February 21:

        “You wanted to see me, General?” Sam asked as she entered the Ning-po’s wheelhouse days later.  Apart from assorted bruises and a broken nose, the rest of the crew had managed to fight through the British sailors and make it back to the ship.
        The Pekingese still had a disapproving look on his face as he waved her over to a chart.  “We will be at our destination soon, Captain.  Come, take a look here.”
        Sam craned her neck and looked over the shorter canine’s shoulder.  The chart showed the broad curve of the south Chinese coast from the Yellow Sea all the way to French Indochina.  Wong tapped a claw on the chart, pointing out the large island on China’s southernmost shore.  “The island of Hainan,” he explained.  “There is the Liuchow Peninsula just north of it.  Your submarine is berthed at a village there.”
        “I see.  Bit off the beaten path.”
        “That was chosen deliberately, for safety reasons,” the canine said defensively.  “Once the vessel is ready, you will move it to its real home, here,” and he traced a line up the coast northward some eleven hundred miles.  “The Type VII has sufficient range, so it will not need to be towed.”
        Her opinion of the efforts the Chinese were undertaking changed.  “I stand corrected, General.  A very fine plan.”  Sam bowed slightly to Wong, who seemed a bit mollified.  “So our operational area starts just south of Shanghai and the Yangtze?”
        “Just so.  And since you will be passing Formosa on the way – “
        The badger grinned toothily.  The waters around the big island were filled with Japanese merchant shipping.  They weren’t escorted by any warships, and why should they be?  Surely there was nothing out there to prey on those defenseless ships.
        She traced their course with a finger.  “So, we make the straits by first light?”
        “At the latest.  A fishing boat is scheduled to meet us between midnight and dawn.”

        “Max!”
        “Mmmrmmmph . . . “
        “Max, wake up!”
        “Hnn nnn.”
        Samantha Vreeland shook her head in disgust.  She reached up and unceremoniously dragged her husband out of his upper bunk and dropped him to the deck.
        “OW!”
        “Now, will you wake up?  A fishing junk’s come alongside, and it’s time to go.”  The badger prodded the fox with a booted toe.  “Don’t make me throw you overboard.  Again.” 
        “All right, Sam.  I’m up.”  True to his word, Max sat up and glared up at his wife.  “Would you have really thrown me overboard again?”

        Members of the disembarking crew watched, then cheered as one of their officers was hurled over the rail and hit the waters of the Liuchow Strait with a loud splash.


        Sam had to concede that General Wong and his associates had done a superlative job.  As their ship (a small fishing junk) neared the village’s harbor she almost couldn’t see where the submarine was concealed.  Then she had seen it, and started to laugh.
        Some of the village’s buildings were built on pilings, out over the waters of the natural harbor; what difference would one more make?  The structure served to protect the sub from the elements as well as from any prying eyes.
        The boat itself was exactly as the Pekingese had said it was:  a German model, with a rakish clipper bow and an overall air of lethal grace to it.   
        It looked a lot like the newer boats just starting to come down the ways at Rain Island’s shipyards.  The major difference was that the submarines coming from Bristow had a conning tower that was more streamlined and raked back slightly.
        Hans and Fritz both looked misty-eyed at the sight of it, and Lefty kept flexing his good paw as if eager to study its engines.
        The junk tied up at its own dock and after the Rain Islanders had helped offload its cargo they walked to where the sub was moored.  As they walked up to the concealing building a half-dozen Chinese in nondescript civilian clothing seemed to appear out of nowhere to bar their path.  “What is your business, Foreign She-devil?”  a canine with definite Husky features asked.
        Sam smiled.  “I come from General Wong with a message that snow is expected late this month.”  A trifle clichéd, but it usually seemed to work.
        The fur straightened up and chuckled.  “Then you are expected, in advance of the snow,” he said in accented English.  “I am Lieutenant Chang, and these are members of my crew.  You are – “
        “Samantha Vreeland,” the badger femme replied, shaking paws with him.  “My husband Max, and the crew hired by the General.  If it’s all right with you, we’d like to inspect the boat, please.”
        The lieutenant looked a bit uncomfortable all of a sudden, whether because he’d be taking orders from a woman or not, Sam couldn’t tell.  “Of course,” he said.  “This way.”

        The interior of the submarine was clean and well-maintained.  The brightwork in the control room had been industriously polished and all the instruments seemed to be in order.  Sam busied herself with looking over charts of the area while the crew and the Chinese looked over the boat’s structure and systems. 
        The badger femme’s ears perked as she heard Lefty swear in Spanish and yell, “What the hell’s this?”  This was followed by a lot of angry shouting in a jumbled mix of English, Chinese and Spanish.
        It wasn’t like Lefty to shout.
        Sam went aft, followed by several others, and as she entered the engine room Sam saw what the problem was.

