Moscow Machination

by Ian Maxwell

  Bogdan was impatient, “So what do we do?”

  “OK… Are you sure you have never met this guy before?”

  “Absolutely brother.”

  “Fine. You are free to go.”

  “Oh… sweet. I love you man.”

  “Around here we take that kind of thing seriously… it’s a punishable offense.”

  “Right. Sorry… the Uzbek, you going to jail him?”

  “Nope, first train to Dushanbe…”

  The Kamaz Trashmaster zoomed out of the border plaza in a swirl of dust.

  Chapter 30

  Langley, VA

  “The GAYDAR is a prank. Looks like the German chancellor was right,” remarked CIA’s Jim Borland.

  “Technically though, what are talking here? You have seen the photos.” asked Sarah.

  “Well it’s got a powerful radar, I’ll give you that. But otherwise pretty juvenile stuff. It simply checks your testosterone level and compares it to a standard distribution. Nationality, sex, age, bmi that sort of thing. If the T-levels are abnormal you get flagged. Oldest trick.”

  “So definitely a prank?”

  “Yeah. Millions of armchair racists have taken this approach before.”

  “But the Frenchmen… every one of them accepted the analysis.”

  “They are French. Their T-levels are probably fucked up from staring at that androgynous Mona Lisa. Besides, everyone is a little gay... the French more so.”

  Sarah gave up. “Shall I put all this in my briefing to the Secretary?”

  “Sure go ahead.”

  Finished, Sarah looked at the time. 10 more minutes on this briefing with Jim.

  “So whats the deal with the new Russian airliner, the one Luzkhov said they will never sell to the French.”

  “Tu-420?”

  “Right. Hear it was a supersonic airliner.”

  “It’s a thinly disguised ICBM.”

  Chapter 31

  Krasnoyarsk, Deep Interior Siberia

  “Man, like I told this gorilla, we need our Techno-Functional Expert Consultant...” Ilya was extremely discombobulated. One moment they had wrapped up that bug call with Berlin and the next here they were in what appeared to be a dilapidated Russian base.

  “… He is the guy who knows the ins and outs of the Albatross. We just do whatever he says. He is PMI certified,” repeated Ilya wearily.

  “Again with the PMS… You see Boss?” growled Marko.

  “Yeah Boss, he thinks we are pussies… I am going to punch his balls,” threatened Volokov.

  Sifting through the goons’ diatribe, Primakov heard something, “PMI?”

  “Yeah man, the Project Management Institute.”

  “Institute?” Primakov motioned for Marko to back off and said to Ilya, “… Go on. Who is in this Institute and why do you need him?”

  “No one is the institute. Our Consultant Pulikesi… is certified by that Institute. He is the guy who actually reads the specs and takes it to us. He is like our boss…”

  “Wait a minute did you just say Pulikesi?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You are telling me this Pulikesi… was… was a part of this Albatross software?”

  “Yeah dude, like I have been telling your gorillas here,” Ilya gestured at Volokov and Marko, “he was with us that night. 42 Ukrainians and 1 Indian. That’s the only way the project became viable financially…. at least that’s what Berlin said…”

  Primakov furiously extracted his phone and dialed Korlov. There was no signal. The base was jamming the signals.

  “Marko where is the nearest phone?”

  “On the wall. But it’s not worth it Boss. It goes through the Base Control Room. I tried to call up my buddy in Omsk and those onion heads kept asking for… authorization, validation a signature from the base commander. Frankly they just need a good analization.”

  Primakov patted his pocket, “Not for me. I have authorizations… I need to get Korlov… Ilya you sure this guy… this Pulikesi is not your office janitor?”

  “We had no funds for a janitor man… but then again, that’s what Berlin said…”

  Primakov had to repeat the 11 digit authorization code thrice before getting linked to Moscow.

  Korlov answered on the first ring, “Korlov here.”

  “You remember the janitor from the border… the Tajik guy we dispensed?”

  “Sure Boss.”

  “Yeah, so did you run him through the system? Due diligence?”

  “Yeah… he is not in our system. Couldn’t get into Kiev’s. Why? Are the Tajiks returning him?”

