Moscow Machination (19 page)

Havana, Cuba

The big
Boeing banked towards Havana Bay.

Calamity
News
was at the scene
covering the historic moment. “Blow, I am standing here at the Ciudad Libertad
Airport in Havana,” Jack Jizzer began. The camera panned away from the bearded
Jizzer to the approaching aircraft. “As you can see now… the jet carrying the
American delegation is on its final approach.”

A group of
spicy tamales sashayed synchronously in the background. The mood seemed
festive. No revolution today.

“Looks like
the Ciudad Libertad airport is right on the beach. The views are fantastic man…
and the airport itself seems to have a lot of old charm,” remarked Blow Jobbs.

“Absolutely
Blow, the breeze, the sweet smells… it’s all pretty intoxicating. Whats ironic
is that, after years of mistrusts and pig wrestling, one would imagine an
atmosphere of suspicion, or utmost cautious optimism, but…” A feathered Latina handed
Jizzer a tropical concoction with copious amounts of Bacardi, “… but as you can
see it’s a massive party here. The word on the streets of Havana is that they
want to out-party New Orleans, Rio, Cabo and Miami. They want to show what the
Americans have missed out…”

“Not for
long Jizzer. Not for long… For viewers tuning in live, this is Blow Jobbs at
Calamity
News,
and we are at the precipice of some sweet history. The first American
delegation to Cuba in 50 years is minutes from landing in Havana… hot, sultry,
dirty Havana…”

“That’s
right Blow, even my American phone has magically hooked up to a local provider…
says it’s 90 degrees now, but I guess the women here account for about 70 of
that. It’s almost like… like Miami… but everything is real… catch my drift,
Blow?” Jizzer winked into the camera.

“Absolutely.
Jizzer, can you tell us more about this American delegation… a who’s who
perhaps. Give us the dirt.”

“Well, these
are mostly financiers… Wall Street types, Silicon Valley VCs, banksters, the Commissioner
of basketball… essentially the money men, Blow. IMO there isn’t going to be a
lot of dirt coming from that demographic.”

“I see. So
Jizzer, is there a chance that some of these delegates get to meet the big man
Castro?”

“Good
question. Honestly the details are sketchy, but what I can confirm is that the
big man’s little brother is scheduled to meet our delegates.”

“Come on
Jizzer, let’s face it, we want to see their superstar President not some
wannabe backup.”

“You are
preaching to the choir, Blow.”

Wheels
out, the big Boeing descended rapidly.

Langley, VA / Trondheim,
Norway

Jim
Borland took a swig out of his rum laced coffee. It took the edge off while
adding an edge.

“Trondheim,
are you there?” asked Jim.

The
Trondheim Marine Engineering Company
specialized in some real deep shit. Its area of expertise was resurfacing wrecks
and other stuff from ocean floors. Their MO: Balloons… big ass, super strong
balloons.

While the
oceans were Trondheim’s Nutella and chicken, the Barents Sea was their bread
and butter. Being a playground/ scrapyard/ home ground for the Russian Navy, the
Barents Sea Division had never failed to beat Wall Street expectations, in
forty five years.

Thus,
anytime a jet disappeared over an ocean,
Trondheim Engineering
was there.
Anytime a movie about a sunk ship or a naked portrait had to be made,
Trondheim
Engineering
was there. Anytime a Russian sub, however large had to be
refloated,
Trondheim Engineering
was there. And anytime an oil well had
to be plugged tight…
Trondheim Engineering
… was… there.

This new
job was in Havana bay.

“Trondheim
are you there?” repeated CIA’s Jim Borland. It was time to put an end to these newfangled
KGB wannabes.

“Langley,
we got a problem.” Of course they had a problem. Jim shook his head in disgust.

“It’s the
puny balloons isn’t it? I knew it. It sounded too good to be true and here we
are…”

“Langley,
the balloons are fine.”

“Then what
the fuck is it Trondheim?”

“Submarine
traffic. We aren’t sure which one it is?”

“Fuck’s
sake Trondheim, I sent you guys all the sonar signatures. Just run it down and
match it.”

“Langley… there
are too many subs.”

“Too many…
what are you talking about? We just scouted that cesspit.”

“Well, our
sonar has gone bonkers. We are reading at least 2 Akula Class subs, 3 Ohio
Class, 2 Los Angeles Class… 2 Jin Class, 1 Yuan Class…1 Arihant Class…1 Yasen
Class…”

“Fuck, how
many subs are there?”

“More than
a dozen.”

“All within
Havana Bay?”

“All
within Havana Bay.”

“What the
fuck are they doing?”

“Eavesdropping
maybe. But frankly with all the pinging I just don’t see how anyone can listen.”

“Juvenile
dipshits. This ain’t the time or place to grope each other. Isn’t that why we
got the Barents Sea… must be the Rear Ass Admirals… the groping and ass grabbing
never gets old for those pervs.”

Jim
Borland pondered a bit before making his next move. Someone had to stop Russia
and this Primakov guy from pulling off these fast stunts. With Undersecretary
McAllister’s support he had gotten the go ahead from his bosses up the chain.
The Pentagon after a lot of hand wringing had acquiesced and given up the junkyard
bound
USS Bellingham
.

“Langley…
we got a feed of the transmission between the subs… seems like trash talk… you
want to listen in?”

“Why the
hell not? Play it.”

