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A radar operator and the radar's designer make contact. And then some.

Hello, my lovelies. Yes, this is the first story of the year. Yes, I'm sorry it's taken so long to post it. After the trashfire that was 2024, I've decided to start 2025 by: being sick as a dog for like two weeks. I think I am on the mend now, which means I am definitely on the mend enough to give you some smut for your amusement and edification :D a big thanks to :iconisiat-squire-carcer: for his help with this one! Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute--as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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"Chukchi Jump," by Rob Baird

“Rather not be so… blind, sir. Moments like this…"

The scrawny fox could see just fine. The inclement weather had cleared; for now, in the abundant daylight available to them, they could see all the way to the western horizon. What T/4 Dodd meant was that they'd grown accustomed to the radar set, too.

But the radar was down again.

This was a regular occurrence. Sinking the supports for the big antenna into permafrost had been challenging enough, and once they'd gotten it working, their relief lasted only a week before the Alaskan winter started claiming vacuum tubes.

Lieutenant Sherman glanced out the window, in the direction of the hut where the radar's electronics were kept. From their office, it was not quite possible to make out the building itself. “I don't, either," he admitted. “Could check, I suppose." The phone line that ran from their office to the hut generally worked, but Sherman didn't want to disturb the civilian technician who was trying to fix it.

“You want me to go over there, sir?"

It was only a hundred yards. As a Border Collie—a South Dakota native, to boot—Eddie Sherman's fur was thicker than Dodd's. And, anyway, if Dodd was told that more tools were needed, or spare parts, or anything else that required official approval it would come back to Sherman anyway. “I'll do it, sergeant. Just… give the shack a ring if anybody needs me."

After he'd pulled on his heavy coat, the Border Collie paused at the outer door of the office. It was April, and the worst of the winter should've been past them. But they were on the northern edge of the base—itself on the northern edge of the world—and nothing broke the wind that assailed them constantly.

Eddie set his muzzle, lowered his head, and crossed between the two buildings as quickly as he could. They were getting more than 14 hours of sun a day, now, and there was plenty of time to make repairs.

That meant there was also plenty of time to carry out operations. Theirs had been a quiet sector over most of 1941, well after Eddie arrived at Cape Lisburne. Until the winter, most of the fighting was concentrated east. Then the oil men had found the money to hire better protection, and the terminal at Prudhoe Bay became more of a challenge to attack.

So the confederation of various militias that were the enemies of the oil companies had switched to strafing tankers as they sailed around the coast, and the Soviets were only too happy to provide their tribal allies with intelligence on those tankers' movements. Radar stations like Cape Lisburne, then, became significantly more exciting.

Lieutenant Sherman knocked twice on the door, then opened it, and entered quickly. The single occupant had not been in danger of being struck; she was on her knees, her back to him, and she did not look up. “Mr. Edward or Mr. William?"

“Mr. Edward, this time. Didn't want to send Billy out in this. How's it coming, doc?"

The wolf gave a heavy sigh, and sat back on her heels. “Who can say?"

“Well… you, ideally."

At length she turned around. Dr. Metzger couldn't have been that much older than Eddie Sherman, but her thick German accent and thicker glasses obscured both her age and her personality. “Then no-one can. It is not the antenna, I do not think. I have from here to the base of the station and back, for any shorts or so, checked it twice and found nothing."

“One of the tubes?"

“Or several of them," she grumbled disconsolately. “But each so far, it's not that one. Nor also is it the condensers—at least, I believe."

“It's been six hours," he pointed out.

“Yes. I know this. You woke me immediately. Five hours and fifty-eight minutes I have been here," she replied, more hotly than usual. “It will work."

“I'm not doubting you. I'm just asking if we should switch to the backup. The old one." Dr. Metzger had showed up in March to install a new radar set, of her own design—longer range, and with far greater precision. And, like the white wolf, more temperamental. “Should I have Billy and the others get that running?"

“No." That, too, had been said brusquely. Metzger paused, and sighed again. “You must not do that yet, but… one hour, then ask me. That is for you 'okay,' or?"

“An hour," the collie agreed. “Is there anything we can do to help?"

“Not right now. Perhaps if the generator is too cold, but…"

“Alright. We'll see. An hour," he reminded her, and headed back to the office. The inside of the radar hut had been toasty—despite the winter chill, all the electronics saw to that—but he hadn't stayed long enough to acclimate, or to remove his overcoat.

“Welcome back, sir," Billy Dodd greeted him. “Did the doctor have news?"

“The news is 'no news.'" Eddie snorted. “We'll check back in a little while. The auxiliary generator is still running, right?"

Billy went to the window, and cocked his head, ears perking forward as he strained to make it out. “Yes. The light's on, I mean. We thought it would be a short repair job, sir."

“I know. It's not about the diesel. Just wanted to make sure it was warmed up when we need it. Anyway…" He was suddenly tired—Metzger, who could be as chilly as anything else on the 70th parallel, had that effect sometimes. “The window's closing on any sortie. Do we know if there are ships sailing today? Anything at all?"

Dodd paused, partway through fishing out a cigarette and his lighter, and shrugged. “They didn't tell me anything, sir."

Of course, Sherman would've been the one to tell him. “Guess it's just quiet," the collie said—and hoped. He shook his head when Dodd tilted the pack towards him, although in truth he could've used the distraction. Was it quiet?

Maybe. Probably, even. A raid on one of the fields south of Prudhoe the week before had temporarily halted shipments, and the tankers would be hunkered down somewhere between the safety of the bay and that of Barter Island.

Both of those were mercenary stations, though, and sometimes the mercenaries didn't share information with the US Army. Often they did, because the wildcatters depended on the federal government's radar sites as an early warning system to protect their drills and tankers from predation.

But on occasion, especially if they were planning an attack of their own, they would not say so. Not since Roosevelt had withdrawn most active federal troops from the Alaska Territory, rather than risk a war with the Soviet Union over the native militias that Moscow had decided to start arming.

Hence the polite fiction. As long as Army Air Station Cape Lisburne and its fellows operated, Roosevelt could claim that he had not abandoned Alaska. And as long as federal troops did not engage either side in open combat, the tribal militias left those outposts alone and the oil men did not try to seize them for themselves.

It was a fiction that had lasted nearly two years. How much longer? That, they certainly hadn't told any lowly sergeants and lieutenants who could not even be regularly trusted with the movement of ships they were supposed to watch over.

Half an hour went by before the phone rang, and he picked it up. “Sherman. Radar ops."

“Here is Metzger. We have power ready, if I start up again?"

“You should, yeah."

“Very well. The problem was in one of the relays, I believe. If you have power"—while she kept talking, Sherman motioned for Dodd to switch the set on—“fixed, but I don't know for certain."

“We're checking. Stand by."

The display warmed up, and presently a glowing line appeared in the otherwise featureless amber. Billy Dodd gave him a thumbs-up. “It's good, sir."

“We're back online, Dr. Metzger. Thank you."

“Yes. Well, I will lock up now, then. Goodbye." The line went dead with a click.

Now, at last, Sherman allowed himself a cigarette. And, when it caught, a proper drag before he finally sighed. “Doesn't look bad."

Dodd would've spoken up if he'd seen anything on the scope. “No. Just ordinary noise. Shall I try the long-range mode?" Sherman nodded. They watched the picture tube fill with fuzzy noise as the beam swept in its endless circle. It was fuzziest off to the southeast, as it should've been—the high-frequency radar was powerful enough that it could see clear to the mountains. “Nothing."

“Cross your fingers," Sherman ordered, and Dodd—bless him—did so. The collie fixed the cigarette between his lips, letting it smolder, and flipped the switches that powered on their radar set's new, more powerful, S-band transmitter.

They both were holding their breath, but the bright line that tracked the radar beam began to circle faster, and left a clear image on the picture tube in its wake. “Nothing," Dodd said again. “Well…"

The dot he was staring at persisted for a half-dozen sweeps, while Sherman pulled another chair over, and took a seat next to him. “Still there. Good a time as any, I suppose—right?" He swiveled the manual control dial to point the radar's antenna at the dot, and pressed a button labeled 'AUTO.'

There was a thunk, and a whirring as the dials began to move of their own accord. Fifteen seconds later, the button released itself, and a ticker-tape printer clattered to life on the other side of T/4 Dodd. The fox grabbed it; read the results. “Thirty miles. Ten feet altitude, over two hundred feet in span or length. Northeast, two knots. Not a plane, sir. Boat?"

“Ice floe, maybe." He took his cigarette back between his fingers, tapping the ash away distractedly while he watched the picture tube. “It's not moving. Must be out there, though. You dazzled, sergeant?"

“It is a neat trick, sir."

“It is." He'd heard that Dr. Metzger was often just 'Dazzle,' though not always to her face—her name was Beth. And he had heard it said, both ways: that she'd gotten it from the way light reflected off her glasses and stark white fur, and that she'd gotten it from the product of her mind.

It was true that there weren't many like Beth Metzger, he supposed. Her father had fled Germany ten years prior, with the rest of his family, and as Eddie understood it she'd been something of a prodigy even then. Everything beyond that was rumor. He knew only that when things really started to come apart—

The phone rang again. Eddie grabbed for it. “Sherman—radar ops."

“Headquarters. Where the hell is my radar, LT?"

He recognized the voice of Major Franks, second in command at Cape Lisburne. “We're back up, sir, as of just a couple minutes ago. We'll resume regular logs on the hour as of 1800. Right now, there's nothing to report."

“You're certain?"

“Yes, sir."

“See that you start reporting again. We can't have this kind of downtime, lieutenant."

“No, sir." Frank was not unkind, but he was gruff. Colonel Clay, overall commander of the squadron, had brought him along from their previous assignment—rear-guard actions on the painful retreat from California.

Like with Dr. Metzger, most of what he 'knew' about that was, in truth, only rumor. But Clay and Frank had both been decorated, and muttered hints that they were not to be messed with at least left Sherman thinking that Cape Lisburne was in good hands.

“We'll leave the S-band radar off," he told Dodd, after Major Frank hung up on him. “No point stressing those components until we have to, I figure. Yeah?" The fox nodded. On second thought: “Leave the iceberg out of the log, too. Seems a bit pert, since we've been down all goddamn day…"

“Yes, sir." Dodd paused, on the verge of saying something else. “It was neat, though, right? You could tell the doctor, at least."

