Sovereign, part two - section b. Warshot loaded, by John Nowak

There were three lit panels on the front bulkhead, by the torpedo
doors. They read:

W A R S H O T L O A D E D

TUBE 1 TUBE 2 TUBE 3

"So," Chip asked von Kugleblitz, "since there's only one guy in
each torpedo room, it must be easy to load a torpedo."

"Yes, it is," von Kugleblitz agreed. They were sitting in the
port torpedo room. Once Chip was convinced there were eleven torpedoes
in the room, von Kugleblitz had been returned to duty. He had some
lingering resentment for the chipmunk in the fedora, but at the same
time he realized there was nothing personal in Chip's suspicion. He was
a cop; he had to suspect everyone. It had to be a strange life. "You
select a chamber, then you select a tube to load." He pointed to a
console with twelve buttons in a rectangle, and three in a row below
it. "Most of the time, you're maintaining the torpedoes."

"Do you do keep a log?" Chip asked.

Von Kugleblitz handed Chip a list:

S# TR Date
-------------------------
F76 P 02-Dec
F7A
F7E
F7S
F87
F8D
-------------------------
D06 B 03-Dec
D0A
H60
-------------------------
F77 S 04-Dec
F7C
F7N
F7Z
F8B
F8E
-------------------------
F70 A 05-Dec
N19
N1E
N1F
N1J
N1P
-------------------------
D0G B 07-Dec
H62
H65
-------------------------
F8S S 08-Dec
T89
T8R
T8Z
-------------------------
F8J P 09-Dec
F8U
T87
T8G
-------------------------
D06 B 10-Dec
D0A
H60
-------------------------
F70 A 12-Dec
N19
N1E
N1F
-------------------------
F8J P 13-Dec
F8U
T8T
T90

"That's my master log," von Kugleblitz explained. "The torpedo
serial number - which is painted on the fin - the torpedo room - Port,
Bow, Starboard, and Aft - and the date I last checked it out. We rotate
our posts, you'll notice."

"So you work four days, and take a day off?" Chip asked, studying
the list.

"Yes, that's right."

Chip grinned. "Does the first letter show give the type of
torpedo?"

"That's right."

"Are 'Ds' and 'Hs' tough to work on? I see you only do three a
day."

"Yes, that's right. Those are Decoys and acoustic Homing.
Tricky."

"It looks like your job's gotten harder recently. You used to do
five or six of the Foxes and Tangos a day."

"That's Andy's idea," he answered with a smile. "He wants to see
if he can organize things more efficiently - get us to do only four a
day, to make it more predictable." He shrugged. "He probably read it in
a book - he'll learn. Personally, when I get in the groove, I like to
keep going."

Chip lifted his eyebrows. It was certainly unusual for a junior
seaman like Andy - even one on the fast track - to be given latitude
like that. It was even more surprising that von Kugleblitz was willing
to smile at it as a foible instead of using it as evidence the young
mole was a fool. Von Kugleblitz liked Andy. _Albacore_ was a happy
ship.

"Andy's a nice guy," Chip agreed. "He's been a big help."

"He's like that. He'll even stand a torpedo watch on his day off
so you can get out, get something to eat, stretch your legs."

"Who fills in when you're taking a day off?"

"Usually Andy, or Weapons Officer Fluffy."

Chip looked at him blankly. "Weapons Officer Fluffy?"

"Don't talk, 'Chip.'"

"Good point. I thought Andy was a power plant stoker."

"He's been moved over to weapons," von Kugleblitz said with a
nod.

"That must be unusual."

"Well, it generally happens for one of two reasons. Either he's a
screw-up being dumped from one department to another, or he's being
groomed for an officer's berth. Andy's sharp. In a couple of years,
he'll make a good Watch Officer."

"Yes, I think he will," Chip agreed. Not for the first time in
his career, he was very happy that people in general liked to talk
about their jobs.


To: GH@Public_Library.org

We have met in the past, but for the moment I prefer to remain
anonymous. There are dark forces moving against your family, and they
could threaten me as well.

Your grandfather has never forgiven your mother for marrying against
his wishes. The Catbane family has connections with other clans, long
alliances forged in blood and marriage relations. Despite the
democratic mask he wears for politics in America, Jerome Catbane
considers you, your sister, and nephew both tainted by Geegaw
Hackwrench's blood, at the same time they are the best representatives
of the Catbanes in their generations. Yet none of them would tolerate
being directed to marry someone acceptable to Jerome.

As such, they pose a potential threat to Catbane's legacy. He needs a
pretext to move against them; once he get it, he will. He would rather
see this branch pruned than risk its flourishing more than the tree.

-- Deep Stoat


<It's a little far fetched,> Zipper said dubiously.

"It would explain a lot," Monty rumbled. For the sake of what had
happened in Catbane's office, the burly mouse was willing to believe
anything bad about him; maybe even more so than Gadget and Widget were.
"It even explains Cassie's prophesy. 'A defenseless mouse is both loved
and threatened by a friend.' Widget thought Catbane was her friend, an'
he loves her for all 'e's willin' to sacrifice 'er."

"I wouldn't call Widget 'defenseless,'" Foxglove observed shyly.
"What with her submarine and three atomic bombs and all." She tried to
suppress her anger towards Gadget and succeeded. They were in the
middle of a life or death situation - and that was much, much more
important than the happiness or heartbreak of one silly little bat.

Monty shot her a look. "Would you call 'er 'disarmed?'"

"It doesn't matter," Gadget dismissed the argument. "It's a
possibility. An unlikely one, but a possibility which will remain open
until we can reject it. Agreed?"

Three heads bobbed in agreement.

"Trackball is trying to trace where this message came from. She
said she'd call." Gadget pressed "Done" to close the message, and
selected the one from Chip.


To: GH@Public_Library.org

I guess you know that our training's on hold until this mess gets
sorted out. I just hope your sister's temper doesn't make things worse
- she didn't handle the news about Jürgen well at all. Nobody wants
this to blow out of proportion, but nobody wanted that to happen with
the Archduke Ferdinand either. It feels like I'm being pulled in five
directions at once!

It's very important you guys do nothing until Dale and I get back. I
don't want us splitting up and risking defeat in detail.

Dale sends all his love to Foxglove, and asks her to tape MST3K for him
while he's gone.

I'm getting my sea legs back. Everyone's been very friendly, and life
on a sub is a little strange in some of the details.

I dunno where to begin. There hasn't been much action; the food aboard
is plain, and I think our fly friend Zipper would be sure to gripe
about it. No one complains, according to custom aboard. Our esteemed
host, Widget, expects some time in May to visit - we have been drawing
on her hospitality in spades, building us a prison of obligation.

Give Monty a hug from me!

- Chip


Zipper blinked. When had he, a fly, ever complained about food?
Maybe when it was a bit too fresh…

"He says we shouldn't do anything," Foxglove observed. She
couldn't suppress a frown. Did Dale really think *she* would forget to
record Mystery Science Theater 3000?

"Well, actually," Gadget said, "there's no way to get a secure
message to the tree, because we use a cellular phone for voice and
email, so-"

"Steganography," Monty grinned ear to ear and mussed Gadget's
hair playfully. "You are your daddy's little girl, ain't you?"

<Stega--?> Zipper tried to say.

"Concealing a short message in a bigger one," Gadget explained.
"The last sentence in the first paragraph has a number in it. So you
read every fifth word -"

"That until out sister's worse news all blow nobody with it
pulled once guys and don't and Dale to to while my been on little the
to much is our be it to host in have hospitality a a!" Foxglove
declared triumphantly. "Of course!" Then doubt crossed her features.
"Uhm…"

"Every fifth word in the fifth paragraph," Gadget corrected
gently. "The rest of the message can be ignored."

Then that meant Dale hadn't sent his love. Foxglove suppressed a
tremor. "Begin action plain fly sure no custom --"

"That's it," Gadget interrupted, turning off the PalmPilot so the
rest couldn't be read. "It's only five words long, apart from the code
phrase 'begin action.'"

It hurt to lie to them, but the rest could be shared with Monty,
alone. Foxy and Zipper were family, but they weren't family enough. It
wasn't Gadget's secret to give.

<I don't get it,> Zipper mused.

"Nope," Gadget assured him. "He used homonyms. 'Begin action'
means he wants us to do something. In the rest he's drawing attention
to something unusual that happened, that we might not have noticed."

"A Navy Kestrel just 'appened to be in th' area." Monty mused.
"It landed on _Lucy Tania_ t' pick up an injured sailor, and it flew to
shore without clearing customs."

Gadget nodded. "Interesting, don't you think?"

Monty suddenly noticed something else that was interesting: in
Chip's absence, Gadget had automatically assumed his informal position
of command - and nobody minded.

"What's our next move, Gadget-love?"

"I think we need to follow up Chip's lead," Gadget said. Out of
pure habit before turning off the palmtop computer they used for email,
she connected and built a list of mail on the server. She would have
jumped out of her socks if she wore any.

From Deep_Stoat@coldmail.com, a message with the subject "Urgent
I see you."

She downloaded the message, disconnected, and jumped to the mail
reader:


To: GH@Public_Library.org

I had hoped my warning would reach you in time to prevent the trumped-
up charges against your sister, but apparently they have not. Feldmows
is Catbane's catspaw in this. But there is still time to save yourself
and your sister.

Come to the roof of the 5th Precinct police station tonight, and come
alone. If you bring friends, I will assume you were followed and will
not contact you.

-- Deep Stoat


<Can you say 'trap?'> Zipper snorted.

"Even so…" Gadget whispered.

"Well," Monty shrugged, a slow smile creeping over his features.
"Shall we … check it out? We'll have to wait 'till tomorrow to follow
Chip's lead anyway."

"Can I too?" Foxglove yipped hopefully.

"I don't see why not," Gadget lifted both eyebrows.

Zipper cleared his throat and made the bugle call.

"Rescue Rangers, Away!" the four of them cried out.

And the only thing that would have made it better for Foxglove
was if her wing were around Dale instead of Monty.


5th Precinct, Manhattan 2328 EST (0428 GMT)

A highly sophisticated night hunter slowly circled the 5th
Precinct building, sweeping the proposed landing zone with enhanced
night vision and passive parabolic audio. Foxglove was a master at
detecting while remaining undetected, and unlike Zipper, she could see
fine in starlight. The neon of the city and late night office work cast
more than enough on the station house. Of course, police precincts are
always open, but even they have periods of reduced activity. Much of
the building was still and unoccupied. An animal intruder would have
little trouble finding a spare terminal, in Foxglove's opinion.

Foxglove flew back to the Ranger Wing, which was flying slowly.
Of course, she had no problem finding it. "I heard a heartbeat from the
northeast corner of the roof, about 120 beats per minute." she said. "I
didn't see him, so he must be concealed. I'd guess he's a medium-sized
animal, like a small cat."

"C-cat? Uh… roight," Monty cracked his knuckles with a crooked
grin. "I'll just 'ave a word or two with -"

"Monty," Gadget said patiently, "We're not even sure it is a cat.
And the message was sent from inside, so he's probably just a
bystander. I'll go talk with him, while you guys ..."


Prickles watched incredulously as the little blonde mouse walked
towards him, confidently as though in her nest. "Hi!" she called out.
"I'm Gadget, a Rescue Ranger, and -"

The porcupine hadn't heard an aircraft land, and he had no idea
how the rodent had spotted him, but it was irrelevant. He stepped out
towards her, seeing her for the first time in the low light.

"Hello, beautiful," he smiled. "If you relax, dying won't hurt a
bit."

He expected surprise, fear, panic, rage, confusion, or even
disgust; he didn't expect a crooked smile and a lifted eyebrow.
"Really?"

At that moment, there was a twang, and a rush of air, and a net
appeared from nowhere, enveloping him. Monty grinned, grabbed the line
reeled out of the pintle mount suction harpoon and gave a sharp tug.

The net fell to pieces.

*Golly,* thought Gadget. *He must have sharpened the edges of his
spines, instead of just leaving the tips pointy.* Then, a moment later,
the equally important thought: *This is not good.* The porcupine was
almost a head taller than Monty, and was even rounder.

Prickles broke into a run, towards her, as though he was a
linebacker and she had the ball. Without hesitating, she dropped to the
tar roof and rolled towards him. She felt a foot pinned under her body,
right before he went over. Fortunately, he was going too fast to land
on her. She felt a slight tug at her left leg and got to her feet.

Prickles was too round to stop quickly, so he rolled a good part
of the roof, into darkness. Gadget looked about warily, searching for
any movement. She touched the cut on her left leg. She was relieved
that she felt only a little blood; nasty, but not arterial. Where was
Monty? Where was -

Foxglove landed in front of her, almost nose to nose. "Hiya," the
bat said.

Past Foxglove, Gadget saw the porcupine race out of the darkness.
"Foxglove!" Gadget gasped. "Behind -"

Foxglove wrapped the claws on her feet around Gadget's ankles.
Her wings swept out and powerfully down; the surge of wind rocketing
them both almost a foot in the air. Gadget toppled backwards and
dangled, upside down, to see the porcupine bounce off a wall. Hard.

"He thought he could sneak up on a bat," Foxglove said with a
giggle. "Sneak up on a bat," she repeated, chuckling. She fluttered
downwards. Gadget landed on her hands and came to her feet. The bat
landed next to her, and Gadget could hear her panting. A vertical
takeoff and short hover carrying twice her usual weight wasn't easy.
Zipper gritted his teeth and prepared to rush.

"Zipper, no!" Gadget snapped.

Zipper buzzed mightily, launching himself at the enemy with all
the power he possessed. Normally, he preferred to run interference, but
he was angry. Nobody was going to threaten to kill a Ranger without
getting at least one lump from the fly. He focussed his eyes on the
porcupine's forehead.

