Authur's Notes: One of these days we'll finish this. Hopefully soon. I'd like to announce that I've set myself on a new writing schedule that will have me bringing you chapters whenever I finish them. Hopefully at least one a week. Maybe two. We're doing this. We are making this end. I DESPERATELY want this done before 6/27/13, the 4 year anniversary of its start.
Hyne's War: Chapter 32
What they don't tell you in school is that a lot of war is posturing, jockeying for position, and waiting. More waiting than anyone was really willing to admit to. Yeah, there was a lot of action in the course of a battle. But that, that was quick, painful, and confusing. And it came after more waiting than was really imaginable, especially when one was dealing with airships. The whole point was to get into the best position so that the enemy won't be able to take you down before you can take them down. Fights in the sky were about evasion, speed and maneuverability. Doubly so when you were trying not to kill everyone on the other ship.
It was situations like these that Nida knew he couldn't trust to the relatively inexperienced crew. Not that he didn't want to, just that he knew there was really only one way to handle this in the way that it had to be handled. They hadn't worked with the Rag before, not solo, they weren't all junctioned in such a way that their senses were better, or to have the kind of reaction speed that was inhuman and would cost him for using later. Those were the kind of things he needed, that he could only count on in part from Fujin—who didn't know how to fly this thing—and it was only like this that he was going to manage to keep from killing everyone. Even with the weapon systems that they had, hitting the weapon venting system without bringing that ship down was going to be quite a task. Better if something were to go wrong if a portion of the blame would be on himself. Never ask your crew to do something you wouldn't do yourself, right?
When the moment comes it's sudden, it's unexpected, and there isn't time to say very much at all. A quick boost from the auxiliary thrusters practically turning the Ragnarok on a dime—okay maybe a hill, but that was still pretty impressive for the size of the thing—and facing the dragon ship perfectly on the flank where the vent was slowly dumping the heat buildup of the main cannon. A simple gesture: all it takes for the order to be relayed, for the volley of targeted missiles to launch. A long breath: the time it takes for the missiles to drop free of their cradles on the wings, for boosters to flicker to life, for them to close the distance and slam with a firestorm in the area of the weapon exhaust of the enemy vessel. The blink of an eye: all it takes to truly end the battle. In a minute at most ten minutes of circling, battling for the air, scrambling for position, is over. Victory to the Ragnarok.
"General!" Airman First Class Russell calls from Nida's console, "I've gotten through. The air waves are yours."
Another moment to switch positions with the other pilot, not to mention an admonition to keep themselves out of any sort of ramming position from the enemy, and then he's in his chair, not even thanking Russell. Why should he, she'd only done her job. There would be time for commendations later, when lives weren't relying on what he was doing here and now.
Good luck, Salamander's burning whisper in his ears as Nida hit the command to transmit that Russell had so kindly left up for him.
"Attention enemy vessel, this is Lieutenant General Nida Nomur of the Allied Military's Air Force's Ragnarok II. That blast you just felt was us taking out half of your weapons exhaust system for your main cannon. I expect that at this point there are not only fires for you to deal with but the fear that your cannon will overload, leaving the possibility of explosion. I suggest, no, demand that for the sake of all parties you power down your weapons systems and surrender. You will be escorted to an Allied Forces controlled air field, where you will be directed to land and turn yourselves over to our forces. This is a very reasonable solution to our problems. Our other option is to blow you out of the sky, and I will not hesitate to do so if you continue to display aggressive intentions. If you do this I can promise your continued safety and health until such time as the war is over and you have agreed to conduct befitting responsible members of modern society.
"I would continue by informing you that after discussion with your commander he has been given express orders not to surrender by Boyce Megill. This man you would look to as a leader cares nothing for the value of your lives, and would sooner see me destroy every last man and woman on board rather than share peace with us. There is no allowance for your commander to surrender, and if it is only his inability to submit that prevents you from taking my offer, I would direct you to take him into custody and see to his safe holding during our interaction. You have five minutes to come to your decision and relay your response to the Ragnarok through the normal hailing frequencies. If by the end of this period there has been no response or a negative response is given, we shall have no choice but to open fire upon your vessel. And I promise you that what we have demonstrated so far is but a small portion of the capabilities of the Ragnarok. I would strongly urge you to submit your peaceful surrender post haste."
