Moscow Machination

by Ian Maxwell

  “Waterfall model is a step by step model. Where you completely finish your first step before going to the next step. You see there is no turning back or backtracking... the major steps are 1)gathering requirements, 2)design, 3)development, 4)testing and 5)deployment. We go from one stage to another step by step… like a waterfall…” Pulikesi proceeded to mimic a waterfall with his arms and swooshing sounds.

  Mueller nodded at Primakov.

  “There is a secret about Russia. Do you want to know what it is Mr. Pulikesi?” asked Primakov.

  “Only if you insist,” remarked Pulikesi blithely.

  “There are no waterfalls in Russia.”

  Chapter 33

  Havana, Cuba

  The big Boeing banked towards Havana Bay.

  Calamity News was at the scene covering the historic moment. “Blow, I am standing here at the Ciudad Libertad Airport in Havana,” Jack Jizzer began. The camera panned away from the bearded Jizzer to the approaching aircraft. “As you can see now… the jet carrying the American delegation is on its final approach.”

  A group of spicy tamales sashayed synchronously in the background. The mood seemed festive. No revolution today.

  “Looks like the Ciudad Libertad airport is right on the beach. The views are fantastic man… and the airport itself seems to have a lot of old charm,” remarked Blow Jobbs.

  “Absolutely Blow, the breeze, the sweet smells… it’s all pretty intoxicating. Whats ironic is that, after years of mistrusts and pig wrestling, one would imagine an atmosphere of suspicion, or utmost cautious optimism, but…” A feathered Latina handed Jizzer a tropical concoction with copious amounts of Bacardi, “… but as you can see it’s a massive party here. The word on the streets of Havana is that they want to out-party New Orleans, Rio, Cabo and Miami. They want to show what the Americans have missed out…”

  “Not for long Jizzer. Not for long… For viewers tuning in live, this is Blow Jobbs at Calamity News, and we are at the precipice of some sweet history. The first American delegation to Cuba in 50 years is minutes from landing in Havana… hot, sultry, dirty Havana…”

  “That’s right Blow, even my American phone has magically hooked up to a local provider… says it’s 90 degrees now, but I guess the women here account for about 70 of that. It’s almost like… like Miami… but everything is real… catch my drift, Blow?” Jizzer winked into the camera.

  “Absolutely. Jizzer, can you tell us more about this American delegation… a who’s who perhaps. Give us the dirt.”

  “Well, these are mostly financiers… Wall Street types, Silicon Valley VCs, banksters, the Commissioner of basketball… essentially the money men, Blow. IMO there isn’t going to be a lot of dirt coming from that demographic.”

  “I see. So Jizzer, is there a chance that some of these delegates get to meet the big man Castro?”

  “Good question. Honestly the details are sketchy, but what I can confirm is that the big man’s little brother is scheduled to meet our delegates.”

  “Come on Jizzer, let’s face it, we want to see their superstar President not some wannabe backup.”

  “You are preaching to the choir, Blow.”

  Wheels out, the big Boeing descended rapidly.

  Langley, VA / Trondheim, Norway

  Jim Borland took a swig out of his rum laced coffee. It took the edge off while adding an edge.

  “Trondheim, are you there?” asked Jim.

  The Trondheim Marine Engineering Company specialized in some real deep shit. Its area of expertise was resurfacing wrecks and other stuff from ocean floors. Their MO: Balloons… big ass, super strong balloons.

  While the oceans were Trondheim’s Nutella and chicken, the Barents Sea was their bread and butter. Being a playground/ scrapyard/ home ground for the Russian Navy, the Barents Sea Division had never failed to beat Wall Street expectations, in forty five years.

  Thus, anytime a jet disappeared over an ocean, Trondheim Engineering was there. Anytime a movie about a sunk ship or a naked portrait had to be made, Trondheim Engineering was there. Anytime a Russian sub, however large had to be refloated, Trondheim Engineering was there. And anytime an oil well had to be plugged tight… Trondheim Engineering… was… there.

  This new job was in Havana bay.

  “Trondheim are you there?” repeated CIA’s Jim Borland. It was time to put an end to these newfangled KGB wannabes.

