Moscow Machination (4 page)

Kremlin, Moscow

            “Madam, the
Chinese Premier Wong Xiannian is on the line,” informed an assistant.

Anna
Petrova motioned for Sergey Luzkhov, her foreign minister to leave the room.

She picked
up the phone, “Evening Wong.”

“Madam
President thank you for taking my call at such short notice.”

“Call me
Anna. Here at the Kremlin, the doors are open 24x7… especially for old
friends.” She had emphasized the old part.

“Yes of
course Madam… Anna. It’s just that, a few hours back your Foreign Minister
issued a very disturbing threat against our great nation. When we brought up a
train mishap in Guangdong, Minister Luzkhov said he was willing to turn us into
a bowl of teriyaki sauce… if we didn’t drop the matter.”

“Oh that’s
so offensive. I apologize to your People. He keeps forgetting Teriyaki is
Japanese. How ignorant of him?”

“Madam… Anna,
that’s clearly not the point. He issued a threat…”

“Mr.
President relax. On my first day in office, Sergey threatened me. Then he
threatened our FSB head. Last week he even threatened the American Secretary of
State. He probably threatened Pyongyang and Paris before breakfast. It’s what
he does.”

“Hmm. I
see... So you don’t think Sergey is out of line?”

“Nope. I
stand by him and his ministry.”

“And you
have no explanation for the train incident…”

“Like I
said, I stand by Sergey. Whatever he said is probably true.”

“This is
going to be a problem, Anna.”

“I am
getting tired Xiannian. You are either a friend of the Federation or a foe of
the Federation. Choose wisely.”

Wong
Xiannian slammed his magenta phone. “Fucking bitch… that fucking bitch… It
wasn’t rogue elements in the Russian government. It was an authorized hit.
That… Hu, close all our land crossings, suspend visas to Russians, send their
envoy back,” screamed the Chinese Premier.

Ministry
of State Security head, Hu Gong had heard both sides of the conversation. A
couple of female interns had listened in on the call as well. Hu Gong couldn’t
believe that the Premier would let a bunch of twenty something interns listen
in on an important state call.

The rant
still hadn’t ended. Unlike the politician throwing the tantrum, he was an
intelligence dude. Guys like him always knew more, always had an upper hand in
any conversation, and almost always outlived their premiers. Bush Sr., Beria,
well almost, Andropov and a long line of Pakistani presidents had all proved
that being an intelligence chief was the best place to chart a Presidency.
Perhaps he would be the first good one.

“Premier,
relax.”

The
premier wasn’t listening or relaxing. Just give it a rest already, thought Gong.
What was it with these adult children? Anna Petrova was barely 40, and his own moron
premier was 42. There was no subtlety in threats and counter threats these days.
The Russian President had almost openly admitted to being involved in the
Guangdong train incident. Both would have failed Presidency 101.

“How can I
relax? Turn around our ICBMs… turn around the ones aimed at Indianapolis,
Denver and Seattle… point them at Moscow. Right now.”

Gong tried
again, “Or maybe it’s that time of the month for Anna… you know cycles…”

The stunned
Chinese Premier stopped and turned around. He looked intensely at his head of
counter intelligence. The female interns gasped in horror.

Hu Gong thought
he heard Katy Perry in the background… was it ‘Firework’. Yep… one of the
darned interns was fiddling with her iPod. But he plodded on, “Or maybe you
know, she is quite pretty, almost in a Nicole Kidman way, her boyfriend probably
dumped her. Heartbreak?”

Premier
Xiannian was seething, “Time of the month? What kind of comment is that? It’s
probably the worst thing you can say about a woman. Whats with you old party
boys? Time of the month, really?”

It was Gong’s
turn to lose it, “Turning away our missiles is probably the dumbest thing a
Chinese President could do. Nukes aren’t play things.”

“Huh? So
what do you propose? Get her to see a psychologist about her bad break up?”

“See… now
we are thinking… that might actually work. I will add it to our arsenal of
offensive initiatives. Great… maybe we could recruit one of Moscow’s
psychologists… or maybe a Chinese citizen of Russian ethnicity… we could train
him… or her…”

Gong
actually took out a small notepad and began scribbling his brain fart. He made
a big show of his ballpoint pen not working and jerked it around for a while. It
took him 45 to get it all down. Luckily, by then, some sort of sanity had returned
to the Premier’s office.

The Premier
motioned the interns to get out.

“Ok so what’s
the Russian motive here? Why are they suddenly cuddling with the Japanese and
Germans? Who, right now are threatening a new set of sanctions against Russia?”

“Well it’s
a classic cry for help,” replied the smug Hu Gong.

“So you
are certified physiologist now? First with the love theory and now this… I think
I need a drink.” Premier Xiannian opened his bottom drawer and pulled out a
bottle of Maker’s Mark and two glasses.

