“We’re clear of the harbor, ma’am,” the helmsfur said, cocking an eye at the compass before her as she steered the cruiser to a northerly heading.  The entrance to the fjord, a series of forested hills with a few small fishing villages, fell away aft and to either side.
        “Very well,” Moira said, turning to a thin, tall otter wearing a bosun’s rating on the sleeve of his jumpsuit.  “Increase speed to fifteen knots, Mr. Ktakchuk, and set the sailing watch, please,” she said.
        “Ma’am,” the otter replied curtly.  He grasped the engine telegraph levers and signaled the crew below to put on more steam, then stepped out to the port bridge wing.  “Lookouts aloft!” he yelled.  “And if you drop those binoculars from the crow’s nest again, Carstairs, I’ll make you eat them!”  There was a drumming of heavy shoes on the wooden deck as sailors ran for the mast ladders.
         “Ma’am, signal from Vulture,” the signalman said from the starboard bridge wing.  “They request permission to move forward five miles.”
        Daniels cocked a glance at Marcus, who nodded.  “Signal to Commander Ramsey,” she said.  “Permission granted.”  The signalman picked up a pair of semaphore flags. 
        “Mr. Nauta, add to that ‘Be careful,’” Marcus said.  The fur nodded. 
        The sleek destroyer, at one thousand tons the next-largest ship in the group, started to pull ahead of the rest of the formation, her three smaller pre-War torpedo boats fanning out and tailing her.  “Signal Kestrel and Shrike,” Marcus told Daniels.  “My compliments to Commanders Bair and Gwanui, and have them take up positions to the east and west of us, trailing a few miles behind.  Have their patrol boats start looking for anything out of the ordinary.  I’ll be below.”
        “Yes, sir.”  Marcus left the bridge and headed down the ladder to see for himself how his crew was doing.
        He always started at the forepeak, the chill wind whipping at his exposed fur, where he examined the huge bow anchors with a critical eye.  A square flag divided diagonally into red and black halves fluttered from the jackstaff, proclaiming the ship’s new nationality.  The gilded scrollwork that the Americans had put on her bow decades before had been removed, and an equally ornate panel of carved and varnished red cedar in the likeness of the ship’s namesake replaced it.  A glance over the rail showed a strong curl of foam around the bow as the cruiser picked up speed.  He circled around the forward turret, and patted one of the eight-inch guns with a paw.  This was his ship, and he was still thrilled to be in command of her.
        The crew stood at attention now as he passed, or greeted him with a respectful “Captain.”  The contracts signed by all sailors in the Naval Syndicate included the understanding that discipline was important on a ship at sea.  Furs who tried to get around it usually found themselves beached, and out of a job.
        Still, the crew were allowed to enjoy their duties, and he smiled as he heard two felines (Quebeckers from their accents) singing as they worked. 
        Amidships, the port turret was swiveling back and forth, training its two guns out at the sea while a petty officer studied its motion on his paws and knees.  “Trouble?” Marcus asked as he walked up.
        “Not much, sir,” the canine said, sitting back on his haunches before looking up and nodding at Marcus.  The bear returned the gesture just as casually; after all, the man was working.  “The gun crew heard a grinding noise, and one said he thought it was moving slower than usual,” the stocky Rottweiler said, bending forward again to look.
        “Okay,” Marcus, said.  “Let me know if there’s anything wrong.  We may need those guns.”
        “Aye, sir.”  As Marcus headed aft he heard the petty officer shout, “Hold it!  STOP!”  There was a pause, followed by an outraged howl, “Who’s the yiffing idiot who dropped a screwdriver?”  He looked back in time to see the canine pull a twisted length of metal from the seam where the turret sat in its traverse ring.  Someone’s going to get their tail in a wringer for that, Marcus thought to himself.
        After completing a full circuit of the main deck, Marcus returned to the bridge.  Moira lowered her binoculars and smiled at him.  “Everything okay, Captain?” she asked.  At his nod she added, “We’ve received a wireless message from Vulture.  They’re on station out in front of us.”
        “Good,” the black bear said, nodding.  “Let’s step into the chartroom for a moment, Commander.”  The two walked into the small compartment aft of the wheelhouse and Marcus unrolled a map of the area they were headed into.  “What I propose is that Raven will stay out here most of the time,” he explained, a finger tracing over the paper, “ready to respond if any of the others call for help.  Kestrel and her boats will cover us to the west.”
