Kingdom of Monsters by John Schneider (latest novels to read .TXT) 📕

a nose stood out in the occasional slivers of moonlight that cut between the rain clouds.

Lieutenant Colonel Erik Carson gesticulated toward the large Makin atoll.

And then, Dawson heard the pounding of breaking surf before he glimpsed the obstacle between them and the beachhead; enormous waves. He figured the harsh conditions might wreak havoc on their landing. The situation looked grim.

“Maybe they’re thinking about calling it off.” This from Private Collins.

“I don’t think so.” Dawson shook his head. “Likely they’re refining the plans.”

The pounding surf added to the commotion, making it difficult for him to hear anyone other than his squad. Dawson knew that calling it off was not a likely option. Allied forces had taken a beating in the Pacific theater and they desperately needed to win a battle to bolster morale and gain more support back home.

“Let’s just hit the beach and get on with it,” Bishop finally said.

“Can’t just rush in there.” Dawson swallowed. “Once we land and start taking fire, there won’t be time to revisit planning. Have to do it before we hit the breakwater.”

“Naw, that beach doesn’t seem all too dangerous.”

“Coming from a lead swan, a Missouri boy. The surf is mighty dangerous.”

“Dawson, you grew up in New England. What do you know about rough surf?”

He sat up, peeved. “Know more about the ocean than you.”

“Says who?” Bishop was hunkering for a fight, with anyone.

“Let’s just focus on the enemy … and not each other.”

Through the light reflecting off the water, Dawson spied a sullen look in Collins’ eyes. He wondered if the young lad was up to the operation. Many of the Raiders were fresh recruits, taken from outstanding candidates in the fleet Marine Corps divisions, but also the standouts in basic training. Collins hadn’t been tested in combat by any means.

And Bishop was so bloodthirsty for battle, it caused Dawson pause. He could see Collins freezing up under fire and getting someone killed, or envision Bishop making a brash move, and getting a bunch of people killed, unnecessarily. Dawson understood the risks when he signed up, but now thinking of his fiancée back home made him concerned about dying a senseless death from another’s mistake or failure to carry out his duty. For reassurance, he tapped the metal tin in his breast pocket, housing a letter to Mary back home.

“When we hit the beach,” Dawson finally said, “you two are going to do exactly like I tell you.”

“Why, because you outrank us?” Bishop sneered.

“Precisely. Because I outrank you both.”

“I’ve been in service almost as long as you.”

“When you get promoted, you’ll get your own squad. But for now, you report to me.”

As Bishop turned away, Mudhole hit the throttle and steered closer to the three boats pitching in the middle of the flotilla, where the brass had set up an expedient command post. He cut the engine when they got a couple of boat-lengths away and drifted toward the closest raft.

Staff Sergeant Williams nudged his way toward the bow. Then, he leaned over and grabbed hold of the next boat, speaking to the brass about next steps as voices carried off in the wind, indiscernible.

Raiders murmured in the cockpit, wondering about the new instructions. Bishop started in again. “I bet we head toward the lagoon.”

“Quiet!” Williams looked back and glared at them.

Bishop swallowed, and the other marines broke off. Then, the staff sergeant spoke to the commanding officer further. A discussion that sounded in a whisper and drifted off in broken segments, so Dawson couldn’t make any sense of it.

A moment later, Williams groped his way toward the center of the boat.

“Listen up!”

The boat undulated and pitched Williams to the side. He fell over, then straightened up and grabbed hold of the line that encircled the rubber boat. “There’s been a change of plans.”

“No kidding,” Bishop muttered under his breath.

“We’re going to land both companies at the same beach. Our beach. This is going to cause some distraction as two units with different objectives will land in the same spot, commingled on the beachhead.”

Dawson figured the change didn’t affect them much. They would land in the same place, then carry on with their assignment.

“We’re all going to land on the main beach. And before dawn breaks, we move forward with our objectives.”

And there he confirmed that it was only a slight change of plans. Everything would move ahead as anticipated, except both companies would land on the same beach. Dawson noted the various rubber boats bumping into one another. The rough seas and heavy downpour made communication difficult. Raiders were passing the revised orders on to each other, boat to boat. Now, they just needed the go ahead to move towards shore.

They waited in the boats, laden with marines, weapons, and ammunition, as the rain beat down on them. Rubber boats drifted on the current and the landing beach was no longer in direct view. Hurry up and wait, Dawson thought.

Finally, the command boat gave the go-ahead and Mudhole pulled the ripcord and the Evinrude spat back to life. He turned the throttle and the boat plugged ahead, with the pointed bow plying through thick waves. Ocean spray cast into the boat along with rainwater. The bottom of the raft puddled with water. All the Raiders were soaked to the bone, long before they’d alight from the assault boats.

Wilson’s unit motored through the middle of the armada. Dawson could see the boats on either flank. Every unit within view appeared focused on the beachhead, steering straight for the landing zone, with all Raiders watching the coastline.

Only a grim image of the atoll reflected in the darkness, with the spattering of sand and whitecaps at the breakwater, and an ominous silhouette of the jungle overhanging the beachhead.

Soon, the bow shot upward, and the boat twisted, almost knocking marines overboard. Fifteen-foot waves. Dawson snatched onto the line running around the boat with his right hand and held on for dear life. He squeezed the M1 Garand tightly to his chest with his free hand, making