Gong
began, “Don’t you see, we shouldn’t have voted against them on Ukraine… Crimea.”

“But we
didn’t. We abstained at the UN vote.”

“Exactly.
What do you think, ‘you are either a friend of the Federation or not’ means?
Plus that gas pipeline.”

“But we
can’t just sit down and take this Russian shit. I will look weak to the
Politburo. We need to retaliate.”

“I know, I
know. I found something from Anna Petrova’s past in Volgograd.”

“What?”

“Pictures.”

“Huh?”

“Oooh
yeah. Trust me, they are not shots of her saluting the Mamayev Kurgan.”

“Mama what?
Wait is that code for dirty pictures? Come on Hu…”

“No
Premier, not dirty pictures. I will let you know when my team has developed
this ‘initiative’ into something potent…”

“Just spill
it right now, I am your boss,” pleaded Premier Xiannian.

“Sure
whatever. I thought you wanted probable deniability when it came to the operations
of MSS. You know if something went wrong?”

The
Chinese Premier sighed.

“Trust me…the
moment I have something concrete, you will know… here have another drink.”

The
premier gulped down the smooth liquid as Gong refilled his glass.

NATO, Brussels

            Before the Crimean
rapture, everything had been dainty in Europe. Things had been so dainty, that
the French had agreed to sell aircraft carriers
to the Russian Navy.
Super dainty.

And
then Crimea had happened.

Not
willing to arm Russia with anything from the 21
^st
century, the French
had followed NATO’s aka America’s orders and suspended the sale of the
Mistral
ships.

As everything
was fair in war, both sides had agreed to let the matter slide – at least for
the time being. But despite such assurances, everyone knew something was bound
to happen sooner or later… one way or the other.

The first
Mistral
ship, the
Vladivostok
was undergoing live trials with Russian sailors
and the second ship, ironically named
Sevastopol,
was 80% done. The boats
were moored at the docks of Saint-Nazaire, in western France. Saint-Nazaire
itself was on the Atlantic Coast, far away from Russian infested waters.

Gathered at
NATO headquarters, were Lefebvre the French rep to NATO, Doug Sanders the
American rep, a Jean Bernard from DGSE – the French Intelligence and the NATO Secretary,
Norwegian Torgeir Larsen.

“Obviously
a Spetsnaz black ops?” said Richard Lefebvre.

Everyone
nodded in agreement. Despite the Russians backing off, everyone knew that some kooky
Russian analyst was cooking up a scheme as they spoke, to abduct the
Mistrals
.

Irrespective
of the effectiveness of the Spetsnaz, the French still felt good about
protecting the ships. Despite being completed, the
Vladivostok
and
Sevastopol
weren’t like an Audi or a Camry, where one could just hotwire it, gas it and
drive it into a sunset.

Even if the
Russians did manage to get them out of the harbor, there was always the French Navy,
the US Atlantic Fleet and a zillion other hostile air aircraft. Without armor,
weapons or communications, the chances of a Russian breakout seemed bleak.

“Unless
you guys take the ships out into the sea… for training… we can cross that one
out,” noted Torgeir Larsen.

“Oui. Obviously
we have stopped all excursions,” agreed Lefebvre.

Torgeir
Larsen unsure about the presence of the DGSE Intelligence guy, prodded “So Jean,
you have anything to add?”

“Well, we
have been keeping tabs on the sailors’ quarters. Monitoring calls, movements that
sort of thing. Nothing so far. The other thing we are monitoring is new house
rentals or purchases by anyone sounding Russian, Ukrainian or Belarusian. Nothing
there either. Overall we feel good about the ships. That’s all I got.”

“Ok, now
that we know the Russians aren’t stealing it, what do we do with the ships?”
the NATO General Secretary, tried to move the meeting forward.

“Obviously
we could sell them off to some neutral or allied country.”

The
American Sanders finally spoke, “But why even return the money to Russia. Let
them roil over it. I don’t give a flying fuck.” Sanders returned to the
delicious croissants.

“Yes Doug,
that’s what we all want. But we still need to explore the possibilities… right?”
said Torgeir the Norwegian.

“Hmmm. Ok,
so why can’t you Frenchies, just induct these boats into your own navy? All you
would have to do is rewrite the Cyrillic crap with oui and non, oui?” observed
Sanders.

American Doug
Sanders owned these types of meetings in Brussels as NATO equaled United States
plus token contributions from limeys, frenchies, krauts, micks and the ones
that got voted in each year.

“Non, Monsieur.
The French public doesn’t like weapons or wars. They think our 4 Mistrals are more
than enough.”

“Jeez
alright, alright. Once again we have to save your soft, untanned asses.”

“Oui.”

