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“The Zeroth Protocol” by Huskyteer

A new recruit to the elite SEALPOINT special forces squad tackles her first mission with cat puns galore.

Today’s story is “The Zeroth Protocol” by friend-of-the-fireplace Huskyteer, which will be read for you by the author herself. Huskyteer is an Ursa Major and Cóyotl Award-winning author of short stories. You can find more of her work at huskyteer.co.uk.

Transcript
Speaker:

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.

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I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

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and Today’s story is

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“The Zeroth Protocol”

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by friend-of-the-fireplace Huskyteer,

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which will be read for you by the author herself.

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Huskyteer an Ursa Major and Cóyotl Award-winning author of short stories.

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You can find more of her work

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at huskyteer.co.uk.

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“The Zeroth Protocol”

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written and read for you

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by Huskyteer “Ripclaw!”

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In the confined, metallic space of the midget sub,

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Ma’am’s Siamese yowl rang and boomed.

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“Ma’am!” “Tiger!” “Yes, ma’am!”

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“Chocolate Mousse!”

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“Ma’am, yes ma’am!” “Perkins!”

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“Um. I’m here!” Perkins poked out her tongue and licked her nose.

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Both were dry, either from the recycled air or from first-mission nerves.

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The wetsuit prickled against her grey and white fur,

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and its tightness across her chest made it hard to breathe.

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Or was that nerves, too?

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With a commando team of four,

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two crew, plus Ma’am,

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it was so cramped that Perkins was knee to knee with Chocolate Mousse,

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the huge Havana Brown whose ears nearly brushed the rounded ceiling.

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The dim red light used for night running somehow made him look even bigger.

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Perkins herself was a small cat,

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and shrank even smaller under Ma’am’s gaze.

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Four white paws, the only portions of Perkins that protruded from her wetsuit,

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looked as pink as her pads under the red bulbs.

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Self-consciously, she tucked her forepaws under her armpits.

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Ripclaw, the mackerel tabby,

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and Tiger, the marmalade,

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sat still but for the occasional twitch of an ear or whisker,

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intent on the briefing.

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“In a few minutes, we will reach the target area,”

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Ma’am told them. “We are now approaching the entrance to the private harbour where Doctor de Lite’s superyacht is moored.

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The Cat Intelligence Agency has reason to believe

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that de Lite is passing top secret intelligence to our country’s enemies.

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“The Doctor flew out to his yacht today from a conference,” the Siamese continued,

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“where he would have had plenty of opportunity to pick up information,

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and it is known that he brought a large sum of money in banknotes with him.

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It’s vital that we intercept his communications tonight.

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Otherwise, the delicate balance of world power might be upset.”

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The catalyst for a catastophe,

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thought Perkins, whose brain always threw out cat puns when she was nervous.

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“Ripclaw and Tiger will connect a wiretap to de Lite’s private fibre optic cable in the seabed,

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while Perkins and Chocolate Mousse plant a listening device on the hull so we can monitor what’s happening on board.

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“On no account must your presence be detected.

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We’re in international waters, outside our judicature.

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And thanks to his political and business connections,

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de Lite can potentially cause a lot of trouble and embarrassment for us,

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the CIA and the government

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if he finds out he is under investigation.

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He’s a big fish. That’s just a figure of speech,”

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she added hastily,

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as four sets of pupils expanded on reflex.

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Ma’am was one of the original squad of sealpoint Siamese after whom the special forces unit had been named.

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She had carried out countless covert operations,

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the details of which could never be revealed.

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Sapphire eyes glittered in a black, wedge-shaped face

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with a long scar running from cheek to neck.

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Retired from active duty,

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she always insisted on accompanying the recruits she’d licked into shape.

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She was a true hero,

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and it was an honour and a privilege to be in her presence,

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but her briefings did go on a bit.

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A siren announced that they were approaching the harbour mouth,

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where the sub could not penetrate.

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“Kit check! Everyone check the kit next to you.”

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Chocolate Mousse gave Perkins a quick grin as he looked her up and down.

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“Stick with me, kit,”

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he advised, adjusting the collar of her wetsuit so it sat more snugly against her fur.

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“You’ll be OK.” He leaned across to bonk his forehead against hers,

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just hard enough for it to hurt a little,

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the way he’d done throughout their training.

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“Exercise extreme caution,” Ma’am continued.

