Stettin, Germany
May 6th, 1941
The journey from Berlin to Stettin covered a little over a hundred miles by rail and took what Aether afterward would remember as a single long night that contained more hours than it had any right to be holding. It started with the visit to the shop at Neue Wilhelmstrasse back at Berlin, where they met a shop keeper. The shopkeeper lead them to the back of the shop after Aether asked for paper of Swedish type from him, where the keeper gave a price quote in Swedish Kronor and then he showed Aether a book, where Aether handed him the page. Thankfully, the page matched and he explained to them the route that lay ahead. The arrangement had been made through Slote's contacts in the British diplomatic network and Marta's cousin, who worked clerical duties for a firm that supplied foreign offices in Berlin and had through those channels put the name of the shop on Neue Wilhelmstrasse into hands that knew what to do with it.
The shopkeeper, whose name Aether was never told, produced an envelope containing a Swedish merchant-marine seaman's book in the name of Anders Lindqvist, nineteen years of age, recently signed off his previous vessel in Hamburg after illness and now traveling to rejoin his next berth at Stettin. The photograph on the seaman's book was of a blond Swedish youth who had been dead for seven months and whose face resembled Aether's only in the general category of young fair-haired Northern European. The British forger in Stockholm who had prepared it had done what he could; the rest was being counted on to be done by the general German indifference to merchant seamen from neutral countries when the seaman in question was heading for the docks rather than away from them. In addition, they had given him an outfit that allowed him to be seen as a seamen and dyed his hair to be a darker shade of blond.
The only problem was that Paimon had no documents that could be made, but was wrapped in a blanket, where it looked like she was a baby in a bundle. Paimon didn't like it at all and complained that she would 'rather be seen as emergency food than a baby.' However, the shopkeeper mentioned that a a baby-in-a-bundle was the single most invisible object a man could carry through a German railway station in May of 1941. Paimon wanted to object further, but Aether told her that if she do then she would be getting whatever she wanted in London when they get there which worked.
They had left Berlin from Stettiner Bahnhof on the evening express, riding in a third-class compartment shared with Colonel Klink, who Aether thought could be the least brightest member of the German military that he had ever met.
The Colonel had spent the first hour of the journey explaining at length to no one in particular the organizational superiority of the Luftwaffe's personnel system, had then fallen into a noisy sleep against the window, and had awakened at Pasewalk to resume the same lecture from approximately the point at which he had left it, apparently unaware that any time had passed. Aether kept his head down, kept Paimon's bundle tight against his chest, and listened with the attentive silence of a foreign seaman who understood perhaps one word in five and was grateful for that proportion.
"....and of course the new alliance has given us certain… advantages," Klink continued, gesturing with a long finger, "These Fatui fellows, you know. Remarkable. Their machines, their… weather control? The reports from Yugoslavia and Greece are quite something. Quite something indeed."
Aether kept his head down, eyes on the floor, playing the part of a tired Swedish sailor who understood perhaps one word in five. Paimon, pressed against his chest, went very still. Aether could feel her tiny hands clench the fabric of his shirt.
Klink leaned forward conspiratorially, "Between us, I hear their submarines are already in the Atlantic. Wolfpack something-or-other. The British won't know what hit them. And with American neutrality still holding… well, one must be grateful for small mercies, eh?"
The bundle against Aether's chest gave a muffled, indignant squeak. He coughed loudly to cover it and shifted as if adjusting his seat. Klink did not appear to notice the sound. He was already moving on to a tangential complaint about supply requisition forms, which he blamed on a Major whose name Aether did not catch and whose professional shortcomings Klink intended, it seemed, to describe at length for the benefit of the compartment.
Aether was less concerned with the Major than with the fact that an officer of the Luftwaffe, in a third-class railway compartment, had just said aloud in front of three strangers that a Snezhnayan wolfpack was operating in the Atlantic. He did not know what the operational security classifications of the Reich looked like from the inside, but he had spent enough time around Jean's staff officers in the Knights of Favonius to know what an indiscretion of that size would have produced: at minimum a formal reprimand, and possibly a transfer to somewhere with considerably worse coffee.
Eventually Klink got off at Pasewalk and the train continued on to Stettin. The remainder of the journey was quieter, which was a relief but not, to Aether's mind, necessarily a comfort. After awhile, Paimon went to sleep as night came. Then the train pulled into Stettin Hauptbahnhof with it sliding beneath the iron glass roof of the station. Aether remained seated until the other passengers began to move as he remembered some advice from the shopkeeper in that he should not look like he is in a hurry as that would make him more likely to be remembered.
Paimon was still wrapped in the blanket against his chest and decided to speak.
"Traveller," she whispered from inside the bundle, barely louder than a thought, "Paimon is awake and Paimon wants to say that Colonel Klink talks more than Itto after three bowls of sake."
Aether did not dare laugh. He did, however, allow the corner of his mouth to move by a degree so small that it could have been mistaken for a yawn.
"Not out loud," he whispered.
"Paimon is whispering."
"Paimon is whispering at a volume that could be heard by a deaf grandmother three compartments away."
"Paimon is being restrained."
"Paimon is being as restrained as Paimon ever gets. Which is a different thing."
Eventually the compartment was clear and they stepped out onto station The air in the station was colder than Berlin's and heavier with the nearby harbor dampness. Steam rolled low across the platform in white drifts that caught the yellow lamps that made them looked like hazy moons. Porters were shouting and boots struck stone. However, farther down the train an officer was barking at a soldier's orders. Aether kept his head down and did not hurry as he kept Paimon close to his chest. He stepped slowly were near the exit was what Aether assumed to be police men as they wore field-gray with dark belts and caps that were pulled low. Their faces looked extremely tired at that.
Aether joined the line and kept his shoulders slightly rounded, where bundle in his arms shifted once as Paimon resettled herself under the blanket. "Paimon does not like this at all," she whispered.
"That makes two of us," Aether murmured without moving his lips.
Ahead of him, a woman with a ration bag and a little boy at her side produced three separate documents before the policeman even finished asking for them. Then it was eventually Aether's turn to stand before him.
"Papiere," the policeman said.
Aether handed him the seaman's book and the travel docket with the careful slowness. The policeman opened the little book and looked from the photograph to Aether's face and back again. The resemblance was imperfect. The hair in the picture was a little flatter and the nose not quite right.
"Schwede?" the policeman asked.
Aether nodded. "Ja."
The man squinted at him. "Deutsch?"
Aether gave the answer the shopkeeper had drilled into him until it sounded tired enough to be natural.
"Ein wenig. Nicht gut."
The policeman grunted. His eyes then moved to the bundle in Aether's arms.
"Kind?"
There was no pause in Aether's answer. "Meine Schwester. Krank."
The policeman leaned back by a fraction, which was not pity so much as instinct. Illness was not a thing men in uniforms wished to examine more closely at railway platforms before dawn.
"Wohin?"
"Zum Hafen," Aether replied, tapping the seaman's book. "Schiff. Dienst."
The policeman examined the stamps again, frowned with the concentration of a man forcing himself to read one line further than he wanted to, and then returned the papers.