Sherman stubbed out the remains of his cigarette. “You tell her."

“That's… fine, sir; I'll leave that to you. Out of my pay grade." Eddie, who had all of two years' seniority on Dodd—one of those at OCS—didn't dignify that with an answer.

In any case, he didn't have to talk to Metzger at all for the next three days; the radar set stayed operational without complaint, and while the weather continued to be blustery it didn't get cold enough to damage any more of the equipment.

Sherman and Dodd were six hours into their shift, partway through an uneventful afternoon, when Vin Lorenzo, a coyote who ran the cartographic side of the squadron's intelligence section, stopped by. “Eddie—at ease, Billy. Hey. Eddie, you have anything on that picture-tube of yours?"

“No, sir. Why?"

“You better come down the hall," Lorenzo said. His work rarely kept him fully busy; Captain Lorenzo often acted as an adjutant to the squadron commander. “They're saying we have a situation developing out west."

Shit. “Do what you can to see if we've missed something," he ordered Dodd, and followed Lorenzo 'down the hall'—which was to say two doors, to the former officer's mess that had been turned into a briefing room. “Lieutenant Sherman, reporting."

Colonel Clay gave him a curt nod, and pointed towards the map. “What can you tell me about ships, son?"

“I'm not sure, sir. What do you need to know?"

“This marker here is the last position given by SS Cape Uluruk, a C1 freighter out of Anchorage. They say they're being shadowed by a submarine."

“Soviets?" Sherman guessed.

The bear snorted. “It ain't gonna be the Yupik, is it? Either the Japanese or the Soviets. My concern is, obviously, that they'll pass information on to somebody who can act on it. We need more information."

Captain Lorenzo tapped his finger further up the coast. “The Navy detachment at Wainwright is promising to get one of their PBYs up, but they won't task a Catalina until they can have escorts fueled and ready, too."

And, even when they did, Wainwright was an hour away. “Well, all I can say is there's been nothing on radar. In good conditions, we can see out… a hundred and twenty miles—maybe one-fifty? We'd pick up a big formation."

“Unless they were low, right?" Colonel Clay asked.

“Yes, sir. Unless they were at low altitude."

“Can you verify the Uluruk's position, at least?" Lorenzo had written the coordinates, and the bearing, on a slip of paper that was pinned to the map. He twisted it, calling Sherman's attention to the note. “The direction-finder disagrees with the coordinates they gave. They can't be on this radial and at this position."

“I can try, sir, yes."

“Get on it. See if Walker's pet can do anything."

He would've asked Dr. Metzger for help even without Clay's advice. Certainly, he wouldn't have called her “Walker's pet." She was an employee of Walker Wright's mercenary outfit, who had—by extension—become an early adopter of radar.

Not everyone was so convinced. Clay, like Sherman, was most familiar with the older British radar sets: less precise than the ones Wright used, but also much less finicky. Having seen their ability to detect floating objects—the ice floe, at least—Eddie was willing to give Dazzle and her machines the benefit of the doubt.

She had been given two connected rooms on the ground floor of the base officers quarters, which served both as her bedroom and as her office. It was more comfortable than the equipment shack, so Eddie figured it was best to check there first.

And the wolf answered the door shortly after he knocked. Through the open door to the other room, he could just see her bed—impeccably made—and her neatly hung clothes. The office space was just as organized, although she'd gotten out a number of papers that gave it a busy appearance.

There was music, too; it took Eddie a moment to notice the phonograph, and another to recognize the sound of saxophones. Beth Metzger was ignoring them. “Yes? Lieutenant?"

“Dr. Metzger, I need your help. Can you come with me?"

“Yes. Certainly. But what do you actually need help with?"

“Is there any way to extend the range of our surface detection?" The wolf listened to half of his explanation, and then turned away from him, reaching out to pull a binder from the bookshelf over her desk. He kept talking for want of any better idea, uncertain if she was even listening.

But when he was out of things to say, the wolf glanced over her shoulder. “And?"

“That's it. Ship. At least fifty miles out."

“Large ship?"

“They told me it was a C1. That's, what—four hundred feet? I grew up in South Dakota. I don't know ships."

“Mm. Yes, it can be done." She set the binder down on a leather box of indeterminate contents, gathered both under her arm, and nodded towards the open door. “Let's go." Before she left, she switched the phonograph off, and moved the arm out of position.

“Was that, uh—was that Tommy Dorsey?"

“Artie Shaw." Metzger pulled the door closed. “Why?"

“I… I don't know." It had been 'Stardust,' he thought, although his attention had been elsewhere. “I guess I figured you for classical music."

“Wagner, perhaps?" she asked. She'd started walking—and briskly—headed, without asking, for Eddie Sherman's usual post. “Or polka, I guess."

“No. I just…" He just hadn't been able to picture her with anything like normal hobbies. “Nothing. It's good music. I like Artie Shaw."

“Mm-hmm," the wolf answered, placidly. “A topic for later. For now… we're going to the control room, I imagine. Yes? We won't need to make any changes to the radar assembly in the outbuilding."

“Sure, yeah. The control room."

One of the other rumors had been that, after the mess in California, the Nevada Rangers—one of the mercenary outfits still loyal to the federal government—had scooped Beth Metzger up. He knew that, technically, she was employed by the Rangers.

Army policy treated their soldiers, operating under contract, as equivalent to ones in the country's own armed service. Sherman did not know if Metzger had a commission, or whether she was—strictly speaking—allowed access to the control room without prior authorization.

Then again, radar operations was his responsibility. He followed along, clearing his throat. “I, ah, authorize you to enter the room. Under the circumstances."

The wolf shot him a perplexed look, and pushed the door open. T/4 Dodd straightened up in his seat. “Uh. Hello, ma'am."

“She's authorized," Sherman repeated. “She says maybe we can find this boat."

“Good luck," Dodd scoffed, and then caught himself. “Sir, that is. Captain Lorenzo stopped by with an updated bearing and a position. They don't match. I can't find anything on that bearing, anyway."

“You are using the… yes, yes," Metzger muttered to herself, scanning the dials and switches on the radar console. “This is fine. But we try next with the Kurzwellen, please. Medium. Mr. William Dodd—the medium," she repeated, when the fox was slow to act.

Dodd switched the radar over. “I've tried, but there's nothing. See?"

“Make the azimuth lower." She pantomimed that with her paw; the other was supporting the binder, through which she kept leafing. “The azimuth—you don't understand me, or?"

“I think so. The range setting, right? It doesn't go lower. The dial is at its lowest, ma'am. I can't—"

“Ah! Quatsch, dass ist nicht—" She growled, reached over, and pulled the dial until it came all the way out, leaving only the bare post to which it had been attached. This, deftly, she rotated a few degrees counterclockwise. “Lower. Thank you."

The picture-tube had filled abruptly with white snow. Eddie couldn't figure out why she'd done it. “Well… but this is—this is just ground clutter. We're just looking at the ocean, right?"

“Yes." She set her binder down, plucked a pencil from off the desk, and began writing in the margins of whatever was documented in the manual—it was all in German, and most of it looked highly technical. So, for that matter, did her scribbling. “I wonder if it's so that… you should… mm."

“Mm?" Eddie echoed, hoping for a better explanation of her thought process.

“I have not myself done so, but you should be able to see ships and so on with the higher-frequency search…"

“We can. We tried two days ago. Testing it when the radar came back online—we picked up an… ice floe, I think, probably," Sherman said. “That was very close. Uh, but the… whatever this does?" He tapped the 'AUTO' button without pressing it. “That picked it up, gave us the little printout and everything."

“Wirklich?" Her head tilted. “Even still, that function worked?"

She flipped back and forth through the binder, kept writing, and then looked up at the console. Her expression, puzzled eyes magnified by her glasses, was ever so slightly concerning to Sherman. “What's the matter?"

“Nothing." But, having said that, she opened the box she'd brought with her, pulled a screwdriver from it, and started undoing the fasteners holding the console's cover in place. She had one of them off before Sherman or Dodd could stop her.

Dodd moved to, and Eddie shook his head. “Let her work. I mean… she built it, right?"

Behind the cover was a maze of cables, like a telephone switchboard. Nothing like it was printed on the page visible in the binder, but she ran her pencil lightly along some of the words, then tapped an equation she'd started writing out before poking around the wiring. “Power: off, please."

Eddie nodded, and Dodd killed power to the radar set. Metzger leaned forward, pushing her glasses further up her muzzle with the paw not holding the pencil. The silence seemed to last several minutes, although reflecting on it later Sherman realized it was only five or ten seconds.

Then she reached in, pulled out a handful of wires, and rapidly reinserted them. Her head cocked to one side, then the other; then, satisfied, she grunted. “And now, once again the power."

The snow was back, but much fainter. And, in the midst of it, was a much clearer return. Eddie waited, with bated breath, for the next several sweeps. “Well, I'll be goddamned. That's the Uluruk?"

“It must be. The altitude is zero."

“Can we use the centimetric radar?" Dr. Metzger nodded her permission—though Eddie was, at least in theory, the one in charge. He waited for Dodd to finish jotting down what they'd learned about the Cape Uluruk. Then he switched the set over, and turned the azimuth dial to point it back above the horizon. “Another contact."

“Or we're still picking up that ship?"

“Maybe." Eddie stopped the radar's sweep, focusing their beam on the glowing dot. “I don't think so, though…"

“Low altitude. Could be a weak return from their mast or something."

“It's moving, sergeant." Metzger hadn't said anything, and he felt like a student being silently graded on their recital performance. “Not too fast, but moving. At least 50 knots—has to be an airplane."

“Just one?"

“Take this to the planning room." He took the seat Dodd vacated, and let the radar resume its regular pattern. There didn't seem to be anything else on the display—just the single dot, drifting from one sweep to the next. “I guess we're probably done, here," he told Metzger.

“I think so, too. But it's interesting to see it in use, nonetheless."

“We're not making too big a hash of it, are we?"

“Using it badly? No, I would not say that."

“Well… I appreciate it," he allowed; as he'd told Dodd, she was best-qualified to judge them, anyhow. He pointed to the cabinet, which was still open and exposed. “The stuff you did with the… the wires—whatever that was. Does that need to be fixed?"

