Moscow Machination

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.”