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Under interrogation about the zeppelin 'Savannah,' a strange badger requires... encouragement.

This is another dieselpunk story, if a standalone, set in the late 1940s at the dawn of the jet age. Albeit the focus here is on badgers and wolves, both of whom need to be put in their place on occasion. Possibly merits some content warnings? So check the tags, although it is not One Of Those Stories. At least I don't intend it that way :P Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff. Thanks to Spudz and kergiby for their help with the flow here.

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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"Lady Be Good," by Rob Baird

"You know..." Ray suggested to the badger woman, although he suspected the friendly gesture would be futile. "The sooner you tell us something, the sooner you can be on your way."

"I don't have anything to say," she replied, as he'd known she probably would. "I keep telling anyone who asks, but it doesn't seem like you're listening. Is it my accent?"

British accents blended together for Ray: this one sounded professional, and well-educated... but, of course, it could've been an act. "Right." The wolf put a growl on the edge of his voice, and crossed his arms. "You're a civilian. Traveling for... business?"

"That's right. Settling the affairs of an old friend."

"In Atlanta. Where you were captured in pursuit of sensitive documents."

"Nobody will tell me what," the badger insisted. "What sensitive documents?"

Ray slid a manila envelope open, and tipped its contents into his paw. 'Frances Kinyon' was written on her passport, along with a picture of the woman. There was a checkbook with the same name, a second-class ticket for a train from Atlanta to the northern border, and a half-used ration card from the United Kingdom, also all hers--if she was to be believed.

According to his intelligence briefing, by the time the police caught up to her, Frances Kinyon had managed to stash the plans she was actually accused of smuggling. "You're being too nice," a man drawled behind him. "We brought ya here for a reason. If we're making this trade..."

"She'll talk," he promised. "You'll talk, won't you? If I ask nicely?"

"But I don't have anything to say!"

"Then we can start simply." He flipped her passport open. There were only four stamps. "Don't travel much, huh? This was your first journey?"

Frances nodded. "On the RMS Galatia. We departed Liverpool on June 9th, and arrived in New York on June 14th."

"And two days later you were in Charlotte. Didn't want to hang around? Do some shopping, perhaps..."

"I told you: I was settling an old friend's affairs. I didn't intend to stay long. I crossed the Commonwealth border at Charlotte, and took the train from there to Atlanta. When I finished with the lawyer, I bought return tickets. I was leaving my hotel to go to the train station when the police arrested me."

"With no money."

"Handled by wire, so that I didn't have to change currencies. Will someone tell me where we even are?"

The interrogation room hadn't been intended that way: it was a supply closet, formerly, on the ACA Savannah, and as soon as the handoff had been made it would be a supply closet once more--Savannah was no police blimp, after all, but one of the Commonwealth's newest aerial frigates. "Taking you to our friends, instead of yours," Ray told her. "I suppose--if you haven't traveled much--you've never been to Berlin."

The badger's ears pinned. "I haven't."

"Should be lovely, this time of year." He closed the passport; took out the ration card. "What's the last thing you used this for?"

Still in shock at the threatened destination, plainly, Frances stammered. "None of your business."

Ray took two steps forward, got his paw around her throat, and shoved the woman back against the wall. Even on her tip-toes, she was too short to keep him from choking off her air if he wanted. His grip tightened threateningly, and as her eyes went wide he growled darkly. "That's not for you to say."

"Currants," she whispered. "And--and sugar. Sugar! I was making scones! To--to give to my landlord, as a way of--of apologizing for having to leave and making him take care of my flat for a few--a few weeks! Scones!"

The wolf let her go, with a sigh and a dismal shake of his head. "Was that so hard? Why would you want to keep a secret like that?"

"This is an outrage," Frances managed to gasp. "I demand to--to speak to the consulate. A representative of my government!"

"Tell us your real name, and we can arrange something."

"This is my real name!" He leaned towards her and she shrank back, against a wall that had little room to give. "I'm telling you the truth!"

"Your lawyer, then." She shook her head, bewildered. "You didn't give us his name, either. Said it was--"

"Private," she interjected. "Confidential."

Another step, and they were all but pressed together. Her paw felt for the wall, right against her back. "We're between friends," he rumbled. "So start acting like it."

"How?" It was a squeak, at best.

"Start by not interrupting me again. Then: give me the name of your lawyer. Or."

When she opened her mouth--to ask or what? surely; there was no way she'd have turned that easily--he grunted, and shoved her down by the shoulders. She tensed, resisting, but with a rough nudge her legs buckled and, like that, she was on her knees in front of him. "Wait..."

When he undid his belt the sound must've carried, for Ray heard a hoarse laugh from the doorframe. "Well, hell. Ain't seen this approach before..."

