19 February, 0830
Wrangell, Alaska Free State:

        It was a misty morning, as the early-morning fog joined with a low overcast to cloak the world in shades of gray.  Marcus stood in the ship’s wheelhouse, watching the dawn and hoping that the mists would help to hide his ship from the sub.  He winced and closed his eyes as his injured nose throbbed.
        He glanced at Moira Daniels and checked his watch against the ship’s clock.  “Commander Daniels, take charge and move us out of the harbor, please,” he said.  His executive officer nodded and orders were swiftly passed.  Sailors hurried along the decks to raise the bow anchors, while smoke belched from the cruiser’s stacks.  K-1, one of Kestrel’s patrol boats, played the part of a tug and shoved the bigger ship’s bow around.  “Mister Ktakchuk, ring for one-quarter; helm, rudder amidships,” Moira said crisply.
        “Yes, ma’am,” the otter replied, and passed on her instructions to the helm and the engine room.  Slowly the big ship started to move, leaving behind a brief slick of oil.  A roughly circular patch of steel on her port aft quarter, bare of any paint, indicated where she had been wounded two days earlier.  Repair crews had labored almost until departure time to complete the task of sealing the three-foot-wide hole and getting the ship ready for sea.
        Several early risers stood and watched as Raven and her escorts left Wrangell harbor and headed west, the first wan rays of the sun catching the red and black ensign hanging from the flagstaff on her stern.  Some of the Alaskan furs waved, and the Rain Islanders waved back.  After all, the visit had resulted in some money going into the cantonal coffers and shopkeeper’s pockets, so it wasn’t a total waste.
        As the ship made its way down the wide channel, lookouts perched in the masts and all watertight doors were secured in case it should come under attack again.  The senior officers, along with the escort commanders, Bosun Ktakchuk and several of the leading petty officers met in the chartroom to pore over charts of the surrounding waters and discuss possible courses of action.
        “I still don’t like this idea,” Mase Stewart said, his tail snapping back and forth.  “We got lucky once, Marcus, and I don’t want to expose us to any more unnecessary danger.  And this plan of yours.”  He shook his head.  “You’re taking a helluva risk.”
        “I don’t think the danger’s unnecessary, Mase,” the bear replied.  “It’s very necessary that we find and sink that boat.  I’d rather expose the Raven and her escorts to that sub than another patrol boat or a civilian ship.  Now,” and he straightened up, still looking at the chart, “I’m not going to be overly optimistic.  Whoever it is out there has a very good chance of sinking us or one of the other ships in the group.  What I want, according to the Rules, is agreement based on the facts at paw.”  He looked at Bair, Ramsey and Gwanui. 
        Bair, a rail-thin weasel and the senior escort commander, looked down at the chart and the penciled diagrams of the plan, and nodded.  “I agree,” he said quietly. 
        “Ramsey?” Marcus asked.  The bulldog nodded and took a long drink of his coffee. 
        Gwanui ran a paw over his curling horns and said, “I still don’t like where you’ve put Shrike in the plan, Marcus.  A mile or so to the west would be better, but I agree to the plan.” 
        The bear nodded to the mountain goat and said, “I appreciate your concern, Gwanui.  It puts you in a bad position.”  He bent over the chart and scribed a line with a red pencil.  “Better?”  The goat nodded, and Marcus straightened again, this time looking at his officers and chief enlisted ratings.  “Well?”
        The petty officers all looked at each other, then a chief machinist stepped forward.  “We’ve voted, and we agree, Captain,” she said.  “Let’s go huntin.’”
        “Annette?”
        The vixen shrugged.  “You already know my answer, Captain,” she said with grin.  “Let’s go and kill us a sub.”
        “Mase, I know your opinion.  I respect it too.  Disagree?”  The feline engineer nodded.
        “Moira?”  Daniels looked uncertain, then said “I disagree, Marcus.  I’m sorry, but I don’t want any more funerals.”  She looked distressed, and the bear nodded. 
        “And I don’t want to write any more letters, Moira,” he said quietly.  “But we have to do something, and I don’t mean run for Naikoon either.”
        He placed his paws on the map, a troubled look on his face.  “All right.  For the record and under Rule Twenty, the Raven Group Executive has met and voted on the plan of action, with two saying No.  We will conduct the operation as planned.”  He straightened and looked around at the gathering.  “Dismissed.”  The wardroom emptied, until only Moira and Marcus were left.  She said, “I hope to hell you’re right about this, Marcus.”
        His expression settled into a grimace as he said, “I hope so too, Moira.  I hope to God I’m right about this.”  She walked out then, leaving him to his thoughts as he studied the chart again.


