Roger Ellis - AK-239

And killed tonight!

Normally, a seasoned sailor like myself would never be fishing for anything this far out in December.

I’m well over forty miles from the nearest Coast Guard station.

But desperate times call for desperate…

Well, you know the word.

I owe a huge mortgage on my boat and desperately need money.

Mostly for my stupid alcohol habit!

This storm is closing in on us fast and we need to move!

I had already radioed the Coast Guard.

An MH-65 dolphin helicopter radioed back that they were at least seven minutes out bucking gale force winds at around forty knots (But gusts were over 100!).

Hurry!

I screamed into the two way!

I waited forever to make the call as we’re fishing in a no fishing zone and the Coast Guard will likely give me one big fine.

Mike was down in the engine room attempting to fix a fuel leak in my old Detroit Diesel.

Storm or no storm, I’m not about to ditch my only source of income into the black abyss!

You don’t walk away from a $650,000.00 investment, especially when you were stupid enough to let the insurance lapse.

I’d been chasing fish all day and coming up empty. I had three sonar systems on board but only one works: My old Veinland 3d sonar! I see what appears to be a large school of fish right below. disgusted, I shake my head before yelling to Mike,

“Did you stop the leak?”

I didn’t have time to hear an answer as my boat is tossed like a toothpick clean out of the water.

When my boat returns to the water it slams into the side of a pitch black wave.

There is such tremendous force that Mike is thrown into the old, oily, engine and knocked unconscious.

I’m in the fully enclosed wheelhouse or, likely, would have been tossed overboard. instead, I hit the ceiling before crashing to the icy cold floor screaming in pain.

My leg has been broken although at this time I’m not even aware of that.

As the ship bobs back and forth in the waves my creaky old crate tries to right itself. I roll across the wet floor before struggling to my feet.

I wonder why it’s so painful to walk.

Duh!

You have a broken leg.

Moron!

To my astonishment, I see what appears to be a massive black object directly next to my ship that prevents me from capsizing.

The noise of my old wooden tug against the side of this slick black ship is ear shattering.

In the confusion of the night I think it must be a container ship.

In disbelief, I check my instruments and see nothing!

I’d been drinking but not this much!

I, totally bewildered, panicked!

The pain is almost unbearable!

I don’t understand!

How is a container ship not showing up on anything?

I must be dreaming.

I’m never drinking again.

I’m able to struggle to get off the bridge to mike.

“Mike, Mike, you okay?”

No answer.

I feel like I have one of my benders on.

Zigzagging across the deck, suddenly feeling really drunk, I finally reach the engine compartment!

I stick my head inside.

I see Mike’s bleeding forehead as he says,

“What the hell was that?”

I yell,

“Get out here!”

“Now!”

I look again and this enormous black ship appears to be submerging!

I don’t know how I was able to get to my halogen work lights on that thing but I did.

To my disbelief, I see a huge, black, submarine!

Antennas all over a huge tower in the middle.

Fifty feet or more in the air!

The thing looks modern.

Slick black whale-like surface.

It slips quietly into the water and disappears into the darkness directly along side of me!

Mike, holding his bleeding head, surfaces from the engine room:

“What was it?”

I just stare at the cold, black water.

Nothing to say, I blankly look at Mike and think:

Who the hell will ever believe this?

Portland State University

Downtown Portland, Oregon

Three days ‘til Christmas

Bored out of my mind, I sat there playing with my FBI badge and flashing it to a wall of the FBI surveillance van.

“John, John Denning, FBI.”

That brought up a really painful memory, idiot.

Stop doing that, I said to myself.

I was losing my mind and getting really tired of eating fast food as I sat in a van on SW Broadway in downtown Portland.

Six months of watching Muhammad Al Aqsa, MAA, 24/7 had turned up absolutely nothing.

Nothing, unless you consider MAA’s brother was still missing after going to Syria to fight with ISIS. He was presumed by the Al-Aqsa family to have been killed. Soon after his family had given up hope MAA moved to Portland and started studying engineering at Portland State University and trying to get his private pilot’s license. I considered these both red flags, but studying engineering in Oregon or getting a pilot’s license certainly wasn’t illegal.

Notes in the file from prior surveillance show MAA’s mother begged Ahmed not to go and fight for ISIS.

But as my boss once told me, “People becoming terrorists don’t always understand the fine points of jihadi politics.”

Ahmed was always strong willed, even as a child, and had rarely listened to anyone.

While interesting, we needed much more evidence on MAA than his brother had been radicalized. Phone and email taps, and tails, all done with a federal warrant, came up with zip.

Under our “new and improved” guidelines if you hadn’t seen a surveillance suspect doing anything illegal for six months you “shall stop” all surveillance, period.

We had a court order allowing the surveillance to continue for another year but this would be the last day we’d be allowed to watch MAA.

Too bad because I seriously suspect this guy is planning something.

By the way, let me introduce you to my partner, Tom Watkins.

He actually had been sitting in the van this whole time but you never want to disturb Tom when he’s eating.

And I never disturbed him.

As he always seemed to be eating!

So, as you might have guessed, sitting day and night and doing nothing but eat is not very healthy. Tom is a nice guy but he’s about forty-five-pounds overweight and currently heading for forty-six.

He’s eating a double cheeseburger and watching a video monitor of a parking enforcement officer, outside the van, write a ticket and slap it on our window.

“How much you think she makes an hour,” Tom amusingly inquired.

“Not enough for the abuse she must take!” I said.

I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you seen your brother lately?”

“Which one?” I hesitantly asked.

You have two brothers? You never talk about your family.”

“Well, they don’t talk to me.” I volunteered then thought to myself, “Why did I say that?”

“Why not?” Tom asks.

I definitely shouldn’t have stumbled into this; I think to myself.

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Why not? Tom pushes, “What else have you got to do today?”

After a long pause I figure, “Oh what the heck.”

“They don’t talk to me ‘cause they blame me for a lot of junk.”

“Like what?” asks Tom.

Before I could stop my big mouth I say,

“My mother and my sister’s suicides.”

Tom stops eating and with a mouthful of hamburger he chokes out,

“What?”

Well you really did it now JD. One year of FBI psychology profiling and you can’t even make it work on yourself.

I pause. Take a deep breath and think about some really, really painful stuff. After a long pause,

“When I was a kid all of us, except my father, lived in this weirdo Oregon cult in the sticks. My sister got pregnant when she was sixteen to the cult leader. The cult leader who was against abortion secretly took her and, without anyone knowing, forced her to have an abortion. When she finally told my mother what happened, my mother made her feel so guilty that I think it drove her to commit suicide.”