Major Halsey, the one who'd asked Ray to interrogate the spy in the first place, couldn't see anything, of course--the wolf's body was in the way. But Frances could, and her ears went back again. "That's the 'or,'" Ray growled. "Either something comes out of your mouth, or something goes in. Pick."

"You can't be serious. This is--"

He bent down, and grabbed her jaw, squeezing to force it open. "What'll it be? One. Or the other."

"The consulate..." It was hard for her to speak; harder to be understood.

That suited him fine. And, he decided, it was about to suit her fine, too. He unzipped his trousers with his other paw, keeping her in place to watch. After a few seconds--faster, honestly, than Ray expected--Frances got the idea. She brought her fingers to his briefs, he let her go as a reward, and she dutifully worked his underwear lower.

Another pause followed. But then, she shut her eyes and, to his faint surprise, pressed her head forward without further encouragement. A few inches of his shaft were already poking free of his sheath: enough for her to have seen it, to have caught his intention--and his scent. Even blind, it only took two tries before the badger's muzzle found bare flesh.

Ray groaned deeply, over another amused chuckle from Halsey. "If I feel teeth," the wolf warned, "he's gonna explain to Berlin why you don't have 'em anymore. Might not be so funny then, but... worse for you. Understood?"

Frances didn't say anything. She suckled on him instead. The wolf's next gasp was more genuine: the tight, wet pressure sent tense ripples down an erection that was growing more pronounced by the second. And as his cock swelled, she obligingly let more of it slip between her lips.

"Well. Halsey should've done this to start, huh? Just wanted a taste, huh?" He glanced down to see her looking up at him, eyes dark. "Oh, right. You'd just lie about that, too. Tell you what..."

He pushed into her, sinking half his length into the badger's blunt muzzle. She inhaled sharply, and yelped out a wordless gasp. The wall kept her from pulling away, and a sharp, short jerk of the wolf's hips warned her of what would happen if he fed her the rest of him.

"Any time you feel like stoppin', you just nod that pretty little head and I'll pull out so you can give me a name."

Whoever, or whatever, Frances was, not bad at this bubbled swiftly to the top of Ray's list. When he relaxed to free her again, she went back to working her muzzle gently over him. Sucking, lapping daintily with that oh-so-aggrieved tongue along the wolf meat sliding over it.

Actually pumping his load down her throat hadn't been the goal of the wolf's gambit. He'd expected more resistance. He'd expected she wouldn't be so skilled at working him towards his peak. He'd expected her to give in long before anything like that needed to happen.

And her expression stayed dark. Not humiliation. Not even resignation. Defiance?

Ray grunted, and shoved hard. He slid past a too-brief, too-late moment of resistance until her nose was crushed to him and his thick cock had her stuffed palate-deep. Frances gagged, trying to squirm into the unyielding metal behind her, and the wolf bucked harder. "Almost, bitch. Almost there..."

Her chest heaved against his thighs as she fought to breathe, and the swell of his knot forced her muzzle uselessly wider. And then he felt her nod. And when he didn't let go--when he ground into her trapped head, rubbing her hair teasingly into the wall--the nod went frantic and her paw batted him.

He gave her a few more seconds before tugging quickly away. Frances topped onto her side, panting raggedly, and without bothering to fasten his pants again he knelt down next to her. "Name."

"Lipton. Peter--Peter Lipton. Atlanta."

Ray got back up and turned around. Halsey, the wolf saw, scrupulously avoided looking at the wolf's crotch. His own--Ray was not inclined to be awkward on the major's behalf--was noticeably tented. "Transmit that to intelligence, eh? Spare the details, maybe."

"Right," Halsey said.

"And let me finish the job."

"She should be guarded."

"Her?" Ray scoffed. "Pretty broken. But, sure. Send somebody down. I don't mind an audience."

"An unconventional technique, to be sure, but I suppose it worked. Did you... get the sense that she recognized you, captain?"

The wolf could only snort at that one. "Much as I'd love it if my reputation preceded me, sir, I got the sense she was distracted, more than anything. She's not in any of your files, right? Ain't picked her up before?"

"No. You must've been right."

"That's what I'm here for. Just get that name run. I'll get back to work."

With fresh information--hopefully accurate information, at that--Halsey didn't even comment on the way a junior officer addressed him. He merely nodded, and left, and Ray turned back to the badger woman with a lewd grin. She was sitting up, still dazed. "What does that mean?"

"What do you think?" He closed the door. "We go back to questions."

"I can't tell you anything. I said..."

"You told me plenty. Told me how easy it was to get my cock in you, for one."