“I think not. It was only adjusting some of the filters. But I suppose I should check to see if this is something that needs adjust also in the main building…" She started screwing the panel closed again, and gathered up her belongings. “You won't have to shut down. I shall call you, if anything is the matter."

“Sure," Eddie said, and watched her go. Then he turned his attention back to the radar screen. He'd asked Dodd, rhetorically: she built it, right? And then, a minute later, he'd said: well, I'll be goddamned.

There was an undeniable something about the wolf. Eddie had always had an aptitude for physics; that was how he'd ended up working at Cape Lisburne. But, while he understood the science behind radar—and most of the engineering—there was no way that he would've been able to replicate what Dr. Metzger had done.

Having heard her explanation—“adjusting some of the filters"—he knew why she'd done it, at least. The equipment shack where she spent most of her time contained only the transmitters and receivers themselves, and the power converters that linked them to the base's plant and the backup generators.

From that point, the raw output was passed along buried wires to Eddie Sherman's office in Radar Operations; a mess of wires and expensive, fragile components converted that output to what they saw on the cathode ray tube. Given enough time, Eddie could've worked back from the schematics to adjust the strength of the display filter.

But he could not have done so in the scant minutes Beth Metzger had available to her. While he'd never underestimated her skills, Eddie concluded, he had not given them the proper, intuitive respect. I should tell her that. Well—something like that, anyway.

Perhaps she wouldn't care.

Technical Sergeant Dodd came back. “Everything's settled now, sir. The Cape Uluruk has adjusted her position based on the report we gave them—guess they thought they were about ten miles further west."

“Glad they figured that out before they hit rocks…"

“Yeah, no kidding. They do have a floatplane on a catapult, so maybe that would've told them, too. That's the signal we saw—old British job, apparently. Officially, it's even unarmed."

“The Uluruk, too?" Dodd shrugged. “Huh. Any sign of that submarine?"

“No, sir. Wainwright has a Catalina up, and they'll check to be sure."

“We must've reassured the Navy that there weren't any aircraft out to intercept them," he realized. “I guess we're good for something."

“Yes, sir. And maybe they got through to the territorial commanders. The Uluruk is Territory-flagged, not one of ours." At the look Eddie gave him, Dodd gave an understanding shrug. “Don't ask me, sir. Alaska's been FUBAR for years."

“You can say that again." He shook his head, and pointed towards the scope. “The plane looks like it's coming closer. Are we putting them up for the night? Maybe the sea state's too bad to recover…"

“I think that might be it, yeah."

And that was understandable enough, too, given how fierce the wind had been for the past few days. The Cape Uluruk was headed south; she could find the lee side of one of the Aleutians soon enough, and recover her floatplane then.

By the time they'd detected a radar return from the Navy PBY, escorting the freighter and keeping an eye out for periscopes, they could hear the drone of the scout's engine. Sherman wrapped up his shift, handing over to a new staff sergeant who would take over for both he and Dodd.

He was getting ready to head for the mess hall when someone let him know that the scout's pilot wanted to meet him—recommended by Colonel Clay, who ran Cape Lisburne and wanted to leave the territorial militia with a good impression. All he was told was that the pilot's name was Clark Russell, that he was an Army Air Corps veteran himself, and that he would be staying until the next morning.

As far as Sherman knew, Clay—like most of them—viewed the militias as a necessary evil at best, and an unnecessary one at worst. But they needed to support each other, since it was the only remaining fig leaf that implied the United States still had any control over the Alaska Territory.

Eddie's first thought was that Clark Russell looked like any other piece of oil drilling machinery. A quarter of his left ear was gone, as was what seemed to be half his tail; his jacket was a grease-stained, battered Great War affair. “You're the coast wizards, eh?" he asked, and held out his paw.

Eddie shook it. “Guess so, yeah. Glad you made it out."

There might've been wolf in his heritage, judging from his eyes and his muscular build. His right ear hung down, though, and what was left of his tail was slightly too feathery to have been purely lupine. It did not wag. “That don't always happen, for sure. It's all this stuff? All the metal?" he asked without segue, gesturing to a guy-wired tower near the runway.

“That's our long-range transmitter. We have two radars. The shortwave one is up on the mountain there." Eddie pointed; it was a clear landmark, even from a half-mile away. “The other one is our older set, over by the control room."

“And that lets you see who's comin' for us?" Russell sounded impressed.

“Mostly. There are still some blind spots. I'm sure you know that—or the freighter captains do. We have one of the engineers who designed the set here, actually. That's how we were able to adjust it to pick up your ship."

“That's not you?"

Eddie shook his head. “I'm not that smart. I just know how to work them. I can introduce you, if you want."

The mutt shrugged. He glanced over at his plane, which was still being refueled. “Sure. I don't have anywhere to be just yet. I owe all y'all a beer, anyway."

“I don't even know where the nearest bar is," Eddie admitted, as he started walking towards the equipment shack. “But if I'm ever up around Prudhoe…"

“Don't bother." He gave a gruff, harsh laugh. “If the money weren't good, I'd never set foot north of Seattle again. Those work up here?" He'd gestured towards a halftrack; there were a few at the station, mostly for moving heavy equipment.

This, though, had a machine-gun turret in the rear of the cabin—Colonel Clay must've ordered one of the antiaircraft trucks moved to protect their equipment. “The motor, at least. We've never had to use the guns."

“Lucky."

He knocked twice at the door, as usual. Dr. Metzger was seated in a chair, for once, looking over a box of condensers. “Dr. Metzger? Captain Russell, from the Uluruk. They're stopping here to refuel. Dr. Metzger here is the lead engineer for the Nevada Rangers."

“Only for electronics." She turned around, regarding the pair. “But—hallo, yes?"

Russell gave another coarse-edged snort. “Hello, indeed. Wasn't expecting that."

“A German?" Metzger asked drily.

“Nah. Hell, you want to talk about bars? Ain't seen a dame you don't gotta pay for since… Christ, Fairbanks?" He nudged Eddie's side in an overly familiar gesture that suggested the collie, too, understood and sympathized with his surprise. “Coulda told me."

“I didn't realize it was going to be an issue…"

“Issue?" Eddie was close enough to feel the man's movements as his muzzle turned, looking the doctor over. “Nah, wouldn't say that. She yours?"

“No." For some reason, given the oddly judgmental sideways glance Russell gave him, he felt compelled to add: “I have a girl back home, you know. Don't you?"

“Yeah, but that's back home. What'd you say your name was, little miss?"

Her glasses magnified the contempt in Beth Metzger's eyes when she rolled them. “It was a pleasure meeting you," she said.

And Eddie cleared his throat. “Dr. Metzger is quite busy. I'll let you get back to work," he told her, and opened the door again before the mercenary pilot found some tawdry reason to stay.

Clark, for his part, didn't appear to realize why he'd been escorted out, and continued his explanation on the walk back. “I mean, they got broads on the oilfields, too. And on the freighter. I think. But it ain't like that, you know? Ain't even real girls."

“No?"

“Shit, no. Like fellas that just ain't got dicks. Fine for keepin' yer bed warm in January, but…" He clicked his tongue. “Should land here more often. You keepin' her around?"

“She's employed by the Rangers. I don't know how long she'll be stationed here."

“Rangers." Clark spat. “Buncha assholes. Them and the Legion, always acting like we couldn't do well enough on our own. If the feds would throw some of the money you give them our way…"

“Yeah?" he asked, feigning interest.

“I mean, if I had a couple zeppelins with heavy artillery, I'd blow the shit out of the fuckin' Eskimos instead of letting them snipe at us like they do. That's the thing of it, Teddy—there's a lot of oil on the North Slope. We could pay for it, believe me, but they won't let us go for it and the federal mercs won't cover us, so… we just get shot to shit over and over again, and…"

More of the same, including a continued inability to remember Sherman's name, carried him through dinner. Clay listened as politely as Lieutenant Sherman did, while Russell explained everything the oil companies could do if they were only to be given a free hand.

What remained of the United States needed Alaskan oil, of course. They needed it for their own purposes, and for the ongoing trade with Canada that kept the northern border stable. What Washington did not need was for the oilmen to provoke an open conflict with the Soviet Union and their native allies.

He was glad when the meal was over, and Clark Russell requested a private audience with Colonel Clay. It was a good excuse to take his leave, although before he got ready for bed he walked far enough towards the radar equipment shack to notice that the light over the door was still on.

Inside, Beth Metzger was still there, seated at her workbench and poring over an open book. A pencil in her right paw suggested she was making edits to it, although—particularly upside-down—he couldn't tell what those edits were.

And then the wolf set it aside, anyway. “Your companion is gone," she observed. “For now, or should I expect another visit?"

Eddie sighed. “I know we're not exactly friends, doctor. Please note, I didn't invite you to the officer's mess for dinner, did I?"

Rarely, for her time in the remote outpost, Dr. Metzger smiled. “You had such fun then, or?"

“Let's just say I know a lot more about North Slope politics now. Don't let me bother you, doctor. I just wanted to check and see if you needed anything."

Metzger shook her head. “No. I have…" The wolf paused, and her eyes flickered searchingly. “The… the charts. Die Eichungstabelle. For the…" At length, trailing off again, she pointed at a clipboard hanging from the electrical panel.

“Oh. Calibration?"

“Yes! Kalibrieren. Scheiße," the wolf muttered. “It's even the same word. Excuse me."

“You don't have to apologize." He wondered how long she'd been working. Since the incident, in all likelihood. “Are we out of calibration?"

“You want to sit?" she asked, rather than answering his question. He dragged a chair over to the desk and sat; Metzger carefully removed her glasses, rubbing the bridge of her muzzle as she resumed talking. “No. It is fine. Moving the radar antenna below its limits, I had… I had a pair of concerns, you know, three or four—but no. I think it is… 'okay,'" she pronounced, putting an emphasis on the slang.

“I'll take 'okay,' for now." She'd done that before; now, Eddie realized she spoke that way not to patronize him but because she wasn't entirely certain if she was using the word correctly. “I guess normally you'd do that kind of testing in the lab."