        “We are supposed to have two diesels, right Lieutenant?” she asked.  Apart from connections and mounts showing where it was supposed to be, one of two marine diesels and its generator were missing.
        The canine’s tail drooped between his legs as he stammered, “Um . . . er, that is, I . . . I’m sorry, Captain . . . “
        “Sorry?  You’ll be more than sorry if I don’t start hearing some answers very quickly, Lieutenant.”
        “Oooh!  Can I work on him?” Max asked.  “I’ve been wanting a new throw rug.”
        “No, Max – well, not yet, anyway,” his wife said sternly.  “Well, Lieutenant?”
        “Ma’am, the local warlord – Warlord Hu – came to us and demanded we pay him tribute for staying here,” the words came out in a rush.  “We had no money, so he took the engine.  He wanted to have electric lights at his house.”
        “Uh huh.”  She glanced at Lefty.  “Lefty?”
        The feline shook his head.  “This tub takes two to tango, Sam.”
        “So we’ll have to see about getting the engine back from him, then, won’t we?” she asked, directing a steady gaze at the canine.
        “Ulp . . . yes, Ma’am.”
        “Fine.  I’ll go with you.”


        The warlord’s house stood on a hill overlooking a small village almost a mile away from where the sub was berthed.  As the small delegation, led by the increasingly nervous-looking canine, approached the fortified house several furs stepped out from behind cover to watch.
        Obviously examples of the warlord’s private army.  They looked rather hungry and their clothes were a bit threadbare, but their weapons – a motley assortment of rifles and pistols – looked quite serviceable.
        “Who are we going to see again?” Max asked.
        “Warlord Hu,” Sam replied.
        “Who?”
        “Yes, Hu.”
        “Ah.  Who?”
        “Hu!”
        “It’d be nice if you told me the guy’s name . . . “ Max grumbled, earning a brief swat at his ear from his wife.  “Hey!  What was that for?”
        “We are not going into a Cabot and Bustelo routine here, Max.  Even if they’re your favorite comedians.”
        “Fat lot you know, m’girl.  My favorite comedians are the Fools.”
        “I always wondered why you liked Apache dancing.”
        The group reached the gate and the lieutenant held a brief conversation with the captain of the guard.  The feline looked at Sam and the others, sneered and said in a contemptuous tone, “If you’re here to sell her, you could get a better price elsewhere.  She’s too big in the hips.”
        The badger femme grinned, showing all her teeth.  “We’re here to see your boss,” she growled, “now show us in or you’ll regret it.”
        The feline stiffened at the temerity of the woman, then saw the look in her eyes.  Gradually his tail dipped, then his ears; he collected himself and barked orders that had the guards scrambling to open the gate.

        Hu Yu-mei had apparently been a colonel in the Nationalist Army, judging by the rank flashes on the uniform coat hanging beside his chair.  The thin wolf wore a suit with no tie, and sat back in his seat as Sam finished making her case for the submarine’s missing engine.  When she finished, he offered her a cigarette with a graceful flourish, and looked disappointed when she just as politely refused.
        No way of knowing whether they were normal Blue Skies or had been laced with opium.
        Or poison.
        Hu lit his own cigarette and as the tobacco smoke wreathed his face said, “No.”
        Sam put her fists on her hips and echoed, “No?”
        “Correct, Captain.  You are to be complimented on your understanding of our language.  The answer is ‘No.’  I find that electricity is quite welcome here, and besides, your submarine has two engines, does it not?”
        “We need two engines, sir,” Sam pointed out.
        “Not so.  After all, you have two kidneys, but only need one.  Same with two ears, or two eyes.”  He smiled, pleased at his exercise of logic.
        “Or two balls,” Lefty volunteered, eyeing the wolf meaningfully. 
        Hu raised an eyebrow at the charcoal-gray feline.  “I can always purchase a generator, but it would take a very great amount of time.  And I look upon your gift of an engine and generator as just repayment for allowing you to refit your submarine here.”
        “Gift, eh?”  Sam asked.  “I see.  Colonel Hu, thank you for your time.  Come on, we’re leaving.”  She led her small group out of the room.
        Max had been left at the gate with a few others, and as his wife swept past him he trotted alongside her.  “Hey, Sam!  “What happened?”
        She said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes.  The Catalina fox caught the look in her eyes, and to the amazement of everyone, shut up and walked along beside her.
        The badger femme led the non-Chinese members of the crew down the ladder and into the control room.  “Lefty,” she said in a very quiet voice, “I want you to get the ship ready for sea as fast as you can.”
        Lefty blinked.  “But, Sam, the other engine – “  The feline stopped as she gazed at him, then nodded.  “I think I can have her ready by tomorrow.”
        “Fine.  Max, could you come with me, please?” 
        “Sure thing, honeyfur,” and the Catalina fox followed his wife into their shared cabin.  The door closed, and there was the sound of the lock engaging.

        After several minutes a few furs were startled to hear Max’s voice raised in a howl of protest.  “Oh, hell no!  Not again Sam, you hear me?  Never again!  You can’t make me, you can’t make me, you can’t make me!”

        Nearly two hours later the sounds of rather noisy and energetic activity could be heard quite plainly through the door, along with an occasional whiff of musk and muffled moans.

        Around dawn Sam opened the cabin door and asked a rating, “Could you get me a box, about so high and so wide?”
        “Why, Sam?” the canine asked.  “Did you kill him?  We don’t have a shaman to do the service.”
        She grinned.  “No, no funeral – not today, at least.”


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