Marcus Pierson stood rooted to the deck for a split second, the urge to take action warring with consternation and rage that someone would actually be shooting at his ship.  He bolted for the wheelhouse and barked, “Hard to starboard!  Full speed!”  The helmsman started the turn while Ktakchuk grabbed at the engine telegraph and rang for all the speed the engines could muster.  Moira ran in and said, “We’re tracking three of them.  I think Vulture’s seen them as well; she’s headed west at full speed.”
        “Good.  I’m trying an evasive turn, see if we can’t get them to miss us.”  The bridge telephone buzzed, and Ktakchuk put the receiver to his ear.  “Captain, lookouts report that one torpedo has disappeared.”
        “Disappeared?” Marcus echoed.  “What about the other two?”
        “Still running for us, Captain.”
        “Helm, reverse our turn.  Anything from Vulture?” he asked.
        Moira said, “Wireless reports that Vulture is dropping depth charges.  They reported hearing engine noises.”
        “Good.  You were right, Moira, it was a submarine, then.”  Ktakchuk said, “Report from the lookouts.  One torpedo will miss us.”
        “Helm, reverse – “ The ship shook slightly, and everyone on the bridge froze.  “What the hell was that?” Marcus asked, and as if in reply the phone buzzed.  Moira announced, “Bridge here,” listened, and turned to Marcus.  “Damage Control reports a torpedo hit, portside, just aft of the fuel bunker.”
        “It hit us?” the bear asked, mystified, and the pronghorn doe shrugged.  The engine room now buzzed for attention, and the captain grabbed at the phone’s pawset and said, “Bridge here.”
        “Captain,” Mason Stewart said, “I think you’d better see this.”
        “Well, what is it?” the bear demanded, his black fur starting to bristle.  He listened, and Moira saw his eyes widen.  “Okay, Mase,” he said finally, “I’ll be right down.”  He looked slightly distracted as he said, “Ktakchuk, please take over up here.  Have us circle back to see if we can support Vulture and her patrol.  Moira, come with me.”  He headed belowdeck, Moira in tow as the bosun started to give orders.


        It looked like three clean misses, the commander thought sourly to himself.  That first torpedo … whoever had been drinking the alcohol fuel from it would regret it; he’d be lucky to be merely shot when the boat returned to its base.  The second was sheer luck on the part of the Rain Island ship, and he couldn’t see what became of the third.
        As he had watched the third torpedo, he swung the periscope around in time to see a destroyer pounding toward him, and the crew glanced up involuntarily as the first pings of ASDIC sonar started echoing through the water.  He had ordered the crew to begin evasive maneuvers and full speed out of the area, and had thought himself fully prepared for what would likely come next.
        However, no one who has never actually experienced it can ever be adequately prepared for a depth charge attack.  The sound is first, like the world’s largest bell resounding in your ears, before the impact shakes the sub like a rag doll in a terrier’s mouth.  Anything not tied down (which includes people) goes flying across the compartment or scatters across the deck.  Leaks develop from stressed pipes and fittings, and water from those leaks can cause electrical shorts that will plunge the boat into darkness.  Then there is the crew’s reaction to all of this sound and fury.
        The commander clung to the chart table and barked orders at the top of his lungs in order to be heard over the sounds of the barrage over his head.  Some junior members of the crew vomited or soiled themselves, but most reacted as they had been trained, and got themselves and their boat out of the area.
        The Vulture, having expended six charges, listened with hydrophones while its sonar stabbed through the roiling water.  Confident that it had driven the submarine away (since a lack of debris showed that it had not been destroyed), it and its escort waited for Raven to catch up to it. 


