Against the Tide

Chapter Six

“Sir,” a seaman said, coming over to General Talbot.

The general had ensconced himself at an empty desk in the war-room. He was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to be empty, but the owner hadn’t complained. Now he looked up at the young seaman and smiled.

“Yes?”

“There’s an ensign outside, sir, who wishes to speak to you. But she’s not on the access list.”

“Nor should she be, seaman,” the general replied, nodding. “Thank you.”

He walked to the door and nodded at the guard to open it and then walked out of the room with Herzer following.

“Sir, I’ve got the extracts you wanted…” Van Krief said. Her uniform was covered in dust.

“Wait,” Talbot said, holding up his hand. “Where’s Destrang?”

“He’s in a room down the hall,” Herzer said, pointing.

“An empty room?” Edmund asked.

“Sometimes,” the captain replied. “I think it’s a break room.”

“Well, it’s going to be an empty room for the next few minutes,” Talbot said, turning to the guard at the door. “Son, you got a sergeant of the guard around?”

“Yes, sir,” the marine answered.

“How do you summon him?”

“Sergeant of the Guard to the war-room,” the marine called down the hall. The call was repeated from the various posts. In no more than a minute a precisely uniformed marine sergeant, not wearing armor, appeared around the corner and marched to a halt in front of the general. He turned to the sentry who pointed at the general and then went back to looking down the hall.

“Sergeant, I’m going to be taking over the break room for a few minutes,” the general said. “I’d like to ensure that nobody stumbles in. Can you take care of that?”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. “I’ll stand guard until I can get a relief, sir. Won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Talbot said, walking down the hall to the break room. “We won’t be long. I appreciate this.”

When he entered the room Destrang sprang to his feet, dropping the book he’d been reading.

“Bored, Ensign?” Edmund asked, smiling.

“To tears, sir,” Destrang said.

“I don’t think that will last long,” Edmund replied. “I don’t want to take long, Van Krief, brief me.”

“Yes, sir,” the ensign said, nervously.

“I’ll take the extracts back to the war-room when we’re done,” Edmund added. “Just give me the highlights.”

“How about the low lights, sir?” the ensign said.

“How bad?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Van Krief said, shaking her head. “But does an average of one hour of flight time per day per dragon in the fleet sound good?”

“Jesus Cristo,” Herzer said.

“And virtually none of that has been bombing practice, sir,” she added. “In fact, I could only find records for an average of five hours, total, of bombing practice since the fleet sailed. Two of the carriers have catapults down, so the dragons can’t get off with a full load of bombs anyway. There is only one greater dragon with the fleet. The other one requested, and was granted, permission to fly off three weeks ago. She is currently here, in some vague training billet.”

“She?” Edmund asked. “Who is she?”

“Commander Joanna Gramlich,” Van Krief said, consulting a note in the sheaf of paper in her hand.

“What reason did she give to fly off?” Herzer asked.

“Failure of contract, sir,” Van Krief answered. “I got the feeling that the Navy is going to try to stick it to her. The chief that I shanghaied referred to her as ‘that bitch mercenary.’ ”

“Fisking idiots,” Edmund snarled. “Fisking motherfisking idiots. Sorry, Ensign. But I know Joanna. And she was just getting out while there was still time.”

“The fleet’s been on half rations for a week,” Van Krief continued. “The dragons have had their rations cut as well but they’re still very short, no more than a day or two. And there’s a storm…”

“I know about the storm,” Edmund said.

“There are letters of complaint from the riders as well.”

“I can imagine,” Herzer said, shaking his head.

“There was one memo I ran across that used the term ‘primadonnas’ about the complaints, sir,” Van Krief said. “On the one hand, I can understand. The whole fleet is having troubles. On the other hand…”

“There is no other hand, Ensign,” Herzer sighed. “You can’t short wyverns. If they don’t get enough to eat, they sicken and die. Quickly. And getting them to eat at all on shipboard is tough; they don’t like sailing any more than the general here.”

“And there’s more, sir,” Van Krief said, her face a mass of sorrow. “One of the reasons that they haven’t been flying is supplies. But the reason supplies are low is that they’ve been diverting training funds into the building of a new class of ships.”

“A new carrier class?” Edmund asked.

“No, sir. A dreadnought class. Heavily armed trebuchet ships. At least, that’s the way it looks on first glance. I could be wrong. But the numbers in both directions don’t add up.”

“Big, fast, pretty ships that can close with the enemy,” Edmund said. “Marine complement?”

“Big marine force, sir,” Van Krief said. “Two hundred and fifty per ship.”

“And board them in heroic close combat,” Edmund continued. “Damn them.”

“I’m worried about the dragons,” Herzer said.