Prickles saw him coming, and swung.

Zipper veered, forcing himself down, working with gravity. He
almost made it. A spine cut one of his wings in half. The end fluttered
away, Zipper went into a spin, and crashed, rolling.

Gadget shot after Zipper, and Foxglove sprinted after, half
hopping and half flying, keeping herself between the porcupine and the
blonde mouse. Her wing ached, at the wrist; the popup had strained her
a bit. She wasn't sure what she could do, but she made herself Gadget's
guard anyway.

Zipper got up, groggy. He flapped a bit and fell down.

<I'll be okay,> he assured Gadget. <It'll grow back.>

She wasn't satisfied, but there wasn't much she could do. She
looked around, trying to find a stick or nail or something to hit the
porcupine with. Using fists would be suicide, and more importantly, it
didn't occur to her. She didn't get into fistfights; she used tools.
Ironically, the roof had recently been policed.

Prickles slowly rose to his knees. A new voice came from behind
him; pleasant, male, with an accent.

"Mate, what comes after two?"

"Three," Prickles replied, befuddled enough from the impact with
a wall.

"Fore!" Monty cried out gleefully, swinging the Ranger Wing's
recently pintle mounted plunger harpoon into Prickles' chin. The impact
was doubtless spread and cushioned by Prickles' spines, but it was
still sufficient to lift the porcupine up and flip him over onto his
back. Prickles spat blood, stood, and gave Monty a murderous look
immediately before Monty got him with the backswing. Monterey didn't
care to fight with weapons, but his preferred mix of sumo and western
wrestling, using bulk and strength, would have meant the death of a
thousand cuts. Monty then let the momentum swing him all the way around
and landed a swing on the back of Prickles' head. Humans would have
called it a "rabbit blow."

What rabbits called a "Tutankhamen" worked reasonably well on
porcupines, considering how well armored they are. It knocked the
porcupine to his knees. Monty followed up with a swing straight down on
his crown, which Prickles blocked by catching the club between crossed
wrists. Prickles lashed out with his left hand, catching Monty across
the face.

The pain was so great for a moment Monty thought he had lost his
left eye. He soon realized it was merely blinded by a flow of blood
from a cut. He hurled himself backwards to avoid the inevitable second
strike in the combination, and caught his heel on a TV antenna cable.
He fell over, landing on his back with a grunt.

In an instant, the porcupine lept for him.

Knowing it was better to loose an extremity than to let one of
those spines penetrate his thorax, Monty lifted his foot and caught
Prickles on the midriff, blocking him with the plunger harpoon held
sideways. The wind rushed out of the larger animal, and pain flashed
through Monty's lacerated foot pads, but both animals ignored it.

"If you had stayed out of my way, you'd see the sun tomorrow,"
the porcupine said softly.

"So you're after Gadget? Why?"

"Nothing personal. I'm just a hired hand."

The porcupine began to push the plunger harpoon to one side,
matching raw strength against strength and winning. Prickles had taken
a fierce beating, but there was no doubt in his mind he was ahead. The
girls had probably run away, but Prickles would have this mouse who was
making him fight harder for a victory than he ever had before. He
pushed Monty's weapon aside, and drew back a fist to open the mouse's
throat.

Monty suddenly smiled. Prickles glanced at the weapon and --

-- realized Monty had reloaded the plunger harpoon, removing the
suction cup. Prickles had just pushed it into a firing position.

"Sweet dreams," Monty said before he pulled the trigger.

Prickles took a point-blank, muzzle-velocity plunger right in the
nose.

Prickles rolled over, unable to feel anything for the moment but
blood clogging his smashed nose and running back down in his throat.
With every breath through his mouth, he coughed blood onto the roof. He
didn't even feel the pain; breathing had his attention. He had a bit of
luck; he tangled in the line from the harpoon, pulling it out of
Monty's hands as he rolled.

Prickles got to his feet and faced his adversary. Monty staggered
to his feet, and limped towards him. He took off his helmet and wrapped
it around his right fist. He'd be reduced to a right jab, but he knew
he could finish the job.

Monty pounded away at Prickles' nose. "I. Told. You. To. Stay.
Down!"

Prickles finally got a blow back in, swiping across Monty's
sweater, scoring three deep tears through the cable stitch and the
flesh below.

Monty yelled, more in anger than pain. He swung his right fist
into the splattered ruin of Prickles' nose -- and Prickles blocked,
driving a spine through his forearm.

Without hesitating, Monty drove his left hand, open palm, into
Prickles' face. The porcupine released a scream that was mostly a
liquid gurgle, and wrapped his arms around the mouse, lifting his feet
from the floor.

As the spines cut into him, Monty, released a long bellow. He
grabbed a quill on Prickles' head, and brought the porcupine's face
down against his own crown. Again. And again. And harder.

Prickles let go, unable to take the punishment any more. Monty
pulled free, the spine in his right arm tearing loose. Monty jumped
backwards. Prickles stepped forwards, ready to finish it. And fell
backwards, as Gadget and Foxglove caught the backs of his knees with a
cord stretched between the two of them.

Prickles fell, landing on a modified mousetrap catapult. It was
Gadget's, used to provide quick commuter service back to the tree.

"Stay down, or fly," Gadget ordered. She aimed her plunger
harpoon at the trigger. Prickles decided she didn't have much of a
chance of hitting the tiny bit of metal, and rolled to get off the
mousetrap.

Monty had noticed Gadget never missed what she was aiming at, and
she wasn't going to miss now. "Gadget --" he started, horrified.

Gadget fired the harpoon. It seemed to Monty that things suddenly
went in slow motion. The harpoon hit the trigger. The mousetrap fired.
And Prickles was flipped into the air.

Only he hadn't been positioned right on the mousetrap. Instead of
arcing towards the Ranger tree and the safe landing target, he went
sideways.

He barely cleared the edge of the roof. Foxglove was airborne in
a flash, but he was spinning too fast to catch her and his spines were
too sharp for her to risk grabbing him. Back up on the roof, two mice
and a fly heard, or imagined they heard, a soft crunch when Prickles
hit the sidewalk.

Gadget was on the fire escape in a flash, racing down three
stories in what was barely less than a controlled fall. Monty grabbed
Zipper and somehow, despite his foot and the open wounds, was able to
catch up on the ground. He grabbed her shoulder.

"Gadget, love," he said quietly, "let me--"

"Let me go!" she shouted. "Monty, I have to --"

"NO!" Monty screamed at her. The anger that exploded out of him
was almost visible, a kind of wave. He shook her by the shoulders, the
blood covering most of his face making him an unrecognizable monster.
"Young lady, you WILL listen to me! You WILL stand right here and _not
- move - an - inch! _ Do you HEAR ME!?"

They stared at one another for a moment, and she finally,
reluctantly, nodded.

Foxglove came over and wrapped her wings around her. "It's okay,
Gadget. Just wait here with me. It's okay." She nodded at Monty.

Monterey and Zipper went out to the porcupine. Monty heaved a
sigh of relief. Prickles' face was turned away from Gadget, and if she
saw that, he didn't think she would ever stop seeing it. Monty looked
at Zipper, who firmly shook his head. Flies were never wrong about
this.

Monty took off his coat and draped it over Prickles' face.

For a moment, Gadget didn't understand the gesture. "Oh God, oh
God, oh God, oh God..." she heard it repeated before she even realized
it was her. She dropped to all fours, Foxglove holding her so she
slipped gently down. Staring at the concrete, she went on. "Oh God, oh
God, oh God..."

If it was a curse, a prayer, or an apology, even Gadget wasn't
sure.

Foxglove held the shaking mouse, unable to think of anything to
say. At that moment, if she could have made it better by giving her
anything, even Dale, she would have done it without hesitating.
Gadget's mind was running in circles. Something was broken. She wanted
to fix it, so desperately. But she knew she couldn't. All she felt was
a nauseated, horrible wish It Had Never Happened.

Monty was next to her.

"C'mon, love," he said tenderly. "Lemme take ya 'ome."

Gadget went silent, and slowly stood up. For the first time, she
really saw how badly cut up Monterey was. "You can't fly," she said
calmly. "I'll drive."

"Gadget," Foxglove said softly, "Gadget, you're not okay either."

"No," Gadget agreed. She shook off Foxglove's touch. "But I'm on
line. Let's go."

She didn't look behind herself to see the other three stare at
one another, stunned.


SRV _Albacore, _ 0450 GMT (2350 EST)

"According to the email we received," Mister Calvert said,
"Admiral Feldmows wants to talk with the designer by phone."

He was talking to four small animals, each wearing life jackets
and carrying an LED flashlight. They were all nocturnal, wearing red
goggles to force their eyes to dark adapt. They were not quite
surfaced, but close enough to get the surface chop. It wouldn't be easy
to climb around on the deck of a submarine tonight.

"Of course, it may be a trick to get us to surface at a known
time. You'll be maintaining a lookout. Assume anything in the air that
isn't a Human plane is hostile. Use the safety cables."

The door to the deck opened and the four lookouts walked out.
Mister Calvert sighed. This would be risky.


"Are you ready for the call?" Chip asked, sitting down at
Jürgen's workstation.

The two tiny desks were set up so they faced one another, an
arrangement Widget and Jürgen had settled on for the sake of symmetry
and to fill up he space under their bunk. Widget and Jürgen had found
an unexpected bonus: the arrangement put them in kissing range. Looking
over to Chip's face where she was so used to seeing Jürgen, Widget had
to fight a memory -- the memory of the first man who had offered her
more than a few minutes of sensation, whom she had killed.

But Widget recognized that as a sign of stress and fatigue, like
the hideous certainty that washed over her periodically; the unshakable
belief she would never see Jürgen again. There was even a name for it;
"The Midwatch Blues." She knew she had to ignore it to keep working, so
she nodded politely and waited.

Chip had caught a nap here and there today, and he suddenly
realized Widget had not. She had been awake since they left Staten
City, and it was starting to show. She was a mess, and it was worse
because she obviously didn't know it.

"You should really take a little nap before Admiral Feldmows
calls. I'll wake you up," Chip offered.

"I'm okay," she lied. "What do you think about the email I showed
you?"

Chip had barely thought about it; Widget had been very casual
when she let him read it, and immediately thereafter things started
happening. "I don't like snap judgments. What do you think?"

Widget looked up at the bunk over them. "I find it hard to
credit. But..."

"But you're playing for high stakes?"

"Exactly."

"Let's pretend for a moment the email's legitimate," Chip
suggested. "What does it imply?"

"Well," Widget started, "First of all, if my grandfather really
wants to get rid of his daughter's mongrels, then he's after Gimcrack
and Gadget. Not me."

"Right," Chip agreed. "Because --" he cut himself short. It was a
sensitive thing to bring up.

Widget grinned. "Because yours truly isn't wading in the gene
pool ever again." Despite the smile, there was a touch of sorrow in her
voice. "Gadget has my problem, too. A baby would be a very big risk for
her. Gimcrack's the bigger potential threat to the purity of the
Catbane line, a decade or two down the road."

"So you think he might be engineering a situation where he has to
sink _Albacore_ -- with Gimcrack aboard."

Widget went silent. "It's possible," she admitted finally.

"Why the conspiracy?" Chip asked. "It seems too complicated."

"Because he's the Mayor. Not Supreme God-King. He needs to make
it all look legitimate. I don't believe Feldmows would be in on it, not
for a second. Feldmows and his navy are victims, too."

"Why the rush? He's got almost twenty years before Gimcrack could
sire a baby."

"He's an old man."

This wasn't good at all. Widget was coming up with answers too
quickly. She had thought about this, long and hard.

"Gadget's a more immediate threat than Gimcrack," Chip pointed
out. "And he hasn't done anything about her."

"That we know of. She has a dangerous profession."

"That sounds paranoid."

She looked at him and smiled. "You're right. It is silly. He's
got your group split and distracted; assuming he doesn't know about the
leak he should act now."

Despite himself, Chip felt a slight tremor. "Do you believe it?"
he asked. If she did, right or wrong, it ruined any possibility of a
peaceful resolution.

"I believe I have to plan for it." She looked at him solemnly.
"And you'd be wise to do the same."

"If you're wrong," he reminded her gently, "and you act on it,
Jürgen could be in a lot of trouble."

That, he could tell, hurt her. It was another thing she had
thought about, long and hard.

"If you were Jürgen, and Gimcrack were your baby, what would you
say?" she asked.

Chip caught his breath. He hadn't expected that, although he
should have. "I'd say take _Albacore_ to the Pacific, and never come
back," he admitted. "But if I were you, I wouldn't consider it. It's so
hard to find someone you love, Widget. Love is worth a risk."

It was just too absurd, coming from him. "Look who's talking,"
she snorted.

"What -- what do you mean?" he asked, hoping he misunderstood.

"I mean that you're so obviously in love with my sister there's
two people who don't know it. Gadget and Gimcrack, and between you and
me I think Gimcrack suspects."

There was a long silence after this.

"Even if it's true -- and I'm not saying it is -- it doesn't
matter," Chip said slowly. "Gadget doesn't know I exist. Romantically
speaking."

"Wrong. She's blocking it; maybe because of the mixed-species
thing, I don't know, but there's something there."

"That's not the issue."

"It's not?" Widget was surprised by that.

There was another reason it was a Bad Idea, one he couldn't admit
to Dale. "Widget, she's way above my level. Maybe you didn't notice
this, but she's really smart."

Widget scratched her chin thoughtfully. "After you figured out
which part of the Falcon's tests were forged, I made myself this little
promise. I'd never try to deceive you. Do you know why?"

Chip looked surprised and a little flattered. "Gratitude? Ethics?
Am I getting warm?"