"Gehen Sie."
Aether inclined his head and walked out the station square that opened into a city of wet stone, harbor fog, and distant industrial light. The streets sloped toward the water and the smell of salt, coal smoke, oil, and rope drifted in on the air with enough force that Aether could almost taste it. They crossed a narrow bridge over a black ribbon of canal water, where the barges sat low in it. Beyond the bridge the city was a huge harbor of different buildings and ships that were docked there, one of the ships that caught Aether's eye on how it shaped. Being extremely long with a grey paint scheme on its hull, but the top of it was flat along from the front and back of the vessel. On the center of the flat deck on its right side was a metal tower with the flag of the crooked cross or as Marta explained to Aether known as the Swatiska. This vessel especially was larger than any of the other cargoships in the harbor. Nothing that Aether could imagine or think of meet the size of the vessel, it looked like it could swallow the Alcor almost more than twice.
Paimon's bundle stirred against his chest. She had also seen.
"Traveller," she whispered, "what is wrong with that ship?"
"I don't know."
"It looks unfinished. They forgot the top."
"I don't think they forgot."
"Then where do the people stand?"
"I don't know that either."
Aether continued on walking through the harbor district through many warehouses and buildings as he kept his head down to not be seen. He followed the instructions from the shopkeeper back in Berlin to get passed the customs shes, keep the water on the right, look for the ship that was waiting for him, and find a man in a dark cap talking poetry. He had just passed a warehouse door painted with peeling white numbers when a figure detached itself from the shadow beside a stack of coiled rope and stepped far enough into the light to be unmistakably waiting from Aether's perspective.
He looked Aether over once, then looked at the blanket bundle against his chest, then back again.
Without greeting, he said in Swedish, "The sea is never faithful to the shore."
Aether had been given that line in Berlin together with the warning that if he forgot it, then London would become an abstract concept and he could kiss any hopes of escape goodbye.
He answered in an attempt of stiff swedish that the shopkeeper had drilled to him before he departed, "No. But it always returns to listen."
The man studied him for another second and then switched to careful english.
"Good enough, I suppose," He said with a smile and then looked around them real quick, "Walk behind and act like you know me before. As if you have sailed with me before."
Aether gave a small nod that passed as understanding as he followed him closely as they walked together along the inner length of the basin without speaking. Aether followed behind the man as they walked the dockyard and copied the man's pace of walking as he kept Paimon steady against his chest.
"Paimon would like it officially noted," she whispered, "that this is the worst game of hide-and-seek Paimon has ever played."
"That makes two of us," Aether murmured.
"Keep silent, if they hear you talking english, then you give us away." The man muttered to them, "We are coming up on another checkpoint, the Germans have been recently doubling up security due to the arrival of the Fatui in the city."
Aether tightened his hold on the bundle and said nothing further. He realized that he had not asked the man's name and the man had not offered it as they came up to the barrier. The checkpoint was thirty meters ahead of them set into the brickwork between two warehouses where the pier narrowed. There were four men this time rather than two, where two wore green versions of the military uniform that Aether had seen in the German army. However, the other two were different with the long grey-white coats with red lining. They were Fatui no doubt as they walked closer.
The man in the dark cap registered them without altering his pace, which Aether took to mean that he had known of their arrival and was ready for them. He held out a set of documents as they walked up, Aether tightened his grip on Paimon closer to his chest.
The German on their left looked up as they approached. He was a man of perhaps thirty-five and looked as if he personally knew the man in the dark cap as he looked more annoyed than anything.
"Bengtsson," the German said, in the voice of a man who had been on this gate too many mornings to summon enthusiasm for any of them. "You are early."
"The tide does not consult me, Hauptwachtmeister."
"The tide does not consult anyone. That is its principal virtue." The German held out a hand for the papers without looking at them, "Crew supplement?"
"On top."
The German took the sheaf, separated the topmost sheet, and laid it across the lid of an upturned ammunition crate that served as his desk. He read it with the unhurried patience of a man who had decided some years previously that the war would not be won or lost at his particular checkpoint and that his contribution to it would consist of not being the man who let through the wrong piece of paper. He read the manifest. He read the cargo declaration. He turned to the crew supplement and ran his pencil down the names.
He stopped at one.
"Lindqvist."
"Yes," Bengtsson said.
"New."
"Hamburg, last month. Came off the Götaland with a fever. He has been waiting in Berlin for a berth."
"Berlin."
"His uncle is there. The uncle is Swedish. He keeps a shop."
The German looked up at Aether for the first time, with an expression in which there was no curiosity, only the dry registration of a face against a description, and then back at the page. He made a small mark beside the entry. He did not ask for the seaman's book.
It was at this point that one of the long grey-white coats, who had until now stood at the further end of the checkpoint with his hands behind his back in the posture of a man waiting for a tram, separated himself from his colleague and walked, in three unhurried paces, to a position from which he could look at Aether directly. He did not look at the papers as that was the German's business, but focused on Aether's face again.
"What is wrong with the child?"
Bengtsson answered before Aether could open his mouth, "A very bad fever that she had since they arrived in Germany."
The expression of the Fatui guard did not change, "Show me."
The Hauptwachtmeister looked up from his crates his jaw tightened as if the Fatui were taking away his authority.
"The child has a German doctor's stamp," he said, in German. "It is on the third sheet."
"I did not address the Hauptwachtmeister," the Fatui replied, in German that was also good. "I addressed the seaman. The Traveller has a companion that is well known in our intelligence by her flying."
He turned back to Aether and waited.
Bengtsson did not look at Aether. He looked, with a kind of fixed mild patience, at a point on the brickwork two feet to the left of the Fatui's shoulder, in the manner of a working man who had been asked to do something he had not been hired for and was prepared to do it without comment because he was not paid to have comments. Then, in Swedish, without turning his head:
"Anders. Show the gentleman your sister."
Aether went still for a moment as every part of him went still, but after a minute he shifted the bundle in arms. He was inside feeling nervous, but paimon seemed to understand before he did on what shape the next few seconds had to take as he folded back one corner of the blanket. Only enough that a pale little face with closed eyes, a strand of white hair, and the edge of a tiny hand near the cloth.
Then at that exact moment, Paimon coughed with continuous sounds that was wet, weak, and ugly. The sound made nearby men in line move back as she continued. Eventually she followed it with a thing whimper and a breath that sounded hitched midway with labor.
The German Hauptwachtmeister recoiled first as his comrade and other Fatui did the same thing. He lunged for Aether and Bengtsson as he dragged them both past the gate, while screaming in German.
"Ihr dürft gehen. Schafft eure kranke Schwester mir aus den Augen, bevor ich mir bei ihr den Tod hole. Und bleibt im Boot, bis ihr aus Deutschland hinausgesegelt seid."
The Hauptwachtmeister's voice rose to a near shout by the end of it and Bengtsson did not need the order translated and did not wait to be told twice. He gathered the documents back from the Hauptwachtmeister with the same unhurried economy he had shown surrendering them, tucked them into his coat without folding them properly, and put a hand on Aether's elbow as they walked forward.
"That cough," he said in English, in the same near-breath voice as before. "Was that the sister."
