She was glad, in a way, that she was riding a Drake, though. In this damned gray-out you'd hardly be able to see your own dragon if you were on a Powell. That was never a problem with Silverdrake.
It had been said that they were invented as a joke. They were small and very fast. Great sprinters even if they didn't have the stamina of Powells. All good traits in a racing dragon and they had been remarkably well designed. But the designer apparently had. a bit of sense of humor when it came to body markings.
The Drake she was on was a bright, fluorescent, green with pink polka dots ranging in size from as big as the end of her thumb to as large as her head. Her wingman's was, in a way, worse, a sort of mottled "camouflage" pattern in electric purple and yellow: truly eye-searing. There had been attempts over the years to get the dragons Changed to more "traditional" colors. But Silverdrake riders were strange folk and liked their dragons the way they were. Flighty, bad tempered and all.
"Over there?" Ramani signed, pointing to their left.
"Try," Vickie signed back.
She angled the Silverdrake over and down, slowing its descent so they didn't plow into the ocean or the ship. They were only a couple of hundred meters up by her reckoning, but she was aware that "grayed out" as they were, there was no way of telling if they were a few hundred meters up or a few thousand. All there was in every direction was water. Of course, the stuff in the air wouldn't drown them.
The wyvern suddenly banked hard left as its wingtip barely missed the top of a mast. So much for being a couple of hundred meters up.
Vickie shook her head and banked around, trying to line up the opening in the rain. The ships were only partially converted and a heavy line, a stay, ran from the top of the rear mast to the rear of the ship. There were more lines to the sides. But there was a narrow gap between the stays that permitted egress to the platform installed over the quarterdeck. Unfortunately, the gap was smaller than the wingspan of a Silverdrake, narrow as that was.
The only way to land was a stoop like a hunting falcon. The Silverdrake, which was shaped much like a peregrine for all it was brightly colored, came in, lowering its forward speed by back winging and then folded its wings, dropping through the slot and onto the platform with a bone-jarring thud that rocked the ship.
Vickie had learned to tuck her head and brace against the saddle when landing; if you didn't you got a broken nose. But she swore after each of the landings that she was going to find some better way to land. This just wasn't safe.
Vickie walked the dragon down the platform and it hopped to the maindeck, automatically heading for its stall. There were two of the latter on the maindeck, a massive nuisance for the skipper and crew, and she took the port side one. She dismounted outside and stripped the gear off the wyvern, then led it into the stall. There wasn't food already laid out so she shook her head and went in search of it.
Vickie was sitting in the wardroom, staring at a bowl of pea soup, when the skipper walked in.
"You going to eat that or just look at it?" The second thing that people noticed about Skipper Some Karcher was that she was short. Not dwarf sized, but far under normal height. The first thing that people noticed was that she looked like a Siamese cat. Her face and head had a distinctly catlike shape, something like an apple, her eyes were turned upwards, her hair was "touched" in places with coloring like a Siamese, her face was covered in fine fur and her eyes were green, almost like emeralds, and had pupils that were vertically oval. She squinted now as she looked at the dragon-rider pointedly and the pupils contracted sharply.
"I was just thinking how opaque it looked, ma'am," Vickie said, picking up her spoon. "Sort of like the air I was just flying through."
"I was thinking about those landings," the skipper said. "And I really hate them."
"Not as much as the person on the dragon, ma'am," Vickie said with a grin.
"And I really hate not being able to look at the sky when I'm on the quarterdeck," Karcher continued. "And I was wondering: why not put the platform off the rear of the ship?"
Vickie opened her mouth to respond and then closed it. After a moment she shook her head, angrily.
"Because none of those geniuses at the shipyards thought of it, ma'am," she replied, making a moue. "Do you think it would work?"
"I don't see why not," the captain said, shrugging and giving a little hum that sounded suspiciously like a purr. "We'd have to brace it, but that's not a problem. You already take off from back there. This would just make it easier. And I didn't come up with it, one of my seamen did. Good sailor who wants to be a rider methinks."
"What's his name?" Vickie said, pulling out a notebook and unwrapping it from the rubber cover. "We're really shorthanded on the Powells, ma'am."
"Fink," Karcher replied. "Hers, by the way."
"Well, ma'am, tell her that if you'll approve the transfer she can start as soon as she gets back to land," Vickie said. She tilted her head to one side, started to say something and then shrugged.
"Yes, Rider?" Karcher said, her face unreadable behind its catlike smile.
"I was wondering."
"Did I Change before the Fall?" Karcher said in an odd intonation. Again, very like a meow. "No, I did not. This was how I was born. Do you want the long story or the short one?"
"Whichever you feel appropriate, ma'am," Vickie said, uncomfortably. "I'm not trying to pry."
"Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a scientist who was, frankly, a bit cracked. It was at the very beginning of the time when Change became possible. But this scientist didn't want to Change himself into a cat. He wanted his cat to be a human."
