Doggerland
Greetings. In honour of my American readers, a Thanksgiving chapter outside of the regular posting schedule. Yes, I plan to also get one on this Saturday anyway!
They had minutes. The wave had been on the horizon only a few minutes before; now it was pressing in closer and closer still. That was Larissa's assessment as she appeared on the bridge of the Admiral Ushakov at Draco's side. She had never see Bellatrix Black looking worse, even on the day they had cut off her arm. Hermione looked disconsolate and grim.
Klimov shook his head. "Well, reinforcements, and just in time to get fucked," he muttered under his breath, so that only the wizards around him could hear, not his own men. Then he raised his voice and spoke with full confidence. "Councillors, the ship will not answer the helm. I need full port rudder. Immediately."
Larissa watched the looming wave before them. Two minutes, maybe three at most, she thought. "There's no time to get to the rudder to clear the jam. Draco…?" She turned to look urgently to him.
He closed his eyes for a moment and then took a breath. "You have to enchant trees for Quidditch, right? Well, link with me, you give the enchantment, I'll cast a left-turning spell. Hermione, Aunt Bella, I'll need your assistance, we'll need every magical core we can in this."
Hermione shook her head. "But what if we just keep turning to port and put our other broadside on?"
Draco sucked in his breath. "If we overcorrect, then, we cancel the spell, and let the jammed rudder carry us back to starboard. That's it. That's all we can do."
Captain Klimov checked his chrono and glanced back at the wave. "No reason not to try, at this point," he said very mildly.
Draco produced his wand. With a grin, Larissa went for her own. Hermione helped Bella to her feet, and together in the bridge of the Ushakov, the four of them faced the frothing mass of water coming in against them.
"Sir! We've secured all the sprung scuttles and hatches that we can find, and all the men we can contact are secured from the deck!" One officer came up to Klimov as they worked, sweat beading his brow.
Larissa completed her enchantment spell like she would, preparing a tree for quidditch. At first, it seemed like complete futility. The hull, the electronics, the computers, they resisted her. Then Bellatrix joined her, and with her weakened magical core, still directed herself at Larissa, with a single spell that seemed to crackle through her, and then to the ship. Larissa felt an uncomfortable tingling, arching from her head down to the deck, and a sense of lethargy that she had to fight with all of her force of will against.
And then Draco whipped himself around to his left as he uttered the incantation, repeating commands like he might have during his Quidditch days. His body seemed to slow down, like the sheer magical energy required was slowing time for him down to mud. Larissa could feel him, leaning on Hermione and Bella and her strength.
Two Russian sailors were gripping the control wheels, swung hard to port, trying to force the ship around, but until then, it had been an empty gesture. More men were doubtless belowdecks, straining on the emergency steering gear, with a similar lack of effect.
And then the bow started to swing back toward the east, toward the port, toward the Motherland. It was a symbolic straining of the ship as she swung her head 'round, back toward the city that had given her life. As she did, the frothing white water came on, and Larissa could hear some of the veteran sailors on the bridge curse, or cross themselves and invoke God. They could see, as she could now, that it was not one wave, but "three sisters".
This strange and mythical truth of the sea, the unusual phenomenon which caused three massive waves to appear in short succession, was the cause of many ships lost at sea without a trace. And now, whatever terrible power of magic had been unleashed with the destruction of Azkaban, was giving the Admiral Ushakov 'Three Sisters'.
But their bow was coming around to port. Straining with her magic, Larissa could see the compass dial lazily spinning. She could see the old veteran Starshina with his fist clenched, hunched forward, squeezing the flesh of his hand white, like he was tensely watching a race or a wrestling match, wondering if his side would win—wondering if he would live or die, silently willing the ship's bow to port, to race the coming of those three wicked sisters coming down on them.
Captain Klimov was precise, and scientific, until the end. "At least thirty-five metres," he observed, measuring the height of the waves as they came in, off the angle of the bow and the position in the windows of the bridge.
They swung past zero. Draco waited.
