by John Ringo
“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 least 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, sig
hing.
“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 defeat 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.”
“I hate working in this harum-scarum fashion,” Piet -admitted.
“So do I,” Edmund said. “But that’s why you focus on victory and plan for defeat. I’m sorry, but the fleet under Admiral Draskovich did not plan for defeat. There weren’t any alternate plans, there wasn’t a fall-back plan, there wasn’t any slack in the system. Not even any personnel or material reserves to speak of. There are times to move without a reserve, but not when you’re in a battle that you have foreseen for a year. When I’m done, this place is going to have the wherewithal to survive another defeat and go back out as many times as necessary to eventually win the war. But right now I’m fixing another man’s abortion. That’s messy and sickening and all that you can do is hope for the best and plan for the worst. So if what you’ve got is good enough, go with it. Good enough is really all we can hope for.”
* * *
“Edmund,” Sheida said.
Edmund glanced up from his paperwork and looked at the clock on the table across the tent. It was nearing midnight and he felt stiff and cramped from, literally, hours of sitting in the same chair. It wasn’t even a comfortable chair. Something he’d been secretly proud of when he had it installed. Now he regretted his grandstanding.
“Sheida.” He sighed. He looked at his former lover and shook his head. “If this is power, it’s for the birds. You look like you’ve aged twenty years in the last four.”
“So do you, Edmund,” Sheida said with a grimace. “And isn’t it a bit late?”
“Needs must,” he said, waving at the table. “This place is a zoo.”
“A very expensive zoo,” Sheida said. “The legislature is balking at your request for increased funding.”
“No surprise that.” Edmund frowned, rubbing his head. “But we have to gain control of the sea and that means more men and more ships. And those men and ships are going to suffer, be lost, which will mean more men and ships. We have to have the funds, Sheida.” He gestured at the paperwork before him and shook his head. “Half of this crap is people screaming at me over money. ‘Out of budget construction,’ ‘invalid materials use,’ these people wouldn’t know a battle if it bit them in the ass and they’re asking me to account for every damned nail that goes in a ship. And why it has to go in a ship. Well, the reason is, the more of the bastards we kill at sea, the fewer will be around to kill us on land. Think you can get that through their heads?”
“Politics,” Sheida said with a bitter chuckle. “All that money running from one area to another. The Kent wants to form a legion. The Kent of all places.” The Kentian plains had been famous, before the Fall, for their horse herds and after the Fall the fame had just increased.
“That’s going to be a moot point,” Edmund said.
“Oh?”
“I submitted a study to the Ministry calling for federal cavalry brigades. As far as I can tell, they’re sitting on it. So I sent Kane down to the Kent to get the ball rolling, oh, six months ago or so. Either the local representative is dealing with information lag, or he’s unaware that a cavalry brigade is going to mean more money to the area than a legion.”
“How’s it going?” Sheida asked.
“Last I heard, pretty good,” Edmund admitted. “Most of them aren’t as good of horsemen as they have to be for cavalry, but Kane and I worked out a pretty intensive basic training for them. They won’t be elite by any stretch of the imagination and no horse bowmen, but they’re going to be all right. And disciplined, damnit. When I call in cavalry I want it to go where I tell it, not haring off any old way it pleases.”
“And then there’s the Fleet,” Sheida pointed out. “Everyone is balking at that, but mostly the people on the coast. All the money is going to Newfell, which has damned little representation in the House.”
“I’ve got a fix for that one, too,” Edmund frowned. “There’s no reason that all the ships have to be built here and plenty of reason for them not to be. The smoldering remains of our shipyards speak for themselves. I’ll send a memo to Admiral Houser recommending the establishment of at least two more bases. One of them probably at Balmoran and the other at… well, wherever you think best. Politically. Just has to be a good harbor. And we’ll farm out the ship construction to shipyards all along the coast; spread that money around at least. Better?”
“I can work with that.” Sheida nodded. “Of course, Admiral Houser has to approve it.”
“Of course,” Edmund chuckled. “Isn’t that what chain-of-command is for?”
Chapter Fourteen
When Edmund woke up it was bright daylight. He started to roll to his feet, angry that no one had awoken him before dawn, and noticed that he was not alone in bed. From the red hair and the shape of the shoulder either his wife or his daughter had crawled in next to him sometime in the night. He really, really hoped it was Daneh. Rachel had gotten far too old to share a bed with daddy.
“Good morning,” Daneh said, rolling over sleepily.
“Late morning,” Edmund said, trying not to snarl.
“I know,” Daneh replied, leaning over to kiss him. “And you’ve got morning breath. Don’t flay Destrang alive; I told him that you weren’t to be wakened. You’ve been driving yourself into the ground and as your doctor I ordered some additional bed rest. Not to mention as your wife.”
“Destrang’s supposed to take orders from me,” Edmund growled, rolling to the edge of the bed and getting his feet out of the covers. But he had to admit that the extra sleep had done him some good.
“And he trusted that I’d keep you from coming down on him like a ton of bricks,” Daneh said, sliding across the not particularly large bed and grabbing him by his hair. “And you’re not going to. As a matter of fact, you don’t have another appointment for…” She glanced at the clock across the room and smiled. “Two hours. Now that I’ve rearranged your schedule. So if you think you’re leaping out of bed this minute, you’d better have another think coming.” She pulled his head back until he was lying down again, looking up at her upside down.
“You did mention morning breath,” Edmund replied.
“Have an apple.”
* * *
“Good morning, seaman,” Edmund said, striding down to the docks. “Have an apple,” he added, tossing one to the surprised messenger. “They’re good for you.”
“Morning, sir,” Ensign Destrang sai
d, nervously.
“Morning, Destrang,” Edmund replied, smiling at him. “What’ve you got?”
“Lieutenant Asfaw asked to talk to you, sir,” Destrang replied, gesturing at the mer.
“Did you get a chair or something, Asfaw?” Edmund asked.
“Yes, sir, thank you,” the mer replied. There were also more mer in the basin, swimming around below. “The engineers poured a sort of underwater pier for us. Very handy. As are the additional listeners.”
“And what was it you wanted to talk about?” Edmund asked, snagging a chair.
“Well…” Asfaw looked around nervously but then shrugged. “We, the mer that is, aren’t doing much good in this war, sir.”
“I think your reconnaissance, not to mention your weather monitoring and communications uses, are invaluable,” Edmund said, frowning. “Don’t get the idea we don’t need you.”
“No, sir, not that,” Asfaw said. “It’s just… we can’t attack anything. Except the orca and ixchitl. And even then we kept getting told that recon is more important than fighting orca. But with the orca around, we can’t recon. We want to help. Or, I guess, help more.”
“There were some experiments with boring,” Edmund said. “Didn’t work very well. And mines are out for all the same damned reasons.”
“I was wondering,” Asfaw said. “Well, I mean, sometimes the message traffic is light and all I can do is sit in the water and watch the occasional fish, sir. So I have a lot of time to wonder. Maybe if the queen could permit a bit of power we could make some sort of biological? A fast wood-worm or something that dissolves hulls?”
“If it got loose it would be the death of maritime traffic,” Edmund said, rubbing his jaw. “No, protocols would prevent it reproducing if it was that dangerous. But maybe…” Edmund glanced at the sun and sneezed. “I’m going to be talking to Evan in a couple of hours. I’ll bring it up with him. Maybe he or one of his engineer buddies can come up with something.”