“Well then don’t come crying to us when the Serbs or Somalis shoot one down and you have to go rescue Owen Wilson, ok? But seriously they inject bitumen up the ass…”
Sarah McAllister had heard enough. “Owen Wilson or not, I gotta go with Doug. We have to send the F-35s. Plus I don’t think the Russian intellect has degraded to the point where they believe they can hit the Lightnings twice.”
“But we still need to address this Russian aggression…”
Jim Borland shook his head in resignation, “We should send the Raptors instead… now those things can take care of themselves…”
“We aren’t allowed to sell them, even if we were, that assembly line is history… it’s at the Smithsonian.”
“No, no just to send a message… that we are psychos… or superior badasses…”
“Ya, your F-35s get attacked and to prove they are fine, you send F-22s, makes complete sense…”
“In my world it does. At the CIA it makes double absolute sense.”
“We need to prove the F-35s are fine. No Raptors. End of discussion.”
Jim Borland pouted, “Fine.”
“Like you said, Offense. A covert Offensive push. The Russians have been pulling these crazy stunts all year. I think it’s time we did something ourselves.”
“Black ops style?”
“Yep. Joint NATO mischief.”
“Eww NATO? Fuck the Europeans.”
“I wish I could.”
“Will they cooperate, I mean they have all these currencies and treaties and gay kings…?”
“Absolutely. Norway as you know,” smirked Sarah, “is shit scared like its 1940. Sweden is shitting bricks like its 1941…”
Jim Borland said, “That’s not saying much. One leased out wombs to Nazis while the other remained ‘neutral’… Swedes are like the dumber version of Swiss…”
“And Finland too… they believe it’s going to be 1939 all over again,” continued Sarah.
Doug was lost, “Is that supposed to be a big deal?”
“The Finns did manage to repulse Stalin… so yeah.”
Doug was still lost, “Wait. The Finns fought Stalin? Wasn’t Stalin bff with FDR and Churchy?”
“Yeah… the Finns were sort of allied with Hitler… just for a bit… and kinda responsible for the siege of Leningrad.”
Doug lost his shit, “WTF? Leningrad? The second greatest battle of survival only-topped-by-the-meat-grinder-at-Stalingrad? That Leningrad? And you are telling me that the Finns were responsible for that?”
“Yeah… had something to do with those cuckservatives, Molotov and Ribbentrop. But trust me the Finns had their hearts in the right place… probably. And in their defense, they were stuck between the two massive butt cheeks of Hitler and Stalin. They had to crawl into an asshole to save themselves. Look at what happened to Poland. I give the Finns a pass.”
“Ya, it’s gets a little fuzzy,” said Jim.
“Well fuzz my ass,” scowled Doug Sanders.
Sarah tried to restore sanity, “Doug, this was during WW2. They are totally fine these days, just like Germany and Austria and Japan.”
Doug pondered for a while before surrendering to the vagaries of American foreign policy, “Yeah, I suppose the Germans turned out fine.”
“There you go buddy.”
“But still can’t believe the Finns were part of the Solution.”
Sarah pulled her ace, “Ok. Tell me something… if the Finns weren’t serious, why in the hell would they offer us Rovio?”
“What in the hell is a rovio? Is it a new designer drug?”
“Sweet Shiva… Rovio Studios… makers of Angry Birds…”
“Angry Birds? Wow, the one where the pigs breed with the birds?”
“Yep, that’s the one. Rovio is a Finnish company and accounts for like 17 % of their GDP.”
“And they want to give it to us? The United States?”
“Technically they want to relocate to Palo Alto, but essentially yes.”
“Holy Krampus! Those Finns aren’t kidding I guess…”
“Yes. So we good? We are all on the same page now?”
“Yes.”
Before signing off the trio of Civil Servants hashed out a plan to out-clown the Russians.
“I say we hit something weird, like Svalbard. I know it’s under Norwegian control but historically…” suggested Jim.
“Nope. I am thinking
“
“Ever saw the
Primakov felt distinctly uncomfortable leaning over the secretary’s IKEA desk. It seemed to have been designed with one intent… to rear end someone. Consensually or not, was a question he wanted to pose to the Swedish Embassy. But before the Swedes got the better of him, the trim secretary called him up.
“Comrade, the President will see you now.”
“Spasibo.”
As Primakov entered the office, President Petrova swiveled away from the
“They are into the sixth hour of Russobating,” the President said.
“Reruns or live?”
“Reruns.”
The President moved on to the
“Madam, have you seen
“Surf?”
“Choppy.”
“Visibility?”
“Shitty.”
