John Ringo - Against the Tide

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!”