The dragon was dead, but it was still a ten-ton mass of armored flesh. Ramming it at thirty knots was like ramming a solid log. The torpedo boat bounced wildly, with a deafening booming and clanging of strained and twisted metal. The shock knocked everyone aboard flat, Blade included. Ammunition boxes, weapons, helmets, and men skittered wildly along the deck. By some miracle no one fell overboard.
Then the boat rode up over the dragon and plunged into the water on the far side. It dug its bow in until the spray soaked the men at the forward gun. With a hideous metallic screech one propeller tore free of its shaft, caught in the dragon's scaly hide. The propeller shaft was already spinning at nearly top speed. Now, with the shaft suddenly freed of the propeller's weight, the engine ran wild. Its rumble turned into a whine and the whine into a shrill scream. Before the men at the controls could cut the throttle, the scream ended in a deafening bang as the runaway engine exploded.
The men in the engine room died instantly, from the concussion or from the jagged bits of metal that flew in all directions. The metal flew on. It flew up through the decks, hitting several men there but by some miracle not hitting any of the ammunition. It flew out through the hull, tearing a dozen jagged holes. It flew downward, rupturing fuel tanks and lines, which promptly poured their contents over arcing electrical circuits. Flames roared up, fighting against the inrushing water.
The boat began to slow as the water flooded in. Blade rose to his feet, aware of aches and pains in various parts of his body but indifferent to all of them, and started shouting orders.
«Get that ammunition overboard! Fast! If the fire catches it-«
He didn't need to finish. All those men who could still move and grab something started picking up rocket rounds and ammunition cans and heaving them into the river. Along with the splashes Blade could hear the growing roar of the flames below. He'd hoped the water might put them out, but apparently the burning fuel was rising on top of the water.
The torpedo boat was beyond saving. Time to get off. Blade pulled himself painfully up onto the bridge, cupped his hands, and began shouting:
«All hands, abandon ship! Abandon ship! Make for the south shore! Hold on to your Uzis if you can.»
«Aye, aye,» came back from all along the deck. Blade saw men stripping off helmets and flak vests, tightening the straps on life jackets, bending to help wounded comrades. The young lieutenant was slumped over the control panel, with an ugly purple lump on his left temple. Blade grabbed him around the shoulders and pulled the man erect.
As he did, a blast of hot air roared up around them from below, and flames followed a moment later. They would have cremated the lieutenant where he stood, if Blade hadn't dragged him clear in time.
Carrying the lieutenant, Blade scrambled down the ladder on the outside of the bridge. The deck was deserted, except for the dead, and beginning to buckle and twist under the growing heat from below. It was time to go. Blade pulled on his own life jacket and strapped another around the unconscious man. Then he lowered him over the side and slid into the water himself. The torpedo boat was so flooded that by now the deck was only two feet above the water.
The chill water of the river revived the lieutenant. His eyes flickered open, taking in Blade first, then the rest of the scene around him, including his sinking boat. His eyes closed again, as if he wanted to shut out the sight. Blade knew that a captain who is losing his ship seldom feels much like talking and said nothing. He struck out for the south bank, towing the lieutenant with one hand and holding his rifle out of the water with the other.
A hundred yards of chill water lay between Blade and the south bank, and the current was strong. They'd covered about half the distance when Blade saw something dark bobbing on the surface just ahead. Another few kicks, and he recognized a body. A few more, and he recognized Elva Thompson.
So it had been her death scream splitting the darkness. Blade was glad that she was dead, but also glad of the darkness. A woman battered and drowned and perhaps slashed by the torpedo boat's propellers would not be something he wanted to see too clearly. Not when he'd held that woman in his arms with desire and even with affection.
He swam on toward the bank. Eventually it loomed up ahead of him. Hands reached down to help the lieutenant, and Blade scrambled up after him.
Blade formed the survivors into a rough defensive perimeter and settled down to wait. There was nothing they could do with his rifle and the Uzis except defend themselves, and even that might be a problem if the dragons came at them in force.
They saw no dragons nearer than the far bank of the river. Gradually the roars and bellows and screams of raging and dying dragons faded away. They began to hear the sound of boats coming up the river and helicopters flitting low over the trees, searching the area. It was one of those helicopters that found them half an hour later, and one of the boats that took them away to medical care, dry clothing, and hot tea.
Chapter 22
Blade had cuts and bruises and a sore wrist. The doctors bandaged the wrist and let him go. He was in excellent shape to take part in the staff conferences that began meeting the next day to answer the burning question:
What Do We Do About the Dragons of the Red Flames?
The night's work had been a roaring success-two hundred dragons dead, and only light losses in Englor. But they'd been able to lay a near-perfect trap for the dragons, and that might not happen again. So last night's success really proved nothing.
It was possible to stand on the defensive. The east coast of Englor could be lined with radar stations, antiaircraft weapons, and soldiers, until few dragons could land safely or live long enough to do any damage.
It was also possible to attack the bases in the mountains of Nordsbergen, where the dragons were kept in great prefabricated domes (the ones Blade had thought might be for radar sets) until it was time to launch them on their flights across the Nord Sea. A steady bombardment from the air could kill a good many dragons and make the bases useless.
Those were the two most popular ideas. R, Blade, and Rilla were at first the only people supporting a third and much bolder proposal. They suggested flying a commando force straight into Russland aboard the VTOL assault transports. Such a force could destroy the breeding facilities; pens, and laboratories. It could kill or capture most of the key people in the whole Red Flame genetic-warfare program. At one blow it could end the threat of the dragons and set the Red Flames back ten years in their program to breed monsters for their war against Englor.
It would certainly be a bold stroke-too bold, in the opinion of too many high-ranking civilians and military men. Even R was pessimistic at first about getting his plan adopted. Then suddenly it acquired two high-ranking supporters.
One supporter was the field marshal commanding the Eighth Army in Gallia. He pointed out how many men and weapons would be needed to effectively defend Englor against the dragons. If that much strength was to be tied down on home-defense duties, he could not guarantee the survival of the Eighth Army in the face of a Red Flame attack. If a passive defense of Englor was to be adopted, he would respectfully request to be relieved of his command.
The other supporter for the commando raid was the air marshal who led Bomber Command of the Imperial Air Force. Attacking the Nordsbergen bases, he said, would commit bombers to repeated strikes against targets that would be more heavily defended each time. The losses would mount steadily. If he was called on to send his bombers on such missions, he would not take responsibility for keeping Bomber Command an effective force for operations against Russland. In such a situation he also would ask to be relieved of his command.