“Normally. But, hey—it is exciting. At least I know you're using it. Most of what I do before does not—did not? I'm tired," she admitted. “Did not leave the lab. Also, at least you are not always coming in with… with one-half of a shell or a bit of wreckage, to ask if it is possible to make one of these."

Now that he'd sat down, Eddie was also tired, and willing to let his guard down. “Is that your fault?"

“Mm?"

“The first time they asked you, did you tell 'em you were able to do it? Because then, they're not going to hesitate to ask you again."

Even more unusual than the wolf's smile was a sincere laugh. “Oh. Are you saying I shouldn't have helped find that ship? Dinner cannot have been that bad, Mr. Sherman. Right?"

“You'd be surprised. There are a lot better ways I could've spent my time."

“Of that, I'm sure." She sat quietly for half a minute, or so. “How did you come to here, Mr. Sherman? To Alaska, I mean."

“Eddie. I came because the Army Air Force told me to come. I can be useful here. Useful enough, anyhow."

“What did you do before?"

“Drove a truck. No—really," he insisted, although he had to smile at the wolf's incredulous expression. “I learned to drive young, on the farm my folks had when I was a kid. It went bust during the Depression, so I got a job driving tankers for an oil company… was a useful skill after I got drafted, too."

“What changed?"

“I asked the wrong questions when I was stationed back east and they were installing a British radar set we'd got on loan. I was curious about how it worked… always been pretty decent at math and physics, in school—uh. I mean, not like you," he clarified hastily. “But… decent. I get by."

“You seem to, yes," the wolf agreed. Her brusque, businesslike mood had softened. “I guess 'the wrong questions' is… it is similar to me saying that, yes, I can design something from only seeing a bit of scrap metal?"

“A little, probably. They transferred me to that unit, and I spent a few months back in 1940 helping 'em set up. It was clear the Army would want to put a radar chain on the west coast, too, because of the Soviets. So I was… 'volunteered' for OCS, and sent out here."

“For? 'OCS'?"

“Officer school. I got an expedited course on radar design—that was interesting. And some military theory I couldn't…" I couldn't fucking care less about, was what he was going to say. But that seemed impolitic, particularly in feminine company. “I couldn't get as much out of."

“Would you rather still be driving trucks?"

“Well… no. And after this is all over…" They still said that, although the United States and her wayward, secessionist children seemed more and more distant by the month. His rueful laugh served as an admission of this truth. “After it's over, I hope it's more useful to know new technology like this."

“I hope so. I haven't…" She, too, trailed off. And when she, too, laughed there was a familiar bitterness in it.

“Doctor?"

“You said Eddie? I'm Beth, I suppose. Just Beth, please. Not the other name—Captain Wright or perhaps Danny Mitchell can call me 'Dazzle.'" She rolled her eyes, and in her accent the emphasis on the word rendered it even more odd: call me dah_-ssel_. “Not you."

“Sure, alright. What were you gonna say?"

“I don't know when it's 'over,' either. I don't really remember the Great War. It didn't come to us in Berlin, you know, and my father was a university teacher. The riots in 1919, I remember a little. And in 1923 they called out the Reichswehr, the army—they were in the streets, almost in our neighborhood. Before it started for you, I think."

Until the Sherman farm failed, in the depths of the Depression, Eddie's childhood had been almost idyllic. “I think so, yes."

“We left to Paris just after my 16th birthday and stayed almost two years before we returned. My father thought that Bruning was an idiot, pushing the country almost to civil war. He never believed in the power-sharing agreement."

“But Germany is still unified. Right? Bruning's still in power…"

“Yes. But look at the cost. He turned the Reichswehr on Westphalia and the Saarland before you did the same at Donner Pass. That was when we fled again. When Captain Wright sponsored our transit visas. You see, I don't… I think I don't know what it means to be 'all over.' I don't remember a time before it started."

“Maybe it would over if you could return home. That's what it would mean for me, I think."

“For my father, yes, but I think my parents enjoy the weather in Hawaii. And my home is the laboratory, now. I suppose you miss… Dakota, you said? The place with no ships."

“South Dakota."

“You miss that. Your family, your sweetheart…"

“Family. I don't actually have a… a girl waiting back home, or whatever I said."

“Oh."

“I panicked. Just trying to shut Russell up."

“Did it work?"

“Christ. No," he laughed, and was happy to see Beth's smile. “He brought it up again at dinner. Something like if I was going to use that as an excuse, he… well. It was obscene, anyway."

“Somehow, I'm not surprised."

Nobody, as it happened, had enjoyed Russell's company, but the encounter served as a more dramatic crack in Beth Metzger's veneer. She allowed that her work was as close to finished as it was going to get, that evening, and let him walk her back to her quarters.

It was only after he was in his own bed that he realized he hadn't asked her about Artie Shaw. It would be worth it, he decided, to use that as the next conversation starter. The peculiar white wolf was going to be worth getting to know.

The following days revealed, indeed, that her actual interest was jazz music—Berlin is the home of jazz, she declared, although she agreed under protest that New Orleans probably had some claim to it, too. But, on her way to Alaska, she hadn't been able to acquire any of the records she wanted; Artie Shaw and Glenn Miller were standing in, until she could do better.

He extracted a promise that, if she found what she was looking for, she would let him listen. This would be, in all likelihood, impossible to fulfill—it required Metzger being transferred to some other mercenary outpost, and he didn't expect they'd see each other again.

But it was nice to have the thought established, particularly given how adversarial their relationship had been. Technical Sergeant Dodd preferred folk music, the warbling of the Carter Sisters in particular, and Dodd was useless when it came to helping Beth and Eddie on that front.

It was, unfortunately, not the aptitude they required of him, anyway. A week after the Cape Uluruk's escape, Eddie heard Dodd make an odd hmm-ing sound. He looked over at the fox. “Yeah?"

“I don't know..." A minute later, he made the sound again. This time, his head was cocked, and his ears had perked. “Hey, LT? Uh. Uh, this is a return, right?"

Eddie scooted over. The signal, if it was a signal, fuzzed in and out of persistence as the radar swept it—but never completely. “It might be. Right at the limits of our range. Do we have any—where's the latest Navy report?"

“Here, sir…" He grabbed the weather map Dodd handed him, provided for them by the American naval detachment at Wainwright. The charts went a little further than their radar did, but they were also limited by the schedule of the survey plane, which in their case took off in the early morning. “But I don't think it's weather."

There was no sign of anything but a clear sky. “No. I don't either. Do what you can to get course and speed." Sherman jotted down the bearing, tore the scrap paper off, and made his way across the hall.

Worryingly, Major Frank was also there, scrutinizing the map in the middle of the situation room. He lifted his eyes briefly. “You too, son?"

“Uh. Yes, sir." He handed the paper over to the major's aide. “Perhaps."

“On the one hundred radial," the aide read from the note he'd been given. “No range, sir?"

“It's at our limits." He spoke to Major Frank and the aide, equally. “At least a hundred and twenty miles; probably no more than a hundred-fifty."

“Point Hope radioed five minutes ago, telling us they had indications of a significant formation but couldn't confirm it." That, Eddie saw, had already been added to the map. “Soviets must be planning to assist another attack on Prudhoe Bay. Tell me as soon as you know altitude and disposition. You're dismissed, lieutenant."

Back in the radar room itself, the signal had only grown stronger. A few lengths of ticker-tape marked where Dodd had tried to use Dr. Metzger's automated system to measure the signal. “It's still for real?" Sherman asked.

“Pretty damn sure, LT. Sorry."

He called the equipment shack, and let Metzger know to hold off on any maintenance she might've been planning. Then he called the power station, and tried to extract a promise that they would keep the radar set operating even it meant running the generators low on fuel.

“Here, sir," Dodd told him, as soon as he'd hung up on the second call. “Ten thousand feet, 1-60 indicated."

When Lieutenant Sherman took that back to his commander, Colonel Clay had joined Major Frank, and the number of lines on the map had multiplied. Neither Clay nor Frank seemed surprised at the update he gave them; Frank pointed to a handful of new markers off to the east. “From the spotters. Militia planes, on the way to Prudhoe Bay."

The colonel, however seemed disquieted. “That's what the wildcat mercenaries think, yes," the bear added.

“Nothing else on radar, lieutenant?"

“No, sir," he told Franks.

“Well… keep looking. Check the equipment, too. Make sure there's not going to be any problem."

Dodd wouldn't need to be told to “keep looking"; he put on his jacket, and headed to the radar hut. Beth Metzger was behind her desk, reading. “Another visit, after the phone call? A special occasion, I suppose?"

“Maybe. There's another attack up the coast. Is there any reason to think we won't be able to stay operational for the next few hours?"

“No. As long as we have power, all the parts are in good condition. And as you see, I'm not doing any maintenance—just watching. I said that when you called, also."

“I know, I know. I just want to make sure we know about anything that might go wrong. You're not worried about the… vacuum tubes? You said we couldn't stay at high power for long periods. I thought."

“It was the klystron, yes. I was worried about keeping it cool—I said that only once, I thought, and mostly to myself. You remembered, eh?" She grinned. “It will not be a problem. Only… stay in that mode, or keep it off. It's the switching that it… wears it? Wears it out, the amplifier. But if it's important…"

“In this case, it's important." The phone rang, while he was trying to recall anything else Dr. Metzger needed to know; he picked it up at once. “Sherman."

“Hey, sir." It was Dobbs. “Major Frank said we're increasing our alert level here. The backup generators should be starting up already, without waiting for the plant to tell them."

“Do you know why?"

“No, sir. Just that, and the radar has high priority. That was all he told me."

“Alright. Thanks, sergeant. I'll go talk to them." Sherman hung up, and realized Metzger could see his frown. The pieces hadn't yet come together in anything he could explain. “I don't know. Something's going on. I'm going to make sure we've got power."

Months earlier, when he first arrived, the base ran off machinery salvaged from a scrapped landing ship. Now they had a dedicated turbine, more than sufficient for their needs and running off the same bunker oil the old machinery had. It also provided steam heating in the winter—and a conspicuous target, billowing smoke and steam.

Between the plant and the radar equipment shack were two backup generators, contributed by the Nevada Rangers at the same time they'd loaned the base Dr. Metzger. These consumed diesel fuel, which was more precious to the Army than it had been to the Rangers, and were only supposed to be run when necessary.

