Yura told me she could hear me in the background cussing and swearing.
Yura says, “Not now, chief, I’m on hold you’re just gonna have to be…”
Just then a phone recording says, “One moment please.”
Yura says, “Sorry, chief, false alarm. Thought that was an operator.”
Some pleasant elevator music ensues while Yura hears the phone recording say:
“Do you want to be one of the few, the proud, the F.B.I. may be looking for you. Call us today and find out about what exciting jobs…”
I can’t take this anymore.
Finally, after an eternity passes:
“Hello, HRT. What’s your emergency?”
Yura sounds absolutely calm as she says,
“This is the Ketchikan, Alaska emergency services operator. I have…”
I can hear the FBI operator rudely interrupt her in this snarky, little, monotone voice,
“What is your emergency please?”
Yura now sounds impatient: “Well, I’m trying to tell you if you would…”
FBI HRT: “Ma’am you’re going to have to speak slowly and calmly if you want me to…”
“Damn it, Yura put the little shit on the phone.”
Yura then says,
“Okay, I’m going to let you speak directly with the Chief of Police of Ketchikan, Alaska.
“Go ahead chief.”
I don’t remember my exact words but they went something like:
“A NUCLEAR DEVICE HAS EXPLODED HERE.”
“SEND THE MARINES, YOU DUMB LITTLE FUCK.”
After a long pause on the phone, a monotone voice responds,
“Did you people call earlier?”
Yura interrupts me saying, “Yes, yes, YES!”
In a monotone voice the FBI operator calmly and slowly says,
“Why didn’t you say so? I’m patching you through now. One moment please.”
“Wait, what’s the number? I’ll have my chief call you… Hello?” says Yura to no avail.
The HRT operator is already long gone.
“Damn it! Stone, I’m on hold again,” says a frustrated Yura.
Peterson Air Force Base (AFB), Colorado (CO)
U.S. Air Force Aerospace Defense Command Center (NORAD)
Christmas Day
This is the new, above ground, U.S. Air Force Aerospace Defense Command Center located at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado. The old Command Center was located deep within Cheyenne Mountain but since the end of the Cold War the Pentagon, in its wisdom, wound down most operations in the mountain!
The war room looks like what you’ve seen in movies and a larger version of the Russians Bokan Mountain command center that was just blown to hell with one exception:
Christmas decorations are everywhere. Large draping red and green garland drapes around the screens show all of North America.
Small brightly lit Christmas trees adorn many of the desks.
The atmosphere looks professional but very festive.
General Norton is looking at all sorts of red lights going off in the Southeast Alaska sector of his North America map.
General Norton says, “What the hell? And on Christmas Eve too!”
“Excuse me sir, we have Ketchikan on the speaker.”
Where the hell is Ketchikan? says the general.
A very nervous, nerdy, little airman with glasses says,
“I believe it’s in Alaska, sir!”
The general really doesn’t think this could possibly be something with which his valuable time should be wasted,
“Have we verified their identity?”
“Yes, sir. FBI HRT Gold team is en route and their commander is on the phone.”
The general breathes a big sigh and then says, “John, what is all this?”
John A. Smith is the Gold Team leader and these guys obviously know each other. John A. Smith answers the general saying,
“I’m anxious to hear as well, general.”
Stone’s voice suddenly blurts out over the speakers:
“Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?”
“Send the fuckin’ Navy.”
“Send the fuckin’ Marines.”
“Send ’em all, damn it!”
“Who is this?” asks general Norton.
“Robert Frickin’ Stone, Chief of Police, Ketchikan Alaska. Who the hell is this?”
“This is General Norton NORAD.”
“NORAD my ass! More like Gonad!”
“How the fuck does a Russian sub detonate a nuclear weapon in my town, damn it!” retorts Stone.
The general takes him off the speaker. The general looks to his assistant,
“He has a fouler mouth than me!”
The general looks around the room,
“MWC? Can you confirm this?”
MWC is the Missile Warning Center located in the same complex.
MWC airman stands, “Satellites picked up a small light & heat signature in the area moments ago.”
“Damn it! Now I’m going to start cussing and swearing.
Jerry from the FBI HRT Gold Team says,
“We’ll be there in ten!”
The general adds, “We’re gonna need more than a hostage rescue team if we’re taking on a Russian sub. What kind of sub is it? What assets are in the area?”
Another airman speaks up,
“Sir, we have two F35s off the Ronald Reagan. They’re 47 nautical miles away.”
“Are they armed?” asks the general.
“Yes, sir, each have two — 500 pounders.”
“Reroute. Send them here. ASAP. And give me an ETA!”
“Yes sir!”
“And put that foul mouth back on the speaker. This is General Norton again. Can you identify the submarine?”
“It’s Russian. I’d bet my retirement on it! It has hostile intent because it just launched some sort of missile at Bokan.”
The general asks, “Bokan?”
“Bokan! Bokan!” says Stone.
The general asks, “Bokan? What the hell’s a Bokan?”
“It’s a freaking mountain, you dumb fuck! Mother fucking….” says Stone in the background on NORAD’s speakers.
The general turns off the speaker system and Stone is silenced.
The general says to an airman, “Put Bokan Mountain up there.”
“Okay, Mr. Stone, I have you on the speaker again,” says the general.
“There are Russians on Bokan too!” says Stone.
“So let me get this straight…”
The general continues, “You believe a Russian sub just launched a missile at themselves?”
“Do you have any evidence that Russians are involved?” asks the general.
Stone says, “All I know is somebody just blew up a mountain in the United States of America. So you better get everybody over here, Goddamn it!”
General Norton picks up a tiny Christmas tree sitting near him saying,
“Leave it to the f’ing commies to attack us on Christmas!”
Fishing Trawler
King of the Crabs
Several Iranian guards with AK 47s walk the deck of King of the Crabs trawler.
There is an orange glow in the background on Bokan Mountain.
It’s very quiet here so I have to swim slowly.
I motion to Jen who is swimming through the water, parallel to me, to board The Cod-Father.
We are swimming through the cold water as the two Iranian trawlers sit, moored at the end of the pitch-black dock.
I quietly climb aboard on a rope ladder near the plimsoll line that I suspect the real owner’s let down as a distress signal to someone who might have noticed.
Apparently, no one noticed.