  “Langley, we got a problem.” Of course they had a problem. Jim shook his head in disgust.

  “It’s the puny balloons isn’t it? I knew it. It sounded too good to be true and here we are…”

  “Langley, the balloons are fine.”

  “Then what the fuck is it Trondheim?”

  “Submarine traffic. We aren’t sure which one it is?”

  “Fuck’s sake Trondheim, I sent you guys all the sonar signatures. Just run it down and match it.”

  “Langley… there are too many subs.”

  “Too many… what are you talking about? We just scouted that cesspit.”

  “Well, our sonar has gone bonkers. We are reading at least 2 Akula Class subs, 3 Ohio Class, 2 Los Angeles Class… 2 Jin Class, 1 Yuan Class…1 Arihant Class…1 Yasen Class…”

  “Fuck, how many subs are there?”

  “More than a dozen.”

  “All within Havana Bay?”

  “All within Havana Bay.”

  “What the fuck are they doing?”

  “Eavesdropping maybe. But frankly with all the pinging I just don’t see how anyone can listen.”

  “Juvenile dipshits. This ain’t the time or place to grope each other. Isn’t that why we got the Barents Sea… must be the Rear Ass Admirals… the groping and ass grabbing never gets old for those pervs.”

  Jim Borland pondered a bit before making his next move. Someone had to stop Russia and this Primakov guy from pulling off these fast stunts. With Undersecretary McAllister’s support he had gotten the go ahead from his bosses up the chain. The Pentagon after a lot of hand wringing had acquiesced and given up the junkyard bound USS Bellingham.

  “Langley… we got a feed of the transmission between the subs… seems like trash talk… you want to listen in?”

  “Why the hell not? Play it.”

  “Ok, here goes… ‘I am on your starboard side moron’… ‘I’m looking… there is nothing’… ‘well don’t look… ping’… ‘ok I just pinged… still nothing’ ‘Oh wait… the other starboard… your other starboard side…’ … ‘You mean your starboard?’… ‘No. Your starboard side, but like…like… your other starboard side’…. That was between the Ohio and the Arihant. This next one is between an Akula and a Yuan, ‘Yo you work at subway…?... ‘Hmmm’ … ‘Coz you just gave me a footlong. Haha … now do me, do me…’ ‘Well…ok… what is looong hard and fooooll of seamen?’ …. ‘haha… why remaster the classics…’”

  Jim Borland swore, “See? This is the type of shit these bums specialize at. I never trust these submerged things you know… Once they go down there, lord knows what they are up to. I mean, come on, a hundred, two hundred dudes stuck together for months in an airtight tube… nothing good can come out of that… you see what I am saying…”

  “Oh, we get it Langley. Half our business is because of these dude filled subs.”

  “That’s why you know, I have been a strong advocate of unmanned subs. Hopefully, this AutoCaptain will catch on.”

  Without manned subs, there won’t be any sunk subs. Without sunk subs, Trondheim would have to revert to the low margin treasure hunts in the Atlantic. Without hefty margins, how could they maintain the crayon colored, triangle headed row houses of Trondheim? Trondheim Engineering shuddered at the apocalyptic world without manned subs.

  “Oh wait… Langley, we got a lock,” Trondheim said triumphantly.

  “You sure it’s the USS Bellingham?”

  “Positive. Los Angeles Class.”

  “Well, the AutoCaptain system should do the rest.”

  “Right�
� and it just positioned itself right above our pod….”

  “Trondheim… lets rock ‘n roll.”

  “Copy that, Langley.”

  Jim Borland heaved a sigh of relief.

  Bottom of Havana Bay

  The bottom of the Havana Bay was quickly turning into a mosh pit. A few subs had stuck to pinging, as they were there ‘just for the experience’. But then as usual there were these other subs who took things too far. Things went sour when an Ohio had gotten up in the hull of young Yuan. There was even an instance of the notorious tail swatting between an Akula and some German U-boat. Within minutes the binge-pinging had descended into full scale pushing and shoving.

  The USS Bellingham’s AutoCaptain was going nutzzz. The 1 GHz processor was never gonna cut it. Soft thump… contact - hull to port side… more pinging….