Widget didn't smile. "Because I don't think I can stop a freight
train with one hand, and I don't think I can fool you." She folded her
arms and pink eyes met his own. "You're one smart cookie, Chip."

The phone rang, and Widget hit the speakerphone button. "Widget
Hackwrench here," she said. "Chip's with me."

"Widget? This is Gadget."

"Hi, Gadget," Chip smiled. It was good to hear her, even over a
tinny speaker. Unfortunately, he couldn't take much pleasure in it.
"This is kind of a bad time to --"

"It's okay," Widget interrupted. "We've got call waiting; when
Feldmows phones we can take it." A bigger concern was HFDF -- the
Staten City Navy might try to find them by homing in on their radio
transmissions to the Iridium constellation.

"Uhm, Chip?" Gadget asked. "I'm calling from a phone booth, so
it's private."

"Do you want me to leave?" Widget asked.

"No, no ... you can stay. Chip, we traced Deep Stoat to the
police station. We were attacked by a porcupine."

"Was anyone hurt?" Chip demanded. His face was tense.

"Uhm. I'm okay, Zipper lost a wing but it'll grow back in a few
days, Foxglove's okay too. Monty got hurt, but I stitched him up and
we're taking him to Dr. Skinner tomorrow, just to make sure. I think
he'll be fine."

"Do you know why he attacked you?" Chip asked.

"I ... think he was after me. I don't know why."

"I do," Widget mumbled. Chip could barely hear her. His heart
sank.

"What did you say?" Gadget asked.

"I said with Monty hurt, I'd hate to see the other guy," Widget
joked weakly.

There was a long pause, and a second call tried to come in.

"Feldmows?" Widget asked shortly.

"Widget?" Feldmows asked.

"Admiral, I have another call. I'll get him off the line."

"Thank you."

The albino mouse stared blankly at the chipmunk. "Well, he's gone
after Gadget."

Chip was lost in thought.

"Gadget," he finally said. "Can you interrogate him?"

"Uh. No."

"So he got away?"

"N -- no. Chip, I think I had better go."

That probably meant she had released him. It was hard to read
voices over the phone, especially with a speaker this small. Still,
something bothered Chip. "Gadget, take care of yourself, all right? I
miss you."

"I miss you too. Goodbye."

Widget flicked over to Feldmows. "Hello, Admiral."

"Hello, Widget. Jürgen is okay, and he says he loves you, and he
asked you to have some crab legs for him."

Chip's mouth went dry. He remembered Jürgen raving about the crab
legs in a mouse restaurant in San Francisco. He was telling her to run
to the Pacific.

"Thank you," Widget replied. "Tell him ... I've made reservations
for two."

"I will," Feldmows promised.

"Please tell Captain Murry's family we didn't intentionally take
him prisoner. He was in the water and unconscious, and Chip saved his
life. Murry's in good health."

"They'll be glad to hear that. Did you forward the email from his
family, and will you let him send replies?"

"When my husband can write to his family, I'll be glad to,"
Widget said steadily.

Chip sighed. It had started well, but he could see it was about
to turn into an argument.

"We're concerned you might use that to send encoded messages,"
Feldmows replied.

"Coded messages?" Widget scoffed. "Do you really think I've set
up a method of sending coded messages with my own husband?"

Chip coughed. "Excuse me," he said politely. "I think it might be
more profitable to reach an understanding and then exchange your
prisoners."

"I agree," Feldmows said.

"No," Widget disagreed. "Admiral, is my husband under your
jurisdiction as a POW or is he being held in a civilian prison?"

"Civilian prison," Feldmows answered briefly.

"Then why am I talking to you?"

Chip bit his tongue to keep from screaming at her.

"Widget, I have an unprovoked attack on a passenger liner to
explain."

"I did not attack that passenger liner!"

"Admiral, I don't believe she did," Chip interjected. The last
thing they needed was for either of them to be convinced this was
Widget against Staten City instead of both of them against a mystery --

Two sharp blasts on a Klaxon, and the deck began to tilt forward.

"What th --" Widget got to her feet and ran to the bridge.

Chip realized they were about to lose the telephone link.
"Admiral, we're diving. I don't know why."

"Chip, are you sure --"

Feldmows' voice was cut off, instantly. There was no blast of
static; Chip didn't know if it was a digital link, or if power to
communications had been cut. And it didn't matter -- the conversation
with Feldmows had been shut off, and with it, perhaps their best shot
at calming things down. Chip shook his head, angry, and went to the
bridge.

In addition to the usual bridge crew, there were four small
animals wearing life jackets and black raincoats. One of them was Andy.
They were holding themselves upright by clinging to handles; Chip
grabbed one and looked at Andy inquiringly. They were diving, like
before during the torpedo drill (had that been less than nine hours
ago? Extraordinary!) but with an odd urgency about it; as though they
all knew this was not a drill and were somehow communicating their fear
to the ship herself.

"Aircraft," Andy explained quietly. "Peregrine, flying without
lights, heading in our direction."

"Who saw it?" Chip asked.

"I did."

"I'll never make a joke about 'blind as a mole' again," Chip said
wryly. Andy's laugh was a little strained. Chip knew very well that
moles had excellent night vision.

"No contact," Mr Fenton said from his rig on the ceiling. "No
torpedoes, no surface ships."

"Oh, they're coming," Widget hissed. "Peregrine with onboard HFDF
-- it might even be unarmed. Mister Misch, level off at one hundred.
Mrs. Shapiro, come to one-three-five and give me flank speed for three
minutes."

Mrs. Shapiro looked hesitant. "Only three minutes, ma'am?"

"Yes." Widget smiled. "They want to throw a surprise party, but
they're going to be getting the presents."

There was a moment of shocked silence around the bridge. For an
instant, Chip thought they were going to have a mutiny on their hands.

But then Mr. Calvert started to applaud, and soon the whole
bridge was cheering and clapping. And Chip realized for the first time,
how angry, how insulted the people aboard were; how furious that their
captain had been taken from them and their designer almost captured.

And Chip stood alone, horrified, knowing that some ships would
die tonight, and knowing he was the only one on the bridge who thought
this was bad.


December 15: Ranger Tree, 0150 EST (0650 GMT)

After several hours fighting adrenaline and dreading nightmares,
Gadget had finally resorted to drugs. She didn't want sleep; she wanted
unconsciousness. So, she was more angry than frightened when she was
aware there was someone in the room.

"Who's there?" she tried to demand, but her voice cracked making
her sound more afraid than she was. She turned a switch and a white LED
flashed on.

The intruder stood in the middle of the room, a sardonic smile
playing around her lips. Gadget gasped. Gadget knew her, but at the
same time, she didn't. Remarkably, it drove out all thought of the
events earlier that night.

The apparition wore gray pants and a blue short sleeved shirt,
exposing her stainless steel left arm. She wore black boots, which were
louder on the floor than bare pads and had woken Gadget. Her hair was
tied into a bun and had gone snow white with age, matching her fur.
Some of her flesh had been melted away by the years, a patch covered
her right eye and an ugly scar ran under it. But the remaining, pink
eye was as bright and alert as ever, and maybe warmer.

The vision shook her head sadly. "You're so young," she said.

"Widget?" Gadget asked, confused. "You're so old."

Widget sniffed. "I wouldn't call fifty-eight old, really."

Gadget laughed. "I must be dreaming."

"Oh, yes," the intruder agreed amiably. "The question is what
caused the dream? I could be your subconscious reflecting an aspect of
your personality you prefer to project onto your sister, or I could be
an angel adopting a disguise you're more likely to accept, or synapses
in your brain are being fired in a controlled pattern by electrons sent
into the past by a quantum tunneling effect. Take your pick."

"Quantum tunnels don't go through time," Gadget immediately
objected.

"No," the Widget-like apparition agreed. "Unless you think of an
electron as a standing wave with a most probable past and postulate the
ability to generate them to specification in a large linear
accelerator."

Gadget grinned. "Which would require an enormous linear
accelerator, and ludicrous amounts of computer power."

"Well, my little boy isn't _entirely_ without influence," the
intruder said with obvious pride. She sat and a chair materialized
under her. "But enough of this cosmological chit chat. I'll bet you're
hungry." She took a covered plate from behind her and handed it to
Gadget with a flourish. Curiously, Gadget lifted the lid and gasped.
Pancakes.

"They have little faces on them," Gadget said, marveling. "Like
Daddy used to make when I was little."

"Did he?" Widget asked, leaning forward to see.

"You should know. You created them," Gadget said suspiciously.

"No, I triggered your memory of them," Widget corrected.

Gadget started eating. "Want some?"

"No thanks; this is your dream, not mine. I couldn't taste them.
Tuck in."

"Thank you. I never thought I'd see you wearing a short-sleeved
shirt."

Widget glanced down at her stainless steel arm. "I got over that
years ago," she dismissed.

"What happened to your eye?"

Widget shrugged. "No need to go into details. This is probably
more important." She crossed her right leg and tapped the boot. "Arch
supports. My feet went flat about fifteen years ago. You and I spend a
lot of time plantigrade. They're uncomfortable, but you should start
wearing them around the tree. It'll save you some discomfort when
you're my age."

"Doctor Skinner's been talking about getting me a set," Gadget
admitted. She pushed the pancakes away. "So, if you're time travelling,
why don't you go back a little further and keep ... that from
happening?"

Widget shrugged. "We can only do dreams. Do you want to talk
about it?"

"Not really."

"Don't ice up, Gadget."

Gadget stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"You know very well what I mean, girl." For the first time,
Widget actually sounded angry. "You can't stand the hurt so you'll make
yourself numb. It works, for a while. But it's a bad habit to get into.
You tell yourself you're growing up, when you're really turning into
something twisted and unnatural." Widget frowned. "Monty's worried sick
about you right now. He's seen friends ice up before. He can't sleep.
He's telling himself it's his fault, that --"

"It's not his fault. That's ridiculous," Gadget scoffed.

"Yes. So?" She leaned forward a little, and continued in a
different tone. "Gadget, you helped pull me out of the mouth of hell.
Don't climb in yourself."

The pancakes finished, Gadget lay back in bed and addressed the
ceiling. "That gives me only one choice."

"Several, but which did you have in mind?" Widget asked casually.

"Leaving. Going to Ultra-Flight."

Widget was silent. "You save a lot of lives here. You know that."

"Widget, I heard that porcupine hit the pavement. I don't want to
hear that crunch again."

"So you prefer the sharp 'boom' of an exploding aircraft?"

Gadget looked at her sharply. "I didn't deserve that."

"It wasn't a comment on the way you work, not really." Widget
shook her head impatiently. She took her sister's hands. The palm of
her left hand had a thin layer of rubber to improve her grip. "Gadget,
you and I are artists, with a long and proud heritage. We're engineers.
If there's anything in this world more elaborate than two rocks
standing on top of one another, it's because one of us was there. We
make order from chaos using our minds and those who came before us. As
engineers, we stand between what is and can be. It's a proud calling,
but it's a dangerous place to be. With the Rangers, you are even more
than that."

"So what do I stand between as a Ranger?" Gadget asked
flippantly.

"What is and what should be. We really can be better than the
world, Gadget. The five of you taught me that."

Gadget's eyes were swimming with tears. Widget pulled her up and
kissed her, once, on the forehead.

"Widget, It's just -- I -- it hurts."

"And it will hurt for a while. Shouldn't it? You'll get over it,
but you won't forget."

"That's not very comforting," Gadget muttered.

"Gadget, it's a terrible thing that happened. But you didn't do
it deliberately or with malice, and maybe you even saved Monty's life."
Widget sighed. "You made a mistake. Learn and move on. Anything else is
cowardice."

"Point taken."

Widget looked away for a moment, and sighed in disgust. "Crud,
it's the Feds."

A tall, middle-aged mouse in a suit jacket shimmered in through
the wall. "You didn't turn this thing on, did you?"

"I helped build it," Widget snorted.

"They didn't give Teller a hydrogen bomb."

"And that," Widget sniffed with great dignity, "is a gross
injustice."

"Yeah, right." He looked around. "Where's the recording?"

"Who are you," Gadget finally demanded, holding her covers up
under her chin, "and what are you doing in my bedroom?"

He blinked at Gadget. "You can hear me?"

"There isn't a recording. This is a live interactive," Widget
said casually.

He turned dark and angry eyes at her. "Darnit, Mom!" he yelled.

"Don't you 'darnit, Mom' me," she snapped back. "It's in the test
budget. Sort of. If you squint. And ignore a zero."

"But you're changing histo --" he started. Suddenly, he froze.
"Uhm, Aunt Gadget?" he said with a smile. "This is just a really weird
dream. Honest."

"Okay," Gadget agreed.

Widget sighed. "Gotta go, sis. Or Mister I-Know-Better-Than-My-
Mother will embarrass me in front of you." She fixed him with a
scathing glare. "Again."

"I was four years old, Mom," Gimcrack said through clenched
teeth.

Gadget cleared her throat. "Uh, Widget? Before you go ... you
didn't really say anything I didn't know already."

"Yes," Widget agreed.

"Then why did you come?"

"Because I love you and I don't want you to spend the worst night
of your life alone." Her voice was very casual and steady. They kissed
quickly. "See you in a few. Two things. Don't ice up --"

"-- And arch supports," Gadget nodded.

The two walked to the wall. "'It's just a dream, Aunt Gadget,'"
Widget mocked. "How did you get elected if that's the best lie you
could come up with?"

"Maybe because people trust me?"

"So when are you telling them you're a mouse?"

"I never said I _wasn't_ a mouse --"

Gadget slowly shook her head. Beyond any doubt, that was the
second strangest dream she had ever had.


