21 February, 0815
Naikoon, Graham Island:

        Townspeople lined the docks and waved as the Raven and her escort group entered the long fjord that led into the harbor.  Some cheered as the cruiser came closer and they could see the broom lashed to the jackstaff at the bow.  Ratings lined the railings, dressed in their dark maroon and dark forest green dress uniforms as the ship was tied up to the wharf.  “Well, this is a surprise,” Marcus said as he and Moira surveyed the mooring from the bridge.
        “What?” she asked, and followed his gaze.  There on the dock stood Vice-Commodore Hensley, but standing beside him was a tall, gaunt Irish wolfhound in formal RINS uniform.  “Commodore O’Rourke,” she said, impressed.  “Why would the Command Syndic come up here?”
        “Probably to hear my after-action report in person,” Marcus said as he headed for the bridge ladder.  He paused as Bosun Ktakchuk announced, “Sir, the ship is moored and made fast.”
        “Very well,” he said with a relieved and happy grin as he put on his hat, glancing at a polished brass fitting to make certain that the kepi was on straight.  “Signal the Engine Room that they are secure from operations.”
        “Yes, sir,” the otter said, smiling and he yanked the engine telegraph handles.  The ship’s whistle blew then, to be echoed by the other ships in the group and a cheer by the sailors.
        The bear made his way to the quarterdeck and down the gangway to where his superiors stood waiting.  When he reached them, he came to attention and saluted.  To Hensley he said, “Sir, the Raven has accomplished its mission.”
        The Vice-Commodore returned the salute and said, “Captain, we are pleased that your mission is accomplished.”  He shook paws with Captain Pierson as the ship’s whistle blew again and there was another cheer.  Hensley then raised his voice and said loudly, “Ahoy the bridge!”
        Ktakchuk peered over the bridge railing.  “Sir?”
        “Make signal to the group, Bosun, that the firewatch may commence.”  The signal was quickly passed via signal flags, followed by a more heartfelt cheer from the crews.  With the formalities dispensed with, Hensley turned to Marcus and said, “Marcus, this is Commodore O’Rourke.  Commodore, Captain Pierson.” 
        “Captain,” Deirdre O’Rourke said, “I’m pleased that you’ve come back safely.”  The three glanced almost as one towards the forward gangway as five sailors were escorted off the ship.  “Those are the prisoners?” she asked.
        “Yes, ma’am,” Marcus said, “and Commander Bair will be along with the piece of evidence his sailor recovered.”  As they walked along the wharf the five Russians were loaded into a flatbed Mack truck to start their long trip south.  After questioning, they would be flown to Port Vancouver to be repatriated.  The injured sailors from the Raven were disembarked into a waiting ambulance.  “The mission wasn’t a total success, Vice-Commodore,” Marcus said.  “I lost four good people.”
        “So I heard,” Hensley said, his mood sobering.  “Let’s go up to the office, and you can tell me and Deirdre all about it.”  The three officers started up the hill to the Syndicate offices.  Moira watched them go from the quarterdeck, then reached out a paw and tapped Annette Gold on her shoulder.  “Annette, wait up a second.”
        “Yes, Moira?” the vixen asked, and followed Daniels into an alcove where the doe said, “I heard about what happened last night.”
        Gold knew better than to act innocent.  “I’m sorry, Moira,” she said contritely.
        The pronghorn doe frowned at the junior officer, unimpressed by the apology.  “Just remember, Annette; next time the Captain might hear about it, not me.  And you know the Rules.  The least you’ll get is a fine.”  Her demeanor softened, and she smiled.  “Now, get ashore.  I’m sure John’s looking for you.”
        The vixen grinned and saluted.  “Yes, ma’am!” she said, and headed off the ship.  Moira shook her head, then attended to her job, which required her to be the last off the ship except for the skeleton crew detailed to watch the engines and keep the ship secure.
        As the senior officers walked up the hill, Marcus said, “I’ll have to go around and give my condolences to the families, sir.”
        Hensley nodded.  “Are their families here in Naikoon?”
        “All but Michaels,” Marcus sighed.  “His wife and son live in Vancouver.”
        “Captain, we all grieve for your loss,” O’Rourke said, pausing to look back at the long gray shape of the Raven.  “Rest assured their families will be looked after.  The Syndicate takes care of its own, as you know.”
        “Thank you, ma’am.  I’m sure that it’ll be a comfort to them,” Marcus said. 
        After they were in Hensley’s office, the Vice-Commodore poured drinks for Pierson, O’Rourke and himself.  “To the Raven and her crew,” he said, raising his glass in a toast.
        Marcus blushed as he drank, and O’Rourke sat herself down on a sofa.  “Now, Captain Pierson, let’s hear your report.”
        He took his time, standing in the center of the room while his superiors asked questions where necessary and listened to his account of the incident.  At one point they were interrupted by Commander Bair, who pressed the officer’s shoulder board into Marcus’ paw even as he declined an invitation from the Vice-Commodore to drink.  He explained that he was dining with his crew, and left the office.  Hensley and O’Rourke examined the epaulet as Marcus finished his account.  “I want the Chief Syndic to see this, and maybe pass the prisoners on to the Vostok Ambassador personally,” O’Rourke said with a smile.  “Is there a flight to Vancouver tomorrow?” she asked.
        “One way to find out,” and Hensley picked up the phone and jiggled the receiver.  “Front desk?  Hensley here.  Is there a flight for Vancouver tomorrow?  Okay … really?  Any seats – ohh, yes, we do have a flight chartered, my mistake,” and he hung up as he said to his commander, “The plane’s leaving at 1000 tomorrow.  It’s the one we were planning on taking, and there are enough open seats for three.”
        “Three seats?” Marcus asked, his ears flicking forward.
        Hensley smiled.  “I’m sure you’d like to see the look on that Tsarist’s face when we tell him what we’ve done to his Grand Duchess’ toy boat.”
        “Well, I suppose so,” Marcus said hesitantly, “but I have things to do.  I have to get Raven down to the drydock so we can fix her up – “
        “Which will take time,” O’Rourke said.  “We need Raven up here and in first-class condition as quickly as possible, true – for as long as possible, as well.”  She and Hensley shared a glance as she spoke. 
        Marcus nodded and drank down the rest of his drink in one long swallow, then smacked his lips.  “Well, I’d best be getting on,” he said.  “I have to meet the families, and then get some sleep if I’m going with you two tomorrow.”
        “If you need to talk, give me a yell and come on over,” Hensley offered, shaking paws with the bear.  After the door closed the badger looked at the wolfhound.  “He’s a good captain,” he said.
        O’Rourke smiled.  “Al, if I hadn’t thought he’d make a good captain, I’d never’ve given him command of the Raven, and you know it.”  She drained her whiskey glass, got up and refilled it before adding, “Using his ship as a tied goat in a tiger hunt is daring – some might consider it foolish.  But we need commanders who can think creatively.”