  Trondheim’s balloon pod was also having a hard time trying to stay locked to the USS Bellingham. Every few seconds the lock was broken due to shoving.

  But at the last moment Trondheim’s pod got a solid lock and it was time for action.

  Havana, Cuba

  The Big Boeing was gliding in at 100 Knots.

  “Cidudad Retarded, speed is 100 Knots,” reported Captain Willy.

  “Big Boeing, for the last time… its Ciudad Libertad not retarded …,” said Espinoza the ATC dude.

  “Haha… sorry… gets me every time…”

  “Big Boeing, whats your altitude?”

  “Ciudad Libertad, can’t you just see and tell?”

  “Big Boeing, repeat altitude?”

  “200 feet … Cidudad Retarded …hahaha.”

  “That’s it. That does it. We are revoking your permission to land. No landing for you,” thundered Espinoza the 18 year vet.

  “Uh oh… hahaha… hahaha…oh no… no Toyota for you… no Coke for you… and definitely no Chipotle for you… hahaha…”

  “… and no Xbox…” added the copilot.

  “Big Boeing, I repeat, no landing for you.”

  Hearing the Chipotle exchange, elite members of the Cuban Republican Guard burst into the Air Traffic Control Tower and proceeded to beat the lights out of Espinoza.

  The Big Boeing’s pilots heard some cracking… perhaps wood… then some shouting… lots of shuffling… One moment, Espinoza had been verbally affronting the Americans, and the next he had only 18 teeth. And his pants were missing.

  “American plane, you are cleared to land. Land wherever you want. Park wherever you want,” announced the thundering yet pleading Commander of the Cuban Republican Guard.

  A stunned Captain Willy finally said, “Hey, what happened to your other guy?”

  “Every revolution needs some blood.”

  “Damn… you sons of bitches must really want that Chipotle burrito…”

  “You have no idea, Senor.”

  Havana Bay, Cuba

  The big Boeing descended over Havana Bay as it approached the runway. Its big nose was pointing slightly upward. From their vantage point on the upper deck, the Big Boeing’s pilots saw tons and tons of sweet cloud free sky.

  “Jet seconds from landing #Cuba #retrorevolution #chipotlediplomacy,” live tweeted Jizzer.

  The hot tamales paused or at least slowed their sashaying in anticipation. The Cuban receiving party stood up, warming their palms to clap.

  Inside the Big Boeing’s big cockpit, there was pandemonium. Red flashy lights, klaxon noises, bleeped out four letter words, etc. Seconds ago the aircraft’s proximity alert system had gone bonkers.

  “Gear Up. Warning. Gear Up,” warned the calm automated voice.

  “I checked every bleeping thing…” said Captain Willy as his men checked out the dials and their digits.

  “Gear up. Warning. Gear Up.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Means we are very close to the ground… but the altimeter says…”

  “Captain maybe the system is broke.”

  “Gear up. Warning. Gear Up.”

  “Captain should we abort and pull up?”

  Unbeknownst to the human beings, something broke the surface of Havana Bay.

  Initially it rose slowly. But then exponentially faster with every passing millisecond.

  It was long, hard and full of seamen.

  To the viewers catching Calamity News… the big black hard mass seemed to jump right out of the water. According to Russkies, the state-of-the-(soviet)-art Yasen Class submarine was 140m long, 15m wide and weighed at least 9000 tons.

  The fully loaded Big Boeing, clocked in at 300 tons which was about 1/30th of the tonnage of the Russian sub. International laws governing the conservation of momentum waited in anticipation.

  Seconds later the Big Boeing, T-Boned the Russian leviathan’s port side.

  Unlike the submarine’s reinforced 30-inch steel hull, the Big Boeing was made out of light weight aluminum’s rich cousin duralumin. The front section of the aircraft crumbled like a coke can, resulting in the loss of nose, cockpit and the front wheel.

  Headless, the rest of the aircraft, powered by the meandering engines, bobbed over the sub’s smooth surface and continued the final approach to Ciudad Libertad Airport.

  Deprived of its avionic integrity, the faceless smoking jet violently plopped down onto the tarmac in several pieces.

  The turn of events obviously paused the hope and change mood among the Cubans. The hot tamales escaped in a loud gaggle.

