Moscow Machination

by Ian Maxwell

  Doing it with Zhen Zhao wouldn’t have been the same. She didn’t get it.

  4 sec

  Zhen Zhao could see the faint outline of Wang’s little face. He seemed to be standing up… and there was someone close behind him. She tried harder.

  A large, person stood behind Wang. Eww he went from her to that??

  The trains got closer.

  The burly person was a man…

  The dude wasn’t even Chinese… he had facial hair.

  Damn. Probably had something to do with training the Mongolian hordes in exchange of sand for the phones. Wang held out his arms to form a T, mimicking the corny Titanic pose while his Mongolian male friend handled his junk.

  3 sec

  Zhen Zhao shrieked.

  2 sec

  Startled, by the shriek, Zhen’s co-pilot Chou looked up, just in time to catch the passing CRH300. Chou observed, “Ugh, looks like someone spilt their latte on the windscreen. That’s stuff is disgusting. No hot beverages says rule number…”

  1 Sec

  The little boxes latched onto the trains.

  A scrapping metal sound filled the CRH400A’s cabin as Zhen and Chou felt the train slightly tilt.

  A similar sound filled Wang’s train as he and his partner also felt a tilt.

  0 Sec

  Once the little steel buggers had latched onto the under bellies of the trains, the made in Russia steel cable began to exhibit a bizarre stress – strain graph. Normal steel would have just expanded a bit and then snapped, probably derailing the trains and resulting in a proverbial train wreck.

  However the made in Russia steel cable expanded by about a hundred feet. The two trains were halfway past each other.

  At the end of this superficial expansion the steel cable from Magnitogorsk, went taught. But unlike typical steel cables it didn’t snap.

  The effect on the trains was instantaneous. Simultaneously both trains seemed to hit an invisible wall. But there was no damage or shattering of the nose. Instead of crumpling, slowing and derailing, the faster CRH400A following the laws of angular velocity, swung left and lifted off the rails. Its target: The CRH300.

  29 micro seconds later the CRH300 also lifted off and headed towards the middle of the sleek black CRH400A.

  Up in space, satellite Koba was all amused, this was the start of a long payback for the Damansky Island bs… well technically Koba the satellite didn’t have a soul, but it wasn’t entirely unfathomable. Primakov however, had a beating heart and a working brain. It was all going according to his plan.

  The CRH400A headed straight into the middle of its older cousin. Just when Zhen Zhao thought it was all over, she hit some sort of a silent cocoon… the eye of the storm. From up in the air, it seemed like a dog chasing its own tail… but there was also another dog involved…

  Primakov however, knew it was more like a couple of poisonous reptiles chasing each other’s heads while going in circular motion.

  Either way it was, trippy.

  The steel cable had in essence clubbed the nose cones of the trains together. When coupled with high speeds and aerodynamics, this had made the trains airborne. The Chinese designers aka the Japanese, had never considered the little deviant known as the centrifugal force. Why would they? They weren’t making a rollercoaster for Disney World, Dalian.

  This Centrifugal deviant, forced the trains to lift off and unwind at the same time. The mellow white train, the almost invisible steel cable and the CRH400A all formed a humongous S shaped rotating chopper blade. It was still trippy.

  The first casualty was the hi-tech fence that guarded the tracks against peasant revolutions. The trains, acting like a whip, blasted one out to Rangoon.

  The eastern fence flew a 100ft before crashing through the paint shop of the Datsun Auto’s manufacturing facility. No personnel were injured as paint shops were considered to be too hazardous, even in China. The surviving Datsuns looked like they had been in an accident involving tattoo artists at a gay pride rally.

  It would leave an indelible black mark on Chinese manufacturing, or so hoped Primakov.

  The western fence flew into the smart underwear maker plant. Here the damage was more devastating. Stores, supplies and electronics all burnt to the ground. The devastation sent the smart underwear industry, back to the stone ages. This would force the California company to remove the ‘Designed in California’ tag and ship the remnants to the Democratic Republic of Congo.

  The trains, still spinning, headed in the north-westerly direction with a ton of angular momentum.

