Moscow Machination (21 page)

“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.”

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.

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?”

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.

Earlier, being
a meticulous consultant he had stood by and defended his views on the Waterfall
Methodology. The Russian goons at the German’s orders had tied him to a raft
and thrown him into the nearby Yenisei River. As he had drifted away, Primakov
the prick had yelled out aloud, “
There are no waterfalls in Russia.
”

But sadly,
the Yenisei had turned out to be nothing like the
Congo
or
Amazon
.
No crocs, no serpents, no piranhas… no nothing. What an anticlimax? Wide as a
10 lane highway with barges full of people, fish and nickel – 24x7x365, the
Yenisei was more like the
Interstate – 5
of Siberia.

Initially,
unsure about the Russian motives he had been fearful of starvation and
dehydration. But within two hours, he realized that this was all part of yet another
elaborate prank. Each time his raft passed a fishing hamlet, a bunch of Russian
dudes boarded the raft and squeezed a few lemons. It was probably the best
lemonade he had tasted. Every third stop the dudes were replaced by belles.
Their lemonades were certainly sweeter. On his 8
^th
hour, with
darkness settling in, a Russian dude had loaded him up with vodka and some
excellent beef stroganoff.

Thus 16
hours on the Yenisei, Pulikesi was once again enjoying this new yet very
creative punishment. It might not have been as fun as blitzing through the
Fergana Valley, but whatever…

At
daybreak, just north of the Podtesovo village, he had a surprise visitor. This
dude unlike the previous dudes brought beer and fish.

“Hey man
whats up?” said the lanky bespectacled stranger.

“Edward
Snowden?”
exclaimed
Pulikesi.

“In the
flesh,” said Snowden.

“This…
this is where you live?”

Snowden
shrugged, “I am here to make sure you are in good spirits. Beer?”

“Only hell
yeah.”

Edward
Snowden cracked a couple of Bud Lites and handed one to Pulikesi.

“Fish?”
offered Snowden, “you know, the Riverboat Roadhouse in Podtesovo has the best
carp on the Yenisei.”

“No shit dude,
this is delicious. And the beer, the Bud Lite… it’s like America all over your
mouth…”

Edward
Snowden offered his trademark, sad-yet-cocky-yet-bashful-yet-better-than-you
smile.

“I guess.”

“Well so
what do you do these days man? Heard you were working at ynadex.com or was it VK.com
…”

“Two
chicks at the same time man…”

“Two… two
chicks… Respect man. RESPECT.” Pulikesi high-fived the free man.

“Thanks
Pulikesi. Just follow the right thing and the truth, the belief will follow
easily…”

“What?”

“Oh… I’m
sorry. People keep expecting me to say deep shit all the time. I throw up pseudo
babble to appease. Sorry... sorry.”

“Oh don’t
worry man. Being a consultant I spew shit all day. By four in the afternoon I
feel like puking too… Happens to the best of us.”

“You do?”
asked Snowden a skeptically.

“Oh yeah.
But working for the Russians has been a… a… departure. They kinda keep it real.
You know what I mean?”

“I do.”

“Right
obviously, you know the Russians better than anybody… uh oh… I didn’t mean it
like that… I am not insinuating or anything… the thing you did was pretty
ballsy… sorry…”

Snowden
cracked another of his trademark smiles, “Chill man. Chill.”

Pulikesi
looked around for another beer.

“Mr.
Snowden…”

“You can
call me Snow.”

“Snow?
That’s so cool… just like real snow… as in cool as snow…”

Damn. A
celebrity meeting. And unlike McConaughey at Venice Beach, Snowden hadn’t
flipped him off. In fact he was now on a freaking nickname basis. Whatever
messed up little game the Russians were playing, it was working and it was fun.
Pulikesi surrendered to the Yenisei.

“Snow… Snow,
looks like we are out of beer…”

Snowden
looked up into the grey Siberian sky and waved his empty Bud Lite bottle.

Within
seconds, a super quiet Mi-8 attack chopper dropped off a chilled six pack.

“That is sick…Ebola
sick…”

Snowden
cocked his head, again with his trademark expression.

“Too
soon?”

The Mi-8’s
pilot opened a secure communication channel to Krasnoyarsk base.

“Go for
Primakov.”

“Our
asset’s shirt collar was turned up.”

“What the
hell does that mean?” asked Primakov.

“Means our
asset has turned your asset.”

Primakov
tried again, “Did my asset personally turn up your asset’s collar? Wait, who is
my asset and who is your asset?”

The elite
chopper pilot swore, “I fucking hate amateurs… Your guy, the Indian guy you put
on the boat, is ready to work for you.”

“Ahh.
Finally. So when can I have him back?”

“The next
extraction point is 2 hours away. A chopper ride from there to Dudinka is 3
hours. A jet back to Krasnoyarsk another 4 hours. Give or take, ten hours.”

“Fine,
bring him in.”