Moscow Machination (16 page)

Atlantic Ocean

“Surf?”

“Choppy.”

“Visibility?”

“Shitty.”

“Conclusion?”

“A bad day
to reenact a good movie.”

NATO’s Doug
Sanders, CIA’s Jim Borland and the State Department’s Sarah McAllister watched
the live feed from the French destroyer
Zizou
. The last of the Russian
sailors were getting off the Mistral ship
Sevastopol
and onto the rescue
rafts. As expected the
Sevastopol’s
Russian officers had been easy to
corrupt. The price: One, maybe two American wives and a big Ford F-150 truck.

Within
minutes, the
Sevastopol
escorted by the US Navy set sail to Miami. Apparently
some basketball superstar wanted a new pad to party. The
Sevastopol’s
40
helicopter parking spots was quite attractive to his eclectic guests. Perhaps even
Marine One might show up. Undersecretary McAllister, Doug and Jim, were all on
the list.

After a
few parties, the
Sevastopol
was scheduled to be moved to Orlando where a
Commie theme park was being planned. The park’s attractions would include a
GUM
Store,
rehabilitated Migs, Ladas, cheap vodka, stuffed sables and several
miniature gulags. With its centerpiece
Sevastopol
secured, the next task
was to grab a few Lenin statues. Apparently there was a fire sale in the Ukraine.

Pacific Rim

The French
Navy’s
Mistral
warship was on its way to Sasebo Base in Japan. It was
scheduled to take part in some war games alongside the US Pacific fleet. The
point of this anal exercise was to showcase the
Mistral’s
capabilities
to the visiting Vietnamese General. Apparently the Vietnamese were in the
market for a ship and the French happened to have one. They would have had two,
if not for the powerful Orlando Theme Park lobby.

Captain
Deschamps Depardieu looked ahead gallantly.

Vladivostok, Russia

The cloud
engulfing their hill suddenly evaporated and exposed the dazzling sun. Their
sunrise often beat Hokkaido by 3 minutes.

Primakov
and Korlov however were hooked to their gadgets. From the looks of it,
everything was on schedule. Everybody was accounted for and in place. Every
aspect of their prep had gone right. Every contingency had been accounted for.
It was an odd feeling.

Right
there, right then Primakov realized that he was experiencing something
extraordinary.
A Russian efficiency
. Well oiled, well equipped, well
planned - Russian efficiency. He played with those words in his mind and felt a
tingle.
Russian efficiency
. During their heyday the KGB planners… his
predecessors had probably felt the same.

“Tran Boi
Nguyen and his convoy just exited the Hilton,” cackled their local asset,
Masaki in Sasebo City, Japan.

“Can we
trust this Masaki guy? His dossier says this is his first job,” queried Korlov.

“I wouldn’t
worry. He is just a favor,” informed Primakov.

Korlov and
Primakov had been eagerly waiting for the Vietnamese delegation. Intelligence reports
from the Atlantic confirmed that their Mistral, the
Sevastopol
had just been
Red October
-
ed
by the Americans. The French Ambassador to Moscow
had voluntarily turned up at the Kremlin and informed that the ship had gone
missing during a ‘training incident’. Apparently the brave Russian officers had
sunk with the ship and the young sailors had been rescued.

Zero
imagination. Zero.

“Favor? He
isn’t in it for the money? What a creep.”

“Samurai Squad,
that Vietcong and his buddies just got out of the Hilton. Be ready to pounce in
six minutes.”

“Copy that
Team Leader,” came the response from Spetsnaz’ Samurai Squad. It consisted of Russian
dudes with Asian blood. Today their mission was to impersonate the Vietnamese
convoy and ultimately pull off a
Jack Sparrow
style heist.

“I suppose
he reads manga. But he’s not a creep. He has been vetted by both sides.”

“Both
sides?” asked Korlov.

“Well, the
Japanese are returning the favor. Masaki is their guy, he just doesn’t know it
himself.”

“Favor for
the cocaine train?”

“Yep.”