The generator building was unlocked, and the two soldiers inside had already started going through the checklists to get it running. Sherman preempted them from trying to come to attention. “At ease. You were already ordered to start up?"

“Yes, sir," one of them told him. “We're coming online…"

“Now," the other said, as the machinery chugged to rumbling life.

“How much fuel do you have?"

“Twelve hours in the underground tank, sir. Only three at full load, if we keep the reserve to start up the main plant. Twelve for the radar, though."

“Make sure to report how much you have left when we shut down," he reminded them. “We'll try to get topped up with the next resupply ship."

“Yes, sir."

He stepped back outside. According to his watch, it was just past two in the afternoon. The sky remained as untroubled as the naval weather report suggested it would be. Probably, he told himself, they want to make sure we can track that Soviet flight on the return in case Point Hope goes down.

Point Hope did not have Metzger helping them keep the equipment running—Metzger, whose voice he could now hear calling him. The collie picked up his pace, jogging back towards the radar building. She had the door open, and was waving him over quickly. “Phone," she called.

He sprinted the last twenty yards. “Sherman; radar building."

“Headquarters. It's Captain Lorenzo. What's your status, Eddie?"

“The set is fully functional. So are the backup generators. Twelve hours of fuel for the radar. Three if they have to take over for the rest of the plant."

“Good." Then there was a several-second pause—too lengthy—in which the speaker neither hung up nor said anything further. “We have probable incoming, lieutenant."

“What? Sorry—say again, sir?"

“A patrol forty miles east of here just called in low-flying aircraft, headed our way. Dodd is trying to track them. We—wait, out." Then they did hang up. Then he heard an unsteady growl, smoothing out into the rising tone of the base's warning siren.

Beth was looking at him, ears pricked with alarm. “We might be under attack," he said—strange as it sounded to get the words out. He tried to think of what, in the installation, might be anything close to protected for a civilian. “You should… get back to the BOQ, maybe…"

“I have to stay here. What if something happens to the radar?"

The equipment shack was made of wood, with a corrugated roof and layered insulation that kept the Alaska winter out but would do absolutely nothing for cannon fire. “It's not safe."

“Doch. But what is?" she asked.

The phone rang again. “Radar building."

T/4 Dodd sounded like he was trying to keep the nerves from his voice: “Sir, uh—they want you back here ASAP. At least a half-dozen aircraft. No, uh—no more than two minutes out. Il-2s. Maybe. Nothing friendly, sir. We know that much."

“Got it. I…" He looked through the open door, as though he might be able to see them already. Instead, what caught his attention was the halftrack, still parked outside the equipment building. “We've got one of the gun trucks parked here, Dodd."

“Yeah?"

“It must be the one from the northeast position. We have to move it, though—it's making the building's a target. As soon as the crew shows up, I'll head back. They must be on their way." Everyone, after all, could hear the sirens.

“Yes, sir."

Paw steadier than it had any right to be, he placed the phone back on its cradle. “Okay. At least… stay under the desk. The workbench. It's metal, right? That'll stop something." Shrapnel, at least, he hoped.

“As you wish."

He stepped outside and closed the door. There was no sign of the halftrack's crew—nobody who seemed to be obviously running towards it. Two minutes out, Eddie thought. Fuck.

His helmet was back in the barracks—nobody regularly wore their service uniform on base. There was, however, one hanging from the rear of the vehicle. Cursing again, this time aloud, he jammed the thing on his head—it fit, more or less—and then pulled himself up and into the turret.

At some level, it was a simple affair: two .50 caliber machine guns and a 40mm Oerlikon cannon between them. Eddie knew nothing about the 40mm, but he'd been trained on the M2 machine gun, and it didn't seem to have been modified much. Each had its own ammunition drum; both were full.

Two minutes ringing in his mind—it must've only been a minute, now—he fed each ammunition belt into place, and worked the charging handle. Even in mid-afternoon spring, the mechanism was heavy and brutal. He couldn't imagine trying to get it working in the depths of winter.

When he was done, he took a seat and glanced around. There were no wheels: a single lever, something like a control yoke in an airplane, controlled the turret's traverse and elevation. Electrical. He found the power switch easily enough; the turret moved freely, and he swiveled it to the east.

The rest of the time ticked by far longer than “two minutes" had any right to. He'd put the helmet on too quickly to get his ears through the holes cut for them. Now they hurt, but he didn't dare take it back off. At least it would help muffle the sound of the machine guns. I hope.

When he first saw the dark shapes, just over the eastern horizon, there was no doubt in his mind that they might be birds, or a mirage, or something else innocuous. As they drew nearer, the occasional glint of sunshine off metal or glass only drove that conclusion home.

At first Sherman thought there were four; then he decided they were eight, flying in close groups of two. Then they split, and he saw tracers rising up from the far end of the base to meet them. And then: one of the elements, breaking off, and headed unmistakably in his direction.

The gun mount had some kind of complicated, computerized sight; he had no idea how it worked. When the lead airplane was close enough to make out as a stout-winged, single-engined bomber, he put it in the center of the sight and pulled the triggers.

Sherman knew, ahead of time, that the rounds were going to go wide. It was enough to accomplish his immediate goal: they didn't seem to have been expecting him in the first place, and swerved away from their attack run. It had only taken a few seconds; far fewer spent casings than he'd expected were in evidence.

And the right .50-caliber had stopped firing. He opened it up, cleared the jam; worked the charging handle again. The radar building was an even more obvious target now. They'd be coming back around, and if he wanted to keep Dr. Metzger safe—something thumped his shoulder.

He turned to find a stocky feline. Staff sergeant's stripes. Out of breath; shouting. Sherman shouted back. “What?"

“Ours, sir!" the cat repeated. “This one's ours."

Sherman removed himself hurriedly from the turret; the newcomer had arrived with three others, one of whom quickly replaced him. “Sergeant—McGuire? You have to move this, McGuire. Your position's three hundred yards over there."

“Yes, sir." His expression was turned skyward, though, searching for where the bombers had gone. “We, ah—you can't drive, can you sir?"

“Can you?" McGuire shook his head. “Christ. I'm supposed to be—"

Sherman cut himself off, opened the door of the half-track, and pulled himself into the cab. Briefly—there was, at least, some armor there—he adjusted his helmet, pulled his ears through, and shoved in the cotton protectors he'd been given, and kept by habit in his pocket. McGuire had taken the other seat by the time he was finished.

“Can we move?"

The cat looked behind him, and then nodded. Perhaps 90 seconds had gone by since the two aircraft had made their first strafing attempt, but he knew they didn't have much time before the bombers lined themselves up again. Sherman put the halftrack in gear, tried to gauge how much traction the treads were getting, and floored the accelerator.

There were excavated positions for the antiaircraft guns, spaced at intervals around the base. Eddie knew where they were, and took advantage of the machine's traction to cut across the empty space between the roads.

Once they were in it, though, neither the depressed position—sloping, hiding the vehicle's cab and lifting the turret slightly upward—nor the sandbags felt like they added much protection at all. Maybe it would shield them from the shrapnel of a near miss, like Metzger's desk.

Maybe not even that. The hundreds of yards between their position and his duty station seemed suicidal. Eddie took a deep breath, and started to open the door, but McGuire was getting to his feet, pushing the roof hatch above the cab open. “I'll let you know if we need to displace, sir."

Eddie started to protest, but the cat's upper body was already out of the cab, and he was focused on spotting for the others. He gritted his teeth. Billy Dodd could manage the radar on his own, for a few minutes. Leaving the halftrack crew, though, would be condemning them—and their contributions were definitely needed.

He felt, rather than heard, the whirring of the motors that drove the turret's traverse. When it stopped, he instinctively turned in the direction they were pointed. There. The pair of bombers had spaced themselves out slightly. The closer one wasn't lined up properly; it managed to get off only a brief burst of gunfire before an answering barrage from the halftrack and the rapidly closing distance forced them away.

Its partner, though, had more time. Sherman could see the wings, almost straight on. Il-2, he thought, a “Sturmovik." MR-2, the one they put that reverse-engineered Griffon in. Four-bladed propeller, that's how you can tell. Everything was moving so slowly the sweep of each blade seemed clearly perceptible.

At that distance, he realized, he would see the flash of the Il-2's cannons with just enough time to know what was about to happen and not enough time to tell anyone. He would be the only one that would know they were going to die. Just a brief twinkle of light—an abstraction, like the straight, burning line of the tracers from the halftrack's own armament.

Then the Sturmovik's port wing came off.

He saw that happen as clearly as he did the propeller blades, which were still turning as the bomber banked sharply over and pitched towards the ground. It burnt its two hundred feet of altitude in the blink of an eye, a thickening black plume marking the final stage of its descent beyond a low rise.

Sergeant McGuire gave a relieved squawk—an unintelligibly shouted yah!; the turret was whirring again before the fireball had cleared the hill, and the sound of the impact reached them, barely rocking the halftrack in its dugout. Another burst of .50-caliber fire followed; then a third. Not the heavier cough of the 40mm, which Sherman now understood must've done in the Sturmovik.

McGuire tapped Sherman's shoulder, and cupped his paws around his muzzle. “Need to change drums. We might need to scoot, sir." Sherman nodded his understanding. He'd have to rely on the cat—a mountain lion, perhaps, given the chance to examine McGuire up close—to let him know.

Eddie couldn't see where the other Sturmoviks had gone. There was at least one more column of smoke, but that was closer—and thicker than he expected from a single plane. McGuire, who had stood up to get a better look outside the cab, dropped back down, pulling the hatch cover with him, with his paw pressed to his head.

“Dog-4. Say again? Over." His ears barely poked through the helmet; he had to hold the cup of his headset flush to the metal so that he could hear the radio. Mountain lion, Eddie decided. “Roger. Eyes open! Watch the north!"

This had been directed to the turret crew; he got back up, making to push the hatch open. “What's going on, sergeant?"

“Radar is tracking more incoming. From the sea, they're saying."

“There was a good-sized formation. Soviet Tu-2s, probably; that's what they've used the last few times." How long ago had that been? Thirty minutes? Forty-five? Fucking hell. “They weld another fuel tank on and carry fewer bombs. They won't have much loiter time, at least."

