John Ringo - Against the Tide

“What about the other fleet units?” Evan asked.

“If there’s time,” Shar replied. “I hope there’s time.”

The fleet was decidedly limping when it came in. The ships entered the harbor in a straggle, hooking off to their prescribed buoys in any old way. Patched sails, braided rigging, bright patches of new wood for which the ships had run out of paint all told the story of a group that was worn out. Out of morale, out of energy and out of patience.

The wyverns that could fly had already landed and Edmund had been there for their arrival. The wyvern “weyr” was a long series of sheds with a graveled area about a hundred meters across running the entire length. The edge of the graveled area had been lined with chunked up beef carcasses for their arrival and then the work parties had cleared the area with the exception of three handlers, drawn from the marines, for each wyvern. The marines, in full armor, had helped the riders get their gear stripped off the dragons before they were let loose on the carcasses. There had been a few fights and some of the wyverns were going to require medical attention, but with food in their bellies the half-wild dragons had calmed down and let themselves be led into their sheds.

And a good quarter of the meat was still lying out in the sun; less than a third of the wyverns that had sailed with the fleet had been capable of flying off.

Now Edmund watched as the carriers carefully jockeyed up to the piers. The dragons that hadn’t been able to fly off were in bad physical shape. He could only hope that with food and some medical attention they’d be fit to fight by the time the fleet sailed again. He had been calling for wyverns from across Norau, and they were trickling in in ones and twos. But the fleet had already drawn down the available population. He wasn’t sure he could fully man even the remnant that had straggled in.

Lighters with fresh food were moving out to the ships at anchor. The crews had been instructed to stand down and stay on board overnight. In the morning they’d be brought in with full assembly scheduled for just before lunch.

The captains were putting off, though, coming in by small boats. They had been instructed to leave their executive officers on board and come ashore for a preliminary meeting. In the case of the carrier captains, with their senior dragon-riders. He had to prepare for that meeting. He didn’t think it was going to be pleasant.

The meeting took hours. There was no other way to cover the battle and he knew it was only going to be the first. And it had been as bad as he expected.

The meeting was being held in the main dining room of the officers’ club, that being the only room large enough to accommodate all the ship skippers and the staff. The room was still packed and the windows had been kept closed so it was hot as Hades. And so were tempers.

The responses in the meeting ranged from anger, fury really, to almost comatose depression. The skipper of the Corvallis was especially quiet, almost catatonic. The senior dragon-rider, Major Bob Childress, though, was livid.

“We had no warning,” Childress said, for about the sixth time. “We just flew in fat, dumb and happy. The next time we go out, the riders are going to be nervous. Which means they’re not going to get in close enough for accurate bombing.”

“How do we deal with the anti-dragon frigates?” Edmund asked.

“I don’t know,” the rider said, angrily. “Attack from below? Maybe the mer?”

“Other ideas?” Edmund asked. “I’m not discounting that one, I just want more options.”

“Take them out first,” Chang responded. He’d spent most of the meeting quietly listening and taking notes. Mostly about the defensive quality of the answers the staff were giving. “Send in strikes specifically to take them out. Yeah, you’ll have to drop from high. And you’ll miss quite a bit. But once they’re gone, the carriers are vulnerable.”

“You’re assuming, General , that we’ll have carriers to return to,” Childress snarled. “In case you hadn’t noticed, they’ve got dragons, too.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Edmund said. “The fleet is going back out. And we are going to engage the New Destiny fleet and this time we’re going to win. Can dragons fight air-to-air?”

“They can, but they’re not very good at it,” Childress said. “And they’ve managed to get theirs to flame.”

“Silverdrake.”

Edmund looked up at the non-sequitur from Vickie Toweeoo. She was the senior remaining dragon-rider on the Bonhomme Richard and he wished, badly, that Jerry Riadou had survived. But if wishes were fishes…

“What does that mean, Captain?” Edmund asked.

“Silverdrake are one of the three types of wyvern,” Vickie replied. “They’re sprinters. We’re using Powells exclusively. They’re a sort of medium-weight wyvern. Then there are Torejos. They’re heavy wyvern, good for long distances and they can carry more of a load. They don’t interbreed; it’s like they’re three different species. But if you’re going to fight air-to-air, use Drakes.”

“Silverdrake are too light,” Childress said. “And they’re also flighty. And bad tempered. And they’re only good for, what, maybe an hour in the air?”

“Two,” Vickie replied. “And they can outmaneuver the Powells. You just don’t like them because they’re prettier.”

“They’re ludicrous ,” Childress snorted.

“They’re still the best dragon for air-to-air combat,” Vickie shrugged. “Even if they are a bit… colorful. We still need a weapon.”

“Put your two seconds in charge of figuring that out,” Edmund said. “Have them get with Evan. Although he’s going to have a lot on his plate.”

“We need to be able to protect the carriers and at the same time attack theirs,” Chang pointed out.

“We’ll work on it,” Edmund said. “Okay, people, I think we’re talking in circles at this point. And the most important point hasn’t even been mentioned except in passing: Morale. The morale of the fleet is in the dumps. We just had our heads handed to us on a platter. New Destiny is going to turn their fleet around faster than we can. And they outnumber us now. So we’re probably going to have more reverses in the future. That doesn’t matter. The battle that we just lost doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is who ends up owning the Atlantis Ocean and that, my friends, is gonna be us . Fix that in your head. Anybody who cannot believe that, deep in their gut, had better do a gut check and do it now. No matter what happens today, tomorrow, next week or next year, we are going to own the ocean and when we’re through no New Destiny ship is going to be willing to poke its nose out of a port.”

“I don’t think we can do it,” the Corvallis ’ captain said. “We’re outnumbered, we’re outgunned and, hell, they’re better at this than us!”

“If that’s the way you feel, feel free to submit your resignation,” Edmund replied, coldly. “You don’t learn to play better chess by playing someone worse than you. And you don’t learn to fight better war by fighting someone worse than you. You learn from getting beat . Well, we’ve just had what we in the Army call ‘good training.’ ”

“This isn’t a game ,” the captain shouted, getting to his feet. “People are dead .”

“That’s what they call war,” Edmund said, his face hard and cold. “But what we are going to do is show them that we play it better than they do. And if you can’t get that through your skull, Captain, leave now.”