        “While the other ships prowl around the islands,” Moira said.  She straightened, a paw on her chin.  “Hensley couldn’t tell you anything about what’s going on?” she asked.
        Marcus shook his head.  “He’s as in the dark as we are.”
        “Yeah, but we’re the ones hanging our tails out in hopes they get clipped,” Moira commented.  She glanced at the clock as it chimed.  “Sunset’s in another two hours,” she remarked.
        The bear nodded.  “Pass the message that I want the lookouts doubled every night.”  He smiled.  “Hopefully we can get this taken care of.”


14 February
Near Ketchikan:

        A day later, Raven steamed slowly among the chains of small islands that ran along the coast, collecting reports from the other ships.  Only the three larger escorts had wireless sets, but the smaller vessels were fast enough to come in close and either flash a message with Aldis lamp or semaphore flags, or throw a written message encased in a tube.
        “Nothing suspicious yet,” Moira remarked as she used a colored pencil to mark the chart.  She glanced up as Marcus grunted, his arms folded across his chest as he glowered at the map.  He disliked waiting, and she found herself agreeing with him.
        A rating stuck his head into the chartroom.  “Excuse me, Captain,” he said.  “Signal from K-3, one of Kestrel’s boats.  ‘American destroyer sighted, approaching your position.’”
        The captain and the commander looked at each other.  “Americans?” Moira echoed.  “What the hell do they want up here?”
        Marcus shrugged, then laughed.  “Arrest me for desertion, maybe?” he joked, then turned to the rating.  “Please have Mr. Ktakchuk pass the word to keep a lookout for the American ship.  Inform me the minute they’re sighted.”
        “Yes, sir.”  The feline withdrew, and Marcus pondered the chart again.  “Americans.  Just what we don’t need up here – a distraction.”
        Daniels just nodded.
        The American ship was a lean Caldwell-class destroyer, similar in design to the Vulture.  The thousand-ton ship came within a hundred yards of the Raven as Marcus stepped out onto the port bridge wing, buttoning up his uniform tunic.  A signalman handed him a megaphone as a voice sang out from the American ship.  “Ahoy!  This is the Conway, Captain Blount commanding.”
        “This is Raven, Pierson commanding,” Marcus shouted into the megaphone.  “Why are you in these waters?”
        There was a pause, and the voice replied, “Goodwill patrol, Captain.  Request permission to come aboard?”
        Marcus lowered the megaphone and drummed his fingers on the rail for a moment as he thought it over.  Finally he raised the megaphone to his muzzle and said, “Permission granted.”  To the rating he said, “Tell the steward to set out coffee in the wardroom, please.”
        “Not the beer, sir?” the rating asked.  Unlike the U.S. Navy, the Naval Syndicate served a beer ration to its crews.  It was a privilege to get it, and the Captain could exercise his authority under the contract and have it withheld as a punishment.
        “Just the coffee.  Unless you want us to run dry?”
        “Yes, sir – er, no, sir.  I’ll tell the mess steward to set out coffee.”  He headed for the mess, while Marcus leaned against the rail and looked at the smaller ship again, wondering.
        About an hour later one of the Conway’s boats came alongside, and three officers wearing dark blue winter uniforms came up the boarding ladder.  The leader, a feline whose jacket bore three broad gold stripes, saluted the flag then saluted the ensign at the top of the stairs.  “Captain, permission to come aboard,” the feline said in a nasal Southern drawl.
        The ensign blinked and half-lowered his paw as he started to stammer.  Moira rescued him by clearing her throat and saying, “Welcome aboard, Commander.  I’m Commander Daniels, and this is Captain Pierson,” and she indicated Marcus, who stood there with one brow quirked.
        The Florida panther’s face went through an interesting series of expressions as he looked first at the pronghorn doe, then at the black bear.  Finally he forced a smile and saluted.  His subordinates hesitated, then copied the motion.  “Captain,” Blount said.
        “Commander,” Marcus said, adding a slight stress to the word as he returned the salute.  The inflection made the title a sneer of contempt, and the panther’s nostrils flared slightly.  “Welcome aboard,” the bear added smoothly.  “Please follow Commander Daniels; she’ll escort you and your officers to the wardroom.”  As the group walked away the ensign came up to Marcus and said quietly, “I-I’m sorry, sir.  I didn’t know what to say.”