  Primakov got to the point, “First of all he is not Tajik. Apparently he is Indian. And he is not a janitor. He works on the Albatross.”

  “Whaaat, but he looked like…”

  “I know…”

  “Wow… but he definitely uttered the word ‘janitor’”

  “I know.”

  “Boss we made the call under duress. You know how things bounce,” Korlov was in CYA mode.

  “Fine. Just, just get hold of Border Control and see where they shipped him to.”

  “It’s been what… four days, they must have put him on a train within the first 24hrs… he should be hitting the republics anytime now… today.”

  “Ok call Border Control and find out the details. Then hit up the Police Chiefs of Tashkent, Bishkek and Dushanbe.”

  “No Ashgabat? Ashgabat, Turkmenistan?” Korlov clarified.

  “Korlov, Border Control are pigs… not psychopaths.”

  “Just making sure, Boss. We don’t want to give him away the second time.”

  “Yeah, let’s get this Indian punk.”

  Fergana Valley, Central Asia

  After more than 90hrs on the train Pulikesi had become pretty good at predicting its sways, squeaks and its unlubricated left wheel. This obviously wasn’t his first time on a packed, malodorous train. Their train, the Moscow – Bishkek 917, usually ran for like ten minutes before pulling over for the high speed Trans Siberians.

  Pulikesi believed that this ‘ordeal’ was an elaborate prank by those Ukrainian punks. He remembered dillydallying over the question of a day off. Ilya and the gang were starting a riot. But the rest was all black...

  He had woken up on a train doing 40 tops surrounded by tough looking men. After ten hours, despite Pulikesi’s questionable Ukrainian, everyone had become ‘ok’ with everyone. Like everything in Russia it started off with cigarettes and vodka and soon they were exchanging penis jokes and plov. By the time they had hit Kazan, Pulikesi had become an expert at mooning Russian peasants.

  After sixty hours, the party had been broken up by the train’s arrival in Dushanbe, Tajikistan. As everyone was undocumented, the guards had done ethnic tests like the density of the unibrow, curvature of the nose and Tajik proficiency. A cursory check failed Pulikesi on all accounts. The Tajik guard had declared, “Not ours. Onto to Tashkent.”

  And the party continued for ten more hours before pulling into Tashkent, Uzbekistan. The Tashkent police had arrived at the same conclusion: “Doesn’t smell like ours. Doesn’t speak like ours. Not ours. Next stop.”

  The final leg, Tashkent – Osh – Bishkek had provided some of the greatest views of the Fergana Valley. By the time the train pulled out of Osh, Pulikesi really and truly believed that this was an elaborate prank.

  Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

  Primakov, Marko and Ilya waited at Bishkek’s Main Railway Station.

  Korlov had confirmed that their Indian not-janitor guy had boarded the 917 out of Moscow’s Kazanskaya Station. The guards at Tashkent and Dushanbe had denied registering a Pulikesi. Playing the elimination game Primakov had flown out to Bishkek – the last stop on the 917.

  “So this guy you are looking for, is he mentally loose?” asked Otorbayev, the Chief of Bishkek PD.

  Petulant Russian guards often topped off deportee trains with Russian vagrants… just to mess with the republics.

  “No. It was an adminis
trative error,” said Primakov, before hastily adding, “… by the Ukrainians.” Korlov was already on the cover up effort. Nobody could know about this tossing the Consultant snafu.

  “Ukrainians… of course,” observed Chief Otorbayev wearily, “Suddenly they are too good for our Kyrgyz guards. Their embassy wants… demands, Ukrainian guards. Can you believe it?”

  “Those Ukrainians…” Primakov nodded.

  “You know Comrade, shagging up with the Americans doesn’t make them Americans.”

  “Hey nobody is ‘shagging up’ with anybody. If anything it’s you guys, with your American air base…,” it was the suddenly nationalistic Ilya. He was more than willing to take shit from the Russians. But Kyrgyz? Come on. The red republic had allowed the Americans to build a friggin air base… largest in Asia… that Kyrgyz? Hell no. Plus it violated the sacred insult rankings: You had Russia on top followed by Ukraine and Belarus. Then came the Chechens, Georgians and what not. At the bottom of the pile were the Kyrgyz below the Tajiks.