“Right." McGuire stood back up; muffled, Sherman heard him explaining that to the turret crew. Twin-engined bombers. If we scare 'em off, we'll be good. Then: three. That was the third we just knocked down. Others must be waiting for their friends, so—eh? Don't worry about 'how many,' Jonesy. Just shoot 'em.

The Sturmoviks had come in from the east, and the perimeter halftracks were the first to engage. But the radar building was at the northern edge of the base. This time, they would have no such advanced notice—McGuire's crew would see the bombers before anyone else could. Or was able to help protect them.

“There they are!" The extra height and unobstructed view gave McGuire an advantage; Sherman couldn't see anything yet. He ducked back into the cab, reaching for his microphone. “Able-Victor, this is Dog-4. Visual contact! Aircraft, low altitude! Bearing 0—correction—3-2—say again? Able-Victor, this is Dog-4. Say again." His panic had given way to abrupt puzzlement. “Hold your fire!"

“What?" someone shouted from the turret, just as confused.

“Hold fire. Uh—" he grabbed for the handset again. “Dog-4. Roger. Out."

When McGuire stood up again, Sherman followed his example, unlocking the hatch over his head and pushing it open until it fell forward. It was, he saw for the first time, even thinner than the steel armor on the rest of the halftrack. With sufficient dedication, he thought he might've been able to push a screwdriver through it.

“North, sir," McGuire told him, once he was out of the turret. He pointed, unnecessarily: Eddie could already see the shadows of incoming aircraft. There were three distinct groups: twelve aircraft in total, the first of them five hundred feet or so over the water and sinking lower. Single-engined, stubby-winged—definitely not the two-tailed light bombers he'd expected.

The lead planes were barely at rooftop height when they crossed overhead: slate-grey wings rocking, deep blue roundels and white stars on full display. “God bless the US Navy," one of the gunners shouted, before the roar of radial engines drowned him out; Sherman glanced back to see the man waving excitedly.

The remaining fighters stayed at a slightly higher altitude, and he began to understand that, when guardian angels had to take physical form, a Grumman F4F was a damned fine choice. On the other hand, twelve Wildcats had to represent every plane the squadron at Wainwright could put in the air.

He was glad to have them, either way. Sherman couldn't see the radar equipment shack from their emplacement, but there was no smoke coming from its direction, nor the diesel generators. The base had probably, he thought, gotten lucky. “Ain't they beautiful? Uh—sir," the man added, when he turned around.

“Beautiful," Sherman agreed.

McGuire, who had retreated back into the cab, rejoined them a minute later. “Lieutenant? The Navy says there's nobody else coming. We've been given the order to stand down."

“Secure the guns, then," he told the other crew. “We'll head back to the motor pool. What about the attack on Prudhoe?"

“It didn't happen. That's all they told me."

Well, he could count his blessings for that. Sherman left the hatches open, and put the halftrack in gear, backing it out of the emplacement and turning towards the center of the outpost, where the smoke had yet to abate.

That turned out to be one of the fuel tanks—and only one, fortunately. He parked the vehicle, and accepted a grateful handshake from Staff Sergeant McGuire, who then set about debriefing the rest of the crew, while Eddie headed back to his office.

Major Frank caught him before he could find Dodd. “Lieutenant. It's good to see you. Nobody knew what had happened."

“I got pressed into service as a halftrack driver, sir. Dog-4, northern emplacement."

“Got one of the bastards, according to the radio. Yeah? Well, good work, then." He went to the next order of business without pause: “We've lost contact with the radar site."

Sherman blinked. “The radar's down?"

“The radar is working. Nobody's answering the phone at the site. We've been trying to raise you for ten minutes. We assumed the worst."

And, now, so did Sherman. “I'll check it out, sir."

He'd thought the adrenaline from the attack had ebbed; if so, it came back with a vengeance. It was all he could do to keep himself at a steady pace on the way down the stairs. As soon as he was outside again, he took off at a run.

At first glance, the building was unharmed. It was only when he got closer that he saw the damage—a half-dozen holes the size of his fist had been punched into one wall, and the far corner was badly chewed up, as if giant rats had been at it. Splintered wood showed through the savaged plaster.

He was able to turn the handle, but the door caught on the frame—the building was slightly warped, he thought—and he had to strain to force it open. Inside, the only illumination came from the holes, which went all the way through the structure. A roof beam had indeed collapsed, and rested on the remains of Beth Metzger's workbench. “Dr. Metzger?"

There was a bit of rustling, and then a figure straightened itself up from behind the bench. Her glasses had been rubbed clean, but her fur and clothes were grey with fallen plaster that tumbled from her like fresh snow when she stood. “The… excitement—it's all over, or partly over?"

“All. Do you want…" He held out his paw.

“Danke schön." The wolf took it, and pulled herself over the bench. She landed on the other side, slightly awkwardly—and kept her balance by gripping the collie's shoulder, half falling against him.

Eddie caught her by the side. “Are you hurt?"

She scuffed at the ground, tentatively. “Not so much, it seems. My shoe is not so lucky, perhaps."

It was—when he glanced downward to follow her gaze—missing altogether. For the moment, Beth stayed leaning against him, and made no attempt to stand up straight. Which meant, when she looked back upwards, their muzzles were very close—enough to feel her breath on his nose. “I'm glad you weren't—that it wasn't worse. What happened?"

“Two attacks. The first…" She turned, started to indicate something, and briefly put her foot down. Just as quickly she gave up, and resumed leaning on him. “There is, I think… there is some glass on the floor. I can't see. The phone is kaput, too. I stay like this, if you don't mind."

“I don't mind. But… let's… here," he said, letting her hop on one shoe back to the door, which he kicked open wide enough to let the both of them leave. Outside, Beth picked a spot free of debris and, sat. She inspected her foot, and brushed some glass away from the pads until she was satisfied.

She did not, he noticed, stand back up.

He joined her, in the slowly waning afternoon sunlight—almost warm, with the shack blocking the wind. When he pulled out his pack of cigarettes, Metzger looked over hopefully. “Sure," he said; held it out to her.

Her fingers were shaking when she took the cigarette, he noticed, and realized that his own were not much steadier. He clenched his paw a few times, and kept it under control long enough to light her cigarette, and then his. She didn't comment on that, simply asking: “They're not coming back?"

“No."

“Truly?"

“Yeah. I mean, I don't think so."

Beth went quiet, and Eddie stared at the point of his cigarette, dwindling closer to his muzzle. Had the Sturmovik caught fire, too, in its final plunge? He didn't think so. He was imagining that recollection. All the same, he couldn't say that the cigarette was properly calming, either.

At least it was definitely a routine. “I should report back," he said. “They didn't know if something was wrong out here."

“Ja, natürlich. A moment."

“Sure." He lit another cigarette, and waited. Beth moved abruptly, when she stirred at last, looking towards the building. Twisting her body left her leaning once more against him. “You alright?"

There was another period of silence. “The first time, that was the one that put the holes in the wall. I was under the bench, as you said, but a… bullet? They're bullets still—when it is a plane? Or? Even so, it went through a cabinet. All the power also went out."

“One of the electronics cabinets?"

“Mm. For the medium band. But I thought that it would be better to have some functionality than none, yes? So I pulled out one of the power kabeln—cables, the power cable," she corrected herself. “And since the generator was on, still, I… it… es war praktisch mit dem Strom verschweißt. More or less—with the electricity… verschweißt. Schweißen?"

“I have no idea," he admitted, with a shrug.

“Connection? Joint?"

“Welded? You welded the cables together? Jesus Christ."

Now it was Metzger's turn to shrug. She sighed. “Well it kept my radar to be operational, ja? I wanted to finish until they shot at us again, perhaps, but… that was the second attack. The roof came down, and I went under my bench. And then you came and found me." She twisted around, until she was facing him. “Thank you for that."

“Of course." Eddie couldn't think about it too long, or he'd have to think about how jarring his first glimpse of the building had been, the moments of raw panic. “I was a bit worried, to tell you the truth."

“So was I. Can I..." she gestured towards his cigarette.

“Last one before we head back," he said, although he supposed he wouldn't force the issue. Beth nodded, in any case. She seemed to have calmed down.

“I'm glad I got to know you," she said, reclining once more on the collie. “Even like this."

“Same. Are you… leaving?"

“Unfortunately. There's work to do—you and Mr. Dodd, at least, I think… you'll be able to fix the damage. With my notes—there's a saying, I think, about how clever foxes are? Two of you…"

“Just Billy. I'm not a fox."

She pushed his sleeve up until red fur showed. “No?"

“No. Border Collie. My brother and sister are black and white. Mom looks like this, though—the ears didn't give it away? Or—no, don't change the subject. I thought you were just… assigned to this post. When are you leaving?"

“As soon as Captain Wright finds out. I am here only because it was promised this would not be a combat area. The Rangers told my father… Captain Wright personally told him that, actually. I'm not meant for—it's not my place."

“I mean… didn't you just say you electrically welded a live power cable while we were being attacked? I'm glad it was your place."

“Ja, well… it would be better if Captain Wright did not hear about that, either. He has appointed himself something of my godfather. So…"

“I suppose there's better places to be than Alaska," Eddie said, even if he found he was disappointed to think of her departure. The Rangers were based out of Pearl Harbor: “Hawaii, this time of year."

“Maybe, maybe. You said 'last one,' anyway." She stubbed out her cigarette, and took a deep breath. “Can you help me up?"

He rose, and held out a paw for the wolf. She gripped it, pulling herself to her feet. Then they were facing each other; she had an arm behind the collie, to steady herself, leaning against him, looking up and into his eyes searchingly. Her other shoe was still somewhere in the rubble. I should've offered to get it for her. Maybe she's thinking the same thing.

She looked, for a moment, as if she might indeed be about to ask him a question. Perhaps that one. Then, behind her thick glasses, she looked as though she'd thought better of it. And then, before he could think better of it, his lips were pressed against hers.

Beth let out a little, muted squawk. But the contact was firmer than he'd intended, too—she'd closed at least part of the distance herself, and he felt her arm tighten around his back. He pulled away, slightly, from the kiss. I don't know—“what got into me," he admitted, the first words compressed into a short murmur.

