August 1, 1937
Northern Nimitz Sea:

        The broad expanse of the northern Nimitz Sea attracted the fishing vessels of many nations.  The currents from the warmer latitudes brought abundant nutrients for the small creatures that sustained the various species of fish, and ships from as far away as Vanirge and the Albanian South Indies sought to harvest some of that bounty.  There were times when the ships would come within sight or hail of ships from Tillamook and Rain Island, who also plied these waters.
        A five-hundred-ton trawler flying the tricolor of Vostok Island’s Tsarist government made its slow way through the fishing ground it had staked out for itself.  Halfway through its voyage this season, the ship and its crew almost had a full hold of salmon and tuna, and soon it would have to head for port.  Many of the crew were looking forward to going home, but there were always a few who would look toward the occasional other ships on the horizon and wonder what things were like in those crews’ distant lands.
        Those few were always careful to make sure that no one else saw them looking.  The Grand Duchess’ ukase against defections had some rather stringent penalties written into it.
        The ship’s second mate, a solidly-built feline with an odd bluish cast to his fur, leaned against the rail and puffed at his pipe as several crewmembers hauled in another full net and started separating out those fish to be thrown back and those to be gutted and iced in the hold.  As he drew on the pipe one of the crew called out, “There he is, right on time.”
        The mate looked in the direction the canine was pointing and grimaced as a stream of smoke blew out around the stem of his pipe.
        Yes, the patrol plane was back. 
        He checked his watch, all the while telling himself that the maritime patrol was a reasonable precaution – pirates and smugglers did operate in this area, and the westernmost island of the Tillamook Confederacy was only two hundred miles to the east-northeast.  Still, the regular appearance of the Naval Syndicate KV-3 seaplane made him nervous.
        And suspicious.
        “Vanya!” and the feline turned away from the rail as the captain of the trawler waved him into the wheelhouse.  He paused to wave at the plane (it was a habit of his) as it passed overhead, perhaps a mile off the port quarter, and followed the captain in.
        “Just like clockwork, our friend passes over this area, eh?” the captain, a scarred wolf with graying headfur asked as he glanced at the chart tacked to the aft bulkhead.
        “Almost to the minute, Captain,” Vanya said.  “Nearly German punctuality,” he added with a chuckle.
        The wolf grinned sourly and nodded.  “Do not let those in the Okhrana hear you saying that, Vanya.”  He jerked his head toward the door beside the map.  “Tell them back there that the plane has passed.  It’s time for them to get back to work.”
        “Yes, sir,” the feline said, sketching a salute with a finger before stepping into the compartment.
        Within a few minutes of the patrol plane’s passing, the roof of the trawler’s main cabin sported a variety of weather equipment.  A radio aerial made of a latticework of strong wires had been strung between the twin booms on the aft crane.  Measurements were taken, and the information was then encrypted before being passed along by radio to the Vostokite capital, Tsarogorod.


Wakiakum, Tillamook Confederacy
August 3, 1937:

        Captain Juliana Monroe sat at her desk, a large magnifying glass in her paw, and studied the collection of photographs spread out before her.  The pictures showed a fishing trawler of perhaps five hundred tons, scrupulously adhering to international waters.
        That in itself made it suspicious, since fishing boat captains routinely violated national maritime limits in search of more fish.  The female polar bear snorted in mixed amusement and irritation at that demonstration of the marketplace mentality.  Suppose they managed to catch every fish in the sea – then what would they do?
        The Vostok trawler always seemed to be perfectly innocent, but she was a senior officer in the Intelligence Service hierarchy.  She knew that perfect innocence was impossible. 
        So she had ordered this ship to be watched carefully.
        Having the patrol plane fly the same pattern consistently provided her with a lot of good photographs, but there was nothing very incriminating about the ship or its crew.  The pattern had also had the benefit, she thought, of giving the trawler’s crew a false sense of security.
        That was about to change, and she allowed herself a smile as she thought about it.
        Without straightening up from her study of the ship, her free paw reached for the phone.  “Yes, Juliana?” her secretary asked.
        “Hi, Sandy.  Could you connect me with the seaplane base?” she asked in an almost absent-minded tone.  “I want to speak to the wing commander, please.”
        “Sure.  One moment.”  There was a series of buzzes and clicks as the call was put through, followed by a voice.  “Flight Operations, Captain Hall speaking.”
        “Captain?  Captain Monroe, Intelligence,” the polar bear said.  “I’d like to ask a favor.”
        “Sure,” the canine on the other end of the call said amiably.  “What do you want, Juliana?”
        Monroe smiled.  “Well, Rick, I need you to reschedule a couple of your patrol flights . . . “


August 4, 1937:

        “Peekaboo!  Make sure you get some good pictures.”