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“There may be mines in the harbour,

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and you should expect the vessel to be protected against unauthorised access.

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I don’t need to remind you that this is a dangerous mission,

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and it’s possible not all of you will return.

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The submarine will leave in one hour’s time, whether or not you are on it.

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Remember, if your buddy gets in trouble, leave them.

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The mission is all.”

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Perkins looked at Chocolate Mousse.

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They had been through training together and she couldn’t imagine him abandoning her.

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His size and confidence were reassuring,

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as was the familiar brown of his fur:

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it had an expensive, masculine look, like cigars or an old leather sofa.

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He was revoltingly competent at everything,

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and so nice she couldn’t even hate him for it.

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Maybe people behaved differently once the mission got under way.

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Maybe she would herself.

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She was here, after all.

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The smallest recruit in her batch,

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constantly teased for having four left paws,

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but she’d made it when others had failed,

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so Ma’am must have seen something in her.

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Unless it had all been a terrible mistake.

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Whoops. Ma’am was still talking.

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“You four are part of the elite Serving Everywhere,

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Air, Land, Perhaps On Ice, National Team!

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Navy SEALPOINTs!

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And I know you’ll do me proud!”

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The sapphire gaze softened.

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“Remember,” Ma’am said,

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more gently. “You’re the crème de la crème.”

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Perkins licked her lips.

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“Figure of speech, Perkins.” #

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Perkins was the last to exit the sub.

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The airlock chamber filled gradually with cold water,

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chilling her hindpaws in their ungainly flippers and rising until her head was covered,

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the chamber full,

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and the pressure equal with that outside the hull.

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Swallowing to force the air out of her ears,

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she spun the wheel that opened the outer door and swam through into the blackness of the ocean.

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Once in the water, she was as streamlined as an otter.

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She jackknifed into a turn that brought her to the underside of the submarine.

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She could just make out Ripclaw and Tiger,

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paddling off together.

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A stream of bubbles marked where Chocolate Mousse was treading water,

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waiting for her. They could not speak, but he winked behind his mask and grinned around the breathing-tube.

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They moved along the seabed, the water flattening the little cat’s ears against her head

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and plastering her whiskers to her muzzle.

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Schools of small fish flicked out of their way, stirring up the sand as they went.

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Perkins slowed her stroke and her breathing

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so there would be no giveaway bubbles on the surface.

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That was SEALPOINT Protocol Six:

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Stealth. The mouth of the harbour,

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a narrow channel with walls of seaweed-slick stone,

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loomed before them.

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Above the water it was marked by two navigation lights, one red, one green,

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that bobbed on their buoys and made pools on the surface like coloured moons.

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Chocolate Mousse, in the lead,

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pointed into the channel.

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Yes, all right, Perkins thought, I can see that’s where we’re supposed to be going.

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Then she saw the floating sea mines, attached to anchor cables.

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Too deep for a ship’s hull to strike,

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they were a deterrent against attack by submarine…or

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swimmer. Well, Perkins was smaller.

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Less risk for her.

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She brushed past Chocolate Mousse and nosed cautiously into the harbour mouth.

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She moved from side to side and up and down,

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steering a path between the spiked spheres.

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The slightest contact with the tip of a horn and the mine would explode.

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Playing cat and mouse

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among the cat’s cradle of clamped cables.

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That was a good one.

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She’d have to tell Chocolate Mousse, later.

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A painful tug on her tail made her extend her claws and scratch uselessly at the yielding water.

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As she looked round to spit her annoyance at the Havana Brown,

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she saw the looming mine she would have struck in another moment.

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She rolled her body left, spinning over and over.

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In the dark water Perkins couldn’t tell which way was up,

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and it was only the red and green moons of the navigation lights that told her where the surface lay.

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Then they were through the channel

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and into the still waters of the harbour.

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The white hull of the superyacht, lying at anchor, gleamed in the dark sea.

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The waves around it sparkled as they reflected the lighting on deck,

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surrounding the vessel with a glittering halo.

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They would have to be very Protocol Six indeed to get close without being detected.

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The two cats skimmed along the sea bed together,

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using the large rocks that dotted the sand as cover

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and doing their best to look like fish.

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The fish themselves either darted aside or swam up to investigate them.

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An eel longer than Perkins was tall slid past them.

