by Ian Maxwell
“Pyotr, as you may or may not know, we have lost a friend today.” Primakov wondered if this was about Sergey Luzkhov’s trip to the Vorkuta Gulag. Moscow’s inner rings were in a tizzy.
“Case in point,” President Petrova nodded at the TV, where a senile Castro was saluting the American flag. “Look at him. God… he disgusts me…”
The secretary knocked and came in with two steaming cups of fine Americano.
“So the reason you are here is because of Project Catie.”
Primakov nodded and took out his notebook. He liked to pretend to take notes in the presence of superiors.
President Petrova continued, “Recently I have discovered an uber-secret, ultra-insane Stalin era project, which how shall I put it… has been tragically forgotten…”
Primakov agreed, “Tons of cool projects were flushed down the drain, Madam... especially in the 90s.”
“Well, this isn’t from the 90s, it’s from the 40s… 1945 to be exact.”
“Whoa that’s insane Madam.” Primakov wondered if he should temper his fake enthusiasm. Secret Projects… please.
“Project Katie, is essentially an ICBM that looks like a regular airliner. So we are going to tell the world that we are reviving the Tupolev program, specifically the Tupolev – 420. You see where I am going?”
Primakov realized where the President was going, “Oh yes. We make a show as though we are building a real airliner but we are actually producing a large number of ICBMs…”
The President nodded.
“...The west will disparage it and maybe even crash it into an Indonesian volcano. And we will build a handful of real prototypes for the world to pee on, but then we build hundreds of the deadly ICBMs and add them to our Aeroflot fleet.”
The President breathed easy. “Go on…”
“Oh… so when the time comes, we will send in scheduled flights to wherever we want… Vancouver, Miami, etc.”
“Good. But there is one major flaw…”
“Yes, we haven’t built an airliner in three decades and nobody is going to believe us when we come up with one in just a year.”
“Yes. Precisely. So how do we circumvent that…?”
“Simple. We revive an older jet… the Tupolev, Tu-144 to be exact. It still looks very cool. Plus it’s a supersonic aircraft. Given the Kremlin’s backing, I bet our factories in Komsomolsk can churn one out in six months.”
“Perfect. Any further questions?”
Primakov was on a roll. He was conversing with the second most powerful person in the world. “Madam, this is a good idea. But I really don’t see how this is of strategic significance. Or as the Americans say, a game changer. You said this was a Stalin era project right?”
“Mhhmm,” nodded Anna Petrova.
“Stalin had great foresight. No doubt. But this… this Project Katie would have been cool in the 80s and maybe even the 90s. Who knows, it could have even helped Gorbachev. But… but not today. I mean we could shoot off a handful of fake liveried missiles before anyone suspects anything. But its…just not…”
“What?”
“Elegant… or effective.
“So?”
“Plus I am not super comfortable with wiping out cities – ours or anybody else’s. The entire point of a WMD is to use it as a threat. A hedge. A defensive mechanism. Not offense. The second we or someone uses it… it’s not cool anymore…”
“Alright. You are hired.”
“I am sorry?”
“Yes. This is exactly why I want you to oversee Project Katie. Or pretend to.”
Primakov wondered if the secretary had spiked his Americano. “Ok Madam, my head is spinning. Why exactly are we threatening Washington with a fake WMD?”
“Welcome to my web, Primakov… or rather, help me build my web.”
Primakov looked around cautiously. Perhaps the rumors about the President being a crazy cat lady were true. Was Sergey Luzkhov her first victim?
“Primakov relax. There is a second secret project. Project Catie… Catie with a C… like… Catherine the Great.”
“What? A Katie and a Catie?”
“Yeah, the airline thing is going to be the decoy.”
“A decoy WMD…? Sweet baby Jesus.”
“The real Project Catie, the one with the C, is the most innovative weapon in the world. And it’s ready to deploy in three months. Unlike a typical WMD it’s not going to harm anyone.”
Primakov while outwardly spellbound was extremely skeptical of this Katie vs Catie bs. He continued to chug his Americano and pretend to take notes.
As if on cue the President requested her guard Mika to come in.