"Oh," Vickie said, uncomfortably.
"And, yes, it was for the reason that you think. So, and this was before the protocols were put in place to prevent this sort of thing, he Changed his cat into a humanoid sentient. And the rest of the story should be that they fell in love and lived happily ever after."
"Yes," Vickie said, now extremely sorry that she had asked.
"Well, the story didn't go exactly as he had planned. Cats are cats, after all, even if you make them sentient, and the cat, already angry enough when she found out her name was 'Muffins,' was having none of it. She left him and broke his heart. On the other hand, she eventually did find a human male she thought was reasonably attractive and settled down and had a litter. From which litter I derive. Any questions?"
"No, ma'am," the rider said, her face working.
"Don't ask me if I chase mice, okay?"
"Oh no, ma'am, wouldn't think of it." Pause. "May I ask one question, ma'am?"
The captain nodded.
"How do you stand with dogs?"
"I have three-Rottweilers. When I say 'heel,' they heel," Karcher said with a grin that exposed very prominent canine teeth. "I have to admit that climbing the rigging when I'm stressed is very. natural."
Vickie laughed again and closed her notebook. "Rain's cleared?"
"Yes."
"Well, ma'am, I think it's time for us to head back to base."
"We're due back day after tomorrow," Karcher said. "You could probably ride back."
"No, we need to keep doing work-ups, ma'am," Vickie replied. "For our sins."
* * *
"Evan, you're on time," Edmund said, taking off his reading glasses and looking up from the desk. "Mr. Ennesby, how are you today?"
"Wet," Tom Ennesby said, taking off his broad-brimmed hat and shaking it to the side.
"Bad news, Duke," Evan said. "We're going to be at least a day late with the Herman Chao."
The dreadnought, which was being converted to an anti-dragon ship, was one of the three that had been ready for sea.
"What's the problem?" Edmund asked. "Anything I can do?"
"Not really." Evan sighed. "We're short on materials for the air-guns. Basically I had to convert so many of them for the Silverdrake that it's leaving the Chao short. We're hoping to have the materials in a couple of days, but it's going to set us back by at l
east that long."
"How short?"
"About half," Ennesby said. "We're mounting fifteen guns per side. We've got sufficient compression for all of them on the Chao, but we're short on material for the guns and on lines. The latter's not really from the Silverdrake; we'd be short anyway. And running them, firing them accurately, is going to take some training. I don't know how accurate the gunners are going to be at first."
"And lord knows you don't want those damned bolts raining down on the ship," Edmund chuckled. "Any good news?"
"Vickie brought in a change to the Silverdrake landing that I want to distribute to all the support ships. Skipper Karcher pointed out that there's no reason the Silverdrake landing platform has to be over the quarterdeck. The Silverdrake land on a dime as it is. So she's moving her platform off to the rear. It looks like it will work and if it does we're planning on having everyone change over. The current landing method. leaves a lot to be desired."
"That it does," Edmund replied.
"I should let Vickie or Commander Gramlich report on this," Ennesby said. "But the Silverdrake that have been training with the bolt system report that they think it will work. We made some targets, big kites really, and they've been learning how to target them. It's still a point-blank system, though."
"Well, we're still going to want the anti-air dreadnoughts," Edmund sighed. "I'll send a message to the commanders of the ships that are ready for sea to get out there and start training. Make sure we've got plenty of darts."
"Will do," Ennesby said.
"How long to get the remaining dreadnoughts ready for sea?"
"No more than a week," Ennesby said. "We're stepping masts now. But we don't have crews."
"I'll see about crews," Edmund said. "Don't convert them to anti-dragon platforms, though, that's not what they're going to be used for."
They both looked at him for clarification until it was clear none was coming.
"That's all we've got," Evan said, standing up.
"And I've got a meeting with the G-1 next," Edmund replied, glancing up at the door. "Speaking of crews."
"I'm out of here," Ennesby said. "Before your body-hunter decides I'd make a good sailor."
"Bring me any more information you think I need," Edmund pointed out. "Anything."
* * *
"We've finally gotten information from our agents at Newfell, Marshal."
Chansa looked up from his paperwork and waved the aide into the room, practically snatching the document from his hand.
"Bloody hellfire," Chansa snarled. He was a fast reader and had scanned for the worst possible information. Besides the fact that they hadn't gotten the Richard, the worse news was buried in the fine print. "Talbot."
"Yes, sir," the aide gulped.
"I can see why you were sent in with it," Chansa growled then laughed. "I promise I won't kill the messenger. But go find Conner. Now."
The man who entered was tall and ascetic looking with a calm manner that was belied by his eyes. The irises of the latter were white and his pupils were tiny black dots.
"You called, Marshal?" Conner asked, pulling out a notebook and stylus.
"Edmund Talbot has been appointed to command of the North Atlantis Fleet," Chansa said.
"Yes, sir, a surprising appointment to be sure," Conner replied.