Klimov stared hard out from the bridge of his ship. "Now," he ordered simply.
Draco instantly commanded the spell to end.
The bow began now to swing back to starboard, back toward facing the wave directly… They were almost perfectly aligned when it struck.
Almost.
It was not like a bomb, but the subtle danger was almost worse. The surge of the sea frothed up around the bow, narrow and sharp her prow was. As the frothing water rose around the bow, she cut through it and the buoyancy of the bow increased the deeper the water got, thrusting the bow higher and higher, the deck now lurching below them, until the heights of the wave plunged over the deck.
Being slightly angled to port was perfect, because the damaged, jammed rudder was driving them to starboard, counterattacking the force in the wave. The sheer power of the wave consumed the forward part of the ship, until they could see nothing at all in front of them, the wave rising over the height of the bridge, raising the bow higher and higher even as it still overcame the ship. It slammed into the bridge windows, cracking them but not overcoming them, as sheets of water poured into the bridge-deck from the open wings. The bow had completely disappeared into the wave, as the foaming water churned aft across the deck, extinguishing much of the flames from the first of the bomb hits but spreading burning oil and debris across the frothing tide.
Then she crested the wave, and the bow plunged down on the other side with terrible speed. The screws came out of the water as the stern went up, and the Chief Engineer had to quickly clutch the shafts and then clutch them back on as they bit water again, a deft and desperate operation with a tens of thousands of kilowatts spinning the shafts and screws and seconds counting for everything as the ship heaved and surged around him.
The wave passed over them. Light shone down through the windows, spider-webbed with cracks. The water, carrying dirt and grease, drained from the bridge, where it had soaked their boots. Through the vastness of the waves of the North Sea, the tip of the prow thrust its way through the boiling sea.
"One," the Starshina said with a breathless whisper.
But their bow was carrying away, too far to starboard. Draco cast his spell again—Larissa leaned into the electric thrum of the hull, her nerves and muscles aching in time to the aches she could feel in Bellatrix's—Hermione arm in arm with a most improbable friend. Their magic forced thirty thousand metric tonnes to once again come about to port.
Captain Klimov grimaced, and Larissa followed his look, and saw some poor bastard, a seaman from some party that because of the damage and disruption, had not managed to get below. He had somehow survived the first wave. They could see him, a tiny figure of white on the deck that still ran with water running free and loose from the last wave, he was working his way toward the superstructure from forward, hand over hand on the rail.
The second wave caught them then, and flung the great ship high into the air before the water consumed her, and again, sent her down. The wave stormed across them to the height of the bridge again, with a terrible groaning roar through the hull, like a scream at the end of the world carrying all before it. So terrible and slow it rose, consuming the whole of the rail forward – the wave rose up, and that distant, lone white figure on the rail disappeared.
The waves slammed into the bridge, the water sprayed from each beam, a rush of foam went up and over. This time, alarms began to sound, as she hesitated, and shuddered. For a moment, Larissa wondered if the howl of the muggle klaxons was the last thing she'd her.
But then, like a great dog, she shook herself and roared upright again. White water spilled off the Ushakov's superstructure in torrents as the wave now on her stern helped pull her bow up.
"Two," the Starshina said, the word carrying growing hope.
"Captain, we've lost the boilers."
"Increase reactor power!" Klimov ordered immediately. That was the cause of the alarms, then—the second wave had been so high that sea water had plunged down the funnel and literally put the fires out in her boilers. Instantly, the control rods were brought up, and the power surged and flared in the reactor. Engineers, slammed against their handrails and consoles, would be frantically adjusting the operating parameters of the nuke as they were battered by the surging and bucking ship in the fight for their lives. The bruises and broken bones didn't matter, as long as they kept the revolutions up on the screws.
Again, Draco commanded their bow to port.
And, in the corner of her eye, Larissa saw that the stanchions were bereft of that one lonely man. She could imagine his cries for help, and knew she would never hear them.