With that he jabbed the button to close communications and sat back in his seat. It was only then that he took a chance to look around the bridge, to see the combination of shock, denial, even disgust in the eyes of his crew. Sure, there were a few cases of a stray youth nodding in agreement with his words, but most of them had looks of stunned awe or fear. Well, there was nothing he could do about that but command their respect and allegiance, understanding was something that would come later, or never not that it mattered. They had no say and he doubted any of them would try to reject his orders at any point. If nothing else they'd seen enough of war in the last year to know that what he did had a reason, even if they could not fathom it.
The problem was that he could. Nida was almost certain of what was going to happen over there. It really only came down to a few choices, didn't it? They agreed, they agreed after some pretty severe internal conflict that Nida would be blamed for, they rejected, they rejected after some internal conflict, or there was no answer. Three of the cases meant that he had to carry out his threat. One meant he didn't but he still had more blood spilled on his hands. Only one was relatively clean, not that he thought it was likely. What was the chance of Megill giving such orders to Vernon and not his direct subordinates? In Megill's position Nida had to admit he'd do the same. Fight to the last man if at all possible, damn the results.
No, that wasn't how he'd handle it at all, Nida realized. He wasn't cut out for that kind of thing. He wasn't Megill, he wasn't even Seifer or Squall who knew what it was like to order people to their deaths. Didn't want to know what it was like. And yet here he was, doing it anyway.
"Sir..." a voice came, Nida wasn't sure whose, and he sat up straighter in his chair.
"An answer already?" Well, there was a relief. Or not. At least one way or the other he was sure there hadn't been too much bloodshed within the enemy vessel. Now the question was whether he was going to have casualties or prisoners on his hands.
"N-no Sir," the voice responded, and all he could do was search for it. Ah, there just short of the pilot, one of the sensor operators. This... wasn't going to be good news.
The attempt is the hard part of the battle. The rejection, harder, Salamander observed, sadly.
No good can come of this, Siren quickly agreed. And suddenly Nida almost felt like his whole head was wrapped in a flimsy cloud, padding his mind from all hurts. It did nothing to impair his thoughts, but it took the painful edge off of them. Hell, it took any edge off of them; rendered him down to nothing but cold, cruel, calculating logic.
"They're attempting to power up their main cannons despite the damages. The energy and heat buildups are rising quickly. Sir, it seems likely that they've overridden the safety parameters on the system and intend to blow it. At this range there is an estimated sixty percent chance of severe damage to the Ragnarok, including irreparable damage to our flight systems. They're also increasing power to their engines..."
"They're trying to take us with them," Raijin observed, rather pointlessly. Nida already understood that point. If he tried to run the enemy would give chase. Not that they could likely catch the Rag, but they could get lined up for a shot from those cannons, or in a position to crash into a populated area. Unless Nida took them out for a merry chase over the sea, not that he could be sure they would follow. Stay and he put everyone at risk, not to mention allowed the Zebalgans the chance to try and ram into them.
"We aren't going to allow that," Nida said his voice so cold that in another time and place he might have thought it was Squall sitting here in his place, rather than the self he was so familiar with. "Well, I suppose they've given us their answer then. Very well, take us up, pilot."
"Up, Sir?"
"Directly, as fast as you can manage. Colonel, I want a level three alert through the ship. All gear possible should be stowed immediately followed by securing themselves for a dive. All bridge crew are to secure themselves while going about their duties..."
"SIR..." Fujin confirmed, though that was an edge of question about it. He could understand that, in her place he might agree, might question what he was up to. But he wasn't in her place, couldn't afford seeming unsure.
"That was an order. Get to it. All hands are to prepare for a tactical descent."
That, more than anything else, got them scrambling. Fujin in one of the extra seats in the rear of the bridge even as she was shouting orders and keying commands into a data pad. Extra personnel were already scrambling down the ladder into the core of the ship, the lift long since locked into place when the sirens had started up. Nida did what little he needed to by engaging the locks on the swiveling arms of his display and then putting on his restraints to keep him in the seat for what came next. Because there was no doubting they would need it. After all, they were talking about a nose dive right into the thick of the enemy vessel.