“Aren’t the
Japanese like snuggle buddies with the Americans? At some point the Americans
are going to stay enough is enough.”

“Yeah, but
they are beginning to tire of capitalism. Or maybe they want to open a new
Toyota factory in Detroit. This is all probably just some bargaining chip…”

“Mhhmm.
Sneaky little fucks… boss the
USS Green Bay
is in position.”

“They are
sticking to the route,” said Masaki who had been following the Vietnamese
convoy on his unisex motorbike.

“Samurai
team … two minutes.”

“Rodger
that.”

Maria the
Vladivostok office manager stumbled into Primakov’s command center.

“The fuck
woman…? We are in the middle of something here. Get out.”

“Kremlin on
Line 9, you little shits,” replied Maria. It was her 29th year as a secretary at
the Vladivostok office.

“Fuck.”
The clock was winding down. Primakov picked up Line 9.

It was the
President. “Primakov this is Petrova. I need you to abort.”

“Fuck.
Right now? Are you sure Madam?”

“Just do
it.”

Primakov
signaled Korlov to kill the mission. Weeks of prep down the drain.
Russian
efficiency
…

“ABORT.
ABORT…. Samurai Squad stand down!”

“…” static
and indecipherable swearing gushed back from Sasebo.

“Masaki I
want you to stop too. Right now.”

“Samurai
squad … do you copy?”

“….”

“I have
stopped. Stopped following,” replied Masaki.

“Good job.
Now go get yourself a burger at the nearest McD. That will be all for today,
Masaki.”

“Samurai
squad…stand down…”

“Base,
this is Samurai team leader. Mission Aborted.”

“Madam we just
stopped it… But the Vietnamese general is on his way to the base.”

“Great,” said
the Russian President, “I want you to go up to Magadan immediately. A navy jet
is going to take you there.”

“Magadan?
NOOO. Not the Gulag. I was just following orders… Madam…”

“Primakov,
will you listen for a sec.”

“At least
give us Vorkuta not Magadaaaaan…”

Korlov
hissed, “Boss, try for something in Moscow’s suburbs.”

“Relax… a French
Navy
Mistral
, named
Dickmude
has gone missing in the
Sea of
Okhotsk
.”

Primakov “What
now… wait… whaat?”

“The
French ambassador made a second unscheduled visit to the Kremlin. Says the ship
might have hit an ice berg or something. Apparently it has vanished from Japanese
radars. They want our help in the rescue.”

“But there
was only one Mistral in the vicinity… and it was the one we were about to
steal…
Jack Sparrow
style…”

Primakov
was in despair. First the gulag and now this. Aircraft carriers couldn’t go
missing. But… but the Americans didn’t even have another good naval movie.
Hunt
for Red October was it
… It just didn’t add up.

The
President interrupted his inner monologue, “That French ship was captained by a
dude named Depardieu. Ring a bell?”

“Depardieu
… Depardieu…,” Primakov mouthed a do you know wtf the crazy cat lady is talking
about to Korlov. 

Korlov did
a quick search on Yandex.com, “Fat French actor defected to Russia. Apparently
for tax evasion,” whispered Korlov. That did ring a bell.

“Damn.
Depardieu. I remember. Phony guy who I believe is now a guest of our
Federation…”

“Holds the
same rank as Snowden….,” whispered Korlov.

“Yep.
Apparently Capitaine Depardieu… captain of the missing
Mistral - Dixmude
is the fourth cousin of Fat Depardieu’s third wife…. Also he is Corsican.”

“Oh… shit…
oh… shit… Oh shit…” Primakov sensed something.

President
Petrova continued, “Had a very interesting call from one of our Akula sub’s
captain. Semyonovich, says he is tracking a quiet ship and it just pulled a
Crazy
Anelka
….”

“On the
starboard side?”

“Yes. On
the starboard side.”

Primakov
was jubilant. “Told you. They all have that one good movie… Total Lack of Imagination…
sympathizing with his uncle… pissed off at the egalite liberte horse shit… his
own
Hunt for Red October
…”

The
Russian President signed off.

