Moscow Machination (18 page)

“Ahhh thank
god. The head is intact.”

The brown
face was twitching… trying to avoid a Ukrainian fly.

A relieved
Bogdan helped Maks pull the guy out.

“An Uzbek
laborer…,” said Bogdan in disgust, “You know him?”

“What? Me?
Hell no. He must have jumped onto the truck when I stopped for a leak.”

“Well that
makes it clear then…”

“Clear?”

“Ya man,
illegals. Tajiks, Uzbeks, Kyrgyz, we catch at least one every day. Trashmasters
huh… these guys are always evolving with their techniques… last week it was
benzene tankers… week before it was… ”

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.

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.”

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 administrative 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.

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 19
^th
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.

“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.”