All around him the sirens were taking on another tone of warning as the Ragnarok began its seemingly lazy, circling ascent further into the sky. From his seat everything would be orchestrated, all of the readings coming together so he could best judge when they were to turn around and start. There was a nervous edge about the entire crew; they'd been briefed on the possibilities of this particular maneuver but none of them, not even Nida, had been through it before. Sure, he'd tried similar things in fighter training, rising into the heavens to turn around, throw himself at the ground at a speed that neared the margins of what people could handle before blacking out, shooting off missiles in hopes of weakening the enemy vessel to the point where it blew before he would have slammed into it. Not that the Rag was going to do quite that. This was, after all, theoretical. Already Nida could see readings that meant one of his crew was testing the claw joints on the front of the ship. The 'arms' of the Ragnarok would be fully extended during the descent, the 'claws' becoming fists to hopefully punch through the missile-weakened structure. It was all they could do to minimize the risk, and while Nida was comfortable with the price that might mean on both sides he was pretty sure that was only because of the foggy feelings in his head.
Calmly he removed a headset from the arm of his seat and fitted it in place, knowing that he'd never be able to be heard over the din of the sirens that was telling his crew to lock down dangerous items and secure themselves. The second he had it on he was almost bombarded with a frenzy of talk from the bridge crew that already had theirs in place, chattering back and forth the readings that would guide them through the process. One assuring the others that the arms were ready for such an attack, another commenting on the preparations of a full flight of missiles and the build up of energy in the main canon. A third was commenting on the rising speed and altitude of the ship. And there, in the back, certainly audible to only him, was Fujin.
"Are you sure this is the right thing to be doing."
It's the only thing, Salamander assured him.
"No," Nida admitted to himself, Fujin and the GF. "But it's all we've got."
That seemed to satisfy both of them, for Nida was soon left in relative peace, for all that there were still voices calling to each other in both of his ears. No, Fujin and the GF, the ones that knew could draw his attention in the wrong direction with their voices, remained silent, allowing Nida to dedicate himself to the information being said and flying across his display. It was only Siren that stayed active, stayed present at his side so to speak, picking out the bits of information she knew from experience that he'd need, feeding them back to him whenever he asked or just increasing his awareness of them when he needed it.
Then they're there, too soon, far too soon for his taste, and with the push of a command button the alarm changes completely, goes to a quiet whisper in the background because no one wants to hear it as a countdown, no one wants to know, wants to be distracted, wants to think about what they are doing. It's the signal, awaited, feared, needed, to start what is coming.
It's not a straight dive, such a thing would stall out the engines as surely as it would any other aircraft. No, it's angled because they can't afford such a risk, and because the Zebalgan ship didn't know what to make of their ascent and so took it as a sign of fleeing. They're angled back for land, not that they have a chance of seeing it again. So it begins, the fall that if they don't pull out of in time will find the Rag smashed to pieces on the surface of the ocean, but will first ram them into the enemy vessel. Nida can almost hear the moment when that occurs to the crew, when everything goes silent but the continued reading off of altitude that is dropping far too swiftly for the comfort of much of the crew.
The barrage begins at the push of another button. Missile after missile launching as the blast screens come down over the cockpit, the retort of machine guns in the open claws of the arms screaming in the air. The high pitched, almost painful whirring of the main cannon coming to full power, and the roar of the energy being released. It all starts to hit at the same time, in the same area, and on screens all over the ship the damage is visible. Vast explosions rippling across the strained back of the Zebalgan vessel, the fires and glowing hot edges of the metal of the ship begging for the eye's attention. Then the whole screen blacking out for all but a select few as Nida hits a command, spares his crew from having to see the way that the arms are coming forward now, the claws closing into fists of a size unrivaled in the world, with a force behind them that no one has dared to compare to before. Closing, still closing, and they burst into and out of a stream of smoke, the Zebalgan ship filling up his monitor.
Nida doesn't hold his breath, doesn't blink, just stares at the screen. There is no other choice. The secondary piloting controls have already sprung out of his seat's side consoles. The pilot can't bring them off of this course now, only the captain of the Ragnarok. This wasn't meant to be a game of chicken, it was something always meant to be a final blow for one side or the other or maybe even both. And ending. No one should be able to take it back for fear. Then again it meant that only he would have the chance to pull them out of their potentially fatal fall. It was his duty, his responsibility, to see all the lives on board safely through this.
