by Ian Maxwell
Sarah and Ariel watched as Doug Sanders bumped and staggered around the potent Israeli radars.
“So whats the deal with this Russian radar?”
“Don’t know. The Russian Foreign Minister Luzkhov is about to make a presentation.”
“Luzkhov is back? Thought he was in a gulag.”
“Guess he was released. Presentation starts…” Ariel checked Le Bourget’s brochure, “… right about now.”
“Well. I am going to go check out the radar. You coming?”
“Nah, I am holding fort here.”
“Well see you in DC.” Sarah gave Ariel a light Israeli style peck.
“Take the other exit and just keep going all the way south. 1 mile… I think. Heard they are put up next to the sanitation plant.”
Sarah McAllister exited the Israeli pavilion from the second entrance and hurried towards the Russian pavilion. Unlike the inner areas which housed the sexy jets, the open tarmac housed the belugas – C-17s, A400s, A380s. And there was no one in sight for the next couple of miles. Just humongous planes.
She hurried as elegantly as her position allowed her to. Getting caught out of breath and frumpy was the last thing she wanted.
Half way through a Xian Y-20, a parallel lane of A380s opened up. Confused she checked her Le Bourget brochures. They were in French. Of course. Fuck. Such a French move. Eventually she found a mechanic-y looking guy dozing under the nose of an Air France A380.
The Undersecretary coughed.
The mechanic dude groggily opened his eyes, “Oui Madame?”
“Russia… Russia pavilion… Where?”
“Mercy Madame.”
“Sanitation plant… bad smell…,” she held her nose to signify stench.
The mechanic shook his head, “Mercy Madame.”
“White, blue and red flag… sil vous plait.”
“Oui Madame, Oui. Mais Mercy.”
“Fucks sake dude, Blanc – Bleu – Rouge,” she followed it up with a fluttering flag gesture.
“Oui Madame, La France,” the pumpkin flashed a proud Gallic smile.
The Russian Bleu was lighter and the flag’s stripes were the other way and there was no elegant way to explain it.
As she was about to give up on the Frenchmen, Sarah heard thumping footsteps behind her. It was Doug.
“Saraaaah. The Russians…”
“Yes I know...”
Doug was already ten feet ahead of her.
“Follow me… Luuuuzkhov began five minutes ago…”
The Undersecretary from the State Department took off her heels and ran after her American colleague. She planned to stuff the Le Bourget brochures into a Mirage’s exhaust.
Ten minutes later they rushed into the jam packed Russian hangar. Luzkhov looked different. He was prancing around in jeans, sneakers and a black turtleneck.
“…today… I give you… the Gaydar.”
Chapter 28
Washington DC
“Thanks for tuning in to Calamity News, this is your host Blow Jobbs. French authorities have confirmed that yesterday’s riot at Le Bourget was indeed caused by the unveiling of the GAYDAR. During a live demonstration, the Russian GAYDAR apparently identified every Frenchman in the audience as being gay….”
Jim Borland burst into laughter. Those deranged Russian fucks…
“…things got testy when the GAYDAR identified *cough* accused *cough* two French nationals of Algerian descent…”
“…later at a nearby hospital, 99% of the identified, confessed to have at least had a thumb…”
“…the two Algerian-Frenchmen have also confirmed that they don’t swing according to societies’ pre-set beliefs… which brings the GAYDAR’s un-closeting efficiency to a 100%”
The new wave of laughter caused Jim to fall off his chair. He continued to guffaw in a fetal position for the next twenty two minutes.
“…welcome back to our 24x7x365 broadcast. This is Calamity News and I am your host Blow Jobbs… More reactions from world leaders on the GAYDAR. The German Chancellor was earlier quoted as ‘I think this is probably a prank. Nonetheless un very guud prank. Off the top of my head I can think of putting these in gay clubs… to perhaps keep out straight men trying to hit on …err …girls just having fun… proof? This happened to me… during my state visit to Brisbane’ ….”
The thought of the German Chancellor getting hit on by straight men in gay clubs put an end to Jim’s giggles… he threw up.
