out of sight.

Keje-Fris-Ar stared in shock at the devastation they'd wrought. The big bronze guns that Letts worked so hard to produce—along with the foundry at Baalkpan and more than a hundred helpers—had been inexpertly used, to say the least. Despite the assistance of the destroyerman named Felts and another Amer-i-caan supervising each gun, more than half the destructive force of each shot was wasted, churning up the already maddened sea for hundreds of tails beyond the target. Even so, it was more than enough. A total of fifteen shots were fired at the boats, three from each cannon, sending thousands of copper balls scything through the flimsy vessels and enemy warriors. Parts of bodies and large chunks of the boats themselves scattered among marching plumes of violent splashes and horrible, unearthly shrieks. When the smoke and spray had cleared, nothing was left of the enemy but shattered flotsam and struggling forms. Flasher-fish weren't active when the sea ran high.

They couldn't sense the splashing of their prey, and the turmoil of the water was dangerous for them in such a shallow place. It didn't matter.

The Grik had no more reason or inclination to learn to swim than People did. Within moments, there was no movement but the relentless march of the churning swells.

That left the Grik ship bearing down upon them. It was downrange during the firing, and its sails and rigging were savaged. The enemy aboard saw what happened to the warriors in the boats, but true to form, on they came. Tom Felts called for "round shot." The Grik bored in, without maneuver, no finesse at all. It apparently wasn't going to lay alongside and send its remaining boarders across. It meant to crash headlong into Salissa 's side. That might cause significant damage. Keje waited tensely while the big guns were loaded. At two hundred tails, they spoke. Massive detonations trundled the heavy guns back against their restraints. The brief "swoosh" of heavy shot ended in multiple crashes that launched blizzards of splinters and large, spinning fragments of the Grik's bow into the sea. When the smoke cleared, the Grik still came, but slower and lower in the water. The approach ended at a hundred tails, as the vessel filled.