Moscow Machination (12 page)

Chukotka, Palin’s Russia

Primakov watched
the blip approaching from the south. His team had been monitoring the progress
of the Antonov cargo aircraft for over four hours now. Bound for Mexico City the
Antonov had departed from Guangzhou in Southern China. Its planned flight indicated
a path over Anchorage-Alaska, Alberta, Montana, New Mexico and finally Mexico
City. After refueling at Harbin the Antonov had been straddling the Russian
airspace.

The
aircraft was the legendary Antonov 225 Mriya aka, the Dream. The AN-225 was and
is the largest aircraft ever built. Larger than the 747, bigger than the A380
and sturdier than the Globemaster, it was the epitome of Soviet psychology –
always one up the Americans. The AN – 225 had something like a dozen engines
and probably hundred wheels.

There
really was nothing this woolly mammoth couldn’t lift. Smaller planes? Check.
Bigger planes? Check? Locomotives? Check. Power plants? Check. Abduct the
entire Swiss populace? Check. Fuck the Swiss, just get the gold? Check. Bill
Gates on the run from IRS? Check. Gunrunners? Check. Capitalists? Socialists? Nihilists?
Check, Check and Check.

Costing
like 1% of GDP only of these beasts had been built. Tragically though, at the
end of the red haze, this product of engineers gone wild had ended up with the
Ukrainians.

Twenty
years on, the Russians had secretly revived the AN-225 program. Despite heroic
efforts by the Antonov Design Bureau and its factories in Komsomolsk-on-Amur, the
designers had managed to produce just one shitty prototype whose landing gear
was still a hot mess. Russia’s Aviation Authority had rated this new AN-225 for
a maximum of 3 takeoffs and 1 landings in its lifetime. A group of engineers
and machinists, who would have otherwise ended up in the gulag for engineering
crimes, had volunteered for the test flight. Incredibly, the big plane had not
only stayed up but had even performed a series of insane stunts before landing
beautifully. The absence of the
Titanic
ending had left the Siberian firemen
high and dry.

But despite
the successful flight, Russia’s Aviation Authority had brought down the hammer
citing some newfangled euro babble concerning safety. This had rendered the Mriya
II to a lonely hangar in Komsomolsk-on-Amur.

33,200 ft. Ukrainian AN-225 –
Mriya I, International Airspace

Andriy the
Ukrainian pilot left the big Ukrainian plane’s cockpit to take a dump. Probably
had something to do with those Harbin dumplings.

His
co-pilots were heatedly debating the bohemian malady: Soccer – A 0-0 (4OT) draw
between Dynamo Kiev and PSV Eindhoven. This away draw was a huge blow to Dynamo’s
UEFA dreams. Nothing less than a hard 2-2 draw at Galatasaray could fix this
calamity. And then they were on the road at Zenit St. Petersburg where no one
had ever drawn above 1-1 (5OT).

Outside
the cockpit a group of animated Chinese engineers were betting on something… perhaps
they were pawning their Asian wives. Andriy wondered if he should get in on the
action. He was growing tired of buying a gallon of Chanel for his girlfriend in
Kiev.

Before he
could sign language his intentions to the Chinese dudes, his lower needs
knocked hard. Abandoning the wife betting conundrum, Andriy began his long walk
to the back of the aircraft.

In the
80s, after slurping a Harvard study smuggled in by the KGB, the Soviet
designers had put the restrooms at the ass end of the mile long Antonov 225.
This study had suggested that productivity and distance to restrooms were somehow
directly proportional – unless of course they were janitors.

Naive Andriy,
unaware of this CIA plot, steeled his glutes and began the voyage at a safe
speed. As he walked through the cavernous cargo hold Andriy admired the sleek CRH400A
high speed train they were transporting to Mexico City. Animated hand signals
and vigorous nodding with the Chinese had suggested that the train was capable
of speeds well over 400Km/hr. It could easily do a Kiev-Odessa-Donetsk-Kiev run
in like three hours. Someday...

Kremlin, Moscow

“Madam the
Japanese Foreign Minister is on line 13.”

President
Petrova unhinged line 13 and listened.

“Yo, Madam.
Is this deal going down or what?” bellowed Yamazaki the Japanese FM.

“Yes.
Absolutely, Yamazaki. You aren’t chickening out right? We already have assets
in place.”