        The ursine grinned.  “That’s okay, Johnny.  You did all right.  But if anyone does that again, just tell them this,” and he whispered in the younger fur’s ear.
        The beagle stared, then started laughing.  “I’ll remember, sir.”
        Marcus laughed with him, then went to the wardroom.
        The mess crew had fresh coffee prepared, as well as a small tray of sandwiches.  Marcus entered and Moira fixed him with an I’ll get you for this later glare.  She had probably been looking forward to a mug of Naval Issue ale.  From the looks on their faces, the two American lieutenants were regretting the lack as well.  “So, Commander Blount,” Marcus said as he accepted a mug of coffee from the steward and sat down, “what brings you and the Conway all the way up here?  San Francisco’s quite a ways away.”
        Blount stirred his coffee, then smiled as he raised the mug to his muzzle.  “Goodwill patrol, ah, Captain.  Just showin’ the flag.”
        A heavy black brow quirked.  Goodwill patrol?  Do I have ‘Stupid’ tattooed on my forehead? Marcus thought.  The Yank officer’s stress of his rank wasn’t lost on him either.  “I’m glad you’re up here then, Commander.  There’s always room for more goodwill in these times.”
        “Ah’m glad you agree,” Blount said, looking around the room.  “Mighty nice museum piece ya’ll got here too.  ‘Course, it’s no match for us.”
        Marcus glanced at Moira as she choked, almost spitting her coffee out.  He turned back to the panther, a casual smile on his face.  “Excuse me, ah, Commanduh?” he drawled, deliberately aping the feline’s drawl.  “Whatcha mean’ by that?”
        Blount stiffened, and put down his mug as his tail flicked.  It was obvious that he’d gone too far, but was equally determined to brazen it out.  “Ah meant, you’ve got bigger guns, suh, but our Navy’s not about to let women an’ – “ he paused as he realized that he’d gone too far.
        “Say it, Commander,” Marcus said, his voice sounding leaden.  Daniels looked angry at the panther’s apparent opinion of women in command.  “Blackfurs.  Ah b’lieve you were about to say that?”
        Blount smirked.  “Ah meant to say that very thing, suh.  Ah don’t think Rain Island’ll stand much of a chance with the likes of you runnin’ their ships.”
        Marcus sat back, running a paw over his chin.  His sidearm was enticingly near, just at his hip.  Moira and Blount’s two lieutenants just stood and stared at him, wondering what his next move might be.  For his part, Blount just sat and smirked, confident that no one from a small upstart island nation would dare lift a paw against an officer of the United States Navy.
        “Commander Daniels,” Marcus said finally, “could you escort these two officers from the wardroom, please?  Their Captain and I have something to discuss.”  His voice was very quiet, and the pronghorn doe gestured at the door.
        The two lieutenants looked at each other, then at Blount, who nodded.  The three junior officers left the wardroom, and as the door closed Marcus stood up.  “Now then, Commander,” he said as Blount stood, “let’s discuss a few things.”
        Moira and the two Yanks stood on the main deck, looking around awkwardly as the sounds of a fight came through the door.  Suddenly the door banged open and Marcus stepped out, dragging Blount by the collar of his uniform jacket.  Blood drooled from the bear’s nose, but the panther looked considerably battered.  The Rain Islander dragged the panther to the rail and before he could be stopped threw Blount overboard.
        Dragging a paw across his bleeding nose he drew a deep breath and turned to the two gaping lieutenants.  “Don’t just stand there,” he rasped.  “Your Captain’s slipped and fallen in.  I warned him about that wet spot on the deck.”
        The two junior officers blinked stupidly at him for a moment, then almost fell over each other in their haste to get down the boarding stairs to their boat.  Meanwhile, curses and splashing sounds came up from the water.
        Daniels walked up to Marcus, offered him a towel from the wardroom and said, “That was a terrible display, Marcus.  You could get in trouble for that.”
        “Bet you I don’t.”  He smiled, then winced as he dabbed at his bloody nose.
        “Why?” she asked in a puzzled tone.
        Marcus chuckled.  “Getting chucked off a ship like that?  Hell, he’ll probably order those two two-stripers to shut up about it.  I’ve met his sort too many times.”
        “Oh.  By the way, Marcus?” 
        He looked at her as the sound of Conway’s launch receded, Blount still roaring curses.  She started to laugh.
        “I didn’t see a damn thing,” Moira said, “but I loved it.”


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