SRV _Albacore,_ 0710 GMT (0210 EST)

Widget sipped coffee from a thimble painted with the slogan
"World's Most Byronic Mouse" and took a bite from a Honey-Nut Cheerio.
By eating breakfast, she was hoping to convert to Greenwich time more
easily. It seemed to be working.

_Albacore_ was running long, lazy circles, hunting with passive
sonar, running silent to distract Mister Fenton as little as possible.
Occasionally, she drifted to within a few feet of the surface to let
Miss Freiheit search the electromagnetic spectrum with HFDF. Widget
gulped her coffee, hoping to finish before the boat was in the surface
turbulence.

Chip came to the bridge. He was about to say something, but
Widget interrupted.

"Good morning, Chip," she said cheerfully. "We'll need to make
arrangements to take you back home. I don't think we can land you on
Staten Island and I'd rather avoid the chokepoints around Manhattan --"

"Ma'am," Miss Freiheit interrupted. "I have a contact, bearing
zero two seven."

"Mrs. Shapiro, rudder amidships. Mister Misch, hold depth steady.
Miss Freiheit?"

Miss Freiheit hesitated. "Search radar, wavelength three point
eight centimeters. From the sidelobes, I think it's a Yagi antenna."

Widget's grin was feral. "It wouldn't be rotating at, say, two
hundred degrees a second, would it?"

Miss Freiheit's grin was almost as feral. "Yes ma'am, and it's
got a PRF of eight."

"Which means what?" Chip asked, rudely, but he was afraid he knew
the answer.

Widget looked at him silently for a moment, and glanced back at
Miss Freiheit. "Calculate course and speed." She answered Chip's
question. "It's the _Mahan._ she's supporting a hunter-killer group."

"Ma'am," Mister Calvert said gently, "It's _Mahan,_ all right,
but they couldn't detect our periscope with a thirty eight millimeter
radar."

Pink eyes regarded him. "They could detect us on the surface."

"They wouldn't break radio silence on the off chance of spotting
us on the surface," Calvert objected.

"Unless they thought we weren't expecting an attack."

"Ma'am," Miss Freiheit broke in. "They're running at twenty-eight
knots, course two one zero, absolute bearing forty-six degrees, range
twelve and a half nautical miles."

"Mrs. Shapiro, set course one hundred twenty, full speed."

Chip wasn't sure if that was towards the _Mahan_ or away from it;
but he doubted Widget would be smiling quite that way if she was
putting them on an evasion course. "Widget," he said quietly, "What are
you going to do?"

Widget looked at the half eaten Cheerio in her right hand. "You
know," she said conversationally, "I think honey-nut is just about my
favorite flavor."

She took another bite and faced him squarely, chewing slowly.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

"At given course and speed," Mister Norton said, "We will be at
the interception point in ten minutes. The _Mahan_ will be there in
twenty-six minutes."


"C'mon, Dale. Wake up."

Dale was not a hair trigger, two-fisted adventurer, but Chip's
tones, so low and urgent, woke him faster than an alarm bell.

Dale rubbed his eyes. The Nimnul generator was loud, and the boat
was rocking. They were close to the surface, and running fast.

"What is it?" Dale asked.

"We're going to take over the bridge," Chip said quietly.


Ranger Tree, 0215 EST (0715 GMT)

"Monty?" came a soft voice from the door to the kitchen.

"Gadget-love?" Monty replied.

Gadget came into the kitchen, wearing a pair of striped pajamas
which were too big for her. She had gotten rid of the purple nightgown
after Dale had accidentally hit it with a stink bomb. "What are you
doing?"

"Oh." Monty looked down at the bowl he was mixing. "Jest whippin'
up somethin' bad for me."

"Got enough for two?" Gadget smiled and sat down.

Monterey grinned. "You bet. Hope you like Waldorf Salad with
plenty of cheese and no carrots."

"Monty," Gadget began, and hesitated. "Going up against someone
bigger than you, you couldn't tackle or punch, that was about the
bravest thing I've ever seen someone do."

"Well," he shrugged and patted his belly. "I got all this natural
armor, you know."

Gadget laughed. "Monty, we need to talk about what we do next."

"Agreed. We need to choose sides."

"I already did," Gadget shook her head. "Truth and justice."

"Ah. And what if that means stopping your sister?"

Gadget hesitated. "I hope it won't come to that."

"Remember Cassie. Defenseless mouse threatened by someone who
loves 'im. It could be you."

"Cassie's prophesies come true," Gadget said.

"Almost invariably."

"No matter what you do."

"Yes."

"Then they're irrelevant." Gadget folded her arms and narrowed
her eyes. "I think this is a horrible misunderstanding, escalating
rapidly out of control. And we need to stop it."

"Follow Chip's lead about the airplane?"

"No. Not yet. Widget's not fighting over who torpedoed _Lucy
Tania_ and why."

Monty froze. "Risky."

"And crazy," Gadget agreed.

"Nigh-suicidal," Monty elaborated.

"Are you saying no?" Gadget asked.

Monty grinned. "Love, I wouldn't miss this for the world." He
held out a spoon for Gadget to taste. "More mayonnaise?" he asked.

"I don't think so. It's perfect."

He ladled out a generous portion for her. She stirred it with a
spoon, and looked thoughtful.

"Monty, I didn't mean for ... that to happen."

Monterey put his bowl down. "It was an accident, I know." He took
her hands.

"I just didn't follow it through. I just didn't think."

Monterey wordlessly pulled her onto his lap, tucked her chin onto
his shoulder, and held her gently when the tears came.


SRV _Albacore,_ 0715 GMT (0215 EST)

Dale was pacing nervously while Chip lay in his bunk and flipped
through his notes. Dale was positive he wasn't reading them; he was
simply faking calm.

"We have to get going," Dale finally said. He made a few practice
lunges with his pin.

"We'll only be able to hold the bridge for a few minutes, at
most. If we go too soon, they'll be able to sink _Mahan_ after they get
control of the sub back."

"What'll keep them from chasing _Mahan_ anyway?"

"Relative speeds. _Mahan_ is faster than us. We can't catch up to
them."

"Chip, didn't you say Widget was in the right?"

"In general terms, yes. But Catbane isn't about to sink a
battleship with almost a thousand crew aboard."

"Widget won't like this," Dale observed.

"She won't kill us."

"You sure?"

Chip looked up at him. "Yes, Dale," he said quietly. "We might
get roughed up, but I'm sure. Aren't you?"

Dale hesitated. "Yes," he finally agreed, reluctantly.

The SILENT light came on. The number on the depth gauge on the
wall began to increase.

"That's it," Chip said. "The _Mahan_ must be coming ..."

Chip trailed off. Dale was waiting impatiently at the door.

Suddenly Chip began flipping two sheets of paper in the notebook,
looking at one page, than the other. His eyes grew wide.

"What is it?" Dale asked.

Chip rolled out of his bunk, clutching his notes. "Stay here," he
ordered. "Don't come after me, no matter what."

He shoved past Dale, and raced towards the bridge.


"A fox won't penetrate _Mahan's_ bow," Widget was saying to
Mister Calvert. "The slope will deflect them. I designed her so we
could blow off the entire forecastle without doing anything more than
slowing her down." Calvert was dubious about this affair; he doubted
the _Mahan_ was chasing down a contact. If Andy's Peregrine had picked
them up on HFDF, then a squadron of aircraft should have followed it
in. Still, he would do his honest best to follow his commander's
instructions.

"Then we want to hit the flat sides," Mister Calvert said.

"Normally, yes. But that's where Jürgen attacked, so they'll have
their hydrofoils patrolling there." Widget shook her head. "No, we
match courses, dive below the thermocline, let _Mahan_ run over us, go
to periscope depth and hit her in the stern with six foxes. That'll
crack open her Nimnul generator and leave her dead in the water."

"Then we can break off, reload, and polish her off."

"Exactly."

Chip dashed onto the bridge. Widget looked up at him, blinking.

"Widget," he gasped, "we have to talk."

Widget stared at him for several moments.

"Now?" she finally asked.

"Right away."

"Okay," she said. They had almost ten minutes before _Mahan_
would be overhead.

"Alone," Chip insisted.

Widget sighed. "Chip, this is a very bad time --"

"It's important."

She was starting to get angry. Chip would have backed off if he
weren't already angrier. "So is this. Why should I leave the bridge
just as we're --"

"Chief Barra to bridge, and please bring a weapon," Mister
Calvert said into a microphone, just in case.

Chip inhaled. "Widget, you will come with me because you owe me
one. I kept you from killing your sister. I haven't called you on that.
But I'm doing it now."

Widget exhaled, slowly.

"Mister Calvert," she said finally, "You will proceed with the
attack unless I tell you otherwise, in person." She jerked her head
towards her cabin door. "In there?" she asked.

"Port torpedo room," Chip corrected.

Chief Barra came onto the bridge, holding a short, nasty-looking
club. Widget looked over to him. "Chief Barra," she said, "you will
confirm the starboard torpedo room has no unauthorized personnel and
will then guard the door during the attack."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a nod.

"Let's go," Widget snapped at Chip. "This had better not take
much time."


Von Kugleblitz looked up as Chip and Widget came in. "Please step
out," Chip asked. "Widget and I need to talk."

"It's okay," Widget confirmed. Once von Kugleblitz was out, she
looked at Chip and crossed her arms. She was fairly confident she could
take Chip in a fight, and she knew she could fire the torpedoes. And
even if she couldn't, three foxes would easily crack the _Mahan's_
Nimnul reactor.

"I don't have much time," she said.

Chip pointed at the hatches leading to the torpedo tubes. "Those
are almost always kept closed, right?"

"Right. If we run into something and crush the outer doors, the
inner door keeps the room from flooding."

"How many torpedoes in this room?" Chip asked.

She looked and counted, to be polite. "Eleven."

"I see eight."

"The other three are in the tubes," she said, gesturing to three
lit panels. They read:

W A R S H O T L O A D E D

TUBE 1 TUBE 2 TUBE 3

Chip pried off the panel that read "TUBE 1." He took the gum out
of his mouth and stuck it over the LED. He snapped the panel back into
place. It looked like the panel was unlit.

"Cute," Widget agreed lazily. "It's possible to sabotage a
display."

Chip looked for von Kugleblitz' maintenance log. "Here," he said,
shoving it into her hands.

"Chip, what is --"

Chip spoke slowly, cutting her off. "According to that log, there
were twelve torpedoes in storage in this room before the _Lucy Tania_
was hit."

What little color there was in Widget's face drained out, as she
stared at the list. She counted the different serial numbers, and
counted again. Her hand was shaking, and she muttered the numbers out
loud. She gritted her teeth, slammed the list down, and went out the
door.

"You may resume your post," she said curtly to von Kugleblitz.

Chip followed her. "Widget --" he started.

She slammed the door to the bridge open. "Range to _Mahan? _" she
asked.

"Twenty-eight hundred yards and closing," Mr. Fenton replied
immediately, his chair facing the back of the bridge.

"Mister Calvert, connect tube four. Set forward gyro angle to one
eighty."

Chip slammed his hat to the floor. "_Widget! _" he yelled.

Everyone on the bridge looked at him, shocked.

"It's a decoy," Widget said mildly. "They'll think it's us, and
we'll see if they attack it."

Chip felt a blush of embarrassment. "Sorry."

"Forget it. I owe you two, now," she dismissed.

"Tube four ready," Mister Calvert said.

"Wait," Chip suddenly interrupted. "Given the situation, it's
probably unwise to launch any torpedoes."

"Yes," Widget agreed. "Mister Norton, how deep is the water
here?"

"Eight hundred feet."

"Mister Misch, take us to seven hundred fifty feet. Mister
Calvert, I am giving command over to you. Maintain our present
position. In two hours, secure from silent running. If our company
looks like they're caught a whiff, call me to the bridge." Widget
looked at Chip. "Please get Dale and meet me in my quarters. We have to
discuss this."

"Yes, ma'am," Chip said, relief flooding him.

As he turned to leave the bridge, he thought he caught a smile
and a relieved wink from Mister Calvert. Above them, the _Mahan_ sailed
on, and never realized how close it had come to disaster.


"So let me see if I understand," Dale said thoughtfully. "Someone
loaded an extra torpedo, and hid it in the torpedo tube, so that when
you were pretending to launch a torpedo, you really were."

"Exactly," Widget agreed.

"How did he know which one to hide it in?" Chip asked.

"We always use Tube 1 for no-fire drills," she said sadly. She
leaned against the wall and slid slowly down until she was sitting on
the floor. Dale sat next to her and put an arm around her.

"I'm sorry," he said gently. "This means that someone in your
crew --"

"I know." Widget closed her eyes and sighed. There wasn't a
person aboard she wouldn't trust with her life, and now this.

It was strange, but she didn't feel angry. Just deflated, and
exhausted. It felt good to close her eyes and feel Dale's arm around
her. She would just rest for a moment. Only a moment. She had too much
to do.

"So the next step is to figure out who," Chip said, pacing. "We
need to determine how the torpedo got aboard, and how it was concealed.
Obviously, it had to be someone who could count on being in the port
torpedo room alone from time to time. But more than that, we need to
know why. It's possible the culprit was just a tool in the hands of --"

Chip stopped short. Widget was leaning against Dale, her eyes
closed and lips slightly parted. She was breathing deeply and
regularly.

"I think we can finish this up later," Dale said softly.

"I guess we have to," Chip agreed sourly. He had never had
someone doze off at the climax of an investigation before.

"Could you get me a few of my comics?"


