Moscow Machination Read online

  Moscow Machination

  Ian Maxwell

  Copyright © 2015 Ian Maxwell

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the nukes that keep us safe

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Afterword

  Chapter 1

  Shenzhen, Southern China

  The sleek, black train rushed out of Shenzhen Station just like any other CSR train. The train, the CRH400A was on its third voyage from Shenzhen to Beijing via other speed worthy clusters. Six days ago on its maiden voyage, there had been a bevy of party officials and media types doing their thing. But today was different. Today was all about routine. All about that vaunted Chinese efficiency.

  However the CRH400A, unlike the other trains, was indigenously built, using indigenous corporations, indigenous labor, indigenous materials and critically, indigenous technologies.

  Ever since the inception of its high speed rail program, Beijing had been at the mercy of its international partners – Germany and Japan. Initially, the program had had inputs from several European nations as well as Japan. However, over time, the Japanese and Germans - duh, through sheer innovation had snuffed out the competition. Technical aspects of this innovation had come down to Macau, Politburo Members and some skanky Audis.

  Miffed at the turn of events, the other nations had come up with sweeteners and concessions of their own. But despite their best efforts, only the Canadians had got the nod.

  “Mais pourquoi??” the French Ambassador had wailed, “But why??”

  “Monsieur, the Canadians, they understand us better. They gave us what we really want…” the Chinese Minister had replied.

  “Qu’Est-ce que c’est… what is it?”

  “Vancouver.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, they gave us the entire City of Vancouver… and we looove Vancouver. We really do…”

  Thus the Germans, Japanese and Canadians had ended up as the ‘preferred tech partners’ of the Chinese high speed rail effort.

  But unlike the trains based on foreign technology, this, the CRH400A was China’s baby. With a cruising speed of 400Km/hr the homegrown CRH400A was four percent faster than the French TGV, three percent lighter than the Japanese Shinkansen and five percent cheaper than anything out of Bavaria. This transformational leap in performance had been achieved by adding a super-secret sauce. Beijing called it legal experimentation with partner technologies.

  The Germans and Japanese called it theft. The duo even hired historians to prove that this theft of IP was the largest heist in history – bigger than the Amber Room, better than the great train robbery, slicker than a Ponzi scheme. In the end, only the fear of getting shut out of the burgeoning Chinese economy had forced the partners to let it slide.

  Of course all that had changed, once Beijing began pitching its train sets against the Shinkansen for international contracts. The twin losses of Mexico and Indonesia to the CRH400A had been the final straw.

  After thinking long over Sake and hard under an Ethiopian beauty, the Japanese Foreign Minister, Yoshi Yamazaki had decided to go kamikaze. It was time to put an end to this Chinese adventurism. Time to end the decades of Japanese slumber. Time to go kamikaze again. The Japanese Foreign Minister had then drunk texted his German counterpart, “Let’s get even.”

  At 6.15AM, Viktor Volokov pulled the black Audi A6 to the road’s shoulder. He double checked his odometer and looked out for the markings on the chain link fence protecting the high speed track. Volokov hit the boot release button as his partner Marko jumped out and headed to the trunk. Volokov killed the engine.

  Driving a Made in China automobile, Volokov and Marko were dressed in black suits, ties and shoes – again, all Made in China. Their aim was to impart to the causal Chinese observer that they were Party people. Probably provincial, but still bad Party people.

  Pyotr Primakov their mission planner, up in Moscow, had surmised that no one would have the rank to question a black Audi A6 squat in the middle of Guangdong’s industrial belt.

  The Shenzhen – Guangzhou high speed line sliced through gigantic manufacturing facilities on either side. On the west were the automakers while the east was filled with undergarment makers.

  Primakov, during his research, had become enamored with a certain factory that was about to produce the world’s first smart-underwear. Apparently it made everything fly-by-wire down under. No moving parts. Airbus vs Boeing all over again. Primakov had wondered if it would carry a ‘Designed in California. Assembled in China’ tag at the crack.

  Presently, the roads were largely deserted as the midnight shift was still due for a few more hours.

