March 1:

                “Cast off fore and aft!  Helm, ahead slow,” Sam said from the bridge as the U-666 (Max started calling the sub that, and Hans and Fritz seconded the suggestion) slipped its moorings and headed out into the harbor.  A small flag bearing the red field, blue canton and white twelve-pointed star of the Kuomintang fluttered from the jackstaff.  An impromptu honor guard of Colonel Hu’s troops lined the dock, a tribute to the persuasive power of a half-case of imported French champagne.
        Sam looked from side to side as the sub cleared its dock before turning to Max.  “You know, naming this thing with the Number of the Beast is only going to get us in trouble.”
        The fox chuckled at his wife.  “Not like you to get all superstitious on me, Samantha.  You’ve got the hardest head I’ve ever seen on a fur.”
        “Didn’t you tell me you had a concrete block dropped on your head when you were a kit?”
        “God’s truth,” Max said, “and it didn’t affect me a bit.”  He suddenly shook all over and fell to the deck, twitching.
        Sam chuckled.  “Get up, Max.  Save it for later tonight.  Now, pass the word that we’ll submerge as soon as we’re in open water.  Set a course for our new port.”
        “Right, ma’am,” he said as he got to his feet and went below.  After a few minutes, Sam gave command to the Chinese lieutenant who had led the caretaker crew and slipped down into the control room.
        “I don’t care who the blazes you are, you get served at the same time everyone else does, and that’s final!”  The last word was accompanied by the ring of steel against steel, and Sam went aft to see what was going on.
        When she managed to get through the crowd she saw Lee towering over Max and trying to threaten him with the cleaver.  The fox was glaring up at the cat.  “What’s going on?” she demanded.
        “This little miscreant,” Lee said in perfect English, “is trying to help himself to the food.  And before posted meal times, in the bargain.”
        “All I wanted is a sandwich,” Max said, “and what the hell is a Chinaman doing speaking English?”
        “I worked at Oxford for several years.”
        “Well, why didn’t you bother telling anyone you spoke English before now?”
        “Because, you little excuse for a vulpine, I was hoping to find someone my intellectual equal on this pirate ship.  Sadly, I was mistaken.”
        “Enough,” Sam said, raising her paws.  “Lee, you’re fined one dollar.”
        “Me!?  What for?”
        “For not telling anyone you spoke English, that’s what for.  However, you’re quite right – there is a schedule for meal times.”  She glared at Max.
        “Oh, so it’s my fault again, is it?  Sam, when are you going stop accusing me all the time?  I’m just a growing kit . . . “
        “You stopped growing up, my love, the second time someone dropped you on your pointy head.  Now, let’s pull the cork on this boat and head for our base.”


March 4, 1938
Formosa Strait:

        “Periscope depth, Sam,” the helmsfur said.
        “Good job, Jude.  Up periscope,” and she bent to press her eye to the eyepiece as the greased steel cylinder rose.  Hans, as Diving Officer, was on the other side of the periscope to check any range or bearing settings she may set.   “Hmm . . .”
        The U-666 had entered the waters between the Japanese colony of Formosa and the Chinese mainland while submerged earlier that night, and now the crew was on the lookout for their first target.  They had spent the time headed north from Hainan training, working on moving together as a unit until Sam thought they were about as ready as they could be.
        She hoped she was ready as well.
        “Hmm . . . got one!  Sonar, what do you have at bearing one eighteen and distance, um, twelve thousand yards?”  She rapped out orders to the helmsfur, who started to turn the submarine toward the target.
        The fox in the sonar room closed her eyes as she concentrated on her headphones.  “Twin screws, bearing toward us, making about ten knots.  I think it’s a freighter, Sam.”
        “Excellent.  Max, start setting up a firing solution.  We’ll come to General Quarters when we get within range.  Helm, steer three-five-oh and reduce speed to five knots so we intersect their course.”  Max got out his slide rule and tables and started computing the time-speed-and-distance problem that would result in a torpedo striking its target. 
        After a half-minute the short fox looked up and started dialing the targeting solution into the Type VII’s firing panel.  “Solution set, Sam!”
        “Great.  Update the solution until we’re well within range.”

        Finally the badger hit the intercom for the entire vessel.  The target ship, identified as a freighter from its superstructure and its cargo cranes, was within firing range of the submarine.  “General Quarters.”
        Furs scrambled to secure the watertight doors and make the boat ready for combat.  The Chief of the Boat took reports from the various compartments and nodded approvingly at the response time.
        “Torpedo Room, set Tube Two first, Tube One for insurance.”
        “We’re ready, Bridge.”
        "Okay.  Final bearing ... zero angle on the bow . . . push the button, Max!"
        "One away!" Max sang out, jumping up and slapping his paw against the firing button.  The submarine shuddered slightly as the compressed air charge shoved the torpedo from its tube.
        Max clicked his stopwatch and started counting off seconds as the sonar technician listened.  "Torpedo running ... still running ... target just speeded up, turning away ... torpedo fading."
        All eyes turned to the fox, who scowled at his watch.  He looked up at his wife and flinched at the look on her face.
        "You MISSED, you naughty boy!" she snapped.  Still glaring at him she asked, "Sonar, do we still have a target?"
        "Sure.  Target now crossing our bow to starboard, nine hundred yards - "
        "It'll do.  Max?"
        Her husband yelped, "I'm all over it, Sam."
        "Ja," Hans opined, "like stupid on a fox."  He crested back at Max as the fox growled at the wolf.  Sam rapped out the bearing, range and bow angle as her husband scribbled madly.
        Within moments:  “Okay, second solution set!”
        “Are you sure?”
        “Sure I’m sure!”
        “Then FIRE the nasty thing!”  The fox jumped at the firing trigger again.
        This time the torpedo ran true, and the crew cheered as the explosion reverberated through the hull, followed by the sound of the freighter breaking up.  “Come on, everyone gets a look through the periscope,” Sam said.  “Take a good look, everyone; we’ll be raising havoc from here to Shanghai from now on.”  She hit the intercom.  “Galley.”
        “Lee here.”
        “Set out drinks for the house, Mr. Lee, on me.  We just killed our first ship.”
        “Right.”
        When she got the opportunity Sam took her turn at the periscope and felt her breath catch at the sight.  She’d never sent a ship to the bottom before, and the sight of the blazing wreck slipping under the water almost brought tears to her eyes.
        A box was brought for Max, and the vulpine cackled gleefully at what he saw.  “Looks like maybe a thousand tons, honeyfur.  A great start; congratulations.”
        “There’ll be more.  A lot more.  You need to work on your target practice, Max.”


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