That implication shocked a grimace onto her features. "You filthy little--"

"And, hey. We didn't even finish. Got time, though." He pulled out his watch, making a show of studying it. "Hmm. Yeah, we got time."

"Until what?"

"I don't need to spell everything out, do I?" Ray leaned back on the wall, crossing his arms to regard her with a smirk. "Until we rendezvous with the Emden. Now, a proper woman like you..."

"What's the Emden?"

"...Bet you haven't taken a knot, huh? Badgers only?"

"Where are we going?"

"Don't play dumb. You might've fooled Halsey, but you don't fool me any more than I think you were really broken up 'bout getting a taste of me. Got your breath back?"

She twitched, and lowered her ears. "You bastard..."

"Guess that's an 'affirmative,' eh? Then listen up: tell me something useful, and maybe I can convince the skipper to slow down a bit while we keep going. Otherwise, hell, at least I'll get something out of it, even if Halsey don't." He checked his watch again. "Maybe twice. Hard to know how long you're gonna stay knotted 'til you are, you know?"

"I don't have anything to tell you." He stared at her dryly, until she flinched. "Especially you. Captain."

"Weird how your return ticket has a baggage allowance."

"Huh?"

He held up the envelope. "The ticket. You paid for a bag. Of course, you told us you were on your way to the train station when you were arrested, and you didn't have a bag then... isn't that curious?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Which is a shame. Because you're the only one who does, so... I guess this mystery will just die with you, won't it? 'Frances.' Is that a common name over there?" Silence. He took a step towards her; she looked away. "This is an easy one. Come on."

"My great-aunt," she murmured. "I don't know who you think I am."

"A good plaything, for one."

The door opened again. It wasn't Halsey: two Commonwealth airmen, a fox and a squirrel, the latter of whom nudged his friend with a buck-toothed grin. "Told ya. He wouldn't tease us."

"Can I help you?" Ray asked.

"Major said there were 'refreshments' in the Hangar B supply closet."

"Yeah," the fox added, his own grin openly lascivious. "Said if we left early for our shift, we might could have a bit while we 'guard' her. Not a bad plan..."

"You'll have to wait your turn."

"You aren't even using her, though, sir."

"Wasn't expecting to be interrupted on my break. Fine. You want to see how it's done?" He stepped heavily towards Frances. She winced, and when he hauled her to her feet she began to struggle. Not especially competently, and he had the advantage of surprise--it didn't take much to have her back against the wall. "Ready for a show, my little pet?"

"What do you--"

Ray drove his hips to hers, and the still partly stiff heat of his cock pushed the badger's skirt between her legs. "Don't have time for that. I ain't knottin' you yet. That means," he growled, over his shoulder. "That you don't either, fox. I'm breakin' her in."

"Of course, sir."

He gave Frances another lewd grind. "Sound good? You ready? I know you can nod, bitch." She was looking past him, at the two other soldiers. Her head lowered, and she nodded. "Good. Because this is gonna be fun for both of us."

And the next thing he knew she'd shoved him, turning the wolf to crash him into the far wall. Her stout frame was against his, and he felt something sharp against his throat. A commotion. "Drop them," Frances hissed.

He could just barely make out the airmen, both of whom had their sidearms drawn. "God damn it. Shoot her," he ordered. "Shoot her!"

Instead the squirrel charged, and Ray's world spun. He slammed hard into the soldier, knocking them both to the ground. The fox had frozen in panic--the blur of Frances's foot took him in the stomach, and he doubled over. As Ray tried to get back to his feet he heard a heavy thump, the crunch of the fox's skull hitting the bulkhead, and a growl right next to his ear. "Don't even try it."

"Alright..."

"Stand up--carefully--and I don't cut your throat."

He followed her orders, and Frances stepped back, holding the combat knife she'd freed from his belt. A swift kick--he only partly saw it, staying still as he could manage--drove the groaning squirrel firmly to the deck. "If you're planning something, bear in mind: the Atlantic Ocean is ten thousand feet below you."

"Of course. What, like I don't know we're on a zeppelin? Why else would their guns be unloaded? You need to be more observant. Get your bloody pants zipped up. Worthless mutt."

"I can do that." He did, keeping his movements slow and careful. "But if you think I'm coming with you... Major Halsey will be returning, I'm sure, any moment."

"Where's the flight deck?"

"About twenty yards in front of us. Can you fly a plane?"

She shot him a blazing glare. "One move, and I kill you. One move, 'interrogator.'"

Frances stripped off her skirt, slicing it into strips with his knife. In exchange she tugged the pants off the unconscious fox and pulled them on. The fit was loose, but apparently not unworkable, just like his flight jacket. And, while Ray watched--holding his paws up to keep her from making any rash decisions every time she glanced in his direction--she used the tatters of her skirt to bind the two pilots up tightly.