"Yes."
"That was a good cough."
"Yes."
"If she has any others like it in her, she will save them for when we are clear of the Skagerrak."
Aether had no idea what the Skagerrak was, but nodded anyway as he replied, "She will."
Eventually, they reached a steamer waiting with a low black body and a squat funnel. On the bow of the steamer was the word in white: Karlskrona.
Bengtsson led them up a gangway to the deck of the ship as he took them to the lower decks of the ship to a cabin in the middle of the ship, where Aether did not even have a port hole to view out of. The room was not anything special as it reminded him of a dark dirty room that any one could afford to try and rent.
"Now," Bengtsson continued as he leaned on the doorframe, "Stay here for the day, not even on deck. The haarbor pilot will come abroad in an hour and he is not in the know. Once we are out in the Baltic, I will come down to give you the all clear. Understand?"
Aether nodded as he unwrapped the blanket off of Paimon and then the door was closed. Aether locked the door as he sat on a chair to finally breathe and leaned his head against the bulkhead.
Paimon finally having a chance to fly was at his shoulder as she spoke, "Well, we are out of Berlin and in a ship. Still it doesn't feel right to leave Marta behind when thinking about Father Bruarer."
Aether looked down at his hands.
"No," he said quietly. "It doesn't."
"Do you think they'll be alright?" she asked.
Aether did not answer immediately as he thought about Father Brauer possibly sent to Dachau and Marta who chose to stay when Aether asked her to join them. She told them that she still family and would weigh them down as she did not have papers for her own departure, which would de-rail everything.
"No," he said at last. "It doesn't feel right."
Paimon hovered in front of him, hands folded tight against her chest.
"We just... left them there."
"We didn't abandon them."
"That sounds like the kind of sentence people say when they did something that feels a lot like abandoning someone."
Aether let out a breath and leaned back in the chair. Paimon, annoyingly and accurately, had found the right edge of it.
"Marta knew what helping us meant," he said quietly. "So did Father Brauer."
"That's what makes it worse."
"Yes."
The ship slightly rolled beneath them with the sound of something metallic being heard below them until it settled.
May 10th, 1941
North Atlantic Ocean
59°20'03"N, 032°09'17"W, German Naval Grid: AK2392
They had made contact with her about 20 hours ago, where it was initially detected by Buran-1 at daylight and was unable to get into position for an attack where it overcharged its chaos engine to try and speed to the target. However, the overcharge with the German parts on its gears nearly caused a catastrophic failure that could have destroyed the boat. When Buran-3 got the contact report, Volkov sent the message to Buran-1 to withdraw from engagement and run repairs on itself for the time being.
It would only take about 8 hours for Buran-3 to make contact and remained in the surface as she went top speed of 18 knots until she spotted smoke from a distance. Although, the boat had to fight against a force of four northwestern swells at full surface speed. She then dived at periscope depth at fifteen meters and went into position for an attack as darkness started to settle in. Volkov watched the ship through the lens of the periscope and made out the ship. The ship was moving west at no more than 9 knots. The ship was british for sure from the flag union jacket square attached to a red flag. The ship was a little over five thousand tons and had the silhouette of a tramp steamer with one funnel at the center with two masts. She had a raised forecastle and all Volkov had to do was simply lock his periscope to the target, where it would follow the target as long as it had a good visual on the moving vessel.
The fire control drone read the periscope output continuously and updated the attack solution in real time. The German TVR system required a periscope observer, a bearing caller, a plotter, and a solution operator working in sequence, each introducing a time interval between observation and output on things like range, speed, target bow angle, length of target, and depth of target. Sandrone's system compressed that sequence to a single step, and the solution on the board was current to within three seconds at all times.
"Load the Tubes 1 and 2!"
The order spread very quickly as the tubes were loaded with torpedoes that were reminiscent of the German G7a weapons in size. On the warhead and body of the torpedoes were symbols of yellow and red. These were new weapons that Marionette, also known as Sandrone, was wanting results from the most on their function when used in combat. The test were considered so important to her that each submarine in the Wolfpack was to track by the serial of which submarine that they fired.
"Tubes One and Two Loaded" said the voice of the weapons command drone.
"Flood the Tubes and Prepare to fire!"
The soft mechanical sounds of the bow caps opening. Volkov waited the interval and watched the solution board update in its three-second cycle. The target was holding course and speed, he could barely see the name of the vessel on its bow with 'Empire Pemberton.' The British steamer rose on another swell, her bow cutting through the dark Atlantic. He could make out how empty the vessel and filled with ballast in her tanks to lower her center of gravity. The ship was not zigzagging as if she was trying to catch up with one of those outbound convoys headed for America from Liverpool. However, this was best on Volkov's best guess as he noticed a light on the stern of the ship were it was tiny but noticeable on the magnification of his scope as it reminded him of a lighter used to light a cigarette. Bolkov smirked a little.
"Even in this world, there are always those that doom others to the tolling of the bell" He thought to himself.
"Tubes One and Two Flooded and Bow Caps Opened" said the robotic voice of the drone.
Volkov took one last look through the periscope. The tiny light at the stern appeared again, brief and foolish. A cupped flame in the hands of some tired sailor who had decided that the night, the Atlantic, and the war itself were all too large to care about one cigarette.
"Range?" Volkov asked.
"One thousand three hundred and twenty-four meters," a fire control drone replied, "Solution current. Target holding course zero-five-two, speed 8.2 knots."
"Recommended spread?" Volkov asked.
"One point six degrees."
Volkov kept his eye against the scope. The Empire Pemberton rolled gently with the swell. The little flame at her stern vanished.
"I hope that you enjoyed your cigarette," Volkov thought again, "It will be the last one that you have ever had."
"Accepted," Volkov said. "Set torpedoes for Geo fracture primary. Pyro delayed half a second."
The weapons command drone answered at once, "Geo fracture primary. Pyro delay zero point five seconds. Crystallize reaction armed."
"Tube one," Volkov said.
The control room held still.
"Fire."
A muted cough sounded forward. The submarine kicked lightly.
"Tube one fired," said the drone.
Volkov counted three seconds.
"Tube two. Fire."
The second cough followed.
"Tube two fired."
"Down scope."
The periscope slid into its well, and the Empire Pemberton vanished from sight.
"Run time?" Volkov asked.
"Sixty-four seconds for tube one," the fire control drone replied. "Tube two, sixty-seven seconds from first firing. Impact separation, three seconds."
Volkov clasped his hands behind his back and counted.
Fifty seconds.
Forty Seconds.
Thirty Seconds.
Twenty Seconds.
"Up Scope!" He ordered as it rose up.
He placed his sight to the lens as he watched the ship continue on its course. The Empire Pemberton moved as though nothing in the world had changed. Her bow rose, fell, and shouldered aside the Atlantic. Smoke dragged low from her funnel. The red ensign at her stern snapped once in the wind, then disappeared behind a burst of spray. No sign of any change from the ship….no alarm….or any sudden turns.
