by Ian Maxwell
“Sir, we have a slight problem out in Komsomolsk,” said Korlov, the FSB Analyst on loan to Primakov, by presidential decree.
“Fuck, what now? Is it Ruslan again? I will fucking break his wee-wee when I get back to Moscow.”
“No Boss, it’s the Japanese. They insist on adding some cargo inside their Shinkansen.”
“What is it?”
“100 tons of cocaine.”
Primakov spat his decaf. “One hundred… Cocaine? But why?”
“Well, it seems like they want to add a twist. Apparently to add implications.”
“Like what?”
“Cartel implications.”
Primakov whistled. He probably needed Ruslan’s approval for transporting Cocaine. But the window was closing. He pulled the trigger, “Fine, whatever. It’s beef between the Japanese and Chinese. My only concern is the additional weight.”
“The Mriya II wouldn’t sweat it Boss. Our engineers guaranteed… So it’s a go?”
“Make it snappy. The Ukrainian Mriya is already on its way.”
Komsomolsk-on-Amur, Siberia
Unlike the Road of Bones and other free labored projects strewn across Siberia, the city of Komsomolsk was built by real, actual, yet slightly brain washed volunteers of the Communist youth organization, Komsomol. Due to its strategic location in Siberia, the city had morphed into a hub for the secretive Soviet aircraft industry. To this day the radically cool design collectives – Mikoyan, Tupolev, Antonov, Yakovlev and Ilyushin did their metal bending out at Komsomolsk.
Out on the tarmac, the Japanese Bobcats buzzed around the black Shinkansen – loading, staking and balancing. They were done in fifteen minutes.
Next a team of Japanese mechanics and painters checked the Shinkansen’s exteriors for anything amiss. They went down their checklist efficiently. Did the markings in arial bold read ‘CRH400A’? Check. Was the train black? Check. Was it sleek? Check? Was there a small Chinese flag shaking hands with a guy in a sombrero? Check. Was the Chinese flag present on all coaches? Check. Was the Chinese flag painted on both sides of the train? Check. Was the Chinese flag painted on the undercarriage? Check. Was the Chinese red enhanced? Check. Did it glow in the dark? Check. Did it radiate in sunlight? Check. Did it radiate in moonlight? Check. Did it bring out werewolves? Cross. Was the cocaine treated with anti-inflammatory liquid? Check. Was the cocaine fireproofed? Check. Was the cocaine synthetic? Check. Did the cocaine crates have cartel markings? Check. Was the Shinkansen’s autopilot tested for location awareness? Check. Was there a generator/transformer combo inside the Russian AN-225? Check. Did the generator have ‘Made in China’ markings – also arial-bold? Check. Were these markings fire proof? Check. Were the characteristics of the diesel fuel in the generator identical to those produced by Chinese refineries? Check. Could a layman, as in Mexican sleuths, identify the Chinese skinned Shinkansen? – Answer needs to be NO. NO. Were the markings on the Russian AN-225 distinctly Ukrainian? Check. Was the autopilot on the AN-225 good to go? Check. Was the Russian jet’s fuel identical to the Harbin depot’s ATF? Cross. The Japanese let that one slide. They were detail oriented, not anal.
With all parties satisfied, the Russians opened the nose of the Mriya II. The Japanese, quickly backed their black train into the Antonov. Once the nose was lowered and latched, a Russian engineer went in and set the autopilot to start listening to Primakov.
Ten minutes later the Russian made Antonov-225 with Ukrainian markings thundered into the beautiful afternoon.
Chapter 19
Chukotka, Palin’s Russia
Primakov gazed out of the Anadyr Airport’s control tower. Anadyr lay in the eastern extremity of Russia within smooching range of Juneau, Alaska. Due to its proximity to America, the airport often doubled as a bomber base. Today however, Primakov wasn’t interested in the bombers or Juneau or even America.
“Boss our radar just picked up the Ukrainian Antonov. It’s about 100 Kms south,” informed Korlov.
“Where is our Antonov… Mriya II?” asked Primakov.
“Sliding into the Ukrainian jet’s coattails… 30kms behind.”
“Did you capture the Ukrainian jet’s signature?”