"You're coming with me."

"Why? After you knocked out my comrades and were sure to check Lieutenant Moreland's pocket for the code--"

"Shut up," she snarled. "I know you all have a recorder running. You're coming with me as insurance."

There was nobody in the corridor. Unloaded or no, Frances had borrowed a pistol from the fox--more 'insurance,' no doubt--and she slammed the butt of it into the closet's lock until it no longer turned.

True to his word, two miles of open sky yawned beneath the Savannah, and the four heavy fighters waiting to launch. The next sortie must've been some time in the future, given the visitors now sleeping in the supply closet: the planes, and the walkway leading to their cockpits, were unguarded.

"I bet they started getting the lead plane ready, uh... first," Ray said, although he supposed they were all equally fueled and prepared for launch. If Frances was smart--

"I bet I'm not an idiot," she muttered into his ear, from behind him. Smart enough, in that case. "We're taking the closest one."

They all looked identical. CAM-20s, or possibly even the original Bf 110s Chattanooga was now building under license. S-2s, in any case: he could tell by their characteristic deep nacelles and four-bladed propellers. With Frances right at his back, the knife occasionally making itself known, they made their way to the aftmost fighter.

"You first."

Nobody was coming to save him. Ray stepped into the slim cockpit, and caught the leather helmet Frances tossed into his lap. The badger took the gunner's seat, pulling the canopy glass closed and latching it immediately. Ray managed his a few seconds later, after he'd secured his helmet, with one last glance about for any witnesses.

"Your file better be accurate, mutt."

"This?" He primed the fighter's fuel pumps and switched them on, glancing at the gauge to reassure himself they actually had fuel. A full combat load, as it turned out. "Easy. Like riding a bike."

"Just don't fall off this one, commander."

Ray double-checked the radiators, and the flaps, and the propeller pitch--anything he could remember, and looked warily above his head. "They haven't changed these since I flew 'em in the Transjordan. I mean... haven't changed much..."

"But you've got it?"

Above him, by the canopy hinge, was a yellow handle. The wolf took a deep breath, and pulled. The plane rocked immediately as, on either side, the automated launch system locked into place on the propeller hub, putting torque on the shaft to start it spinning.

Ray didn't answer her; his eyes were on the gauges. He waited, switched all four magnetos on, opened the throttle... and the powerful inline engines kicked to ready, eager life. There was no further warning: when the zeppelin's auto-launch met resistance it jerked away immediately, the wing clamps released, and the heavy fighter's nose dipped towards open ocean.

"Got it," he confirmed.

"What's the bearing to the Emden?"

"Southeast. Probably 1-20 or 1-30." Flaps retracted, the Messerschmitt picked up speed reassuringly. "If we're not careful, we'll hit the air patrol coming back."

"And the Savannah will be launching her alert fighters, as soon as they're crewed," Frances pointed out. If they weren't careful, it was a good opportunity to wind up sandwiched between both groups, and badly outnumbered.

There was, however, something they could do about that. He pulled into a climb, banking around to take them level with the airship. Her protective machine-gun turrets hadn't yet deployed, but he knew that luck wouldn't last. "Let's make the most of this, then."

"Which means?"

"Thirty millimeter cannon, is what it means." The fighter had two of those, complementing the smaller-caliber pair in its belly. And, as he circled back to close on the zeppelin from astern, a glowing lamp confirmed the cannon safeties were off.

Four engines ran down either side of the Savannah, in armored pods that were supposed to protect the machinery and encircled the propellers in a metal shroud. The designers were worried about flak, though, or light-arms fire from the ground: they hadn't counted on an attack within range of her defensive batteries.

He squeezed the trigger, and--just as he'd hoped--the heavy high-explosive rounds made quick work of the fans, if nothing else. Two of the engine pods erupted into outright flame; the other two were smoking heavily when he crossed the Savannah's nose. Ray glanced over his shoulder to see the turrets coming to life. "Time to--"

Machine-gun fire filled the cockpit. Frances had the tailgun free, and was emptying it in the zeppelin's direction. After a long, clattering burst, she sat back. "Now it's time. Their RADAR should be out of commission."

"Right."

Between that and the engine damage, he had to hope they'd be wary about putting more fighters aloft without enough airspeed to guarantee a smooth takeoff. And, if they couldn't guide the protective sortie already airborne in his direction, it might just be smooth sailing.

Until their destination, at least. "Where are we going?"

"North-east, generally. We need to get some distance. You have enough fuel?"