        “What the yiff …” Marcus breathed as Mase Stewart showed him what was wrong.  A cylindrical object eighteen inches across, its rounded nose dished in in spots from the impact, lay embedded in the cruiser’s armor belt.  Its location, just aft of the port fuel bunker, promised nothing but bad things if it decided to explode.  Icy water was leaking in around it, but the leakage was easily manageable by the ship’s pumps.  “Will it explode, do you think?” Moira asked from the far side of the compartment.  She was still perched on the ladder, having no desire to get any closer to the torpedo.
        “Well, whether it will or not,” a petty officer said, “it’s got to be removed before anything happens.”  The boatswain’s mate turned to Marcus.  “Captain, I have an idea.”
        “Okay, let’s hear it,” the bear said as he leaned against a bulkhead.
        “We come to a stop and lower one of the launches.  The crew throws a line around that thing and we pull it loose,” the wolf said.
        Mase Stewart snorted.  “That’s a hell of an idea, Smitty.  But I vote with you on it.  We can’t have that damned thing stuck in our side all the way back to Naikoon, and if it explodes while it’s still here – well, it’ll be just too bad,” he said, looking at the captain expectantly.
        Marcus glanced back at Moira, who nodded.  He looked at his boots a moment, then at the wolf.  “I agree, Mase,” he said.  “Smitty, you’re in charge of this – get whatever and whoever you need, take charge and do it.  Mase, have damage control teams stand by.”
        “Sure thing, Marcus,” Stewart said.  “It’ll be a race to get the bugger patched quickly.”
        “Even more of a race if that thing goes off,” Marcus pointed out.  “Moira, tell the Bridge that I want the motor launch readied.”
        “Yes, sir,” the doe said even as she scrambled back up the ladder.
        The Captain and his second-in-command watched as the petty officer and his crew of ten went over the side, climbing down a boarding ladder to the motor launch which then made its way gingerly around to the site where the torpedo stuck out of the Raven’s side.  Moving to a vantage point on the port bridge wing, they watched as the rope was duly affixed by two ratings, who were then helped into another launch (Marcus had insisted that another boat stand by to assist) and given coffee liberally laced with whiskey.
         The launch’s motor strained, foam churning up around the stern as it labored to pull the weapon free.  Suddenly the launch seemed to leap forward, and crew members cheered as damage control parties headed to patch the hole.
        Then the torpedo exploded, shattering the launch’s stern and showering the main deck with water and debris.


        “No …” Marcus breathed as the geyser of cold seawater erupted and the motor launch pitched stern over bow, most of it landing capsized in the water.  The other launch moved in close to start rescue operations as other furs stripped and dove over the side to help.  The radioman stuck his head out of the wireless room.  “Captain?”
        “Yes, what?”  Marcus had difficulty tearing himself away from the scene as Moira ran down the ladder to see what could be done.  “Signal from Vulture, sir,” the radioman said.  “They’ve seen the explosion and want to know if there’s anything they can do to help.”
        “Send my thanks, and tell them to keep looking for that sub.”  Marcus’ paws balled into fists.  He had never lost anyone since taking command of the Raven, and the knowledge that someone might be injured or dead gnawed at him.
        Several minutes later, the ship was listing only slightly, a tribute to the fast action of the damage control crews.  A rating climbed up the ladder to him and saluted.  The otter’s dark blue jumpsuit was stained black with fuel oil and wringing wet, as was her fur.  “Lieutenant Stewart’s compliments, sir.”
        Marcus smiled.  “At ease.  What’s going on below?”
        She sighed, then slumped against the rail and dragged a paw across her matted headfur.  “Lieutenant Stewart says that the hole’s a bit wider, how wide he can’t say just yet.  We’re leaking some oil, so the fuel bunker might have a crack in it.  And – and sir?”  The rating suddenly looked up at him, a hollow-eyed stare.
        Her captain closed his eyes briefly, then opened them as he braced himself.  “Tell me,” he said.
        “We … we lost one, sir,” she said slowly.  “Pinned to the far bulkhead when the explosion happened.  Two injured.” 
        “Okay,” he said, resting a paw reassuringly on her shoulder.  “Get below and lend a paw.”  She turned and headed back down the ladder, leaving wet smears of fuel oil on the railings.  He looked at the grime on his own paw, and grimaced.
        Moira Daniels came down the compartment ladder and paused, blinking at the knee-deep oily water swirling around in the room.  The hole was patched with mattresses, wood and shoring timbers, while three furs were still hammering wedges into place to hold the patch secure.  “Well, we have it under control,” Mase Stewart said, almost completely unrecognizable under a layer of grime.  Her ears canted forward in an effort to hear him over the noise of the pumps and hammering.  “What the hell happened?” he demanded.
        “They got it loose, but the damned thing went off,” the doe replied.  “Your runner said that one died.  I sent her up to brief Marcus.”
        “Yeah, we lost Michaels.  Hyakan and Kelso have some broken bones.  They were holding the patch in place for the shoring when it happened,” Mase said.  “We have pumps working, of course, and we’re trying to keep the water away from the boilers.  It’s the fuel that worries me now.”
        “How much is leaking?” she asked.  The feline looked tired as he cocked his head in thought.  “Maybe a few hundred gallons before we finally closed off that part.  We’re pumping fuel over into the starboard bunker, so we’ll correct any listing we might have.  My biggest concern, right now, is seawater getting into the oil.”
        “That could be a problem,” Moira said.  She sighed.  “I have to get back to the bridge.  There are things that I have to do.”
        Mase reached out and took her paw, giving it a slight squeeze.  Moira was the ship’s shaman by virtue of her position in the chain of command, and she now had at least one funeral service to conduct.
        The ship’s other launch was moving back and forth, picking up swimmers as the remains of the motor launch slowly slid underwater.  Marcus joined a party of ratings and the ship’s doctor as one sailor swam up to the ladder and pulled himself aboard, shrugging off helping paws.  He was immediately bundled into a blanket as he started shivering from the cold.  The launch came alongside then, and Marcus lent a paw to helping both rescuers and survivors from the boat. 
        Three looked injured, their uniforms tattered by flying debris.  One came up the ladder with one arm heavily bandaged, and it looked as if he would be called ‘Lefty’ for the rest of his life.  “Where’s Smitty?” Marcus asked worriedly as the last of the wounded were led up the ladder.
        “There, sir,” the launch’s coxswain said quietly, gesturing toward three blanket-shrouded forms in the stern of the boat.


