During secret congressional hearings, the CIA had vehemently defended its
“Absolutely, totally good. And don’t worry, I will do my psych eval tomorrow.”
“Well okay Jim… welcome back…”
“Hit me with Russia…”
“The Russians just ordered a million barrels of
“
“Yep.”
“Well, EU trade embargoes ban the sale of the German
“That’s not the point… Russia has never had a mosquito problem. This ain’t Wisconsin…”
Jim snapped his fingers, “Siberian mosquitoes. Global warming. Hotter climate. Every day more and more mosquitos are migrating to Moscow. Bet they latch onto the Trans-Siberian trains… I know I would.”
Perhaps they should have waited till the psych eval.
“Ok, what about the Russo-African summit in Kaliningrad?”
“Konigsberg, the Russian exclave? Pretty obvious isn’t it. It’s like what, 10 miles from Berlin? Rankles the EU. Plays the whole bear at your doorstep card…”
“Ok… what about the Tu-420s? They have scheduled a test flight in two weeks… that secret ICBM plane…”
“You sure?”
“Yep… my esteemed NATO counterpart from Lithuania…” began Doug.
“Flight path?”
“Nothing specific. It says it will fly from Komsomolsk to Moscow.”
“Don’t worry about it. If it’s supersonic it won’t get beyond Moscow. If it does, our ICBMs go off.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. We have silos in Vilnius, Riga and Tallinn on top of the traditional ones in Berlin, Gibraltar and Malta… and that’s just our first line.”
“We have ICBMs in the Baltics?”
“Oh yeah. Funny thing is the missiles, silos, etc. are all Soviet. We just sent in a few mainframe programmers and tweaked their destination coordinates.”
“And the Russians know all this?”
“Oooh yeah… the programmers were Russian… lolz.”
Primakov was in a grand looking room from the Tsarist era. He was seated at the head of an ornate 30ft table that carbon dated back to the good years of Catherine the Great. Historic events like coups, assassinations, wars, revolutions and invasions usually started here. The last major decision in the room had been the approval of Moscow’s first ever McDonald’s in 1989. Since then, Yeltsin and his dapper successors had abandoned the great tradition in favor of a conference room at the Moscow Hilton. ‘The commute is easier da?’
But all that changed today, as they were back at the proverbial situation room, starting something beyond imaginable. For some reason each of the ten seats at the table had a big swiveling model globe.
Primakov cleared his throat and said, “Let’s go.”
Korlov his lieutenant, activated the massive wall mounted screens. Adjacent to the screens, 10ft high portraits of Catherine the Great, Peter the Great and Ivan the Terrible stared down in revulsion. Lenin’s portrait suggested that, he had never really given a fuck. Stalin however seemed eager.
One by one, the three 100inch screens came alive. The first one showed a harried Mueller. He was conducting his last minute checks in a hassled fashion somewhere deep under Krasnoyarsk in underground Russia. 70 years later they were ready to think beyond the nuke with
The second screen showed the forty three software guys who had developed the new Albatross landing software. Out at the Krasnoyarsk base, they were waiting expectantly for the airshow to begin.
The third 100in screen showed a skinny yet sharp looking aircraft surrounded by an army of support vehicles. The Tupolev Tu-420 was being readied for its maiden flight. The countdown timer beeped at the 10 minute mark.
Primakov turned to Korlov and said, “Fax it.”
“Faxing… it…” replied Korlov as he stuffed the Tu-420’s flight plans into the fax machine. The plan informed the American FAA of the intended route between Komsomolsk-on-Amur and Moscow’s Vnukovo airport.
“Make sure you cc the NTSB as well as that crack house in Brussels.”
The fax machine blared its old tune.
“Boss, you can’t cc someone in fax… at least not in this machine here… you just gotta send it again and again.”
Primakov looked up quizzically from the globe on his lap.
“Never mind Boss, I got it. EU, NTSB…”
“And don’t forget Langley.”
President Anna Petrova stormed into the situation room still arguing with her generals. Other than Foreign Minister Luzkhov, everyone seemed upset. The guy most upset was the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces, Boris Antipin.
“Madam I need to see what this Mueller guy is doing. I just can’t believe you fell for this… American plot.”
“There is no American plot, Boris,” said Anna Petrova as she gestured her generals to be seated, “they are only interested in proxies and sanctions.”
“But Madam President, even if this