“Ok, here
goes…
‘I am on your starboard side moron’… ‘I’m looking… there is nothing’…
‘well don’t look… ping’… ‘ok I just pinged… still nothing’  ‘Oh wait… the other
starboard… your other starboard side…’ … ‘You mean your starboard?’… ‘No. Your
starboard side, but like…like… your other starboard side’….
That was
between the Ohio and the Arihant. This next one is between an Akula and a Yuan,
‘Yo you work at subway…?... ‘Hmmm’ … ‘Coz you just gave me a footlong. Haha
… now do me, do me…’ ‘Well…ok… what is looong hard and fooooll of seamen?’ ….
‘haha… why remaster the classics…’
”

Jim
Borland swore, “See? This is the type of shit these bums specialize at. I never
trust these submerged things you know… Once they go down there, lord knows what
they are up to. I mean, come on, a hundred, two hundred dudes stuck together
for months in an airtight tube… nothing good can come out of that… you see what
I am saying…”

“Oh, we
get it Langley. Half our business is because of these dude filled subs.”

“That’s
why you know, I have been a strong advocate of unmanned subs. Hopefully, this
AutoCaptain will catch on.”

Without
manned subs, there won’t be any sunk subs. Without sunk subs, Trondheim would
have to revert to the low margin treasure hunts in the Atlantic. Without hefty
margins, how could they maintain the crayon colored, triangle headed row houses
of Trondheim?
Trondheim Engineering
shuddered at the apocalyptic world
without manned subs.

“Oh wait…
Langley, we got a lock,” Trondheim said triumphantly.

“You sure
it’s the
USS Bellingham
?”

“Positive.
Los Angeles Class.”

“Well, the
AutoCaptain system should do the rest.”

“Right… and
it just positioned itself right above our pod….”

“Trondheim…
lets rock ‘n roll.”

“Copy
that, Langley.”

Jim
Borland heaved a sigh of relief.

Bottom of Havana Bay

The bottom
of the Havana Bay was quickly turning into a mosh pit. A few subs had stuck to
pinging, as they were there ‘just for the experience’. But then as usual there
were these other subs who took things too far. Things went sour when an Ohio had
gotten up in the hull of young Yuan. There was even an instance of the
notorious tail swatting between an Akula and some German U-boat. Within minutes
the binge-pinging had descended into full scale pushing and shoving.

The
USS
Bellingham’s
AutoCaptain was going nutzzz. The 1 GHz processor was never
gonna cut it. Soft thump… contact - hull to port side… more pinging….

Trondheim’s
balloon pod was also having a hard time trying to stay locked to the
USS
Bellingham
. Every few seconds the lock was broken due to shoving.

But at the
last moment Trondheim’s pod got a solid lock and it was time for action.

Havana, Cuba

The Big
Boeing was gliding in at 100 Knots.

“Cidudad
Retarded, speed is 100 Knots,” reported Captain Willy.

“Big
Boeing, for the last time… its
Ciudad Libertad
not
retarded
…,”
said Espinoza the ATC dude.

“Haha… sorry…
gets me every time…”

“Big
Boeing, whats your altitude?”

“Ciudad Libertad,
can’t you just see and tell?”

“Big
Boeing, repeat altitude?”

“200 feet
… Cidudad Retarded …hahaha.”

“That’s
it. That does it. We are revoking your permission to land. No landing for you,”
thundered Espinoza the 18 year vet.

“Uh oh…
hahaha… hahaha…oh no… no Toyota for you… no Coke for you… and definitely no Chipotle
for you… hahaha…”

“… and no Xbox…”
added the copilot.

“Big
Boeing, I repeat, no landing for you.”

Hearing
the Chipotle exchange, elite members of the Cuban Republican Guard burst into
the Air Traffic Control Tower and proceeded to beat the lights out of Espinoza.

The Big
Boeing’s pilots heard some cracking… perhaps wood… then some shouting… lots of
shuffling… One moment, Espinoza had been verbally affronting the Americans, and
the next he had only 18 teeth. And his pants were missing.

“American plane,
you are cleared to land. Land wherever you want. Park wherever you want,” announced
the thundering yet pleading Commander of the Cuban Republican Guard.

A stunned Captain
Willy finally said, “Hey, what happened to your other guy?”

“Every
revolution needs some blood.”

“Damn… you
sons of bitches must really want that Chipotle burrito…”

“You have
no idea, Senor.”

Havana Bay, Cuba

The big
Boeing descended over Havana Bay as it approached the runway. Its big nose was
pointing slightly upward. From their vantage point on the upper deck, the Big
Boeing’s pilots saw tons and tons of sweet cloud free sky.

“Jet seconds
from landing #Cuba #retrorevolution #chipotlediplomacy,” live tweeted Jizzer.

The hot
tamales paused or at least slowed their sashaying in anticipation. The Cuban
receiving party stood up, warming their palms to clap.

Inside the
Big Boeing’s big cockpit, there was pandemonium. Red flashy lights, klaxon
noises, bleeped out four letter words, etc. Seconds ago the aircraft’s proximity
alert system had gone bonkers.

 “
Gear
Up. Warning. Gear Up,
” warned the calm automated voice.

“I checked
every bleeping thing…” said Captain Willy as his men checked out the dials and
their digits.

“
Gear
up. Warning. Gear Up.
”

“What the
hell does that mean?”

“Means we
are very close to the ground… but the altimeter says…”

“Captain maybe
the system is broke.”

“
Gear
up. Warning. Gear Up.
”

“Captain
should we abort and pull up?”

Unbeknownst
to the human beings, something broke the surface of Havana Bay.

Initially
it rose slowly. But then exponentially faster with every passing millisecond.

It was
long, hard and full of seamen.

To the viewers
catching
Calamity News
… the big black hard mass seemed to jump right out
of the water. According to Russkies, the state-of-the-(soviet)-art Yasen Class
submarine was 140m long, 15m wide and weighed at least 9000 tons.

The fully
loaded Big Boeing, clocked in at 300 tons which was about 1/30
^th
of
the tonnage of the Russian sub. International laws governing the conservation
of momentum waited in anticipation.