Ten seconds.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three…
As the bow of the ship lifted out of the water in the next swell, a sudden yellow dull glow had struck it with no column of water suddenly shooting up in the air. Plates on the bow suddenly vaporized as pieces of it were sent flying everywhere. Then it changed to a red flash bursted throughout the fractures as it folded into the yellow light and hardened. The wound bloomed into a red-blow crystal that spread across the bow plating the way frost spread across a window in winter. As the steel hardened and crystallized, entire sections of the bow broke off until there was no bow left anymore but the mid-section and stern of the ship.
Then the second torpedo hit sending plates back into the hull like shrapnel and then the pyro ignition activated as it reacted making the mid-section of the Empire Pemberton crystallized into burning hot red glass. Unlike the empty bow section, there were many things that could be destroyed and have density inside for heavy damage. Like boilers, engines, bunker tanks for water and fuel. A secondary explosion took place from the center where the smoke stack on the ship went up in the air for about one hundred feet.
The remains of the ship instantly listed to its port side and a heavier list to what remained on its forward second. The bridge was already under water completely and Volkov could see men running to the stern. He wondered if the man that was smoking among them as the stern lifted up in the air at a degree of over thirty with its rudder and propeller out of the water.
The screw stopped spinning and Volkov watched as remains of the ship listed more to port and down more by the remains of the head. He watched as the dark figures on the stern started to slide down to the burning boiling water of the disappearing ship. Other men started to jump from the railings of the stern or hang onto anything that was bolted to the stern.
The ship's last intact section rose higher by the second. The stern was now a steep black hill, slick with spray and oil, and the men upon it climbed and slid with the helpless motions of insects on glass. One man reached the base of the ensign staff and wrapped both arms around it. Another tried to crawl toward him, only to be thrown sideways when the remains of the hull gave another shudder.
Volkov watched through the periscope without blinking. He watched as the midsection sink and a wave sprayed over the red-gold crystal that a burst of white vapor burst upward. The sea around the ship boiling as if it been built over a furnace. Then the stern was near vertical and then slipped beneath the waves.
"Time Since impact?" Volkov asked.
"Two minutes, four seconds after tube one impact," the fire control drone replied.
"Any distress signals sent from the target during sinking?"
"None."
Volkov stepped back from the periscope and let it descend into its well. He went to the chart table and marked the position, the time, and the target's name. He recorded into a log that would be sent to the Marionette on many things like the estimation of the tonnage and noted its possible state of being in ballast. He wrote the reactions of the two elements as to the target and what happened as the ship sank.
"Reload tubes one and two," he said as he finished the log.
"Reload time estimated at four minutes," the weapons drone confirmed.
He stood at the chart table for a moment and looked at the plot. The Empire Pemberton had gone down at a position that placed Buran-3 roughly in the middle of the shipping lane between Halifax and Iceland. The site was good ground, but the British Admiralty was pushing more traffic into convoy and less into independent sailing. The Germans had told him this would happen as the losses mounted. He had believed them in the abstract and now had evidence of it in practice on the fact that the Empire Pemberton was the first independent contact they had found in six days in the area.
He was considering whether to move the wolfpack twenty miles north to cover the alternate routing track when Kliment appeared.
"Yes?" Volkov asked.
"Shen is saying that he is hearing contact's…..big ones…." Kilment said with a giant smirk as if it was Krsnik Noc.
"How big?" he said.
Kliment's smirk remained in place, which meant he had already listened to the trace himself and formed an opinion about it and was enjoying the moment before Volkov could form the same opinion and make it official.
"Shen's words were 'many,'" Kliment said. "He has not given a number yet. He is convinced that it is a convoy with over fifty ships."
Volkov walked to the hydrophone station.
May 11th, 1941
Position: 57°59'52.6"N 37°20'24.9"W
The voyage since it had started was by this point largely uneventful as he took the destroyers and the coast guard cutter out to sea, where once they passed Newfoundland and reach 150 miles east of St. John's. The sail did not take long for them to find the impressive sight of over one hundred and twenty merchant ships in 12 lines sailing northeast in a convoy formation. Through it, Pug had British Liason onboard signal the commodore of the convoy to prepare to be escorted. They sailed for the passed three days without major issues, but these storms were making zigzagging dangerous as last night the conditions were so bad that there were multiple near collisions hat left signal lamps flashing angrily through the gale In fact, radio silence was almost compromised because of it as captains in the merchant ships wanted to shout each other on who caused what near collision. The British Liaison was getting more and more nervous as they reached the black gap where British and Canadian air cover could extend, but the German U-boat took full advantage of it. Pug was sure that if the Fatui submarines were at sea then they would be in the gap as well.
The USS Plunkett, a Gleaves class destroyer, rode the starboard bow of the convoy as her gray hull rose on the long swells and then dropped again in the troughs as the spray ripped white on her bow. Beyond her, line after line filled with merchantment labored on as dark silhouettes under a iron sky. Each merchant ship carried a cargo that was important to the survival of Great Britain.
Pug stood on the bridge of Plunkett and saw nothing at sea, but it did not reassure him at all. For the past few hours, the visibility had improved since the gale and that was the problem. The storm could provide him cover against the Fatui or any German U-Boat. He did not know anything about these Fatui submarines, if they exist, but he assumed that a gale would help him more than them. Officially, Pug was only an observer of this 'exercise' on cooperative merchant vessels and he kept to the role whenever possible and left all operations to the destroyer screen commander.
Commander Willis, the Royal Navy liaison, came out onto the bridge wing beside him with his binoculars already up. He had a narrow face and a very dry manner as if he had been part of convoy escort for the entire war.
"I do not care for this visibility," Willis said.
Pug kept his own glasses on the horizon, "You didn't care for the gale."
"I preferred it."
The captain of Plunkett, Commander Harris, was inside the bridge with the officer of the deck, keeping his tone flat and practical which made Pug like him immediately into the voyage.
A signalman stepped up from the starboard side of the bridge and reported, "Commodore acknowledges. Convoy will maintain current formation. Zigzag remains limited by sea conditions."
Harris nodded once.
"You really think that those Fatui have anything out here?" Harris asked Pug as Pug looked again through his binoculars.
"We really don't know, the Fatui have been giving us the impression that they might with the threat that the Tsaritsa does her version of Lend-lease. But it really is all speculation really." Pug admitted silently, "I really want to be wrong that they might test their new toys on British targets."
Harris absorbed it for a moment without comment.
Below them, Plunkett's bow lifted on another swell and then dropped, sending a burst of cold spray racing aft along the deck. Ahead and to port, the convoy's leading columns climbed and vanished one line at a time, dark merchant hulls laboring against the gray water. However, the flush-deck four funnel Clemenson Class destroyers sailed to the rear ring of the convoy keeping up, with the water swallowing their bow as they sailed. Eventually though, the sea calmed down and Pug was even more concerned as the sky cleared with the sun beaming down on them.
Then a seaman approached, "Multiple Contacts on the sound gear, sir. Indications are that they are submarines. Two to the south and one north of us."
Harris quickly turned from the chart table, "Repeat that."
The seaman swallowed once.
"Multiple contacts on the sound gear, sir. Indications are submarines. Two to the south and one north of us."
