Gather 'round, ye scallywags and ledger-keepers, for the horizon grows darker than a kraken’s inkwell. Word has drifted across the brine that the navigators of Israel have been tugging at the sleeve of the Great Orange Captain, begging for a volley of iron to be launched toward the shores of Iran. They seek a total scuttling, a fiery reckoning for the Persian corsairs who have been pestering the trade routes with their sneaky dhows and alchemical tricks. Yet, whispers from the galley suggest that Donald Trump—usually a man fond of a loud blast and a tall tale—is suddenly holding his fire. Reports suggest he is “just not there,” a phrase that chills the bones of every warmonger from here to Tortuga. It seems the heavy cannons of the United States remain silent, leaving the privateers of the Levant to sharpen their cutlasses alone in the mist.

"By the beard of Neptune," hollered my quartermaster, Blind Silas, as he chewed on a piece of salt pork. "If the Great Galleon won't broadside the Persians now, the whole Strait will be thick with sea-mines and grievances by the next moon!" Silas isn't wrong, mates. The tension is thicker than cold grog in a winter squall. The lords of the Levant had hoped for a decisive storm, a tempest that would sweep away the batteries of Tehran before they could craft their own devastating alchemist’s fire. But the Captain is playing a different game of cards, perhaps worried that a single spark will ignite the global powder keg and send the entire fleet to Davy Jones’ locker before the next election cycle.

The implications for us honest brigands are dire. If the Great Galleon continues to drift in this indecisive fog, the price of the "Black Gold" that fuels our modern ironclads will skyrocket faster than a signal flare. We’ve heard the merchants in The White House are whispering about "stability" and "diplomacy"—fancy words for "we’re terrified of the repair bill." Lord Admiral Netanyahu may be shouting for fire until his throat is as dry as a desert island, but the man at the helm of the American behemoth is looking at the charts and seeing nothing but reefs and ruin. It’s a rare sight to see the Great Orange Captain hesitate; usually, he’s as subtle as a cannonball to the face, but here he sits, motionless as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.

Even the ship’s cook, "Greasy" Gabe, chimed in while stirring a pot of bilge-water stew. "A captain who won't fight is a captain who’s counting his doubloons," he muttered, wiping a brow slick with tallow. And that, me hearties, is the crux of the matter. Is it a lack of stomach, or a sudden bout of wisdom that keeps the American fleet from unleashing hell upon the Persian coast? The consequences will be felt from the Persian Gulf to the foggy ports of London. If the Persians aren't checked, their swarms will dominate the narrows, and every merchant ship will be paying a tribute in blood and oil. We are sailing into a dead calm, but make no mistake—the pressure is building beneath the surface like a leviathan about to breach.

So, we wait. We watch the signal flags of the Levant frantically waving for assistance, and we see the Great Galleon merely bobbing in the swells, unresponsive to the cries for war. The storm is coming, whether the Captain is "there" or not. Tie down the hatches and hide your rum, for when the silence finally breaks, it won't be a mere crack of a pistol—it'll be the sound of the world’s maps being rewritten in fire. Captain Iron Ink tells ye true: keep your eyes on the horizon and your hand on your hilt, for the winds of war are fickle, and the Great Galleon is currently rudderless in the face of the Persian gale.