Chapter 35 The Turn of the Tide
Hardass stood back and looked at the map. He had quickly realized that trying to hold this whole vast battle together was beyond one man's abilities. He had conscripted help as fast as people filtered into the HQ, and sent out a call for experienced people.
The Canadian Wireless Corporation had managed to get permission to get a commentator in here, and Hardass was ignoring what he might say as an irrelevant distraction that he could not afford. He wasn't getting in the way, and Hardass would settle for that.
Things were a little better now. There was a controller for each of the Commands, doing the tactical picture. There were limits on what they could do, but it was getting done. Once the intercept was made, it was all up to the wizards. The Controllers couldn't even see what was happening. The Map only showed a confused ball of wizards and dragons during an intercept. That had already been christened a "furball". It was as good a name as any.
He had set trainees to keeping track of the Man Down calls, where they were and when they had happened. That list was already too long and getting longer. If a wizard was wounded instead of dead and made a surviveable landing, they could get out search parties - eventually. Right now every broom and wand was committed to the battle. That was going to cost lives of people who might otherwise be saved, and there was no help for that.
There was a Kill Count board, too. The CMAF wizards kept track of kill counts as a breathing level reflex, but it was more than that. They had to know how many dragons they had killed and how many were still left.
Hardass had made a plan to try to give some of the flights a break as opportunity might offer, give them a chance to land, catch their breath, and get a drink and a bite to eat. Every time he thought he might be able to start putting that plan into effect, more dragons appeared.
Hardass was grimly aware that human endurance had its limits. Right now they were just about holding their own. That didn't mean they were winning. He could only hope that the Russians were going to run out of dragons before the Force ran out of wizards. Right now, there was nothing in it. The tide of the battle could turn either way.
The appearances of dragons on the Map seemed to be random, or at least if there was a pattern he couldn't see it. The Canadian Ministry didn't have the resources of the wealthy and powerful Realm of Britain, so they had never been able to solve the problem of exactly how the Russians were using Portkey magic to move dragons. Attaching a Portkey to a dragon was rather the equivalent of the old muggle saying about belling the cat. Somehow they had solved that problem.
Hardass flicked that thought away as a new cluster of dragons appeared on the Map. He held his peace for a moment, then listened as the East Command Controller reported, "New flight of dragons, designated Raid W-13, tracking South-South-West."
Hardass watched as the line on the map grew longer, and estimated by eye where it might be headed. A chill went through him. They were headed for a node near the muggle city of Iqualuit. It was the largest city in the area, and everyone in it was now in mortal peril, leaving on one side that the Statute of Secrecy was now in the same deadly danger.
"East Controller, W-13 is now a Priority Red track. Inform Citadel." Hardass ordered quietly. One of the procedures that Hardass had cobbled together on the spot was a system to decide which Raid would be engaged first, where they had the ability to do so. A Priority Green Raid was a long way away from any inhabited area. A Priority Yellow Raid was closer to one. A Priority Red Raid meant many people were in imminent peril and had to be engaged now. If they could.
"Citadel, this is Seeing Eye East. New Raid, designated W-13, Priority Red. 8, say again 8 dragons inbound Iqualuit. Your intercept course is North North-West." The controller said.
"Citadel, copy that. Divert two nearest flights." Was the immediate reply in Hillier's gravel bass.
"Copy that, Citadel. Banger Flight, Beaver Flight, you are diverted to track W-13. Banger flight, steer North West. Beaver Flight, steer North East."
Hardass watched as the courses changed. They had just pulled flights off two Priority Yellow Raids to engage this one Priority Red. There were no good decisions here. He could only hope that this was the least bad one. The Commanders in the air leading the fighting from in front was not a good situation for them making the best decisions with all the information in front of them, but that was just one more of the hopefully least bad decisions that had been made this day.
Citadel Flight was a mixed bag. There were two CMAF wizards, an Indian whose callsign was Hanuman, and two Americans, callsigns Bronco and Mustang. There had been two others, but they had gone down in two of the previous fights.
"Flight of eight." Hillier sent to the rest of the flight. "Pick up your visual scanning. Check your six."
He laid himself low along his broomstick and called for every last bit of speed that his decades of experience could squeeze from a McLaughlin. If they engaged the dragons before they reached the city then they could buy time for the other two flights to come up.
They made the intercept just in time. The city was actually visible from their altitude. Hillier made his tactical plan, such as it was, in an instant. They had the altitude advantage, and they could use it for the first pass, which was always the best one. They would have the advantage of surprise and the ability to get a good clean cast as they sliced down through the formation of dragons. With luck and skill they could even the odds.
After that, it was the furball and you did what you could. Normally, Hillier would have ordered the attack with the language of hand signs that the CMAF had used before wireless. When there was someone else to talk to, which wasn't always the case. Most of his flight didn't know those signs.
