Ken’s cry jolted Ranua out of his concentration on the papers in his paw and the staccato chatter of the Morse key.  The Russian mate snarled, “Idi v zhopu!” as he jerked his knife free and kicked the injured wolverine as he slumped to one side, the motion coupled with the pitching deck almost throwing him off balance.  The burly blue-furred feline then faced Ranua, who became aware of the smear of blood on the blade. 
        The feline stepped toward him.
        The terrier’s pistol came up almost of its own volition.
        The heavy Nagant revolver fired twice, the sound painfully loud in the small compartment even with the sound of the storm outside.  The feline pitched backwards and landed on his back on the wheelhouse deck with two large and very bloody holes in his chest.  Sam ran to help Ken while Ranua looked on, the smoking pistol still in his paw. 
        He blinked and his tail shook as he looked at the dead sailor, then at the gun in his paw as he swayed in time to the pitching deck.  Slowly he holstered the weapon, then reached into the pack at his back and removed several large oilskin bags with acetate liners.  He started stuffing papers and manuals into one as Estes entered the wheelhouse. 
        “Ken!” he blurted and crouched down beside the wolverine as the wolf helped him up into a sitting position.  “What the hell happened?” the equine demanded.
        “Damn mate got him,” Sam said angrily, then his features sagged.  “I’m sorry, Estes; I saw the door but I didn’t secure it.”  The lupine was trying to stuff a bandage into the gaping wound in Ken’s back, and the wolverine’s growl changed to a whimper from the pain.
        Estes nodded and patted the wolf on the shoulder.  “Take care of him,” he said, and watched as Ranua stuffed papers into his bag.  “Ranua, the ship’s secure.  What now?”
        The terrier didn’t respond.  His eyes were wide and glazed and his breathing ragged as he moved almost mechanically.  Finally the equine reached over and grabbed him by the shoulder.  “Ranua!  Snap out of it!” he urged in a low voice, giving the smaller canine a shake.
        Ranua blinked, then gulped and took a deep breath.  “Sorry,” he panted, “I’ve – I’ve never . . . what is it, Sergeant?” he asked, controlling himself with an effort.  Reactions would have to wait.
        The sergeant nodded as the young officer recovered himself.  Kid’s strong, and well trained, he thought.  “The ship’s secure.  What do you want us to do?”
        Ranua nodded jerkily, recalling the operational plans.  Of course, secure meant that everyone on board was dead.
        He didn’t want to dwell on that right now. 
        “Right, right.  Uh . . . here, take some of these bags and search the ship.  Any printed material, anything, goes in the bags.  And let the S-16 know we’ve done it.”
        “Will do – sir,” Estes said, thinking that Ranua needed to hear the respect in his voice.  He gathered up several of the bags and passed them to Micky, who had just stepped in.  The rat nodded at the relayed orders and carried the bags out.  The horse paused, about to follow him, and leaned over the wounded wolverine.  “How’s he doing?” he quietly asked Sam.
        The wolf looked down at Ken sadly, then back up at Estes.  “He’s dying,” he said in a low voice, his voice rough with emotion.  “I think the knife hit a kidney or something.  He’s bleeding out inside.”  He shook his head.  “We’d never be able to get him back on the sub in time.”
        Estes nodded, dropping to one knee as Ken roused briefly.  “Oh, hi Sarge,” the wolverine murmured with a weak smile.  “Guess I didn’t duck, huh.”
        “Remind me to beat your ass when we get back,” Estes said.
        Ken shook his head.  “Not this time, Estes,” he said, his eyes half-closing.  “’Sfunny, I never believed there was a heaven.  Guess I’ll find out for sure now,” he chuckled softly.
        “I guess.”  The equine’s features were solemn.  “Is there anything I – “
        “Yeah,” and the wolverine twitched and moaned, his back arching slightly.  “Make sure the Syndicate pays out, and tell my girlfriend, please?”
        “I will Ken, count on it,” Estes said, and stood up.  He gazed down at the mustelid for a long, silent moment, then left the wheelhouse, drawing a flare gun from his gun belt.
        He paused over the lifeless body of the Russian first mate.  “Bastard,” and he spat on the corpse before stepping out onto the deck, a paw gripping the doorframe as he fired the signal.


        “Holy Peter!” Matt yelped as if stung, jerking his face away from the periscope’s eyepiece and blinking.  The small rocket had been dazzlingly bright in the darkness.  “Flare sighted!”