"Plenty of gas," he confirmed. The Commonwealth's fighters traded endurance for another 500 horsepower from the inline engines, but they weren't likely to need all that potential and he throttled back. "You can't tell me more than 'north-east, generally'?"

"We're going to meet some friends of mine, commander. That's all you need to know."

He was, like the proverbial pig, 'committed': the fighter didn't have enough fuel to reach overland safety to the west, and they weren't going to be welcomed back aboard the Savannah. So he kept them on a steady bearing, and remained silent, the beat of the engines lulling him into a sort of calm.

His passenger was the one to break the spell. "I suppose I should thank you." The badger sighed audibly, crackling in his earpiece. "Though much of that theater was singularly unnecessary."

"You were right about it being recorded, I think. They didn't have a chance to photograph your tickets, so... I figure letting 'em think you did have luggage will throw 'em off for a bit longer."

"That isn't the theater I was referring to, commander."

"You meant the part where you almost cut me with the knife?"

Her growl almost carried without the help of the microphone. "I meant the part where you shoved me to my knees and opened your pants up."

"I wasn't expecting you to go along with it. Halsey couldn't see anything."

"How was I supposed to know?"

"Beats me. You didn't spend much time looking, did you? Kinda got right to the point, as I remember it." There was no answer. "Right?" When she still said nothing, he turned around, raising his voice to a shout. "Hey, is the radio down?"

It was not: she came in loud and clear. "Set the direction-finder to 690 kilocycles."

"Done."

"Oscillator at plus 2-5-1, demodulator setting: AEA."

Ray waited to see if the military-grade direction-finder would decode anything. "I have a steady signal at about forty degrees. That's for us?"

"That's for us. HMS Agincourt."

Judging from the signal's strength, the transmitter couldn't have been more than a couple hundred miles away. Ray opened the fighter's throttles up. "Now that you're talking again: what was your plan if I wasn't qualled on the 110? Jump?"

"Calculated risk. And I'd already seen your plan." Before he got around to questioning her tone, the badger grunted a resigned, snorting laugh into the radio. "Did you know that Sarah warned me about you?"

"What'd she say?"

"Nothing repeatable."

"So it was true, then."

There was a lengthy pause. "Yes. Yes, Commander Ray, it was true."

"Call me 'Robin.' Might as well, right? What's your real name, anyway?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"You're saying you need to be interrogated again?"

"Try it."

He chuckled. "We'll be landing soon enough, I guess. Right?"

Frances only growled, and that was that for the remainder of 'soon enough'--twenty minutes of flying later, a new voice on the radio. This one was stern, martial, and so loud the transmitter had to be nearby.

"Incoming fighter: you are within lethal distance of the Agincourt. Aerial rockets are trained on you as we speak. You have ten seconds to identify yourself or face the consequences."

"Friendly bunch," he muttered over the intercom. "Agincourt, this is Commander Robin Ray, United States Navy. I have a passenger with me and I'd like to land, if it's all the same to you. The folks I borrowed this airplane from might want it back."

"We have you at twenty miles out. Please report your current weather."

"Broken clouds," Frances told him. "Light chop below eight thousand, five hundred feet."

He quirked ears warmed by glaring sunlight. "Uh, I have broken clouds, Agincourt, and light chop below eighty-five hundred."

"Understood. Commander Ray, we are turning to 3-5-5 degrees and sending aircraft to confirm your identity. Remain on your current heading until you're aligned. You're cleared for a descent to two thousand feet. Mind that chop, commander."

"Forty degrees, descending to two thousand." They rode the descent like it was made of silk, and he began to keep his eyes peeled for any sign of activity on the water's surface. Glinting metal from above the horizon caught his attention first: two dots that quickly resolved into a pair of silver-winged fighters, slicing a tight curve that brought them around, one off each of his wings.

These had the graceful nose and long canopy of his Messerschmitt. And the cannons. And the twin engines. But: "That's the best they can do, eh?" Its pilot, asking over the radio, didn't sound very impressed. "Jerry's cast-offs?"

"Well, not quite. New materials, so they're light enough for zeppelins. And fifty percent more power. It's not too bad..."

"Fifty percent?" the man scoffed. Ray heard the roar of turbojets winding up off to his left side, and the fighter there pulled away, accelerating into an effortless climb, rocking the smaller plane in the turbulence of its exhaust.

"Focus on your mission," the Agincourt chided.

While the first plane tried to get back into position, its mate called in. "Control, your RADAR contact is a solitary 1-10, just like they promised. Ah, say again: Baker-Fox 1-1-0, probably a George or Sugar. Commonwealth roundel with 'Able-Charlie-Able Savannah' written aft of it, tail-code Peter-King-7-7-4. Two crew. The pilot's waving at us."