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She flipped upright to give the thing plenty of room,

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and felt something pull at her leg.

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She looked down in a panic

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to see that her flipper was jammed into a crack between two rocks. She jerked her leg free,

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turned in the water and pulled on the flipper with both forepaws, but it wouldn’t budge.

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The situation called for Protocol Fourteen: The Embarrassment Wash,

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but there was no time and the breathing apparatus prevented it.

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She looked round at Chocolate Mousse,

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who shook his head at her in a gesture of affectionate despair.

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The SEALPOINT squad had developed a system of paw signals for swift and clear underwater communication.

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The one Perkins gave Chocolate Mousse

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involved two fingers.

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She kicked her left hindpaw free of the flipper,

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leaving it poked out of the rock like an underwater Excalibur.

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Her swimming speed was reduced,

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and Chocolate Mousse helped her along with a paw in the small of her back.

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They reached the curve of the ship’s hull and cruised alongside,

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looking for a spot to place the listening device.

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A commotion in the water made them both turn.

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Perkins saw a cylindrical shape a good metre in length,

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with a forked tail and a long, narrow jaw full of teeth,

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just in time to tuck her legs under her

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and avoid the jab of its beak.

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Houndfish! They were notoriously vicious, but why would this one attack them?

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Perkins looked at Chocolate Mousse,

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who pointed to her bare hindpaw.

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The brute must have mistaken the white fur and pink pads for a smaller prey fish.

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The houndfish swerved and charged again, heading straight for them.

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Perkins kicked out with her legs and pushed the bigger cat to one side.

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Underwater, the movement happened in slow motion.

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She watched him drift away from her, as she was sent in the opposite direction by the reaction.

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The fish, moving in its natural element, was faster,

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and the beak stabbed at Chocolate Mousse.

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A thin trail of blood, like black ink in the water, spiralled upwards from his arm

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and dispersed. The long fish shot upwards and disappeared in a cloud of froth as it leaped out of the waves.

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Moments later, it crashed back down,

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a harpoon sticking straight through it.

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The two cats pressed their backs to the hull

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and watched the fish sink to the sea bed,

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thrashing as it died.

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Perkins pointed to Chocolate Mousse,

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then to the direction in which the harbour mouth lay, and, beyond, the submarine.

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Clasping his arm with his other paw, the Havana shook his head.

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He’d be no use with one arm out of action,

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and the blood might attract other predators.

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Time for Protocol Three:

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Look Big. Perkins arched her back,

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flattened her ears, and extended her claws.

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The big Havana meekly turned tail and paddled away,

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disappearing into the dark water.

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The killing of the houndfish meant there was someone keeping watch on deck.

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With luck, they would assume that the ship’s lights had attracted the fish, rather than seek out another cause for the disturbance.

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Perkins withdrew the listening device from the pouch on her weighted belt

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and placed it against the hull,

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where its magnetic base locked it into position.

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Oh. No, it didn’t. It fell away from the hull, which, Perkins now realised, was constructed from wood,

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not metal. She tried to grab it as it fell,

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fumbled it and knocked her oxygen tank against the side of the vessel.

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The listening device sank to the seabed and disappeared among the pebbles.

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Fine. She’d dive down and find it.

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She still had a little time. She would not screw up her first mission.

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She… A spotlight blazed into life.

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Perkins was sure she could feel her pupils shrink to slits under its blinding glare as the beam caught and held her.

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Blinking, she rose to the surface

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and raised her forepaws above her head.

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She’d screwed up her first mission. #

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Perkins stood on the polished deck of the vessel,

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dripping onto the antique teak.

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Her belt and breathing apparatus had been taken from her by one of the ship’s crew,

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a collection of tough-looking moggies dressed in orange catsuits.

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The superyacht was a twin-hull catamaran,

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with a cathead protruding from the bows and a catwalk connecting the deck with the bridge. There was a small seaplane in a catapult, and a Mauser submachine gun mounted in the stern.

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The part of her brain that revelled in cat puns was having a ball.

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The rest of Perkins, not so much.

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Perkins clung to the faint hope that Ma’am and the CIA were wrong.

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This could be the superyacht of a perfectly ordinary millionaire with a bit of a thing for uniforms and a frankly unsporting attitude towards fishing.

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“Do you know what a

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cat o’ nine tails is?”

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She stared at Dr de Lite.

