Moscow Machination
Page 18
“No sign of them either, Blow.”
Suddenly there was movement within the jet.
“Jizzer look… a survivor.”
Jizzer asked, “What, where?”
The camera panned wildly searching for some action.
“Lenny you are already there man. Focus on the back door.”
A guy in an expensive suit appeared at the aircraft’s rear door. After scanning the deserted tarmac, he retreated back into the cabin.
“Did we get a look?” asked Jizzer.
“Grainy but my producer says it’s enough to get a match.”
A few seconds later, the aircraft’s evacuation slide unfurled like a nasty tongue.
“Blow, look at that… he seems to be coming out.”
The dude in the expensive suit slid out of the aircraft. Once on the ground he stood up and dusted himself.
Jizzer hooted and tried to call out to his countryman, “Sir… Sir… here…”
“Donald Rutherford? … Ok… Jizzer, he is Donald…”
“Rutherford? The owner of LA Lobsters?”
“Not anymore. But yep. That’s our guy.”
Donald Rutherford continued to stand under the fuselage.
“Why isn’t he running away?”
“Guess he is waiting for his fellow survivors, Jizzer… oh wait… what is he doing? Whats that in his right hand? Lenny can you zoom in?”
Rutherford, the former owner of the LA Lobsters took something out of his trousers. It gleamed in the Havana sun.
“That’s a switchblade, Blow,” whispered Jizzer. The former LA Lobsters owner held a switchblade.
Jizzer yelled, “Mr. Rutherford… get away from the aircraft…”
In a violent spasm, Donald Rutherford began hacking away at the inflated slide. The shredded slide deflated in 3 seconds flat.
“Jesus man. Did you see that?” asked Jizzer.
“Yes,” cried Blow Jobbs, “And it’s all live… a cocktail of Super bowl, Christmas, Thanksgiving and the 4th July. … God this is epic...”
Not content with deflating the evac slide, Mr. Rutherford completely severed it from the aircraft.
“Whats the *bleep* is wrong with him? There could be more survivors in there?”
“You might get a Peabody or something for this...” Blow Jobbs was thinking beyond the obvious.
“That maniac is trying to rip off the chute…”
“Me…? I am fine with a simple Emmy… even a daytime Emmy would do…” Blow was lost.
Jizzer continued his astute commentary, “Blow look, there is someone else… at the doorway.”
Sure enough, a spindly guy peeped out.
“I have seen this guy somewhere… shoot… is that the League Commissioner?”
Donald Rutherford hacked off the last strands of fiber connecting the chute to the aircraft. The shredded remains of the evac slide hung five stories off the ground.
“Wait, Rutherford is saying something to the Commissioner…”
“Nope. Just gesturing.”
“Gesturing? Lenny can you zoom in… oh boy… he is giving him the finger.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, Donald Rutherford the deranged former owner of the LA Lobsters just flipped off the Commissioner.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the Commissioner’s main problem right now.”
“Obviously Jizzer. Obviously.”
Done with his gestures and bleeps, Donald Rutherford spun on his heel and started walking away.
“Oh no…”
Donald Rutherford was ten feet away.
…
…
Twenty feet away.
The Commissioner sat down on the aircraft’s floor with his legs dangling.
…
…
Thirty feet.
Forty Feet.
…
…
The thirty banksters reached the aircraft’s rear door. Realizing they were fifty feet up without any options, they began to form a human centipede with the Commissioner on top.
Fifty feet.
Sixty feet.
…
…
Someone slipped. Twenty guys splattered on the tarmac.
Ninety feet.
Donald Rutherford, took out Cuban cigar.
One hundred feet.
He lit the cigar with his lighter.
The pool of jet fuel ended right about there.
Donald Rutherford stylishly flicked back his cigar.
Donald Rutherford got into a dirty Nissan pickup and drove away.
A posse of satellites that happened to be whizzing by, caught the whole thing on tape. Technically, the American Cleveland, Russian Koba and North Korean Sweetboy caught it. The Chinese Miao pirated it.