        The greyhound looked up from the chart table with a grin.  “Great, that means they’ve done it.  And with some time to spare,” she added with an eye on the clock.  Their orders had been to sink the trawler and make sure that all aboard were dead if the team hadn’t signaled within thirty minutes of boarding.  “Stand down from firing stations and bring us in close.  Surface.”  The crew stopped holding their breath and sprang into action.


        Ranua had finished stuffing everything he could find into the bag that now lay at his feet.  That left only the locked cabinet beside the Morse key.  Whatever lay inside appeared to be wired to the key and from there to the antenna.  A power cord was bolted to the bulkhead, but the device didn’t seem to be switched on.  He picked up one of the dead Russian’s coats, wrapped it around the cord and yanked it free from the bulkhead.
        Sparks flew, but he managed it without shocking himself. 
        He briefly considered shooting at the lock before trying to pry it open with his knife.  Several futile attempts later, he growled in frustration and looked around the compartment as he sheathed the blade. 
        There was a fire axe on a nearby bulkhead, so he snatched it free of its bracket.  “What are you doing?” Sam asked.
        “I have to get this thing loose,” Ranua grunted as he raised the axe high, “and time’s running short.”  The trawler had to be scuttled within ten minutes of sending up the signal flare, or the sub would take action whether they were off the boat or not.  He started chopping away at the table holding the cipher machine, and didn’t stop until the entire section of table fell to the deck with a crash.  He stuffed it into a separate bag, then rifled through several drawers and threw various items into the bag before sealing it up.  Finally he stopped and looked at Sam.  “How’s Ken?” he asked.
        The wolf shook his head.  “Gone, I’m afraid,” and he reached out and gently closed the wolverine’s eyes.  “Should we try to take him with us?”
        “We’ll have to ask Estes,” Ranua replied, painfully aware of his novice status, and the knowledge that he was out of his depth.  Others would review his decisions and determine if he acted rightly.  If he hadn’t acted rightly, he’d have to suffer the consequences and while the Syndicate acknowledged that officers were workers, they were also subject to greater scrutiny than enlisted furs. 
        The responsibility that came with rank.
        “Come help me with these bags.”
        “Right,” and the two furs carried the bags out to the ship’s stern, where the rubber rafts waited.  The sea heaved the trawler under them, and they lost their footing a few times.
        “Ensign!” Estes shouted over the storm.  “We’re ready here!  Do we have everything?”
        “Should we take Ken with us?” Ranua asked.
        Morgan looked pained and shook his head.  “No,” he finally said.  “We’re going to play hell enough getting all this stuff – and us – aboard.  We’ll hold a service for him later.  Come on,” and the team started to load the rafts.  He signaled another of the wolves, who nodded and went into the trawler’s deckhouse.  He would descend into the ship’s bilges and open the valves that would admit the sea.
        When he returned, the others were ready to row for the submarine.  The trawler was already starting to settle by the bow, and the S-16 switched on its single searchlight as the team started paddling.
        The rafts wallowed and swamped with each wave from the extra weight they were carrying, and as they reached the side of the boat sailors in foul-weather gear grappled the cargo aboard.  Once the information was safe inside the sub, it was time for the team to clamber up the lines.
        Micky slipped and hit the water, breaking the surface almost immediately as the sailors on deck threw lines to the rat.  He snared one with his paw and allowed himself to be half-dragged up the side of the sub.  He and the rest of the team were hustled down the conning tower hatch as quickly as possible.
        Ranua was the last one down the ladder, and he looked back as the stern of the trawler slipped beneath the sea and the searchlight went out.  He whispered a prayer for Ken (and the dead Russians) even as a wave threw chill salt water in his face. 
        Losing his grip on the ladder he fell the rest of the way into the control room and landed in an untidy, sodden heap on the deck.  Sputtering and wiping his eyes, he rolled out of the way as the last of the deck crew came down the ladder and dogged the hatch closed.
        “Well!  Permission to come aboard granted, Ensign Milikonu,” Madsen said, her smile belying her tart tone as he sat up.  “You and your team get forward, there’s hot coffee and whisky there to warm you up.  Mr. Walksalone!” she called out.  “Take us down to seventy-five feet, make ten knots and plot a course for Moon Island.”  The sounds made by the storm and the rolling waves would hide the sound of the trawler’s sinking.
        “Yes, ma’am,” and the Exec turned away to relay the orders as Ranua dragged himself off the deck, water dripping from his clothes and fur, and made his way to the torpedo room.  When he reached the compartment he was already starting to shiver.  A rating pressed a steaming mug into his paws, and he drank almost half of it before he tasted it.
