October 2, 1937
1700:

        “Conn, Sonar.”
        Matt Peters hit the intercom switch.  “Go ahead, Kenny,” he said.
        “Contact, single screw, bearing three-forty-five; range about one-five miles and closing at five knots.”
        “Are you sure it’s what we’re looking for?”
        The answering growl was audible even without the intercom.  “Sure I’m sure, Matt.  The screw sounds like it has old coats wrapped around it.  I’ve been listening to the damn thing since last night.”  He was a bit sensitive about anyone criticizing his work.
        “Very well.”  He switched off the intercom and grinned.  Giving the bobcat the needle made up for Kenny trying to make time with his girl back at Port de Fuca.  The other furs in the control room shared knowing smiles.
        He went aft to the captain’s quarters and knocked on the doorjamb.  “Vivian?  Commander Madsen?”
        “Hrrmph . . . what is it?” the greyhound grumbled in a sleepy voice.
        “Ma’am, sonar contact at fifteen miles.  It’s coming from the right direction,” the Doberman reported.
        “All right.”  She yawned.  “Order a turn to port so we don’t foul ourselves in their nets, and slow to three knots, Matt.”  Another yawn.  “I’ll be there shortly.”
        “Yes, ma’am.”  Peters went back to the control room and relayed the orders, then went back to watching over the crew.  Having actual control of the sub still thrilled him, although he continued to hope that he wouldn’t screw anything up.
        Madsen entered the compartment a few minutes later, looking a bit rumpled as she smoothed her headfur into place with her paws.  She paused at the entrance and poked her head into the sonar compartment.  “They still heading this way?” she asked.
        “No ma’am, we’re curving away from them.”
        The greyhound nodded and walked into the control room.  “Mr. Peters, I have the conn,” she said, studying the chart table.
        Matt stepped back as she pored over the grease-penciled marks on the acetate-coated chart, then cupped her chin with one paw.  “Matt, here’s what I want done,” she said, beckoning him to stand beside her.
        “I want the boat to circle around the trawler, maintaining a fairly constant distance of five miles,” she said.  “That’s to keep clear of them if they have ASDIC or hydrophones.  When it gets dark we’ll lag behind them and surface in order to get our bearings.  Clear?”
        “Yes, Vivian.”
        “See to it, then.  I’m going back to bed.”  She yawned and left the compartment.


2100:

        “Periscope depth please,” Madsen said several hours later, and when the periscope had been raised she started looking.  “Hmm . . . it’s raining.”
        “Raining?  Again?” Steve Walksalone asked.  He had been awakened just an hour or so before the captain had.
        “Yeah.  Blacker than a witch’s heart, too.  Mr. Peters, go get Mr. Milikonu.”
        Matt went forward to the torpedo room, where some of the crew watched as two of the SLF wolves demonstrated various ways to disarm an opponent armed with a knife.  One of the sergeants had laughingly assured the sailors that defense against pointed sticks would be next.  “Ranua?  The Boss wants you.”
        “Okay, Matt.”  Ranua gestured for Estes to follow him.
        When Ranua entered the control room Madsen stepped back from the periscope and waved the terrier forward.  “Take a look, Mr. Milikonu.  I want you and Sergeant Morgan to tell me if it’s worth a shot right now.”
        Ranua nodded and looked through the eyepiece.  The view was obscured by the rolling swells of the Nimitz Sea and the constant veil of rain, but the ship’s running lights could be seen a distance away.  He stepped back to let the horse take a look, and after seeing for himself Morgan remarked, “I think we have a chance, Ranua.”
        It took the terrier a moment for it to dawn on him that Estes was talking to him.  “Do you think so?” he asked, and at the answering nod he said, “You’re the experienced one, Estes; I’m just along for the ride.”
        The equine chuckled and turned to Madsen.  “Ma’am, it’s my professional opinion that we have an opportunity here.”
        “All right.  Mr. Peters, pass the word – break out the foul weather gear and prepare to disembark the boarding party.  Chief, surface and stand by the diesels.”
        “Yes, ma’am,” and Ranua and Estes headed forward as the sub started to surface.
        “Playtime’s over,” Estes said, and the six SLF soldiers stiffened.  “Time to get ready.”  The sailors left the compartment as he flipped open a chest containing weapons and webbed belts.  Each of the squad selected a variety of knives and strapped pistol belts about their waists.
        Ranua snapped open the revolver he’d been given and his eyebrows went up.  “This is Russian,” he said as he loaded it.
        “Yeah,” Ken said.  “Old Nagant models,” and the wolverine grinned as he added, “It’ll make the Russkis think that Starling’s boys did this if anything should happen.”
        “I see,” and he swallowed. 
        Morgan laid a paw on his shoulder.  “Look, Ensign, you’re here to take charge of all the important stuff.  Leave the rest to me and the boys, okay?”
        “Okay,” Ranua replied, realizing that the equine wasn’t being patronizing.  He was the analyst, and would know what to look for.  As a result, he was the most important member of the group.
        But he was also an officer, and was supposed to lead.
        The deck under his feet started to roll and pitch as the sub reached the surface.  The diesels started up and their rumble filled the boat over the sound of the ventilators as they drew in cool fresh air scented with salt water.
        The sub ran on the surface for nearly two hours while the rain grew steadily worse and the wind picked up.  Waves would break over the bow of the submarine, making opening the deck hatches impossible.  The craft bobbed up and down sickeningly, and Ranua soon regretted having eaten several hours later. 
        At one point, it felt like his boots were about to erupt through his mouth.
        Finally the intercom crackled and Walksalone’s voice announced, “Boarding party to the conning tower.”  As the rest of the squad packed up and headed aft, Estes took Ranua aside and pressed a small object into his paw.
        “What’s this?” the terrier asked.
        “Poison,” the equine said matter-of-factly, and when Ranua looked at him in shock Estes said, “You know the orders, Ranua.  If we fail, no one gets taken prisoner.”  He left the compartment then, leaving Ranua staring at the small capsule. 
        He jammed it into a pocket and followed the sergeant.
        The S-16 wallowed in the swells as it kept station some one hundred yards from the trawler.  The squad wrestled its rubber rafts out of the boat in the pitch darkness, inflated them, and everyone climbed aboard.  As Ranua started to ascend the conning tower, Matt stuck out his paw.  “Good luck,” he said, his voice almost lost in the sounds of rain and sea.
        “Thanks, Matt,” Ranua said, grasping the paw tightly before getting into the raft.  He and the others started rowing toward the trawler.
        It took several minutes to row the distance separating the two ships, and by the time his paw grabbed at the trawler’s stern Ranua and the others were thoroughly soaked.  He blinked away the stinging salt spray from his eyes and scrambled to follow the SLF squad as they boarded the ship. 
        They hunkered down in the shadows and rechecked their equipment before Estes said, “Sam, you and Ken go with Ranua.  Keep him safe and follow his orders – your first objective is the radio room, followed by the wheelhouse.  Got it?”  As the wolf nodded, the equine said, “The rest of you are with me, and we’ll look after the crew.”  Micky grinned, and rodentine teeth gleamed wetly as he drew his knife. 
        The team split up, and Ranua said, “The radio room should be behind the wheelhouse.  Let’s go.”  He took the lead, with the wolf and the wolverine following right behind him.