5th Pct, Manhattan, 0312 EST (0812 GMT)

Fat Cat turned off the Mouse News website with a chuckle. "Ah,
Mole," he purred. "The Dis-information Superhighway is a grand and
glorious thing. A few emails, delicately formed to promote paranoia, a
few pebbles to start the avalanche, and a relatively trivial incident
turns into a war."

Mole nodded with a grin, not that he entirely understood.

"Come, Mole," the cat said with a smile. "Prickles is not
responding to his pager. We must see if he has rolled his pebble, and
rid me of a small thorn in the rosebush of annoyance." He paused to
contemplate the brilliant and elegant mastermind in his mirror, and to
savor the sublime status of his simile.

"Okay, boss," Mole agreed.

Fat Cat sighed. If only he had an audience worthy of him. This
might change, if all went well. The thought added dazzle to an already
blinding smile.


Mole found Prickles. This being entirely outside his experience,
he quickly brought it to the attention of Fat Cat, who gritted his
teeth for a full eight seconds. "It seems our friend has met with ...
limited success," he finally spat.

"Does this mean the plan's ruined, boss?" Mole asked.

The cat dashed forward and carefully rolled the porcupine over.
Disappointment was etched on his face. "I had hoped he had landed on
her," Fat Cat complained. Then, he brightened. "Well, everything may
still be all right, friend Mole," he said, patting Mole's head warmly.
"A sister surviving to tell of her terrible ordeal might be nearly as
provocative as one reduced to mute testimony by medical circumstances."

The coat had been knocked off by Fat Cat's rolling the body. He
didn't bother to replace it. "It would have been nice if the Ranger had
been killed, but this is probably as good."

Fat Cat had noticed Mole's discomfort -- doubtless caused by the
apparent failure of Fat cat's plan -- and in an unusual gesture for
him, was trying to cheer him. Mole's thoughts, if wordless sensations
could be called thoughts, were elsewhere.

Mole had recognized the coat. He was unable to express himself,
but the fact that their enemies had performed this simple decency while
Fat Cat had casually stripped it away troubled him like a cold wind.
Mole had never liked Prickles, and he couldn't shed a tear for him, but
a death like this -- left in the gutter, shrouded by the mice he had
been trying to kill -- nobody should have a death like that. And even
though Fat Cat was trying to cheer him up, Mole knew, better than he
knew his own name, that if it had been Mole in the gutter, Fat Cat
would have behaved the same way.

Mole wasn't clever enough to put it into words, but he knew there
was something terribly, terribly wrong here.


Ranger Tree, 0728 EST (1228 GMT)

Monty stood in the lower part of the tree -- the "garage" -- with
a broad smile. Zipper rode on his shoulder, and buzzed questioningly.

"It ain't what I see," Monty explained, "it's what I don't see.
Ovah there." He pointed at two long, steel cylinders against the wall.
"Those," Monty said happily, "are the fuel and oxidizer tanks from the
Ranger Rocket Mark V. She's dismantled them. It means she's given up
the idea."

Zipper looked doubtful. A tootling noise came from outside.

Monty carried Zipper out the door, and was surprised to see
Gadget had whipped up a new vehicle. It was big -- almost three feet
long, and cylindrical. It was riding no fewer than sixteen large
balloon tires. Zipper immediately noticed it resembled the drill
vehicle from the film _Armageddon_ -- but he refrained from drawing
attention to this, because of Foxy's sensibilities.

A sturdy hatch opened near the nose of the long, slender
fuselage. Foxglove waved at them, beaming. "Welcome aboard the
MoDoLaLaPlat!" she cried out.

"What's a MoDoLaLaPlat?" Monty asked as he went in.

The passenger compartment was small, surprisingly so for a
vehicle this big. There were five rodent-sized seats, with high backs,
headrests, and elaborate safety harness. Monty slid into his seat with
a sigh. Very comfortable -- he liked it already. Gadget had probably
scrounged the seats from the Ranger Rocket.

"Well actually," Gadget said, "It's kind of an abbreviation."

"Oh," Monty nodded. Gadget released the clutch and the
MoDoLaLaPlat started across the grass. The huge tires and elaborate
suspension system gave it a very smooth ride. "What does it stand for,
Gadget?"

"Mobile, obviously. We're going to drive under a commuter
helicopter and use the Dorsal Latch to anchor onto it and hitch a ride
to Staten Island."

"And the LaPlat?"

"If I told you," Gadget apologized, not turning around, "you'd
probably try to leave, and we need you."

Monterey took this news with surprising calm.

Foxglove was counting, and recounting, the seats. Naturally,
Gadget had designed it to carry the Rangers -- "Gadget, why five seats?
Zipper doesn't need one this big."

Gadget looked around and barely missed a bicyclist. "It's yours,
Foxy," she said, blinking.

The extra seat was for her.

Gadget thought of Foxglove as one of them. The realization sent
emotions flowing through Foxglove's mind; the same mouse who was
challenging her for Dale and risking her future happiness had accepted
her.

Foxglove looked at the back of Gadget's head, anger, jealousy,
and love flowing against one another like oil and water.


Staten City, Bentham Memorial Penitentiary, 0900 EST (1400 GMT)

"So you're his son?"

Karl nodded. "That's right. Karl Jürgen, and this is my friend,
David Crustsnatcher."

Schultz looked down at his list, and made a notation. "You can go
in, but I'm afraid your friend will have to wait here."

Karl looked at David. "Sorry."

"No problem," David said casually. He sat on one of the
uncomfortable benches. In a way, he was relieved; he wasn't sure he
wanted to see this anyway. Karl's relationship with his father could
delicately be called "complex" and David knew his presence would
restrain them. Which might be a good thing, of course, but he hadn't
been looking forward to being a steadying influence.

Karl took the pass and was escorted through six gates, each of
which locked behind him before the next was opened. For some reason, he
had expected to descend into a Stygian abyss: to his surprise, his
father's cell was up. Staten City's prison was above ground.

The only indication Karl had that he was in a prison was the
escort, the occasional guard, and the heavy spring-loaded doors. Each
one was sealed with a luggage padlock. They wouldn't be hard to open
with a pick; but they were designed to simply slow a jailbreak down and
not stop it. That would be done by the heavy gates and the guards.
Someone was playing a harmonica. Badly. Someone else Karl couldn't see
was evidently in need of dental work, as he was shouting for a better
mouthpiece.

Strangely, the thing that he noticed most was a slow but definite
breeze.

"This is a well-ventilated prison," he said to his escort, making
conversation.

The rat grinned. "Yes. There was an escape from the old prison a
few years ago. She pumped laughing gas into the air ducts. Nobody will
pull that one again."

"She?" Karl asked curiously.

"Yeah -- albino girl, mouse, only had one arm. Sentenced to
eighty-seven consecutive life terms. It would have been ninety, but she
had a good lawyer."

"What crime did she commit?"

"She was a member of a criminal gang on the lower east side. She
claimed all she did was housekeeping, but being a member of a criminal
organization's illegal, regardless of what you do personally."

"I'm surprised she had access to the vents, let alone nitrous
oxide."

"They had her working on the heater and air conditioning. They
used the laughing gas for welding or something in the machine shop."

"Some housekeeper."

"Oh, she probably fibbed. Funny thing is, they've since ruled her
conviction was illegal. Jurisdiction issue. Staten City can't police
the whole world, after all." They turned to a hall with an outside
window. It was the first sun Karl had seen since coming to Staten City.
"Well, your father's in here."

The escort pulled open an unlocked door. In the audience room,
there was a long table split in half by a wall of bars reinforced with
a wire screen. The prisoners were on one side and the visitors on the
other. Each pair was separated from the next by a thin acoustic panel,
and a bored sentry overlooked it all.

"Karl," his father said with a polite nod.

"_Vater, _" Karl nodded back and sat down. He continued in
German. "You're looking well."

"Thank you. So are you."

"How is it?"

"Well," Jürgen considered. "This is the third time for me,
actually. I've got to say it's the most comfortable."

"Third time?" Karl asked with surprise. "I remember the clearing
camp after the war, but --"

"I got into a little trouble during the war." His father shrugged
and smiled. "It probably got me out of trouble _after_ the war, so I'm
not complaining."

"You never told me."

"Well, we didn't have a lot of time together. I didn't want to
scare you. Karl, there's something very important I want you to tell
Widget."

Karl had expected that. After a few seconds of pleasantries, it
was on to something more important than Karl. He struggled to hide his
disappointment anyway.

"Tell her what?"

"Tell her that I am cheese in a trap," he said softly. "If she
doesn't take _Albacore_ to the Pacific, I'll see to it the bait is
destroyed."

Karl looked at his father for a long time. He pounded the desk
once with an angry fist, earning a dirty look from the guard which Karl
didn't notice. He looked back at his father and astonished both of
them. He started to weep, silently.

"Hey, hey," his father said sternly. "What's all this?"

"How can you even consider that? And dad, how can you possibly
ask me to tell her you're going to kill yourself?"

"In answer to your first question, there's something going on.
Something that threatens her and Gimcrack. This whole torpedo story was
faked, somehow. And secondly..." Jürgen bit his lip. "Karl, your
brother is in danger. Do it for him."

Karl's littermates had died in infancy during a measles epidemic,
and it actually took him a moment to realize his father was talking
about Gimcrack. Karl sighed. "So that's it. You wouldn't stay home for
Mom or me, but you'll die for her." Karl regretted it the instant he
said it. It was too selfish, too personal, too true to say in front of
this man he barely knew.

"Karl," Jürgen said slowly. "Karl, I've been a miserable excuse
for a father to you --"

"Dad," Karl interrupted, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I
didn't --"

"Karl, I deserve it."

"No you don't. It was spiteful of me. During the war you were
serving, after the war you had to work --"

Jürgen shook his head, angrily. "Karl, I'd be lying if I told you
that was the only reason. After the war I could have gotten a job on
shore."

Karl was silent for a moment. "Why didn't you?" he asked, softly.

"Because it would have been on shore. Karl, this is something I
know you won't understand. The blue water is my first and greatest
love. I'm not complete when I'm away from it." Jürgen smiled gently.
"The ocean is a calling. Even if there's a hurricane on the surface, a
bit into its depths takes you to silence and tranquility. It's
merciless, and at the same time creative and nurturing. It's
unforgiving, but never malicious. And to me, it is the most beautiful,
and mysterious, thing there is. A life spent with it is a good life. I
don't want to die, but when I do I want to be in its arms."

Karl smiled suddenly. "Are you talking about the ocean or your
wife?"

Jürgen laughed. "Very perceptive."

Karl grew serious. "Dad, I can't take your message to her."

"Why not?" Jürgen's expression was blank and grim. "I think you
owe me at least that."

"It's a calculated risk." Karl's voice was dry. "You know how
she'll react if you die while a prisoner. Do you want that to happen?
Do you want it on her conscience?" Karl smiled. "I can't let you think
suicide is a valid option. I owe you too much."

Jürgen sat for a moment, and a broad grin covered his features.
"Check, and mate," he admitted.

"Your time's up, sir," said the guard.

"We have a lot to talk about, Karl. Thank you for coming." He
touched his hand to the screen between them. Karl immediately put up
his own.

"I'm glad I came." Karl smiled.


David left the waiting room to go to the euphemism. His timing
was extremely bad, as he would have found the scene that followed most
interesting.

First, the shift of the guard behind the admissions desk ended,
and he was replaced. Next, two mice entered from the street.

The smaller of the two had an elaborate waxed Kaiser Wilhelm
moustache which extended some distance beyond his shoulders, and wore a
spiked helmet and long field gray jacket. A monocle on one eye and a
patch on the other hinted at a turbulent career, further attested to by
an impressive row of medals which a canny observer would recognize as
given by the wrong side. He goose-stepped to the desk, came stiffly to
attention, clicked his heels and saluted the guard.

The other visitor, taller and rotund, presented a much less
martial figure in green lederhosen and Alpine hat with a sprig of
edelweiss. He carried an alpenstock loosely in one hand.

"Ve are hier, mein vater to wisit," said the first in parade-
ground tones. "Feldunteroffizier Karl Jürgen. Mein papers!" He handed a
Manila envelope over to the guard, who was slightly taken aback.

"Ich bin Muenster von Kublewagen-Nebelwerfer, der family
solicitor," explained his Falstaffian -- nay, Goeringesque --
companion.

"Okay," the guard said slowly, eyeing them dubiously. "You'll
have to check the pick and the spiked helmet here." They might, after
all, be offensive weapons, and the guard prided himself on being
cautious and observant.

Jürgen had not made it back to his cell before he was taken back.
He had absolutely no idea why his son would be allowed to visit twice
in a row; perhaps they had taken him away too early the first time. To
his surprise, he was taken to the private audience chamber where
prisoners were allowed to talk to their lawyers, which was next to the
visiting room where he had met Karl. Unlike the visiting room, this
room had no screen between the prisoners and visitors. When he saw who
was waiting there, his face went blank with astonishment as he fought
back an entirely inappropriate attack of the giggles.

"Guten Tag, Vater," Gadget said.

"Heh, heh," Jürgen said, hoping it could be passed off as
happiness at seeing his "son."

"Vill you not me alone with client mine be leaving?" Monterey
asked the guard, completely ruining his German syntax.

"Sorry, sir," the escort said gruffly. "We have special orders --
"

A slender, orange-yellow cord tightened around the guard's throat
as Gadget lept up on him from behind. His cry for help choked by the
garrote, he was easy prey for a swift, skillful haymaker from Monterey
which sent him into unconsciousness. He was perhaps the first guard at
this prison to be attacked with a fake moustache.

Jürgen's first words were from the heart, as he looked sadly at
Gadget's buzzcut. "Oh, Gadget," he sighed. "I'm so sorry about your
hair."

Gadget pulled off a wig and her long hair cascaded down to her
waist. "Don't be."