  Otorbayev would have begged to differ.

  “Shut up,” Primakov growled at Ilya. Affronting the town’s Police Chief wasn’t on his ‘things to do in Bishkek’ wish list. Plus the brief Kyrgyz flirtation with the Americans had already ended. Time to move on.

  “Shut up, prisoner,” added Marko for emphasis.

  Chief Otorbayev’s walkie-talkie cackled, “Chief, Train 917 is two kilometers away. You should be able to see it now.”

  “Great… that’s Omburek, our Station Master,” said Otorbayev, “Let’s get close to the action.” Chief Otorbayev led the way as Primakov, Ilya and Marko followed.

  “The illegals are on the last coaches. According to Omburek, we have three coaches today. Started with ten. Tashkent took three, Dushanbe four.”

  “Is there gonna be a rush? We don’t want to lose him.”

  “The coaches are locked. We let them out one by one. Everyone has to register.”

  “How many guys are we talking here?”

  “About hundred a coach… three hundred total.”

  “Exits?”

  “Every coach has four exits. We open only one. But this is a walk through train, so your guy can come out of any of the three.”

  Train 917 from Moscow began braking. After like a minute of anal braying it came to a halt.

  Three Kyrgyz guards approached and opened one door each. Primakov held his breath. Chief Otorbayev pulled out his phone and checked up on his daughter’s VK.com activities. Ilya craned his neck in search of his bro. Marko seemed uninterested in the proceedings.

  “Ilyaaa…. Ilyaaa… you crabby ass mofo… Ilyaaa…”

  “Someone’s calling your name,” said Primakov.

  Something flashed between the fur heads. Something tan. Something fast.

  Chapter 32

  Washington, DC

  Blow Jobbs from Calamity News continued, “… in other business news, as expected the new Russian airliner, the Tupolev – 420 has met with lukewarm responses. Despite the Russian claims of a quiet supersonic jet, western airlines seem to have shied away. An anonymous American airline executive had this to say... ‘They did it with the Tu-144 which was a copy of the Concorde… and now thirty years later they are at it again… Plus research shows that the public… American public, in particular enjoys slower planes and smaller seats. Plus these days the focus is on Wi-Fi, cell signals and entertainment.’ Meanwhile, Russia leaning experts have accused Washington of protectionism and general Russophobia. To get more on this story, let’s go to our own… Jack Jizzer who is outside the FAA, ‘Thanks Blow, my sources in the FAA tell me that, this thing… the Tu-420 is a flying coffin. Did you know that 90% of airlines operating in Russia and the FSU are banned by the FAA, EU and Japan.’ … 90% wow… why is that Jizzer? ‘Blow, in one word, its safety. Old planes, very old planes, lack of spares, drunk flying, letting your kids into the cockpit, archaic procedures… you name it Blow.’ So I assume, these airlines, because they are banned internationally just fly within Russia? ‘That’s right Blow they stay within Russia and its republics the – five Stans, Belarus, the Russian South and also… wait for it…. Cuba and North Korea.’ Get outta here… Cuba and North Korea? Well that completes the trifecta. ‘Yes Blow, aviation out there is a joke. In fact they got an airline named Scat?’ Please be serious Jizzer, perhaps SCAT stands for Socialist Communist Air Transport. ‘No it doesn’t Blow. I checked.’ Perhaps SCAT means air or flying in Russian... ‘The last thing I want my Scat to do is fly man…’ Hahaha… always with the classics… that’s our Aviation Correspondent Jack Jizzer everyone… thanks Jizzer.”

  “Whoa. Are these guys serious? They have a SCAT in the air?” asked the stunned Undersecretary of State, Sarah McAllister.

  “I guess… but then again, this is Calamity News. So whatever,” replied Jim.

  “Ok getting back to this Tu-420 being an ICBM, it doesn’t make sense. I mean they already have the largest pile of ICBMs, which by our estimates is still very good. So… why?”

  “For starters these things are airborne. Being a commercial jet they get to go anywhere freely. For example if they do Moscow to Vegas they get to fly over places like Area 51 and other critical areas. And once they get there, they can go kaboom.”