        The sub had drawn off several miles, managing to avoid the destroyer’s sonar and depth charges by diving as deeply as their charts allowed and making several course changes.  Finally the surface ship had moved off.  The commander hoped that it was to conduct rescue operations on the cruiser, but there had been no explosion and no sounds of a ship breaking up.  The fur manning the hydrophones reported that he had heard something, but had been unsure as to the cause. 
        At his orders, the sub had surfaced in a small cove after nightfall.  Repairs had been needed, and the ship lay at anchor all night while her engines charged the batteries and everything was prepared for the next day.  Just before first light the submarine had weighed anchor and slipped out of the cove, submerging shortly thereafter.
        “Komandir!  Vidyete, p’zhalst!” the exec yelped, one paw waving frantically as he peered through the periscope.  He stepped out of the way as the commander looked, and grinned as the senior fur grunted in satisfaction. 
        “Ochen horosha, Leytenant,” the commander said.  As the sun came up the fog had lifted, and the officer had made out two masts and three slim funnels, which matched the cruiser’s silhouette.  “Usili skorost pyat kilometrov, pravit’ desyat gradov.”  The orders were acknowledged, and the submarine’s propellers increased their speed as the boat changed course.
        “Prigotovlyat’ truboi odin i dva,” the commander ordered.  He was determined not to miss this time.  A favorable report would mean advancement for him and his officers, and money and vodka for the crew.  Perhaps, even, the stories from this voyage could be used to attract some female companionship.  Most of the crew, he was sure, were feeling a bit lonely after two weeks at sea.


        Marcus had given up on pacing the deck from one bridge wing to the other, and now brooded silently in the wheelhouse.  He brooded over the charts, unconsciously gnawing on his claws as he waited.  Moira glanced at him from time to time, wondering if his patience would break and if he would abandon the plan he had thought up.
        He jerked as the intercom phone buzzed.  Bosun Ktakchuk picked up the pawset, listened, and then said, “Foremast lookouts report what looks like a periscope.”
        “Where?” Marcus asked, grabbing the binoculars slung over his chair.
        “Starboard,” the bosun replied.  “Range about a thousand yards and decreasing.”  Marcus and Moira both ran for the starboard wing and aimed their binoculars out at the water.  “There!” he shouted, pointing.  Moira scanned the area he indicated, and nodded.  “I see it,” she breathed.  “So far, so good Marcus.  Let’s hope the rest of it works as well.”
        “It will,” Marcus said, his jaw set as he stepped back to the bridge.  “Signal the group that we have company,” he ordered.  “Tell them to stand by for instructions.”  Calling the ship to battle stations was unnecessary, since the ship had been at that condition since leaving harbor, and crews were hovering nervously over their guns.
        Several minutes passed as the periscope drew closer. 


        Why wasn’t it moving? The commander thought to himself as the sub approached its target.  The firing crew had been updating the target solution every few seconds, but the cruiser just sat there.  For a moment his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he sensed a trap.  He swung the periscope about in a full circle, searching for any sign of the cruiser’s escort ships.  Nothing could be seen, but that fact did nothing to relieve his anxiety.
        “Leytenant,” he said.
        “Ser?”
        “Mischen kreyser,” he said, his tail whipping back and forth as he tightened his grasp on the periscope.  It wasn’t his problem that the opposing captain was playing stupid.  He’d just show the fool the cost of his stupidity. 
        His free paw raised and clenched into a fist.  “Prigotovit’ … strelba!”  His fist came down in a swift chopping motion.
        The submarine shuddered as a burst of compressed air drove the first torpedo from its tube, and the executive officer clicked his stopwatch.


        “Torpedo!  Torpedo to starboard!” Ktakchuk exclaimed, holding the intercom phone away from his ear.  His wince indicated that the lookout had been screaming into his phone.  As the word was passed to the other intercom stations, furs could be seen racing along the decks. 
        Marcus and Moira watched as the trail of bubbles that marked the torpedo’s path grew closer, drawing a straight line directly toward the center of Raven’s hull.  The bear’s paws gripped the rail as he watched it getting nearer until he felt a fierce tug against the back of his uniform and he crouched behind the canvas shield on the railing.
        The explosion was impressive as the weapon’s two hundred pound warhead went off.  A geyser of water and debris went flying in all directions, shards pinging off the metal superstructure as they ricocheted.  The cruiser shivered from the impact.  The water subsided, falling onto the deck and splashing back into the channel as Marcus stood up and craned his neck to see what had happened.


