Moscow Machination

by Ian Maxwell

  “Ah, you dirty Euros, always pushing the limits…” Sanders tried to high five Lefebvre.

  “Non. Monsieur… BRICS is BRIC plus S, where S is South Africa.”

  “Thanks for the lesson, Frenchie. Yeah, I guess they are out too.”

  “Oui, Monsieur,” replied Jean.

  “So, where was I, ya that leaves what… the Saudis, Australians and maybe the Israelis? But then again, those guys are going to want to refit and retrofit the shit out of the boats. We want none of that. It has to be quick and easy. Plus we don’t feel real comfy about putting boats into the Middle East.”

  “Oui. But so what is le solution, Monsieur?”

  “Are you suggesting we wreck billions of euros worth of ship?” Larsen the Norwegian tried again.

  “Easy fellas. The allied commander says I get to choose what happens to the ships. See I’m married to his third daughter… so… mmm, wish I had seen the second daughter first you know, the BMIs on that chick are off the charts man…”

  “I see… wait does it mean she is so fat and her stats are off the charts or… off the charts in a good way… English is confusing?” said DGSE Jean.

  “No brah. Off the charts means on the charts.”

  “Off means on?”

  “Dude she is a fine piece… ok?”

  “Ah… I see,” said Torgeir Larsen.

  “Ya man, see this Norwegian dude knows what I’m talkin’ about. Bet you ate out a blonde for breakfast.” Sanders then proceeded to high five the General Secretary of NATO. The alarmed Frenchmen said “But… but…” in unison. They had eaten too. Not that morning, but not that long ago.

  Not wanting to leave them hanging, Sanders high fived them too. With the atmosphere disintegrating, the American instructed the NATO General Secretary, to get some fine Belgian ales immediately. The Secretary obliged.

  “So here is the deal fellas… the first option is we ‘borrow’ the ships from France, as in the French ‘lend’ the ships to the US Navy. Pretty cool right?”

  “Oui.”

  “Yes. So chill.”

  “And we would rename them USS St Petersburg and USS Moscow after our meth capitals in Florida and Idaho.”

  “That’s bold my man. Maybe you should go a step further… as in pinch the jugular… go for the kiss… just do it… and make it USS Albuquerque and USS White,” said DGSE Jean.

  “Wow Jean, that’s terrific. I could French the shit out of you right now. Bravo boy… name their ships after America’s new manufacturing hub… and a genius. Hell yeah. Fuck St. Petersburg. Brother Lefebvre, please tell me there is third boat in the works. Please… I so, so want a USS Pinkman… please…”

  “Non, Monsieur. Sadly not.”

  “Ah fuck it. Anyways, best part is we could simply grant asylum to those cooped up Russian sailors. Win-win-win-win.”

  “So your plan… in broad strokes… is to copy the Hunt for Red October?” asked a bewildered Jean Bernard.

  “Basically,” shrugged the American, suddenly feeling nervous. Had they discovered his lack of originality? Was this going to hurt his coolness barometer?

  “Ah that’s fantastic.”

  “That’s so radical man,” chimed in the rest of the gang.

  “Actually your plan is better than the Hunt for Red October. Unlike the book, where the sub is destroyed for research, you actually want to co-opt it… very cool”

  Doug Sanders stopped breathing, “Wait did you just say the sub gets destroyed in the book?”

  “Oui.”

  “Fuck the book dude. Who cares about books? The movie is where it is at… especially when Connery and Ryan ride off into the twilight… always thought it was pretty romantic…”

  “Oui,” said one of the Frenchies.

  “Oui.” The second was more enthusiastic.

  “No homo… no homo… just saying,” Sanders interjected hastily. After all they were still French.

  “Non, Monsieur. There is nothing wrong with that”

  “Non. Non.”

  “Ya. Very good movie. God, your America is cool.”

  With the coolness barometer intact, Doug Sanders ploughed on, “Well there is one hitch to this plan. Some of the defense contractors have their panties in a bunch about missing out to you Frenchies. Some bullshit about setting a precedent and jobs and feeding America and… ”

  “Oh I see? So what do you propose Doug?”