“Primakov, you are going to meet a couple of sweet gentlemen named Otto and Mueller. They will give you a tour of Katie and Catie. Both – real and fake. From here on out, you are to work closely with them. Ok?”
Primakov nodded.
Six hours later, Primakov was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“So?”
“Madam, this is beyond beautiful. This is the real shit. This is it… This is the thing that’s gonna return Russia to its glory.”
“There you are, I knew we were kindred spirits.”
“Absolutely Ma’am. Plus it’s so clean… so elegant… no silly EMPs… no dirty nukes and none of that bio bs. It’s almost… poetic.”
“Great. I am off to a BRICS meeting. I plan on doubling the gas prices to China… heck I might even triple it.”
Primakov saluted his President, “This has been a honor Madam.”
Chapter 17
Johannesburg, South Africa
Like high schools, international politics was split between the cool nations and the freaks. The cool kids got together and formed cliques like the G7, NATO, World Bank and the IMF, where dudes did ludes, dudes and strippers.
This pissed of a great number of cool nations like Cuba (before Castro sampled bat shit), Argentina (before groping the Falklands), Ireland (despite Guinness), Morocco (despite Burroughs-Tangiers), Congo (during the rumble in the jungle) and Israel by the sheer magic of its existence.
Over time through realignments, non-alignments, dissolutions, wars and reincarnations a new middle class of nearly cool but not cool enough nations had developed. These new age nations fell somewhere between Anarcho-Social Sweden and the Anarcho-Libertarian Somalia. After getting rejected yet again by the cool kids and failing to find common cause with the freaks, these nations began forming new groups like the SCO, OPEC, GCC, TPP, SEATO, FIFA, NFL, CIS, SAARC, AU, DEA, MERCOSUR, ADB, ASEAN, OSCE, APEC, TED and NAMBLA.
Still unsatisfied a few nations got together and formed yet another group - A new group to rule them all, a new group to bind them and pound from behind. The group involved Brazil, Russia, India and China and hence was called BRIC.
But at the last moment, South Africa was tacked on to make the acronym kinda pronounceable for disatxploitation journalist Amanpour, who made Michael Bay seem like Woody Allen.
Some of Amanpour’s news hit titles included – Blowing up Belgrade, its sequel Honey, Who Blew up Belgrade, Sigh! Am I in Sarajevo?, its sequel Sarajevo Sucks – Even on Speed, Bender in Baghdad, Return 2 Baghdad, Debacle in Damascus, Debacle in Damascus 2: State of the Union, Oops I did it in Beirut, the Award winning West Bang Story, Cuddling with Castro, Mogadishu Diaries, B&B Rwanda, Tel Aviv: The Teargas Diaries, Tickling Tehran, Tickling Tehran II, Tickling Tehran III, Aloha Abbottabad, the unauthorized biography - Tripoli Tart and the latest hit Getting Down in Greece.
Before ‘roping’ in South Africa, the BRIC had gone after Kiribati. But Kiribati’s kumbaya had been shattered by an MI6 plot whereby a bunch of brits were caught trying something called the ‘synchronous-lay-a-brick’.
Mostly shifty, ever unsure and always on the lookout for better deals with the G7, these BRICS summits stuttered between weird locations like Ufa behind the Urals, Brasilia in the amazon, Delhi during the 13th macaque-langur war and Sanya, surrounded by the US Navy.
President Anna Petrova found herself staring at the Chinaman. Surrounding her were semi-naked face painted warriors offering coffee – both regular and decaf. Behind them were an ambush of leopards coordinating their own ambush. The South Africans had certainly upped the ante. This latest BRICS summit was being held at a real safari outside Johannesburg.
Out of respect for her hosts, Anna had had to pare down her own security to just two guys. Sipping decaf, she returned the stony stare at the Chinese Premier Wong Xiannian.
“So Wong, how’s your ankle?”
“Enough chit chat Madam. Unlike your country we have real business in Africa. The dictators love us.”
“Happy for you Wong. I actually requested this meeting to… make you an offer.”
“Ah compensation for our sweet trains. Finally. But only after apology.”
Without losing her stride, Petrova said, “Ok, I guess I am sorry.”