"And no company?"

"Negative, control. They're alone."

"Then please: escort them in."

At last, he spied the Agincourt, alone in the ocean. The design was too new for his recognition guides, but seemed to take the form of a long trimaran, topped by a flight deck without any visible superstructure. She was obviously built to move quickly, and taking full advantage of it.

Indeed, if anything she seemed to be moving faster as he came near. "We show you as on course. Turn to a heading of 3-5-5, and reduce your speed to one hundred and twenty knots. Please confirm you have the carrier in sight, commander."

"Left, 3-5-5. Speed 1-20. I have a visual on you." At least, its growing wake was unmistakeable. Trying to focus on it, though, gave Ray a bit of a headache. Its hulls seemed to slope oddly to the water, and the wake itself didn't quite appear to originate where he expected it to. "What the hell is that thing?" he asked Frances on the cockpit radio. "I've never seen a ship like that."

"And you didn't see it before they saw you. For a spy, commander, you should be more observant."

Yeah, yeah. He didn't bother replying. She had a point, sort of, but even 'for a spy'--and a pilot--he relied on his training, and being able to anticipate the way an aircraft carrier behaved. This was not that: he considered his bafflement entirely warranted.

"Two miles. Expect a steady 9-0 knot headwind. Check your gear and flaps, and continue your approach."

He wasn't comfortable lowering the flaps more than a single notch, and one paw stayed on the throttles in case he had to abandon the landing. The Meteor off to his right remained fixed, like it had been glued into position and nothing at all was the matter. "Continuing."

"Half a mile. The net is up if you need it, and you're cleared to land. RADAR confirms your closure is 3-0 knots."

Now, finally, he saw what had bothered him. The Agincourt was not, in fact, a trimaran, and more than her central hull was out of the water: so were the downward-canted fins that ran the length of her flight deck. The whole carrier was flying, albeit at an altitude of only a few dozen feet.

Ray drew the throttles back, bringing their speeds closer and closer together, and the Messerschmitt settled so gently he wasn't even aware of it until the webbing of the net still fifty feet in front of him stopped coming any closer, and touching the plane's brakes did nothing. An approaching crewman signaled for him to cut the engines.

"Interesting 'friends,'" he said, in the sudden quiet.

"We've kept busy."

A tug, electric motor humming, positioned them on an elevator that sank smoothly down and into the bustling energy of an active hangar. He jumped to the deck with Frances right behind him, meeting a neatly uniformed officer of the Royal Navy. "The captain wants to see you both. Right this way, if you please."

They followed, leaving the hangar and making their way forward until, finally, portholes once again let in sunlight. Sailors stood aside respectfully, letting them pass. So did the guards outside the captain's office.

Captain McLeod's windows faced faced forward, in the direction of their travel, and behind the otter's back Ray saw that the Agincourt had settled into the water for the moment. "You're dismissed," he told the nameless officer. "Welcome aboard, you two. Your flight was... uneventful?"

"All but the takeoff and landing," the wolf allowed. "It's a hell of a ship you've got."

"We've kept busy." The same thing Frances had said--Ray had to wonder if it was some code he was meant to pick up on, or simple British understatedness. "I thank you for the compliment, though. It's a pleasure to meet you, Commander Ray. Your assistance was invaluable--the Empire will not forget the sacrifice made by your government. And Frankie..." The otter sighed heavily. "We feared the worst. Thank God you were able to escape."

"Commander Ray disabled the Savannah. That said, they're probably still planning to rendezvous with the Emden, off to our south."

"A small flotilla," the wolf clarified, from information he'd seen when reporting aboard the zeppelin. "Three light carriers and two gunships. After taking on supplies from their allies in the Commonwealth, their intent is to harass British shipping in the Caribbean."

"Allies?" McLeod's brow rose. "The Commonwealth is supposed to be neutral."

"Uh-huh. That's why the resupply takes place in international waters. Of course, it's also why I'm flying a license-built German aircraft. Bruning gave them that license, no questions asked--their 'neutrality' is a fiction." Like we've been telling you for years.

His expression became pained, and given his nod Ray wondered if McLeod had made the same argument before. "I suppose we'd best put a stop to the flotilla before it can do any harm. You'll have to stay grounded for the sortie, commander, but you're free to leave when our planes return and it's safe to do so. Acceptable?"

"Of course, sir."

"Then we'll find you quarters. You too, Frankie. I'm sorry things went so bloody pear-shaped for you in Atlanta."