Jürgen blinked. "How did you get all that to fit --"

"You know how Chip's ears move further apart when he puts his hat
on?"

"Yes..."

"Same thing." She patted his arm. "Let's get you out of here."

Over at the door, Monty took off his hat. Zipper was riding on
his head. The little fly lept off, and smoothly climbed the door,
peering through a vent on top. Meanwhile, Gadget took a tube of super
glue from out of her coat and sealed the door leading to the prisoners'
side.

Zipper turned around. <All clear,> he said briefly.

Gadget moved left; Monterey to the right. Jürgen knew that he
should stay out of their way, but he couldn't stand and be passively
rescued, so he followed Gadget. She used the last of the glue to seal
the door to the audience room. Jürgen looked doubtfully down the
hallway. A guard could appear at any moment. Perhaps he should stay
hidden in the audience room, but every instinct in him fought that.

Monty carried Zipper over to the window and took off his
lederhosen, revealing a long coil of monofilament fish line wrapped
around his torso. He dropped it to the floor, securing one end to one
of the bars in the window, while Zipper tied the other end around his
waist.

Zipper climbed the wall and lept out the window. He was, perhaps,
performing the boldest move of his career: not jumping while unable to
fly, but becoming the first bug to volunteer to be caught by a bat. For
Foxglove swooped down, and snared the plucky little insect. She then
flew up and into the branches of a tree.


"But this is not my helmet," Karl said, holding the Picklehaube
and staring at it with some distaste.

"You signed for it," said the bored guard, not looking up from
the latest Mouse News. Syril Stacey's new series of articles about the
recent convention had started with one titled "The Fifth Horseman."
"Plague, Famine, War, and Death; to these can be added the name Widget
Hackwrench..."

Karl tilted the helmet, looking into it. There was a mechanism of
some sort concealed in it. *Strange,* he thought to himself. *Why would
someone using my name visit a prison with a disguised pneumatic drill?*

This thought was immediately followed by *Oh, yeah...*

"D'oh!" Karl laughed, slapping his forehead comically. "I forgot!
We rode motorcycles in and there's a helmet law!"

David returned. "Hi, Karl. Where'd you get the helmet?"

Karl faced his friend with clenched teeth. "I-wore-it-because-of-
the-helmet-law. Remember?"

David, fortunately, got it immediately. "Oh, yeah. Helmet law."

"Hey..." the guard said suddenly. "Weren't you a lot shorter and
blond when you came in?"

"No," David immediately said. "That was me."

"You must see a lot of people every day," Karl explained.

"We'll be going now," said David.

"Good idea," Karl agreed.

The two of them rapidly backed out of the prison, wide grins on
their faces. The guard watched the door close, and chewed his lip.
Years of instincts told him something was not ... quite ... right.

"Hey, Schultz," he said. "Can you check on something for me?"


Device after device was sent down the fishline. Monterey took
each one in turn and passed it to Jürgen, who catalogued them in his
mind. Insulating trim tape for windows. Matches. Can of WD-40. A
collection of innocent materials which, when used together, would
somehow combine to form an escape. Gas masks. Bazooka. A collection of
not very innocent materials. From the distance came the sound of booted
feet.

"Monty," Gadget ordered. "You start with the RO Blade. I'll delay
the guards." She took the bazooka.

"Roight," Monty agreed.

"I'll come with you," Jürgen said immediately.

"No," Gadget replied. "You're the reason we came."

"Gadget," Jürgen repeated, "Let me help."

Monterey nodded, looking at Gadget.

"Okay," she agreed with a grin. "Take the WD-40 and a gas mask
and follow me."

At the corner, she touched him, indicating he should wait for
her. She stepped around the corner, bazooka behind her.

Schultz and five other guards, carrying clubs, paused when they
saw a very pretty girl mouse standing alone at the end of the corridor,
about a foot from them.

"Hi!" she said. "You know, the Geneva Convention outlawed the
used of chemical agents, even incapacitating ones."

The guards looked at one another. It seemed a strange way to
start a conversation. They waited politely.

"I think it's a darned silly rule," Gadget informed them, popping
a gas mask into place and leveling the bazooka.

They were in full flight when she fired a canister of
concentrated skunk juice after them.

"Back to Monty," she said. "Hose the floor down with WD-40 after
us." She left the bazooka behind -- there was only one load.

Jürgen complied. She sprinted ahead. Since they had built this
prison after a break from the old one using laughing gas, they were
probably prepared for this with gas masks and other equipment in
storage. It would buy them some time, but not much.

By the time he had emptied the can, they had finished making a
circle on the wall with the insulation. Jürgen couldn't imagine how
this would help them escape, so he watched, perplexed, as Gadget struck
a match.

Down at the other end of the corridor, a gas-masked guard raced
towards them, hit the WD-40, and screamed as he shot helplessly down
the corridor. He crashed into the wall next to them.

Jürgen moved him out of the way as Gadget held the match to the
insulating tape. Seeing Monterey turn around and cover his ears, Jürgen
adopted a similar posture.

The material Jürgen had mistaken for the adhesive-backed rubber
tape used to insure a tight fit around a closed window was, in reality,
Royal Ordnance Blade 100, a product of Royal Ordnance Industrial
Energetics in Lancashire. It was a shaped charge DEMEX 200 "industrial
energetic" capable of cutting a hole through six millimeters of steel,
even before Gadget made her modifications. It went off the instant
Gadget touched it with her match, much to her surprise.

A circular hole nearly thirty millimeters in diameter was
instantly blown through the prison wall. Jürgen and Monty were set for
the explosion; Gadget was not. She was knocked backwards, onto the
floor. Hard.

"Gadget, love," Monty gasped in horror, lifting her to a seated
position and shaking her. "Speak to me!" Jürgen watched, shocked, his
escape forgotten. A second guard came shooting down the corridor and
out the new exit. They paid him no mind.

Gadget opened her eyes. Monty immediately noticed her pupils were
rotating slowly in opposite directions. "Big boom," she informed
Monterey. "Big badaboom!" she said with emphasis.

Shaking her head violently, she quickly came back to normal, or
as close as she got.

"Yes, love," Monty said tenderly. "Big boom."

"Monty, we don't have any time to waste," she prodded him. "Let's
go!"

"Too right!" Monty grinned and squeezed through the hole.

He had forgotten they were about six feet from the ground.
Fortunately, the drop wasn't sheer. Landing painfully on the slope on
the best padded part of his anatomy, he scooted down loose soil and
gravel with ever-increasing velocity. By scrabbling desperately, he was
able to keep his speed down somewhat -- the pebbles and grit
avalanching with him was spreading down ahead and wouldn't bury him.
After the fourth foot, he was wishing he had left his lederhosen on.

Still, the worst part of any fall is the touchdown, and he
landed, if not safely, at least reasonably so. He took a mental
inventory of his parts and was relieved to decide they were intact. As
he came to his feet, two coils of fishline unwound near him, to be
followed moments later by Gadget and Jürgen, rappelling down safely.
Monterey looked at them with mock pique.

"What kept ya?" he asked.

"A healthy respect for gravity," Jürgen explained.

Gadget checked on the guard who had preceded them. He would be in
pain when he woke up, but it didn't look serious. She exhaled slowly,
and started shaking slightly. She had thought … No. Not now. She had to
stay focussed. She looked up and saw guards coming down the fishline,
at least four on each. "Go back!" she yelled. "The acid's almost eaten
through by now--"

The guards scampered back to safety. "Good bluff," Jürgen said
admiringly.

"Bluff?" Gadget asked.

Foxglove hovered above them, Zipper riding comfortably in the
scoop which had been the last embrace for many insects. "They're
coming," she said tightly. "We have to go!"

By flying above, Foxglove was able to guide them away from
patrols and back to the MoDoLaLaPlat. Gadget made sure they were all
strapped in before climbing into her seat in front.

"They'll call in aircraft," Jürgen pointed out.

"Gadget, love," Monterey said, "We're in for a scrap. This buggy
ain't got enough speed to outrun police airplanes."

"Yes we do," she assured him. She pulled a switch and the Mobile
Dorsal Latching Launch Platform began to lift the cylindrical fuselage
to a vertical position.

"I call it the Ranger Rocket Mark VI," she explained. "That
should make you happy, Monty, because six time's a charm."

"Three time's a charm," Monty corrected.

"Then we're twice as lucky!"

"Why Mark VI?" Jürgen said, beginning to feel little pangs of
doubt.

"It's the sixth one. You see," she explained, "the Ranger Rocket
Mark II, III, IV, and V all used liquid propellant. That needs a
complicated cooling system in the combustion chamber to prevent
burnthroughs."

"Which is why they all blew up," Monterey explained to Jürgen.

"Monty's exaggerating. The Mark V didn't blow up."

"Did you launch it?" Monty shot back.

"Well, no," Gadget admitted. "But the Mark VI uses a solid
propellant, so cooling is easier."

"And 'as just one little drawback," Monty told Jürgen. "You can't
turn it off once you launch."

"Exactly," Gadget agreed. She brightened. "But, since we'll all
probably lose consciousness during the burn, that really doesn't
matter."

"Did you lose consciousness during the test flights?" Jürgen
asked.

"Well..." Gadget hedged. "This is kind of the first time it's
flown."

Jürgen hesitated. "You mean, flown with a crew, of course," he
said cautiously.

Monterey, Gadget, Zipper and Foxglove all looked at one another
somberly. "No," they said as one.

Jürgen suppressed a wry smile. As though an engineer with
Gadget's reputation would take an aircraft up for the first time with
four passengers. They were obviously kidding with him; well, he could
take a joke.

He was still chuckling during the countdown.


"Well, lads," said Sergeant Apone, "What do you think?"

"I think it doesn't look good," Hicks said immediately, regarding
the rocket a few yards from them with a worried expression.

"Wierzbowsky?"

"It looks pretty bad," Wierzbowsky agreed.

"Frost?"

"I say it looks like a problem for the Air Force," Frost nodded.

"And I think we should look for something to hide behind," Hicks
added.

Apone nodded, decisively. "Sounds like a plan," he agreed.


Laymen are often surprised to learn that ballistic rockets like
the V-2, Scud, MX and Ranger Rocket (Mark VI) take off relatively
slowly. As the fuel burns away and the rocket is thereby lightened, the
acceleration increases dramatically. The fuel is generally completely
used up shortly after takeoff, and almost the entire flight is spent
coasting.

Zipper was the first to awaken, and Foxglove had never fallen
unconscious at all. Although she was not a fast flier, she was agile,
and the smooth, sustained acceleration of the rocket was not too much
for her. Gadget was next, her youth and relative health giving her an
edge over Monterey and Jürgen.

<How long has it been?> Zipper asked.

"About two minutes," Foxglove told him. She had been surprised by
how quiet the engine was; this was because they were moving faster than
the noise.

Gadget's vision was slowly coming back. First, she had tunnel
vision; gradually, her peripheral vision returned, and colors began to
return. She was already checking indicators. They were on course,
heading northeast. The barometric altimeter was fluctuating wildly; the
sensor, she realized, was being hit by pulses of shockwave that
rendered it effectively useless at this speed. The airspeed indicator
was pegged; they were over the speed of sound, possibly considerably
over the speed of sound. The sensors were designed to work at lower
speeds and altitudes, when they would be needed for a landing. It had
been a logical decision, but now she wished she had more of a clue as
to what the plane was doing.

They were horizontal, more or less; the artificial horizon seemed
just a touch out of alignment with the actual curve of the earth, so
she adjusted the nose down a fraction. The wings were locked into a 45
degree swing, and were bearing up under the stress. Everything was
going well, but she had the nagging feeling she had forgotten
something.

<Gadget?> Zipper asked, looking out her window. <I don't think
that's Manhattan down there.>

"Oh yeah," Gadget said out loud. "That's what I forgot. Range."


Widget returned to consciousness about the same time as her
sister. Dale still had his arm around her; the other hand held an issue
of _Dr. Radium._ She had turned towards him, nuzzling his throat with
her muzzle. It was a distressingly intimate gesture, which she
immediately broke off.

"I think I dozed off," she said. "Sorry."

"About seven and a half hours," Dale corrected. "Good thing Chip
brought me _three_ comics."

"Seven and a half --" she gasped. "Gimcrack --"

"Mrs. Shapiro gave him a bottle. She said it would be good
practice. Is she expecting?"

"Yes. Keep it to yourself." Her eyes softened. "Dale, you sat
here all this time?"

Dale looked at her, momentarily confused. "You needed the sleep."
There was something in Dale's expression, as though he couldn't
understand what the big deal was. It made Widget feel warm, somehow.

Widget shook her head and smiled. "Foxglove's a lucky girl. You
should know that."

"Jürgen's a lucky boy. I know. You talk in your sleep."

She looked at him sharply. He had a friendly, dimwitted grin on
his face. For an instant, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Gotcha,"
he said.

Widget laughed out loud. "Don't ever change, Dale."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come," Widget rapped out, disentangling herself from Dale. Chip
came in from the bridge.

"Widget," he said, "we need to finish our conversation."

She looked grim. "Yes."

Chip folded his arms. "I know you run a skeleton crew much of the
time. When is the port torpedo room left empty?"

"Never," Widget shook her head. "The port torpedo room is staffed
at all times."

"Then it has to be someone who can be alone in the port torpedo
room, almost every day," Chip said softly. "Someone who knows the
maintenance schedule for the torpedoes, and can make sure the right
ones are in the magazine."

Widget's chin slowly dropped to her chest. "Not him," she said
weakly.

Chip nodded. "I'm sorry, Widget."