August 5, 1937:

        The first close photograph taken of the trawler caused the usually taciturn Monroe to laugh.  One of the crewmembers on the deck stood gaping in shock at the KV-3 as it emerged from the cover of a cloud bank while others scrambled to take instruments off the roof of the wheelhouse. 
        The pictures had all been taken with a very fine-grain film in black and white, rendering the boat in excellent detail.  After she meticulously pored over all of the pictures with her staff, she sat back and rubbed her eyes.
        Well, one suspicion confirmed.  Vostok Island was gathering weather information about the Nimitz Sea area.  Many nations had started gathering weather data, mainly for storm forecasting but also to aid their merchant marine. 
        And their navies.
        There was one more piece of the puzzle, and another group of staff members entered bearing copies of intercepted radio transmissions.  The pictures were stacked up and set aside as the papers were spread out on the desk. 
        Captain Monroe studied them with a critical eye and turned to the senior interpreter.  “Have we triangulated these?”
        “Yes, ma’am,” the thin hare replied.  “We used the Syndicate’s aerial, the local TTB radio station, and the LONO and LYRC towers at Spontoon for the purpose.”  He paused as Monroe laughed.
        “Being a bit thorough today, are we?” she asked jokingly.            He laughed in turn and the rest of the staff exchanged grins.  “We figured that you might want us to be careful on this one, Julie.  We’ve determined that one of the origin points was here,” and he pointed at a map marked with coordinates, the date and time, “and the other origin point was here.”  He tapped at a map of Vostok Island.  The breeze from an open window ruffled the map, and the hare pinned the sheet of paper down with a ceramic Citizen Dolton coffee mug.
        “Hmm.”  Vostok was notoriously paranoid, especially after one of their submarines was sunk by an Anarchcracy warship in Alaskan territory nearly a year and a half ago. 
        And weather data wouldn’t need to be encrypted. 
        Not in peacetime, at least.
        “Have your staff type up an executive summary and an assessment of what we think they’re up to,” Monroe ordered, “and we’ll forward this to Seathl.”


Seathl
August 8:

        “It’s definitely a mechanical cipher, Richard,” the elderly minkess known only as ‘Mrs. O’Farrell’ told the head of the country’s intelligence service as she sipped her tea.  A sheet of paper bearing ten neat columns of five-number groups sat beside the saucer.  “I could crack it with the help of our new toys,” and she waved a languid paw at the Medusa II cipher machine, “but it would take a great deal of time – possibly years.”
        She didn’t add that taking years to break the code might possibly be far too late. 
        O’Farrell sipped at her tea again, eyeing the leaves at the bottom of the cup critically before looking up.  “It’d be a great help if we had some knowledge of the code’s basis.”
        Her nominal superior nodded judiciously.  “I see,” Vice-Commodore Broome said while his thick vulpine brush flicked.  “I’ll send copies of this to Spontoon and Tse-whit-sen, and let our friends take a crack at it while I think over a plan of action.”  He smiled.  “Thank you, Edwina.”
        The minkess smiled back.  “It’s no bother, Richard.  You know how much I like a good challenge – and this little numbers game is certainly a challenge.”


Moon Island
Spontoon Independencies
August 11, 1937:

        The last of the off-duty Naval Syndicate personnel entered the base’s meeting hall and found a chair.  Those furs who were on duty had already voted, and the hall quieted as Captain Maxwell stood up to address the group from the low stage in one corner.  “Settle down, people,” the black-furred Labrador said as he waved a paw.  “Now, I have an announcement before we get to the topic of the meeting.
        “I’ve received word from Seathl that enlisted pay will increase starting October first,” and he grinned, waiting until the cheers and applause had died down.  “The Command Syndic felt that officer’s pay was high enough for now.  I know, I know,” he said as a few dissenting growls were raised.  “I’m in the same boat you are, but let’s face facts: the enlisted personnel are the backbone of the Syndicate, and without them, well – I don’t know if you recall the strike back in ’19, but I do.”  That unsavory bit of Rain Island’s history, when it seemed that the young country and the rest of the Rain Coast had teetered on the brink of complete anarchy (the bad kind), caused the crowd to subside.
        “Now, to a happier matter,” Maxwell said, rubbing his paws.  “As Base Syndic, I have called this meeting to vote on the sub-lease of a piece of base property.  One of the officers is planning on getting married,” and he grinned at two furs in the front row, “and although he does live here in base housing, he wants to change the rental agreement to a lease.  I studied the terms before posting them publicly last week, and I think they’re fair. 
        “According to the Rules, though, any sale, rental or lease of Syndicate property requires a full vote.  So, those in favor?”  He raised his paw, and noted that a large number of the others had their paws raised as well.  “Opposed?”  There were very few.  “Then the lease is approved,” Maxwell said, and several of the furs in the audience applauded.
        After a few more items of business, notably the division of prize money following the apprehension of a drug smuggling ring on Diver’s Island, the assembly broke up.  Maxwell walked over to the two furs who had been sitting in the front row.  “Congratulations, you two,” he said.
        “Thank you, Ian,” Ranua Milikonu said as he grinned and slipped an arm around Miri Kalani’s waist.  His intended bride snuggled close to him, smiling as she ran a paw over her stomach.  She was over three months pregnant now, and they were looking forward to the birth.  “And thank you for helping me with the paperwork.”
        Maxwell smiled and nodded.  “It’s part of an officer’s job, Ranua, to help his subordinates as far as he’s able.  And there are other reasons for you to have that bungalow.” 
        Ranua nodded.  As a member of the Syndicate’s intelligence service, he needed to stay close to the base.  There might be things he knew that could be of value to others.  “Still, thank you, sir,” and he offered his paw to the canine.  Maxwell shook paws with the wirehair terrier and smiled at the black and brown-furred canine woman before walking out.
        Miri watched him go and turned to Ranua.  “I still can’t believe it.  We have a house now.”  Her eyes gleamed and she seemed close to crying even as she smiled happily.
        He gave her a kiss and said, “Care to come up and look the place over?  Of course, it’d look better after you’ve moved in and everything.”
        “Oh?  What’s it look like now?” she teased.  “Full of dirty laundry?”  She laughed as his ears went down and he blushed.


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