“So am I,” Edmund said. “They’re in no condition to fight.”

“Fight, hell,” Herzer replied, hotly. “That’s more than half our total wyvern force and one of only five great dragons out there. If they turn around, right now, and head for the nearest port, they might not lose half of them!”

“But the supply convoy…” Van Krief said.

“If it even makes it,” Edmund sighed. “Remember what I said about how I would run this fight?”

“Oh. Yes, sir.”

“All the mer and delphinos have been pushed back from the Ropasan coast,” Edmund said. “I need to know where other ships are, New Destiny ships. I want to know their full order of battle and where every single ship is located. I need intel.”

“I didn’t access that, sir,” the ensign said.

“I know,” Edmund replied, suddenly smiling at the nervous young officer. “And you did well. But I’ve got that puckered feeling like we’re about to have something shoved up our ass, hard. Okay, we’re done here,” Edmund said, holding out his hand. “Give me the papers and Herzer and I are going back in the lion’s den.”

As they exited the room, with a nod of dismissal to the marine that had replaced the NCO, a messenger hurried by, coming from the war-room.

“Why did that young man look as if his dog just died, I wonder?” Edmund mused, sarcastically. He strode into the war-room and looked around. The previously calm and ordered place was a madhouse. On the big map on the wall, the supply convoy was marked as under attack.

“It starts,” Edmund said, grabbing a passing leading petty officer. “What happened?” Edmund asked.

“The delphinos with the convoy reported it under attack by dragons,” the PO replied. “The frigate and the sloop are sunk and the rest of the convoy is under attack. The senior captain has been asking for orders. Then his ship was sunk. It’s a madhouse, General.”

“No, son,” Edmund sighed. “It’s a war. But the difference is often hard to notice.”

He sat down at his desk as Admiral Draskovich entered the room. The admiral listened to the hurried briefing from the watch officer and then took a pedestal chair at the center of the room.

“Signal the convoy to scatter,” he said. “Have them rendezvous at coordinates North 38 43 by West 67 01 then proceed on their mission.”

Herzer saw the general visibly wince. But Edmund was apparently ignoring what was going on around him.

“What’s the situation with the fleet?” Draskovich asked.

“The dragons are launching now, sir,” one of the watch officers replied. “They’re reporting less than eighty percent available. But they should have those in the air by now.”

“Why so few?” the admiral asked.

“Unknown, sir,” the watch officer said.

“Send a message requesting we be told why,” the admiral snapped.

“Task force Corvallis Line reports attack by kraken,” a petty officer said, looking up from the message just brought in. “Delphinos and mer are under attack by orca and ixchitl.”

“Tell them to hold the line and get that damned kraken,” the admiral practically yelled, rubbing his face and looking over his shoulder at the door though which the messengers entered.

Command Master Chief Robin Brooks had just stepped onto the quarterdeck, carrying a fresh mug of coffee, when the carrier suddenly slowed in the water and heeled to starboard. Two mast-thick tentacles snaked over the side, one grabbing the mainmast at the base while another grabbed it just below the first crosstree. The massive bulk of a kraken appeared over the side of the ship.

The chief took a sip of coffee, his knees springing to keep him upright, as the ship listed hard to starboard and shook his head at the mass of screaming humanity on the maindeck all of them sliding across the deck towards the waiting tentacles and beak of the hungry, eight-armed, kraken.

“Kircan!” he bellowed at the waist division petty officer, who was clinging to a line for dear life. “Get some axemen working! Get Van Kiet’s team into their flamethrowers!” He took another sip appreciatively as a seaman was picked up, screaming, from the deck. “Webster! Quit dicking around and stay away from the damned tentacles! There’s a drill for this, you know!”

The skipper came dashing onto the quarterdeck, tucking in his shirt, just as the flamethrower team was throwing itself desperately into the fray.

“Get the tentacles on the mast first!” the chief bellowed. “And somebody cut off that tentacle around Webster before he throws up all over the deck! Oh, good morning, Skipper.”

“Morning, Chief,” the skipper said, trying, and failing, to give off the same air of unsurprised efficiency as his command master chief.

“Saw this one time off Bimi island, sir,” Brooks said, taking another sip as two tongues of flame licked out and caught the tentacles around the mast. The kraken reacted spasmodically as the tentacles whipped off the mast and back into the water. The luckless Webster was tossed aside as well, bouncing off the rail and into the water overside. “The kraken was bigger, though.”

The chief kept his feet, many on the deck were thrown from theirs, as the ship rolled back upright and he pointed at the kraken that was still half draped on the side of the ship.