  “Blow me… did I just see that…?” exclaimed Blow Jobbs.

  “Oh boy… it’s real…” cried Jizzer.

  “What the fuck just happened out there Jizzer?”

  “Blow, these are some unbelievable scenes… the jet crashed into something black and… sort of bounced onto the tarmac… it’s… it’s just sitting there… simmering… like a, like a… Blow…”

  The Boeing also happened be to carry some 60,000 gallons of refined in the good ol’ USA jet fuel. Back in Miami the copilot had asked, “O Captain O Captain… but why o why do we need so much fuel? Havana is barely a hop away.” The good Captain had replied, “Their fuel is probably all mucky. Just fill er up, boy.”

  Jet fuel gushed out of the broken fuselage and formed a dark pool around the aircraft.

  “Blow… Blow… we gotta evacuate… me and Lenny… the Cubans are escaping as we speak…”

  “Jizzer, don’t you dare move… I … I mean our viewers really want to see how this plays out… btw where are the fire trucks? I hear no sirens.”

  The ratings chugged past MNF territory.

  A floundering Jizzer replied, “Blow, this is Cuba. This is one of the illest *bleep*holes on the planet…”

  “Ah, I see. Good reporting, Jizzer. Real good. Hmmm… what else we got… let’s see… ok focus on something else… ok… oh yeah... Whats that big black thing in the background? Lenny can you focus on that… what is that?”

  Jizzer slowly turned around. For the first time he noticed the long, black and massive object slowly sinking back into the Havana Bay.

  “*Bleep* me Blow. Is that a submarine?”

  “If it looks like one and sinks like one it probably is… Jizzer can you confirm it?”

  “Hey *bleep*hole, how am I supposed to confirm that. I am a yapping head and so are you. Look around *bleep*er, there is nobody.”

  “Cool… cool, cool. Jizzer just tell us what you can ok… you are doing wonderful job… Lenny you too…”

  Jizzer waved off the apology as the cameraman bobbed the feed in appreciation.

  “Blow… the thing sure does look like a sub. It even has a bridge…”

  “Yeah… you are right Jizzer… the thing even seems to have some of the Big Boeing’s paint on its hull…”

  Jizzer squinted hard while the camera altered focal lengths.

  “Of all the things that you can smash into… a submarine? … Oh wait, I see three fellas…”

  “I will be damned…” echoed Blow Jobbs.

  Three men, one portly and two younger
seemed to be climbing out of the submarine’s bridge.

  “Oh god… Blow, it’s them sailor boys… the sailors are escaping the submarine. You think it’s nuclear powered?”

  “Wait, wait… Lenny can you zoom in on that fatty… really?” Blow gave a finger to his producer in the studio, “fine… portly gentleman… the one who is slipping… right there…right there…”

  “He is even wearing a tie. In fact all three are wearing a tie… its blue… white… and red…”

  “It’s even got stars… fuck… that tie… its American… they are American sailors… shit… which means the sub is American… to our viewers tuning in, an American jet has just rammed into an American submarine…”

  “Blow, Blow… hold your horses… that’s no sailor boy. That’s a friggin pilot. A captain perhaps… his copilot and first officer… and that’s definitely airplane dress not submarine dress. Big Boeings require three guys in the cockpit…”

  “The pilots? Wow… I just can’t believe this… oh Jizzer, I just got confirmation from my producer…”

  “About what?”

  “Liberty Air… the tie patterns, the shirt color, the lapels - they are all Liberty Air, a Baltimore based chartered carrier.”

  “Sons of bitches survived THAT?”

  “See, that’s why you gotta wear seatbelts.”

  The three pilots slid off the smooth sub into the Havana Bay like tourists at a wave pool.

  Meanwhile the Big Boeing’s jet fuel continued to gush, which the Havana heat transformed into a combustible vapor cloud. All it needed was a sweet spark.

  “Blow, I think it’s time to address the 600 pound burrito…”

  “You mean the delegates… the occupants of the jet?”

  “Yes, Blow. It’s been about five minutes since the jet stopped moving, and so far there has been no signs of life.”

  “*Bleep* the Cuban EMTs, but what about their Republican Guard. Why aren’t they attempting a rescue?”