“Yes sir. It’s remained the same since 1989.”
“Are our assets in place?”
“Yes sir. The Beriev A50, Early Warning Aircraft is in the loop. We also have our scheduled Moscow – LAX and Moscow – Vancouver Aeroflots in the mix. All wide bodies.”
“Interceptors?”
“Mig-29s on their way.”
“Good.”
As Korlov gave the final commands, he asked, “Boss, you think we can pull this off?”
Primakov was relaxed “Of course. This isn’t entirely new.”
“We have been done before?”
“Korean Air 007… Duh.”
Five minutes later the Beriev AWACS aircraft, the one with the saucer on its back, began jamming the Ukrainian AN-225.
Ukrainian AN-225 – Mriya I
Just as Andriy returned to the cockpit, some sort of an incendiary device blew up right in front of the aircraft.
“Jesus man. What the fuck was that?” yelled Andriy.
“Nyet. No idea dude.”
“Start scanning the frequencies. Also are we still with Seoul control tower?”
After fiddling and diddling, one of the crew replied, “I am getting nothing. Can’t reach Seoul.”
Suddenly a brute Russian voice cackled over the PA system.
“We gonna blast your ass to smithereens.”
“Jesus. This is Mriya? Who is this?”
“We are your makers… Bitch.”
“Can you see anything out of the window?” Andriy asked one of his crew.
“Two Migs.”
“Shit. Are we in Russian airspace?” quivered one of the pilots.
“No way. We detoured around Kamchatka.”
The brute Russian voice returned.
“Ukrainian BROTHERS from other mothers… please begin descent immediately. You will not be harmed.”
“Ukrainian BROTHERS from other mothers… please begin descent immediately. You will not be harmed.”
“Ukrainian BROTHERS from other mothers… please begin descent immediately. You will not be harmed.”
“Ok man. Ok. Don’t shoot us or anything. We comply,” said Andriy to his apparently Russian brothers.
“Good, just turn off your transponders and other tracking shit. Maintain radio silence and head to Anadyr Airport to the north.”
“Yes brother.”
“And now we are going to admire your sweet ass. Hustle.”
“Copy that.”
“Remember, no funny stuff.”
ICN - Incheon Airport, Seoul
“Yo man, something just happened ….” said Ahn the Air Traffic Controller.
“What?” asked Yu, who was trying to thread a Korean Air A320 between the bosoms of two Asiana A380s.
“It’s the Ukrainian Mriya, the one from HRB to MEX. An alarm just went off. It suddenly lost a bunch of feet. But then a minute later everything seems to be fine.”
“No biggie dude. Magnetic fields go crazy in the arctic. I never trust them. I am a visual guy… come on baby 300 more meters to your left… good girl.”
Ahn wasn’t convinced.
“I tried calling the crew. No response. Been five minutes.”
“Maybe they are on autopilot. Or drunk. It’s a long way to Mexico City.”
“I don’t know man…”
“Well, let me take a look… hmm… they are sticking to their flight plan. All way points are intact. Yep, like I said, magnetic fields are weird up there.”
As Ahn and Yu returned their focus to the Seoul airspace, someone screamed, “Bloody punk.” It was one of the Asiana A380 pilots. A Korean Air A320 had almost side swiped him.
“It’s that Yu guy on the tower… the bozo thinks he is John Cusack from Pushing Tins,” offered the Korean Air A320.
“
Yo the one with the cleft asshole. No,” responded Yu.
“Someone has a cleft asshole in that movie? Well I missed that part. Hahaha.”
“No.”
“No what?” another Asiana A380 pilot interjected.
“Neither cleft assholes nor John Cusack. I base my life on Billy Bob Thornton.”
“Yeah… you should probably base it on Cate Blanchett. Pussy,” joined the second A380.
“Oh yeah? Why don’t you clowns get down here and we will do an old fashioned throw down… ready?”
“Yep see you in ten moron,” said the A320.
“Oops… oh no… a couple of UALs are coming in fast… They are running on fumes… head winds can be bitches… But don’t worry I will be waiting for you baboons.”