  Inside the CHR400A, Zhen Zhao and Chang Chou were still alive and relatively unharmed. They were strapped into the Japanese designed seats. Chang Chou, resigned to fate, decided to think of happy things. Early childhood, her first ramen… that kind of shit.

  Zhen Zhao however simply couldn’t look away from the spectacle in the CRH300’s cockpit. When the trains had taken off, the cockpit’s occupants: Wang, Wang’s wang, the 6’6” Mongolian and his wang had all been unstrapped and strutting. With gravity suddenly taking a backseat to centrifugal forces all four had been hurled around the cabin like an angry babushka stirring at her sauerkraut.

  In an effort to stabilize himself, the Mongolian dude had made a grab for Wang. Wang himself was attempting to keep his privates covered. Zhen meanwhile couldn’t take her eyes off the wangs.

  After 10 more micro seconds, Zhen averted her eyes and looked down. On her lap stuck between her seven inch skirt was the CRH400A’s operator manual. She wrenched it out of her trembling thighs and went straight to the end of the 600 page book. She went to the end for two reasons. One, because the last section was in Chinese and two, because most manuals put apocalyptic scenarios in the end. Like replace your LG TV or check power switch or call some 1800-FUCK-NUMBER.

  As expected the top of the last page had some mumbo jumbo about toll free numbers. Zhen Zhao skimmed down. Some pencil pusher in Beijing was quoted as saying ‘Human capital is our greatest asset. We will always save ours.’ Zhen Zhao couldn’t believe this bull.

  After travelling about 250 meters in the North West direction, the trains tired of whirling through the air decided to cave in to gravity. Right about there was the largest train manufacturing plant in Southern China. This particular plant happened to be the one designing and manufacturing the new age “Absolutely and Completely Made in China” trains like the CRH400A.

  Zhen’s intestines indicated that they were beginning their descent while her field of vision confirmed that they would be landing smack in the middle of China Rail’s stamping unit. She had toured the plant a month ago. Back then it was an honor. The stamping unit… fuck…

  Focusing back to the manual, she skimmed down 2 more inches towards the bottom of the last page. WTF?

  Chang Chou observed the burly Mongolian’s vinegar strokes in horror as she finally solved the mystery behind the latte spillage just 8 seconds ago. Her thoughts were in disarray. She could no longer remember her first encounter with the chopsticks…

  The coupled trains had thus far completed 3 full rotations on their flight to freedom. On the fourth rotation the far end of the CRH400A, smacked a large exhaust chimney at the CRH rail facility. The chimney would land 1.6 Kms away at a German factory that made porcelain urinals for malls. The chimney chose to land at the testing facility which housed about a thousand gallons of recycled urine.

  Zhen Zhao read again. In simplified Chinese it read: ‘If in danger, Call out to your badass supreme leader.’

  Zhen Zhao began half-heartedly, “Steve Jobs? Oh wait… Mao? Mao… Mao?”

  On her 7th ‘Mao’, Zhen Zhao and Chang Chou felt a massive explosion under their sweet bottoms. Nano seconds later, so did the eight hundred other screaming passengers on the Shenzhen to Beijing, CRH400A.

  The few unlucky onlookers on the ground and Koba watched as the black train suddenly exploded and began cluster bombing Guangdong.

  Without its dance partner, the CRH300A smashed horizontal
ly into China Rail’s stamping facility. The lack of combustible fuel and the presence of fine German circuit breakers prevented any ugly fires or explosions. But that just wasn’t enough to save the facility from complete devastation.

  Meanwhile, Zhen Zhao was 500 feet up in the air still strapped to her seat. The warm wind, the industrial scenery and the sudden turn of events made her light headed. But other than that she was fine. She still had the capability to transmit yellow fever.

  The last page on the CRH400A’s manual had explained how the train behaved like a fighter jet’s cockpit. So, in case of May Day situations (not the Communist one), the pilots just had to chant ‘Mao, Mao, Mao’ and their seats would eject safely with a parachute.

  Zhen turned her head and noticed that Chang her co-pilot was also floating in the vicinity. A little further she noticed the 800 or so dumbstruck passengers also in dangling from parachutes.