The third wave loomed and began to consume the bow. Guidewires and stanchions cracking and popping with flat metallic sounds, the hatches on the missile tubes flexing with concern—if they were lost, they might well take their final plunge—and then the whole bow disappearing below the roiling water. It was as they tore through the wave, and cleared the rest to the other side, that the bow plunged down, and then there was a sharp and terrible shudder that ran through the hull, as they were all thrown off their feet and dashed into consoles and walls and the floor. The water poured in, and now she lurched unsteadily, and like a hurt beast, struggled to rise.
"We've struck bottom!" Someone yelled.
"...In the LongForties!?"
"Rise again, damnit," Hermione cursed in hope and fear for the ship and their lives as she struggled to her feet, looking for Bella through the knee-deep water in the bridge.
And groaning and creaking, the bow, with a particularly kind of sucking noise deep in the steel, rose and shook loose once more from the furious sea.
Just like that, it was over. "Three, by God, three!" The Starshina exclaimed tightly. He pumped his fist. The frothing, churning sea was boiling all around them. She began to turn over to starboard, engines still driving. At the senior petty officer's declaration, they briefly erupted into a sharp, triumphal cheer.
"All ahead slow," Klimov ordered sharply, cutting off further celebration. He then reached for one of the emergency intercoms, vigorously turning the hand-crank on the side to give it power as he lifted up the mouth-piece. "Damage control central, Captain Klimov. We've cleared the waves. We touched bottom. Get a team forward to the bilge ahead of frame fifty to sound the hull." Then he turned. "I want an assessment of all the radars to see which are repairable—this must be completed with the utmost speed," he instructed the weapons officer, before speaking into the intercom again. "Get another team forward to make sure the hatches on the S-300 launchers are not jammed. You have fifteen minutes."
Reports started to come in of the status of other ships in the squadron. Many had suffered heavy damage, but as their steering gear had not been jammed, they had been able to pull away from the waves, and then position themselves to ride it out as best as they could, and were mostly better off despite their smaller size—but one of the frigates was disabled, and drifting. Another was not answering radio calls, and the situation looked grim.
From witch to wizard to sailor to officer—to each Klimov looked, calm. "As long as this ship is above water, we will find every means in our power to fight. Sailors, to your posts." Then he looked specifically to Larissa and Draco. "MinKol comrades, you saved us temporarily and I thank you for it, but the task is not finished. We are still circling, out of control, a sitting duck. I need the rudder un-jammed, or failing that, blown off completely, so that we can steer with engines."
"Land," Bella interjected, muttering, from where she had her wand raised, staring out at the horizon like a drunk.
Larissa turned to the distraction, and then Klimov did too, raising his binoculars.
What?
It was Klimov who with a kind of matter-of-fact courage said the impossible first. "That land shouldn't exist."
The minutes had passed with the taut terror of the impossible. First had come the terrible shockwave through the air. It was gentle enough, by the time it reached the Inflexible, that it did not cause damage. But it had still been impressive, and even moreso when the unending reports and alerts from land stations indicated an origin in the North Sea. The funhouse distortions—the Fata Morgana—that followed revealed strange magical energies and distant images of the nuclear blast.
Electronics had nearly failed, and in an arc around the eastern shore of Britain, and from all the shore stations further on, in Europe, they were receiving no communications. 'Enemy' communications seemed impacted, as well. The western shore stations were still getting through to them, and they had reception from the American squadrons, but the signal quality was impacted.
Blaise, of course, had his telecaster, and the ancient magic of the Minoans seemed to ride the tide of chaos without interruption. Captain Palliser came in from the bridge to the chart-room, in time to hear his commander mutter a name under his breath.
"Lestrange."
"Forgive me, M'lord?"
"Bellatrix Lestrange. There is no wizard in the world who can match her for unpredictability," Blaise mused with a shake of his head. "The Dark Lord is far more powerful in the Dark Arts, of course. But even a lesser strength of magic, properly applied in an unexpected direction—nobody anticipated this madness."