22 February, 0945
Naikoon Seaplane Landing:

        The plane waiting at the dock the next day was a Pelican, a Rain Island-built short range seaplane with three engines that was designed for carrying a dozen passengers and their luggage.  The cockpit was mounted above the passenger cabin, which gave the plane’s hull a distinctive shape and led to it being named after the big-throated bird.  The five sailors from the downed sub were already aboard, along with their escort, behind a curtained-off section of the cabin.  As the three Naval Syndicate officers walked along the dock toward the plane, Marcus paused and asked, “Is it safe?”
        Hensley snorted.  “Of course it is,” he laughed.  “What, are you afraid of flying, Marcus?”  He laughed louder as Pierson frowned at him, blushed and climbed aboard.
        The plane lifted off without any trouble aside from some loud prayers in Russian from two of the prisoners.  It banked around to a southerly heading and headed away from the port.
        After perhaps two hours of flying, Hensley glanced out a window, then turned to Marcus with a smile.  “There’s another reason I wanted you to come along,” he said.  “Take a look.”  He made room for his subordinate to see, and Pierson craned his neck.  The plane was climbing slightly over a mountain, and as it passed over the peak he gasped, his eyes widening in surprise.
        In a protected fjord lay a shipyard, partially surrounded by a raw-looking town of wooden and stone buildings centered on what appeared to be twin steel mills.  The dockyard area was huge, and his mouth went dry as he saw three huge hulls being built within the dock.  He turned his head to gaze at Hensley who smiled easily.  “Impressed?” the badger asked.
        “Hell yeah,” the bear said, looking back out the window as the view went by beneath them.  “Capital ships,” he muttered.  “Two cruisers and …”  His breath caught in his throat and he sat back down in his seat.
        “Yes, a battleship,” Hensley said.  “We’re calling it Eagle for now, and she’ll be forty thousand tons and mount a main battery of nine sixteen-inchers according to the design.  The ships on either side of her are two first-rate cruisers, each packing ten-inch guns.”  He smiled and combed his claws through his gray headfur.  “The Governing and Command Syndicates all thought it was high time we finally started a navy that could compete on near-equal terms with the other nations in the area.  Those three are the start of something big – their keels were laid at the same time last year.”
        “When will they be complete?” Marcus asked.
        “Sometime in ’39, according to the design plans,” Hensley replied.  “Why?  Interested in commanding one of them?”
        The bear chuckled.  “Now, Al, I’m not going to jinx myself by looking too eager.  Although …” he whistled.  “They’re going to be pretty ships.”
        “Deirdre and the rest of the Syndicate command thought so, when we saw the designs,” the badger commented, jerking a thumb toward the Commodore, who was sound asleep.  “We assembled a small team of experts who drew up a sort of amalgamated design.  The three ships incorporate Japanese, British and German design elements.”
        “Not American?” Marcus asked, and Hensley shook his head.  “No,” he replied, “their battleships are generally slower.  We want to be able to hit fast and hit hard.”
        “Not too fast, I hope,” Marcus observed, “or they’ll be just as vulnerable as Raven.”
        Hensley nodded.  “We’re hopeful that the designs will stand up to anything a potential enemy can throw their way, and throw it back at them harder.”  He smiled as the plane banked, heading for a landing at Port Vancouver.


