"That too," Chang grinned.
"What else?"
"You remember the flamethrowers we had on the Richard?" Shar asked.
"I was never there when they were used," Edmund said, shrugging.
"Well, wooden boats are a fire trap," Shar replied, shuddering. "When that jellied gasoline gets started, its almost impossible to stop. Evan developed an automated extinguishing system that uses a foam that puts the fire right out. Also hooks to the fire-fighting pumps. The Hazhir also has underwater 'wings' mounted on it. It's an old racing trick; it keeps your ship from drifting to leeward. We've redesigned the catapult so the dragons actually take off faster but don't have so much of a jolt at the start. And we've got a new arrester system so they can land better. Natural gas stoves so we can have fires during a storm and don't have to eat cold food, bleed-off vents from the refrigerators that help keep the quarters cooler in the heat, plenty of little innovations that make the ship work, and fight, better."
"Why don't all the carriers, hell, all the ships, have some of that?" Edmund asked.
"Buships hasn't 'approved' the changes," Shar snarled. "In fact, when we sent them reports on what we were doing, they told us to rip them all out as 'unauthorized modifications.'"
"I take it you told them to stick it where the sun doesn't shine," Edmund grinned.
"No, we told them there was currently a lack of dockyard space and as soon as we could schedule the work we'd remove all the 'unauthorized modifications.' Of course, the Blackbeard dockyards can't even handle a carrier and we could have done it all with the crew. Which they pointed out. So I sent another excuse. And they found fault with that one. So I sent another memo. And so on and so on."
"Well, I'll send the next one," Edmund replied. "Telling them that I intend to 'upgrade' all the carriers presently here to match the Hazhir. If we have time."
"Will we?"
"I don't know," Edmund sighed. "You think the Hazhir can take on six carriers?"
"No," Shar said, sighing. "Even with me in command."
"Well, you might have to find out," Talbot replied. "The Hazhir is going to be the only carrier we have for a while. The Hazhir should be here in no more than three more days. When it gets in I want Evan to get with the guys over at the dockyard and start setting up to convert the fleet carriers to the Hazhir's configuration."
"You're going to get a lot of complaints," Chang pointed out.
"Let 'em," Edmund replied. "As long as they do it. And if they don't, well, we need workers in the yards. We may convert these 'dreadnoughts' in the meantime. Or we might use them for something else."
"You've got that look in your eye," Shar said, chuckling. "How much time do you spend thinking about how to mess with New Destiny?"
"How much time does a teenage boy spend thinking about sex?" Edmund replied with a grin.
* * *
"You summoned me, O mightiness," Herzer said, walking in Edmund's tent. "By the way, you look awful. How much sleep are you getting?"
"I can sleep when I'm dead," Edmund growled. "Why are you so chipper? Finally laid Van Krief?"
"No," Herzer said. "But I have been working with the marines. You know they don't have any formal training facility?"
"Yes, I do," Edmund replied. "That's what I wanted to see you about. There's not a single training facility in the entire navy."
"None at all?" Herzer asked. "How do they learn their jobs? I mean, how do the officers learn anything?"
"By and large, they haven't." Edmund sighed, throwing his pen down on the desk where it promptly squirted ink all over the papers. "Shit. I barely know where to start with this damned place. Incompetents are mixed in with really good people. Trahn in G-4 is sharp as hell, but of course his boss was an idiot. I talked with Babak the G-3. You are hereby frocked major and appointed G-3 schools. One of the mostly completed dreadnoughts is being permanently moored for the time being; you can use that for skills training. We've got personnel that want to be sailors, they just don't know what they fuck they are doing and all the training so far has been on-the-job. Find some facilities. Right now all I've got for you is the dreadnought, but scrounge up some trainers. Start a basic training facility for the seamen. Military lifestyle, basic seamanship, fire-fighting, water survival at a minimum. By the time they're trained in basics you'll need to have found advanced instructors. G-1 has a list of 'specialties.' You'll have to find trainers for those schools as well. For the time being, from here on out, anyone who wants to be an officer has to have served at least one deployment with the fleet or have prior experience. Verifiable prior experience. And then they go to O course where they learn everything about being an officer on a ship. I have no idea what that means, but figure it out."
Herzer opened his mouth to ask where in the hell he was supposed to find instructors but closed it. Edmund clearly didn't have time to deal with pro forma protests.