"Citadel flight, this is Citadel. We have the height advantage. On my go, we dive through the Raid. Pick your target and make your cast close in. This is your best chance for a kill. Use it."
"Copy that." Came from the rest of his flight.
"Go!" Citadel Flight nosed over into a steep dive, wands out and searching for a target. Hillier cast Supersensory, then homed in on the Alpha of the flight. Taking out the Alpha of a multiple was good tactics. Without him there was a good chance that the dragons would scatter. Then you could swarm them and pick them off one by one.
It was a good setup, with a good angle. They were coming down out of the sun, and he could see the back of the dragon, with the huge muscles driving the great leathery wings in the beats that kept it going through the air. He focused in on the hunter's triangle at the base of the neck. It got larger and larger until he could see the shape of the individual scales, and their rhythmic movement with the wing beats.
His wand came up and he held it rock steady, waiting as the dragon came close and closer still. He just hoped that the dragon wouldn't notice and maneuver at the list minute. That happened, sometimes.
Now! He thought. Diffindo Maxima!
A skilled dragon hunter could compress a spell down to the width of a man's fist, which was enough to punch through the incredibly tough scales and hide of a dragon. Antoine Hillier could compress his spell to the width of two fingers. That slim rapier blade of magic sliced through the scales, the hide beneath it, the spinal column and the internal carotid artery.
Hillier did not see where the cast went, because he was fully occupied slamming his broom to one side to miss the dragon's neck. He missed hitting it by the bare margin of a couple of yards, then was fully occupied with the business of not passing out during a high-gee pullout that would prevent him from making a Hillier-shaped hole in the tundra. He was able to miss that, too, by much less of a margin than was good, much less than he would normally have managed.
Somewhere in that maneuver he heard, faintly and far away, the crackle of the wireless as someone said "Seeing Eye, W-13 Alpha down, Citadel's kill. Man down, Bronco."
You're getting too damned old for this, Antoine. He thought as his broom carried him back up into the sky and he fought to get the breath to keep on fighting. He knew the signs. He was tired. Too damned tired. Tired meant mistakes, and it didn't take much of a mistake to kill you when you were hunting dragons.
"Banger Lead, in hot!" Crackled over the wireless. Hillier kept climbing. That call meant Banger Flight was going to be slashing through the dragon formation even as they had, and it was a warning to clear the area if you could so they didn't risk collision or a wand on wand. He would have a couple of minutes to catch his breath. That would help a little. It would be enough. It had to be enough.
Dimitri Veronoff sat beside a Wizarding Wireless set. That the Canadians were broadcasting the details of the battle even as it happened was, to any Russian, the sheerest midsummer madness. Other nations did not share the deep grained Russian instinct to secrecy, and he would take full advantage of that now.
To be sure, that news was not what he had hoped for, expected. The assassins had all three of them failed, albeit by the narrowest of margins. He had always considered the Archmage to be the long spellcast at a venture. The tight security of the Sorcerous Service was formidable even by Russian standards. The Sorcier had been a much better hope, and he had counted on taking out Potter, who had no bodyguards at all.
He had underestimated Potter, again, and that error had brought the whole plan to the verge of disaster. The announcer had made much of Potter's whiplash speed in responding to the attack. His speed with a wand had been followed by a quickness of decision that made him far more dangerous to Russia. The plan called for, counted on, an ICW force thrown into confusion by the death of its leaders and ripe for an overwhelming attack.
That had not happened. Instead the battle hung in the balance, with a defence that was united, determined and getting better organized with every hour that passed. If they did not break that defence, and soon, then Russia would lose everything. With the ICW force destroyed, they would be able to levy tribute on the nations of the Magical world for all their needs and wants. If they failed, then all of those nations would be rallied against them, and there would be no mercy.
He turned to the silent man beside him. "Send more dragons."
"Those are the last reserve. There will be none left after that." He replied.
Veronoff did not raise his voice or threaten as he would normally have done. "Send them."
The man nodded acceptance and vanished.
Hardass looked up at the map at the report of the Central Controller. Six more flights of dragons, all in the Central Command area and all not far north of the Command HQ. He looked at the Map, and despair bit deep in him. There was nothing to send against them. Even had he been able to pull flights off other Raids, they could not get there in time, nor could they fight so many dragons, tired as they were.
Hardass fought back the urge to take a broom and die fighting. That would do no good, and leaving his post would leave the wizards of the Force blind and lost. He gritted his teeth, and forced himself to give the next order. He would stand his post to the end. They would kill as many dragons as they could, do their best to make the Russian victory a hollow one. That was all there was left.
Hardass looked at pulling one or two wizards out of each of the nearest flights to cobble together some sort of blocking force for the HQ itself. It might buy a little time, though time for what he had no idea. He discarded the idea. Wizards in the heat of a fight would pay no attention to such a wireless call even if it actually got their attention at all, and they would be right.
