Moscow Machination (20 page)

Seconds
later the Big Boeing, T-Boned the Russian leviathan’s port side.

Unlike the
submarine’s reinforced 30-inch steel hull, the Big Boeing was made out of light
weight aluminum’s rich cousin duralumin. The front section of the aircraft
crumbled like a coke can, resulting in the loss of nose, cockpit and the front
wheel.

Headless,
the rest of the aircraft, powered by the meandering engines, bobbed over the
sub’s smooth surface and continued the final approach to Ciudad Libertad
Airport.

Deprived
of its avionic integrity, the faceless smoking jet violently plopped down onto the
tarmac in several pieces.

The turn
of events obviously paused the hope and change mood among the Cubans. The hot
tamales escaped in a loud gaggle.

“Blow me…
did I just see that…?” exclaimed Blow Jobbs.

“Oh boy… it’s
real…” cried Jizzer.

“What the
fuck just happened out there Jizzer?”

“Blow,
these are some unbelievable scenes… the jet crashed into something black and… sort
of bounced onto the tarmac… it’s… it’s just sitting there… simmering… like a,
like a… Blow…”

The Boeing
also happened be to carry some 60,000 gallons of refined in the good ol’ USA
jet fuel. Back in Miami the copilot had asked, “O Captain O Captain… but why o
why do we need so much fuel? Havana is barely a hop away.” The good Captain had
replied, “Their fuel is probably all mucky. Just fill er up, boy.”

Jet fuel
gushed out of the broken fuselage and formed a dark pool around the aircraft.

“Blow…
Blow… we gotta evacuate… me and Lenny… the Cubans are escaping as we speak…”

“Jizzer,
don’t you dare move… I … I mean our viewers really want to see how this plays
out… btw where are the fire trucks? I hear no sirens.”

The ratings
chugged past MNF territory.

A
floundering Jizzer replied, “Blow, this is Cuba. This is one of the illest
*bleep*holes on the planet…”

“Ah, I
see. Good reporting, Jizzer. Real good. Hmmm… what else we got… let’s see… ok focus
on something else… ok… oh yeah... Whats that big black thing in the background?
Lenny can you focus on that… what is that?”

Jizzer
slowly turned around. For the first time he noticed the long, black and massive
object slowly sinking back into the Havana Bay.

“*Bleep* me
Blow. Is that a submarine?”

“If it
looks like one and sinks like one it probably is… Jizzer can you confirm it?”

“Hey
*bleep*hole, how am I supposed to confirm that. I am a yapping head and so are
you. Look around *bleep*er, there is nobody.”

“Cool… cool,
cool. Jizzer just tell us what you can ok… you are doing wonderful job… Lenny
you too…”

Jizzer
waved off the apology as the cameraman bobbed the feed in appreciation.

“Blow… the
thing sure does look like a sub. It even has a bridge…”

“Yeah… you
are right Jizzer… the thing even seems to have some of the Big Boeing’s paint
on its hull…”

Jizzer
squinted hard while the camera altered focal lengths.

“Of all the
things that you can smash into… a submarine? … Oh wait, I see three fellas…”

“I will be
damned…” echoed Blow Jobbs.

Three men,
one portly and two younger seemed to be climbing out of the submarine’s bridge.

“Oh god…
Blow, it’s them sailor boys… the sailors are escaping the submarine. You think it’s
nuclear powered?”

“Wait,
wait… Lenny can you zoom in on that fatty… really?” Blow gave a finger to his
producer in the studio, “fine… portly gentleman… the one who is slipping… right
there…right there…”

“He is even
wearing a tie. In fact all three are wearing a tie… its blue… white… and red…”

“It’s even
got stars… fuck… that tie… its American… they are American sailors… shit… which
means the sub is American… to our viewers tuning in, an American jet has just
rammed into an American submarine…”

“Blow,
Blow… hold your horses… that’s no sailor boy. That’s a friggin pilot. A captain
perhaps… his copilot and first officer… and that’s definitely airplane dress
not submarine dress. Big Boeings require three guys in the cockpit…”

“The
pilots? Wow… I just can’t believe this… oh Jizzer, I just got confirmation from
my producer…”

“About
what?”

“Liberty
Air… the tie patterns, the shirt color, the lapels - they are all Liberty Air,
a Baltimore based chartered carrier.”

“Sons of
bitches survived THAT?”

“See,
that’s why you gotta wear seatbelts.”

The three
pilots slid off the smooth sub into the Havana Bay like tourists at a wave
pool.

Meanwhile
the Big Boeing’s jet fuel continued to gush, which the Havana heat transformed
into a combustible vapor cloud. All it needed was a sweet spark.

“Blow, I
think it’s time to address the 600 pound burrito…”

“You mean
the delegates… the occupants of the jet?”

“Yes,
Blow. It’s been about five minutes since the jet stopped moving, and so far there
has been no signs of life.”

“*Bleep*
the Cuban EMTs, but what about their Republican Guard. Why aren’t they
attempting a rescue?”

“No sign
of them either, Blow.”

Suddenly
there was movement within the jet.

“Jizzer
look… a survivor.”

Jizzer
asked, “What, where?”

The camera
panned wildly searching for some action.

“Lenny you
are already there man. Focus on the back door.”

A guy in
an expensive suit appeared at the aircraft’s rear door. After scanning the deserted
tarmac, he retreated back into the cabin.

“Did we
get a look?” asked Jizzer.

“Grainy
but my producer says it’s enough to get a match.”

A few
seconds later, the aircraft’s evacuation slide unfurled like a nasty tongue.