  “Well, I thought long and hard just now, damn these Belgian ales are really hitting the spot… and I just got a great idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “Oui?”

  “Ok, two words.”

  “Oui?”

  “Orlando Theme Park.”

  Chapter 8

  Kremlin, Moscow

  By the time President Petrova retired to bed, it was close to midnight. Under her leadership Russia had entered unchartered territories, especially dwindling friends and mounting sanctions. Publicly she had repeated what every Great Russian leader before her had said, “Russia is vast – Russia has lots of natural resources – We are just short of a couple of reforms from taking on the West – And who needs the West anyways.”

  Russians over of 35 neither agreed nor cared. The young on the other hand… well they were young.

  Anna Petrova wondered what the hell was wrong with her great nation. Russia had more oil and gas than the Gulf States combined. Yet OPEC the tail wagged the Russian Husky. Coal, iron, diamonds, fish, timber - there was almost nothing Russia had less than any other nation.

  So why did Russia suffer? What the heck was wrong with her country? Some blamed it on pop-history. They accused the Bolsheviks and their purging of intelligentsia. But that was almost a century ago.

  So why did Russia suck? Some blamed it on geography. The lack of warm accessible ports and the dependence on Sevastopol which incidentally had also brought about the Crimean crisis.

  Some said Russia was just too cold. Too much ice, too much snow, blah blah the permafrost, blah, blah… the harsh winters. But without the cold, Russia wouldn’t have stood a chance against genocidal losers like the French midget and that German eunuch.

  Some blamed it on Vodka. Heavy drinking among the young. Even more so with the old. This wasn’t even factually true. The scheming Poles and Finns, lead them by almost a gallon per capita.

  Some said Russia was too old. Not enough births. Faced a demographic Anti-Armageddon. Yet, so did Germany, Italy and Japan. Latest data even suggested an uptick in Russian births. And unlike the west, Russia had done it the old fashioned way - by giving a fuck where it mattered.

  Some blamed it on how thinly the Russian population was spread and how it took a week to travel or ship between Siberian cities and how Russia was bleeding by supporting unsustainable settlements in the Far East.

  Petrova begged to differ. Ninety percent of Russian settlements and cities were bang on the Trans-Siberian Railway. Which essentially made Russia into a very, very long country… not unlike Chile, a libertarian darling bent over by Pinocchio. Or perhaps, more like Canada, whose populations, ever afraid of grizzlies had never ventured 10 miles beyond the 49th parallel. The Canadian fear of the grizzlies was so epic, that a few years ago they had rounded up a bunch of grizzlies and shipped them down to Memphis.

  Some blamed it on communist infrastructure. While the Trans-Siberian had been about sustenance, the Baikal-Amur Magistrale over the Tundra, had been all about foresight and growth and trade.

  Yet, something had gone wrong.

  After the fall of the Union, some Western analysts and ‘think tanks’ had even suggested to split up Russia into three or four ‘manageable chunks’. Obviously Muscovy would become a basecamp of sorts, to ravage the wild east, while the rest of Russia disintegrated to become the apocalyptic New Africa.

  But despite the self-denials and an army of Soviet apologists, something had gone wrong. Something had terribly, terribly gone wrong with Russia. Anna Petrova tossed and turned in her bed.


  At half past one, the President heard a muffled noise… a grating. She sprang up and sat on the massive Catherine the Great’s bed. She wasn’t sure if she had imagined the noise.

  Eleven seconds later she heard the noise again. But the grating didn’t come from the main door. It seemed to come from the fireplace. The Federal Protective Service, tasked with her security had assured her that the fireplace was decorative. The chimney had been sealed and the fireplace hadn’t been used since the days of Khrushchev.

  Anna Petrova, the first ever female President of Russia contemplated the situation nervously. She didn’t want to alert her guards just yet. Being a member of the female form, the guards had assumed her to be soft and often treated her with kid gloves. For some reason they were also under the impression that she was afraid of the dark. Sure, she had had a couple of nightmares involving Iron Felix and Yezhov, but who could blame her… some real dark shit had gone down in the Kremlin’s five hundred year existence.

  Plus a good majority of the Kremlin’s previous tenants hadn’t vacated by choice. Even when they did, they had ended up on the Kremlin’s Wall Necropolis.