"I want Van Krief," was all he said.
"You've got her," Edmund replied. "Find somebody to ramrod it for you by the time the fleet is ready to sail. Shar's going to be in command but I want you out there, too. Oh, and a training facility for the marines as well."
"I'll need personnel from the fleet," Herzer pointed out. "And they're not going to want to release them. I'll need good personnel from the fleet. And dragon-rider training as well, don't forget that. And there should be personnel designated to handle the dragons; the riders have got enough on their plate. This is going to have to come under the Navy manning table. Bupers is going to have to approve the slots."
"Come up with a list," Edmund sighed. "I'll handle Bupers. You just get the school started. Get going."
* * *
"Hey, Shar," Evan Mayerle said as he walked into the cramped office. "You wanted to see me?"
Shar's desk was just about covered in paper and he was reading a memo with a furious expression. It was clear that he was in dire need of killing someone. But he smiled at the engineer and waved to the sole spindly chair.
Evan Mayerle was of medium height, a brown-haired young man with bright blue eyes that were almost perpetually looking at something invisible. That was because he usually had his mind on three or more items other than whatever conversation he was engaged in. Chang knew that so he waved to get his attention.
"Focus for a minute," the admiral said. "You've got a job in front of you."
"I was thinking about the mess system on the Hazhir," Evan replied. "I think we can rearrange it so that-"
"Evan," Chang said with a chuckle. "Focus."
"Oh, right," Evan said, looking at him and widening his eyes. "You called me here, didn't you?"
"Right," Shar replied. "Look, Edmund wants all the carriers upgraded to match the Hazhir. The shipyards can work on that while they're doing the repair damage, right?"
"I suppose," Evan temporized. "But putting in the refrigeration system will require tearing out some deck. Nothing that can't be fixed but it's at least a three-day job."
"Get with the shipyard. Show them the changes. They already have the word that they're going to be doing it. Expedite it. Focus on that, not more changes. We need them turned around fast."
"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.
Chapter Eleven
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."
The captain looked at him for a moment and then nodded and stalked out of the room.
"If anyone else thinks they can't handle that rank on their shoulder, you just tell me," Edmund said, looking around the room. "You get paid the big bucks to take that weight. It's not just for the fun of playing with your ships. It's not for the thrill of command. We all get paid to keep leading our troops, even when it's tough. To make them believe that no matter how bad it is, we're going to get through it. And we're going to win. That's a little thing called 'leadership.' And if you can't manage it, then you can feel free to go join the merchant ships. They're building more every day. I'm sure you can work your way up to commanding a freighter in no time. But if you want a little payback, then you're going to have to put your shoulders back, get on your game face and sailor on. Your choice."
He looked around the room again and nodded as everyone else kept their seats.
"The crews stay on board tonight. Tomorrow morning they assemble on the shore by ship. There will be bands playing and, if I can possibly arrange it, pretty girls. There will be speeches by yours truly, General Chang and the carrier commanders. They will be rip-roaring, 'sure we got beat but we're gonna get back in the game and whip those sons of bitches' speeches. Then we are going to have the party to end all parties. Marines are excluded because we're going to have to use them to break up the fights that are going to start. I want everyone in the fleet to the point of passing out, no later than midnight. I'm figuring nobody will be worth a damn for at least two days afterwards. Light work for the next two days with liberal liberty calls. Then we get started on rebuilding."
"What about an attack by New Destiny?" a female voice aske
d towards the back of the room.
"Their fleet, all of it," Edmund pointed out, "is in port, just like us. When they sail, we'll know it. We are going to rebuild this fleet and then we are going to go out there and kick New Destiny's ass, or my name isn't Talbot."
* * *
The party was a definite hit.
There were bands. There were speeches. There were flags and ribbons. There were fine words of congratulations and predictions of the eventual destruction of the New Destiny fleet. None of it particularly helped. On the other hand, there were huge kegs of beer, over a hundred barbequed pigs and steers and masses of fresh food.
As soon as they were released the sailors fell on the food, and the beer, much like the starving wyverns.
Edmund spent most of the day moving through the crowd. He shook hands like a politician. He talked to group after group of officers, commanders, warrants, chiefs and ordinary sailors. To each of them he gave the same message. We got beat. We're going back out. We're not going to get beat again.
John Ringo - Council Wars 03 - Against the Tide Page 13