“Get it right in the beak,” he yelled. “Or the eyes. Use the flamers to work your way forward. Pump-men, get up there or we’ll all be in Davey Jones’ locker! And away the gig to pick up Webster. Somebody throw him a preserver.”

The flamethrower men worked forward, flicking small tongues of flame at any tentacle that darted towards them, until they were in range to attack the body. Then one of them, greatly daring, darted forward and shot the kraken on the juncture between its tentacles and right eye. At that the kraken flailed wildly, again, and slipped over the side of the ship, disappearing into the depths in a cloud of black ink.

“And it wasn’t this mill-pond,” the chief continued where he’d left off as the firemen rushed forward and washed the burning napalm over the side of the ship then got to work on the burning wood and cordage where the fight had taken place. “We were bobbing around like corks.”

“Task force Norland under dragon attack,” one of the watch officers said. “Delphinos report the Norland is on fire, sir.”

“Okay,” the admiral said, rubbing his face. “Signal the task force to assist the carrier in fire fighting…”

“Bonhomme Richard under dragon attack,” the watch commander said. “Dragons using bombs and firebreath. All sails destroyed. Waist on fire.”

“What?” the admiral shouted. “Get a confirmation on that!”

“Whalo node Granbas, under assault by orcas,” the communications officer said. “The whalos are requesting support.”

“Tell them…” The admiral paused and looked up at the map. The blue symbols of his fleets were turning red as were the -various delphinos, mer and whalos that made up his communications net. “Tell them… no support available.”

“Sir, Net reports that Granbas is no longer responsive,” the communications officer said, swallowing. “We’re out of contact with the fleet. Last report, Reagan, Norland and Bonhomme Richard on fire. Corvallis under attack by kraken. Enemy dragons sighted by Corvallis Line and Reagan. The fleet was signaling all dragons recall to any available platform and retiring.”

Edmund calmly turned another page in the hastily written extract and shook his head.

“And now the recriminations start,” he muttered. “Including from me.”

The dragons approached on a slow glide. It would have been better to come in from the sun; that way they would have gotten closer before being spotted. But that would have meant flying a wide circle around the enemy fleet. The XO had wanted them to do just that. Jerry had pointed out that he wasn’t sure the dragons were going to make it to the enemy fleet.

Some of them hadn’t. Three of the wyverns had turned back when their riders decided they just couldn’t go on. One had just given up, dropping out of the sky and into the cold water below. They had seen Garcia pulling frantically on his reins, but the dragon was done; it couldn’t have pulled out of the dive if it wanted to.

The enemy fleet was arranged with ships tight around the carriers. Most of them were ballista frigates but some were bigger and their sails were rigged very strangely. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what they were until they were over the formation and the sky filled with heavy bolts.

“Shit,” he said. There wasn’t anything they could do. He heard a wyvern scream behind him and felt Tomak shudder in his flight. But then they were over the carrier.

The best way to attack a carrier was from behind. That made for less motion between the carrier and the wyverns. But, again, in this hail of bolts there was no way he was maneuvering. The carrier apparently had some of the same weapons and bolts were flying around him as he banked and dropped in line. He didn’t bother to hold anything back; he was only good for one pass. Three pottery canisters filled with napalm dropped free and tumbled towards the carrier.

He looked back and saw two go in the drink. But the third impacted on the forecastle. As far as he could tell, none of the rest of the wing had hit shit. And even as he watched, sailors covered the burning napalm in foam, practically coating the front of the ship. Their fleet didn’t even have foam yet. He knew it had been tested, but the rumor was Buships hadn’t approved it. The bastards.

Tomak staggered again and dropped altitude and Jerry craned over to see if he could spot the problem. When he did he groaned. There was a fat, short, metal bolt sticking out of Tomak’s primary flight muscles. Trying to fly would be the equivalent of trying to run with a knife in his leg. There was no way that he could make it all the way back to the ship.

They had left the enemy fleet behind and Jerry looked around at the endless expanse of ocean. He could turn back to the New Destiny fleet and ditch, hoping that they would pick him up. But they tended to just turn prisoners into one of their Changed orcs. Bugger that.

The ocean looked awfully cold. He remembered the times he’d swum with the dragons down at the mer town. What was it called? Whale Drop or something.

The dragon was barely skimming the waves. There was a little ground effect down there, but the major knew it wasn’t going to be enough.

At least Shep was safe.

“Live large, boy,” the major said as the dragon plowed into a wave.

“Sir, this is a closed meeting,” the marine guard on the conference room door said, stepping in front of the door.

“Well, son,” Talbot replied. “You can get the fisk out of my way, or Herzer here will take that pigsticker away from you and shove it up your ass. And then I’ll have you in the stockade for the rest of your natural life where the other inmates will appreciate having someone who’s not a cherry around. This is a direct order; get the fisk out of my way.”