Langley, VA / Trondheim, Norway
Back at his apartment, Jim Borland couldn’t believe his eyes. He was watching the live telecast of the Havana landings. As the old man drove away, the Big Boeing exploded in a massive fireball. Orange. Black. More orange. Then some black. A tinge of grey. More black…
Calamity News reporter, Jack Jizzer and his cameraman were still on scene and broadcasting. “Blow… it’s very hot… I mean very, very hot… also I can’t hear a thing…”
“Lenny, we don’t need Jizzer anymore. Just focus on the burning wreckage ok,” commanded Blow Jobbs. The live feed out of Havana bobbed its consent.
Jim Borland hit a button on his laptop.
“Langley… I swear to god… I don’t know how this happened…” started the voice from Trondheim.
“What the fuck man… I mean I don’t even care about the collision or the explosion, but...”
“We apologize Langley.” said Trondheim.
“Do you know anything about marketing or advertising?”
“Mm probably not… not as much as you do anyway.”
“This was a once in a lifetime… a once in a millennium advertising op.”
“We know.”
“Do you know how many guys it takes to paint a Los Angeles Class sub?”
“A lot?”
“Yellow. White. Green. The green… was the hardest.”
“Maybe Quiznos paid off the Russians.”
“Child please… how much does the Russian Yasen class weigh?”
“We ran the numbers, a fully fitted Yasen runs at 9000 tons.”
“And how much does the Los Angeles class weigh?”
“7000 tons.”
“But the USS Bellingham was stripped bare. 5,500 tops. So fucking tell me how does your balloon… engineered to lift 5,500 tons hurl up a 9000 ton sub all the way out of the water. Talk about over compensation here…”
“You know what Langley, our primary worksite is in the Barents, where unlike Havana Bay the water is cold… you know how it is… lower temperature… less pressure… volume… entropy…”
“Entropy?”
“Plus the AutoCaptain was your thing. I told you the 1GHz wasn’t gonna be enough. It was your job to put the USS Bellingham where we wanted…”
Jim Borland stopped listening to the Norwegian troll as his cell phone chimed. An email from IT. What did those poindexters want? His GovRoulette account had been suspended… temporarily. Shit
Ping.
His GovChat was out too.
“Fuck.”
Jim Borland went to his bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. He found the Adderall. He popped one and lifted the ceramic cover of the toilet tank. After flushing the water, he carefully extracted a waterproof binder from it. He sat on the crapper and opened the binder… a binder full of countries that had no extradition treaties with the US.
The garishly painted USS Bellingham aimlessly circled the bottom of the Havana Bay. Its green, yellow and white paint job represented a popular sandwich chain.
Severodvinsk, Yasen Class, Russian Submarine
Captain Pavlov’s Severodvinsk had been sent out to monitor Havana Bay in lieu of the warming Cuban-American relations. By the
time the Severodvinsk had arrived, the party had already begun. The hollering, the riffing and camaraderie were in full swing.
In the middle of a typical belly rub with an Ohio Class, Captain Pavlov had felt his 9000 ton boat rise against its will. His officers had confirmed that this sudden movement had pissed off the Ohio Class and it had broken off the belly rub.
Despite Captain Pavlov’s flagrant lever pulling, the sub had spun its wheels with zero traction.
“Captain something is stuck under our belly and it’s lifting us. And it’s not the Ohio Class. Repeat: Not Ohio Class.”
Still rising, a minute later they had broken the surface of the Havana Bay.
Captain Pavlov seemed calm, “Haha. I think this is the new carry-the-load move. I heard a Los Angeles Class pulled this on one of our Pacific fleet Akulas. Maybe it’s the Chinese, they like to mimic the American moves.”
“Captain we are exposed. Bridge, hull, tail… we are all out…”
“But… those aren’t the rules of carry-the-load.”
“You sure captain?”
“Don’t question me punk. I read Captain Radnikov’s detailed account of that encounter.”
