The next afternoon Ranua walked into the office and was met by several other analysts.  “We had something interesting come over from Seathl this morning,” one of them, a stout ferret with thick glasses, remarked.  “We saved part of it for you.”
        Ranua’s ears cocked forward in interest.  “What is it?”
        It turned out that the package contained the latest intercepts from Japan.  The code being used was a difficult one, and supposedly not even Mrs. O’Farrell in Seathl had managed to break it. 
        Yet, she insisted. 
        He smiled at the memory of the elderly minkess who hid a mind like a steel trap behind the façade of a dowdy old woman.  However, it was critical that the code be broken, and as swiftly as possible; since Japan’s invasion of southern China a month earlier Rain Island had started watching events to the west very carefully.

        Ordinarily his desk was scrupulously clean, inhabited by a writing pad, a telephone and a framed photograph of Miri.  The scattering of message forms and notes that now littered the surface were usually locked away out of sight at the first opportunity because they offended both his sense of neatness and the department’s regulations about leaving sensitive materials lying about.
        “Ranua?”  He looked up to see his superior, Lt. Maureen Brown, wave at him.  The mouse looked serious about something, and she waved him into her office. 
        By contrast with his desk, hers looked like an explosion at a stationery store, with stacks of papers and folders covering most of it and spilling onto the shelves behind her chair.  A half-full coffee mug sat on top of a fat folder bearing a red RESTRICTED stamp.
        “Take a seat,” she said as she sat down and clasped her paws together.  A soft sound from under the desk indicated that her left leg was jerking slightly, a sign that she was agitated about something.  Probably anxious to be up and moving around again, Ranua thought; Brown’s nickname around the office was ‘Dynamo.’ 
        “I received this in the morning traffic from Seathl,” and she passed him a telegram.  Headers and a scribbled note announced that it had been deciphered by the post’s communications officer, with no copies made.  The message read:

18AUG370400 ENSIGN MILIKONU RANUA 36-51197 TO REPORT TO RINSB SEATHL BY FASTEST AVAILABLE TRANSPORTATION NLT 20AUG BROOME SENDS.

        Ranua blinked at the orders and looked up at Brown as she added, “According to the flight operations desk, the first available transport plane leaves tonight at 1830.  Cut yourself the required orders and be on it.”
        He shook his head, mystified.  “Any idea why I’m needed in Seathl, Maureen?  This is awfully short notice.”
        “No idea,” the mouse replied.  “But if King Richard wants you there soonest,” she remarked with a smile, “you go soonest.”  She pulled a folder from her In box and opened it, signaling that the conversation was over. 
        Brown was like that, so Ranua wasn’t offended.
        The wirehair terrier walked back to his desk, gathered up all of the papers he had been working on, and stuffed them into their folder before placing them into the safe by his desk.  He then pulled a form from a drawer, filling in the blanks quickly and reading it over before signing it.  He started to stand up, then paused and sat back down, reaching for the phone.  He gazed absently at the completed transit form as he dialed.
        “Constabulary, Sergeant Malu speaking,” the desk sergeant answered the phone in Spontoonie.
        “Sergeant, this is Ensign Milikonu at the Naval Syndicate base,” Ranua replied in the same language.  “Is Inspector Stagg in?”
        “Hang on a moment, Ensign, let me see . . . no, he and the Sarge are out right now.  Want to leave a message?”
        “Yes, please.  Tell him that I’ll be away for a  . . . ah, a few days,” Ranua said, and after the constable had repeated the message Ranua hung up the phone.  He blinked and stared at the travel form he had filled out, then snatched it up and headed for the seaplane dock.

        A few hours later Miri walked into the house on Maleukana Point to find Ranua packing a small suitcase.  “Love, what are you doing?” she asked.
        He looked confused as he paused and tried to sort out what to say, and finally said, “I’ve been ordered to head out to Seathl tonight, Miri.  I have no idea how long I’ll be there, but I have to leave tonight.”
        His fiancée looked concerned.  “Is this usual, Ranua?  I mean, getting called away like this.”
        “I have no idea,” he admitted.  He finished closing the suitcase and turned to her.  His paws rested on her hips as she placed her paws on his shoulders and they kissed.  “I don’t think I’m in trouble, though,” he said with a grin.  “I’ll get back as soon as I can, or I’ll write you.”
        She smiled, then pressed as close as her belly allowed and laid her head on his chest.  “Take care, Ranua, and the gods go with you,” she said.


RINS Base Seathl
August 20, 1937
0312:

        The flight he managed to arrange for himself was a cargo run, with a stopover at God’s Armpit before reaching the Rain Island capital.  Ranua was the only passenger aboard.
        “Sir?  Ensign?”  At the sound of the rating’s voice, shouted over the drone of the plane’s three engines, Ranua stirred and looked up.  “We’re coming in for a landing now,” the seaman advised.  “You might want to get ready.”
        “Thanks.”  He stretched, yawning widely before sitting up and tightening his seat belt as the transport seaplane started to descend.
        As the seaplane taxied to the dock Ranua looked out of the windows.  He hadn’t expected to return to Seathl so soon, and certainly not so unexpectedly.  There were few lights on except for the ones on some of the street corners and along the docks.  A car was parked under one of the lights, and a sailor stood by it smoking a cigarette.
        He stepped out of the plane when it had been tied up and as he walked up the dock the feline standing beside the car threw his cigarette away.  “Hey,” he called out, “you Ensign Milikonu?”
        “That’s right,” Ranua replied, stretching far enough to hear his back pop.
        “Thought I recognized you from your picture.”  The man waved him over.  “Been waiting for you,” he said.  “Since before midnight, too, but the Boss wants you in his office.”  He stuck out a paw.  “I’ll take your case.”
        “Do I have time to get cleaned up?”
        The feline shook his head.  “Naw, you’re running late.  And if I know the Boss, he’ll be tearing his fur out by now wondering where you are.”
        “Oh.  That would be Vice-Commodore Broome?”
        The man nodded as he ushered Ranua into the car, then he got behind the wheel and started the engine.  The Japanese-made Otha sped off to the base’s Intelligence headquarters.
        Ranua identified himself when he entered the red brick building, and to his surprise was ordered to go not to the Vice-Commodore’s office, but to a conference room.