Again, she looked on the verge of speaking. And again, before anything like that had to happen, their muzzles were locked. Her head tilted, nudging closer. Her eyes flickered closed. The collie both heard, and felt, a pleased sigh against his lips.

This time, they broke the kiss because they were out of breath. Beth scuffed at the gravel, until she was satisfied there was nothing there that would cut her feet, and leaned back into the embrace he'd somehow wrapped her up in.

“I… did not see that coming," she said. She grinned. “Which is not such a good thing, for a radar designer. Mm?"

“I forgive you."

“You forgive me?" Her laugh, when it was genuine, turned out to be obviously so—abrupt, joined by a pointed perk of her ears. “It was your fault!"

“Emotions." It was a weak excuse—really he wasn't certain what had gotten into him. “Not thinking straight."

“You didn't kiss me on purpose?"

“I kissed you on purpose." He did it again, before his sense of decorum got the better of him, and before she could ask for a demonstration. “But—"

“This, I need to think about." She unhooked her arms from around him, turned, and made her way back into her demolished office, tail waving slightly. She emerged a minute later, having retrieved her shoe, and with her clothes freshly covered in plaster.

“What were you thinking about?"

She pointed down the path to the main part of the base, and started walking. “That I should make a full damage report of the radar equipment, and… I must not do that before tomorrow, or maybe the day after—a builder will need to inspect it first, I suppose."

“Probably."

“And I have the good fortune of a private room here. Which you know, since you've found me there before."

“Yes." It was in the building that contained the base officers quarters, connected to Cape Lisburne's operations center through an underground tunnel. “On the floor beneath mine."

“So you should gather your thoughts. And explain why you kissed me—on purpose, you admit, even." She sought his paw out, and squeezed it. “Perhaps tonight, you should be ready to explain it. Hmm?"

“I'll… I'll do what I can."

He was back at his post a few minutes later, and suddenly exhausted. “Sir?" Dodd prompted

Eddie dropped into his chair. “The building got shot up a bit. Dr. Metzger says she'll have to do a full inspection."

“Should we shut down?"

“Well, it's running for now and she didn't seem too concerned." Of course, you didn't ask her directly, did you? Other things on your mind. He shut his eyes, running his fingers through his mane. “God. What a day—anything I should know here?"

“No, sir. Eight Il-2s hit us. Took out a fuel tank and a few trucks. And the radar, depending on what the doctor says. We got three, and a probable fourth. Captain Lorenzo said something about spotters seeing a plane trailing fuel that went down in the mountains."

“What was the big attack?"

“Tu-2s. From what I overheard—just rumor, sir, when I was running messages over to the map room."

“Fine, yes," he said, waving his paw. “Rumor."

“We weren't supposed to pick them up. They were going to hit Prudhoe, and hard, and then recover to Inuit territory in the south. The attack on us was part of a coordinated attack on the coast sites, but… we spoiled it."

He was still processing the first part of Dodd's explanation, and becoming wearier with the implications. “The Soviets? The USSR was going to attack American territory directly?"

“Alaskan territory," Dodd corrected, although that distinction was definitely a gamble on Stalin's part.

“They turned back?"

“The Piasa Legion has a zeppelin at Barter Island. Dan Mitchell's boys intercepted the sortie early. There wasn't a dogfight—Mitchell just offered to escort them west, out of our airspace."

“They don't have the fuel for that, do they?" There was a map on the wall, which was mostly designed to mark the overlapping range of the radar outposts but also showed the north coast of the territory. “Their modified bombers, those run light… extra tanks just to make it to the coast and back…"

He'd explained that to McGuire; Dodd, too, understood. “Probably if they wanted to level the facilities at Prudhoe Bay, they weren't running light."

“Jesus. Imagine ditching in the Arctic Ocean…"

“Yeah. What about you, sir? You were in a halftrack?"

He kept the story short, and perfunctory. It wasn't something he cared to relive, not without food and at least an attempt at sleep. And, even if no shots had been exchanged between the United States and the Soviet Union, Eddie was shocked that they'd even taken the risk.

Perhaps there had been enough of that. When their relief showed up, Eddie ate quietly, and retired to his quarters. He lay atop his bed, staring at the ceiling. What was he going to tell Beth Metzger, anyway?

The simplest answer was that he didn't know why he'd kissed her, except that it had felt appropriate at the time. In all likelihood, stress had contributed significantly to it. And the sense that she was something of a kindred spirit.

And—here he had to suppress a flitting moment of self-doubt—she had felt the same way. Enough of the same way to return the kiss, at least, and to drop a less than subtle hint about the explanation that she expected from him. In any case, he knew she wasn't going to bite him.

Eddie got himself ready, and made his way downstairs, and to the far side of the BOQ building. It was not segregated by sex, exactly, although now that he thought about it they quartered visitors from the women's auxiliaries there, when they had cause to travel to Cape Lisburne.

It was quiet. Beth Metzger answered the door wearing a nightgown, and tilting her head curiously. “Ah—hello. I wasn't entirely sure if you would join me."

“I owed you, didn't I?"

“An explanation." She grinned, shut the door behind him, and took a seat on the edge of her bed, looking at the collie expectantly. “Which is?"

“That I did it because I wanted to. And I figured I'd stop by now because if you're leaving, it seems like a shame not to tell you that. I mean… who knows how long we have?"

“How long we have for what?" Beth asked, rather pointedly.

And, as there was no misreading her expression, Eddie leaned down and kissed her without trying to justify it. The wolf leaned back; he followed, until he was halfway on the bed, supporting himself on his paws while her own took the opportunity to draw him nearer.

Out of breath, he peered down at her. Her grey eyes glinted mirthfully. “I accept your explanation," she said. “Why don't you… remove your boots, please? Yes?" He unlaced them, pulled his feet free, and slid the boots under the bed. “Good. Your shirt, also."

Removing the boots was obvious—simple politeness, really. His uniform, though… that made it more difficult to imagine that her aim was anything other than the obvious. Eddie took it off anyway, though. “Is this better?"

Beth had gotten up, and briefly disappeared into the adjoining room that served as her office. She returned shortly thereafter, first poking her head in to check his progress. “Better." Behind her, he heard saxophones again—the opening bars of 'Sun Valley Jump,' he thought.

“What's that? The music?"

“Just in case anyone is, ah, eavesdropping, mm? And also—bed," she ordered, and pushed him onto it before joining the collie, her tail wagging. “Also, now I can tell you exactly how long we have, which is twenty-one minutes."

“I see."

“To start with." She winked, and ran her fingers thoughtfully along his arm. With the blouse gone, more of his burnt-red fur was on display. “You're sure you are not a fox, perhaps?"

“I'm not sure of anything." He turned to her, aware that his heart was racing, the adrenaline back. The faint rhythm of his tail, sweeping against the sheets, betrayed him.

Beth seemed to understand that he was not purely talking about his ancestry. She snuggled up invitingly, and when he sought her muzzle for a kiss she held it, and slid her arms around his neck to draw him nearer.

It was an awkward position; gradually, she slouched backwards, and in her embrace Eddie was compelled to follow until they crossed the tipping point at which they had both sank onto the bed—on their sides, with the wolf's body close and tight against his, and his paws stroking along her nightgown.

He was aware, as if by electric shock, of where it ended: where his claws found unclothed fur, along the backs of her thighs, softer than he might've expected under his questing fingers. He was squeezing her, only slightly conscious of the act.

The she-wolf gasped, though, and pushed herself closer. The kiss faltered; she panted softly, with her eyes locked on his. “We could just see where it goes," Beth suggested quietly. “Until you are sure. Right?"

“Right," he muttered.

This time he gripped her quite deliberately. Her lips parted invitingly the moment his tongue teased it; he tasted her own a moment later, as he slipped into her muzzle, and her shivery gasp became an equally unsteady moan.

There was nothing beneath her nightgown—nothing to stop him from squeezing her rump, feeling her tail as it wagged against his paws. The wolf's perky ears pinned with her growing distraction, even while his pricked as far as they would go, to catch every muted, encouraging whimper she gave him.

When her back arched, it ground her hips against his with a heat as intoxicating as the warmth of her mouth. His trousers were badly tented, and he briefly felt as though he should apologize, like an awkward teenager caught out by his hormones.

But they were still locked in a fierce kiss, and in any case the wolf didn't shy away. She ground against him again, harder, joined by the added pressure of her bare foot at the back of his leg. And, since he couldn't have gotten away if he'd wanted to, he bucked into her with a short, insistent shove.

Her thighs parted, allowing him to slide closer. On the next buck she tossed her head back, and a groan spilled from her muzzle. There was a brief fumbling between them before she found her objective, and his belt gave way. He wriggled, until he'd gained enough slack that he could kick his trousers free.

Beth used the moment of freedom to pull her nightgown off, and he no longer thought she was likely to accuse him of being too forward, or too unconvinced of her virtue. He nosed through the fur of her chest, breathing in her scent.

More whimpers, in a rising pitch, greeted him when he lapped at her nipple. Coaxing her to stiffness, suckling on her until she was squirming, he concluded it was not that he'd failed to think of the wolf as attractive. It was that he'd failed to think of her at all, certainly as anything close to within his league.

And that it was only now he understood they shared something critical in common, which was that neither knew when it might, as he'd said, be all over. It was not worth waiting, not when any day might bring another catastrophe, and—

The shock of soft warmth gripping his now fully-rigid length broke his concentration. The contact was too direct to have come through his underwear. Her paw was beneath the garment, pumping him for another second or two—then stripping it from him altogether.

It was as she rolled—drawing him with her, pulling him between her legs—that he realized he already knew Beth had worn nothing besides her nightgown, and there was nothing between them now but good judgment. Briefly, he felt slick warmth against the base of his shaft.

When he found her with his fingers, a handful of inquisitive strokes was all it took for that to become slippery, dangerously alluring wetness. The fur around his fingerpads rapidly grew as sodden as the wolf herself. And she was shifting under him, her legs spreading wider, the invitation open and irresistible.

He swallowed, forcing back his nerves, straightening up to whisper into her ear, “hold up," by way of explanation for the hastiness with which he grabbed for his discarded jacket, searching the pockets until he found the prophylactic packet ever-so-helpfully distributed by the Army Air Force.