Widget walked over to the door to the bridge and opened it.
Immediately, everyone looked in her direction. Possibly boredom, she
thought; they had been laying doggo on the bottom all night. Or nerves.
It didn't take much to guess why Chip insisted on talking to her alone,
and what he must have said to make her break off the attack on _Mahan._

"Chief Barra," she said steadily, "Please escort Andy to my
cabin."

Chief Barra nodded. His mouth was dry, but there was still a
chance this was routine. He had to make sure.

"I think he's off duty, ma'am. Should I wake him?"

Widget and Chief Barra knew very well Andy was on duty. She knew
why the question was being asked.

"Yes," she nodded. "Please wake him."


Gadget jumped off the phone mouthpiece. "There," she said. "I
couldn't get _Albacore_ so I left them voicemail."

"I think that's our train," Jürgen pointed.

It was quick work to find a place inside one of the cars. As they
pulled out, Foxglove came to her decision.

She had to have it out with Gadget. She would have preferred to
do it when they were alone, but with the excitement over and the tedium
of a train ride ahead of them, she felt as though she was going to
burst.

"Gadget," she stopped.

"Yes, Foxglove?" Bright, innocent eyes turned to face hers. So
guileless, yet this was the face of the enemy. Foxglove started gently.

"You know, Gadget, Dale is about the most important person in the
world to me."

"I know that," Gadget agreed casually. "He's a neat guy, and I
like him too."

It was the worst thing she could have said. It seemed not only to
underscore her designs, but to say it wasn't all that important to her
-- and she would do it anyway. Foxglove was trembling, when she
launched into her.

"And he's mine, Gadget! It's only fair! I wanted him first! I
want him more! I know I look like a sock filled with pudding, but I'll
fight for him! Just see if I don't! And I'll win, too, no matter how
beautiful or smart or blonde the opposition is! So there!"

Gadget paled. The guys looked on, shocked and wordless under the
assault of Foxglove's rage.

"Foxy," Gadget said, trembling, taking her wing in her hands. "Is
someone trying to steal Dale from you?"

Foxglove was taken aback.

Gadget frowned and concentrated. "Let's see... you said she was
beautiful, smart, and blonde. Now who does Dale know who's beautiful,
smart and blonde?"

While Gadget puzzled over this, Foxglove looked mutely over to
the guys for help.

"She's not bein' sarcastic," Monterey told her gently.

Gadget blinked. "Of course she's not being sarcastic, Monty! How
could you think that?"

"Er --" said Jürgen.

"Desiree DeLure isn't blonde," Gadget mused.

"Er --" said Foxglove.

"Neither is anyone in Tammy's family..." Gadget frowned.

"I think she means you, Gadget-love," Monterey said gently.

Gadget sniffed. "Don't be silly. I'm not beautiful. Anyway, I
can't figure it out, Foxy."

"Gadget," Jürgen assured her, "you are beautiful." Zipper nodded
agreement.

"Oh, you sillies," Gadget snorted, swishing her hand disdainfully
at the flatterers.

"AAAK!" Foxglove abruptly cried out, pointing at Gadget
accusingly. "You've got a crush on Chip!" Foxglove choked back
laughter.

A blush spread rapidly from Gadget's collar and out her ears and
to the tip of her tail. "D-d-don't be silly, Foxglove," she stammered
unconvincingly. She glanced surreptitiously at the guys to see if her
cunning fib deflected suspicion. Special male survival genes insured
they pretended to believe her.

"With Chip!" Foxglove repeated, emitting gales of uncontrollable
laughter. Rearranging her ears into a mock fedora, she put her hands on
her hips and addressed Monterey seriously. "Dale," she announced, doing
an excellent imitation of Chip's squeak, "if you do not clean your part
of the room, I shall be forced to bonk you severely and repeatedly." An
instant later, she was on all fours, banging her head against the
floor, tittering. "Chip," she repeated. "I can't believe it!"

"It's not that funny," Gadget said though clenched teeth, "I
mean, it wouldn't be, if it was true, which it isn't."

The fifty miles of rail flew by in spirited discussion.


SRV _Albacore,_ 1528 GMT (1028 EST)

Being taken off duty station wasn't in itself unusual. Being
taken from duty by a silent and emotionless Chief of the Boat and
escorted to the Captain's cabin was. And when he saw Chip and Dale
there, looking at him as seriously as the owner of the boat, he knew he
had lost.

Although Chip was trying to be as unobtrusive as possible -- this
was _Albacore's_ problem, and he didn't want to step on Widget's toes -
- Andy looked at him square in the eye for several moments. Chip lost
what doubt remained then.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions about a torpedo named Fox
Seven Able," Widget said quietly. "It was in our port torpedo room. We
can't seem to find it, and can't help but wonder if it might have
bumped into the _Lucy Tania. _"

Andy looked away.

"You helped with the torpedo loading? You kept the tally. Easy
enough to say eleven were loaded when it was actually twelve."

Andy didn't react.

"And the airplane you saw when you knew I was talking to
Feldmows. That airplane was never there, was it?"

Andy was quiet.

Chip decided it was time to play Bad Cop. "How did you get paid?"
he drawled as offensively as possible.

It worked. Andy shot him a venomous glance. "I did not get paid!"
he spat out. "It was my idea! Fat Cat only filled in some of the
details."

*Fat Cat?* Chip wondered, stunned. He looked at Widget's profile,
and suddenly remembered her in a wedding dress. *Oh.*

"I believe you, Andy," Widget said gently. "Tell me why you did
it."

"Fat Cat just wants you to counter your sister," Andy muttered.
He straightened and looked at her. "When my parents and I dug you out
of ... that cave in, you were like, I don't know. A mouse, fierce as a
wolf. If I had to do something that frightened me, I just imagined you
watching. Because I couldn't be afraid in front of you." He hesitated.
"But ma'am, I heard you in the next room, crying in your sleep, and I
know how much it hurt you. Ma'am, I never asked you, but the cave in.
You did that because you built weapons for other people, weapons you
didn't control any more? And you did it because you were responsible?"

"Yes," Widget admitted. "Yes, I did."

"Ma'am, why are you doing it for Staten City?"

"That's ... different," she said weakly.

Andy shook his head. "No, ma'am, it's just bigger. Some day
they're going to do something with those weapons that will tear your
heart out. That's what governments do. They fight wars, like the one
your father hunted your husband through."

Chip looked at Widget. She didn't reply.

"And I don't want that to happen, ma'am," Andy said softly. "I
had to break that link between you and Staten City. I'm sorry that
Jürgen got into trouble. Please forgive me if I hurt you."

"Andy," Widget said. "Andy, I owe you my life." she smiled wryly.
"And that time you fell into the gears brought me together with my
sister."

Andy grinned, embarrassed. That had ended with his calling her
'mommy.'

"I don't think I could ever be angry with you. Even now I'm not."
She set her jaw. "But you have endangered my husband, my boat, the
_Lucy Tania,_ and the _Mahan._ The Captain and I will discuss what
seems appropriate, if we can clean up this mess you've made and get him
back. But I'd pack, if I were you. Chief Barra, please take him to the
brig."

"Ma'am," Chief Barra nodded.

"One moment, if you please, ma'am," Chip asked. Widget nodded.
Chip looked at Andy.

"Why didn't you just leave the torpedo in the tube?" the chipmunk
asked. "The only way we found it was by looking at maintenance
records."

Andy nodded. "I'd stand watch during lunch breaks. That gave me
enough time to switch torpedoes around, but not check one out. The Fox
torpedoes need to be checked out every few days. I'd only be able to
check it out every ten days."

"Why didn't you change the serial number on the fin to match
another torpedo?" Chip asked.

Andy looked startled. "I didn't think of that."

Chip laughed mirthlessly. "Andy, did you really think you were
smarter than Widget, the entire crew of this boat, and me rolled
together? Isn't that what you'd have to be to lie to us all
effectively?"

Andy didn't answer. He then silently came to attention and
saluted his commander. Widget nodded, once, unwilling to say anything
out loud. Chief Barra took Andy out, using the back door, not through
the bridge.

Dale watched Widget and watched Chip. He was hoping Chip would
leave quietly, so Widget could be alone.

No such luck. "You told Gadget that Andy wasn't particularly
important to you."

Widget looked at him. "Given the circumstances, I didn't want to
paint a target on his forehead."

"Of course," Chip nodded.

Widget stood silently. "A defenseless mouse is both loved and
threatened by a friend," she whispered. "I never really thought of
myself as defenseless."

*Chip,* Dale thought silently. *Please just go away. She needs a
few minutes to compose herself.*

"I think the next step is to let Staten City know," Chip prodded.

"Yes," Widget immediately agreed. "We'll surface and I'll make a
few calls."

Widget shook off Dale's hand and she walked to the bridge to
issue the appropriate instructions.



The albino mouse replayed the voicemail from Gadget a third time.
She couldn't believe the news. Chip was grinning broadly.

"She is one heck of a ..." Chip said, and shook his head,
chuckling.

Even the euphoria of knowing her husband was free didn't override
Widget's attention to detail. "But why," Widget asked out loud, "why
did they end up in Hartford, Connecticut?" Gadget hadn't mentioned the
Ranger Rocket (Mark VI).

"This I have learned about Gadget," Chip replied. "If you want to
sleep easily, don't sweat the small stuff."

"Well ignoring that, I'm a bit nervous over, 'Please don't call
Staten City for a bit -- I'm going to try to negotiate a cease fire.'"

"Oh, that," Chip got more serious. "Well, it's not like Gadget's
going to show up in person after mounting a prison breakout."


"Morning, Jerome, Caitlin," Feldmows said into the phone. "You
would not believe who just showed up at my office."

Catbane looked over at Caitlin. She grinned widely. "Widget, or
Gadget?" she asked, tittering at her little joke.

"Gadget," Feldmows said briefly. "With Syril Stacey."

Catbane blinked. "She shows up after a commando raid on a prison
and ..."

Feldmows shrugged. "Well, she wants to negotiate a cease fire,
and open a joint investigation. Since we're not actually shooting at
anyone, it would assure her sister won't do anything crazy."

"Terrific," Catbane agreed.

"The problem is, how do I keep from arresting her?" It was a real
problem.

Catbane drummed his fingers for a moment. "Caitlin, has Widget
ever taken a formal Staten City citizenship?"

"No," Caitlin immediately answered.
"All right. If Widget isn't our citizen, she's obviously the
leader of a sovereign state. Gadget is here with diplomatic immunity."
"Which also means Jürgen can't sue for false arrest," Caitlin
said, nodding approvingly. "He was a prisoner of war."
"An enemy soldier on a mission out of uniform can be tried as a
spy," Feldmows objected.

"I think it's within your discretion to overlook a bloodless
commando raid," Catbane replied.

"And I think you should," Caitlin jumped in. "I mean, can you
imagine the press?"

The three of them shuddered, imagining the press.

"Anyway," Catbane said, "Feel free to negotiate. I'll back you
later."

"I'll get on that," Feldmows agreed.

"Just don't give away the store," Catbane grinned.

Feldmows sat at the small conference table. Syril was eating her
third Honey Nut Cheerio while Gadget was a bit too nervous to snack.

"I'm happy to say I've received authorization to deal with you as
an ambassador of a foreign power," Feldmows said with a nod. "This
means you can't be arrested, not even for the attack on the prison."

"Good. Admiral, do you believe Widget torpedoed that boat
deliberately?" Gadget asked.

"No," Feldmows said with a shake of his head.

"I'm glad you realized," Syril muttered around a mouthful of
Cheerio, performing a slight breach of both diplomatic and journalistic
protocol.

Feldmows looked at Syril with astonishment. "I'm surprised to
hear you say that. I heard a rumor that you were interviewing witch
doctors in search of a Widget-repelling magical talisman."

"Well, yeah, she is incredibly evil, of course," Syril admitted,
ignoring Gadget's frown. "Still, there's no way she'd do something like
that while her husband was on shore. She's loyal to her friends. It's
her only virtue."

"It is not her only virtue," Gadget objected.

Feldmows and Syril looked at her in blank astonishment. "Name
another," Feldmows challenged her.

Gadget thought for a long moment. "She's very clean," she finally
said.

*This,* thought Feldmows, *will be a snap. After all, I've dealt
with her sister, the she-dog goddess from aitch ee double hockey
sticks.*

Blue eyes seemed to melt into his own. "Admiral, please," Gadget
said softly, "please help me stop all this before someone gets hurt."

She smiled slightly, entreatingly.

Beads of sweat began to form on Feldmows' paws. This wasn't going
to be as easy as he had hoped.


"Feldmows," Caitlin said idly, "you gave away the store."

Feldmows played for a moment with his coffee thimble. "You don't
understand," he tried to explain. "She - she was going to look sad at
me." He shuddered. "I just couldn't…"

"Recriminations are worthless at this point," Catbane
interjected. "From the no-patrol zones they requested, -- and got --
it's pretty obvious they intend to dock _Albacore_ somewhere in the
Hudson River."

"I don't think so," Feldmows shook his head. "I think it's a
blind. The Rangers can rendezvous with _Albacore_ at sea."

They were interrupted by a buzzing intercom.

"Hello," Caitlin answered.

"The Ranger is here, ma'am."

"Send her in."

They were mildly surprised when a chipmunk in fedora and leather
jacket came in instead. He held an envelope under one arm.

"I'm surprised you didn't send Gadget," Caitlin said, glancing at
Feldmows. "I understand she can be an effective negotiator."

Feldmows looked uncomfortable.

"This matter's a little delicate," Chip responded, and sat down.

"You said you were going to explain why Widget over reacted,"
Caitlin said.

"I think it's pretty clear," Feldmows interjected. "When _Lucy
Tania_ was attacked, she had every reason to assume there was a hostile
sub in the water. She did everything right. From my point of view, she
did not over react."

