19 February, 1645
Westward Channel:

        The area where the sub sank was alive with small boats crisscrossing the floating mass of debris, fishing bodies out of the water and trying to recover some evidence that might indicate where the craft had come from.  Nothing had been found yet, and Marcus realized that divers might have to be brought to the site.  That is, if the survivors weren’t in the mood to talk.
        The group hadn’t yet relaxed its alert posture.  Kestrel was still on the fringes of the area with several of the smaller ships, listening closely for any sign that the submarine had not been alone.  No such sign had been forthcoming, but no one was ready to relax just yet.
        Boats from Shrike and Vulture pulled alongside Raven’s boarding ladder as a party armed with rifles and led by a lupine master-at-arms waited for them.  Those ratings not on duty paused and gazed over the railing as a total of five sailors, swaddled in blankets and looking shocked, were helped up the ladder.  None of them appeared to be officers, a fact noted by the master-at-arms and his superior, Annette Gold.  “Lieutenant, where ya want these?” the wolf asked her.
        The fox scratched under her muzzle for a moment, then said, “Put them in the petty officer’s wardroom, under guard.  At least temporarily,” she added soothingly as she saw the sailor’s stricken look.  “Make sure they get plenty of coffee and have the Doc or an orderly look them over.”
        The petty officer in charge of Shrike’s motor launch waved up at bridge.  “Captain!” he called.  “Captain Pierson!”
        The black bear poked his head over the railing.  “Yes?”
        “Commander Gwanui sends his compliments, sir.  He wants to congratulate you on your plan.  It worked really well, but he says he wants to take a crack at it first next time.”  The petty officer grinned as the captain laughed.  “Don’t worry,” Marcus said.  “I’ll be glad to let him play the bait for the trap next time.”  He looked aft at the prisoners and asked, “Any idea who they are?”
        “Commander Gwanui thinks they might be Russkis, Captain.  At least, they talk like them.”  The fur saluted and steered the boat back to his ship as Marcus nodded.  He stepped back from the railing and turned to look at Moira.  “Russians,” he said.
        “I wonder if they’re Reds or Whites,” she said.  “I think Annette knows a little bit of their language.  Should we let her question them?”
        He shrugged.  “It’s a good idea, but I want those five kept under close watch until we reach Naikoon.  In the meantime, let’s reform the group and head home.”
        As they entered the bridge the radioman handed Marcus a slip of paper.  “Signal from K-2, sir, relayed through Vulture,” the rating offered.  “Commander Ramsey added an “Urgent” tag.”  Marcus took the slip and scanned it, then read it more closely.  Moira asked, “What does he say?”
        “K-2’s skipper sent a fellow down to look at the wreck – it’s only down fifty feet or so,” he said.  “Found an officer down there, or what was left of one.  Can’t figure out who he was or which country – things were pretty torn up, it seems, and they weren’t able to get too far into the wreck.”  He passed the message to her.  “At least the uniforms might mean we’re not dealing with pirates or criminals.  I hope that lieutenant rewards the sailor who went down there; that water’s got to be cold as a witch’s heart,” he remarked as the weather finally broke and thin spikes of rain started to show on the bridge windows. 
        Moira frowned as she looked it over.  “Well, I hope that was the only sub out here.  I’ll relay the orders to the group.”
        “Fine,” the bear said, grinning toothily.  “Make sure that those ships equipped with hydrophones listen close, just in case.”


19 February, 2030:

        The wardroom door opened and Annette walked in, followed by the master-at-arms.  The guard detail of five ratings armed with pistols stepped back, never taking their eyes off the rescued sailors.  One ermine slurped noisily from a mug of coffee and drew his blanket tighter around his thin frame.  Another ermine glanced up, then stared at Annette before nudging a third.  “Da?” the third one, a feline, rasped.
        Annette hoped she still remembered enough Russian from her cubhood.  “Ya … Dozhdnaya Ostrova offitser,” she said haltingly.
        The five sailors blinked, and a canine who seemed to have some authority started saying something about not knowing that Rain Island had female officers.  She was having trouble keeping up with him, but his voice suddenly faltered as he looked up at her, then to her surprise he growled in a disbelieving tone, “Yobaniya Zhida.”
        Now that she understood, recalling stories told to her by her parents and older siblings about pogroms.  As she frowned the others gazed at her, and at the small Star of David showing through the open collar of her uniform jumpsuit.  The feline smiled at her, and it wasn’t a pleasant expression.
        The master-at-arms glanced at Annette, and suddenly started wondering whether he should draw his sidearm – or disarm his superior.  The vixen was bristling at the sailor’s words, her tail bottled up and her ears back.  “’Yobaniya Zhida?’” she hissed.  “Kish m’in tuches, russkim schmuck.”  She jerked a thumb at herself while the quintet glared at her.  “I shot your boat to hell, schmendrick.  Stick that in your ears.”  She turned her back and walked to the door, but paused as the sailor in the blanket said clearly, “Ti lyubish papinu pis’ku sassat.’”
        She whirled and charged at the table, the master-of-arms barely able to catch her in time with a wide-flung arm that caught her across the chest.  The Russians all shot to their feet, only to freeze in position as the guard detail drew and aimed their pistols.  Annette spat at the canine as the master-at-arms half-carried, half-dragged her from the room. 
        When the door finally closed the wolf asked, “What the hell was that all about, ma’am?”  Almost as an afterthought he set her back down on her feet.
        She slowly got herself under control and tossed her head to settle her headfur back into place.  Her paw rested on the butt of her holstered M1903 pistol as she said, “John, it might not be a good idea if I went in there again.”
        “I’ll say.  Care to tell me what he said, Annette?”
        Annette turned and walked up the passageway, headed for her quarters.  “No,” she called out over one shoulder.  John watched her walk away while reminding himself that she’d probably tell him over dinner once they reached home.