17 February:

        The patches in the hull held, and Vulture and the other escorts reported no sign of the submarine.  The Raven had paused in its slow trek northeastward to Wrangell to perform a solemn service.
        “… And we now commit the souls of these departed to the sea,” Marcus said, closing his copy of the Syndicate rules.  The book covered most things, including the standardized funeral service.  He stood in his best uniform among the rest of the ship’s crew facing four bodies draped in the Rain Island flag.  Flanking him in their dress uniforms were Mason Stewart and Annette Gold, Mason looking tired and Annette looking angry enough to kill. 
        Facing the assembled crew was Moira Daniels, dressed in her shaman’s costume.  The raven mask hid her face, which was part of the ritual, as were her dancing and chanting as she called upon the gods to watch over the souls of the dead and conduct them to a better place.
        At a signal from the master-at-arms, six crew members lifted the improvised catafalque and tipped it.  Four weighted canvas-wrapped bodies went into the placid, sunlit water as the crew saluted and an honor guard fired three volleys from their Swedish Mouser rifles.  Petty officers then dismissed the crew by division while two ratings folded the flag and took it back to the signals locker. 
        Moira untied and removed her carved cedar mask, taking a deep breath and shaking out her headfur.  Marcus walked up to her as the crew dispersed to their stations.  “Moira, thank you,” he said quietly.  “It was a good service.”
        She tried a smile, but failed at it as she tucked the carved wooden mask under one arm.  “I hate doing funerals, Marcus.  Hate, hate, hate.  But it’s something I have to do, so I do the best I can.  I think you have the hardest part, though.”
        “Yeah.”  It traditionally fell to the captain to write to the families.  “We should be in Wrangell harbor by tonight,” he observed.  “We can get a better job done on patching the hole tomorrow, but first I need to send off an action report to Naikoon.  You sure you’ll be okay?” he asked solicitously.  “There’s whiskey in my quarters.”
        Moira chuckled softly.  “Trying to get me drunk, huh?  Don’t worry about me, Marcus.  I’ll get something to eat and turn in.  You’ll need a sober exec tomorrow.”
        The bear laughed.  “Okay, Moira.  Get some sleep.”  The two parted company as Marcus went to the bridge and Moira went to her quarters.  She wasn’t interested in eating; she had something to do.
        After she closed the door she removed her patterned wool cloak and hung it up carefully, then placed the raven mask on a shelf before facing a corner of the Spartan little room.
        In one corner sat a carved totem whose central character was a likeness of the Great Raven, the ship’s namesake and the spirit who, according to some of the constituent tribes of Rain Island, created the universe.  Arrayed above and below it were other animal totems, notably seabirds and other aquatic creatures.  All Naval Syndicate ships bore such a religious symbol.  She took a deep breath and knelt, lips moving silently.


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