  As the parachutes headed for one of the last patches of rice paddies, Zhen realized she was still holding onto the operator manual. She quickly flipped to the last pages of the English, German and French sections. The secret Mao page was missing.

  Her relief was dampened at the thought of Wang’s passengers. Wang could burn… but his passengers… Chen Chou yelled out, “The early train to Shenzhen… not popular… mostly Party wives.”

  Moscow

  Primakov felt elated as he rushed back to the SVR-SB’s headquarters on the outskirts of Moscow. On the way he had an animated conversation with Dementyev, a Moscow State University economist. As he recited the factories hit, Dementyev made rapid calculations and deduced that the damages accrued were about size the of Rhode Island’s GDP.

  “Just Rhode Island?” Primakov was sorely disappointed. All that effort and something that wasn’t even an island and sounded like a chicken.

  “Yup.”

  “That’s not enough…”

  “Well, how about ½ of Jacksonville or 3/7th of Portland...”

  “Portland? What is that? Give me big names… New York, Chicago, Philly, Miami… Dallas”

  “Err… ok.”

  “Seriously Portland…?”

  Chapter 4

  Lubyanka Square, Moscow

  Primakov drove his Volkswagen Jetta across the Moskva River. It was summer in Moscow and the better samples of the Federation’s demographics were on display. Usually seeing a sexy runner in tank tops would have been the highlight of his day, especially considering he spent most of his time in a half abandoned technology park out in suburban Skolkovo. But everything was gorgeous today, right from the traffic to the weather to the Muscovites and especially his sweet mission.

  Things hadn’t felt this way in a long time. He had resigned himself to heading the SVR-SB and its moronic missions across Siberian shitholes and the raging republics. Even on the rare ‘stoking a revolution’ missions, the SVR-SB was usually reduced to bombing sewage treatment plants. Plus, to lay the ground work, one of his men had to get a job at these places. Modern facilities in Tbilisi and Africa were generally fine. It was the older ones like Kiev and Helsinki and Warsaw that made his men squirm.

  And then Crimea had happened.

  Ever since the Russo-Ukrainian split his life had taken a turn for the better. He had been asked to plan several hypothetical missions in Kiev, ranging from abducting aerospace engineers to assassinating the neo-Nazi ministers to even modifying the weather to ratchet radioactive dust from suburban Chernobyl. In the past year alone, had submitted eighteen plans to the SVR for approval. On a couple of occasions some SVR Major had even invited Primakov to the SVR headquarters for further discussions. But in the end nothing had transpired… at least to Primakov’s knowledge.

  Then a month ago, the SVR had instructed him to meet up with some Japanese dude in a Moscow café. Three minutes into that meeting, Primakov was stunned by the insane Japanese man. Perhaps his cute Japanese interpreter was insane. He had stepped out of the café and made an urgent call to the SVR hotline to report this Japanese dude and his vixen – for trying to destabilize a friendly nation. After being put on hold for fifteen minutes, an irritated SVR guy had used unimaginative language and instructed him to blow the Japanese guy if necessary.

  Needless to say he had returned to the eagerly waiting Japanese duo. The interpreter was particularly happy to see him come back. Primakov listened to their odd request again to make sure nothing was being lost in translation.

  Essentially the Japanese dude, who was also the Foreign Minister of the great nation of Japan wanted another great nation, Russia, to punch China in the balls. “Why not ask your cuddle buddy America?” Primakov had retaliated. The cute interpreter relayed “These days they are all about projection of power. Nothing real Primakov-san.” She had even made an emoji-style sad face, causing him to spill his tall black Americano. Her fervent cleanup effort with a napkin hadn’t helped either.

  Yada, yada, yada… the sabotage mission in China’s Guangdong province had cost the Chinese economy a dollar value that was about 1/4th the GDP of Chicago.

  So, here he was, outside the old Cheka-NKVD-KGB prison at Lubyanka square. Not for treason or espionage or some lack of belief in the system, but for heroically executing his mission and exceeding Japanese expectations. The Russian Foreign Minister was about to present him the ‘Defender-General Badass’ medal.