For one second nothing moved on the bridge except the signal flags at the halyards and the long gray sea sliding past below. Then the whole ship seemed to gather itself.
Harris stepped to the voice tube. "Bridge to asdic room. Are these solid contacts or ghosts?"
The answer came back at once, thinned by the tube but urgent enough.
"Solid enough to worry over, sir. Two screws on the southern bearings, one north. The southern pair are moving to converge. The northern one is holding farther off."
Willis lowered his binoculars slowly.
"That is not a random sighting," he said.
"No," Harris replied. "It isn't. Go to action stations."
The alarm began running throughout the ship with the sound of running below decks as well as at the front and aft end of the ship as everyone got into their action stations. Meanwhile, everyone on the bridge began to put on combat helmut's.
"Here we go." Pug muttered as he put his helmet on.
Not far from the Convoy
German Naval Grid: AJ3639
Volkov looked through the Periscope at the formation of over one hundred merchant ships spotted and understood at once why Berlin had spoken of the Atlantic convoys with such hatred and such hunger. They filled the sea in ordered columns like a floating industrial city, twelve long files of hulls carrying the tonnage of an empire's survival across gray water. Even in the lift and fall of the swell, the geometry of it was impressive. It also made his mouth tighten with something that was not quite admiration and not quite contempt. So many ships of different shapes, sizes, and allied flags were seen on his sight. His submarine was to the south of the Convoy with Buran-4 not far and to the north was Buran-5, while Buran-1 was unable to join due to the repair job that it had to do.
No matter, then once he reports the Convoy to headquarters then maybe the Germans will be interested to find it and finish the job themselves. The he caught the sight of escorts and then their flag.
"By the Tsaritsa," he whispered, "Down Scope and get the American Recognition manual."
Kliment handed him a thick book and instantly Volkov opened it to where he found the first American vessel that he saw through the scope with a single pole mast forward, a low raked stack, and two sets of torpedo tubes on the center line. The Gleveas Class and on the other page was the Benson Class due to their differences being small.
As he took a look, Kliment used to the scope to see as well and quickly lowered within five seconds. He looked to Volkov and nodded.
"American Destroyers." was all Kliment said as confirmation.
"Yes, just as feared by Pierro," Volkov replied.
"Sir, an attack on a British Merchant ship is not an act of war against America," Kliment said.
Volkov set the manual down on the chart table. He did it slowly, with the small careful precision and gave a glare to Kliment.
"Repeat the order, please, Lieutenant."
"Sir?"
"The Director's order. As you understand it."
Kliment did not need to consult the page. He had filed it for exactly this moment.
"If encountering an Allied Convoy protected by American Neutrality Patrol, message HQ at once for directions. The American protection is of the Patrol itself. The convoy is British and Allied. The British are at war with the Reich and with us by extension. The order forbids us nothing in respect of British ships. It instructs us to consult Snezhnograd before engaging Americans. We do not propose to engage Americans. It is the plain reading."
"It is a flaw reading as that means that to you, but not to the American Commander of the screen escorting the convoy. The ships are obviously under his protection, the moment we sink a ship, he will retaliate against us for sure and harm our talks in Hyde Park," Volkov replied.
Kliment said nothing for a moment and Volkov felt that it might be best that the man stay silent at that moment as anything else could get him into trouble.
The communication officer reported, "Sir, Buran-4 reports to the stern of the Convoy about 6 Clemson Class Destroyers with American Ensigns identified on them."
Volkov did not turn from the chart table.
"Six Clemsons. On the rear screen."
"Yes, sir," the Communication Officer replied.
"In addition to the Bensons and the Gleaves on the forward and flank stations."
"Yes, sir."
Volkov looked back to Kliment as he spoke, "And the problems that I feared have begun…"
A sailor came to Volkov, "Sir, Shen reports that one of the American Destroyers has detected us and has pinged our position."
"Has the destroyer changed course?" Volkov asked.
"No, sir." the Sailor replied.
Volkov turned back to the communication officer, "Acoustic relay. To Buran-4 and Buran-5. By order of the wolfpack commander. Remain at periscope depth maintain speed with the convoy with chaos engines, raise your snorkel's, and hold from attacking unless I order it."
The communication officer nodded.
"Also, send a message to the Norwegian Relay. Large Atlantic Convoy with over 100 ships spotted in AJ3639 heading east. Speed between 7 to 9 knots. American Destroyers Present as escort with Clemensons included. Wolfpack shadowing Convoy and holding fire. Request guidance on the next actions to do."
The communication wrote every word down for the two messages as he nodded and walked away with a salute.
Back at the Plunkett
"Radio has picked transmission from one of the submarines." A sailor walked up to hand a clipboard with a copy of the coded transmission to Pug and Harris.
"He is transmitting in code, he's got to know we can catch this." Harris said as he looked at the message.
"He is waiting on orders from higher up." Pug said quickly, "Now we all wait on Snezhnograd. I suspect that it is going to be a long wait indeed."
"But he can't shadow us for long, he has to deal with battery charge, air, and even underwater maintain speed with us for a long period of time." Willis said as he looked out to the horizon.
"Commander Willis, if it is the Fatui spotting us," Pug replied, "I think that anything that is normal for submarine has a chance to be thrown out the window on traditional U-boat tactics possibly."
Willis nodded for a moment.
"Do we know if this wolfpack is Fatui or German for sure?" Harris asked.
"Well, considering what Commander Willis said," Pug thought outloud, "If they maintain contact longer than the Germans would or do something crazily unique, then we'll know for sure."
Harris kept his eyes on the sea.
"That's a fine comfort."
"It isn't meant to be."
2 Hours later at the Snezhnayan Embassy in Berlin
Arlecchino got the report from the Norwegian relay and now she was concerned deeply as the situation that she feared coming was now written in her hands. A convoy of over one hundred allied ships escorted by American destroyers was spotted by the Wolfpack, which was now shadowing it and ready to attack at the moment that the order was given. She had just returned from her command center in Graz and now she has a situation that could explode into a full on conflict with the United States already. The wolfpack could attack the convoy of allied ships, but the American escorts could retaliate by attacking the Snezhnayan u-boats. The problem was in its cleanest form.
Everything that had been discussed at Hyde Park, everything Childe was trying to build with Roosevelt, everything Pantalone had positioned so delicately in Berlin and beyond, could be blown apart by one overeager torpedo spread in the gap. The conclusion he was drawing for her, between the lines of his cable and without saying it in so many words, was that what Pug Henry had told her in this same study six weeks ago about the President's unwillingness to provoke an incident had been, on the evidence the wolfpack had now collected, exactly correct.
She set the cable down on the desk. She knew that she had perhaps five hours before Pierro's office would have the cable in front with the interpretation of whoever else was in the room with him. She then had eight hours before the Tsaritsa would be presented with whatever Pierro thought she should hear about the situation in the Atlantic. The interval was hers to fill with the phrasing that Pierro would in due course adopt as his own.
She quickly called off an operative.
"Yes, Father," The Operative called out.