"You know what it is?"
Blaise looked up. "Yes. They enchanted a nuclear weapon, and used it to destroy the fortress of Azkaban." The ship creaked faintly under them, a little bit more intense than normal, and the two men exchanged a glance, both wondering if it was a distant echo of that fabulous power.
"I've heard reports of a tsunami from the fragmentary radio messages," Palliser observed. "The power of the enchanted weapon must have been terrific."
"There's another aimed at the Chunnel which should be detonating as we speak, to eliminate any chance of reinforcements from the continent." Blaise gestured to the telecaster, to indicate where he had gained his information, and then stepped over and poured himself a cup of tea.
Palliser took his own. "Well then, M'lord? It sounds like they have found a way to wound the beast."
"They have," Blaise shook his head softly, though he agreed; it was in wonder. "Azkaban was uniquely magical. There was some ancient power on that island, that's why such a fortress was built there to begin with, and it possessed some kind of geomancy, the form concentrated the energy of the place where it was built. I don't think this is entirely an enchanted nuclear weapon. But, I also know that one must strike while the iron is hot. Inform your men."
"M'lord," Palliser saluted and turned away.
Blaise went back to the telecaster. He inclined his wand, and it spun slightly, as he guzzled down his tea; one more cup, and with indecent haste, for he'd be in a fight for his life only bare minutes from now. "Your Grace," he spoke into it, "the word is 'Albemarle.' I am at your service."
In the midst of chaos and wild magical energy, of uncertainty and kinks in plans, all brought to fruition by an impossible event, Narcissa Malfoy seemed utterly composed, with ice-water in her veins, as she regarded Blaise Zabini through a wavering image above the telecaster. Men were speaking in tones of professional urgency behind her, in Russian. The image rocked from the sea conditions her ship was experiencing. She might as well have been at a garden party.
"Good. You'll be getting more help than you expected," Narcissa noted to him, flatly. "The coast of Mainland in the Shetlands is going to be hit with a tsunami with an expected runup of more than a hundred and fifty feet. Since we can't evacuate all the troops upland in time anyway, we'll take all we can and have them accompany the MinKol wizards. Stand by. I need you to go now."
"Your Grace I was supposed to have fifteen minutes after I gave Albemarle."
"We don't have the time anymore. Fortune favours the Bold."
Blaise tipped a salute at Narcissa. "You'll have your fleet, Your Grace. Reinforce us. Now."
Narcissa nodded once. "Underway." She deactivated the telecaster.
Blaise tightly gripped his wand, and then stepped up to the bridge. At least, two of his targets were already coming up, summoned by a request from Captain Palliser, to meet with the Sea Lord. One of them walked into his first, sharp, Avada Kedavra and dropped dead on the spot.
The second man was stunned by the act, and fell back into a defensive posture; his Protego sharply flicked aside Blaise's first Sectumsempra as the man, incredulous, cried out, "By God why, Lord Zabini?!"
Blaise had chosen Palliser as his flag officer for a reason. He had a cool head and quick wits, so when it started fifteen minutes early, he didn't blink. He just picked up the handset for the tannoy. "All Hands, All Hands, now hear this. This is your Captain speaking. CIS wizards and troops are now arriving aboard. Greet them as your comrades, because we are hoisting the White Ensign, and His Majesty's Ship Inflexible will obey the commands of Prime Minister Narcissa Malfoy's Government. Anyone who resists this instruction should be shot."
In the close quarters of the bridge, the bark of the rifle from a marine was unwelcome, but of course a man tried for the second loyalist wizard even so. A Protego sent the bullets skittering through the bridge; one man went down with a secondary wound from the ricochet.
But then Blaise lunged forward. He fought dirty, any Slytherin worth his salt would, and his mother had taught him a few things about quickly disabling an opponent. Fisticuffs were 'undignified' for a wizard, but they knocked the man in front of him back nonetheless, and then a quick stroke of his wand and a sharp "Sectumsempra!" finished the fight with a hideous set of wounds to his foe's left shoulder.