“Maybe they added a twist… you know… everybody has their own style.”
“Shut up. Just try and get us unstuck.”
“Aye, aye Captain.”
3 seconds later the Big Boeing had rammed into the Severodvinsk’s port side.
A 300 ton, 100 knots object smashing into a 9000 ton stationary object was the equivalent of dropping a 16 pound bowling ball onto one’s foot. Painful? Absolutely. Trip to ER? *cough* pussy.
The Russian sub barely moved an inch.
“Hey this definitely wasn’t a part of carry-the-load… I mean I can handle a twist or a tweak …but not a fucking rewrite… What the fuck?”
“Maybe there is a third sub involved Captain.”
“Three subs? Shut the fuck up. Where do you get these ideas?” Captain Pavlov shook his head, chastising young people and their wild ideas.
“Captain, outer shell is damaged.”
“Whaaat? What about the inner shell?”
“Not damaged.”
“Missile doors?”
“Not damaged.”
“Radiation levels?”
“Normal.”
As Pavlov thought about shutting down his reactor, the Severodvinsk suddenly began to descend.
“Captain, whoever was lifting us has left the scene…”
Trondheim Engineering’s overloaded balloons designed to lift 6000 tons, burst and descended into oblivion.
“Left? Without even a goodbye?”
“No pings were received, Captain.”
“Not even one?”
“Negative.”
“These young Captains… no class. None at all.”
“I concur, Captain.”
“Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
Chapter 34
Krasnoyarsk, Siberia
As the Big Boeing T-boned the Severodvinsk, 12 time zones away, Primakov and his henchmen were out chilling in the taiga. In the wooded area surrounding their base, they had setup a small distillation unit. The base commander had neither condemned nor condoned their actions. “We don’t care Primakov. This is Siberia.” Of course, this was Siberia. What happened in Siberia stayed in Siberia. People were super chill out there.
“So what do you think that loser is up to right now… still looking out for waterfalls?”
“Pulikesi? Nah… probably say swatting flies.”
“Smelling his own farts.”
“Jacking off to the natural beauty... it’s gorgeous out there… I know I would…”
“Please… I told him we got a satellite looking on him.”
“Haha.”
Marko poured four glasses from the first batch. The men raised to a toast.
“To Siberia…”
“And to four of us wolves…,” said Marko.
“Wolves? Shit. Where?”
“Four of us wolves… running around Siberia together…”
“…looking for boars…”
“…and trouble…da…”
“To Siberia…”
“Primakov… Primakov…”
Someone was pounding on his door with the butt of an AK-74 assault rifle. Primakov knew that unique sound... the sound of an AK-74’s butt crashing into a two inch willow. Primakov really knew that. That was the first thing they had taught him at the KGB Academy in Rostov-on-Don. ‘Like every weapon, the AK-74 comes in two variants,’ their Instructor Whatshisnamikov had said, ‘the inferior export variety and the superior version for our own usage.’
“Primakov… Primakov… open up…”
Primakov opened his eyes with a splitting headache. He felt the room spin. The moonshine … right… but why had he imbibed it… he never did moonshine… unless he was undercover… was he undercover? … was he in Abkhazia? … or was he planning an Avocado Revolution in Bolivia… perhaps trying to mingle with Che Guevara types… or was he blazing saddles in Sarajevo.
“Primakov… Primakov…”
He tried to concentrate. Over the moonshine’s hammering he heard a distinct metallic edge to the AK-74’s banging. Instructor Whatshisnamikov had broken the suspense by saying, ‘… among other things, the great Kalashnikov added a steel beading to the Soviet version of the AK-74. This greatly enhanced the rifle’s balance and butt strength. The Iron Butt feature had been so popular that NATO soon changed the AK-74’s codename from Klash+ to Klash-Butt…’ Plus the iron butt added a slight yet distinctive metallic clang to its knocks.
