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 authority-" 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 You insufficiently prepared in that the dragons were undertrained and poorly fed, you trusted limited and outdated intelligence that was laughable on its face and you failed to ensure your supply.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."
Chapter Seven
"Do Jason?" the delphino squealed.
The leader of the Bimi island mer contingent shook his head. Everything was coming apart and the orders they were getting from headquarters were making no sense at all.
"Can you hear Merillo?" Jason asked.
"No," the delphino said. The human Changed to a dolphin shape had much better underwater hearing than the mer. "Orca squeal, hunting cry, no Merillo."
"Are they still using the hunting cry?" Jason asked.
"Still."
The mer looked up at the surface of the water above him and thought. If the orcas had caught the whalo to the north they wouldn't still be doing the horrible ringing hunting cry. They'd be silent. Feeding.
"Which way are they going?"
The delphino seemed to contemplate the question, turning his head from side to side as if tasting the sounds from the beleaguered whale.
"South. Southeast?" He shrugged as only a delphino can.
"Smart whale," Jason muttered. His underwater communications apparatus was a small bone in his forehead, located in his nasal passages. It was short-ranged and weak compared to the sonar of the delphinos, but it sufficed for communications. "Call all delphino, all mer, all whalo. Pass call. Fall back. Mer and delphino, move to nearest whalo, protect whalo."
"Authority?" the delphino squealed.
"Mine," Jason said. "Just mine."
* * *
Tao had had some hard rides before in his life, but this was ridiculous.
The nearest Army base was over a hundred kilometers away, at the falls of the Gem River. It was a major logistics point, but what was more important at the moment was that it had a communications crystal.
The crystal had the ability to contact a wide range of people who still had access to full technology. They were used for critical messaging, only. And Tao was carrying a critical message.
There was no way that he could have made it in any decent time were it not for the fact that there were messenger stations all along the bad road up the river from the base. He changed horses five times, each time dropping off a blown horse and throwing himself into the next one that was saddled. And then kicking that horse into a trot until it was warmed up and then into a canter.
He hadn't ridden much in a year. And his body was telling him that before he was a third of the way into the ride. What was that joke the cavalry troops told? Ah, "Forty Miles in the Saddle, by Major Assburns." Well, he had major assburns, that's for sure. Forty miles was.
By the time he reached the Army base, after ten hours of hard riding, he had figured out the conversion from the antiquated mile measurement and come to the conclusion that he had more than doubled it. Or something like that; arithmetic was not his strong suit. He dropped off another knackered out horse and got directions to the message center. He pounded up to the low stone building and climbed off the
horse, nearly dropping to his knees with fatigue. But he was a Blood Lord, damnit, and he straightened up and tried to knock some of the dust off of his dress uniform, before opening the door and waddling bow-legged into the room.
There were a commander and two sergeants inside playing acey-deucy. They looked up at the dust-covered rider and the commander dropped his cards on the table.
"What's up, Ensign?" he asked.
"Message from General Talbot, sir," Tao replied. "For Her Majesty, Sheida Ghorbani."
* * *
"They did WHAT?" Admiral Draskovich shouted.
Edmund looked up at that and stopped perusing the reports in his hand. After he had sent everyone off on various errands he had paid a visit to the fleet intelligence shop and picked up some more light reading. He was just about done with it, having read through most of the day, when the latest report came in.
The admiral was no longer elegant. He looked hag-ridden and his hair had started to come undone from his ponytail. It had been a long day, night had fallen more than an hour ago, but he still had enough energy for fury.
"The mer leader, Jason Ranger, sent out an order pulling all the underwater forces back from their positions and sending all of them to protect the whalos," the petty officer said, looking up from the report in his hand. "There's a pitched battle taking place in the Granbas area. Merillo is back online and we're getting fragmentary reports from the fleet. It looks like Reagan, Washuka and Norland are sunk and there are other ships destroyed as well. Bonhomme Richard is damaged but can make some sail. There are wyverns all over the fleet, sir. When they came back they were landing on any ship or ditching. We've lost riders as well, some drowned. Some. thrown by their dragons. No total count on dragons, but it doesn't look good."
"Get the wyverns reassembled on the remaining carriers," Draskovich said angrily. "Send a message to the mer to get back in position. We can assemble another supply convoy."
"Dragons overhead, sir!" a messenger shouted as he pounded through the door.
"Drask," Edmund said, walking quickly but unhurriedly to the door. "Get your people out of here."
"What?" the admiral shouted. "Get out of this room!"
"Just going," Edmund replied. But he stopped and walked to the admiral, grabbing him by the ponytail and pulling his head down to where he could whisper in his ear. "This is a wooden building, damnit. Evacuate." With that he strode to the door, jerking it open and leaving it open.
He walked steadily to the stairs and then took them two at a time upwards until he reached the top floor. He stopped, panting, for a moment, feeling every year of his age, then strode into the corridor beyond. At that point he heard a thump on the roof and gave up dignity.
"VAN KRIEF!" he bellowed.
"Here, sir," the ensign said, popping out of a room down the corridor.
"We are leaving," Edmund yelled and headed for the stairs as the first smell of smoke entered the air.
He didn't pause as he headed down the stairs and then thought better of it; that ensign was addicted to research. But as he turned he heard the door bang open.