“Hahaha. No. A public televised apology on Calamity News, The Nephew… only respected western outlets…”
“Ok. If we do that, we would have to double the gas prices to Urumqi.”
“What the fuck? I knew this was a mistake. This is a travesty. I could be having a threesome in Bamako right now… You, you owe us a massive apology Anna.”
Anna Petrova added the sixth pack of sugar to her decaf.
“Final offer: Triple the gas prices to Urumqi. Double the freight passage rates to Germany. And a new pipeline from Sakhalin to Beijing.”
“Jesus Anna… you can’t be serious. Why would we ever agree to these fucked up terms. You do realize that I am your last non-enemy at the moment.”
“Premier. One more thing… we want you to stop selling your fucking forged trains.”
“Haha… do you know what the Americans are offering me to flip… to come over to their side?”
“Hmmm let me guess… you get to buy the iPhones on the same day as the Americans?”
“Enough…”
“Whoa that must be cool, having the opportunity to buy Made in China phones IN China… wow man one heck of a deal.”
“This meeting is over Anna,” Xiannian brushed aside his green tea and rose.
Chapter 18
Chukotka, Palin’s Russia
Primakov watched the blip approaching from the south. His team had been monitoring the progress of the Antonov cargo aircraft for over four hours now. Bound for Mexico City the Antonov had departed from Guangzhou in Southern China. Its planned flight indicated a path over Anchorage-Alaska, Alberta, Montana, New Mexico and finally Mexico City. After refueling at Harbin the Antonov had been straddling the Russian airspace.
The aircraft was the legendary Antonov 225 Mriya aka, the Dream. The AN-225 was and is the largest aircraft ever built. Larger than the 747, bigger than the A380 and sturdier than the Globemaster, it was the epitome of Soviet psychology – always one up the Americans. The AN – 225 had something like a dozen engines and probably hundred wheels.
There really was nothing this woolly mammoth couldn’t lift. Smaller planes? Check. Bigger planes? Check? Locomotives? Check. Power plants? Check. Abduct the entire Swiss populace? Check. Fuck the Swiss, just get the gold? Check. Bill Gates on the run from IRS? Check. Gunrunners? Check. Capitalists? Socialists? Nihilists? Check, Check and Check.
Costing like 1% of GDP only of these beasts had been built. Tragically though, at the end of the red haze, this product of engineers gone wild had ended up with the Ukrainians.
Twenty years on, the Russians had secretly revived the AN-225 program. Despite heroic efforts by the Antonov Design Bureau and its factories in Komsomolsk-on-Amur, the designers had managed to produce just one shitty prototype whose landing gear was still a hot mess. Russia’s Aviation Authority had rated this new AN-225 for a maximum of 3 takeoffs and 1 landings in its lifetime. A group of engineers and machinists, who would have otherwise ended up in the gulag for engineering crimes, had volunteered for the test flight. Incredibly, the big plane had not only stayed up but had even performed a series of insane stunts before landing beautifully. The absence of the Titanic ending had left the Siberian firemen high and dry.
But despite the successful flight, Russia’s Aviation Authority had brought down the hammer citing some newfangled euro babble concerning safety. This had rendered the Mriya II to a lonely hangar in Komsomolsk-on-Amur.
33,200 ft. Ukrainian AN-225 – Mriya I, International Airspace
Andriy the Ukrainian pilot left the big Ukrainian plane’s cockpit to take a dump. Probably had something to do with those Harbin dumplings.
His co-pilots were heatedly debating the bohemian malady: Soccer – A 0-0 (4OT) draw between Dynamo Kiev and PSV Eindhoven. This away draw was a huge blow to Dynamo’s UEFA dreams. Nothing less than a hard 2-2 draw at Galatasaray could fix this calamity. And then they were on the road at Zenit St. Petersburg where no one had ever drawn above 1-1 (5OT).
Outside the cockpit a group of animated Chinese engineers were betting on something… perhaps they were pawning their Asian wives. Andriy wondered if he should get in on the action. He was growing tired of buying a gallon of Chanel for his girlfriend in Kiev.
