Moon Island
August 27, 1937
1230:

        Ranua leaned back in his chair and dragged a paw across his face, his weariness more mental than physical.  It had been four days since his return from Seathl and so far there was no sign of his orders.  The magazines and newspapers he had received made for interesting reading, and he had gone over nearly half of them by now. 
        Of course, the extra reading made working on his usual cipher traffic that much harder.
        The content of the magazines Klon and Iskra (‘Spark’) ran the gamut from subtle jokes obviously aimed at official misdeeds to full-blown satires of other nationalities.  Some of the jokes were ribald ones, and more than once Ranua felt his ears blushing.  The grammar was bad and some of the articles left Ranua wondering whether the Tsarist government had been forced to leave all copy editors and proofreaders behind when they fled Vladivostok. 
        The tone of the criticism in the state newspaper Orel, on the other paw, was strident and heavy-pawed.  The government of Rain Island, for example, was referred to as a ‘misbegotten, Christ-forsaken collection of anarchists and trades unionists devoted to the destruction of the established order’ and Tillamook and Spontoon were described as ‘mongrel puppets.’  He had to stop reading a few times in order to calm down, as some of the rhetoric angered him. 
        Interestingly, Inspector Stagg had read most of the material unmoved.  Apparently he’d encountered similar things while in New Haven, but the one essay he read in Orel had interested him.  He had immediately circled it with heavy pencil and passed it to Ranua without comment.
        The article dealt with what the Vostok government described as the ‘cowardly’ and ‘criminal’ sinking of one of their submarines in Rain Island waters the previous year.  Apart from excoriating the Governing Syndicate in Seathl, the article went on to threaten that the ‘crime’ would not go unavenged.  Ranua had cut out the article and saved it for further analysis based on other articles and field reports.
        “Ranua?”  He looked up as Lt. Brown stopped at his desk.
        “Yes, Maureen?”
        The mouse beckoned to him.  “Come with me,” she said quietly.  “We’re wanted in the Captain’s office.”
        The wirehair terrier shuffled the reading materials into some sort of order, then stood and followed his superior.
        The Base Syndic’s office was just a short distance down the hall from the Intelligence Section.  The Syndicate believed in as little distance as possible between levels – it made labor relations a lot easier in keeping with the national philosophy.
        “Come in, both of you,” Captain Maxwell said, “and close the door.” 
        Ranua closed the door and took a seat beside Brown as the mouse said, “What did you want to see us about, Ian?”
        “Orders, Maureen,” the black-furred Labrador replied as he removed three envelopes from a desk drawer and placed them on the desk.  “There’s one here for each of us, and they arrived in the diplomatic pouch this morning.”  He passed one to Brown and gave Ranua his. 
        Ranua waited until Maxwell started to open his envelope before opening the one he’d been given.  There was a thick sheaf of paper inside the envelope, containing a more detailed plan than the summary he had read in Seathl.  The same five operational parameters were there, and he swallowed as his ears dipped.
        “Hmm, Operation Albatross,” Brown remarked in a low voice.  “This is what you went to Seathl for?” she asked Ranua, and frowned as he nodded.  “Okay, let’s piece these three together and see what we have.”
        “Right,” Maxwell said.  “The operation’s set up for late September,” he said, consulting his orders.  “We’ll have a standard patrol rotation before then, and there’ll be a small group of SLF troops arriving a week before that for jungle training.  Pretty good cover so far.”
        “SLF?” Ranua asked.
        “Syndicate Landing Forces,” Brown amplified.  “They’re part of the Army, trained for these types of things as well as for amphibious landings.  Sort of like the American Marines, but if you call them ‘elite troops’ they’ll beat you until you’re a walking bruise.”  The mouse chuckled at her joke, and Ranua nodded.  He’d encountered them before as part of his Guide training, but hadn’t known their specific title. 
        “What’s your part in all this, Maureen?” Maxwell asked.
        “Mine?  Hmm . . . I’m to collate and help analyze all materials recovered from the operation before sending them on to Seathl.  Apart from that, it seems that Ranua will have the rest of the operation.”
        Ranua sighed.  Lucky me, he thought.  “I’m to go with the team on the operation,” he said, and two pairs of ears flicked in his direction. 
        “You’re an analyst, not a field officer, Ranua,” Brown said, her eyes narrowing.  “So, that’s why they wanted you up there – to break the news to you directly.”
        “Yes, Maureen.”  The terrier looked troubled.  “I didn’t ask for the assignment, but the Vice-Commodore told me that the operation might benefit Spontoon’s defense.  So I accepted it,” he said.
        “Trust Broome to sell it to you that way,” Brown said with a little asperity edging her voice.  “Okay, what else do we have?”  The three shuffled through their orders for a few moments.
        “Now this is interesting,” Maxwell said.
        “What?” Brown asked.
        “We’re to time the operation to coincide with the new moon and with any storms in the area,” the canine Base Syndic said.  “Certainly an ambitious plan.  The standard warnings apply regarding security, of course – apart from the three of us – “
        “Um, Ian?” Ranua raised a paw.  “My orders are to let my mentor know about this, after first swearing him to secrecy.”
        “And if Stagg won’t be sworn?”
        “Tell him nothing.”
        “That sounds fair, Ian,” Brown said. 
        The Labrador looked dubious, but finally nodded and the two junior officers left the office.