“Primakov… Primakov…”
Skimming and scouring through his dreams, Primakov fought for his sanity. Was he in Chechnya? Or was it Angola? Canberra? Instructor Whatshisnamikov’s monologue was reaching a crescendo, ‘Comrades, anytime you answer the calling of an Iron Butt… you are answering to the Soviet State itself… and I guarantee you one thing: You are being an absolute Patriot... the reddest of reds…’
‘The reddest of the reds…? Damn right… a fucking first ballot Patriot… that’s what I am.’ Primakov swung off his iron cot. The world lurched. Holding onto the wall, he slid up to the door.
“Primakov… Primakov…”
He opened the door.
“You gotta see this Boss.” It was Korlov. He looked pristine. No hangovers.
“You? What the fuck?”
Korlov thrust a smartphone into Primakov’s face.
“No, no…no,” Primakov pushed away the phone. A few years ago, while stationed at Magadan a young protégé had knocked in a similar fashion and shown him something called, Two Girls One Cup. This was one of the last forms of reverse hazing allowed within the Russian forces.
“Come on man, I am too old for this shit.”
“Boss this isn’t one of those. This is important. Like America important. CIA important.”
“See… now that’s exactly what that punk said in Magadan… he said it had something to do with Tokyo rearmament…”
“Boss, I am no rookie, I am too old for that shit too,” pleaded Korlov. “… Trust me, I wouldn’t be banging an Iron Butt if I didn’t have to.”
“Trust you… hahaha… ah fuck, my head hurts… pretty sure Marko messed up that recipe.”
Korlov wouldn’t take it, “Boss, now.”
“Fine.” Primakov took the phone and plopped back onto his bed.
It was a video. Of course it was a video… it always was. The production quality on the porno was excellent. Primakov fully expected to see the two Brazilian girls any moment now.
“Oh boy. Korlov, is this a sequel? The Girls and Cups made a lot of money eh?”
“Boss please… this shit is real.” said an exasperated Korlov.
Yep, the shit had indeed been real. Too real.
The video opened with the usual music and graphics proclaiming the ‘Breaking News’, A Calamity Exclusive. A bunch of yahoos were angrily debating something.<
br />
Primakov breathed a sigh of relief. Why tarnish the original with a tacky sequel. Smart girls….
Soon the whack-a-mole of analysts were replaced by a footage. Taken from a satellite, it showed a big plane flying over water and crashing into the side of a super massive submarine. After losing its front section the plane tumbled over the submarine and somehow ended up on the airport’s tarmac. ‘Landed’ was pushing it, but the fuselage, the engines and the tail had all made it… one way or the other.
“SWEET. Wonder who planned this… where?”
“Cuba. Havana.”
“Is that our sub? Looks like our Yasen Class.”
“Calamity News and the Americans are speculating. They are trying to pin it on the Chinese. But yeah, it’s our Severodvinsk.”
“...at least they were more subtle with the Kursk.”
“Boss, the Severodvinsk should be fine, this is like a left hook from the retired Tyson… am I right?”
Primakov agreed with Korlov, “You are right. Damages?”
“Outer shell damage. But otherwise fine. Heading to Murmansk as we speak.”
“By the way, why did the Severodvinsk breach the surface?”
“We don’t know Boss… I don’t know. The Americans are saying its Chinese adventurism. Taunting. Threatening old man Castro… stuff like that”
“No self-respecting sub would come out like that…”
“Even Chinese?”
“Even Chinese.”
The video cut forward and showed a man walking away from the Boeing’s wreckage. Seconds later the whole thing exploded.
“Ho, ho, ho… who is that psycho?” hollered Primakov.
“Owner of the LA Lobsters. Former owner.”
“Their lobsters any good? Do they have outlets in Moscow?”
Chapter 35
Yenisei River, Siberia
Through his peripheral vision, Pulikesi observed the Siberian landscape zip by. The western bank of the Yenisei was all hilly and uninhabited, while the eastern bank was littered with villages and cool riverboat restaurants.