“Hey, Ranua?”  The wirehair terrier looked up from his work as Maureen Brown called to him.  She walked over to him, her finely furred tail twitching slightly as she leaned close and murmured, “You have a visitor.  Outside, in the lobby.”  She walked away to check on the progress the other cryptographers were having with the latest intercepts.  The Japanese cipher was yielding stubbornly to analysis, but progress was almost painfully slow.
        He was doing his part, and several code groups had yielded to him, but it was still rough going.  Ranua put his work away and picked up his ball cap as he stood.  He walked out into the building’s lobby and paused.
        Ordinarily, the lobby of the administration building would have a large number of furs going in and out at this time of the day.  To his surprise, only seven furs sat or stood in the room, two of them looking over the announcements on the bulletin board while the others talked.  One of them, a rat with three chevrons on his uniform sleeve, saw him and said to his fellows, “Shut up, you guys.  Estes, I think this is him.”
        A horse with the insignia of a senior sergeant turned away from the bulletin board and asked, “Ensign Milikonu?”  At Ranua’s nod he said, “I’m Estes Morgan, SLF.”  He waved at the others in the group, consisting of four wolves, a wolverine and the rat who had first spotted him.  “My squad.  Pleased to meet you.”  The two shook paws.
        Ranua said, “Glad to see you, Sergeant, and that goes for all of you.  I’m going to be relying on you.”
        One of the wolves, almost as tall as Morgan and with heavily scarred ears said in an affected heavy Southern American drawl, “Don’t you worry none, suh.  We ain’t lost no-one yet,” and the others chuckled.  Ranua’s ears flicked at the wolf’s accent, and the fact that none of the squad were below the rank of sergeant. 
        Morgan favored the wolf with a smirk.  “Don’t pay any attention to Sam there.  He’s our resident joker.” 
        “I play village idiot back home, too,” the wolf said, carefully deadpan.  He looked indignant as several of his fellows agreed with him.
        The equine pitched his voice lower.  “Any idea when we go, sir?”
        The wirehair terrier looked a bit nervous as he replied in the same soft tone, “The rest of the plan has to arrive, Sergeant.  And please, call me Ranua,” and he offered a paw.
        The horse smiled.  “Estes,” he said as he shook the canine’s paw.  “I’ll introduce you to the boys, and then we’ll get out of your headfur.  We have an appointment with a guy from Meeting Island who’ll arrange our training schedule.”
        “Three weeks of slogging through the jungles, hooray for us,” the wolverine said with sarcastic cheer in his voice.  The others laughed as they introduced themselves before walking out of the building.  Ranua watched them go, his ears dipping as he thought.
        He suddenly smiled and went back to his desk.
       

South Island
September 14, 1937:

        The SLF squad picked their way through the dense underbrush, trusting more to their noses and ears than to any light source.  The Moon had set some hours before, and now it was pitch black.  Three of the wolves were in front, with the rest of the seven-man squad bringing up the rear.  “Hold it,” Estes whispered, and all six of his subordinates paused, the trio up front backtracking to his position.
        The night’s exercise was to find and track an opposing force from the native militia.  So far, they had found the small group and had followed at a short distance, wary of losing their quarry in the jungle.  Luckily they were downwind of the Spontoonies.
        Estes crouched down close to the ground, pulling a map from his pocket.  He shielded the lens of his flashlight with a paw as he switched it on and illuminated the map.  “I’m guessing we’re here,” he whispered, “so if we follow them along – “
        One of the wolves hissed sibilantly and the flashlight was extinguished.  The squad readied their Swedish Mouser rifles as they listened and sniffed for a sign of their opponents.  “We’re clear,” Estes whispered after several minutes.  “Micky, take point.”  The rat crept forward, and the rest of the squad followed him.
        Suddenly the night lit up around them in a blinding flash and a sound that had those furs closest to it forcing themselves to ignore the instinct to clap their paws over their ears.  Before they could adjust to the bright light, they heard a voice call out, “Stop where you are.  You lose.”
        “Damn!” one of the wolves barked.  “Two for two,” he added disgustedly as perhaps a dozen Spontoonies stepped forward, dressed in grass skirts but holding the same type of rifles the Rain Islanders carried.
        Estes straightened up, shaking his head.  “Okay, what did we do wrong this time?”
        “I think it was expecting us to travel in a straight line, Sergeant,” and a wirehair terrier came forward as the other Spontoonies chuckled and talked amongst themselves.  Ranua was dressed in the same manner, the white splotches on his fur carefully coated in ashes and dirt.  “We had two looping around every now and then to scent out anyone following us,” and he grinned at the surprised look on the horse’s face.
        “And here we was thinking you were just an officer,” Sam observed.
        “I was trained as a Guide here,” Ranua admitted, carefully keeping to himself the fact that he had welcomed the chance to relieve a little stress by taking part in the exercise.  He said something in Spontoonie to the other militiafurs, and they all laughed. 
        “What’d he say?” the wolverine asked.
        Estes eyed Ranua appraisingly as he said, “I’m not up on their lingo, Ken, but I think he said you need a bath.”  All of the furs started laughing then.