        “Preposterous!” Colonel Count Alexei Berdykov spluttered that afternoon.  The short Samoyed had been summoned to the Chief Syndic’s office soon after the plane touched down, and he had listened in growing impatience to Marcus’ report.  Finally he got to his feet and interrupted the bear.  “I tell you, it is preposterous,” he said in clear but accented English, his wide and impeccably brushed white-furred tail quivering in indignation as he stood in the center of the wood-paneled office.  “Whatever this one tells you, Mister Chief Syndic, it is a lie.  None of Her Highness’ navy would dare infringe upon Rain Island or Alaska.”
        The Chief Syndic of Rain Island, John Whitepaw, sat back and rested his paws on his desk.  He was dressed in denim trousers and shirtsleeves, and a few smudges on the shirt showed that he had been working at his usual job as a plumber before being called into the office.  The lynx smiled.  “Of course, Your Excellency, you are entitled to your opinion,” he said easily, “but there is the fact that Captain Pierson brought this with him from Naikoon,” and a finger idly flicked the epaulet on the desk blotter.
        The Count dismissed the artifact with a “Bah!” and a curt wave of a manicured paw.  His buff-colored dress tunic was unadorned save for a simple white enamel cross on a black and orange ribbon pinned over his heart, signifying him as a holder of the Order of Saint George (fourth class).  “Anyone could have given him that – why, he might even have bought it from somewhere to discredit the Russian Navy.”  He cast a sly glance at Marcus.  “Such is the perfidy of all Americans.”
        Marcus’ brows drew together in a frown, but a tiny shake of Hensley’s head made him subside.  “Commodore O’Rourke,” Whitepaw said, “do you have anything that corroborates Captain Pierson’s report?” 
        O’Rourke smiled widely.  “Why yes, Mr. Whitepaw, I believe I do,” and she stood, walked to the door and tapped on it.  She stepped out of the way as the door opened and the five Russian sailors were herded in by their escort.  When they caught sight of Berdykov, they dropped to their knees, one of them stammering, “P-polkovnik … Prevoskhoditelstvo – “
        “Molchat!’” Berdykov roared, and the sailor fell silent, bowing his head and looking down at his bound paws.  In the brief silent pause that followed Whitepaw said quietly, “I believe we have corroboration, don’t we Count?”
        The small canine pulled himself together with a visible effort and turned toward the plumber, who smiled up at him.  “It seems that perhaps I was misinformed,” Berdykov said smoothly.  “I shall communicate what has happened to my government at once.”  He gestured at the prisoners.  “May I take these unfortunates with me?  Her Highness the Grand Duchess will want to see that these are reunited with their families.”
        “Of course.”  At his nod, the sergeant in charge of the escort started removing the pawcuffs from the quintet.  “Please convey my best wishes to her Highness,” he went on, “and please impress on your government the desire of the Rain Island Anarchcracy to have only the most cordial relations with the Imperial Government.”
        The Samoyed bowed.  “I shall.”  At his barked order the five sailors fell in behind him as he walked out, and after the door closed Whitepaw and O’Rourke started laughing.  “My Lord,” the wolfhound said, “I thought he’d blow a gasket when he saw them.”
        Whitepaw sighed and brushed an errant lock of headfur from his eyes.  “I’d rather deal with a dormitory full of clogged toilets,” he admitted.  “Lord knows I’m glad I’m coming to the end of my term.  Let someone else do this job, so I can go back to really earning a living.”


23 February, 0700
Naikoon:

        She had waited until what her training had told her was the right time to act.  Now, with the rising sun at one end of the sky and the setting full moon at the other, she made her way up through the town to a hill overlooking the fjord where Raven lay at anchor.
         There was a totem standing there, and she bowed slightly to it before settling to her knees before a large, flat rock at the base of the carved cedar log.  She reached into the bag at her hip and drew out a live crab that she had bought at the market before starting her walk.
        She heard the clatter of wings and looked up to see a large gull settle onto a perch at the top of the totem.  It cocked an eye at her and squawked as she drew her boot knife and chopped the crab into quarters, leaving it on the rock.  “Here you are,” she said, and sat back, drawing her knees up to her chin as she watched the gull fly down and start to gorge on the crab.
        As it ate, she began to chant in a low voice a song of thanks.



The end