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The reclusive millionaire was a Turkish Van,

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wearing a white linen suit over flowing white fur.

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His ears and his magnificently fluffy tail were deep red.

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He matched the white paint and the brass and wooden fittings of his vessel,

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visible now the sun was coming up.

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“My name is Perkins.

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I’m a Navy SEALPOINT.

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That’s all I’m going to tell you.”

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Dr de Lite flicked the cat o’nine tails.

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It cracked against the deck,

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and a dent appeared in the perfect wood.

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“You’ll tell me more than that, and beg me for the chance, once I get started.

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But that would be such a pity.

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Pretty little kitty like you.

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Come.” Perkins considered instigating Protocol Thirty-Five:

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Dealing with Sexual Harassment in the Workplace,

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but her life was on the line.

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She’d go along with it for now and fill the forms in later.

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Meekly, she followed de Lite to the upper level of the deck.

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This was a circular construction with chairs and loungers surrounding a central sunken jacuzzi.

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Tropical fish swam in a tank,

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and bottles arranged along the curved bar cast patches of red, blue or tawny light on the deck where the rising sun shone through them.

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“Make yourself comfortable,”

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offered de Lite. Perkins realised that if she did,

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she would leave a wet patch on the silk cushions.

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Good. She curled up in a chair.

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de Lite stood with his back to her as he mixed a cocktail,

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but Perkins was sure that if she made a move,

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the Turkish Van would detect it and turn on her.

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“Now, let’s see how your friends are getting on.”

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He placed the drink at her side,

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picked up a remote and pressed a button.

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The glass of the fish tank darkened to opaque,

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and a fuzzy picture appeared in the centre.

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Perkins recognised it as the feed from an underwater camera.

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Two shapes swam into the picture.

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The figures were blurred, but Perkins recognised the white tip of Ripclaw’s tail,

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and the way Tiger’s ears wiggled when he swam.

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“I knew all of you were there from the moment you entered the harbour,”

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purred de Lite. “Quite the duel you had with that houndfish before I intervened.”

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On the screen, the two cats investigated the sea bed,

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searching for the communications cable.

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Tiger found it, and scrabbled the sand away to expose a length of braided fibres.

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Ripclaw, suspended in the water,

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pulled the wire cutters from her belt and swam across to join him.

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The film had no sound, but, for Perkins,

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it was as if she could hear the explosion that ripped the picture apart the moment cutters touched cable.

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The screen went white,

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became a mess of swirling sand,

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and cut out.

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The fish reappeared,

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swimming behind their glass as if nothing had happened.

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Ripclaw and Tiger

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were gone. “And so, Peewee, you are all alone.”

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de Lite draped his tail across his lap and began to stroke it.

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The tip twitched.

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“But that’s the SEALPOINT way, isn’t it? ‘If

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your buddy gets in trouble, leave them.

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The mission is all.’”

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“How do you know about that?”

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Perkins blurted out.

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“And my name is Perkins,” she added.

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“I know about that because I was the one who got left.”

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His tail lashed, and he stroked it into submission.

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“But I wasn’t dead.

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I was rescued. By the other side.

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They paid me well for the information I could give them;

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enough to build a new identity.”

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“That’s terrible,” Perkins said in spite of herself.

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“Thank you. I’m fine now.”

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He blinked his orange eyes

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and twisted his head to take in the opulence that surrounded them.

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“You could do the same.”

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“Never!” “Your other friend has already left you.”

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“He was hurt! I made him go!”

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“And when he gets back to the sub—if he makes it

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—he and everyone else aboard will sail off into the sunset without you.

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Only to be destroyed by a depth charge from my seaplane.”

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He spread a nautical chart across the table

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and stabbed at it with a claw.

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“C4, C5. Sank your submarine.”

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He looked up at the catapult and raised a paw.

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There was a puff of white smoke from the seaplane’s engine,

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and the propeller began to spin.

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“We’ll adjourn to the bridge to watch.

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The explosion should be quite spectacular.”

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No. Her buddies might leave her, but she would never leave them.

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Not Ma’am, who had bullied and coaxed her through the training when she felt like throwing in the towel.

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Certainly not Chocolate Mousse,

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who’d been with her every step of the way and always forgiven her clumsiness,

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which he’d often had to cover up.

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That’s right. She was clumsy.