        “Blin!” the commander swore as the explosion went off a second early.  When the water cleared out of the way he could see furs running along the decks as smoke belched from the ship’s vents.  He was sure that he had hit it, but there was no sign of the ship settling in the water, no secondary explosions, nothing.  He glared at the exec, who promptly cringed and started to stammer.
        The senior officer waved away any attempt on the part of the lieutenant to speak and studied the periscope again.  “Truba dva,” he snarled, then stared.  “Chto?”
        The image in the periscope was moving.  Not the ship, but it was as if something was striking the periscope.  The image shook, and then it was obscured as something - a clam? - was banged against the lens.  Another pause, and now what appeared to be tailfeathers were obscuring the image.
        “Chyort!  Yobaniy ptitsa!” he growled, moving the periscope back and forth in an effort to chase the bird away.  He started to look through it again, then flinched.
        The bird had muted on the periscope lens.
        “Chyort …”  He lowered the scope and raised it again, and noted to his disgust that the lens was still obscured.  He had to fire again; he had to make sure of his kill, and time was wasting away.  The cruiser’s escorts could be coming closer.  “Poverkhnost!” he snapped.


        “Captain!  The sub’s surfacing!” Moira said, grabbing at Marcus’ arm.  Although the Raven had shuddered from the force of the explosion, the shoal of rocks they had hid behind had saved the ship.  The bear shook his head at the sight of the sub’s conning tower starting to break the water.             “What an idiot …” he breathed, then turned to Ktakchuk.  “All gun crews, aim and fire on that sub!”
        The normally straight-faced otter grinned.  “Yes, sir!”  The six five-inch guns on the starboard casement swiveled in their sponson mounts as the three main turrets facing the sub trained in on the target.
         “First hit gets a bottle of whiskey!” Marcus added as the first five-inch gun went off.
        The first shot splashed wide, sending up a gout of seawater and causing a seagull perched on the sub to fly away.  The other guns started to track left and right as the sub tried to evade the attack, splashes of exploding shells momentarily disrupting the view of the scene.  Suddenly the Raven jerked sideways as six eight-inch cannon joined the attack.  There was a huge splash and the sub lifted almost clear of the water before returning to it with a thunderous sound.
        As the smoke cleared away from the amidships turret, Marcus was treated to the sight of his normally taciturn and very straitlaced Gunnery Officer standing atop the turret’s aiming cupola.  Annette looked either angry or ecstatic, with her red-gold tail snapping like a flag in the breeze as she shook her fist in the direction of the sub.
        “Tuchis arine, du shtik dreck!” she screamed in Yiddish, and almost fell off the turret as the guns fired again.  She picked herself up, laughed and made an obscene gesture.  Moira remarked with a straight face, “Well, I think she’s happy.”
        “I think she’s crazy,” Marcus said as his Gunnery Officer turned away from the sub, bent over double, raised her brush and started slapping her rear with both paws.  Smoke from here and there marked where the escorts were coming out of hiding, making full speed in order to get in on the hunt.  One of the five-inch crews was probably celebrating as a shot clipped the submarine’s small sail.  “That’s good shooting,” Marcus exulted.
        “Annette’s got them well trained,” Moira said, then jumped as another shell struck the sub where the sail met the hull.  The smaller craft lurched and started wallowing, debris and bubbles pooling around it as it started to die.  Hatches were thrown open, and several sailors in blue trousers and white shirts started to appear in the water.
        “Please signal the escorts, Mister Ktakchuk,” Marcus said.  “Have them begin rescue operations.”
        “Yes, sir.”  Moira put a paw to her chest and closed her eyes momentarily, concentrating on slowing her breathing as the guns stopped.  She opened them, blinking back tears of relief.  “Your plan worked, Marcus,” she said.  “Hiding behind a shoal of rocks and daring them to attack was a good idea.”
        “Well, it would only have worked once,” he said.  “I guess I really should learn to stop leading with my muzzle like that,” he added with a wry grin.  “Someone might get hurt.”


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