  President Petrova tried to breathe deeply. Six deep breaths usually did it. One. Two. Three. She forgot about the breathing.

  Plus there had been zero nightmares or ‘incidents’ since the departure of her cats.

  Crrrank. Fuck there it was again. Anna Petrova contemplated making a dash for the main door. The door was almost 30 feet away. The ambient Moscow lights, and the lamps from the Kremlin grounds presented reasonable visibility. Or maybe she could just pick up the phone…

  “Good evening Ms. President.”

  “Who’s that?”

  A light came on near the fireplace. A short rotund, man in a long white coat climbed out of the fireplace.

  “Good evening Ms. President. Sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

  He looked old but well kept. Non-threatening.

  The unsure President asked, “Are you part of my security detail?”

  “Madam, my name is Otto Fuchs and… I am the Messenger.”

  Anna Petrova woke up with a start. What a freaky dream. Even the fine Afghani kush on during her ‘aid’ trips to Ashgabat had never made her hallucinate about old men crawling out of fireplaces. Even that Iron Felix-Yezhov nightmare had depicted them as young sexy revolutionaries. This psycho Santa was a first.

  She opened her eyes and found herself in a Lazyboy facing the fireplace. On a nearby Lazyboy sat the rotund dude of her dreams. Seemed like he was sampling her beer collection.

  “Oh God! I’m still in that dream… oh no. Who the hell are you? The guards never appear in the dreams…” Anna whimpered softly.

  Ms. President, or shall I say Anna… you are back. You fainted and fell. I moved you to these fine chairs. Here have a Corona. Corona, almost as good as Bavarian.”

  “What?”

  “Just have a beer Madam. Trust me I am not the enemy. I am just a Messenger.”

  “A Messenger? Ok whats the message?”

  “The Weapon is ready.”

  “The Weapon is ready? What weapon?”

  “Sorry. That’s all I can say.”

  “Wait … are you that scientist from Izhevsk that defected to France? Didn’t you…?”

  “Oh. No. Like I said I’m just the Messenger.”

  “Wait a minute…. you said your name was Otto? Are you German?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh god. The nightmare hasn’t ended… can I have another Corona?”

  “As you wish, Madam.”

  After chugging the Corona, President Petrova tried again… the only way to come out of the dream was to indulge it, “Ok whats the purpose of this weapon? Wait why are we employing German scientists? This isn’t 1945 anymore… Which facility do you belong to? Who’s your Minister?”

  “Sorry Madam. I can’t answer any of those questions. Like I said, I am just the Messenger, and the message is: The weapon is ready.”

  “So whats the point of telling me it’s ready, you creep? Wait this beer tastes awfully good… this mustn’t be a dream… I think I am going to call my guards.”

  “Sure. But you can’t hurt me. No one can hurt me.”

  “Eww why is that…? Please don’t tell me you are a ghost or a half dead werewolf or something like that… please…”

  “I am very much alive Ms. President. Don’t worry, I won’t eat your brains out. It’s just that we have taken the necessary precautions this time. Not after that incident with Leo.”

  “Oh… Leo… of course, Leo…. who the fuck is Leo?”

  “Leonid Brezhnev.”

  If she had been on a chair instead of the Lazyboy, the President would have tipped over. “You have met Brezhnev? Wait ‘We’? There are more of you lot…? Are you some surviving Old Bolshevik?”

  “No Ma’am. We have no political ethos. Last time, my brother Karl was picked to deliver the message. He had an encounter with Leo… that awful unibrow and his guards...” Otto shuddered before continuing, “they… they killed Karl…. ugh… ya long story short, they fucking killed him. Since then it was decided to always go in with the safety on.”

  “You met Brezhnev, dead Karl, more of you… Oh god… I think I know what this is …it’s the Chinese revenge… the Chinese have drugged me…”

  “No madam… Anna… Just finish your beer… oh ok good… here chug another one… ya.”

