“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, sighing.
“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.