"You knew," Chansa said, leaning back and narrowing his eyes.
"Whose agents do you think are in Newfell Base, your Marshalship?" Conner replied, smiling faintly.
"He is not to command the fleet in the next battle," Chansa said, waving his hand. "Do whatever you need to do to effect that. No, let me make myself clearer. Kill him. He has interfered too often with my plans. I don't want him to do so again."
"Of course, Marshal," Conner said, closing the notebook. "If that is all."
"That's it," Chansa growled, waving at the door again. "Just inform me when he's dead."
* * *
"Okay, what have you got, One?" Edmund asked as the G-1 walked in the tent. It was raining cats and dogs and the personnel officer was soaked. But he just shook off his coat, dried his hands, pulled out his notes and took a seat.
"We're going to be short on manning for the fleet," General Piet said. "The worst category in gross is able seamen; being able to reef sails in a gale is a skilled craft and we're always shorthanded in that department. I've looked over Major Herrick's training program and. well, okay, I'm impressed."
"Herzer's much more than just a pretty face," Edmund said, getting up and pouring a cup of coffee. "You take yours black, right?"
"Yes, sir," the general said in surprise. "Major Herrick is not even a pretty face, though."
"It was a joke, Simon," Talbot said, shaking his head. "But that's not going to give us top-men by the time we need them."
"No, it's not, sir," the G-1 replied, taking the cup with a nod. "But it will certainly help in the long run. Right now what I've done is order everyone, of whatever current rate, who has experience on shipboard to sea duty. That's made some other departments shorthanded."
"I've already received the complaint from the intel shop," Edmund grinned. "So how short are we?"
"Across the board about thirty percent," the personnel officer said, glancing at his notes. "Some ships are closer to a zero, some are less. I'm reluctant to drag down the carriers, for example; they're already shorthanded. Some of the frigates, though, are at about fifty percent and the dreadnoughts, which of course haven't trained together at all, are not much higher."
"Do what you can," Edmund said, shaking his head. "What are the other major problems?"
"We're short across the board," Piet replied. "Trained NCOs. Trained officers. Navigational officers. The worst lack, though, is trained commanders. I don't have anyone on the roster that I feel comfortable with giving the Hazhir, for example. The executive officer is very new, he's barely made captain and the position calls for a commander. Admiral Chang concurs, by the way. I'm contemplating transferring out the Bonhomme Richard's XO, but I had to strip the Richard of all her other trained officers. I could move the nav officer back from the Chao, but that will leave the Chao with only one qualified watch officer; the captain."
"Ouch," Edmund said, rubbing his chin. "What about Karcher?"
"Karcher, sir?" the G-1 replied. "I don't even recognize the name." He picked up his briefcase and slipped out a sheet of paper, running down a list of names. "Major Karcher is the skipper of the Harry Black, a collier ship. Why do you ask?"
"What's her experience?" Edmund replied.
"I haven't a clue, sir," Piet admitted. "I'd have to pull her file."
"Send a message to have her report to me," Edmund said. "Don't say why but I want to see if she could potentially handle the Hazhir."
The G-1 looked startled for a moment, then shrugged.
"As a collier officer she's going to be qualified at celestial navigation," Piet temporized. "But there's a vast difference between running a carrier and a slightly fast merchant ship. And I don't know where that is going to leave her manning. She may be one of the only fully qualified officers on the ship."
"Do you have anyone else that you can suggest?" Edmund asked. "And I'd rather be down a collier than a carrier."
"Point," the G-1 replied, sighing.
"The best is the enemy of the good," Edmund said. "In a situation like this, you cannot get things to be anywhere close to perfect. What you have to strive for is the minimum of imperfection. And you have to get it as right as you can, in the time you have been given."
"I take your point, sir," Piet said.
"You were a sailor before," Edmund said, leaning back in his chair. "A serious one, but not anyone who studied the military. At sea, you have one enemy, the ocean. And the ocean, while it changes and always keeps you on your toes, does not actively try to defeat you. In war, people actively try to defeat you. That seems like a simple concept but few people really understand it in their gut. People are trying as hard as they can to defe
at you. They try, very hard, to kill you. So that you don't kill them.
"And because it's a big, complicated system and because the enemy is trying to read your mind and defeat you, and they are smart, too, things are always going to go wrong; the enemy is going to make sure of that. So the trick is to make fewer mistakes than the enemy. One mistake you can make is trying to be too perfect, because that takes time. And that gives the enemy time, too. Time to figure out your intentions. Time to get a better position. Time to enact a plan that might not be perfect but that will work. For that reason, decisions have to be made quickly and they have to be pretty good. Not perfect. Pretty good. What I'm saying here is that you should strive for perfection, but not to the point of giving the enemy more time. If the choices you have, now, are pretty good, we'll go with that. Again, 'the best is the enemy of the good.' Save the tweaking for after we win the battle."
John Ringo - Council Wars 03 - Against the Tide Page 16
