“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 asked 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.
He talked about the importance of every link in the chain. How the runners at headquarters were as important as the admirals. How the cooks on the ships were the life-blood of the Navy. That the guys in the rigging were the sinews of the fleet. He talked himself hoarse.
By the time the sun went down, he’d started slowing down; most of the sailors were too drunk to know who was doing the talking. The ships’ crews had intermingled to the point that he wasn’t sure they’d ever get them sorted out. Half the crew of the Toshima Maru had started a pitched battle with the Corvallis Line and it took at least a platoon of marines, with Herzer at their head, to get them separated. The captain of the Bonhomme Richard had had to be carried off to the infirmary after demonstrating proper dragon-riding techniques on a keg of beer, and failing.
He thought about armies that had suffered defeats and then won in the end. Most of them had spent months, even years, retraining and retooling to the point that they could beat the enemy that had beaten them. Generally they had gone through three or four commanders as well. But they didn’t have months or years. At the most, they had weeks. Edmund had to take this weapon, and reshape it, in the sort of time that most commanders spent getting to know a unit.