“Oh no. No nono. Don’t jerk us around man. I got to go home to the family. Rush hour starts in forty minutes….,” feinted the A380 pilot, before plunging the dagger “…oh wait… I just realized… I haven’t had sex with the same stewardess in seven days… hahaha…”
“But I did…” retorted Yu.
“You did what Yu…”
“Your wife… bitch.”
Ahn decided to back up his bro. “Asiana 143 increase altitude to 10,500 ft. Asiana 396 increase altitude to 10,000 ft., UAL 587 you are on… Mriya AN-225 do you copy…. Mriya AN-225 do you copy….”
“Nooo… me so sad…” cried Asiana 143.
“Me too… me so solly…,” joined in Asiana 396.
Ten minutes later, the Mriya responded, “Seoul this is Mriya AN-225. Seoul this is Mriya. Do you copy?”
“Jesus. Mriya are you guys alright?”
“Oh just a thunder strike. Knocked out our transponder for a few minutes.”
“Good. Great. You still on to MEX?”
“Absolutely.”
“Alright mate. We are handing you over to Bob in Anchorage. He should come on in about twenty minutes. Fly safe.”
“Spasibo.”
Chukotka, Palin’s Russia
“Spasibo,” said Andriy as the line to Seoul disconnected.
Primakov gave a thumbs up as Viktor Volokov, Primakov’s premier henchman nodded and removed the gun from Andriy’s temple.
Chapter 20
Mehico City, Mehico
At 1,800 feet and 160 Knots, the AN-225 Mriya lined up for its final approach to Santa Lucia air force base in Mexico City.
A group of dignitaries including ministers, Chinese diplomats and cartel bosses were gathered to witness this epic moment in Mexican history. Every country in North America stood out in its own awesome way. Panama had the canal. The US had the nukes. Canada had Ryan Reynolds. Belize had that sick sinkhole. And now, Mehico was getting a sweet high speed train.
Finance Minister Alejandro Vargas and the Chinese Trade Secretary Tsai Huateng sat at the podium admiring the descending aircraft. The rest of the dignitaries, the majority of whom belonged to the Zeta Zones cartel, stood by the tarmac sipping Coronas and Champagne. The air force personnel provided the much needed security from pigeons and laymen.
The AN-225 was losing altitude steadily. Two minutes before touchdown, the Japanese made generator revved up and began churning out 400KVA of unadulterated power. Sensing the pulsating voltage, the Shinkansen’s auto pilot pushed the throttle all the way up. The wheels of the train began to spin… slow then fast and then faster. Thirty seconds later the rotating wheels had hit a land speed of 500Km/hr, way over the Shinkansen’s rated top speed of 415Km/hr.
But… incredibly, the train hadn’t moved an inch relative to the aircraft. The Shinkansen’s autopilot, a computer named Shanky, or at least certain sections of Shanky, firmly believed the train was rushing ahead. The proponents of this theory were the simple headed analog parts that measured the wheel’s angular speed.
But the suave, sophisticated and highbrow parts of Shanky gathered inputs from radars and proximity sensors. These suggested that they weren’t moving at all.
A third input from a GPS sensor said they were moving at 300Km/hr aka 160 Knots.
Three systems - three measurements – Shanky faced quite a conundrum.
During this conundrum a small and kooky part of Shanky came up with another bizarre hypothesis.
Someone asshole had put a giant treadmill under the train.
The big Antonov… the Mriya II, listed and swayed.
“Boy she is big … tail winds eh?” said Vargas the Mehican Minister.
“No biggie. Happens all the time in China,” asserted the Chinese Trade guy. Tail winds, ass winds, whatever… China was all in on this Mehican deal.
The Antonov crossed the airport’s fence with its nose slightly ajar of the runway. The hundred or so dignitaries were enraptured by its size.
“Jesus. She is big,” said one of the Zeta Zones dudes.
“Maybe we should buy this damn thing instead of a train… fuck man we got screwed here,” responded another.
“It’s not too late. We will shove out the Chinese and deal with the Ukrainians instead.”
By now the Antonov was only a couple of hundred yards away.
Chukotka, Palin’s Russia
“Hit the rudder,” barked Primakov.
“Hitting the rudder.”
The Antonov, AN-225 turned slightly to the right.
Primakov was breathless. Everything would be over in five seconds.
