“But the
“You know what Langley, our primary worksite is in the Barents, where unlike Havana Bay the water is cold… you know how it is… lower temperature… less pressure… volume… entropy…”
“Entropy?”
“Plus the AutoCaptain was your thing. I told you the 1GHz wasn’t gonna be enough. It was your job to put the
Jim Borland stopped listening to the Norwegian troll as his cell phone chimed. An email from IT. What did those poindexters want? His
Ping.
His
“Fuck.”
Jim Borland went to his bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. He found the Adderall. He popped one and lifted the ceramic cover of the toilet tank. After flushing the water, he carefully extracted a waterproof binder from it. He sat on the crapper and opened the binder… a binder full of countries that had no extradition treaties with the US.
The garishly painted
Captain Pavlov’s
In the middle of a typical belly rub with an Ohio Class, Captain Pavlov had felt his 9000 ton boat rise against its will. His officers had confirmed that this sudden movement had pissed off the Ohio Class and it had broken off the belly rub.
Despite Captain Pavlov’s flagrant lever pulling, the sub had spun its wheels with zero traction.
“Captain something is stuck under our belly and it’s lifting us. And it’s not the Ohio Class. Repeat: Not Ohio Class.”
Still rising, a minute later they had broken the surface of the Havana Bay.
Captain Pavlov seemed calm, “Haha. I think this is the new carry-the-load move. I heard a Los Angeles Class pulled this on one of our Pacific fleet Akulas. Maybe it’s the Chinese, they like to mimic the American moves.”
“Captain we are exposed. Bridge, hull, tail… we are all out…”
“But… those aren’t the rules of carry-the-load.”
“You sure captain?”
“Don’t question me punk. I read Captain Radnikov’s detailed account of that encounter.”
“Maybe they added a twist… you know… everybody has their own style.”
“Shut up. Just try and get us unstuck.”
“Aye, aye Captain.”
A 300 ton, 100 knots object smashing into a 9000 ton stationary object was the equivalent of dropping a 16 pound bowling ball onto one’s foot. Painful? Absolutely. Trip to ER? *cough* pussy.
“Hey this definitely wasn’t a part of carry-the-load… I mean I can handle a twist or a tweak … but not a fucking rewrite… What the fuck?”
“Maybe there is a third sub involved Captain.”
“Three subs? Shut the fuck up. Where do you get these ideas?” Captain Pavlov shook his head, chastising young people and their wild ideas.
“Captain, outer shell is damaged.”
“Whaaat? What about the inner shell?”
“Not damaged.”
“Missile doors?”
“Not damaged.”
“Radiation levels?”
“Normal.”
As Pavlov thought about shutting down his reactor, the
“Captain, whoever was lifting us has left the scene…”
“Left? Without even a goodbye?”
“No pings were received, Captain.”
“Not even one?”
“Negative.”
“These young Captains… no class. None at all.”
“I concur, Captain.”
“Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
As the Big Boeing T-boned the
“So what do you think that loser is up to right now… still looking out for waterfalls?”
“Pulikesi? Nah… probably say swatting flies.”
“Smelling his own farts.”
“Jacking off to the natural beauty… it’s gorgeous out there… I know I would…”
“Please… I told him we got a satellite looking on him.”
“Haha.”
Marko poured four glasses from the first batch. The men raised to a toast.
“To Siberia…”