Calamity News’ Blow kept plowing ahead, “… in related news, the Russian delegation has been 86ed from Le Bourget for life. When asked about the ban, Russian Minister Luzkhov had this to say… ‘Boo freakin hoo…’ when pressed for details, Luzkhov added… ‘Well we were all set to unveil Project Katie, our new supersonic commercial airliner. Yeah it’s the Tupolev 420….super-fast and super long range. Can hit NYC in three hours … and we have no intention of selling it to the Frenchies… spasibo’….”
Jim Borland swore and reached for his blue line.
“…In other GAYDAR news, the City of Seattle and City of San Francisco hope to acquire a dozen…”
Sarah McAllister was somewhere over Iceland while Doug Sanders was deep inside a dark Eurostar tunnel. Both were unreachable.
“…stay tuned to find out what this former Iranian President had to say about the GAYDAR…”
Chapter 29
Kiev
“Ok. That should work. Well thank you... sure, talk to you next week.”
By the time the buffoon in Bangalore had uttered those words, it was 11PM in Kiev. The brute in Berlin took fifteen more minutes to come to the same conclusion. “Ok. That should work. Talk to you next week.”
The entire Albatross team had had to stay back on a Tuesday night, as the brute and the buffoon had asininely walked through every one of the 85 remaining bugs.
“Well that went well,” said Ilya.
“I guess… how long was it?” asked Pulikesi.
Ilya checked his phone, “Phew 4hrs… that’s a record… Hey, I was hoping we could take the day off tomorrow? I mean we have been here since 7.”
“Nah. It’s only Tuesday. I don’t think I can approve that.”
“I distinctly heard Von Barfman say that you are the man.”
“He was being polite… just a corporate asshole.”
“Well your own guy in Bangalore also said quote he never expected this pleasant surprise…’”
“Fine. Thursday, 8AM sharp.”
Ilya messengered the team, as a boisterous chorus broke out “Da…da…da…”
Pulikesi saw a sudden flash… an unidentified flying object… headed right at him. Fuck.
“Pulikesi… catch,” shouted one of the developers.
Pulikesi dived as Ilya caught the vodka bottle one handed and proceeded to take a massive swig. Within seconds the entire dev floor was filled with clinking bottles and dudes. Someone even plugged in an electronic mix into the old prison’s PA system. The old PA system had probably been used for wolf music. Its acoustics were… incredible.
A developer, happy as a clown handed him a personal shot. As Pulikesi held out his hand the drink exploded into a fiery shower. Oooh cool trick thought Pulikesi. The hollow point had ignited the vodka.
Then the music turned staccato. The staccato was accompanied by flashes. Then the music stopped entirely. Pulikesi heard something super loud. After that he couldn’t hear much. But there was a lot of smoke and everyone was running wild. There didn’t seem to be any blood though…
“Old Badger, this is Alpha Leader.”
“Go ahead, Alpha Leader,” said Primakov. He silently winced at his new codename. Some SVR bozo had dug up his file and was now taunting him.
“Old Badger, we have bagged them up. They are good to go.”
“Any causalities? Major hits?”
“Nope. None whatsoever.”
“Sweet. Alright we are coming in,” said Primakov getting up from his desk on the Kiev-Lubyanka’
s 4th floor.
“Boss, can I just say this is one of the best ops we… you have planned. I mean hitting the target by sitting in the target… I gotta say…”
“Korlov… get a grip even the Yakutsk FSB would have come up with a similar approach.” Primakov seethed, “Using our old prison to develop software that we can’t even use? What were they thinking?”
Both the decoy Katie and the real Project Catie, needed some airline software. So when Primakov had found that the Albatross was developed at their old Kiev-Lubyanka it had become irresistible. Inevitable. The Kiev-Spetsnaz had simply camped out in the building’s attic and waited for the long conference call to end.
“How many?” asked Primakov as he entered the dev floor.
A few toppled monitors. But otherwise not much damage.
“Forty three,” replied the Alpha Team Leader.
“My records say forty two,” said Korlov.
Alpha Leader shrugged, “Well we found forty three.”