        “Ranua!” Richard Broome exclaimed.  The fox who was in overall charge of Rain Island’s intelligence service stood up from his seat at the conference table and held out a paw to the younger Spontoonie.  “We’ve been waiting for you,” he added as he nodded toward several furs, three senior civilian analysts and two captains who looked at the ensign with mild curiosity.  “What kept you?” the fox asked after shaking paws with his subordinate.
        “The plane was delayed at God’s Armpit, sir,” Ranua replied diffidently, eyeing the senior officers.  “Engine maintenance.”
        “Ah.  The pilot should have wired ahead,” Broome said as he sat down, “and had the aerodrome call me.  I’ll talk to Harriet tomorrow about it.  Have a seat.  Coffee?”  Ranua’s ears laid back, and Broome chuckled.
        “No, thank you, sir,” Ranua said.  He had tried the coffee in Seathl while he had been in training, and decided that kerosene might taste better. 
        One of the captains, a tall palomino, made a production of yawning and Broome laughed.  “Since you’re so tired, Nick, why don’t you start?”
        “Okay, Rich,” the equine replied, and turned to Ranua.  “Vi govoritye na russkom yazikye?”
        Ranua blinked in surprise a few times before replying, “Da, ya govoryu nyebolshovo russkovo.”  The two traded questions and answers back and forth for several moments, and finally the equine turned to Broome and nodded.     
        “What’s going on, sir?” the terrier asked.
        The fox studied his paws for a moment before saying, “Ranua, I know that you’re an analyst, and not a field operative.  But something’s come up, and we – “ his paw gestured at the assembled officers “ – think that you’re the best person to head up a little job we have in mind.”  He lifted several sheets of paper from the table and passed them to Ranua.
        Ranua read them over quickly, concentrating on the top page.  His mouth fell open as he read:

MOST SECRET
Operation Albatross
1.  Team is assigned to intercept target and retrieve all cipher machines, codes and all available documents.
2.  Survival of target crew is not repeat not a consideration.
3.  Survival of target is not repeat not a consideration.
4.  Survival of Team if taken prisoner is not a consideration.
5.  Retrieval of all cipher machines, codes and all available documents is the primary consideration.

        The wirehair terrier gulped as he read the next-to-last line of the first page, and quickly skimmed the other two pages of the executive summary as Broome said, “We’re asking you to do this, Ranua, because you have the requisite language and analysis skills.  And during the time frame for the mission the target will be close to Spontoon – your home waters.”  The fox smiled thinly.  “We’re laying on this operation in anticipation of bad weather, which will cover our tracks pretty effectively.”
        Ranua merely nodded, reading over the last page again.  Without looking up he asked in a quiet voice, “Are we at war, sir?”
        The ears of a few of the others perked up.  “Moral problems, Milikonu?” the equine who had questioned him in Russian asked.
        “Yes, Captain Canter,” Ranua replied, looking up at him.  “Pardon me for being so blunt, but this sounds like – like – “
        “Like piracy?” the palomino asked.  At the younger officer’s nod he chuckled.  “It does to all of us, as well.  But if it’s done right, no one will be the wiser.  And we actually do have some justification.
        “A Vostok sub sank several of our patrol craft near Alaskan waters last year.  We sank the sub, but we know that part of the Grand Duchess’ attention – or that of her advisers – is directed at us.  That includes Tillamook and Spontoon.  So,” Canter said as he laced his fingers together in his lap, “we’re technically at war with Vostok, as the matter was never resolved to our satisfaction. 
        “Now, to sum up:  We are certain that the target is transmitting weather information to Vostok, for possible military uses.  From its movements we can guess that they’re sizing up the northern Nimitz Sea area, including Spontoon and Tillamook.  If it were simply a matter of seizing the vessel, we could issue a letter of marque.”  He laughed softly.  “I know a few retired captains who might be interested in that - strictly for the prize money, mind.  But there are items aboard that ship that we want, and we can gain an edge over Vostok if it comes to a shooting war.”  He looked expectantly at Ranua.
        The wirehair terrier hesitated and the other captain, a squirrel, growled, “Look, under the Rules this is to be a military operation, so give the boy his orders and let’s get on with it.”
        One of the civilians said softly, “He’s just out of training.”
        “Shouldn’t matter.  If he’s trained, he should be able to – “
        “Lucien, drop it,” Broome said.  “It’s late, we’re all tired and tempers are getting short.  Ranua,” he said, “think it over, but we need a decision as soon as possible – “
        “Sir?” Ranua interjected, raising a paw as his ears laid back.  “I’ve heard Captain Canter’s explanation, and . . . well, I accept.”
        “Fast decision,” the equine observed.
        “Yes, sir.”
        “Care to tell us why?”
        Ranua sat up a bit straighter in his seat.  “I’m in the Naval Syndicate,” he said, “and if getting this information is vital, I . . . well, I’m expected to do my job.”
        “Well said,” the squirrel applauded.
        Broome nodded, looking at the younger fur critically before saying, “Okay, you’re in.  Go and get some sleep, and see me in my office at 0900.”


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