Roger Ellis - AK-239

“Bingo! That’s funny,” I say chuckling.

I look around my home and notice that nobody’s ever here anymore. Everybody’s working twelve-hour shifts.

I’ve really gotta retire.

The phone rings and I ignore it as I’ve just finished another twelve-hour day.

I continue watching Police Squad on TV but the phone just won’t leave me alone.

It begins ringing again and, annoyed, I finally walk to the area of the nuisance.

I have to rifle through a tall pile of unread newspapers!

Finally, I locate the annoyance stuffed down the side of my sofa and now, really annoyed, I answer:

“Hello!”

On the other end of the phone is Yura. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you.”

I check my pockets and realize my cell phone isn’t on me.

“Guess I left my cell in the car,” I mumble.

“Tony is at Ketchikan Aviation. A guy over there says he just flew a couple of guys out fitting our man’s description,” says Yura.

“Where they goin’?” I ask.

“A fishing lodge twenty miles south of town,” says Yura.

“Have the pilot stall them.”

I exclaim: “And tell the Eskimo to fire up our plane!”

“That sounds so racist,” says Yura.

“Lighten up, he’s our son! Stone out.”

I toss the phone onto the couch; pick up my belt and gun, and head to my gun safe.

I open the large six-foot high safe and pull out a Springfield .308 semi-auto rifle and an ammo bag before heading out the door.

Outside it’s dark as I climb into this piece of crap SUV that the department owns.

Inside, I start it up as it sputters and pops. I back out of my driveway thinking:

If I moved to a beach in Barbados tomorrow, I wouldn’t miss this damp, musty old place.

I see this crazy Totem pole we have in our front yard that Yura has put Christmas lights on and think, It would kill Yura, a native Aleut, to move from her heritage and place of birth but I’m not sure how many more cold winters I can take.

Tony is on the two-way radio,

“A couple of suspicious looking guys were hanging around here on their phones.”

I say, “Are they Middle Eastern looking?”

“Ya, I think so. Want me to arrest them?”

Now I’m worried saying, “On what charge?”

A long pause before Tony answers, “I dunno.”

“We can’t arrest people that look Middle Eastern!”

Tony answers matter of fact, “Uh, okay.”

“Idiot!”

Tony yells, “I heard that!”

“Good! ‘Cause you’re an idiot!”

“You raised me!”

“I’m an idiot too!”

Yura now chimes in, “Boys, boys, be nice to each other.”

After a really long pause Tony answers, “Okay mom.”

I just shake my head as I pull up to Ketchikan Aviation.

I step out of the car, close the door and start to walk away.

Suddenly, I realize I don’t have my cell phone.

Seeing it on the seat, I reach back inside, pick it up, and without looking, put it in my pocket. Then I head into the aviation building on the dock.

Cape Decision Lighthouse

Kuiu Island

Twenty-one miles due west

A clear but cold night that would make even a Russian shiver. Commander Orlov sips some hot coffee, as his boat bobs up and down on a fairly calm Alaskan night.

The Russian GRU Special Forces team leader stands on the bridge of a 100-foot commercial fishing trawler named “King of the Crabs,” sitting dead in the water.

This was the exact location where Jack Tanner was when he saw a Russian sub.

The Russians look very serious as if something important is about to happen. None are talking but rather they sit on deck, waiting. Their automatic weapons are not carried but are at their ready.

Inside the bridge, Commander Orlov, is speaking in Farsi on a Motorola SRX-2200 radio to someone. The Russian commander then says to his sonar men with very sophisticated equipment:

“Any American subs follow them?”

“Nyet,” is the answer from all three Russian sonar technicians.

“Is Richag-AV active?” asks Orlov.

A sonar tech confirms by saying,

“Da, Richag is active commander.”

Orlav then says into his Motorola radio in Farsi,

“Go ahead and surface.”

The Richag-AV system is a DRFM (Digital Radio Frequency Memory) system that captures then blinds and confuses enemy radar and sonar so that a target seems in another location or not there at all!

All of the Russians on the bridge look port side as a submarine surfaces nearby. This is clearly not a Typhoon class sub or TK-20 . This is a brand new Be’sat II submarine.

But it’s not Russian.

It’s Iranian!

While illegal under the Iran nuclear deal, the Iranians, flush with about $150 billion from America, have been secretly purchasing and developing all sorts of new weapons systems. One of them is the ballistic missile technology developed by North Korea.

The Russians cautiously approach the sub as movement is seen on the conning tower.

Exactly twenty-two people eventually exit the Iranian sub and stand on the front hull. The Russians throw ropes as they inch nearer to the sub. Russian Commander Orlov says, “Go get them.”

“Yes, sir!” The Russian exits the bridge.

As the Iranians begin to board the boat en masse, a Russian looks to the bridge as if,

“Is this okay?”

Orlov exits the bridge and shakes his head,

Nyet!

There are to be no more Iranians on board.

Twenty-two beautiful Russian girls, now each wearing a hijab, smile and wave to the Iranians.

The Iranian men on the sub cheer as they see the girls.

Orlov walks to a tiny Iranian with large black rim glasses and speaks to him in Farsi,

“Brigadier General Bahadur?” reaches his hand out and shakes the Russian’s.

Both have cold steely eyes as they stare down their “comrade.”

Orlov asks, “You did as instructed?”

Bahadur, “The Americans think we’re sitting at the bottom of the Indian Ocean. Thank you for the simulator.”

The simulator to which the general is referring is actually an updated version of the Russian MG-114 Berilly self-propelled system. The American system is called: MOSS (Mobile Submarine Simulator). It’s a four-inch wide mobile decoy that acts and sounds like a submarine. This ingenious little device is basically a small, unarmed torpedo. In fact, depending on the submarine, it is generally deployed out of a torpedo tube.

A MOSS is designed to tool around the ocean making sounds, behaving like a normal submarine. If the water is not too deep, this mini-sub can settle on the bottom and make other sounds a real submarine might make while pretending to be hidden.

Meanwhile, the real submarine takes off undetected.

This is exactly what the Iranians were able to pull off.

Orlov, suddenly becomes much more welcoming, “Come on inside!”

As they enter the galley of the commercial fishing ship it is clean and sterile. The two men sit at a table as both Russian and Iranian gunmen stand at the door.

Twenty-two large black suitcases are in the corner. Bahadur’s eyes light up,

“May I see?”

Orlov walks to a suitcase, picks it up and returns to Bahadur. Orlov casually slings the suitcase onto a table and opens it.

Inside is a one-kiloton nuclear device.

It has one large, silvery (Crazy Al’s aluminum reference), round device in the center of the suitcase. There are two smaller silvery round chambers sitting, parallel, alongside the large rocket looking center. In fact, it more resembles a miniature Titan IIIC rocket. There are no buttons, lights, dials, or anything else but a small, sealed, polished aluminum, square box sitting in one corner.