        It was coffee, but far better than he had tasted in Seathl earlier in the year and hot enough to make his tongue hurt.  The vulgar warmth that quickly spread through him could only have come from the whisky that must have accounted for nearly half the drink.  He shook his head to clear it as he sat down, noting that the others were stripping down to their fur and drying off with towels. 
        That was a good idea, so he stood up and followed suit, accepting two towels and a thick blanket from a rating.
        A shower followed, with a lot of good-natured joking from the sailors aboard the boat concerning the physiques of the SLF soldiers.  The remarks were returned in kind, and Ranua caught himself actually laughing as he washed the salt out of his fur.  Finally the cook and two helpers circulated sandwiches and more hot coffee, and the stress of the mission soon caught up with them all.  Ranua dressed in a change of dry clothes, wrapped himself in a blanket and quickly fell asleep.
        He awoke several hours later to the sounds of low chanting, partly in Russian and partly in several of the languages native to Rain Island.  Estes and the other SLF members, supported by a few ratings, were praying for their dead comrade.  The voices were deep and sonorous, as befitted the solemnity of the moment.  He sat up, closed his eyes and chanted softly, adding his own prayers to those of the soldiers. 
        He sat gazing at his paws as the service ended, as if he could see blood on them.
        “You okay, Ranua?” Estes asked, resting a paw on the terrier’s shoulder.
        He gave a start, and looked up at the horse for a moment before finding his voice.  “Just thinking,” the Spontoonie replied.  “I . . . I think I should write to Ken’s family.”
        The equine shook his head.  “I was his commander, so it’s my job, by the Rules,” he said quietly.  “And remember that this operation didn’t happen.”  He gave a lopsided smile.  “The official story will be a training accident.”
        “As simple as that,” Ranua said, looking at the five large bags of material from the ship.  “I hope this was worth the effort.”
        “That’ll be up to you and the others,” Estes said.  “Now, I’m in need of some sack time,” and after a final reassuring squeeze of the terrier’s shoulder he stepped over to his bed and lay down.
        “And hey,” he said drowsily, “don’t worry about that guy you shot.”  Ranua jerked and stared at the horse as he said, “You did right, always remember that.  If it comes down to you or the other guy, you make damn sure you come home safe.”  With that, he rolled over on his side and was swiftly fast asleep.
        Ranua thought over what Estes told him, then reached out and dragged one of the oilskin sacks to him.  Opening it, he pulled out pawfuls of papers and several books and magazines and started looking through them, taking care not to get them too wet.
        The contents of this bag were obviously from the crew quarters, and a few pages had smears of drying blood on them.  He swallowed again at the reminder that none of the trawler’s crew had been allowed to live, and set them aside to dry completely as he looked through the rest.  Letters from home, diaries, Bibles, the ship’s cook’s recipe file and a rather extensive amount of pornography rounded out the contents of the bag.
        He was still leafing through the diaries when Matt entered the compartment.  “Hi, Ranua,” he said quietly.
        “Hi, Matt,” Ranua answered in the same tone.  One of the sleeping SLF members stirred as Matt sat down beside his friend.  “Can I see what you recovered?” he asked.
        Ranua thought it over.  Certainly it would do no harm to let the Doberman see a few of the non-sensitive documents which made up the bulk of the materials.  He held up a few illustrated magazines and passed one to his friend. 
        “Hmm!  Women,” Matt murmured as he flipped the pages.  “What’s the title?”
        “I thought you could read Russian,” Ranua said.
        “Nope.  I could speak it when I was little, mostly what I recall from my grandfather.  So, what’s it say?” he pressed.
        Ranua read the title and a few opening paragraphs, and his ears blushed.  “It’s titled Police Follies.  And,” and he flipped back to the first page of text, “it reads, 'Nina and Maria are secret policewomen with a difference...' ”  He turned to the drawings that illustrated the small book.  “Wow,” he breathed.  “Now that is certainly different.”
        “Let me see,” and the Doberman gazed at the drawing.  The artwork was rather detailed, and left nothing to the imagination.  He stared at another drawing and looked at Ranua.  “With a melon?” he whispered.
        The terrier shrugged.
        Matt swallowed and closed the book.  “Um, look Ranua,” he said, “will you need this right now?  I, um, have something to do,” and he stood up and walked as quietly as he could for the nearest lavatory.


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