Meeting Island
August 28, 1937
0811:

        “Good morning Inspector, Sergeant Brush,” Ranua said as the buck and the fox entered the Constabulary station.  His paws fidgeted with his ball cap, and he dropped his paws to his sides as he realized that Stagg was looking at him.
        “I think our young friend has something to tell us, Sergeant,” Stagg observed as the three made their way down the hall to the office.
        Brush favored his fellow Spontoonie with a glance.  “Yeah, an’ I bet it ain’t no Russki jokes, hanh Ranua?”
        “No, Sergeant, it’s not,” the terrier said in a subdued tone, and both detectives looked at each other.
        The trio stepped into the office and Stagg settled into his chair.  “I think you should tell us what’s on your mind, Ensign,” he said.
        Ranua took a breath, trying to find the right words to say.  “Inspector, what I have to say is for your ears only,” and he gave Brush a sympathetic glance.  “I’m sorry, Karok-son-Karok,” he added in Spontoonie.
        “So, it’s like that, hanh?” the fox asked, his ears going flat.
        “Those are my orders.  Sorry,” Ranua said, and his ears dipped as Brush stepped out of the office and pointedly shut the door firmly behind him. 
         “You’ll have to forgive Sergeant Brush, Ensign,” Stagg said, “but I confess I’m curious as to why he’d have to be excluded from our conversation.”
        “I’m sorry, sir,” Ranua said, “and I can understand Sergeant Brush being angry, but I have my orders.  And unless you agree to hold what I am supposed to tell you in the highest confidence, I can’t talk about it to you either.”  Further explanation was unnecessary; he knew Stagg understood.
        “I see.  And this came from Vice-Commodore Broome, I take it?” Stagg asked in a soft, neutral tone.
        “Yes, sir, it did,” Ranua replied.  “Look, if you don’t want to, I’ll just shut up about it.”
        Stagg thought it over.  A memory surfaced from six months earlier – a sunlit café, a bowl of delicious berries and cream, and him telling the fox seated across from him that he was too old to get back into the Game. 
        “I must admit that Vice-Commodore Broome is an extremely clever fur,” the buck remarked, a brief trace of frost edging his voice.  He tapped hoof-hard fingernails on the desk for a moment as he considered, then got to his feet and raised his right paw.
        As Ranua looked at him with a startled expression Stagg intoned, “I, Franklin Junius Stagg, do solemnly swear that any secrets revealed to me shall remain secret.  So help me God.”  He sat back down and asked, “Is that sufficient, Ensign Milikonu?”
        “Yes, sir.”
        The whitetail buck leaned back in his chair.  “Then tell me what Vice-Commodore Broome wants me to know.”
        Ranua explained, taking the time to include details of the mission.  When he was finished Stagg was silent for several minutes. 
        “Albatross.  A fitting name for such a plan, although who gets to play the Ancient Mariner I will leave to your imagination.  And you’re prepared to do this?” he finally asked.
        “Those are my orders, sir.”
        “I didn’t ask that,” Stagg reproved in a soft voice.  “I asked if you were prepared to do this.  With a child on the way.”
        Ranua sat down abruptly and looked at his paws.  “I . . . I have told myself that I’m ready, and that I’ll come back safely.  I am as prepared as I can be, sir, and I won’t be doing this alone, either.”
        “So you tell me.  It’s a daring assignment,” Stagg remarked.  “When you get back, we’ll talk more about this, Ranua.”  The wirehair terrier looked up at the buck.  “Until then, you will not be coming here for lessons.  You need to get ready, and at this point I’ve taught you what you need to know.”
        “But – “
        “Field operations were never my area of specialty, so what you'll be doing is largely beyond my experience.”  He sat back and regarded the stack of paperwork on his desk, and after a moment sighed.  "My apologies, Mr. Milikonu.  I'm not angry at you, but at Vice-Commodore Broome . . .  Never mind.  Good hunting, lad.  Could you ask Sergeant Brush to come back in, please?  I have work to do.”


Moon Island, Base Syndic’s office
August 30, 1937
0900:

        “Excuse me, Ian?” the junior petty officer said.
        “Yes, Jack?” Maxwell said, laying aside the book he had been reading.
        “Someone out here says you’re expecting them,” the petty officer said, rolling his eyes good-humoredly.  “SLF types.”
        “Show them in, please,” and Jack retreated as a tall horse with a dark brown hide and short-cropped black headfur stepped in.  His dark blue duty jumpsuit bore four silver chevrons, and as the door closed he swept off his ball cap and stood at attention.  “Sergeant Estes Morgan, Army SLF, sir,” the equine said in a surprisingly deep voice.
        “Be at ease, Sergeant,” Maxwell said.  “Orders?”
        “Yes sir,” and Morgan passed him an envelope. 
        Maxwell scanned the contents.  “Says here,” the canine said, “that you and your squad will be training with the Spontoon Militia for the next several weeks.”  He carefully avoided repeating the classified portion of the document.
        “Jungle fighting, sir,” the horse said with a grin. 
        Maxwell smiled.  “Well, I’ll pass the word.  Are you lot staying in the transient longhouse for now?”
        “With respect, Captain, we’ll stay there,” Morgan said.  “Better if we keep a bit to ourselves, y’know.  I’ll need to meet up with the officer we’ll be taking along.”
        “Ensign Milikonu.  He’s currently over in the Intelligence Section.”
        “Thank you, sir.” 


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