“Come on Jizzer, let’s face it, we want to see their superstar President not some wannabe backup.”
“You are preaching to the choir, Blow.”
Wheels out, the big Boeing descended rapidly.
Jim Borland took a swig out of his rum laced coffee. It took the edge off while adding an edge.
“Trondheim, are you there?” asked Jim.
While the oceans were Trondheim’s Nutella and chicken, the Barents Sea was their bread and butter. Being a playground/ scrapyard/ home ground for the Russian Navy, the Barents Sea Division had never failed to beat Wall Street expectations, in forty five years.
Thus, anytime a jet disappeared over an ocean,
This new job was in Havana bay.
“Trondheim are you there?” repeated CIA’s Jim Borland. It was time to put an end to these newfangled KGB wannabes.
“Langley, we got a problem.” Of course they had a problem. Jim shook his head in disgust.
“It’s the puny balloons isn’t it? I knew it. It sounded too good to be true and here we are…”
“Langley, the balloons are fine.”
“Then what the fuck is it Trondheim?”
“Submarine traffic. We aren’t sure which one it is?”
“Fuck’s sake Trondheim, I sent you guys all the sonar signatures. Just run it down and match it.”
“Langley… there are too many subs.”
“Too many… what are you talking about? We just scouted that cesspit.”
“Well, our sonar has gone bonkers. We are reading at least 2 Akula Class subs, 3 Ohio Class, 2 Los Angeles Class… 2 Jin Class, 1 Yuan Class… 1 Arihant Class… 1 Yasen Class…”
“Fuck, how many subs are there?”
“More than a dozen.”
“All within Havana Bay?”
“All within Havana Bay.”
“What the fuck are they doing?”
“Eavesdropping maybe. But frankly with all the pinging I just don’t see how anyone can listen.”
“Juvenile dipshits. This ain’t the time or place to grope each other. Isn’t that why we got the Barents Sea… must be the Rear Ass Admirals… the groping and ass grabbing never gets old for those pervs.”
Jim Borland pondered a bit before making his next move. Someone had to stop Russia and this Primakov guy from pulling off these fast stunts. With Undersecretary McAllister’s support he had gotten the go ahead from his bosses up the chain. The Pentagon after a lot of hand wringing had acquiesced and given up the junkyard bound
“Langley… we got a feed of the transmission between the subs… seems like trash talk… you want to listen in?”
“Why the hell not? Play it.”
“Ok, here goes…
Jim Borland swore, “See? This is the type of shit these bums specialize at. I never trust these submerged things you know… Once they go down there, lord knows what they are up to. I mean, come on, a hundred, two hundred dudes stuck together for months in an airtight tube… nothing good can come out of that… you see what I am saying…”
“Oh, we get it Langley. Half our business is because of these dude filled subs.”
“That’s why you know, I have been a strong advocate of unmanned subs. Hopefully, this AutoCaptain will catch on.”
Without manned subs, there won’t be any sunk subs. Without sunk subs, Trondheim would have to revert to the low margin treasure hunts in the Atlantic. Without hefty margins, how could they maintain the crayon colored, triangle headed row houses of Trondheim?