“Mm?" Beth asked. He held it up for her to see, and she giggled. “Ah! Weren't sure of anything, mm?"

“I… wanted to be prepared," he admitted, and carefully tore the packet open to remove the condom.

“Wirklich?" Beth's head canted, and her muzzle wrinkled at the smell. “How… industrial."

“I'm not… I don't know what they're made of, now. Rubber's—"

He was aware of how awkwardly he was trying to explain it even before Beth reached up to grab his paw. “The point is, if you don't mind… perhaps we forget about that."

Eddie let her take the condom from him, and toss it in the direction of the nightstand next to her bed. “Alright," he muttered. “However you'd like to… to…" She was drawing him to her again, and between the desiring look she was giving him and the softness of her snowy fur, he was losing his ability to speak coherently.

It vanished completely when, by chance, his cock briefly nudged her lips, and they both gasped. He did not have to guide himself to her, or search awkwardly. The collie's hips arched, and he found his mark again like they'd been drawn together magnetically, a straightforward assertion of some physical law.

The feeling of warmth—slickly parting around his tip, urging him to push further in—was all but impossible to resist. Eddie nudged his hips forward, and suddenly he was sliding into her all at once, groaning helplessly as her wet folds enveloped him.

He worked deeper until he was grinding against her hips, and the tense breath Beth had sucked in released in a gratified moan. She tugged him down by the neck for another kiss, while they adjusted to the tight fit of the claim their bodies had asserted on one another.

Eddie managed to hold the kiss through the first slow, shallow thrust, and a more proper second one. As he found his rhythm, though, the collie had to gasp for breath, and a rasped, blasphemous oath. “Oh, God… Beth, it's so goddamn good…"

He got husky, unintelligibly muttered German in answer, but he could feel her arching to meet his pace and that was encouragement enough. So goddamn good was the best his lust-addled brain could come up with to describe the satin-soft grip of her inner walls on his pumping shaft.

It was beyond anything he'd anticipated, certainly, when his nervous paw had rapped on her door. The supple, wet caress of the wolf's sex was exquisite, and so was the dim, baser knowledge of how fully he was experiencing it. They were intimately joined, primal instincts drawing them together, and every heated gasp that washed his ear served as wordless praise for it.

Growling, Eddie lost himself, reveling in the carnal delight of their impassioned mating. He'd gotten himself off often enough to know how much precum he made. Now, instead of smearing it into his paw, he was feeling her insides grow still more slick as he throbbed and spurted in her.

It was indescribably rewarding, all of it. He pushed in all the way, savoring each inch of that full, firm thrust, and when he hilted he heard her moan his name. He did it again, bucking heavily; she moaned again. It was reason enough to shift his tempo, rocking in hard, over and over.

But the strength of his movements made it more difficult to prolong them. Already he could feel a coarser, primitive need rising in him, twinges of it running along his shaft, threatening to undo whatever restraint the Border Collie still retained. Beckoning warmth, sliding unevenly over the swelling base of his cock, was even more dangerous.

He forced himself to slow, and to keep his thrusts shallow. Beth let out an odd, choked whine of protest, and then nudged her muzzle to his ear. “Was ist—warum—why? Why are—"

“Close," he hissed back, voice taut.

“You're going to tie me?" she asked. His fuzzy ears swiveled back. She nipped at the one she'd been whispering into. “Yes, then. Do it." Eddie failed to come up with a response that wasn't plunging into her again, this time to the hilt, to see what it was like, and—“please."

He couldn't explain, with the words still available to him, that he'd never tied anyone before. That obscenely curved cock, so perfectly made to slot into a willing mate, was buried in her now. When he pulled it free, now, he felt the suckling reluctance with which she gave him up. And she moaned out in abject bliss, now, when he slid all the way in and she took his half-formed knot.

The collie shuddered, and gave in—beginning to rut, hard and purposeful, into the gasping wolf. He stayed deep, feeling her growing tighter around him, feeling the effort of his swift thrusts build… feeling a wet, gripping tug behind his knot…

That sensation, the first time he experienced knowing he'd tied his partner—the biological certainty that the only possible conclusion was pumping them full of potent canine seed—ended any conscious ability to stop himself. Paws gripping her shoulders, clutching her close, he rammed his hips forward in powerful, urgent shoves.

Beth cried out, first openly, then muffled by her own wrist. There was nothing to be done about the rhythmic, rapid slamming of the headboard against the wall—Eddie couldn't still his frantic movements, not with the rising tension in his body, and the groans he crushed into the crook of the wolf's neck reaching a fevered pitch of intensity.

He bit down on her shoulder when his back arched, forcing him as snug to her as he possibly could. There was a surge of energy and emotion—an immensely gratifying sense of relief—an unbidden snarl—then his cock pulsed, and a moment later heat washed over him.

He bucked a second, reflexive time. The remaining friction gave way to a novel slickness as he drenched her insides, his twitching cock sliding through the spreading evidence of his powerful, messy release. He rocked forcefully, emptying himself completely, unable to help that any more than he could the deep grunts he huffed into her saliva-soaked fur.

The pinned wolf squealed quietly with each rhythmic press, until she started squirming under him, humping into his crotch, out of time to his own slowing movements. He came to a halt—if he kept thrusting he thought his overstimulated cock might come all the way off.

She did not. Her hips jerked upwards, and he felt her legs trapping him in a quivering vice. Eddie relaxed his grip on her shoulders, and heard a plaintive whine as the paw that wasn't shoved into her muzzle took his back in a fiercely possessive grab.

After some seconds—he was able to think in complete sentences—Beth opened her mouth. She removed her paw, and got out an unsteady “I—" before her eyes rolled back and she arched, going rigid. The wolf relaxed only shakily, and lay panting so raggedly he wondered if he'd hurt her. “Mein Gott. Ach—ver—God, Eddie..."

“Hrm?"

At some point, either when he'd fucked her into the dazed triumph of his peak or in her own frantic writhing, her glasses had come off. She felt around for them, and regarded him with gleaming eyes. “Oh, my God—is what I said. It's… was it some time, since you last got your knot in someone, eh?"

“Uh… never," he admitted.

“What? Eh—no," Beth said firmly. He'd tried to roll onto his side, mindful of her continued panting. She kept him in place. “Better. Say that again?"

“My, um… my high-school girlfriend, we, uh—you know, we had it in our mind that it didn't really count if we didn't tie, so it was still technically, uh… fine… yeah, I know," he muttered—she was giving him a very skeptical look.

Beth shook her head. “Americans…"

“Sure. The couple times after her, it… we didn't want to… you know, the pamphlets they put in the pro-kit say it can break the condom, so..."

“You? Ja." She patted his side, giggling in what he would, previously, have thought very uncharacteristic for the wolf. “You would have broken it. God, you almost broke me…"

“Sorry."

“Do not apologize." He thought she was blushing, but she kept him from seeing for certain by leaning up, nuzzling his neck and lapping at one folded ear. “Or make it up by doing that again."

“Well…"

Beth relaxed, the look in her eyes having softened. “Was it good, at least?"

“Fuck," he said. The soothing lassitude that gripped him now was as new and breathtaking as actually taking her had been. He wanted to stayed snuggled up to Beth forever, hilted in her welcoming folds and feeling the rise and fall of her chest. “I had no idea. I would've made… very big mistakes back in school…"

“Good that you waited, then," the wolf said.

Through the haze of afterglow, he tried to summon up a measure of critical thinking. “Was this a mistake?"

“You're asking if I am going to become pregnant? If you are, perhaps? No. I think not. If it is reckless, well…"

From the next room, 'In the Mood' faded out into silence, and nothing replaced it. The memory of the headboard hitting the wall asserted itself. “We must've made so much noise. God, I'm never hearing the end of this."

“I moved the bed, you know. This…" She pointed behind them above the headboard. “That's the outside wall. I don't think anyone noticed. If they do… well, it will give you something to talk about with Mr. Clark Russell, if he comes back…"

“Don't even joke about that." She laughed, and finally allowed him to settle onto his side. “How did you do the Glenn Miller? How many records was that?"

“One. It's not a normal disk. Something my father and I worked on that Walker Wright didn't want to use, not yet. Being a tinkerer must have its advantages, ja? I get to experiment."

The wolf hooked her leg around him when she said that last word, and Eddie felt the practical details of the invention could wait. For now, he enjoyed the intimacy of having her in his arms, her breathing steady and her tail wagging gently.

That was comfortable, too; they were still tied, and she idly stroked the fur of his back. “I should clean up, when you pull out. But after that, perhaps it's bedtime. You… could stay, maybe?"

It was nothing he couldn't explain, if he had to. He nodded.

The collie didn't “pull out," as such, so much as his knot shrank enough to give way with a sudden, unsubtle squelch. Beth, who seemed to have been drifting off, perked her ears, and rolled off the bed with the agility of a gymnast. He heard her muttering, and a wet patter against the floor.

She pulled her nightgown back on, donned a skirt, and left the room for, he presumed, the bathroom next door. Eddie glanced around for a towel, and found none. He used his underwear, instead, to mop up the floor, before Beth returned with a handful of clean washrags.

“That's how you do things in the Army, hmm?" she asked, tossing him a rag.

“I was making do," he protested. At least it made short work of what was left. Beth rolled her eyes, accompanied by a wry grin, and then rejoined him on the bed a minute later. “I'll do better, how's that?"

“I am taking that as a promise." She curled up with him again, eyeing the dog thoughtfully. “I don't know if… that is to say… there… today was very eventful. I don't know if we just needed a distraction. Or the company."

“I don't either. If it turns out that was it…" It proved hard for him to say that would be fine. He was forced to settle on a tepid: “who knows. If you're not staying, anyway…"

“Who knows when I can leave? I already said, there's much to do to repair the equipment—I'm sure, without even looking carefully. Weeks, maybe. Months. This we can consider, but… tomorrow."

With that, she took off her glasses and set them next to the bed. Her clear grey eyes were just as easy to get lost in, without them, but the wolf herself seemed equally lost.

Presently she put the glasses back on, explaining: “just for a bit."

“Yeah?"

“Some interesting things to look at. You know?" She leaned closer, and gave him a kiss. “Moments like this, I'd rather not be so blind."