He hoped that the dragons might be diverted to some other source of magic, but no luck there, either. Their tracks were ruler straight toward Central Command HQ, which made deadly good sense. It was by far the largest source of magic in the area.
The tide of the battle had turned against them. It had all been for nothing.
Ditri Veronoff listened to the commentator on the wireless, and hope rose within him. It had taken everything they had, but the tide had turned in their favour and victory was close at hand. His mind ran on to the plans for the next phase.
They had no dragons left, but the ICW would not know that and with a crushing victory in hand they could hold the threat of further dragon attacks over their heads to force them to submit and pay tribute.
That threat would not be wholly empty. There was one last card he could play, if it was needed. The Cheka was a sword as well as a shield, and the security of the ICW nations had grown lax during the years of peace after Grindelwald's War.
Business in the Realm, and every other activity up to and including Quidditch, had come to a grinding halt as everyone huddled around Wizarding Wireless sets to hear the running commentary of the Battle of Canada.
"This is Canada calling. East Command has reported that they are hard pressed to keep a major flight of dragons away from the muggle city of Iqaluit. The Warlock has ordered two flights from Central Command to reinforce East Command. They are pushing hard to get there in time to save the city."
There was a pause, then the commenator's voice came back on, sounding grim. "Six more flights of dragons have appeared to the north of Central Command HQ, and they are homing on the Headquarters. We do not know if they will be able to stop them."
Two of the few exceptions to that rule were in the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts, packing and arguing with equal energy. "Miss Granger, you are not a qualified mediwitch. The call from the ICW specified medical personnel with experience in treating dragon fire injuries."
"Medical personnel includes assistants and orderlies, Madam Pomphrey. Since you have neither you will need to accept qualified volunteers. I am volunteering and I have assisted you before, during the Tri-Wizard Tournament." Was Hermione's tart reply while carefully but rapidly packing potion bottles into a case.
Poppy Pomphrey looked at Hermione's set, determined face and decided that she did not have any more time to spend on an argument she was not going to win. Granger could give Potter points for cold determination, and men and women were fighting for their lives in the skies over Canada.
"Pack the rest of the potions. Carefully. We will be making multiple Portkey transits."
"Yes, Madame Pomphrey." Hermione said, and set to work.
Hardass kept staring at the Map, trying to find a way out of the cold fact that there were too many dragons and not enough wizards to fight them, when a voice from behind him interrupted his concentration.
"Sorry we're late. Heard you could use a hand." The voice was cheerful, genial even, and it came from someone who was not fighting exhaustion.
Hardass swung around to see a red-haired man, dressed like a Quidditch player, with a broom over his shoulder. He was not a Canadian. The accent was authentically British.
"Ron Weasley." He said in that same genial tone. "Commander of Dumbledore's Army."
Hardass looked back at him, hardly daring to hope. "How many?"
"Thirty. Six teams. We always fight in teams." Weasley replied. "Where do you want us?"
Hardass watched as people crowded in through the door of the HQ, brooms over their shoulders.
"30 McLaughlins, now!" Hardass shouted. People darted away to obey that order.
"We brought our own brooms, you know." Weasley said, reasonably.
"McLaughlins have wireless and a compass. That way we can steer you in. This isn't a Quidditch pitch. If you don't get a course to steer from us, you'll never find the dragons to fight them." Hardass replied rapidly.
"Makes sense." Weasley said agreeably, then raised his voice. "All of you, stack your brooms. You'll be getting new ones in a minute. Team Leads, up here."
He returned his attention to Hardass as six people shouldered their way to the front after putting their brooms in a rack. "All right. Tell us what we've got here."
Hardass briefed them rapidly, assigning Raids to teams as fast as they received their brooms. He let them pick their own callsigns, making sure that there were no duplicates. They paid focused attention to the quick lecture on dragon-hunting tactics, particularly the emphasis on teamwork and the need to hit the vulnerable points. He watched them bullet out the door and head North. Hope. He actually had some of that, now.
Dmitri Veronoff sagged into his chair as the hope of victory went out of him, dashed from his hands.
He scarcely heard the excited voice of the commentator on the wireless, nor did he need to. None of what he was saying was hyperbole, unfortunately. Dumbledore's Army, the picked personal Household of the Warlock, young and tough and fit, trained superbly. He had known of that threat, and had encouraged through his remaining agents the calls to disband them.
Potter had left them behind in Britain, which for a Russian was simple good sense. A leader campaigning abroad had to watch his own back for plots to unseat him. He had given them no further thought, until now. Until it was too late.
Fresh rested reinforcements meant that the wizards who had been fighting could be given the one thing he had been desperate to deny them. Rest. He had fed more and more dragons into the battle to ensure exactly that, but now he had no more to send. The tide of the battle had turned again, this time against him. It had all been for nothing.