"Send a flash cable to the Director's office in Snezhnograd, my signature, my cipher." Arlecchino continued, "Inform the Director that the Berlin station has received Volkov's cable through the Norwegian relay and that a substantive recommendation will follow within four hours. Request that no operational order be issued to Wolfpack Signora before the Berlin recommendation is in his hands. Use the phrase 'pending diplomatic situation.'"
"Yes, Father."
"Send it at once." Arlecchino ordered.
The operative bowed as they left in a hurry as Pantalone arrived with a smirk on his face and his eyes closed.
She had not sent for him, which meant he had come of his own accord, which meant he had read his own copy of the cable in his own study in his own wing of the embassy and had decided that his interests required him to be in this room before her brief was written rather than after.
"Pantalone."
"Father," the Banker announced with the title sounding more less than honorific, "I see that you have been kept busy."
"As have you, by the look of it."
"I have. I came directly from the cipher room. I read the corrected version. Volkov is a thorough officer. The Clemson detail was kind of him."
Arlecchino glared at the Banker, "You know why he included right?"
"Of course, I do," Pantalone said as he placed his hands together, "A banker always see the values in the finishing returns of a class of ships at sea that are shared between two nations. One that our Allies fight and one that we are in current talks with at this moment."
"You may dispense with the metaphor, Pantalone. We are in the same room and there is no auditor present."
"As you wish, Father," Pantalone replied as his smile widened, "Volkov's cable tells us that Roosevelt has a large number of his own destroyers on a convoy that he is not officially escorting. All of this is happening while American destroyers on a convoy he is not officially escorting, while Childe sits in Hyde Park believing himself to be in good-faith negotiation. Roosevelt is therefore lying to us or in other words is hedging. Either way, he is in a position which, if disclosed in his own country before he chose to disclose it, would shorten his political life by some considerable margin."
"What argument are you making?" Arlecchino demanded with a glare as the red X's in her eyes brightened.
Pantalone tilted his head to the side as he kept his smirk, "The Wolfpack should attack."
Arlecchino almost wanted to shout at Pantalone if he lost his mind and whether he had been hanging around Dottore for too long. However, she decided against it as she responded.
"Tell me your reasoning, Pantalon. And be very clear as to why."
He folded one glove over the other in his hands and answered at once, "Very well, My reasoning is this. Roosevelt is already committed beyond what his laws and his public position comfortably allow. He has destroyers on that convoy. Not one destroyer for symbolism, Father. Not two for ambiguity. A screen substantial enough that, were it known plainly in Washington, his enemies would say he has already entered the war by stealth and paperwork. That means he is vulnerable."
Arlecchino did not move from the desk, "That means that he is cautious."
"Yes," Pantalone said. "And caution is a form of vulnerability if one understands how it must protect itself."
Her eyes narrowed, "Continue."
Pantalone inclined his head slightly keeping that damn smile behind those closed eyes.
"Roosevelt's caution," he said, "does not protect him equally on all fronts. Any hostile action against our boats puts him at a position that makes things difficult for him all of a sudden. Once the newspapers find out, and they will through me like I did for Childe's arrival to New York, the exercises of neutrality patrol will cease to be an exercise of precaution."
"And in your view this serves the Tsaritsa."
"In my view it serves us in the only way the situation permits. Roosevelt is a politician of extraordinary gift. He is also a man who has overcommitted his hand before with that Supreme Court packing fiasco long before the war. It has hurt him badly, and this would be much worse than that…in fact, it might get him impeached by his congress and politically destroy him even."
Arlecchino's red Xs brightened again.
"Or he might decide that any private arrangement with us becomes poison the instant his destroyers are seen escorting British ships under our torpedoes," She took a step toward him, "You are assuming that because Roosevelt is subtle, subtle pressure will master him. That is not how subtle men work. They do not like being made to look clumsy in public."
"Dottore would argue otherwise and his new friend Heydrich as well," Pantalone answered.
The line as mildly as Pantalone had said it had did the work that he clearly intended as there was a small change of light at the corner of Arlecchino's eye. It was no surprise to her that Pantalone and Dottore were in talks with each other, especially with Dottore meeting with more and more of these SS men like Himmler and Reinhard Heydrich. She personally hated Reinhard Heyrich as much as she hated Dottore, the two were almost an exact mirror of each of different worlds but similar ideas of thought toward progress.
She had read the file on Heydrich the embassy had compiled at her instruction in march and it was very thorough. Because of the amount of contents in it that she had it bound and kept it in a drawer. Heydrich's correspondence with the Reichsführer-SS regarding the disposition of certain populations in occupied Poland in the autumn of 1939 had occupied seventeen pages of the file, which she had read three times and not, on any of the three readings, been able to finish without putting the file down for a quarter of an hour and walking to the window. Dottore, on the evidence of the Paha Isle records the embassy was permitted to read, had been thinking along parallel lines for considerably longer than Heydrich. The fact that the two of them had now begun to exchange professional courtesies through Pantalone's office was a development Arlecchino had registered without pleasure when she had first detected the traces of it in March, and which she did not propose to address today. In honesty, the fact that Dottore and Heydrich, two men of terrifying profiles, had been communicating to each other like intellectual buddies deeply concerned her on the direction of this alliance. It even made her question her loyalty to the Tsaritsa more and more as she even allowed this to happen in the first place.
Arlecchino did not let any of that reach her face.
"Dottore would argue many things, and Heydrich most of the rest. The fact that the two of them have lately been arguing in concert through your office is interesting. We will return to it. We will not return to it now."
She let the small unhappy lift at the corner of his mouth tell her she had registered the point correctly.
"Set them aside for the present. You and I are the two Harbingers in this embassy. The brief that goes to Snezhnograd from this embassy on the convoy will be the brief that I write. If your office wishes to add a contrary recommendation, your office may add one. The Director will read both. He will choose between them on his own ground. Are we agreed."
"We are agreed, Father."
"Good."
Pantalone left as Arlecchino continued in thought as the words of Dottore and Heydrich made her teeth hurt.
A full day later
Pug wondered how much air that these submarines could have and how much battery they could consume at the speed that they were making to keep up with the Convoy as they increased speed to 9 knots. Normally, German U-boats and any submarine that kept at that speed underwater, which they could not make at all, would go through their batteries within hours. But it has been a full day entirely and now, these submarines were still around the Convoy and even maintained their distance with them. Even the newer American submarines like the Salmon Class could make that speed underwater, but he doubted that it could keep up with that speed for a long time even.
He stood on the bridge wing of the Plunkett with binoculars lower and galloons of coffee in his stomach without even an ounce of sleep in his system.
Commander Willis came up behind him and announced himself, "Well, I suppose that answers that question."
"Which one?" Pug asked but knew the one that he was most likely referring to at that moment.
"Snezhnayan or Jerry."
"I suppose it does," Pug replied, "Jerry can cheat on tonnage, but not battery charge."
"My thoughts exactly," Willis said with a small laugh.
"It's not just that they've kept contact," Pug said after a moment. "It's the manner of it. Any normal submarine at this point would have to break contact to recharge their batteries at this point."
Willis kept his own glasses up for another second, then lowered them.
"That means one of two things," he said. "Either they've solved underwater endurance in a way the rest of us haven't, or they've built something that makes the whole question obsolete."