Moon Island
September 20, 1937
1000:

        Most of the off-duty base personnel stood at ease in the morning sunlight as the vessel made its way around the northern tip of the island into Hanamahina Bay.  The submarine S-16 was running on the surface as it made its way through Spontoon waters, with part of its crew on deck and manning the rail and all of its signal flags flying from the radio antenna wires.
        Captain Maxwell and the rest of the base’s command syndics stood a little apart from the others, dressed in their formal uniforms.  Ranua had almost forgotten how hot it could get in the woolen clothing, and his kepi felt a size too small.
        At least he had been exercising, so the uniform still fit him well.
        Two photographers, one from the Elele and the other from the Mirror, wove their way around the group, taking pictures but staying out of the way.  The local papers and news photographers were always invited when something like this happened at the naval base, since it never hurt to show that the islands were being ably defended.
        The submarine tied up at the dock adjacent to the other patrol sub, the S-33, and her commander made her way down the gangplank followed by her officers.  The slim greyhound stopped in front of Maxwell and stood waiting.
        The entire group came to attention as the band struck up a song from Rain Island, Our Land, followed by an excellent rendition of a welcoming hula.  They had had a lot of practice.
        After the two tunes were over the sub’s commander said in a carrying voice, “Sir, the S-16 reports for duty.” 
        “Very well,” the Labrador said, and removed a paper from his tunic.  “Attention to orders: By order of the Syndic for Submarine Forces, the submarine S-16, Vivian Madsen commanding, is assigned to replace the submarine S-33, John Cosgrove commanding effective upon its arrival at RINSB Moon Island.  The S-16 will conduct routine patrols of the waters in and around the Spontoon Independencies.”  He lowered the paper and nodded.
        Cosgrove, a mink, stepped forward and the two sub commanders faced each other.  “Sir, I relieve you,” Madsen said crisply.
        “Ma’am, I stand relieved,” Cosgrove replied, and the two shook paws as a cheer arose from the assembly.  The crowd dispersed to mingle with the two sub crews, one leaving to return to Rain Island, the other staying for the usual three-month tour.
        Ranua was looking at the S-16 when a paw tapped him on the shoulder.  “Hi, stranger,” and Ranua’s ears went up as he turned to face the fur. 
        “Matt! Great to see you!” the terrier exclaimed.
        Matt Peters grinned and the two shook paws as Ranua looked him over.  The Rain Islander was a bit thinner, and although his uniform was fairly clean the scents lingering around it caused the terrier’s nose to twitch.  “You look pretty good,” Ranua told the Doberman, “despite being cooped up in a tin can under water.  You’d figure all the black would’ve faded out of your fur by now.”
        “Well, I’m not a ghost yet.  And you look pretty good – and still thin - for a desk jockey,” Matt laughed.  “Back when we were in training, you said you’d show me around.”  He grinned.  “Here I am.”
        “Yeah, here you are, and welcome to Spontoon,” Ranua said.  “I think your commander would want you all to get squared away before going out.”
        “Sure she does.  Viv’s a great skipper,” and he winked, “but that doesn’t mean she’s all work and no play.  This thing’s not an ocean liner – we all have to travel light.”
        Ranua chuckled and jokingly waved a paw past his nose.  “Yeah, I noticed.  I bet you haven’t done your laundry since you left port – Johansen would have your tail.”
        Matt laughed hard enough to cause him to lay a paw on the rail to steady himself.  After he recovered he said, “Water’s at a premium, if you can believe it, and after a while we all start smelling alike.  I’ll get some other clothes at the exchange.”
        “You said you travel light.  What will you do with what you buy?”
        “Mail it back to Port de Fuca,” Matt replied with an easygoing shrug.       
          “That makes sense.”  Ranua decided to change the subject.  “So, what do they have you doing aboard this thing?” he asked, indicating the moored submarine with a paw.
        “Second officer,” Matt replied proudly.  “I basically do everything, or learn how to do everything if I don’t know already, and practice, practice, practice.  If Viv transfers out, I might end up being this boat’s Exec.”
        “That’s great,” Ranua said.  “I’ll meet you at the front gate, say about five?  I have to get back to my desk,” and the two of them laughed.

        Ranua changed out of his formal uniform as soon as he could and walked back into the Intelligence Section’s offices.  He paused in adjusting the collar of his jumpsuit as Maureen Brown asked, “All of the pieces are in place now?”  She had come in right behind him.
        “I guess so,” he said nervously.  “Nothing to do now but wait for the Moon and the weather.”
        “True,” she said as he sat down.  “Look, Ranua, if you want to take a few days off, I won’t object.”
        The younger canine looked up at the mouse curiously, then nodded.  The operation had been well-planned, but there was still a chance that things could go terribly wrong.
        A few days off would enable him to set his affairs in order.
        “I understand, Maureen,” he said.  He sighed and added, “The worst part of this is that I can’t even tell Miri about it.  I don’t want her to worry about me.”
        Brown nodded, then thought for a moment.  “Tell her,” she said, and as his eyes widened she added, “I can see that it bothers you, so tell her what’s going on.  My responsibility, if anyone asks.  Nothing specific, of course.” 
        “Of course.”  Being granted permission to tell her, even in the vaguest terms, was enough to lift a weight off his shoulders.
        And replace it with a heavier one.
        The mouse turned and walked back to her desk, but stopped at her office door and looked back at him over her shoulder.  “Just remember one thing, Ranua: The Syndicate takes care of its own.  If anything should happen, Miri will be okay.”  Her office door closed, leaving Ranua alone with his thoughts.
 

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