“Hellz noz
Madamz. That Chinese bitch is actually selling a train to the cartel. If
anybody is selling to the cartels it should be my country. Our Shinkansen can
carry cocaine, heroin, poopy, AK47s you name it. I am 100% sure the Chinese
haven’t accounted for moisture and vibration… which as you know can alter the heroin’s
molecular structure.”

“And you… your
Shinkansen has?”

“Of course
madam. Dollar bills, euro bills, silver bars, soap bars, cocaine, meth - every
product is different. Everything reacts differently to speed. Those Chinese
copycats, what the hell do they know. Let me tell you something, we always help
our clients help themselves.”

“Are you…
is that… Top Gun?”

“Of course
not.”

“Oh…”

“It’s
Jerry Maguire… ever since we began to use it, our Shinkansen sales have
quadrupled.”

“Well… good
for you,” offered Anna, trying to end the call.

“Ya, it’s
so good that even the Chinese are using it now. Crush those fuckers, please.”

Anna
Petrova hung up.

Chukotka, Palin’s Russia

“Is that
fucking fax machine working?” Primakov yelled into the phone.

Despite
the presidential backing and his new powers, Primakov simply couldn’t convince one
Mr. Ruslan Bratikov. The Ruslan was the Russian Aviation Authority’s midlevel
pencil sharpener who had the
authoritah
to un-mothball planes stored
inside Russia.

Primakov’s
one sided conversation went something like:

“This is
insane… Yes I have notarized the forms…”

“I know
the fax isn’t enough. That’s why I FedExed the original thing to your office a
week ago.”

“What? I
can see your squiggly ejaculate of a signature right on my phone. Delivery
confirmed.”

“Ok. Ok. I
apologize for the profanity… Can you please approve the flight?”

“Yes, I
know… this isn’t KGB’s Russia anymore… but…”

“Yes I
want to take it out today…”

…

…

…

“Cargo….?
It’s classified… well if you insist… 500 tons of swine feed… yes…”

“No, not
swine flu… swine feed… shit that pigs eat to produce bacon… yes bacon… no we
aren’t transporting bacon… just the feed…”

“Crew?
That’s classified too… oh… just a placeholder? Tajiks it is…”

“Destination?
That’s obviously classified… of course you insist… hmmm… how about Pyongyang?”

“Yes I
know it’s rated for 1 landing only…”

“This is a
special ops mission… there is a need to know thing here…”

“Will the
flight be leave Russian airspace? Yes, last time I checked Pyongyang was outside
Russia.”

“Ruslan,
Ruslan I am not questioning your knowledge of geography… we are both patriots
here man…”

…

…

…

“No. No.
No. I am not insinuating you are Chechen. Why would I do that?”

“Chechnya
is more Russian than Georgia and Armenia? I hear ya…”

“So your
mother was Russian… and your father was half Russian… but you were born in
Grozny. Hence the name? Good. Grozny… beautiful city… magical at nights? Very
true.”

…

…

…

After eleven
more minutes of playing therapist to Ruslan, Primakov’s fax machine at Chukotka
Airport spat out the authorization.

“Forward
the fax to Komsomolsk. Ask them to get lined up.”

“Sir, we
have a slight problem out in Komsomolsk,” said Korlov, the FSB Analyst on loan
to Primakov, by presidential decree.

“Fuck,
what now? Is it Ruslan again? I will fucking break his wee-wee when I get back
to Moscow.”

“No Boss, it’s
the Japanese. They insist on adding some cargo inside their Shinkansen.”

“What is
it?”

“100 tons
of cocaine.”

Primakov
spat his decaf. “One hundred… Cocaine? But why?”

“Well, it
seems like they want to add a twist. Apparently to add implications.”

“Like what?”

“Cartel
implications.”

Primakov
whistled. He probably needed Ruslan’s approval for transporting Cocaine. But
the window was closing. He pulled the trigger, “Fine, whatever. It’s beef between
the Japanese and Chinese. My only concern is the additional weight.”

“The Mriya
II wouldn’t sweat it Boss. Our engineers guaranteed… So it’s a go?”

“Make it
snappy. The Ukrainian Mriya is already on its way.”