Chip nodded politely. A submarine is a naval assassin, most
effective when striking from surprise. So, Staten City didn't know she
had come close to attacking _Mahan._ For the time being, that was
probably a good thing. It was a good thing Widget hadn't built an
aircraft carrier. Chip kept his thoughts to himself.

"Until she kidnapped Captain Murry," Caitlin disagreed.

"I think it's important you see these." Chip passed out copies of
the emails from Deep Stoat.

Catbane slipped on a pair of glasses and read. Within a few
moments, he was gritting his teeth and turning red. Chip watched him
carefully. It was mostly a formality, but he no longer had any serious
doubts that Catbane was innocent of the accusations.

"They're your granddaughters?" Feldmows said with surprise.

"We believe pretty strongly now these are forgeries sent by Fat
Cat or someone in his organization," Chip said quickly. "Still, I think
they explain why Widget and Gadget both treated Staten City as
hostile."

"They believed this nonsense?" Catbane snarled.

Chip blinked. "Why shouldn't they?" he asked.

"Well, for -" Caitlin began.

Chip leaned closer to Catbane. "Were you ever a grandfather to
them, sir?" he demanded. "Did you ever, by action or word, imply or
show they were ever anything but meat by-product to you?"

"Nicely put," Caitlin said approvingly.

"Jerome," Feldmows said coldly, "you didn't disown them, did
you?"

"And what business is that of yours, sir?" Catbane's expression
told Chip he was probably making a mistake, but the chipmunk was on a
roll.

"It is my business," he said calmly, "because you are responsible
for hurting someone very dear to me. It is my business, because I just
spent a two days and a night trying to prevent a war, and wondering if
I should."

"Do you think," Catbane snapped back, "do you think it was _easy_
for me?"

Catbane and Chip were nose to nose, now.

Surprisingly, Chip stepped back. For a moment, his expression was
sorrowful.

"If you feel like hell," he said softly, "maybe it's because
you're doing the devil's work."


Maxima Atmospherica Café, December 16, 1520 EST (2020 GMT)

"I'm not convinced this is a good idea," Chip told Gadget
dubiously. "It isn't really our style."

Gadget looked up at him. "If we don't come up with something,
Widget will."

"This is a brilliant idea," Chip reversed himself.


The little rooftop rodent café had wonderful madelines. Catbane
dunked one in his coffee, and looked over at Caitlin, wishing they were
alone. She blew a kiss and a wink which made the third mouse at the
table wonder why the chief of state was in such a good mood.

"You didn't have to come, Captain Murry," Catbane said mildly.

"Yes, I did, sir." His eyes burned furiously. "For the good of my
soul."

Three more mice came up and sat silently with them. Jürgen and
Widget, who carried Gimcrack in a sling. A silent waiter took their
orders before they turned to the others.

"You'll be shoving off soon?" Catbane asked politely.

"Tomorrow," Jürgen replied. "I gave my apologies to Feldmows, but
…" he looked at his wife and they smiled, "I think I have more
important things to do."

Catbane smiled. "Good decision, Cap -"

"May I interject?" Murry interjected.

"Are you going to tell us how you got knocked out … by a girl?"
Widget asked innocently.

Murry clouded. "I brought a vial of holy water, to pour on you
and make you shrivel," he said through clenched teeth.

"Steady on," Caitlin said, blinking.

"-But I do not want to risk splashing your child. You are a
menace to everything that is good and righteous. Some day, justice
incarnate will track you by your slime trail and I, I shall be the hand
of this justice."

"You must be Captain Murry," Jürgen said politely. "I don't
believe we've -"

Murry and Widget faced one another, unable to see anything but
their foe. Their breath hissed through their teeth, sounding like two
venomous reptiles.

Jürgen waved to the waiter. "Ice water, please."

"Two buckets," Catbane amended.

"Speak not to me," she returned, "of the mortal guise of
retribution; swift, certain, cruel, crunchy. For I am she. Invoke not
my name in vain."

Murry broke into a reluctant grin. "Very good."

Widget smiled back. "You're not bad yourself."

"Try one of my madelines?" he offered.

"Thank you. I've heard they're very good here."

Peace established, Widget munched her madeline while Catbane
changed the subject. "Will you be extraditing the crewman who was
responsible?"

"No," Jürgen said firmly. "He is _Albacore's_ responsibility."

Catbane blinked. "Then why did you ask us to meet you here?"

Widget and Jürgen looked at one another blankly. "You asked us…"
Widget said uncertainly.

At that moment, the whir of an electric motor was heard and from
behind an air vent came a large toy fire truck, a hook-and-ladder.
Gadget drove while Chip steered the rear wheels. Monterey, Foxglove,
and Zipper, all wearing helmets, stood on the running boards while Dale
lustily rang a bell. Laying down on the ladder, tail towards the front
of the truck, was a long, finned cylinder. "RANGER ROCKET Mk V" was
painted boldly down the side. Gadget took the truck through a 180
degree turn, allowing the astonished audience to read the lettering
down the other side: "THIS SCUD'S FOR YOU."

Without a word, Gadget released powered stabilizing struts while
Monterey began to work the ladder mechanism, lifting the rocket and
pointing it across the street. Widget looked downrange and a smile
came; her eyes glittered. She saw the Happy Tom Cat Food Factory, den
of iniquity and shrine to villainy.

"Could we have a phone, please?" Gadget asked a waiter. He was
happy to comply. People tend to be co-operative when somebody with a
missile shows up. Dale took a madeline from Captain Murry's plate.

"Chip, I think you should call," Gadget offered.

Chip shook his head. "No, I wouldn't dream of it."

Gadget dialed a few numbers.

"Hello, Fat Cat?" she asked. "We're the Rescue Rangers… No, I'm
calling to keep you alive. Just look out your window, at the café
across the street." She paused. "Well, maybe we are bluffing. But I did
warn you! Bye-bye!" She hung up.

Zipper offered a match to Monterey, as though presenting arms.
Monterey saluted, and took the match from him. He used it to light a
fuse sticking out of the rocket's bell nozzle.

Across the street, a Fat Cat shaped hole opened in the side of
the statue's head, as the crime lord lept out, followed by his
henchmen.

"Shouldn't we clear the area?" Catbane asked, looking at the
sputtering fuse.

"Nah," Gadget laughed. "It *is* a bluff. I had Monty drain the
fuel tank before we came."

Monterey blinked. "Gadget-love, you didn't ask me to do that."

"Didn't I?" Gadget asked, surprised.

"RUN!" Dale screamed.

"Dale," Gadget snapped, "don't panic. Let's be methodical here.
Chip, did I ask you to drain the fuel tank?"

"No…" Chip said. "Gadget, maybe to save time, you could just ask
if anyone drained the fuel tank."

"Good idea," Gadget said with a bright nod. "Did I ask anyone to
drain the fuel tank?"

Everyone looked at one another nervously, hoping someone would
speak up.

"Did anyone drain the fuel tank without my asking them?" Gadget
asked.

More silence. Gimcrack began to emit a thin wail. This was
strange, for he hardly ever cried.

"I know I don't normally like people to tinker with my
inventions," Gadget said apologetically, "but in this case I really
wouldn't mind if you had."

Even after this assurance, nobody admitted to it.

"Okay," Gadget finally said, looking at the sputtering fuse
vanish into the nozzle, "I think we can panic now."

"Foxglove!" Widget yelled. "Catch!" and tossed Gimcrack at her
like a football. Foxglove effortlessly snared the baby mouse, and kept
going. The others dropped to all fours for speed and shot across the
roof, the still-flightless Zipper riding Monterey's back. All except
Widget, who broke into a two-legged sprint.

Jürgen realized he was leaving her in his dust, so he stopped,
and turned to run back to her. So, he was the only one to see the
Ranger Rocket (Mk V) take off.

First, there was a sharp boom as the gasses ignited. This was a
dangerous moment, for often a too-rich mixture in the combustion
chamber caused an explosion. But then came the hissing roar of a proper
engine start. Jürgen watched, stunned, as the rocket streaked off the
fire engine with a tail of flame. Faster and faster it went, Gadget's
regenerative cooling system preventing a burnthrough of the combustion
chamber. By the time it entered the mouth of the Happy Tom statue,
Jürgen could no longer track the rocket by eye; it looked like a flash
of fire.

Although it carried no warhead, it did carry fuel. The entire
head of the statue exploded in a cloud of pulverized concrete with a
hollow BOOM.

The patrons of the café burst into applause, as the statue atop
the cat food factory turned into a headless sphinx, showering powder on
the fleeing citizenry below. Fortunately, there were no large pieces,
apart from the one which went through the windshield of officers Kirby
and Muldoon, parked in front of the donut store.

Across the street, Mole smiled and clapped. The others were too
stunned to begrudge him this.

Fat Cat drew upon his knowledge of the classics. Ozymandias? He
wondered. The Bagavad-Ghita? Bruce Willis flick? Yes. "Big badaboom,"
Fat Cat muttered.

"I hear Florida is nice this time of year," Mepps hinted.


Widget had been closest to the rocket when it took off, but she
was well out of the back blast zone. She panted heavily, as her husband
embraced her. Dale strolled back to make sure she wasn't hurt.

"Why didn't you run on all fours?" Dale asked. "It's faster."

Widget didn't bother to answer in words: the look she gave him
was sufficient.

"Oops," Dale said and smiled foolishly.

Foxglove went into a hover in front of her, letting her pluck her
baby from out of her scoop.

"Thanks," Widget said.

"It was kind of fun," Foxglove assured her. Gimcrack was giggling
happily and applauding; clearly, he wanted to do it again.

"Not a chance," his mother told him.


Jerome Catbane and Gadget both heaved a sigh of relief when they
saw Gimcrack was none the worse for the wear. Foxglove and Gimcrack
were discussing the matter of a second ride with his parents, and
meeting resistance.

"You built that rocket?" Catbane asked quietly.

Gadget took a moment before she realized the question was
directed at her. "Yes," she said cautiously.

He smiled. "That was great," he said. "I haven't had so much fun
since the last arms race."

Gadget smiled, hesitantly.

He grew more serious. "That's the Flavisham in you," he said with
some pride. "You get it from your mother's mother's side of the family.
Elaine - my wife - she worked in a motor pool during the war, and I
don't think I've ever seen her happier."

"I'd like to hear more about her," Gadget said softly.

Catbane looked at her for a moment. "Gadget," he finally said,
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there at the end of your mother's life.
I'm sorry I wasn't there for the beginning of yours. It was pure,
stupid pride on my part, and I pray that you will let me make up for
it."

Widget watched from a distance as her sister hugged the old man.
She looked away. She knew he'd be asking her shortly, and fought a
silent battle against herself. The simple fact was that if she had a
choice between seeing Catbane in his grave and kicking Andy off the
_Albacore,_ she'd rather go with the funeral. However, that wasn't an
option. She knew she'd need more time to settle her feelings. She had
been Catbane's friend before she was his granddaughter; the betrayal
still hurt.

For the first time, she wished she was more like Gadget.
Forgiveness came easily for her.

"Good decision, Caitlin told Gadget. "He's really very nice when
he isn't being a prat. Jerome, you made me an offer the other day."

Catbane looked over at her. "Yes?" he asked.

"I'd be inclined to accept, now." She took out an organizer and
started looking for dates.


Church of the Holy Trinity (Central Park West between 67th & 68th), 1710
EST

"Chip," Gadget said, starting to feel a little exasperated, "for
the third time, what is this all about?"

Chip was ahead of her, creeping slowly through the dusty rafters.
The Wing was parked safely on the roof, and Chip had never come this
way before. "I just want you to meet this guy. Talk to him."

"About what?" Gadget folded her arms and refused to budge.

Chip looked at her silently. "About what gave you last night's
nightmares."

Gadget looked sideways. Chip sighed.

"Gadget, it was an accident. We've been through this a hundred
times. You made a mistake."

"And is your friend going to tell me anything different?" Gadget
asked.

"I don't know. But you need help getting over it. You'd be sick
if you didn't."

He put his hands on her shoulders, mostly to keep her from
turning back. "Gadget," he repeated, "Please. It hurts me to hear you
cry. I can't be happy if you aren't."

Gadget smiled weakly. What was it, some definition, the state
where another's happiness is essential for your own?

There was a chink in the ceiling, and a desk where a man in his
forties sat at a computer. There was a grizzled, old dog sitting by a
space heater. Chip fastened his safety pin line to a rafter, and let
the end dangle to the top of the monitor. Gadget flinched; running in
front of a Human was against every instinct. But Chip hopefully knew
what he was doing.

They slid down the line, in plain view of the typing Human.
Gadget's nerves were killing her; he must be nearsighted indeed if Chip
didn't mind walking in front of him. Gadget turned to look at the
slumbering dog. Old, venerable even. She hated to disturb him.

Chip took off his hat. "Pastor Hansen?" he asked politely.

"The name's Davey, Chip," the Human replied, glancing up. "Is
this Gadget?"

"You're a Speaker?" Gadget asked, astonished.

Davey grinned. "I prefer to think of myself as a 'Listener.'" He
leaned back in his chair. "Chip's told me a little," Davey told her.
"Would you like to talk about it?"

Gadget gulped. "Uh, yes, I think…"

"Would you rather we were alone?"

"No," Gadget said immediately. "Your dog looks too comfortable to
be moved."

"I think he means me," Chip corrected gently.

Gadget realized she was holding his hand.

"No," Gadget replied. "I'd rather you stayed here."


The talk didn't solve everything, of course, but at the end,
Gadget felt merely sad and guilty; she could put her hands around the
feelings, and experience them, without fearing they would crush her. It
was a step in the right direction.

To be continued........