20 February, 1237
RINSS Kestrel:

        Commander Bair sat at his desk and glowered at the young otter who stood at rigid attention before him.  The ship’s master-at-arms, a stocky puma, stood off to one side as the weasel ran a paw over the object on his desk.
        The otter had given himself away, bragging to his shipmates the previous night about the ‘souvenir’ he had gotten from the sunken submarine.  The patrol craft’s commander had ordered the seaman to turn the object over, and had reported the incident to Bair.
        Bair looked down at the object again.  It was an officer’s shoulder board, heavy with gold braid and bearing along with a naval commander’s rank stars a crown and a florid Cyrillic letter N.  “So,” he asked, “you thought to take a souvenir, and withheld information that could have been useful, Seaman Anderssen?”
        “Well, um,” the otter stammered, raising a paw to self-consciously rub the back of his neck.  “See, sir, it looked nice, an’ I thought I could …”
        “Sell it?” the weasel asked.
        “Well, no sir, just hang on to it,” Anderssen said.
        Bair smiled.  “’Just hang on to it,’” he repeated.  “Well, Mister Anderssen, Rule 20a says that if anything of possible value is found after a battle it’s to be reported to your commander.  You get a larger share of the prize value as a reward.
        “However, since you broke that rule, you are fined ten dollars.  I’ll keep this,” and a finger tapped the epaulet.  “Send him back to his ship, Davis.”
        “Sir,” the puma said, taking the shocked otter from the room.  Bair looked at the epaulet again, and picked up his intercom phone.  “Send the signalman of the watch to my office immediately.”


20FEB361300 KESTREL TO RAVEN FOUND VOSTOK OFFICER RANK ABOARD SUB IN SAFEKEEPING SEAMAN DISCIPLINED SORRY BAIR SENDS.

        Marcus frowned as he finished reading the coded dispatch from Kestrel and looked out over the rainswept water.  “Tsarists,” he muttered, handing the message to Moira.  She looked at it briefly, then glanced at him.  “What could they want out here?  It’s too far to the east.”
        “True,” he said.  “They normally keep an eye on Japan, and snarl about invading Russia to take it back from the Reds.  This doesn’t make much sense, unless they were trying to start a war between us and Alaska.”
        “Why would they do that?” Moira asked. 
        Marcus shrugged.  “I’ll send this on to Naikoon and when we put in maybe we’ll be told.  How’s the patch holding?”
        “Mase says it’ll hold until we get back to base,” Moira said cheerfully.  “After that we’ll have to get her to the drydock down in Vancouver to do a full repair job on her.”
        “Good,” Marcus said.  He put his binoculars to his eyes as Annette Gold entered the bridge.  “I figured out a plan,” she announced.
        “For interrogating the prisoners without having you shoot them?” Moira asked, and the vixen snickered.
        “Yes,” Gold said.  “I’ve taught a few basic phrases – well, all I can remember – to a couple others, who are using them to question the prisoners.  They’ll take down the responses so I can figure them out.”  She seemed pleased with herself, and Marcus asked, “Where are they staying?”
        “I moved my gear from my quarters,” she said, and that caused both of her superiors to stop and stare at her.  “I’m bunking in the master-at-arms’ office.”
        “That’s mighty generous of you, Annette,” Marcus remarked.
        “Generous, hell,” the vixen shot back.  “I do expect a bonus for putting myself out, Marcus.  But I expect I’ll manage until we get back to port.”  She winked at Moira as she left the bridge, and the other woman suppressed a smile.  Yeah, I’ll just bet she’ll be putting herself out, Moira thought to herself.

        Later in the evening Marcus had the ship increase speed to its full twenty knots, after being assured that the patch would hold up provided the seas didn’t get too rough.  As it was, the weather was indeed worsening, and he wanted to get his group home.
 
        A rating walking by the master-at-arms’ office that night heard muffled sounds coming from the other side of the door, but resisted the temptation to put his ear against the metal to find out what was going on.  What he could hear was enough.



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