  As expected, parking around Lubyanka was a torture. Primakov cursed and rounded the Lubyanka prison for the third time in search of a spot as a man in a cool bomber jacket walked out of a side door and indicated him to stop.

  “The fuck are you up to moron? You are making the snipers jittery.”

  “Sorry. I have an appointment with my boss in 5 minutes… actually I’m receiving the Defender-General Badass medal…” blurted out Primakov.

  “Badge?”

  Primakov handed him his laminated ID. The SVR-SB didn’t have badges.

  After a long inspection, the FSB guy gave the nod, “We’ll take your car. Get out.”

  Primakov waited with the fifteen other distinguished men. None spoke. There was a lone FSB photographer. No media or fanfare. This was the Oscars of high stakes defense.

  On the dais sat the chiefs of the FSB and SVR. Their expressions mirrored those of Cossacks undergoing coffee colon cleanses. The third chair was empty. Apparently the Foreign Minister was running late. Something about Latvia and gas pipes. If the Latvians Ukrained-out, he could always resubmit his rejected, white paper ‘Tunnels under the Latvian SSR: A scholastic guide to Soviet Union 2.2.3’.

  After about fifteen minutes, there was a shriek outside the hall. 2 seconds later, another Russian male shrieked. There were sounds of boots slamming and guys going into attention. As the commotion got closer the FSB guards rushed out. At the sight of something they too freaked out and parted away.

  On the dais the SVR and FSB heads gasped and sprung up.

  In walked Anna Petrova, the Russian President.

  41 year old Anna Petrova had arrived at the Kremlin under extraordinary circumstances. The previous president, despite every western analyst’s prediction had stepped down at the end of his second term. On his retirement speech, President Val had said, “… after all these years I have found my true calling… a call of the wild… I want to become the Crocodile Hunter 2.0… what a great man… as our cold Russia is no place for these noble beasts, I have decided to go to Brisbane… where I can learn from the best… and catch some of the best crocs… dammit… one day, one day I will even have my own TV show on Discovery… Spasibo Bitches.”

  Hoping for a clean change, the Russian people had barfed at apparatchiks and voted in the fresh faced female professor from Volgograd State University. Some thought it was a CIA conspiracy.

  And then Crimea had happened.

  Trying to catch the new President off guard someone had set off the Kiev Maidan. Uncowed, the naïve President had foolishly sent in the Spetsnaz to take ‘back’ Crimea. In the process she had lost Ukraine. But then again, Ukraine was alr
eady a basket case… a parasite… it was no Estonia, Latvia or Lithuania where an easy turnaround was possible. Let Brussels deal with them. Whatever.

  The western backlash and the frosty stances from friendly Beijing and Minsk had forced the new President to seek out brand-new-old friends… aka friends with benefits… aka frenemies – Japan and Germany. The Japanese going through their own lost double decade had been more than willing to mix it up.

  Primakov along with everyone, rose to attention as the Russian President took the dais.

  She began, “I apologize…” wow, a first for a politician thought Primakov. His other brain quickly evaluated her and wondered why she was unmarried.

  “I apologize… Sergey Luzkhov our Foreign Minister had to go from Riga to Vilnius. Suddenly the Lithuanians want assurances and guarantees. Ah… what can I say? So I thought I might step in and surprise you all… hope you all aren’t disappointed …”

  Of course not. Fuck that conniving Luzkhov. This was an honor. Award from the President… ooh.

  “…as you all know, we are in unchartered territory. And we are going to have to use every unorthodox tool… to preserve what’s rightfully ours. So I would like to congratulate you all… for the service you do for the Motherland.”

  As the group applauded, an assistant began calling out the awardees. When Primakov was called up, he walked up to the President. The President shook his hand and pinned the ‘Defender-General Badass’ medal to his shirt. She then proceeded to shake his hand.

  “Pyotr Primakov, the Japanese are extremely happy with what you did. Thank you.”

  By the time he had uttered his own “Thank you madam…” he found himself at his seat. Some anal security guy had whisked him away. Whatever.