“Unlatch nosecone,” cried Primakov.
Korlov clicked something, “Nose cone unlatched.”
5 sec
4 sec
Primakov held his breath.
Inside a hangar at the Anadyr Airport, a bunch of heavy vehicles were buzz sawing something huge… something white with Ukrainian markings.
3 sec
2 sec
Korlov took one last glance at the Mriya I before the hangar’s doors closed.
1 Sec
0 Sec
“Cut the treadmill.”
Korlov flipped a switch on his Fly-From-Home plane kit. “Treadmill power is out.”
Mehico City, Mehico
As the Zeta Zoneses watched, the nose of the big Antonov shattered. Sort of like an explosion from the inside. The entire nose was replaced by a gaping hole. The plane became aerodynamically challenged.
Just as it dawned on the dignitaries, a big black gleaming serpentine thing rushed out of the nose less, faceless aircraft. Unlike the aircraft’s mellow 100 Knots, this black long shiny thing came at them in excess of 500Km/hr.
Some dude screamed, “Train… is… flying… run.”
Someone else screamed.
The two dignitaries on the podium started running with their cigars.
By now the entire train was out of the headless Antonov. The train’s onboard computer Shanky was moribund. The Shinkansen had just crashed through a Soviet made 6 inch aluminum wall. Shanky’s final thoughts were never ending rails….
The descending train landed head first and squelched into the crowd of Mehicans and Chinese. The first guys that got squelched were the ones with BMI in excess of 30. The Mehican Minister and Chinese Trade guy fell in that category. Then came the guys with 25 – 29 BMI and finally the whimsy sub 20 dudes.
Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.
With a 90% fatality rate, the train proceeded to whiplash the air force’s administrative building, the corridors of power and restrooms. After three minutes of raining carnage, the train eventually stopped outside a popular burrito joint two miles outside the air force base.
Five seconds after the train had hit the podium, the biggest jet in the world, the AN-225, landed on top of the podium. The big jet sort of cleaned up after the train and ensured a causality rate of 110%.
The Antonov pretty much followed the trail of destruction left by its cargo. From afar it seemed as though a great white shark had swallowed some anaconda… but then the anaconda had ate its way out by biting off the shark’s head…
Being a Mehican air base the facility had no airplanes. But for some reason facilit
y was filled with cameras. Even though many didn’t make it through the feral afternoon, were enough survived with enough footage. Mehican sleuths confirmed that the aircraft, the AN-225 was Ukrainian and its cargo, the black train was indeed the Chinese CRH400A.
Chapter 21
Kremlin, Moscow
“Sweet Baby Buddha!” screamed Xiannian the Chinese Premier.
Three hours later he arrived at Moscow’s Vnukovo airport on an unescorted Sukhoi-30. The Moscow air traffic controllers had thought it was some German CEO burning rubber up until the last moment when they heard the Sukhoi’s sweet thunder. By the time the air traffic controllers had found the toll free number for the Russian Air Command, the Chinese Sukhoi had already gated next to a Lufthansa.
When Xiannian and his pilot jumped out of the jet, the Lufthansa crew had shook their collective heads, “Moscow… such a circus… ja...”
Under normal circumstances such a breach in air defense would have led to commanders and other air dudes getting new airholes. But unlike the Mathias Rust fiasco, the Russians had been watching this time. Mathias Rust, a West German bro, landed a Cessna on the Red Square. True story brah.
Ever since the events in Mexico City the Russians had been expecting the Chinese Premier to freak the fuck out. FSB psychologists had given him 72 hours. The Premier arrived on the 84th hour.
As expected, the Chinese while adept at bullying Lilliputian neighbors had been completely blindsided by the Mexico City plane-train fiasco. The Chinese intelligence services, relatively new to the game, kept forgetting that the KGB had never loved Audis.
President Petrova sent a Camry to pick up the Chinaman. She was all set to make an accord. Throughout the hour long unescorted ride to the Kremlin, the Premier had chanted ‘Sweet Baby Buddha…. So, so sweet… sweet lord…’ The Chinese Sukhoi pilot a Han, after a ‘slip’ at the Vnukovo men’s room, concurred that the premier had chanted the same stuff during the flight to Moscow.