The badger unfolded a piece of paper, stuffed in the oversized bomber jacket. It was her ration card; she handed it to McLeod. "Technical details of the encryption device, straight from our contact. Unfortunately, I was only able to copy half of the codebook, but... the professor thinks it'll be enough for the boys in the lab. You can read microdot, can't you?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." McLeod's eyes widened, in spite of his station. He took the card, nodding far more enthusiastically. "When I'm off-shift, Miss Kinyon, you're getting a toast. Count on it. Ah... you'll be invited, too, of course, commander."

Before that, though, was the sortie McLeod planned, to which Ray was expressly not invited. He waited in the stateroom they provided: small, and spartan, but at least relatively clean. He set to work on a report, for when he could make his way back to friendly territory.

That was all but done, and he was trying to think of any information he could add about the Savannah, when two quick raps preceded the opening of the room's door. On the other side was a familiar badger. "Commander Ray. Good afternoon."

"Afternoon. Not helping plan the sortie?"

"It's done." Frances had found a change of clothes, and once again looked appreciably civilian in a demure skirt and blouse, but he imagined she'd been integral to the preparation despite that appearance. "They're waiting for approval. I thought I'd use the opportunity to... see how you were getting along."

"I've kept busy, as you all apparently say it." He shut his notebook. "You?"

The badger stepped inside, closing the hatch behind her. "A lengthy debrief. I left the details of your... interrogation methods out of it, if it matters to you."

"I thought it was common knowledge. What did Sarah tell you about me, anyway?"

"That you could be relied on. Trusted to finish whatever it was you started." But, having said that, her eyes narrowed. "She also told me that you were dangerous."

"Really? She said you were, too. Oh..." He savored the badger's brief look of surprise genuinely. "You didn't know? When she turned down the mission and asked me to go instead."

"Asked you?"

"Yes. She'd been recommended. Perhaps she appealed to have a less valuable asset burned in rescuing you." He clicked his teeth, and kept his lip curled for the grin that followed. "Perhaps something else. She did give me a hint or two on techniques. I admit I didn't expect it to happen so quickly, but..."

"That traitor..."

"We go very far back. How do you know her, anyway?"

"None of your business."

But he'd seen her eyes flick--if only for a moment--to the hatch. As if she'd been checking that it was closed. As if... well, but that had been clear since the moment she came to visit in the first place. Robin growled, and pressed the badger against the door with his paw around her throat. "Try again."

"No."

He squeezed until her breath was a strained wheeze, and she started to quiver. "How do you know her, Frankie?"

"Don't call--" her words choked off as he tightened his grip, held it iron-firm until her tongue lolled and she rasped: "Istanbul..."

"The boat heist?"

He cocked his head, and when curiosity momentarily loosened his fingers the badger wrenched herself free. She aimed a kick at him--he spun, absorbing its energy, missing her paws before they were able to seize him. The pair grappled, fighting for any advantage. It was with a fierce snarl from her that Robin found himself pinned, the thin mattress of the room's bunk at his back. "I said it's none of your business."

His foot sought the floor, and the push was hard and sudden enough to knock her off balance. He rolled the badger, holding her down with the weight of his body. One of her arms was trapped beneath her; as the other flailed he grabbed her by the wrist, bringing it to a halt. "You don't decide that."

Frances struggled, jerking her shoulders in an attempt to wrench her arm free. She bared teeth, growling her heavy pants as she fought. "Says who, mutt?"

The wolf--purebred wolf, at that--leaned on her, forearm pressed into her throat until he could almost feel her racing heartbeat. "I do. You understand that?" He crushed the muffled snarl from her that he got in answer. "Say 'yes,' bitch. The next thing you say is 'yes.'"

He could only barely hear the hissed word, when it finally came. He relaxed and she gasped deeply, filling her aching lungs. "Fine. I was--I was on the--backup team. Happy?" She spat that at him, and it was almost possible to miss the grin lurking behind the badger's sharp teeth.

But Robin, like her, was trained for such things. "Don't lie to me," he warned. "Lie to me and we'll skip the questions and keep going."

"Who's lying?"

"I picked that team myself. Didn't pick you. Not then, but..."

"But?"

His fingers slipped the lowest button of her blouse open. "Things change."

The badger's eyes flashed, and her now-freed paw went for his, pushing him away. Robin grunted, drove the breath from the woman with a shove of the arm still holding her down, and used the window of opportunity to grab the fabric and pull until it tore.

Frances barked a guttural oath, squirming as his claws raked her side. He shifted, mindful not to release her, until their muzzles were level and his eyes met her sharp glare. "No." His command was low; rumbling. "You're mine now. Mine." A rough squeeze to her breast accented the word.