“Fine. We’ll id the black sheep later. Bag them up.”
“The equipment too?”
“I thought we were clear on this. Bag everything and everybody up… Korlov call the trucks. Get them to the loading bay.”
Thirty minutes later, two garbage trucks sped away from the Kiev-Lubyanka. The Kamaz Trashmasters were headed to Moscow. Primakov and Korlov rode in the back of the first truck, along with the 43 dazed Ukrainians. Should have been 42, but…
“Boss you sure there won’t be any issues at the border?” asked Korlov.
“Relax. We ran out of landfills in Moscow. Moscow’s streets are lined with trash. So we need more trucks to move the trash out to Yekaterinburg. Easy.”
“Yeah I drove on Merv Prospekt. It smelt real.”
“Because it is real.”
“The border guards may believe it, but what about the SBU agents… Ukrainian Intelligence? I am sure there are a few manning the Sumy-Kursk crossing.”
“Don’t worry, Calamity News interrupted a Kardashian interview with the ‘Moscow Stinker’ story. Trust me… the second they interrupted Big K, they began to believe it… truly and deeply.”
A few minutes later Korlov pondered aloud, “So how did we mess the count? Who is the 43rd?”
“Well it’s getting harder to operate in Kiev... you know… since…”
Sumy – Kursk Border Crossing
Ukrainian Side
The two loaded Kamaz trucks rolled into a side bay for inspection.
“Idti…idti…” bellowed an armed border guard.
Kirill the SBU guy opened the door of his makeshift asbestos office.
“Oh… what the fuck is that smell?” asked the guy from Ukrainian Intelligence.
“Trash brother. Trash,” bellowed their driver Maks.
“Why are you hauling trash into Russia? Jesus, I am gonna throw up.”
“Well the dealer wanted 10,000 dollars American per truck for cleaning. The punk.”
“$10,000? You kidding me? Who did you say this dealer was?”
“UAB Autogaz. They are robbers, brother. They won’t even take roubles.”
Kirill rifled through the trucks registration, insurance and cargo manifest. It read empty.
“It says here the truck is empty. How much trash do you have in there?”
“Not much, 10% capacity. It gets stuck real hard and seeps into the metal. Ingrained. You know whaat I am saying brother?” Maks scratched the trucks doors with his nails to drive home the point.
“Uh oh. That’s disgusting. Alright,” Agent Kirill signaled the border guard to lift the gates.
“Spasibo… thank you brother,” yelled Maks as the Kamaz trucks rolled over into no man’s land.
Agent Kirill hurried back to his asbestos cave to avoid the waft from the departing trucks.”
“Stinking Muscovites,” shouted the Border guard.
Korlov breathed in relief. Apparently the Liquid Ass spray had worked. To mask odors Primakov had imported some of the best Liquid Ass from a party supply store in Vegas. Apparently there was no trade embargo on Liquid Ass.
The Spetsnaz Team’s final task, before leaving the Kiev-Lubyanka had been to bathe the Kamaz trucks with this Liquid Ass. Their cries of “Not in my job description… you will have to answer to my boss,” went unheeded.
“See I told you we will roll right through. Those guys are idiots,” smirked Primakov with satisfaction.
Sumy – Kursk Border Crossing
Russian Side
In the ensuing shuffle the truck carrying the office equipment overtook Primakov’s truck and entered the checkpoint area first. After waving through the equipment truck, the guard whimsically halted their truck.
“Open the cargo hold,” screamed the Russian maniac.
“Trash brother. It’s just week old trash…” repeated their driver Maks.
“We don’t care. No funny stuff from Ukraine will pass me.”
They heard their truck driver Maks open his door.
“Jesus we got a moron on our side,” swore Primakov.
“I thought the preferred term was patriots,” said Korlov.
“Well the brute is doing his job… shit I can’t get any reception in here. This steel is real thick… Korlov, think of something.”
“Like what? A weapon?”
Primakov contemplated a weapon before dismissing the thought. This was the premier Russia-Ukraine land crossing. There were bound to be several more guards in the vicinity. Fuck, they should have chosen the Belarus – Chernobyl route. Very remote crossing. Plus the ‘Entered Pripyat’ tag usually worked like a charm.
