March 25, 1937:

        It had rained earlier, but the sun was now peering through the clouds.  The air was still a bit chilly but it was seasonable for late March.
        It was a perfect day for the attack.
        A field composed of rolling hills and bounded on three sides by dense forests erupted in flames and smoke, explosions sending huge gouts of soil high into the air.  The sound was like every thunderstorm the man had heard rolled into one as the barrage continued. 
        No wonder so many furs in the Great War had gone mad from the sound. 
        As he watched through binoculars from a vantage point two miles away the line of explosions started to move forward, churning the earth to destroy any enemy strong points.  This was the part he hated – there was always the temptation for the troops going in behind the barrage to ‘lean into’ it, getting as close as possible to take advantage of the chaos it caused.  Training casualties were a constant sore spot within the organization.
        A drone added a bass note to the roar of the artillery (a mixture of 75-millimeter light guns and five-inch naval rifles mounted on carriages – waste not, want not) and a flight of Curtiss A-12 attack aircraft soared overhead to add their rockets and bombs to the assault.  Behind the barrage’s steel curtain a line of tanks swept forward over the churned ground, infantry trailing behind.
        To his almost palpable relief the artillery stopped firing and in the distance puffs of smoke could be seen, followed by explosions as the tanks opened fire and the infantry sought defensive positions.  From where the man stood he couldn’t exactly hear the sounds of the rifles, but he knew the sound well enough. 
        Mouser, Model 1898, manufactured under license from Sweden.
        A good enough weapon, for its time.
        But its time was up.
        The man, a bobcat named Jerry Colding, pulled two wads of cotton from his ears as a rail-thin whitetail buck asked, “What do you think, Boss?”
        “Looks good, Colonel,” the Army Syndic replied to the battalion commander.  “Excellent use of artillery and tanks.  Glad to see people have been reading Fuller’s work.”
        “Well, not just Fuller, Jerry.  Guderian’s had some good ideas, too – and now that we’re actually getting those Czech tanks into the inventory we can put some of that into practice.”  He glanced behind him at the command tent, where several officers and enlisted furs were gathered, going over reports and studying maps.
        Colding’s ears flicked as he squared his shoulders, the pair of three-inch wide gold stripes on each shoulder of his dark blue duty jumpsuit catching a stray gleam of sunlight, and he turned and walked into the tent as the exercise continued behind him.
        The staff consisted of an Air Arm liaison and his senior commanders and Syndics.  Two started to stand as he ducked under the tent flap and he waved them back to their seats.  “Relax, guys.  So far, the exercise looks good – very coordinated attack and good use of our planes,” and he smiled at the Air Arm liaison.  Ravenwing Aircraft would be taking over the construction and development of the A-12 from Curtiss, adapting the attack plane to suit Rain Island’s specific needs.  It was always better to have a ‘native’ aircraft industry, as the Bosanquet and KV companies showed.  “But I do have one gripe,” he said as he walked over to a camp stove and poured himself a cup of coffee.
        He took a sip, made a face and said, “Our small arms for the infantry are inadequate for the job.  We’re fighting with modern artillery and the best light tanks Skoda can design – but our basic infantry rifle is way out of date.”  From the corner of his eyes he could see one of the Syndics nodding.  “Jack?”
        The senior sergeant, an otter, nodded.  “I agree with you, Jerry.  If we go to war we can field two divisions, six if the Governing Syndicate issues the levy order.  That’s no good, and we’ve known it for about three years now.”
        “So what do we do?”
        The otter shrugged.  “Try to get six divisions to deliver as much lead as thirty.”
        There was a pause and the Air Arm liaison said, “You’re talking machine guns.”
        “No, I’m not.  We’ve got the Bruinings and they’re great guns, but they’re heavy.  You can’t lug them around in a fight, especially with the new mobile doctrine we’ve been developing.  What about those whatchamacallums, the Avtomati?”  He looked across the room at a bighorn ewe.  “Bright?  You know anything about them?”
        Brightwater Smith gazed moodily at her coffee, then slurped it down before replying, “A couple people had the opportunity to look at the Fedorov over on Spontoon last year.  Good enough weapon, based on the reports.  A good cyclic rate of fire, dependable – but it’s still pretty heavy.”  The head of the Army’s Landing Forces stroked the wool under one short horn with her left paw and added, “I’ve asked a few times for better weapons than the Mouser for my guys and gals.  What about it, Jerry?  Can we get the Avtomat?”
        “I doubt it,” Colding admitted.  “The Vostokies don’t like us very much, as you know.”
        “Then why don’t we copy the bugger?” asked another Syndic, this one a corporal.
        “Simple.  We can’t get hold of one long enough to do more than get rough sketches.”
        Brightwater nodded.  “Jerry, how about we talk to Rich Broome about it?  Maybe his crew can do something.”
        Colding grinned as the idea took hold among the staff; they liked the idea, too.  “Fine, then.  Your idea, Bright, so go on down to Port Vancouver and see if the Magician can do another trick.”


