“Outside is an armada of ships. The ships are Spanish. Ergo, by the transitive property of congruence, it is a Spanish Armada. We can see by an exhaustive study of history that all Spanish armadas are invincible. Therefore, it is my officerial position that we should not attack.”
Vice Admiral Gus Waber stopped and looked at his commander expectantly. The commander sighed. Waber was in one of his moods again. Every once in a while he started acting stupid and playing head games.
In the same halting cadence which Waber used, his commander said, “In other aspects of psychopolitical analysis, we can see that Spanish armadas, are not, per se, in all cases, as such, undefeatable. It is, therefore, my officerial position that you stop acting like a jackass and order the attack.”
Waber laughed. He started acting like his old, competent, boastful self again.
“Not just yet, commander. I want you to take one of our holocameras and record that armada, including it’s heading, size, and position. Then have it sent anonymously to a certain Supreme General Dimitri Igoumensita. When that has been done, we can punch some holes in the fleet.”
The commander was puzzled.
“Why, sir?”
“The Eastern Bloc has already conducted an invasion of England. Unless I’m mistaken, this Spanish fleet is heading toward the British Isles. It would probably sow some seeds of dischord amongst the Coalition to see them stepping on each other’s toes.”
The commander nodded. It was brilliant.
“I’ll see to it right away,” he said, turning to leave.
“And, commander?”
“Yes, sir?” he said, turning back to the admiral.
“When you open fire on the Spaniards, show some mercy. Mercy should always tint the letting of blood.”
The commander nodded and left.
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