"I'd rather not find out which by experience," Pug replied.
"As I understand before I arrived onto the ship is that you have personally met with one of those harbingers of the Fatui before New York?"
"More than one really," Pug replied.
"Well, what are they like?" Willis asked curiously, "The only contact we British folk are getting is in the field and icy freeze they put our troops under."
Pug was surprised to be asked about it, he was expecting everything from combat capabilities to the operational character of the Fatui or even the on-going talks in Hyde Park. However, he was not expecting to be asked about the Fatui as persons really. He thought about Roosevelt's instructions that restricted him from answering except to a small list of officials in London he had not yet reached.
"Mr. Willis."
"I am aware, Mr. Henry, that your latitude on this is bounded. You will tell me what you can. I will not press."
"You will receive, in due course, a more complete answer in London than I am at liberty to give you here. The President's instruction was that the substance of the conversations be reserved for a list of officials I have not yet reached. The general impression I am at liberty to share."
"The general impression will do."
Pug looked out at the convoy.
"They are not the men your field reports describe."
"That is a beginning, I understand that one of the harbingers that you meet is a woman with Red X's for eyes. I am more surprised that these Fatui have no care on Gender when compared to the Germans and our countries."
Pug let out a breath through his nose that was almost a laugh, though there was no mirth in it. In Germany, the phrase that were the K's which were of Kinder, Küche, Kirche (children, kitchen, church) to restrict women to only domestic roles of motherhood and other Nazi nonsense. However, Arlecchino stood in Germany as the reversal of that phrase. Not merely because she was a woman in authority, but because she seemed to make the very idea of domestic limitation look childish. Nothing about her suggested hearth, submission, or any role assigned by men who feared competence when it arrived in the wrong body.
"The Fatui don't appear to waste much time on that sort of foolishness," Pug said at last. "At least not where power is concerned. They care about usefulness. If a woman can command, negotiate, terrify, kill, or outthink the man beside her, then that seems to settle the matter for them."
Willis considered that in silence, "That is more modern than the Germans."
"And it is more dangerous," Pug stated.
Willis glanced at him sidelong.
"How so?"
"From what I get about them is the Snezhnayan's typically ignore the traditional values that they view as stupidities, that our world seems to. In a sense, they take whatever works and implement it to their benefit as they are loyal to their Tsaritsa."
Pug lowered the glasses fully and let them hang against his chest.
"The Germans are full of blind spots they mistake for virtues. The Fatui do not appear to have the same sentimental attachment to their own limitations."
"And these Harbingers?" Willis asked. "All alike in that respect?"
"No," Pug said, "That would almost make them easier to understand."
Commander Harris stepped out from the bridge just then with a mug in one hand and a slip of paper in the other.
"You two sound like undertakers," he said.
"Only professionally," Willis replied.
Harris handed the paper to Pug and gave a verbal report, "Sonar is to report that our new friends are maintain distance and speed with us. No change in course, depth, or even bearing at all."
Pug took the slip from Harris and read it once, though the spoken summary had already told him enough. He handed it back.
"They are not hunting by appetite," he said quietly. "They're pacing us."
Harris nodded once, "That was my thought."
"A U-boat pack would have done something dramatic by now," Willis said. "A night surface attack, a run through the rear, something coarse and recognizable."
"Yes," Pug replied. "Which means these aren't merely shadowing us. They're either under orders to hold, or the holding itself is part of the attack."
Harris took a sip from the mug and made a face that suggested the coffee had personally insulted him.
"I don't much like either explanation."
"Neither do I," Pug said.
Below them, Plunkett rose on a long gray swell and came down again with the hard wet slam of steel meeting water at speed. The convoy ahead kept its shape, but not completely. One ship at the back already seemed to be getting nervous as it was almost out of the line and create a gap.
A signalman came up from below with a folded slip in hand, cap damp with spray.
"Captain, message from convoy commodore. Rear starboard columns report increasing difficulty holding proper interval. Several masters request permission to adjust independently if contact becomes visible."
"No," Harris said at once. "Tell the commodore the formation holds as ordered. If individual masters begin improvising out here, they'll do the submarines' work for them."
"Aye, sir."
The signalman vanished very quickly.
Willis watched him go as he continued, "The merchants are feeling it now."
"They'd be fools not to," Harris said.
Another sailor arrived to the bridge as he spoke.
"Sonar is reporting unusual sounds from the first southern submarine from their propellers as if it's some sort of underwater morse code to the other submarines."
Harris turned at once, "Underwater what?"
The sailor swallowed, aware that he had delivered a sentence not ordinarily found in naval procedure.
"Sir, the soundman says the first southern contact is varying propeller revolutions in short and long intervals. He swears it sounds intentional. Like signaling."
Willis held very still for a second, then looked at Pug.
"That is impossible."
Pug stopped looking surprised, "One thing that I have learned about the Fatui just stopped believing that anything is impossible anymore."
Willis stared at him for a moment, then gave a short breath through his nose, "I dislike that answer more than I disliked the question."
"So do I," Pug replied.
Harris held out his hand to the sailor, "Give me the report."
The man passed over the slip. Harris read it quickly, then again more slowly.
"Sound room confirms three sequences," he said at last. "Short variation, pause, longer variation, pause, then repeated. Southernmost contact only."
Willis lowered his glasses. "Can they make anything of it?"
"No, only that it almost seems deliberate."
Pug looked past them at the convoy. One hundred and twenty ships still held their twelve columns, but it was a strained kind of order now, like men standing in formation while listening for the crack of a rifle. One freighter at the rear had fallen almost entirely out of line before correcting back with visible desperation. Another farther forward was oversteering in small nervous bites. The escorts still ringed the convoy, but the ring had begun to tighten and flex under pressure.
"I guess, they got their answer from Snezhnograd just now," Pug said.
Harris looked at him sharply, "What do you think that they said?"
"I think that we are about to find out soon."
Harris held Pug's eyes for a moment, then gave a slight nod.
About a half hour later, news would reach Pug that the submarines were breaking off for now and maintained an even larger distance away until they got closer to Iceland. For once in this voyage, Pug was able to breath a sigh of relief as anxiety started to build in him throughout the voyage. When the British escorts finally arrived and the American task force started to prepare to turn around back to Norfolk, the British Armed Merchant Cruiser HMS Aurania was waiting for him off the Icelandic coast with a jacob's ladder already rigged. He would eventually transfer from the Plunkett to Aurania, where he was welcomed with open arms by the former passenger liner's crew as it sailed south under escort to Liverpool.
Inazuma City, Inazuma, Teyvat
Earth Time: May 13th, 1941
Beidou stepped into the Komore Teahouse at the explicit invitation of Toma through the Kamisato Clan. The place smelled of cedar and warm rice along with freshly brewed tea. Toma met her at the entrance with his characteristic good nature with his tongue out.
"Captain Beidou," he said with an easy smile, "thank you for coming on short notice."
Beidou glanced around the teahouse where she saw the counter where there was the dog, Taroumaru, sit on the top of the counter looking at her with relative curiosity.