“Blow,
look at that… he seems to be coming out.”

The dude
in the expensive suit slid out of the aircraft. Once on the ground he stood up
and dusted himself.

Jizzer
hooted and tried to call out to his countryman, “Sir… Sir… here…”

“Donald
Rutherford? … Ok… Jizzer, he is Donald…”

“Rutherford?
The owner of LA Lobsters?”

“Not
anymore. But yep. That’s our guy.”

Donald
Rutherford continued to stand under the fuselage.

“Why isn’t
he running away?”

“Guess he is
waiting for his fellow survivors, Jizzer… oh wait… what is he doing? Whats that
in his right hand? Lenny can you zoom in?”

Rutherford, the former owner of the LA Lobsters took
something out of his trousers. It gleamed in the Havana sun.

“That’s a switchblade,
Blow,” whispered Jizzer. The former LA Lobsters owner held a switchblade.

Jizzer
yelled, “Mr. Rutherford… get away from the aircraft…”

In a
violent spasm, Donald Rutherford began hacking away at the inflated slide. The
shredded slide deflated in 3 seconds flat.

“Jesus
man. Did you see that?” asked Jizzer.

“Yes,”
cried Blow Jobbs, “And it’s all live… a cocktail of Super bowl, Christmas,
Thanksgiving and the 4
^th
July. … God this is epic...”

Not
content with deflating the evac slide, Mr. Rutherford completely severed it
from the aircraft.

“Whats the
*bleep* is wrong with him? There could be more survivors in there?”

“You might
get a Peabody or something for this...” Blow Jobbs was thinking beyond the
obvious.

“That
maniac is trying to rip off the chute…”

“Me…? I am
fine with a simple Emmy… even a daytime Emmy would do…” Blow was lost.

Jizzer
continued his astute commentary, “Blow look, there is someone else… at the
doorway.”

Sure
enough, a spindly guy peeped out.

“I have
seen this guy somewhere… shoot… is that the League Commissioner?”

Donald
Rutherford hacked off the last strands of fiber connecting the chute to the
aircraft. The shredded remains of the evac slide hung five stories off the
ground.

“Wait, Rutherford
is saying something to the Commissioner…”

“Nope.
Just gesturing.”

“Gesturing?
Lenny can you zoom in… oh boy… he is giving him the finger.”

“Ladies
and gentlemen, Donald Rutherford the deranged former owner of the LA Lobsters
just flipped off the Commissioner.”

“Yeah, but
that’s not the Commissioner’s main problem right now.”

“Obviously
Jizzer. Obviously.”

Done with
his gestures and bleeps, Donald Rutherford spun on his heel and started walking
away.

“Oh no…”

Donald
Rutherford was ten feet away.

…

…

Twenty
feet away.

The
Commissioner sat down on the aircraft’s floor with his legs dangling.

…

…

Thirty
feet.

Forty
Feet.

…

…

The thirty
banksters reached the aircraft’s rear door. Realizing they were fifty feet up
without any options, they began to form a human centipede with the Commissioner
on top.

Fifty
feet.

Sixty
feet.

…

…

Someone
slipped. Twenty guys splattered on the tarmac.

Ninety
feet.

Donald
Rutherford, took out Cuban cigar.

One
hundred feet.

He lit the
cigar with his lighter.

The pool
of jet fuel ended right about there.

Donald
Rutherford stylishly flicked back his cigar.

Donald
Rutherford got into a dirty Nissan pickup and drove away.

A posse of
satellites that happened to be whizzing by, caught the whole thing on tape. Technically,
the American
Cleveland
, Russian
Koba
and North Korean
Sweetboy
caught it. The Chinese
Miao
pirated it.

Langley, VA / Trondheim,
Norway

Back at
his apartment, Jim Borland couldn’t believe his eyes. He was watching the live
telecast of the Havana landings. As the old man drove away, the Big Boeing
exploded in a massive fireball. Orange. Black. More orange. Then some black. A
tinge of grey. More black…

Calamity
News
reporter, Jack Jizzer
and his cameraman were still on scene and broadcasting. “Blow… it’s very hot… I
mean very, very hot… also I can’t hear a thing…”

“Lenny, we
don’t need Jizzer anymore. Just focus on the burning wreckage ok,” commanded
Blow Jobbs. The live feed out of Havana bobbed its consent.

Jim Borland
hit a button on his laptop.

“Langley…
I swear to god… I don’t know how this happened…” started the voice from
Trondheim.

“What the
fuck man… I mean I don’t even care about the collision or the explosion, but...”

“We
apologize Langley.” said Trondheim.

“Do you
know anything about marketing or advertising?”

“Mm
probably not… not as much as you do anyway.”

“This was
a once in a lifetime… a once in a millennium advertising op.”

“We know.”

“Do you
know how many guys it takes to paint a Los Angeles Class sub?”

“A lot?”

“
Yellow.
White. Green. The green… was the hardest
.”

“Maybe Quiznos
paid off the Russians.”

“Child
please… how much does the Russian Yasen class weigh?”

“We ran
the numbers, a fully fitted Yasen runs at 9000 tons.”

“And how
much does the Los Angeles class weigh?”

“7000
tons.”

“But the
USS
Bellingham
was stripped bare. 5,500 tops. So fucking tell me how does your
balloon… engineered to lift 5,500 tons hurl up a 9000 ton sub all the way out
of the water. Talk about over compensation here…”

“You know
what Langley, our primary worksite is in the Barents, where unlike Havana Bay the
water is cold… you know how it is… lower temperature… less pressure… volume…
entropy…”