The grope distracted her, at least long enough for Robin to work his legs free of his clothes. He was almost between her legs when she recovered her wits, bending her knee in a kick hampered by the little leverage she'd been afforded. Then again, it was the thought that counted: she'd seen the flash in the wolf's stare by the hesitant flick of her ears.

And to follow the threat up he wedged his own knee in, forcing her legs apart against the useless resistance of her straining muscles. Her skirt rode up her thighs as he sank between them, inching her more and more exposed. Then the wolf's cocktip met fabric-covered warmth and, gasping, Frances's stance weakened. "What'd I say?" he muttered. "Mine."

He searched beneath her bunched skirt until his fingers took hold of her sodden panties. Pliable enough to catch his claw on, but not so loose to stay in place if he pushed them aside--and anyway, she'd said something to him.

His eyes narrowed: "What?"

"Prove it."

One hard, quick jerk and they both felt, rather than heard, the cloth rend. Robin pushed forward the moment he slid into position, and he didn't stop until the heavy plunge had claimed her completely. Frances tensed, trembled; shuddered on the long, thick inches stuffed hilt-deep in her drenched cunt.

A less dangerous agent, a gentleman agent--an imperceptive agent--would've allowed her time to adjust to him, but Robin was on to the next stroke at once. Strong, full thrusts pounded the stout badger's squirming frame between the thin cot and the snarling wolf above her.

Squirming turned into erratic bucks, her legs jerking to either side of his pumping hips. Robin couldn't tell any more if she was still struggling for effect, or because her body would permit her nothing else. Perhaps the second: the gasp when he rammed all the way inside was too raw to turn into any kind of oath. He ground against her--his stiff, twitching cock nudging deep, tugging on her soft, slick walls--and her eyes rolled back.

He did that again, and again, and his body swung steadily into a matching rhythm. Less of his shaft pulled free, and the hard lunges that drove them together became firmer, and more demanding. He'd left the badger's paw free: long, sharp claws hooked his rear, and his brutal pace only tightened her grasp.

It hurt, but he was too focused to stop now. There was pressure on the base of his knot when he hilted--that meant it was big enough to make itself known, and that meant the finish wasn't far off. He was more shoving than anything else now, thrusting deep, testing the way his length caught if he tried to pull out.

A handful of those strokes told Frances what was going on, and that--finally--put some fight in her. Her back arched with kicks that were, if misaimed, plenty strong. Robin hauled his voice up from feral depths. "Yeah? First knot after all, then."

Another kick. He took her by the throat, squeezed, and held himself still when he rammed her. Let the badger feel him--every bit of the wolf wedged tight in her, and the throb of his knot stretching her even further. Let her know what was coming as her cunt relaxed enough to let him slide free and he started to work himself back in at once.

Her legs bunched up, and her claws must've been drawing blood, but--"don't worry." He grunted the words, which spilled into an untidy growl with the squelch of his canine shaft asserting itself. "You'll take it, bitch."

Pulling out was a chancy proposition. He tried anyway, the effort of it pushing his paw harder into the badger. Frances choked, breath strained and desperate as her body reluctantly gave him up... and when he let up, that brought an urgent shake to her head. No words--but her gaze was wild and pleading.

He gripped tight, until even the wheezing cut off, and focused on the pressure slowly enveloping his knot. She was taut around him, snug to the point of aching. He shifted his hips from side to side, forcing every last bit of slack, and for a glorious half-second he could sense her yielding, the ease of entry building in a rush until they crashed together, the badger's pussy utterly claimed.

Her eyes rolled back as he took the last few thrusts to his peak, feeling her tense at his rough, unsteady humping, and a pulsing around his cock. He bucked to a halt, and a satisfied groan that announced his release, the thick gush of wolf cum hot and wet and gratifyingly deep in his conquest.

The pulsing shifted to rhythmic clenching, taking every warm splash of seed he emptied in her. A convulsive tremor seized her, and then another--dimly it occurred to him that she might well have been strong enough to throw him off the whole damn time--until she finally batted at his forearm, and he let go of her windpipe.

And she took a deep breath, releasing it with a breathy moan whose intensity startled him given the close confines. When she did it again he put his paw over her mouth, and she whimpered through her nose for another full minute.

At last she was calm enough that he lifted his paw away. He needed it to support himself, anyway, propped up and looking down at Frances while her gasping finally lost its ragged edge. "Maps."

"Maps?" he asked.

"I did the harbor survey. Almost..." She swallowed to clear her raw throat. "I almost talked to you after the extraction. Sarah warned me you were dangerous then, too."

"And you didn't listen?"

"You know..." Frances rolled sharply to tug her other arm free. Sharp claws drummed along his shoulder, and she smirked. "You really do need to be more observant."