Doug
Sanders preened, “Before this super productive meeting, I had a word with NATO’s
Supreme Allied Commander. He had a few mind blowing suggestions.”

“Oui?”
said one of the Frenchmen. The Norwegian had given up.

“Well, we
obviously can’t sell your wine cooler to Brazil, China or India. Apparently they
are in a freaky four way called BRICS with Russia. That just leaves…”

“Non,
Monsieur it’s a five way.”

“Ah, you dirty
Euros, always pushing the limits…” Sanders tried to high five Lefebvre.

“Non.
Monsieur… BRICS is BRIC plus S, where S is South Africa.”

“Thanks for
the lesson, Frenchie. Yeah, I guess they are out too.”

“Oui,
Monsieur,” replied Jean.

“So, where
was I, ya that leaves what… the Saudis, Australians and maybe the Israelis? But
then again, those guys are going to want to refit and retrofit the shit out of
the boats. We want none of that. It has to be quick and easy. Plus we don’t
feel real comfy about putting boats into the Middle East.”

“Oui. But
so what is le solution, Monsieur?”

“Are you
suggesting we wreck billions of euros worth of ship?” Larsen the Norwegian
tried again.

“Easy
fellas. The allied commander says I get to choose what happens to the ships.
See I’m married to his third daughter… so… mmm, wish I had seen the second
daughter first you know, the BMIs on that chick are off the charts man…”

“I see…
wait does it mean she is so fat and her stats are off the charts or… off the
charts in a good way… English is confusing?” said DGSE Jean.

“No brah.
Off the charts means on the charts.”

“Off means
on?”

“Dude she
is a fine piece… ok?”

“Ah… I
see,” said Torgeir Larsen.

“Ya man,
see this Norwegian dude knows what I’m talkin’ about. Bet you ate out a blonde
for breakfast.” Sanders then proceeded to high five the General Secretary of
NATO. The alarmed Frenchmen said “But… but…” in unison. They had eaten too. Not
that morning, but not that long ago.

Not
wanting to leave them hanging, Sanders high fived them too. With the atmosphere
disintegrating, the American instructed the NATO General Secretary, to get some
fine Belgian ales immediately. The Secretary obliged.

“So here
is the deal fellas… the first option is we ‘borrow’ the ships from France, as
in the French ‘lend’ the ships to the US Navy. Pretty cool right?”

“Oui.”

“Yes. So
chill.”

“And we
would rename them
USS St Petersburg
and
USS Moscow
after our meth
capitals in Florida and Idaho.”

“That’s
bold my man. Maybe you should go a step further… as in pinch the jugular… go
for the kiss… just do it… and make it
USS Albuquerque
and
USS White
,”
said DGSE Jean.

“Wow Jean,
that’s terrific. I could French the shit out of you right now. Bravo boy… name
their ships after America’s new manufacturing hub… and a genius. Hell yeah.
Fuck St. Petersburg. Brother Lefebvre, please tell me there is third boat in
the works. Please… I so, so want a
USS Pinkman
… please…”

“Non, Monsieur.
Sadly not.”

“Ah fuck
it. Anyways, best part is we could simply grant asylum to those cooped up Russian
sailors. Win-win-win-win.” 

“So your
plan… in broad strokes… is to copy the
Hunt for Red October
?” asked a
bewildered Jean Bernard.

“Basically,”
shrugged the American, suddenly feeling nervous. Had they discovered his lack
of originality? Was this going to hurt his coolness barometer?

“Ah that’s
fantastic.”

“That’s so
radical man,” chimed in the rest of the gang.

“Actually
your plan is better than the
Hunt for Red October
. Unlike the book,
where the sub is destroyed for research, you actually want to co-opt it… very
cool”

Doug
Sanders stopped breathing, “Wait did you just say the sub gets destroyed in the
book?”

“Oui.”

“Fuck the book
dude. Who cares about books? The movie is where it is at… especially when Connery
and Ryan ride off into the twilight… always thought it was pretty romantic…”

“Oui,”
said one of the Frenchies.

“Oui.” The
second was more enthusiastic.

“No homo… no
homo… just saying,” Sanders interjected hastily. After all they were still
French.

“Non,
Monsieur. There is nothing wrong with that”

“Non. Non.”

            “Ya. Very good
movie. God, your America is cool.”

With the
coolness barometer intact, Doug Sanders ploughed on, “Well there is one hitch
to this plan. Some of the defense contractors have their panties in a bunch
about missing out to you Frenchies. Some bullshit about setting a precedent and
jobs and feeding America and… ”

“Oh I see?
So what do you propose Doug?”

“Well, I
thought long and hard just now, damn these Belgian ales are really hitting the
spot… and I just got a great idea.”

“What is
it?”

“Oui?”

“Ok, two
words.”

“Oui?”

“Orlando
Theme Park.”