        “Excuse me, Rich?”
        Vice-Commodore Richard Broome looked up from his desk.  Files were arrayed in neat rows all over the place, and he closed the one he was working on.  “Yes, Kathy?”
        The collie smiled.  “Brightwater Smith’s out here to see you.”
        “Oh?  Please, have her come on in,” and he stood up as the ewe walked in the room.  The two shook paws and the fox asked, “What brings you down here, Captain?  I thought you’d still be watching the maneuvers.”  He gestured to a chair.  “Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”
        The bighorn sheep smiled and sat.  Broome was ex-US Naval Intelligence, and now headed Rain Island’s military intelligence service.  He had eased pretty well into the Syndicate’s relatively informal methods, but he was a good administrator, tough as nails when he needed to be, and had a gift for choosing the right people for a job.  She shook her head when he gestured toward the coffeepot and said, “Jerry Colding asked me to come down here, Rich.  It’s like this,” and she quickly and precisely described the problem.
        When she was finished Broome sat back and gazed up at the ceiling for a long moment.  “So,” he said finally, “what exactly is it you’re looking for?”
        “I know that the Italians and a few other countries have been working toward a submachine gun – lighter than a Bruining Avtomat – “
        “Like the Tommy gun?” the fox asked with a smile.
        “Very similar, but even the Thompson’s not exactly what we’re looking for.  See, everything comes down to weight,” the ewe said, leaning forward in her seat and shaping the air with her paws.  “You want the weapon itself to be lightweight so you don’t burden the troops.  The SLF jumps out of aeroplanes, and that long Swedish rifle gets in the way sometimes.  But you also need striking power.”
        “You don’t just want this for the SLF, if I know Jerry.”
        “True.  He wants it for the entire Army – probably the Navy as well.  Make that definitely.”
        “I’d say you need something like the Choachat, but something that actually works,” and he laughed humorlessly.  “Unfortunately, I saw that French piece of dung in actual operation twenty years ago, so they won’t be able to swindle us.”  The French light machine gun had many major design flaws, but they had been overshadowed by its minor design flaws.
        The ovine nodded.  “Now, where can we get some?”
        “’Sho-shos?’”
        “You know what I mean.”
        Broome snorted a laugh.  “If it’s a question of buying, that causes problems,” he said.  “I mentioned the Thompson, but America’s already accused us of copying or stealing everything from them.  Besides, they’d love to paint us as a country of Chicago gangsters as well as Communists – “
        “We’re not Communists.”
        “I know that.  Be grateful you don’t have to listen to their radio commentators, Bright.  Some of their rhetoric’ll curl your fur.  That leaves the Tsarists, the Soviets or a European supplier.  More problems.”
        “How so?”
        “Germany and Italy.”
        “Oh.  The Fascist governments.”
        “Exactly.  Vostok Island won’t sell to us on general principles, as you’re probably aware.  And the Soviets – well, they’re hip deep in their own blood over there right now.”  He sat there a moment, eyes going distant as he sucked on his teeth.  “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll pass the word around – quietly – and see if I can shake anything loose.”
        “Okay.”  Smith stood and as Broome followed suit the two shook paws again.  “I know you play ‘em close, Rich, but if you do come up with something let us know.”  The Landing Forces had worked with the Intelligence Service in the past, most notably and recently on the discreet recovery of a low-level diplomat from the Vostok Okhrana.  The man had been turned and was about to defect, so an ‘accident’ had to be arranged before he compromised the Anarchcracy’s security.
        It was a measure of the SLF’s professionalism that the ‘accident’ had been so arranged to make it look like the Soviet OGPU had done the job.
        “I will, Bright.  How are Dave and the kids?” he asked as they walked to the door.
        “They’re all fine,” she assured him.  “Janet and Timmy want to know when Mama will let them jump out of aeroplanes, too.” 
        Broome laughed with her.  “Thank God Ephraim’s not old enough to ask what Daddy does for a living.  Yet.”

        After she left Broome closed his office door and sat behind his desk, looking out the window at the cedar forests in the distance.  If the Army Syndic wanted it, he’d do his best to accommodate him.  Truth to tell, Commodore O’Rourke might also relish a new, up-to-date weapon in her ships’ armories.
        Quite a few furs among the foreign military attaches and the diplomatic corps considered the fox to be the leader of a gang of thieves from the number of different items his agents had managed to gather (over and above information, usually the primary concern of the Service).  He vividly recalled the American Army’s military attaché calling him a thief to his face at the last May Day dance, and the Navy’s attaché had flat-out called him a traitor for leaving the United States to work for Rain Island.
        Broome had taken the insults in stride.  America treated its intelligence services shabbily and would likely pay dearly for it, and he was honest enough with himself to realize that his service’s activities were sometimes not what could be considered lawful.  Rain Island was a small country compared to America, and had a lot of catching up to do.
        There was no sense in reinventing the wheel, now was there?
        He sat up and drew a piece of paper (already helpfully stamped with Burn This) out of a desk drawer.  Broome penned a swift note to go out in the next all-stations diplomatic correspondence.


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