Primakov dejectedly replied, “Nah, we can’t shoot a Russian border guard. Think think…”
“How about a decoy. We give him something else… like my gun… or even myself…”
“The guard will assume you are an illegal Ukrainian. He will probably take a better look… and then assume Maks is a human trafficker… ”
“Shoot. Well we should just got out. We can fix this mess later.”
“Eww, I have zero intention of hanging out at some piss ass police station in Kursk. It could take hours, maybe even days before they let us use a phone. No fixing.”
“But I thought you were the President’s right hand man…” said the exasperated Korlov.
“True. But if I can’t even execute a simple border crossing she might think I am an amateur. No.”
“I fix bugs… I exterminate… like a pestmaster… a gatekeeper… like a janitor…”
“Who’s that?”
“…bugs… large… stinky… bugs… bundle three together… they merge into one monster bug…”
“Shit, it’s one of the computer nerds. He is waking up.”
“…like a janitor… I swat the nastiest bugs… squelch them… crawl through the code…”
Maks their driver whispered through a strategic crack, “Boss. I don’t think I can hold him much longer…”
“Stall him for two more minutes. Try cigarettes and vodka.”
“No guarantees.”
Korlov soon identified the source of the voice. “Boss look at this guy’s face. That’s no Ukrainian.”
Primakov beamed a flash light, “I will be damned… Check his pockets.”
Korlov took out the wallet and read, “Pulikesi. Says he is a Kiev resident.”
“That’s an odd name… bet the ID is fake. He is probably from the republics… he babbled something about a janitor.”
“Janitor from the republics?”
“Ya, I say Tajikistan.”
“So 43 is a janitor from Tajikistan?”
“Could be Kyrgyz or Uzbek…”
“Down there, everyone is Tajik.”
Sumy – Kursk Border Crossing
Russia
Maks the driver wasn’t doing too good… he had been setup to fail, “Bogdan dude, come on. I thought we were Comrades. Hows the vodka?”
“Tastes like piss, is it Moldovan… you gotta do better m
an,” said Bogdan the border guard.
“How about porn? American military grade stuff.”
Bogdan hesitated, “You got DVDs?”
“I got them on my phone, right here,” Maks held out his 6” touch phone.
“Hmmm… you have BBW?”
“BBW? What is that?”
Bogdan stamped his cigarette in fury. “If you have to ask, it’s already too late.”
“Come on I got internet on my phone. 3g. I will download it right now.”
“Nah, don’t have time to buffer. Let’s just get this over with ok. Open the door.”
Maks gave up and banged the side of the truck as a warning shot.
“Fine brother,” Maks bellowed as he climbed back to the cabin, “you leave me no choice.”
“Maks release the jaw only. Not the door. You hear me Maks… hydraulic JAW ONLY…” Primakov shouted through the strategic crack.
Above the hauling mechanism’s ruckus, Maks grunted.
“STOP. STOP. STOP. Stop the damn thing,” screamed Bogdan the border guard.
Maks halted the hydraulic jaw and jumped out of the cabin and ran back.
Bogdan was petrified.
There was a brown arm dangling out of the metallic jaw. Maks took a step closer. The arm was connected to a torso. Good. The torso was connected to two legs and another arm. Even better. Dreading every moment Maks closed his eyes and bent over to take a look at the upper body. Legend had it that the Kamaz truck’s jaw had the crushing power of … seventy F-150s.
“Ahhh thank god. The head is intact.”
The brown face was twitching… trying to avoid a Ukrainian fly.
A relieved Bogdan helped Maks pull the guy out.
“An Uzbek laborer…,” said Bogdan in disgust, “You know him?”
“What? Me? Hell no. He must have jumped onto the truck when I stopped for a leak.”
“Well that makes it clear then…”
“Clear?”
“Ya man, illegals. Tajiks, Uzbeks, Kyrgyz, we catch at least one every day. Trashmasters huh… these guys are always evolving with their techniques… last week it was benzene tankers… week before it was… ”