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Perkins reached for her glass; knocked it to the deck.

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Politely, de Lite bent down to pick it up for her,

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and she aimed a karate chop at the back of his neck.

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de Lite dodged the blow at the last moment,

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rolling to one side and springing up with a yowl.

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His fur bristled under the white linen suit,

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now rumpled from the fall,

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and his tail bottlebrushed.

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Perkins took a step back,

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stumbled, and fell against the fish tank.

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The glass shattered, releasing a wall of water.

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Perkins was knocked down by the force of it

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and found herself sliding across the wet wood as fish flopped around her.

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Her legs dropped down into space and she clung from the curved edge of the upper deck by her claws.

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Below her, she heard shouts from the crew.

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She pulled herself back up, leaving clawmarks in the wood,

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and sidled around the upper deck,

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keeping the broken glass of the fish tank between her and de Lite.

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“It’s useless. All your friends are dead,

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or soon will be. You’ve got nowhere to run, Pickles.”

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“It’s Perkins,” she spat,

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and vaulted over the rail.

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“After her!” yelled de Lite,

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sending up a spray of water as he skidded across the deck in pursuit.

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“And save my fish!” he added.

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“They were expensive!”

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Perkins dropped down onto the catwalk.

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Her aim was to get to the seaplane and stop it somehow

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—beyond that, she wasn’t clear.

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Her own escape was less important than the submarine’s getaway.

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Something whined past her muzzle.

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Of course, the crew would be armed.

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And of course, they’d all be terrible shots.

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She flattened her ears and pelted

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towards the plane.

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“Launch the seaplane! Launch it!”

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The Van’s paws waved in frantic signals.

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Running in a low crouch,

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Perkins sprang for the left-hand door of the aircraft just as the catapult hurled it skywards.

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The takeoff knocked the breath out of her.

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Eyes shut and streaming, she clung on as the plane lurched into the air,

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its trajectory thrown off-kilter by the open door and the drag added by even a small cat.

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She’d knock the pilot out with a karate chop

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(it was sure to work this time)

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and then…then they’d crash into the sea, she supposed.

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Her lips pulled back from her teeth by the wind,

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eyes almost shut,

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she hauled herself into the cockpit.

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A brown paw closed around both her wrists.

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“Going my way?” grinned Chocolate Mousse.

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He pulled Perkins on board and closed the door.

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She fell across his lap to sprawl in the red leather passenger seat,

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too shocked to speak.

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“You did such a good job of distracting everyone that I was able to sneak on board and overpower the pilot.

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I was planning to fly low along the ship and scoop you up,

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but you took matters into your own paws.”

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Chocolate Mousse’s own paws looked strong and capable at the controls.

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He’d slapped a field dressing over the wound in his arm,

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and it looked as if he’d somehow had time to brush his fur.

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It was a relief to have him back in control.

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Grinning, he turned to headbonk her,

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just as a gust of wind tilted the light aircraft.

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His temple struck the instrument panel, and he slumped forward.

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The plane, with several pounds of chiselled and sleek-furred cat chest pressing again the stick,

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nosedived towards the waiting sea.

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Perkins leaned across, shoved him back against his seat and grasped the stick.

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The plane swooped wildly left and right before she managed to level the wings.

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Chocolate Mousse’s head bounced against her shoulder, and he moaned.

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“It’s okay,” she told him.

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“I’ve got this.” Below her, the crew were orange blobs,

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running from the aircraft’s shadow as it crossed the deck.

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As Perkins watched,

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three of them worked to set up a machine

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gun in the prow and train it on the seaplane.

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If only, thought Perkins, doing a

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cat scan of the instruments,

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there was a big switch marked—

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RELEASE DEPTH CHARGE

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She slammed the pink pad of her paw down on it.

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The plane kicked upwards, relieved of the weight of the explosive,

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and what looked like a barrel tumbled towards the deck.

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A depth charge is designed to detonate underwater,

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creating a wave of pressure so powerful it can destroy a submarine.

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As it turned out, the high explosive involved was pretty effective above water, too.

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The superyacht vanished beneath a cloud of smoke and flames.

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The plane rocked,

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and Perkins could feel the heat of the explosion. “A1, B1, C1, D1!”

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she yelled from the window.

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“Sank your battleship!”

