18 February, 0750
Wrangell, Alaska Free State:

        Fishermen and people headed to market the next morning gaped at the sight of the Rain Island warship laying at anchor perhaps a hundred yards from their town.  Her escorts steamed slowly across the harbor mouth looking for any sign of the submarine that wounded Raven, while smaller Alaskan coastal patrol craft shadowed them.  Dirty water sluiced over the side of the cruiser, impelled by the ship’s pumps as work crews labored to reinforce the patch in her side.  Two boarding ladders had been set over the side as a makeshift scaffold to allow repairs to the ship’s hull.
        Marcus stood in the wheelhouse, a mug of coffee in his paw, as Moira entered.  “Good morning, Marcus,” she said, sipping at her own coffee.  She noted that he looked tired, and had probably been up most of the night writing letters of condolence.  “Mase reports that they’ve stopped the fuel leak,” she reported, “and they’re flooding the affected compartments with seawater to flush them out before they try welding anything.”
        The captain nodded, taking a long swallow of his coffee.  “Good.  The sooner we get out of here, the better, and the last thing we need is an accident.  Northern Group cabled the canton government here to authorize payment for anything we might need, and guess what they did?” Marcus asked with a wry look.
        “Charged us double for everything, I’ll bet,” Moira said.
        “You win,” he chuckled.  “So far, though, they’re going to be disappointed.  I also got a message from Naikoon,” and he passed her a piece of paper.  She glanced at it, then read more carefully:

17FEB360315 RINSB NAIKOON TO RINSS RAVEN DIPLOMATIC CONTACT MADE ALASKAN GOVT DENIES OWNING A SUB SUGGEST INTERESTED THIRD PARTY IN YOUR AREA GOOD LUCK GOOD HUNTING AND WATCH YOUR TAIL NEXT TIME VICE-COMMODORE HENSLEY SENDS.

        “Hmm, that’s pretty unequivocal,” Moira said as she gave the paper back to Marcus.  The smile on her face showed that the Vice-Commodore’s joke had not been lost on her.  “So, if the Alaskers don’t have it, who does?”
        “Good question.  I’ve been asking myself that for the past few hours,” the black bear said.  “So many players in the area, it’s difficult to figure out who might gain from all this.”  He gestured with a shake of his head, and she followed him out onto the starboard bridge wing.  A fishing boat sporting a triangular cantonal flag bearing an Orthodox cross chugged by below them.  The cervine captain waved, and Marcus waved back before muttering, “I think half of these people are Russians.  Maybe it’s a Russian sub, and they get support from them?”
        “You’re starting to sound paranoid, Marcus, and we don’t need that,” Moira cautioned.  “The last thing you should do is start jumping at shadows.  It could cause you to make a poor decision at the wrong moment.”
        He ran a paw through his headfur and grimaced.  “I suppose you’re right, but …”  He snapped his fingers.  “I want you to take a small provisioning party ashore and ask around a bit.  Quietly, of course.  I’ll leave paranoia to Annette.  Did you know she didn’t sleep last night?”
        “Really?”
        Marcus nodded.  “According to the cook, she spent most of the night praying and the rest stamping around the decks cursing in Yiddish,” he said with a smile.  “Back during the War, I knew a guy from Gnu York who could strip the fur off your back – I mean it; make you feel like you were the lowest person on earth - and you wouldn’t understand a single word he was saying.”  She laughed and he added, “I expect we’ll have some attack drills today, though.”
        “I think the crew will be happy to do them, too,” she said seriously.  “I’ve just come from the mess, and most of them are hopping mad about yesterday.” 
        “Most?  What about the rest?”
        “I’d say grimly determined.”  They turned at the sound of boots on the ladder, and the vixen they had been chatting about came up.  “Annette, good morning,” Moira said.
        “Guten Morgen, Moira,” she replied, saluting.  Despite her lack of sleep the previous night, she looked fresh as a daisy, her fur brushed and her jumpsuit clean.  “Captain, I would like to have a drill now, please.”
        The bear and the pronghorn doe exchanged glances, then Marcus nodded.  “No live rounds,” he said with a grin.
        The vixen smiled.  “But of course, Captain.  By your leave, then?” she asked, and he gestured to the wheelhouse with his coffee mug.  She stepped into the compartment, and a minute or two later the ship’s emergency klaxon sounded, followed by her amplified voice.  “Now hear this, this is a drill.  Air attack, air attack starboard, gun crews to their posts.  MOVE!” she rapped out, then reappeared on the bridge wing with a stopwatch in her paw. 
        Within moments furs scrambled out of open hatchways, many still in their underwear or less, some tugging on life jackets while racing for the machine guns situated on the masts.  Lookouts scanned the skies with binoculars while gunners hastened to be the first ones ready to repel the attack.  As Marcus and Moira watched, Annette studied the response carefully, her ears canted forward and her eyes intent.  She clicked her stopwatch and returned to the wheelhouse.  “Three minutes, forty seconds,” she announced.  “Not bad, but we need to move faster.  Stand down from drill.”  She leaned back against the railing, her brush snapping back and forth, and Moira asked, “Good drill, then?”
        “Nein,” the vixen replied as she brushed a lock of her headfur from her eyes.  “I let them go back to bed, and then another drill.  I want a crack at those mamzerin who shot at us.”
        “You’ll get one, Annette, I promise you that,” Marcus said.
        Gold bared her teeth in a grin.  “Good!” 
        She walked back to the wheelhouse and Moira remarked, “There’s a person who loves her job.”  She suddenly ducked as a large seagull flew over her head and came to rest on the railing.  The bird regarded the doe with an obviously jaundiced eye, then squawked as it closed its wings over its back. 


