Yo ho ho and a bottle of AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Yo Ho Ho and a bottle of AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Sgt. Peterson sat on the edge of the aircraft carrier as it sailed through the ocean, giving him a full view of the world around him. Some people commented on this, saying "you're gonna fall off and kill yourself", that it was "dangerous", and that they would "report him to the captain." To this, Peterson often replied "fuck off", "fuck off" and "fuck right off."

He observed the surroundings. The ship only had a few fighter jets on it, the most important thing on deck being a big submarine held aloft by two sturdy cranes. The sea around the ship was calm and flat, the only disturbance being the gentle waves skimming the sides of the ship as it sailed onwards, creating a soft white noise. The only thing bluer than the ocean around was the sky above it, a few clouds hazily spread here and there. The horizon was as flat as a very flat thing, and it relaxed Peterson knowing that there was nothing to interfere with the mission.

The mission was simple, but silly. If you asked around various drinking establishments, you'd sometimes hear of a rumour of some legendary weapon lost to the sea decades ago. Nobody actually knew what it was, so nobody gave it much thought, until some intel came up a few weeks ago that confirmed its existence.

The Sgt. spat the smouldering cigarette butt into the calmness of the ocean, stood up and gave a contented stretch. He closed his eyes and soaked in the atmosphere. The gentle rise and fall of the ship, the pleasant hiss of the water, the increasing tone in the distance, the birds twee- hold on one goddamn moment.

His eyes snapped open to witness a dot in the distance. It was tiny, barely visible, but it was benign.

"The Russians," he spat, and made quick for the control tower.

By the time he burst through the control room's door, everyone had already picked up on the object.

Peterson started, "Do you know what it is?" He paced about hurriedly, glancing at screens and trying to get a better window view.

The place was all command consoles and screens being attended to by a plethora of people, the Captain himself standing still amongst the commotion, eyes dead set on the sea.

"No," replied one of the men, "We don't know if it's Russian yet."

Another one pitched in, "Reading say that it's... unusually small, but incredibly fast!"

Another, "Is it experimental tech? Small but fast? Is it a weapon?"

"It's headed right for us!"

"Fuck!"

"Shit!" "Bollocks!" "Arse!"

"Did I mention fuck?"

"You did."

"Oh. Uh. Then..."

"Cock?"

"Oh. Cock!" along with other expletives.

The only calm one on deck was the Captain, a hardened face adorned with age, scars and an eyepatch. The man had seen the horrors of the sea and then spat in its face. Before shooting that face repeatedly. With automatic cannons. What I'm trying to say is, he's a hard bastard.

"Captain," Peterson stressed, "We gotta do something."

The captain's chapped lips opened, speaking in a voice so gravelly that you could drive trucks over it, "Our ship is strong, Sergeant. Let them come."

The men on deck fell silent, the only noise being the blips of radars and the ever-increasing "aaaaaa" in the distance.

One man had taken out a telescope for visual confirmation, and broke the silence with "Uh. Guys. It's a big guy on a wooden raft... blonde hair, wearing a kilt. Got something on his back."