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ones
that got voted in each year.
    “Non, Monsieur.
The French public doesn’t like weapons or wars. They think our 4 Mistrals are more
than enough.”
    “Jeez
alright, alright. Once again we have to save your soft, untanned asses.”
    “Oui.”
    Doug
Sanders preened, “Before this super productive meeting, I had a word with NATO’s
Supreme Allied Commander. He had a few mind blowing suggestions.”
    “Oui?”
said one of the Frenchmen. The Norwegian had given up.
    “Well, we
obviously can’t sell your wine cooler to Brazil, China or India. Apparently they
are in a freaky four way called BRICS with Russia. That just leaves…”
    “Non,
Monsieur it’s a five way.”
    “Ah, you dirty
Euros, always pushing the limits…” Sanders tried to high five Lefebvre.
    “Non.
Monsieur… BRICS is BRIC plus S, where S is South Africa.”
    “Thanks for
the lesson, Frenchie. Yeah, I guess they are out too.”
    “Oui,
Monsieur,” replied Jean.
    “So, where
was I, ya that leaves what… the Saudis, Australians and maybe the Israelis? But
then again, those guys are going to want to refit and retrofit the shit out of
the boats. We want none of that. It has to be quick and easy. Plus we don’t
feel real comfy about putting boats into the Middle East.”
    “Oui. But
so what is le solution, Monsieur?”
    “Are you
suggesting we wreck billions of euros worth of ship?” Larsen the Norwegian
tried again.
    “Easy
fellas. The allied commander says I get to choose what happens to the ships.
See I’m married to his third daughter… so… mmm, wish I had seen the second
daughter first you know, the BMIs on that chick are off the charts man…”
    “I see…
wait does it mean she is so fat and her stats are off the charts or… off the
charts in a good way… English is confusing?” said DGSE Jean.
    “No brah.
Off the charts means on the charts.”
    “Off means
on?”
    “Dude she
is a fine piece… ok?”
    “Ah… I
see,” said Torgeir Larsen.
    “Ya man,
see this Norwegian dude knows what I’m talkin’ about. Bet you ate out a blonde
for breakfast.” Sanders then proceeded to high five the General Secretary of
NATO. The alarmed Frenchmen said “But… but…” in unison. They had eaten too. Not
that morning, but not that long ago.
    Not
wanting to leave them hanging, Sanders high fived them too. With the atmosphere
disintegrating, the American instructed the NATO General Secretary, to get some
fine Belgian ales immediately. The Secretary obliged.
    “So here
is the deal fellas… the first option is we ‘borrow’ the ships from France, as
in the French ‘lend’ the ships to the US Navy. Pretty cool right?”
    “Oui.”
    “Yes. So
chill.”
    “And we
would rename them USS St Petersburg and USS Moscow after our meth
capitals in Florida and Idaho.”
    “That’s
bold my man. Maybe you should go a step further… as in pinch the jugular… go
for the kiss… just do it… and make it USS Albuquerque and USS White ,”
said DGSE Jean.
    “Wow Jean,
that’s terrific. I could French the shit out of you right now. Bravo boy… name
their ships after America’s new manufacturing hub… and a genius. Hell yeah.
Fuck St. Petersburg. Brother Lefebvre, please tell me there is third boat in
the works. Please… I so, so want a USS Pinkman … please…”
    “Non, Monsieur.
Sadly not.”
    “Ah fuck
it. Anyways, best part is we could simply grant asylum to those cooped up Russian
sailors. Win-win-win-win.” 
    “So your
plan… in broad strokes… is to copy the Hunt for Red October ?” asked a
bewildered Jean Bernard.
    “Basically,”
shrugged the American, suddenly feeling nervous. Had they discovered his lack
of originality? Was this going to hurt his coolness barometer?
    “Ah that’s
fantastic.”
    “That’s so
radical man,” chimed in the rest of the gang.
    “Actually
your plan is better than the Hunt for Red October . Unlike the book,
where the sub is destroyed for research, you actually want to co-opt it…