  “But to even get to that stage… they need to be certified by the FAA and I guess the NTSB and the EU. During those inspections it should be pretty easy to see if this thing is for real… like if it can hide a warhead or if it’s an ICBM… also what about the seats, you can’t have a missile and seats and inflight entertainment and fool the FAA…”

  Jim Borland shrugged, “Yeah, I guess it’s just baloney.”

  “It’s time we did something… to counter the Russkies.”

  “Cuba?”

  Krasnoyarsk Krai, Russia

  “You sure this is not a prank?” asked Pulikesi for the 19th time.

  Ilya lost it, “Fuck’s sake man, NO. It’s not a prank. The Russian FSB or whatever they are, abducted us… the entire Albatross team. During transit they tossed you out… thinking…”

  “…thinking I am the janitor. Right, but it was so much fun. The Tajiks, those guys are off the rockers. I had the best pot-plov ever. The Fergana Valley is insane. And the Kyrgyz… they say you can ‘take’ any woman you want and marry her in Bishkek…”

  “Dude, its barbarian and misogynist. Those nomads… and before you start again, NO. This isn’t a prank.”

  Pulikesi held up his hands in mock surrender. “So I took a look at the specs and it’s got nothing to do with our Albatross.”

  Ilya was miffed, “Well I am just the code monkey. Throw your questions at the business owners.”

  Without preamble Primakov and a pale older dude walked into their mini office. The older dude was Mueller the mad scientist from Under Russia. He had taken a superfast elevator up from underground Krasnoyarsk.

  “You boys have any questions about the spec?” asked Primakov.

  Pulikesi cleared his throat and started, “Is this still not a prank?”

  Ilya groaned. Primakov said with finality, “Nope.”

  Pulikesi made a smug face that implied, they were all in on the prank. “Ok. So about the specs, it’s got nothing to do with the Albatross. I mean usually there are some fundamental modules but this… this thing, whatever this is…”

  “We don’t have all day. Mueller,” Primakov looked at the older guy, “here is a super busy guy. He is a heavy hitter.”

  Pulikesi dived in, “For starters this is a nationwide, in your case, Russia wide air traffic management system.”

  Mueller nodded.

  “Plus there are all these requirements about landing on frozen lakes… in fact Lake Baikal, hope I am pronouncing it right, seems to be the main ‘repository’.”

  “Treat this as an extreme test case. Inclement weather, hijinks… those types of situations… we need to be able to override the pilots in such a scenario.”

  Pulikesi wrote down the shit
Mueller was spewing, as Ilya did a couple of follow up questions. Ilya really wanted to show that he was an essential cog. Russian projects in Siberia tended to liquidate non-performing assets real fast. He had no intention of getting buried in a Code of Bones.

  As the questions petered out, Primakov asked “Anything else?”

  “First off, we are going to re-write the spec… given the circumstances that should take a week… and then Ilya and I would write up a technical spec. Two more weeks for that… hmm… let’s see… we need client approval at each stage… which is you guys Primakov and Miller?”

  The old man said “Mueller.”

  “Right Mueller. Miller, Mueller catches me all the time. Oookay. So once we have the specs we will do a project planning session… a week for that… finally we get to the easy part… development… ten weeks… make it twelve to be on the safe side… and testing… depending on your Russian regulations, could run anywhere between 6 months to years… obviously deployment would be up to you…”

  Primakov looked crimson. He wasn’t a violent man. He was also a planner. Just like Pulikesi here. He tried that deep breath shit… That didn’t solve anything.

  “Pulikesi. Look man, we need this thing like… yesterday… not 6 months down the line…”

  “Haha, spoken like a true business owner. I get it man, but this is software, this is the way it works…”

  “And could you elaborate more…” said Mueller icily.

  Pulikesi had dealt with a million of these business head types in his consulting career. He put up a polite plastic smile and began, “Gentlemen, we use the Waterfall Model of development.”

  “Waterfall? Whats that?” Mueller the mad scientist, who had cooked up Project Katie and Catie, was intrigued. Waterfall…? Sounded pretty cool.