"So, this is the owner of the Komore Teahouse. I heard rumors that the owner of this place is a dog but didn't think them to be true." Beidou stated dryly.
Toma's smile did not falter in the slightest. If anything, it deepened by a fraction, as though Beidou had opened the conversation on precisely the note he had expected.
"Taroumaru would likely say he permits the rest of us to work here," he replied.
Taromaru blinked once as he turned to his right towards Toma as the messy strawberry blonde haired male stepped into view. He smirked at Beidou and bowed with humorous grace to her.
"Welcome Uncrowned Lord of the Ocean, if you step into the room on the left, they will be waiting for you. It will just be you, me, them, and Taromaru in the building."
Toma proceeded to point to a room with a door slides open.
Beidou's eyes narrowed a fraction.
"Just the four of us and the dog," she said. "That either means trust or trouble."
Toma's smirk held.
"In Inazuma, those two things have been shaking hands a great deal lately with the Japanese and the Fatui."
"Well," Beidou replied, "that sounds like my kind of meeting."
She stepped toward the room on the left and slid the door open wider. Warm light spilled across the tatami in long gold bars that were cast through the wooden lattice. At the center of the room sat a low black table laid with tea and sweets. Kamisato Ayato sat at the far side of the table drinking his mug of boba tea, while to his right stood Kujou Sara in full armor, straight-backed, and her hands clasped behind her back.
Ayato looked up as Beidou entered and set the cup down with unhurried care.
"Captain Beidou," he said, inclining his head with polished courtesy, "thank you for agreeing to this meeting."
Beidou stepped into the room and let the door slide shut behind her with the sound soft but final. The warm gold bands of light across the tatami made the chamber feel almost for whatever business had pulled the Yashiro Commission, the Tenryou Commission, and the Crux into the same room.
She walked up and sat opposite of the table without waiting to be told where.
"If both of you are waiting for me in a room this quiet," she said, "then I'm going to assume this isn't about tariffs."
"It is not," Sara replied at once.
"No," Ayato said with a smirk, "Though I suspect the things we discuss tonight may one day affect tariffs as well."
"That sounds like your way of saying the problem is bigger than trade," Beidou said.
"It is," was Ayato reply.
Ayato gestured lightly toward the tea set.
"Please. You were kind enough to come on short notice."
Beidou took the offered cup, sniffed it once, and drank.
"Good tea," she said.
"I'm relieved to hear Komore Teahouse has not failed us in that regard," Ayato replied, "But let's get ito the reason for this meeting."
"That bad?" Beidou asked as she drank another sip of the tea.
"Yes, tell me, Captain, what do you and your crew make of the Katori that is docked no far from the Alcor?" Ayato said.
Beidou thought for a moment as she recalled being on deck of the Alcor as it sailed into Ritou without sails and under its own power. She learned later that it is a warship, but the only weapons that Beidou saw on it were those small turrets and the aircraft that made its now infamous round around the islands of Inazuma.
"What do I make of the Katoi?" Beidou repeated as she sat the cup down, "She's a warship of low quality of weapons on a diplomatic visit. The men that were on her deck to me seem to be fresh in recruitment. I know fresh blood on a boat well enough and that ship seemed to be full of it on that deck."
Sara looked at her with a smirk on her face.
"You are correct about the crew," she said, "The men on deck were trainees. The Katori is a training vessel by designation."
Beidou raised an eyebrow, "That's what they sent us?"
"That is what they wanted us to see," Ayato said, " But the pilot and the crew on the aircraft were not fresh blood."
"The Japanese tried to reassure us that it was not a move military signifance, but navigation." Sara continued, "However, upon learning about Japan's war with a nation called China in their world, the Shogun does not believe it."
"And considering that the Fatui are now allied with Japan and that Germany, who has also invaded recently Yugoslavia and if the Fatui are to be believed the great leaders of Europe," Beidou said with a roll of her eye, "Then aggressive moves are a natural trait of all these nations…which I suppose the Fatui would fit right in then."
"An apt characterization," Ayato replied with his eyes closed, "The Shogun is concerned about the safety and defenses of Inazuma as well as her people that reside there. She needs a message to be discreetly delivered to the nations of Mondstadt, Liyue, Sumeru, Fontaine, and possibly Natlan on the proposal of a discreet network of intelligence sharing relating to the Fatui and their Allies. That's where you come in, Captain."
Beidou's eyes moved from Ayato to Sara and then back again. She raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"So," she said at last, "this isn't just a warning. It's the beginning of a net."
"A net, if you like," Ayato replied, "Or a set of eyes that may one day prove more useful than walls."
"The Shogun does not intend for Inazuma to be the only nation measuring what approaches its shores," Sara said, "If the Fatui mean to move knowledge, weapons, and alliances between worlds, then the other nations must not remain blind to one another."
Beidou leaned back slightly.
"And you want the Alcor because a formal Inazuman courier would be watched."
"Yes," Ayato said, "We have heard rumors that the Germans have something calleda U-boat that can go underwater for long periods. We are concerned that if it is out at sea, then it will spot any Inazuman courier ship and report it to the Fatui. However, the Germans would not recognize your colors and think you are some fancy merchant out at sea; which is kind of true."
Beidou's mouth twitched.
"Fancy merchant," she said. "That's one way to describe the Alcor."
"It can be an accurate one to the German Officer." Ayato replied.
Sara stepped forward and placed a lacquered dispatch box on the low black table between them. The box was not large, but the seal carved into it was unmistakable as the electro crest.
"Separate letters," she said. "Liyue first. Fontaine, Mondstadt, and Sumeru after, as speed and conditions allow. Natlan if circumstance permits. The contents are not to be opened except by their intended recipients."
Beidou looked down at the box, then at Sara.
"You trust me a great deal."
"No," Sara said. "We trust your speed and your discretion. Those are different things."
That got a short laugh from Beidou.
"Good," she said. "I'd have started worrying if you'd turned sentimental."
Ayato reached into his sleeve and produced a second, narrower sealed packet, which he set beside the box.
"This is for Her Excellency, Sangonomiya Kokomi. Considering that the Japanese flew over Watsumi as well, we want to reassure her that Inazuma has not violated the peace and wants to include her into the network." He explained.
"I see," Beidou replied, "Then that will be my first stop."
"If you do," Ayato continued with a suggestive tone, "I would ask the Divine Priestess, if she has any cargo that needs to be transported to Liyue or Mondstadt, it will provide you some cover on your visit."
"You have thought of everything," Beidou replied, "Then I will sail tomorrow morning with the fog as cover on my side and make some deliveries."
""The Kamisato Clan is grateful for the Captain's cooperation," Ayato said.
"Don't be grateful yet," Beidou replied. "Wait until Kokomi has the message."
She picked up the box and the narrow packet as she walked out. Ayato and Sara rose with her as she walked out of the room.
As she walked passed the counter where Taroumaru still sat with his tongue out and a smile.
Beidou paused and spoke to the dog, "Good tea."
Taroumaru happily barked as she expedited the teahouse. However, in the inner room that she left, Ayato picked up his boba tea and looked at the low table where the box and the packet had been.