        Matt Peters descended the conning tower ladder and took his hat off.  “Storm’s getting a bit worse,” the Doberman said as water sluiced off his oilskins.  The storm was a mixed blessing; while the waves would help block any sonar signals, it made handling the submarine a difficult proposition at best.
        Madsen’s ears twitched.  “So I see.  Order the lookouts below and secure the boat.  Diving stations.”
        The lookouts practically dove through the hatchway, followed by several gallons of seawater.  Matt cursed, shaking water from his eyes as he closed and dogged down the hatch.  “Hatch secure.”
        “Board is green.”
        “Take us down to thirty feet to ease this motion,” Madsen said crisply.  “Mr. Peters?”
        “Ma’am?”
        “Break out your slide rule and your tables, Ensign.  I want a firing solution on that trawler.  Pull us back to a thousand yards,” she ordered the helmsman.
        “Ma’am, the team’s on that ship.”
        “That will be all, Ensign,” Madsen snapped.  She glared at him, then her features softened.  “You know the orders, Matt.  No matter what, that ship goes down with all aboard her.”  She sighed.  “I know he’s a friend of yours.  I don’t like it either.”  She squared her shoulders and said crisply, “Set firing solutions for two torpedoes.”
        “Yes, ma’am.”  Matt turned away to get his equipment and silently crossed himself.


        Ranua flattened himself against the wall of the wheelhouse, ears standing up as he listened at the door.  Muffled conversations could be heard, then were replaced by the faint staccato beeping of a Morse key.  He nodded, and gestured to Sam.  The wolf stepped up to the door and placed his paw on the knob, turning it gently.  He nodded.
        Ken threw himself through the doorway, the door slamming open as he burst in and his knife drove into the chest of the feline at the telegraph key.  The second feline in the room uttered an oath and reached for a gun on a nearby table, and Sam flung himself at him, pinning him backward against the far wall and slashing his throat.
        Ranua stepped in and closed the door, his revolver in his paw, and started looking through the papers scattered around.  Doing this gave him something to do other than worry about the scent of fresh blood in the room.  He recalled his instructions to gather up everything that was printed – books, forms, reports – and any and all enciphering gear. 
        Nothing could be overlooked.  Weeding through it all would come after they were back aboard the S-16.
        As he started stacking up the documents and manuals the Morse key started to chatter, and he cocked an ear at it briefly.  The message was in code, and although he had no time to decipher it or to write it down, he froze, listening.
        It was like a siren song to him, tempting him. 
        He could almost anticipate the pattern starting to form.
        It took a great deal of effort to shake his head and remind himself that they all had to work fast.
        A section of the table near the Morse key was concealed under a metal cover with a lock.  As he looked it over, Ken and Sam dragged the bodies of the two felines to one side.  Straightening, Ken said, “Neat job.  You look after these papers, Ensign, and – “
        The concealed door behind the wheelhouse swung open, and the ship’s mate came up behind the wolverine.  A meaty paw grabbed the mustelid’s shoulder and Ken stiffened with a short cry as a knife went into his back.


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