Vomiting within such a confined can of a boat was out of the question for a Captain in Her Majesty’s Service. But, for a printer and news reporter, the act of heaving’ ones stomach contents into a bucket, thoughtfully provided with a lid, seemed to provide no shame. Richard had slept deeply until the calm, even serenity of underwater propulsion was interrupted by their tiny tubular world bobbing like a top upon the waves of a wrestless sea. The first sounds that greeted him were the vomiting in tandem of the printer and reporter.

Then came the kindly touch of a big hand. Richard opened his eyes to see the broad face of Bing-Ham regarding him with an urgent smile. That broad face and thin mustache and point of beard offered no contrast to those dark thoughtful eyes, the visage presenting something of a concord of learned curiosity.

“Sir,” said he in a voice as soft as the hand was big, “you are requested upon the tower. We have been at sea three days now.”

“Three days?” he erupted in a scandal of shame, not as shameful as the puking of the two newspaper men, but quite the equivalent for one who fancied himself so vigilant.

“The U-Boat surgeon sedated you for graduated observation, Commander Levsky as well. In the past, those who have faced the Phoenixiathan and survived have suffered mental illness, dementia, even violent insanity.”

‘My ego will not even consider the possibility!’

As if reading his mind through his face, Bing-Ham smiled as Richard became suddenly concerned with Levsky, “Is Commander—”

“Yes, Sir. He sent for you. He was kept under observation for a briefer period. Due to the proximity of your encounter, caution tinged the doctor’s judgment. You are needed above. Your men have already cleaned and dressed you.”

Seeing the great emerald neck feather in the cargo netting next to his bunk, Richard, pleased that his boots were on, grasped the thing and held it to his heart as the boat rocked and a poor soul down the way wretched. On his feet in a fury of urgency tinged with the shame of oversleeping twice now on this expedition, if under the influence—which was no excuse—he was bout Her Majesty’s business.

In less than a minute, this rocking world being so small, Richard was ascending the thirteen rungs of the ladder to the tiny deck above, Bing-Ham behind him, the quill bitterly gripped in his teeth, the broad feather silk-like brushing the epaulette above the useless limb taken by a dastard low-velocity Somali matchlock…

That bitterness was washed away by the look on her face, turning as she did between Levsky and Donetz. The German captain completed the military roster on this tiny deck, all four scholars now present. Svetlana appeared beautiful in her sky blue Air Service uniform, sadness for the loss of so many fellow service men, tinged with a real relief to see Richard.

This quite took him by surprise as he numbly presented the emerald feather to the Czarina.

“Thank you, Captain,” she spoke as she thought more tenderly in his mind, ‘Thank God you are whole.’

Turning away, the both of them, to defray any appearance of impropriety, a cold cruel, beautiful view opened to him. Sventlana passing the feather down to Hilda, who was now creeping up the ladder, whispered, “Dear Hilda, please place this in my rifle case, and do shoulder the rifle please. The feather needs to be studied, and more importantly concealed from its kind, who might be able to sense it in some mundane way, by sight at least.”

The women and the feather were soon forgotten, which brought some sense of expeditionary pride back to him. He began to wonder insecurely, ‘Where is Color Sergeant Major,’ and this brought two strange effects.

Sventlana pretended not to know his thought, with a scrunching of her pretty blue eyes. And Bing-Ham, feigning not to be privy to his thoughts, matter of factly noted, “Your Sergeant, Sir, is organizing your kit. The Admiral assures us we will soon ride at anchor.”

The man winked, with a face of friendly conspiracy, and pointed to to the towering ice cliffs facing the swelling bay, a deep dark water inhabited by bobbing ice bergs many like small mountains, others islands.

The cold summer wind bit his nose and he asked, “Might I ask where?”

The Admiral, who had, through a set of binoculars, been examining the ice cliffs that made a hundreds foot high beach wall before the towering white peaks behind it, nodded to the Captain. That stern officer, much shorter than his Admiral, broke open a hard octagonal case, which contained six spy glasses. These were handed around to the four scholars, Richard and Levsky.

He looked to Svetlana, wondering if she would like to use his spy glass. To this she smiled demurely, “Oh, thank you Captain. You so obviously serve a Queen. I have already seen it.”

Zephyr narrated in his droning dead pan, so languid for such a prying mind, “Czarina Svetlana located the Phoenixopolis through years of painstaking remote viewing.”

Gentlemen no more, but eager children of curiosity, the men put glasses to eyes as Svetlana pointed with her pretty finger, narrating with her sky-like voice, “Note the current that pushes the calved ice flow clear in that inlet to the southwest, at two of the clock.”

They affixed their gazes there and Richard saw through his open eye on the scope a river pouring into the natural harbor outward and upward from a tunnel of ice.

She continued, “They cannot top those mountains due to their weight, the thinness of the air, and their relatively slight wing span. They access our geographical world through that tunnel, out of which they swim, sunning themselves on the ice bergs like so many diabolical ducks, then set forth among us, only when necessary. They do most of their work through telepathy, working through the molded minds of men, dominating our theographical world.”

Her voice then struck a quivering chord, “We should dive, Admirable, please.”

With those words a shudder rent the U-Boat, a shudder that had been presaged in her quiver. A scree tore the air as a great emerald head soared up out of the water, over the tower, a terrible talon tearing off the German scholar’s head in a shower of blood. Bedlam now ruled. Richard made to draw his sword and it was not there, neither was his pistol on the other hip.

The U-Boat Captain was giving orders through a horn as the others descended in order, scholars first and military men last. She was clutching his knee in a shivering half swoon at his feet, both her hand wrapped about his mid leg, under the dubious shelter of his armless shoulder.

Levsky drew the Admiral’s pistol and the Captain’s, handing the latter arm to Richard, both of them standing ready as the others descended.

The deck listed forward as a great bird alighted there with metal grating talons. It’s eyes were fixed on the Captain, who began bleeding from the nose and ears and collapsed before them.

Levsky emptied his pistol expertly, ruffling the great green breast feathers.

He then pried Svetlana from Richard’s leg gently, speaking Russian, and took her down the ladder as Richard slowly squeezed off rounds into the face of the terror, half of them skidding off the armored beak.

The gun empty, the bird stalking close, Richard tucked the hot barrel into his belt, stepped down the ladder, grabbed the inside of the hatch and pulled it close above him as he climbed down with the aide of his left hand—which failed him again…

And there he hung, righting himself with braced ankles as he screwed the hatch shut and the sound of terrible munching upon the two dead Germans above competed with the din of diving sirens and the clanging on the haul of some great beast under the dark water.