        “No, thank you,” Moira said later that morning, politely deflecting the efforts of the fishmonger. 
        The wolf smiled and laid aside the trout he had shown her and said, “Well, missy, p’raps Marcel show you some fine salmon, eh?  Good salmon, caught yesterday.”
        Moira cocked an eye at a petty officer in her party as she replied, “Caught yesterday?  I might be an antelope, but there’s nothing wrong with my nose.  If these things were caught yesterday, you’re a vegetarian.”  At her signal, the equine stepped over from the stack of dried and salted cod he had been looking at and engaged the fishmonger in a rapid exchange of Quebecois French.  The wolf looked angry as he haggled, then finally threw his paws up in surrender as the horse smiled in triumph.  Signed receipts were exchanged (and it was actually a very fair price) and the party left the fish shop.
        As Moira left the shop, something blurred overhead, causing her to flinch and recoil momentarily before looking up.  “What the hell?” she muttered as she shaded her eyes from the sun almost directly over her and glanced upward. 
        Several birds were perched along the roof line of the building.  One of them, a large crow, glanced at her and cawed as it shook its wings out.  Moira selected a small salmon from the basket she was carrying.  “Here,” she said, tossing the fish up onto the roof.  There was a flurry of wings as the birds started to fight over it, while she walked off to rejoin the party.
        When she caught up with them, an elderly hound was busily haranguing the equine petty officer.  “I tell ya, sure, yer ships dere’re scarin’ away de fish,” he drawled, one paw clenched in a fist.  His accent sounded vaguely Scandinavian, and he rounded on her as she came near.  “’Ey, little lady, you in charge o’ dese furs, yah?”
        The petty officer gave her a wink as Moira said, “Yes, I am.  What’s the matter?”
        “De matter?  I’m tellin’ ye de matter,” the hound said.  “Dose ships ye’ve got out dere!  I can’ get nothin’ in m’nets.” 
        Moira nodded understandingly and said in an earnest tone, “I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.” 
        “Yah, ye should be,” the fisherman huffed.  “Ye’re as bad as dose lot came here t’other day.”  He grumbled something indistinct under his breath and added, “Dey come bargin’ in an’ a’most rammed old Vinget’s boat, dey did.”
        The doe thought fast as the rest of her group exchanged glances and said, “I hope they paid for their supplies.”
        The hound muttered again, shaking his head as his tail flicked back and forth agitatedly.  “Vell, I tell ya sure, dey didn’ pay me fer m’fish,” he said in an indignant tone.  “Dey bought a few t’ings, al’do de Vidder Brisby say she had trouble unnerstandin’ dem ven dey come ta be buyin’ in her shop.”
        Moira fished a paw into her pocket and came up with a Rain Island ten-dollar note.  “I’m sorry you’re having trouble,” she said, offering the money.  “Will this help you until we leave?”
        The hound seemed to get angrier as he looked at the redback.  “I don’ be vantin’ no charity.”
        She smiled.  “Please, sir, it’s not charity.”  She thought a moment and said, “I’m just buying your catch from today.” 
        Her words brought the canine up short, and he squinted at her as he thought, then took and pocketed the money.  “Ye’re a good voman, Miss,” he said as he turned away and headed down the street.  “Gott be vit’ ye,” he called over his shoulder.
        “And with you,” she said quietly. 
        One of the ratings said, “One old man’s word isn’t much information, ma’am.”
        “But it’s enough to start thinking about,” the petty officer said.  To Moira the equine asked, “Where to now, ma’am?”
        “Back to the ship to put this fish up,” she said, “and then we’ll have a chat with the Vidder – I mean Widow Brisby and see what she might tell us.”

        The sun was lowering itself behind a few forested islands and turning the harbor waters red as Moira and her small group returned to the Raven for the last time, this time laden with flour, sugar and salt.  After helping stow the supplies, she stopped at her quarters for a shower before heading for the wardroom and dinner.
        Since the meal was beef and not fish, she chose a double portion of potatoes and vegetables and took a freshly-drawn mug of beer from the mess passthrough before taking a seat.  She briefly bowed her head, then started to eat, occasionally looking up to wave or nod as furs greeted her.  Annette set her plate down opposite her and sat down, looking very satisfied with herself.  Moira said, “You look as if you had fun today.”
        The vixen nodded, swallowing a mouthful of savory beef before washing it down with beer.  “Three drills before lunch, three after,” she said.  “I think we’re ready now.”
        “Either that or the crew’s going to dump you overboard,” Moira said with a wink.
        That drew a laugh from the Gunnery Officer.  “Hah!  The gun crews all love me, and you know it, Moira,” she said happily. 
        Marcus sat down at the table.  “You two look pleased with yourselves,” he observed.  “Annette, of course I know why you look so cheerful.  How about you, Moira?  Anything to report?”
        “Yes,” Moira replied, swallowing a mouthful of baked potato.  She swiftly recounted what she had learned from the various townspeople she had encountered, and when she was finished Annette said, “Well, Alaska’s neutral, I guess, so as long as their money’s good they can put in and go shopping.  Still no idea who they are?”
        “No,” Moira said as she drained the last of her mug of beer.  “’They spoke funny’ is the best I could get, which could mean they spoke English, but with bad accents.  One person did tell me that they weren’t Japanese, which cuts down the list of possible candidates.” 
        Marcus looked thoughtful.  “Mase told me earlier that his crews are almost finished with the welding, so we can head back out tomorrow at first light.  It’s a sure chance that the sub’s still out there.”
       

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