Komsomolsk-on-Amur, Siberia

Unlike the
Road of Bones and other free labored projects strewn across Siberia, the city
of Komsomolsk was built by real, actual, yet slightly brain washed volunteers of
the Communist youth organization, Komsomol. Due to its strategic location in Siberia,
the city had morphed into a hub for the secretive Soviet aircraft industry. To
this day the radically cool design collectives – Mikoyan, Tupolev, Antonov,
Yakovlev and Ilyushin did their metal bending out at Komsomolsk.

Out on the
tarmac, the Japanese Bobcats buzzed around the black Shinkansen – loading,
staking and balancing. They were done in fifteen minutes.

Next a
team of Japanese mechanics and painters checked the Shinkansen’s exteriors for
anything amiss. They went down their checklist efficiently. Did the markings in
arial bold read ‘CRH400A’? Check. Was the train black? Check. Was it sleek?
Check? Was there a small Chinese flag shaking hands with a guy in a sombrero?
Check. Was the Chinese flag present on all coaches? Check. Was the Chinese flag
painted on both sides of the train? Check. Was the Chinese flag painted on the
undercarriage? Check. Was the Chinese red enhanced? Check. Did it glow in the
dark? Check. Did it radiate in sunlight? Check. Did it radiate in moonlight?
Check. Did it bring out werewolves? Cross. Was the cocaine treated with
anti-inflammatory liquid? Check. Was the cocaine fireproofed? Check. Was the
cocaine synthetic? Check. Did the cocaine crates have cartel markings? Check. Was
the Shinkansen’s autopilot tested for location awareness? Check. Was there a generator/transformer
combo inside the Russian AN-225? Check. Did the generator have ‘Made in China’ markings
– also arial-bold? Check. Were these markings fire proof? Check. Were the
characteristics of the diesel fuel in the generator identical to those produced
by Chinese refineries? Check. Could a layman, as in Mexican sleuths, identify
the Chinese skinned Shinkansen? – Answer needs to be NO. NO. Were the markings
on the Russian AN-225 distinctly Ukrainian? Check. Was the autopilot on the
AN-225 good to go? Check. Was the Russian jet’s fuel identical to the Harbin
depot’s ATF? Cross. The Japanese let that one slide. They were detail oriented,
not anal.

With all
parties satisfied, the Russians opened the nose of the Mriya II. The Japanese,
quickly backed their black train into the Antonov. Once the nose was lowered
and latched, a Russian engineer went in and set the autopilot to start
listening to Primakov.

Ten
minutes later the Russian made Antonov-225 with Ukrainian markings thundered
into the beautiful afternoon.

Chukotka, Palin’s Russia

Primakov
gazed out of the Anadyr Airport’s control tower. Anadyr lay in the eastern
extremity of Russia within smooching range of Juneau, Alaska. Due to its
proximity to America, the airport often doubled as a bomber base. Today
however, Primakov wasn’t interested in the bombers or Juneau or even America.

“Boss our
radar just picked up the Ukrainian Antonov. It’s about 100 Kms south,” informed
Korlov.

“Where is
our Antonov… Mriya II?” asked Primakov.

“Sliding
into the Ukrainian jet’s coattails… 30kms behind.”

“Did you capture
the Ukrainian jet’s signature?”

“Yes sir. It’s
remained the same since 1989.”

“Are our
assets in place?”

“Yes sir.
The Beriev A50, Early Warning Aircraft is in the loop. We also have our
scheduled Moscow – LAX and Moscow – Vancouver Aeroflots in the mix. All wide
bodies.”

“Interceptors?”

“Mig-29s
on their way.”

“Good.”

As Korlov
gave the final commands, he asked, “Boss, you think we can pull this off?”

Primakov
was relaxed “Of course. This isn’t entirely new.”

“We have been
done before?”

“Korean
Air 007… Duh.”

Five
minutes later the Beriev AWACS aircraft, the one with the saucer on its back,
began jamming the Ukrainian AN-225.

Ukrainian AN-225 – Mriya I

Just as
Andriy returned to the cockpit, some sort of an incendiary device blew up right
in front of the aircraft.

“Jesus
man. What the fuck was that?” yelled Andriy.

“Nyet. No
idea dude.”

“Start scanning
the frequencies. Also are we still with Seoul control tower?”

After fiddling
and diddling, one of the crew replied, “I am getting nothing. Can’t reach
Seoul.”

Suddenly a
brute Russian voice cackled over the PA system.

“We gonna
blast your ass to smithereens.”

“Jesus. This
is Mriya? Who is this?”

“We are
your makers… Bitch.”

