Moscow Machination

by Ian Maxwell

“Will they cooperate, I mean they have all these currencies and treaties and gay kings…?”

  “Absolutely. Norway as you know,” smirked Sarah, “is shit scared like its 1940. Sweden is shitting bricks like its 1941…”

  Jim Borland said, “That’s not saying much. One leased out wombs to Nazis while the other remained ‘neutral’… Swedes are like the dumber version of Swiss…”

  “And Finland too... they believe it’s going to be 1939 all over again,” continued Sarah.

  Doug was lost, “Is that supposed to be a big deal?”

  “The Finns did manage to repulse Stalin… so yeah.”

  Doug was still lost, “Wait. The Finns fought Stalin? Wasn’t Stalin bff with FDR and Churchy?”

  “Yeah… the Finns were sort of allied with Hitler… just for a bit… and kinda responsible for the siege of Leningrad.”

  Doug lost his shit, “WTF? Leningrad? The second greatest battle of survival only-topped-by-the-meat-grinder-at-Stalingrad? That Leningrad? And you are telling me that the Finns were responsible for that?”

  “Yeah... had something to do with those cuckservatives, Molotov and Ribbentrop. But trust me the Finns had their hearts in the right place… probably. And in their defense, they were stuck between the two massive butt cheeks of Hitler and Stalin. They had to crawl into an asshole to save themselves. Look at what happened to Poland. I give the Finns a pass.”

  “Ya, it’s gets a little fuzzy,” said Jim.

  “Well fuzz my ass,” scowled Doug Sanders.

  Sarah tried to restore sanity, “Doug, this was during WW2. They are totally fine these days, just like Germany and Austria and Japan.”

  Doug pondered for a while before surrendering to the vagaries of American foreign policy, “Yeah, I suppose the Germans turned out fine.”

  “There you go buddy.”

  “But still can’t believe the Finns were part of the Solution.”

  Sarah pulled her ace, “Ok. Tell me something… if the Finns weren’t serious, why in the hell would they offer us Rovio?”

  “What in the hell is a rovio? Is it a new designer drug?”

  “Sweet Shiva…. Rovio Studios…. makers of Angry Birds…”

  “Angry Birds? Wow, the one where the pigs breed with the birds?”

  “Yep, that’s the one. Rovio is a Finnish company and accounts for like 17% of their GDP.”

  “And they want to give it to us? The United States?”

  “Technically they want to relocate to Palo Alto, but essentially yes.”

  “Holy Krampus! Those Finns aren’t kidding I guess…”

  “Yes. So we good? We are all on the same page now?”

  “Yes.”

  Before signing off the trio of Civil Servants hashed out a plan to out-clown the Russians.

  “I say we hit something weird, like Svalbard. I know it’s under Norwegian control but historically…” suggested Jim.

  “Nope. I am thinking Mistrals… the navy ships caught between the French and Russians,” said Doug.

  “Gone Mistrals, sounds like the perfect Affleck vehicle. So how do we boost them?”

  “Ever saw the Hunt for Red October?”

  Kremlin, Moscow

  Primakov felt distinctly uncomfortable leaning over the secretary’s IKEA desk. It seemed to have been designed with one intent… to rear end someone. Consensually or not, was a question he wanted to pose to the Swedish Embassy. But before the Swedes got the better of him, the trim secretary called him up.

  “Comrade, the President will see you now.”

  “Spasibo.”

  As Primakov entered the office, President Petrova swiveled away from the Calamity News broadcast.

  “They are into the sixth hour of Russobating,” the President said.

  “Reruns or live?”

  “Reruns.”

  The President moved on to the Mistrals. “So how do we get them back? SVR intel suggests that the French are playing hardball with the Americans and might actually unload the ships to Vietnam.”

  “Madam, have you seen Jack Sparrow commandeer a ship?”

  Chapter 26

  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 f
avor. 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.”

  Chapter 27

  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 sai
d, “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.”