The Panga Attack

By Alan Kopilec

This novel begins with a riveting historical fiction Cold war prologue illustrated in the 1970s. Reginald Remington the first was on a CIA mission in Crimea when he stumbled upon the enigma. Unfortunately, he had only seconds to photograph it before fleeing from Russian soldiers. With photographed evidence of a KGB nuclearized suitcase bomb in hand, he became a legend in Washington D.C. Especially after he dies in the failed assassination attempt on President Regan.

Heartbroken over the sudden loss of his father and wife, Reginald Remington II—Rex’s father dedicates his life to telling conspiracy theories from his hotel bar—The Spyglass Inn on the Oregon Coast. When his father is found dead in his suite, Rex suspects his little sister has a relationship with her kidnapper—a weapons dealer named Ashaar, who he plays a high stakes game of cat and mouse as he leads Rex on high-speed RV chases and UAV shootouts.

With avenging his father’s killers, saving his sister and the city of San Francisco all on the line, the former Navy Seal named after his grandfather battles Ashaar by hacking databases and controlling his drones with his digital bionic eye. Ashaar has not only kidnapped Rex’s sister, but remotely holding the entire City of San Francisco hostage with a hijacked containership and an all too familiar dirty bomb. Unless the DEA returns a drug kingpin’s money to bitcoin and releases him from prison, that is...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665704045

Alan Kopilec

Alan Kopilec was born in Ohio and grew up in California. He worked in customer service, accounting, and academic counseling while earning higher degrees. He has an AA in Business administration, a BS in E-Business Commerce, and a MS. in Public Administration. He currently resides on the Oregon coast and enjoys photography and writing.

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Copyright © 2021 Alan Kopilec.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by

any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system

without the written permission of the author except in the case

of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-0403-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-0402-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-0404-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021904632

Archway Publishing rev. date: 8/13/2021

Dedicated to the memory of:

Victims of the Covid-19 pandemic,

Joeseph J Kopilec,

Angie Kopilec,

Ed Kopilec,

Grandfather John Kopilec,

John Hagberg,

Opal Cox,

Rush Limbaugh,

and my late dogs — Homie & Max.

A special thank-you to the following for supporting me in my writing journey:

My loving wife Connie and service dog Eddie

whom I named after Eddie Van Halen.

Archway Publishing — for the opportunity,

support, and expert services. Ryan and Sonia

— The Arboretum Florence, Oregon.

Colby — Private Reserve Cannabis Florence, Oregon.

PeaceHealth Foundation of Florence, Oregon.

Florence Food Share of Oregon.

George — The Florence Coin Shop.

Seamagine Corporation,

and Doc.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1 Reginald Remington The First

CHAPTER 2 Hell’s Kitchen

CHAPTER 3 Rex Remington— the Second

CHAPTER 4 Angie’s Secret

CHAPTER 5 Dogfight At Devil’s Churn

CHAPTER 6 Strangers At Father’s Funeral

CHAPTER 7 Nothing’s What It Seems

CHAPTER 8 Handsome Deception

CHAPTER 9 Remington Oil And Gun Solvent

CHAPTER 10 Deal Or No Deal

CHAPTER 11 The Chase

CHAPTER 12 Cindy’s Predicament

CHAPTER 13 The Road To The Lighthouse

CHAPTER 14 The USS Stellar Vortex

CHAPTER 15 Late For The Meeting

CHAPTER 16 Ashaar’s Revelation

CHAPTER 17 911 What’s Your Emergency?

CHAPTER 18 Hazardous Cargo

CHAPTER 19 What About Cindy?

CHAPTER 20 The War Room

CHAPTER 21 Escape To Alcatraz

CHAPTER 22 Navy Seals Go In

CHAPTER 23 Laptops, Guns And Luggage

CHAPTER 24 The Doomsday Clock Ticks

CHAPTER 25 The Rude Reception

CHAPTER 26 Suited For Radiation

CHAPTER 27 Television Is For The Lazy

ONE

REGINALD REMINGTON

THE FIRST

R eginald Remington the first was also the first Remington family government agent. In May 1979, intelligence sources reported a KGB spy, Ivan Lipinski, defected with a Russian miniaturized nuclear device. Details about the Kremlin’s briefcase bomb were minimal. Whistleblowers depicted a nuclearized weapon of mass destruction housed in a briefcase. However, the possibility of such advancement was improbable. According to nuclear scientists, the smallest nuclear warhead of the period weighed three thousand pounds, with girths spanning over three feet in diameter. With minimal intel, the CIA commissioned agent Reginald Remington to travel to Crimea, locate Lipinski, and report back.

Upon arrival, Reginald set up shop at the Hotel Crimea under the guise of an international wine procurer. After checking in, he walked to the nearby street marketplace. The warm spring sun rising above the coastal slopes made him feel off balance and miniscule. Vendors displayed their grapes, wares, black bread, vegetables, and garments. Summer dust and pollen stung his dry eyes underneath his Wayfarer sunglasses.