All around them in the two taskgroups, MinKol wizards and witches who had drilled over and over again, memorising the images of these ships, their names, the natural essence of what they were, had prepared to apparate to them in the middle of the surging sea. The Goblin intermediaries that Narcissa had been using had even brought out samples of steel from the ships, the better to sample their essential nature and prepare for this reckless leap into the heart of the open sea.
One that was now made more difficult by the men who they carried with them. Many, pitched to the deck, were sick the moment they arrived. But they were motivated. They'd been told of the tsunami coming in against Mainland. They knew that their equipment would be destroyed, and at best, those who could not drive it to the heights of land to preserve it, would have to run there, and be hors d'combat with only light arms. These men were VDV. They were a carefully selected and rigorously trained elite of the Russian armed forces, who wanted to get to grips with their enemy and win the biggest strategy victory of the war. If any had any qualms about the dangerous and daring exploit, they forced them down, volunteered as a man, and threw themselves into the operation, reinforcing those men actually trained and prepared for it.
Collateral casualties? Certainly, there were some from both sides. But risks had to be accepted in war. And the good guys were quickly identified—they ripped the Morsmordre off their uniforms as fast as they could. The crack of small arms and grenades in the corridors of ships on the open sea echoed up to the bridge.
Within about four minutes, it was also over. A combat of that type was settled with ruthless decision. Blaise plunged down with the men, snapping spells and covering them, sparing nothing. He knew that every second of chaos held a bigger problem behind it—the American squadrons. If they chose to attack, his two carrier groups would be the first targets. The Russians were supposed to be coming up hard to support him, but that would take time.
Of course, if his men could sort themselves out, they could start preparing deck strikes now. If they launched first, they could take them. Around him, men rushed back to their stations—they were being ordered to their action stations to help bring an end to the fighting. Allow no dissent. Allow no questioning.
But those same men came to attention, and saluted, even now. "We're with you, M'lord!"
"We'll follow you to hell, Sir!"
Not fear, not anymore. Respect.
Silent, and thoughtful, Blaise walked back to his bridge, satisfied. That was an emotion one could ride very far.
He reached the bridge, and in the evening's fading late of a stormy spring North Atlantic day, flicked out his wand. In one gesture of thanks, and because breaking his word made no sense, he guaranteed his flagship sailed and fought under the White Ensign, as, by a certain kind of irony, she never had before. On the deck, before they were directed back to preparing the fighters, men started to sing. He turned to Palliser, knowing it would help morale in a still very uncertain moment, and smiled faintly. "Let them sing, Captain. Let them sing."
Notes:
1. The perilous position of the "Admiral Ushakov" is based on the fate of the USS Memphis in a series of waves that remains mysterious to this very day. Here's a naval historical article on the event which can be found by searching the .mil website: and a personal account of one of the officers aboard can be found for searching for the following article at the USNI (United States Naval Institute) - /magazines/proceedings/1918/july/wreck-u-s-s-memphis
2. "Three Sisters" waves are a sailors' tale, of a tightly spaced group of three rogue waves, which are devastating because a ship has little time to shake off the water load and recover from the first before being hit by the second, and then the third. They do, in fact, appear to be a real natural phenomenon, with modern science providing observations: publication/337506120_Three_Sisters_Measured_As_a_Triple_Rogue_Wave_Group and also mentioned here - . /~gabitov/teaching/101/math_485_585/Midterm_Reports/RogueWaves_
3. The name Albemarle in this operation of course invokes George Monck, the Commonwealth "General at Sea" ultimately responsible for the English Restoration.
4. The Long Forties are a large area forty fathoms deep in the north-central parts of the North Sea.
5. To be evocative of some of the conditions, here's a video of the Russian destroyer "Admiral Ushakov", the namesake of the battlecruiser in this story (which has since been decommissioned, and was originally named "Kirov") in heavy weather: (from yt, so just search for the last part) watch?v=5CCWpuRY9rM