Before he could sign language his intentions to the Chinese dudes, his lower needs knocked hard. Abandoning the wife betting conundrum, Andriy began his long walk to the back of the aircraft.
In the 80s, after slurping a Harvard study smuggled in by the KGB, the Soviet designers had put the restrooms at the ass end of the mile long Antonov 225. This study had suggested that productivity and distance to restrooms were somehow directly proportional – unless of course they were janitors.
Naive Andriy, unaware of this CIA plot, steeled his glutes and began the voyage at a safe speed. As he walked through the cavernous cargo hold Andriy admired the sleek CRH400A high speed train they were transporting to Mexico City. Animated hand signals and vigorous nodding with the Chinese had suggested that the train was capable of speeds well over 400Km/hr. It could easily do a Kiev-Odessa-Donetsk-Kiev run in like three hours. Someday...
Kremlin, Moscow
“Madam the Japanese Foreign Minister is on line 13.”
President Petrova unhinged line 13 and listened.
“Yo, Madam. Is this deal going down or what?” bellowed Yamazaki the Japanese FM.
“Yes. Absolutely, Yamazaki. You aren’t chickening out right? We already have assets in place.”
“Hellz noz Madamz. That Chinese bitch is actually selling a train to the cartel. If anybody is selling to the cartels it should be my country. Our Shinkansen can carry cocaine, heroin, poopy, AK47s you name it. I am 100% sure the Chinese haven’t accounted for moisture and vibration… which as you know can alter the heroin’s molecular structure.”
“And you… your Shinkansen has?”
“Of course madam. Dollar bills, euro bills, silver bars, soap bars, cocaine, meth - every product is different. Everything reacts differently to speed. Those Chinese copycats, what the hell do they know. Let me tell you something, we always help our clients help themselves.”
“Are you… is that… Top Gun?”
“Of course not.”
“Oh…”
“It’s Jerry Maguire… ever since we began to use it, our Shinkansen sales have quadrupled.”
“Well… good for you,” offered Anna, trying to end the call.
“Ya, it’s so good that even the Chinese are using it now. Crush those fuckers, please.”
Anna Petrova hung up.
Chukotka, Palin’s Russia
“Is that fucking fax machine working?” Primakov yelled into the phone.
Despite the presidential backing and his new powers, Primakov simply couldn’t convince one Mr. Ruslan Bratikov. The Ruslan was the Russian Aviation Authority’s midlevel pencil sharpener who had the authoritah to un-mothball planes stored inside Russia.
Primakov’s one sided conversation went something like:
“This is insane… Yes I have notarized the forms…”
“I kno
w the fax isn’t enough. That’s why I FedExed the original thing to your office a week ago.”
“What? I can see your squiggly ejaculate of a signature right on my phone. Delivery confirmed.”
“Ok. Ok. I apologize for the profanity… Can you please approve the flight?”
“Yes, I know… this isn’t KGB’s Russia anymore… but…”
“Yes I want to take it out today…”
…
…
…
“Cargo….? It’s classified… well if you insist… 500 tons of swine feed… yes…”
“No, not swine flu… swine feed… shit that pigs eat to produce bacon… yes bacon… no we aren’t transporting bacon… just the feed…”
“Crew? That’s classified too… oh… just a placeholder? Tajiks it is…”
“Destination? That’s obviously classified… of course you insist… hmmm… how about Pyongyang?”
“Yes I know it’s rated for 1 landing only…”
“This is a special ops mission… there is a need to know thing here…”
“Will the flight be leave Russian airspace? Yes, last time I checked Pyongyang was outside Russia.”
“Ruslan, Ruslan I am not questioning your knowledge of geography… we are both patriots here man…”
…
…
…
“No. No. No. I am not insinuating you are Chechen. Why would I do that?”
“Chechnya is more Russian than Georgia and Armenia? I hear ya…”
“So your mother was Russian… and your father was half Russian… but you were born in Grozny. Hence the name? Good. Grozny… beautiful city… magical at nights? Very true.”
…
…
…
After eleven more minutes of playing therapist to Ruslan, Primakov’s fax machine at Chukotka Airport spat out the authorization.
“Forward the fax to Komsomolsk. Ask them to get lined up.”