Reggie felt alienated in the dissimilar environment, which was not what he had imagined from home. He expected more police and some form of law enforcement eyeballing his every move. On his first day in Crimea, Reginald felt like a cultural outcast. Overdressed and touristy was his comfortable cover fitting of a salesman. Rex still felt out of place. People appeared weathered and rustic compared to him or folks back home. Reggie felt like an odd mark in town.

Needing a weapon just in case, he meandered toward the cutlery vendor in the crowded market square. The vendor, a burly man in a blue polo shirt, wore a thick gold chain with a Mary medallion. The bulldog-faced man gave local woman her change and a coring knife and turned to Reginald with his cigar dangling from his baggy lips. His cigar produced an aroma of mouth-watering molasses and honey Reggie could taste. Reginald selected a skinning blade with a bone handle.

Shef-povar? The vendor asked if Reginald was a chef.

Eh, no, hunting… Oxota, replied Reginald, with a cock of his eyebrow and a tight lower lip showing his implying he sought weaponry. The vendor shifted his eyes to survey a tall lady with blonde hair in a flowery summer dress. She wore purple Ray-ban sunglasses with a matching studded purple scarf blowing in the wind as she browsed displayed leather satchels. He lost sight of her outside a busy newspaper stand.

The older bladesmith smiled at Reginald’s youthful trance, exposing his small yellow teeth. He held a pearl-handled switchblade in the palm of his large hand for Reggie to see. Avtomaticcheskiy… A good defender, said the man.

Reggie paid the vendor with two thousand rubles, stowed the knife in his back pocket, and hurried toward the news hut. The canvas news hut was stuffy. There were no windows, and a single lightbulb hung above with insects buzzing around. Reginald found her browsing the international section by following her floral scent in the air as he squeezed by patrons at the checkout register. Behind the counter, a husky man with bulging bloodshot eyes handed a liquor delivery boy a carton of cigarettes.

Spasibo, Ratimir, the business owner said to the delivery boy.

Ratimir? said Reginald, catching the lanky, youthful man’s attention. Reginald Remington from US Wine Sales. I was wondering if you can run a few errands for me around town?

This is the busiest season, he replied.

I promise not to slow you down. You can start by bringing me a six-pack of Budweiser this afternoon. You can do this whenever you can. Here, you keep the change, Reggie said, with one American twenty-dollar and a five-dollar bill extended. The delivery man’s eyes did a double take at the sizeable tip.

Perhaps I can make an exception for you, replied Ratimir.

Great, I’m in Room 304 at the Hotel Crimea, Reggie said.

I have a pager. Call this number, put your room number at the Hotel Crimea, and I will know it’s you. I’ll call you, replied Ratimir, as he handed Reggie a business card. On Ratimir’s belt, a digital pager beeped. He unclipped the black box and squinted at the tiny screen as if he required reading glasses. Dark circles around his eyes showed a heavy work schedule. I’ve got to go, said Ratimir as he stepped over the crank of a lady’s blue Schwinn bicycle, slipped the cartons of cigarettes into the wire saddlebag, and stomped hard on the pedals, swaying the frame left and right as he pedaled up the street.

Reggie turned his attention back to the glamourous woman who stood browsing. He sensed she knew of his presence as he opted for a copy of The New York Times and stood beside her. She previewed the inside cover of Redbook magazine. No surprise to Reggie. When a passing delivery truck stalled and backfired, everyone ducked and shielded. Reggie’s elbow rammed into her shoulder, nearly knocking her over. He grasped her by her arms from behind, straightening her stance. I’m sorry. Are you okay?

She turned her head from the commotion and looked into his eyes. Her expression changed from fear to relief. Her eyes sparkled like new-blown glass infused with copper and wheat, while her white outlines appeared rested with a blizzard-white reflection of a healthy lifestyle. More than he could say with the hangover he felt. His foggy headedness had caused him to be jumpy. She held Redbook magazine against her bosoms.

Everyone’s been edgy around here lately, she said. The model on Redbook’s cover was of similar stature, with similar olive skin tone. At that moment, bustling traffic, elbowing crowds, and everything else ceased to exist. He studied her while he had a chance. Her hair darkened at its roots, making her even more exciting to him.

On the street, a bread truck backfired and belched out thick black smoke. Loud voices of angry Ukrainian men and honking horns followed. Reginald remained captivated by her. Her lips were full and burgundy color. He imagined they were soft as a jellyfish and mused they could be just as poisonous. Oblivious to the situation outside the tent, Reginald could not keep his eyes off her luscious lips and small perfect nose. She took notice with a smile. Those scrumptious, lovely lips would taste sweet as grapes. He hoped to see her again.

Back at his hotel room, Reginald fell asleep with his thoughts drifting toward her roots. The roots of her hair and roots of her family. Is she from South France as her hair, skin and moles above her chest suggested? Or was she a local girl with aspirations of being an American model? He fell asleep with those thoughts.