“….and apparently
a
Ramius
fetish
…,” interjected Korlov.

“And a
Ramius fetish... yeah Lithuanian to Corsican … is like red apples to green
apples….”

“Boss,
Corsicans are the Lithuanians of France?” asked Korlov.

“Ah… maybe
more like Chechens… but whatever…”

“I see.”

“Then
again, Corsica could be more like Georgia.”

“Georgia –
America or Soviet?”

“Soviet.
Duh.”

“Boss, but
Corsica is an island… which means Crimea could be the Corsica of Ukraine.”

“Yeah but
Crimea isn’t Ukraine anymore. It’s Russian, just like Abkhazia, Transnistria
and Kaliningrad.”

“So Crimea
is the Corsica of Russia?”

“No. Crime
is just Crimea.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“Maybe
Sardinia is the Corsica of Italy.”

“No that’s
why they have Sicily…”

“…”

“…”

“Let’s
just go catch that plane to Magadan.”

Le Bourget, Paris

The
world’s largest airshow alternated each year between the British town of Farnborough
and Le Bourget in France. The who’s who of aviation turned out in full force to
try and push one government’s debt to another government.

This year,
the star attraction was the F-35. Sarah McAllister was caught flaunting the jet’s
private parts to a bunch of robed Sheiks when Doug Sanders arrived. The robed
guys, from their beard rubbing frequency, seemed to be on the fence.

Apparently,
the French were throwing black Friday deals on their Mirages. The defection of
their Mistral
Dickmude
to Russia had incensed them and they blamed it on
the Americans. Strike 1.

TO add
fuel to the fire, the French had learned from TMZ that the NBA star who wanted
to party on the
Sevastopol
in Miami wasn’t LeBron. They had become
annoyed. Perhaps Kobe or Dwight. Nope. Tony Parker?? Meh. Not a Frenchman… Not
an active player? Retired? Mon Dieu. Could it be…? Could it be… Swoosh Jordan? OMG…?
Nope. At least Shaq? Non Monsieur, “
Il est Dennis Rodman.
”

Now that
was Strike 2 and 3 in one blow.

“
Foutre
Vous
. Not that freak show. Non. Non,” cried the French President.

In
response to this American rod move, the French had lost their collective shit
and decided to heavily undercut the F-35s. Tit for tat
.
The head of the DGSE had cried and barfed… crarfed for
hours. In a two hours ensuing the Rod
insult
, 18,573 ‘foutre vous’ were recorded
by the DGSE’s surveillance of the French Government. The NSA counted 18,635.

Burned by the Rodman, the
French had unloaded over 200 defective Mirages to Burkina Faso and Gabon.

Realizing
that a few big Bs were at stake Doug Sanders dived in head long to save the
F-35s.

“Honorable
Highness, Enchanter of Camels, Guardian of the Double Humps, I hope my simple colleague
from the State Department hasn’t bored the shit out of your entourage.”

“Pardon,”
said one of the robed dudes.

“Hey Doug,
nice to see you too. But srsly wtf?” shriek-whispered Sarah.

“Is there
anything on the F-35 that’s better than the Raptor?” asked someone from the
robed posse.

“Let me
show you the $1.4 million Macchiato maker… we call it the
Black Mistress
…”

Forty five
minutes later, the Americans had moved a dozen F-35s off the lot. Feeling
exuberant, Undersecretary McAllister said, “A drink Doug? Champaign?”

“Hmmm, bet
that Dassault booth has a few crates left.”

“Probably
the only thing the French should be peddling.”

During the
walk through the soiree, they noticed several countries trying to push their wares.
Diplomats, skimpy male models, Secretaries, acrobats, CEOs , pimps, Members of
Parliament, skimpy models, jugglers, jokers and even a fake Elvis were all
touting the intricacies of some million dollar system.