“Can you
see anything out of the window?” Andriy asked one of his crew.

“Two Migs.”

“Shit. Are
we in Russian airspace?” quivered one of the pilots.

“No way. We
detoured around Kamchatka.”

The brute
Russian voice returned.

“Ukrainian
BROTHERS from other mothers… please begin descent immediately. You will not be
harmed.”

“Ukrainian
BROTHERS from other mothers… please begin descent immediately. You will not be
harmed.”

“Ukrainian
BROTHERS from other mothers… please begin descent immediately. You will not be
harmed.”

“Ok man. Ok.
Don’t shoot us or anything. We comply,” said Andriy to his apparently Russian
brothers.

“Good,
just turn off your transponders and other tracking shit. Maintain radio silence
and head to Anadyr Airport to the north.”

“Yes
brother.”

“And now we
are going to admire your sweet ass. Hustle.”

“Copy that.”

“Remember,
no funny stuff.”

ICN - Incheon Airport, Seoul

“Yo man,
something just happened ….” said Ahn the Air Traffic Controller.

“What?”
asked Yu, who was trying to thread a Korean Air A320 between the bosoms of two Asiana
A380s.

“It’s the
Ukrainian Mriya, the one from HRB to MEX. An alarm just went off. It suddenly
lost a bunch of feet. But then a minute later everything seems to be fine.”

“No biggie
dude. Magnetic fields go crazy in the arctic. I never trust them. I am a visual
guy… come on baby 300 more meters to your left… good girl.”

Ahn wasn’t
convinced.

“I tried
calling the crew. No response. Been five minutes.”

“Maybe
they are on autopilot. Or drunk. It’s a long way to Mexico City.”

“I don’t
know man…”

 “Well,
let me take a look… hmm… they are sticking to their flight plan. All way points
are intact. Yep, like I said, magnetic fields are weird up there.”

As Ahn and
Yu returned their focus to the Seoul airspace, someone screamed, “Bloody punk.”
It was one of the Asiana A380 pilots. A Korean Air A320 had almost side swiped him.

“It’s that
Yu guy on the tower… the bozo thinks he is John Cusack from Pushing Tins,”
offered the Korean Air A320.

“Yo the
one with the cleft asshole. No,” responded Yu.

“Someone
has a cleft asshole in that movie? Well I missed that part. Hahaha.”

“No.”

“No what?”
another Asiana A380 pilot interjected.

“Neither
cleft assholes nor John Cusack. I base my life on Billy Bob Thornton.”

“Yeah… you
should probably base it on Cate Blanchett. Pussy,” joined the second A380.

“Oh yeah?
Why don’t you clowns get down here and we will do an old fashioned throw down… ready?”

“Yep see
you in ten moron,” said the A320.

“Oops… oh
no… a couple of UALs are coming in fast… They are running on fumes… head winds can
be bitches… But don’t worry I will be waiting for you baboons.”

“Oh no. No
nono. Don’t jerk us around man. I got to go home to the family. Rush hour
starts in forty minutes….,” feinted the A380 pilot, before plunging the dagger “…oh
wait… I just realized… I haven’t had sex with the same stewardess in seven
days… hahaha…”

“But I
did…” retorted Yu.

“You did
what Yu…”

“Your wife…
bitch.”

Ahn decided
to back up his bro. “Asiana 143 increase altitude to 10,500 ft. Asiana 396 increase
altitude to 10,000 ft., UAL 587 you are on… Mriya AN-225 do you copy…. Mriya
AN-225 do you copy….”

“Nooo… me
so sad…” cried Asiana 143.

“Me too… me
so solly…,” joined in Asiana 396.

Ten
minutes later, the Mriya responded, “Seoul this is Mriya AN-225. Seoul this is
Mriya. Do you copy?”

“Jesus.
Mriya are you guys alright?”

“Oh just a
thunder strike. Knocked out our transponder for a few minutes.”

“Good.
Great. You still on to MEX?”

“Absolutely.”

“Alright
mate. We are handing you over to Bob in Anchorage. He should come on in about
twenty minutes. Fly safe.”

“Spasibo.”

Chukotka, Palin’s Russia

“Spasibo,”
said Andriy as the line to Seoul disconnected.

Primakov
gave a thumbs up as Viktor Volokov, Primakov’s premier henchman nodded and
removed the gun from Andriy’s temple.