In the morning, Reggie woke to the carnival ringing of a desk phone on the nightstand. After a third agonizing toll of the bells, he rolled over and lifted the receiver from the tiny white buttons.

Probuzhdeniye, A voice said in Russian. His wake-up call.

Spasiba, replied Reginald, thanking the caller with his eyes still closed. He peeked out through his heavy eyelids. The desk clock beside him displayed ten minutes after ten o’clock.

Sluggish from jet lag, Reggie dressed in his blue tweed business suit. Before his shave, he rummaged through his briefcase for notes hidden inside wine brochures and invoices. He located his Russian translation handbook and practiced in the bathroom mirror with shaving cream on his face. Confidence overrides fear. Lustily vinograd, He said with a rise of his brow and a toast of an empty water glass.

Next Reggie tested his new weapon by pointing the pearl-handled chrome blade at the mirror and pressing the metal button down with his thumb. The blade sprung out half-way and stuck. To loosen the blade, Reggie wedged blade into the drawer and smacked it on the hinge side with his shoe. Afterward, the mirrored chrome blade flicked out the pearled plastic handle with a snap. Nah-devadasi! He said with a sneer.

Reginald’s self-confident stare and threatening glare humored him. His tough-guy performance was an obvious an attempt to act like Robert De Niro back home. On the Ukrainian Peninsula, this was the attitude he needed. He stepped out through the French doors onto the hotel room balcony.

Three floors below, brunch on Hotel Crimea’s bistro patio beckoned his grumbling stomach with crepes and coffee. An excellent place to begin his investigation. The door clicked shut behind him as he stopped at the winding stairwell to the lobby and looked over the bannister. The sight dizzying enough to opt for the nearby elevator instead.

Inside, his reflection in the copper plated elevator door and beveled mirror antiqued him. Dim interior lighting gave the illusion of those nostalgic photographs people pay twenty dollars to a flash photographer to shoot at the state fair. On the first floor, the elevator door scraped opened to a Sunday Brunch sign with an arrow pointing right. Reggie sauntered through the elegant hotel lobby behind others going to brunch, offering smiles and good mornings along the way. A doorman in a bellman’s cap stood at a podium at the patio entrance, greeting guests and fulfilling reservations.

Outside, a Mediterranean-style patio’s décor of palms and jades secluded a crowd of international travelers and local aristocrats. His waitress was a welcome sight. She wore a knee-length dress spangled in yellow daisies, and she moved with a kitten’s willingness to rub up to people. She wore a clean white apron with the name tag—Francesca pinned on her lapel and an order pad in the pocket. Her hair, wrapped in a familiar purple scarf, fluttered in the wind.

Reggie found a small corner table on the seaside and opened his leather sales case atop the opposite chair. He watched Francesca prepare a nearby table. She placed dinner napkins and silver in etiquette correctness before pouring ice water into oval glasses without spilling a drop. On her left hand, she wore a silver mood ring on her forefinger and a Mickey Mouse Timex on a studded leather strap. So, we meet again? Reggie said.

Just one? she replied.

Yes, please. How’s your shoulder? asked Reggie.

Aching, she said with a playful wince.

My sincerest apologies. How about dinner tonight? My treat, Reggie pitched, striving to close, or at least to impress the uniquely lovely waitress at the finest banquet in town.

You’re an American? she said with a suspect squint.

I’m not Dutch, Reggie smiled. I’m Reggie Remington. Remington Wine Sales, USA, at your service. Short on green-oh, sell your vino. A feller you want in your cellar.

You buy vintage? she asked.

I uncover tens of thousands of dollars underneath dust inside musty wine cellars. Toro, Petrus, Rothchild, you name it, replied Reginald.

Francesca the waitress unwrapped a dinner napkin from around a dark green bottle with a gold label for Reggie to see. Champagne?

Moet Imperial Brut? Wonderful. Thank you, Reggie said. Francesca placed a napkin and wrote on her order pad as a cruise ship eclipsed the harbor, sounding off an abrupt honk. Startled, Francesca’s shoulders arched, and she rolled her eyes. He smiled at her breath. Perhaps you’re the jumpy one who elbowed me yesterday, Reginald said as he smiled and dumped his pipe into his ashtray and filled the wooden bowl with moist dark tobacco.

Fran smiles, I’ll be right back, she says in a personal way. Like she’s there with him and not there for anyone else. Reginald’s hopes were endless as he watched her until she rounded a veranda at the server’s busy area. Fran’s small frame is wrapped tight in her white apron. Somehow, she moves about less restrained than an average waitress from back home.

Around Reginald’s two-person corner table, hotel guests spoke of headlines he was reading. The sinking of HMS Sheffield, Margaret Thatcher’s Exocet missiles, and threat of Soviet occupation were topics among distinguished patrons. Reginald relaxed among them as he conceptualized a plan to find Ivan Stravinsky. Since Ivan liked younger women, underground punk rock clubs would be next on his list. However, Reginald would need more rest beforehand.

Too cumbersome to focus on a newspaper. A tight headband of scotch and jet lag made headlines on