When it happens it's with a scream and a shaking through the whole ship that almost feels like an earthquake, or maybe the end of the world. He isn't sure, he's been through things that resembled both of those in the last year, and can't quite put his finger on which it's more like. His screen goes dead, blacked out from the camera probably being destroyed in the contact. All he's got left now is readouts to fly by, and a gut instinct that isn't really useful in this sort of situation. Two heart beats, it's all he can confidently afford, before he's hauling on the controls with all of the GF infused force that he can manage, struggling to even them out despite the fact that they are falling at unbelievable speeds, the they are likely tangled into or trapped under falling debris. But somehow, miraculously, the readouts on the ships orientation are starting to level out. The altitude is dropping less rapidly, then not at all, then it's climbing. The ship is still shaking, the world around them roaring in protest as one of the rear camera displays flicker into life on his display. It tells him nothing of what it's like in front of them, of the damages, of anything but the fireball that he's managed to leave just far enough behind them, and all around it pieces of metal plummeting to the sea. Even as he gains height and distance the explosions start: the engine and main cannon of the enemy vessel going critical from the strain and rendering the largest hunks of debris into what will ultimately be little more than car sized chunks or smaller when they hit the sea. It will take months to dredge it all up, to clean up the wreckage and sorrow and misery this moment will bring so many, and to himself Nida swears that he'll see to as much of it as possible personally. Only right for the Rag and its commander to be caught up in what they destroyed, long after its fall.
"Sir," a voice came at last, Fujin's, in his ear.
"Raise the blast screens," he said, commanded and his voice boomed in the silence of the cockpit. "I want recovery troops prepped and ready to go in three minutes. Everything we got into recovering whatever surviving personnel possible. We've got..."
"I got it Sir, ya know?" Raijin said, leaping out of his chair.
"And I need a message..."
"SIR!" Fujin declared, her voice making him jump seeing as it came from his elbow.
"Yes, Colonel?"
Quieter, softer, plainly she leaned down to whisper in his ear, "We both know this isn't the place for you right now. Go, help Raijin. Then you are to relax until we hit Trabia. Greet the troops, get things settled, and go the fuck back to relaxing."
She was right. There was no doubt that she was right. Too much had happened in too little time. Already today he'd dealt with Seifer being foisted on him, an assassination attempt, being faced with Vernon, and now this... With a sigh he pushed himself from the seat and cleared his throat. Attention was instantly on him.
"Colonel Venti is in command. Figure out what damages we have and see to deploying the engineers and mechanics to deal with whatever we can from inside. The rest will wait for Trabia or Galbadia."
With that he stood, turned on one heel, and strode to the lift. It was already returning after Raijin's descent and in no time at all he was striding into the hanger, where a variety of fliers were being rigged with nets to deploy life preservers which the troop carrier could grab up with hooks on ropes. There may not be many survivors, but Nida intended to save as many as he could.
"Well, well, well, look who's come down. The hero of the hour!"
"Shut up, Almasy," Nida said, more by reflex than anything else. It even took him another two strides before he came to a stop and the voice really registered with him.
Which, of course, only resulted in laughter from Seifer as he came from wherever he was to slap Nida on the shoulder and shake his head, smirking all the while. The blond took a moment to circle Nida, the smirk still overwhelmingly present.
"What do you want, Almasy?"
"Tell me about the assassination attempt. About standing above a body with a..."
"Fuck," Nida hissed under his breath. So that was what Irvine's dream had been. A version of history where he'd killed the boy out of hand instead of trying to protect his life. Well, too late to care about something like that. "He drew a poisoned knife across his throat. It wasn't me."
"Wonder what you did to cause that," Seifer said, shaking his head as Nida started forward again. "You did what you had to do, but man that was a heart stopper."
"Glad you appreciated it. Are you here to annoy me or help?"
"Help."
That, again, stopped Nida in his tracks. Leave it to Seifer to shock him several times in one day.
"Come on, isn't that what you're here to do? Swoop down there and snatch up as many as possible. I'm not going to let you do it alone."
"Don't slow me down."
"As if I could."
Nida all but threw himself into the troop delivery ship, buckled himself in, and barely even gave the door time to close—or Seifer time to jump in—before he ordered the hanger door open and set into take-off preparations.
He had damned all of those men. He was going to do his best to help them.
"Hold tight. This is going to take some fancy flying."
"Don't mind me. I'm just here to haul them out after you fish them up."
"I'm sure they'll enjoy the irony of being saved by a Sorceress Knight."
"All the more reason to do it."