A quick
walk by the various booths reiterated several things. The Swedes had IKEAed their
Grippens. Only newbies to war like Brazil, went after the pretty looking Swedish
jets. Despite the desert love, the A380 was dead… and incredibly the 787 was getting
assaulted both over and under by the revived A330 and the miraculous A350. Having
had a fly away date of six months for the past six years, no one went near the hapless
Chinese C919s. And for some reason, Bombardier’s C-Series… bravely squared off
against Seattle and Toulouse… oh Canada.

Drinking
out of their bottles the Doug and the Sarah came across a deserted Israeli pavilion.

“Where the
hell is everybody?”

The
greatest radars in existence stood unloved and untended. A solemn Ariel waved
at Sarah.

“Hey
Ariel, why so serious?”

“God she
is hot. Who is that?” asked Doug.

“Behave.”

Ariel Katz
was one of the assistants to the Israeli Defense Minister.

A sullen
Ariel replied, “It’s the Russians. They have some new revolutionary radar…”

“Did
anyone ever tell you that you were Is-really hot?” blurted Doug.

Sarah
punched Doug’s ribs in a seemingly friendly way and said, “Doug, get outta
here. Go check out the Czech pavilion. Seems they have a new Tatra vehicle to
challenge our Hummer. Plus they usually have Pilsners on tap…”

A
traitorous cock block. Fuck. Plus he was like married. Boohoo. Doug decided to go
Czech out the Czechs. “Righto… see you… and you too... Ariel… God, is it getting
hot in here or is it just you….”

“Out.”

Sarah and
Ariel watched as Doug Sanders bumped and staggered around the potent Israeli
radars.

“So whats the
deal with this Russian radar?”

“Don’t
know. The Russian Foreign Minister Luzkhov is about to make a presentation.”

“Luzkhov
is back? Thought he was in a gulag.”

“Guess he
was released. Presentation starts…” Ariel checked Le Bourget’s brochure, “…
right about now.”

“Well. I
am going to go check out the radar. You coming?”

“Nah, I am
holding fort here.”

“Well see
you in DC.” Sarah gave Ariel a light Israeli style peck.

“Take the
other exit and just keep going all the way south. 1 mile… I think. Heard they are
put up next to the sanitation plant.”

Sarah
McAllister exited the Israeli pavilion from the second entrance and hurried
towards the Russian pavilion. Unlike the inner areas which housed the sexy
jets, the open tarmac housed the belugas – C-17s, A400s, A380s. And there was
no one in sight for the next couple of miles. Just humongous planes.

She hurried
as elegantly as her position allowed her to. Getting caught out of breath and
frumpy was the last thing she wanted.

Half way
through a Xian Y-20, a parallel lane of A380s opened up. Confused she checked
her Le Bourget brochures. They were in French. Of course. Fuck. Such a French move.
Eventually she found a mechanic-y looking guy dozing under the nose of an Air
France A380.

The
Undersecretary coughed.

The
mechanic dude groggily opened his eyes, “Oui Madame?”

“Russia… Russia
pavilion… Where?”

“Mercy Madame.”

“Sanitation
plant… bad smell…,” she held her nose to signify stench.

The
mechanic shook his head, “Mercy Madame.”

“White,
blue and red flag… sil vous plait.”

“Oui
Madame, Oui. Mais Mercy.”

“Fucks
sake dude, Blanc – Bleu – Rouge,” she followed it up with a fluttering flag
gesture.

“Oui Madame,
La France,” the pumpkin flashed a proud Gallic smile.

The
Russian Bleu was lighter and the flag’s stripes were the other way and there
was no elegant way to explain it.

As she was
about to give up on the Frenchmen, Sarah heard thumping footsteps behind her.
It was Doug.

“Saraaaah.
The Russians…”

“Yes I
know...”

Doug was
already ten feet ahead of her.

“Follow me…
Luuuuzkhov began five minutes ago…”

The
Undersecretary from the State Department took off her heels and ran after her
American colleague. She planned to stuff the Le Bourget brochures into a Mirage’s
exhaust.

Ten
minutes later they rushed into the jam packed Russian hangar. Luzkhov looked
different. He was prancing around in jeans, sneakers and a black turtleneck.

“…today…
I give you… the Gaydar.”