John Ringo - Against the Tide

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.”