"Sir?" the ensign shouted.
"Run like hell, Ensign," he replied and took his own command.
By the time they made it out the doors of the headquarters the top floor was fully engaged and liquid fire was cascading down the walls. He bellowed in pain as a drop of napalm hit his arm and quickly yanked his tunic off, wrapping it around the burning droplet.
"Where's Destrang?" he yelled, looking around at the scurrying figures outside the headquarters. A bucket chain was being formed down to the river but he took one glance at the headquarters, which was lighting up the night, and shook his head.
"They'll never do it," he muttered.
"Here I am, sir," Destrang said, hurrying through the crowd. "It was a dragon raid, sir. One of them was breathing fire and all of them were pitching napalm. It was targeted on headquarters and the shipyard."
"Good," Edmund muttered. "They've finally done something stupid."
"Sir?" Van Krief asked.
"The best thing they could do for our Navy is burn that damned place to the ground," Edmund growled. "With any luck, Draskovich will choose to go down with his ship."
"If it's this bad here, sir," Van Krief said, "I wonder what it's like at sea."
* * *
"Get back!" the XO shouted as the wyvern lunged forward.
The CO of the ballista frigate Darya Seyit snarled as the wyvern drove back the net party that was trying to get onto the quarterdeck.
The frigate was rolling in light seas, at the play of the winds. The lost, angry and riderless wyvern-he wasn't even sure if it was one of theirs or the enemy's-had dropped out of the sky and landed on the quarterdeck of the ship before anyone had realized its intention.
The damned thing had immediately seized one of the signal midshipman by the thigh, but they had managed to beat it off of him before the quarterdeck crew evacuated the scene of battle.
Unfortunately, the ship's wheel was up there. As soon as the two quartermasters had jumped over the side of the ship-by order, there was no way for them to move forward past the enraged dragon-the ship had turned with the wind and now drifted helplessly as most of the crew tried to get in rigging while a party set up a jury-rigged rudder control below.
Most of the rest of the crew, including the ballista crews, were trying to get a net or a rope or something on the damned dragon so that the ship could be gotten back under helm.
"Okay, one more try, men," the XO shouted.
"Ahoy the ship!" a voice shouted from overside. "I need to see the skipper!"
"He's busy," the ship's master chief said, looking over the side. "Mer overside, sir," the chief continued.
"I know he is!" the mer yelled from below. It sounded like a female. "That's why I need to see him!"
The skipper walked to the rail and looked down in the water where a black-haired mer-girl with a bright blue tail was swimming alongside.
"What?" the skipper snarled.
"Well excuuuse me," the mer-girl said back. "Just trying to help. The problem is that wyvern's hungry. If you feed it it'll quit trying to kill you."
"You have a lot of experience with wyverns, girl?" the chief said, angrily.
"Yes, as a matter of fact I do," the girl said. "Elayna Farswimmer, Skipper. Lieutenant Farswimmer. I'm the daughter of the late Bruce Blackbeard and was on the Retreat with General Talbot. I have a lot of experience with wyverns and that one is hungry. You can tell by its cry; it's not angry it's sad. Because you're not feeding it."
"We don't have any wyvern food," the skipper temporized.
"As hungry as the poor thing is, it'd eat salt beef right out of the cask," the mermaid answered, bitterly. "You've been treating them horribly."
"Chief?" the skipper asked.
"We were boiling up lunch when it landed, sir," the chief replied. "I don't know how far along it got, but when you sounded general quarters, they'd have put out the fires."
"Get below," the skipper said. "Get the cooks up here with whatever they have."
No more than five minutes later, as the wyvern was trying to figure out how to get past all the rigging to get to the tender sailor snacks below, the chief came up followed by a party carrying joints dripping water on the snowy deck. They carefully crept up to the rear and the chief ran forward, hurling a shoulder of beef onto the quarterdeck.
The wyvern jumped on it as if it were starving, which it was. Wyverns used an enormous amount of energy in flying and they needed huge quantities of food to sustain them. Their normal "field" rations were a mixture of soybeans, cornmeal and oils for fat energy. The only way they could be induced to eat the mess, especially at sea where they were as susceptible to mal de mer as humans, was by liberally lacing it with ketchup powder. The fleet had been out of ketchup for days and the wyverns had been off their feed even before the debacle of the morning.
Ignoring the heavy salt brine that the beef had been
pickled in, the wyvern started tearing off strips of flesh, bolting them down as fast as it could. When all the easily removed meat was stripped off, it looked down at the chief and mewled piteously.
One after another of the chunks of beef and pork were thrown up to the quarterdeck until at last the wyvern was barely picking at them. At that point the chief took a coiled line from one of the waiting sailors and walked up the steps to the quarterdeck. He cautiously edged up to the wyvern and ran the line under its halter, securing it with a fast bowline, then tossed the coil of rope to the sailor he'd taken it from. Quickly, other sailors ran up to the deck and tied ropes to the wyvern's halter, harness and huge, birdlike legs. In minutes the wyvern was secured in place. It didn't look as if it minded. When it had finished turning over the bones rolling on the swaying deck it tucked its head under its wing and promptly went to sleep.
John Ringo - Council Wars 03 - Against the Tide Page 8