The marine gulped, took a look at the hard-faced captain and stepped aside.

“The damned dragons…” General Kabadda was saying as Edmund entered the room.

“General, this is a closed meeting,” Admiral Draskovich said, angrily.

“So I heard,” Edmund replied, taking his previous seat. “I thought I’d crash it.”

“You do not have the authorityÑ” General Kabadda snarled.

“Like hell I don’t,” Edmund said, suddenly leaning forward and staring hard at the brigadier. “Like hell I don’t.”

“General,” Admiral Draskovich said, clearly reining in his temper. “We have a situation here…”

“What you have, Admiral, is an incredible cluster fuck,” Talbot replied. “And I’m not even talking about that pitiful baby-school thing you called a battle. I’m talking about your entire setup. The fact is that you don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground about war.”

“I do not have to take that in my own headquarters,” Draskovich snarled, leaping to his feet.

“You’d better damned well take it, or you’re not going to live long enough to get up a real mad,” Edmund replied, calmly. “You made three critical errors in your battle. You insufficiently prepared in that the dragons were undertrained and poorly fed, you trusted limited and outdated intelligence that was laughable on its face and you failed to ensure your supply. These are cherry ensign mistakes. But that’s not too surprising, since what you all are is junior officers.” Edmund looked at the faces and laughed. “Oh, God, you thought you were real generals because you put on the uniform? You’ve never even been to school on how to be generals.”

“As I said, I do not have to take this,” Draskovich ground out. “Especially from someone that doesn’t know a head from a halyard.”

“The toilet and one of those ropes you run up sails and flags with,” Edmund said. “No, I don’t know how to run a ship. But you’re not running a ship, Admiral, you’re running a fleet. And running one in a war. And there’s not damned much I don’t know about war.”

“War at sea,” Kabadda said, as if explaining things to a child, “is different than war on the land.”

“Not in macro,” Edmund replied. “All the same things apply. The only difference is that you are supposed to have on-board logistics, and you couldn’t even keep that straight!”

“There was a storm,” Kabadda said.

“In the battle of Chattanooga, the supplies were maintained through several sleet and snowstorms,” Edmund replied. “In the war in Burma it was maintained through a monsoon. And the Channel Fleet during the Napoleonic wars maintained itself in far worse conditions than you have been facing. But that requires prior planning. Prior planning prevents piss poor performance. And they didn’t assault until they had built up sufficient supplies to support it. For that matter, the English Channel fleet had a regulation that no ship would be lower than two weeks on water or any other critical commodity. Ketchup, whether you like it or not, is a critical commodity. I heard your order to the fleet asking a reason only eight of ten dragons could fly and couldn’t believe you’d asked. They hadn’t been eating. Your own records showed that and it was amply evident if you know the first thing about dragon care!”

“Those damned dragons…” Kabadda said. “Dragons this, dragons that. Dragons need fresh meat. Dragons need ketchup…”

“The enemy dragons just SANK YOUR FLEET!” Edmund shouted. “If you’d spent the time working up your dragons instead of starving them we wouldn’t be in this mess. Or if you’d even started to wonder whether there might be some reason that the New Destiny fleet was courting battle!”

“Okay, I’ve heard enough,” Draskovich snarled. “You’re not bringing anything positive to this meeting. Leave this room.”

“You really don’t want to push this, Drask,” Edmund said.

“I don’t care who you know,” the admiral said. “Or who you’ve fucked. You don’t have any authority or reason for being present. Leave, or I’ll have the marines remove you.”

Edmund stood up and smiled.

“Well, it’s been a real pleasure,” he said. “Must do this again sometime soon.”

He walked out the door and went to the break room by the war-room. Besides the two ensigns there were a couple of seamen from the war-room, sitting at the table looking worn out and shell-shocked.

“How bad is it?” Edmund asked them.

“I don’t know, sir,” one of the seamen replied. “I’m just a runner from the mer at the docks. But the mer are… I’ve never seen them so pissed. The whale net is gone, sir. They think the orcas took out Merillo up in Granbas and that means we don’t know what’s what with the rest.”

“Okay,” Edmund said, sitting at the table covered with food stains. “Son, something to keep in mind. First reports are never as bad, or as good, as they seem. Herzer… no, Destrang. Go get Tao and a horse. Have Tao report to me. Van, gimme something to write with. Herzer, head down to the docks. Talk to the mer; they’re going to talk to you. Van, I’ve got another research assignment for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Herzer said, grimly. He realized that many friends had probably died today, not among the Navy but among the mer.

“Destrang, get back here with Tao as fast as you can,” Edmund said, picking up a pen and paper. “All of you: go.”