  In the Corona fueled swirl, Anna Petrova wondered how the Chinese had bribed an Old Bolshevik to kill her. Because the Bolsheviks didn’t believe in money… so had to do with ideology… but ‘Otto’ the German had just said… no political ethos… ethos… German… Lebowski… Nihilists… Nazis… ah... they weren’t called the National Socialists for nothing… Socialists… Karl Marx… the Father of all Reds… but how did the Chinese fit in… oh yeah they were Reds too... Must have something to do with Mao… and his Old Chinese Politburo… the one that was into purges…. aha… so the Soviet Reds, the Chinese Reds and the German Reds had all gotten together to Assassinate her… oh god… why… why… why…. that’s it… she knew why… because the old geezers couldn’t stand a woman on top... aha… noooooo….

  Anna Petrova’s usual somniloquy lasted anywhere between 45-183 seconds. At 389 seconds and counting she was on a tear tonight. At the 450sec mark when they heard the loud ‘Nooo’, the guards had had enough. The Federal Protective Service aka the President’s’ body guards entered the bedroom.

  “Madam is everything all right?” asked the leading guard Mika. He immediately saw the old guy in the white coat seated next to Petrova. “Shit there is someone else in the room… looks like that chicken guy... hey who are you…?”

  “Looks more like Santa…” screamed Vlad one of the other guards on the detail.

  Otto Fuchs waved at the three Presidential guards. “Hola. This time the safety is on.”

  Seeing Otto the rotund guy, seated next to their sweet, sleep talking President, the guards almost went America over Otto’s ass with the ‘Sir… hands where I can see them… lie down on your tummy… slowly spread your legs…’ routine. Almost.

  But then, Mika and his men weren’t some inner city blues, they were Russian Special Forces, the best in close-quarter hand to hand combat.

  So Mika the main guard, ran and punched Otto in the face. Hard. Otto blanked out. But his safety was still on.

  The commotion nudged Anna back out of her mind bending assassination plot. She was fully awake in about 87.6 seconds and wondered whether the nightmare had ended. She then noticed the unconscious Otto sprawled under Mika.

  “Madam are you alright? Did this man hurt you?”

  “Yeah. I think I am ok. A little bit drunk though.”

  “Ma’am do you know this man?”

  “No. He said some strange things about a weapon.”

  “A weapon? Don’t worry ma’am. We will extract all information within the hour.”

  President Anna Petrova ordered the guards
to start interrogating Otto then and there, right in her room. The guards had suggested calling in the bigger guns from the FSB, but the President had been adamant. She needed to know first-hand. The Russian public and world leaders had often assumed/accused her of being soft and lacking experience. So she really wanted to see one of these things in person… see an old man spill out his bloody guts. A sort of an initiation.

  Fifty minutes into the torture session, Anna pleaded with her guards to stop. She just couldn’t take it anymore. The so called new torture technique was unbearable. Even the Pacquiao-Mayweather bum fight had been more interesting than this ‘session’. The insane new technique was an assault on her senses and an insult to the long line of Great Russian torturers.

  Over the years, Russian torture techniques had evolved beyond the cutting off of pinkies and testies. Plus these days, it was getting harder to get people to clean up the remnants of these sessions. Those Tajiks and Uzbeks had suddenly gotten ‘better offers’ where they could ‘set their own schedules’ and instead of just cleaning up, were invited to get ‘intimately involved’. The FSB blamed it on globalization.

  So the Russians had pivoted to drugs. Synthetic reliable drugs. The latest statistics from the FSB suggested that, on an average, a torture session utilizing Russian methods improved the happiness of ‘victims’ for as long as six months. This translated into improvements in their productivity, family life, job performance (even if anti-Russian) and a lowered blood pressure. When the effects wore off, the plunge in wellbeing motivated over a third of the former ‘victims’ to come back for another confession. In contrast G-Bay had a return rate of like 0.01%.

  The drug induced, painless and practically side-effect free interrogation had turned out to be a snooze. After the first 5 ml, Otto was singing like a canary.

  Apparently, Otto’s dad the scientist Martin Fuchs had lead Hitler’s VW program. It was some sort of a plan B, wherein the Beetles would destroy the world one cramped leg at a time. In the last days of the Great Patriotic War, General Rokossovsky had captured their labs and research facility located north east of Berlin. After a few tense hours old Roko under Herr Stalin’s orders had the scientists and their families hauled back to Moscow.