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A ripping sound and puffs of smoke told her she’d lingered too long,

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forgetting both the Mauser and Protocol Twenty-Nine:

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Never Stick Around To Gloat.

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Her aircraft became sluggish and unresponsive

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(much like Chocolate Mousse, still draped across her shoulder),

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drifting down and to starboard no matter how hard she hauled on the controls.

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She glanced at the cockpit clock.

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The submarine would be long gone.

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The seaplane hit the water,

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bounced twice, and began to sink.

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Perkins extracted herself from her seatbelt and the cockpit in one desperate wriggle

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—Protocol Five: Getting Out Of Tight Spaces

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—and shot to the surface.

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She dog-paddled,

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water in her ears and Chocolate Mousse in her arms.

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She wasn’t entirely sure in which direction land lay,

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and she was pretty sure she wouldn’t make it even if she did.

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The waves surged,

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washing over her head,

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and something black and pointed appeared in the water,

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heading her way. “Yay,” she muttered to herself.

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“Sharks.” First the conning tower,

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then the hull of the submarine broke the surface.

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The hatch popped open, and there was Ma’am,

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a lifebelt in her paws,

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shouting some urgent instruction.

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“What?” called Perkins.

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“I said: look what the cat dragged in!” #

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“Well, Perkins,” Ma’am said,

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turning away from the periscope,

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“that was…” A catalogue of disasters? Perkins wondered.

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“Not quite what you were told to do, and it’s going to take some covering up,

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but I suppose it did the job,”

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the other cat concluded.

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Perkins took Ma’am’s place and peeked through the eyepiece.

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Among the floating wreckage, much of which was still ablaze,

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the crew floated in their lifejackets.

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There was no sign of Doctor de Lite,

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and Perkins suspected that, since Turkish Vans are strong swimmers,

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he had already struck out for the shore.

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She hoped his tropical fish would enjoy their freedom.

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The rest of the SEALPOINT squad sat in their jump seats along the inner wall of the submarine:

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Chocolate Mousse, his head and arm bandaged,

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Ripclaw and Tiger.

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Perkins noticed that Ripclaw’s brown hindpaw was touching Tiger’s orange one.

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“You can stop staring,”

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Ripclaw suggested.

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“Sorry.” Perkins felt her ears turn

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pink. “It’s just that…I

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saw you blow up.”

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“The water absorbed the force of the explosion,” Tiger explained.

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“My mask was torn off

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so we had to do buddy breathing all the way back.”

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From the smug way he and Ripclaw were looking at each other,

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neither of them had minded.

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“Sorry I messed up,”

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Chocolate Mousse said into her ear.

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“You? You never...oh. I suppose you did.”

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“Thanks, kit. Exactly the words of comfort I needed.”

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Perkins grinned and touched her forehead to his

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—gently, given he was a probable concussion case.

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“Perkins? A word.” Ma’am beckoned her towards the rear of the midget sub.

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There was little privacy on board,

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but the Siamese kept her head close to the other cat’s

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and her voice to a low purr.

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“I know I was supposed to put the mission first, but I

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—“ “You did fine.” Ma’am looked over the top of Perkins’s head

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to where the rest of the team sat together,

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and her tail gave a satisfied flick.

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“We can’t order you to look after your buddy when it would mean endangering your own life and jeopardising the mission.

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But we know most of you will do it anyway.

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Because that’s the calibre of cat we select.

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It’s the zeroth protocol,

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if you will.” Ma’am fingered the scar on her neck.

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“Sometimes,” she added,

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“you try your best to save them

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and you’re not able to.”

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Perkins felt her pupils widen in the red gloom.

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“Ma’m. Were you Dr. de Lite’s buddy?”

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she asked. “We were a good team, once,” Ma’am said.

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“I’m glad you didn’t kill the old rogue, in spite of everything.

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With his ship gone and his payoff in the drink,

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it’ll take him a while to start causing trouble again.

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But don’t worry—I imagine there’ll be plenty for you to do in the meantime.”

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She pulled the periscope down,

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and the submarine with its cargo of SEALPOINTs

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set off towards home and the next mission.

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This was “The Zeroth Protocol”

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by Huskyteer, read for you by the author herself.

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You can find more stories on the web at thevoice.

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thevoice.dog, or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

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Thank you for listening

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to The Voice of Dog

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About the Podcast

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The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

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About your host

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Khaki