  Volokov and Marko pulled out a pair of pliers and got to work on the chain link fence. Two days ago they had picked the spot and pre-cut the fence. Today they just had to make sure they found the pre-cut spot again. They had marked the location first with the Audi’s odometer and as a backup, splashed the scene with red insulation tape. With little exertion, they bent out the pre-cut fence to create an opening that measured 4sqft.

  The train with the stolen IP was due in twenty minutes.

  Volokov unspooled a steel cable of two millimeters diameter. Handing one end to Marko he pointed him to go north. Unlike everything around them, the steel cable wasn’t ‘Made in China’. It came from good old Magnitogorsk. Totally Russian.

  After unspooling about a hundred meters of cable, Marko suddenly began running back. Volokov panicked and looked behind for the murmuring train. According to its manuals the CRH400A generated just 20 decibels, about 90% quieter than the Acela Express. Fortunately for Volokov, there was no train.

  Volokov turned back to the scrambling Marko and shouted “Nyet, what are you doing?”

  “Noose mechanism… still in the car,” yelled back Marko.

  “Fuck.” Volokov slapped his forehead, “How could you forget it?”

  Marko shrugged and threw up his arms.

  “Jeez. Just go get it then.”

  Marko hurried out the fence, back to the Audi. As he arrived, he realized that the trunk was locked and waved back at Volokov, who fumbled and dropped the key onto the tracks be
fore, eventually retrieving it and hitting the right button.

  The cluster fuck known as post-Soviet Russia’s contributions to the world were: a) Russian mafia, b) Stunning apocalyptic scenery c) Blonde bombshells and d) Inept Special Forces.

  One such inept unit based out of Moscow was the SVR-SB, where the SB stood for Sneg Barusk or the Snow Badger. Some four star general had come up with the name after catching Rob Schneider’s Animal at a Moscow cinema. He had thought it was hilarious. 21st century Perestroika and Glasnost were fun times.

  Unlike the feared Spetsnaz or the GRU, the SVR-SB was a bit lower on the totem pole of Russia’s guardian agencies. It ranked somewhere above the Armenian-Babushka Mafia and below the provincial, Chelyabinsk PD. This latest iteration of the SVR-SB had Primakov as the brains and the duo of Volokov-Marko as its brawns.

  While not being that good would have spelt doom for most special units, the SVR-SB thrived in its role as a ‘fearless trier’ and a gracious ‘fall guy’. Realizing the potential, the new Russian leadership had begun assigning the SVR-SB to ‘half-assed’ ops which unlike regular ops didn’t really depend on the outcome but rather on the effort – both real and perceived.

  And for some reason, the Japanese Foreign Minister Yoshi Yamazaki, wanted exactly half an ass… half an ass of the Chinese rail industry.

  Marko rummaged around the boot of the Audi and emerged back with two tiny palm sized steel boxes. Handing Volokov one of the boxes, Marko resumed his run. At the 150 meter mark, he knelt to track level and placed the steel box on the inside of the eastern track. He then attached the steel cable to it. Volokov did the same to the western track. After checking the tension on the cable, the SVR-SB men exited to their Audi.

  The steel cable thus connected the two adjacent train tracks diagonally over a span of 150 meters. The eastern track was used for southbound traffic into Shenzhen while the other handled northbound traffic out of Shenzhen to Guangzhou.

  Six minutes away, the CRH400A rushed towards the little steel box at 400Km/hr. On the other track the CRH300, a 3rd Generation Canadian, approached its little steel box at 280 Km/hr.

  Marko thumbed his phone, as Volokov floored the Audi.

  Chapter 2

  Moscow

  Pyotr Primakov peeped over the massive shoulders of the SVR satellite guy, Babichev. They were examining the live satellite imagery coming out of Southern China. This ‘new’ capability had been restored after the launch of their state of the art satellite, Koba.

  An eager analyst at the fall of Communism, Pyotr Primakov had been jerked around for two decades at various backwater postings all over Russia. So when an ‘elite’ unit from Moscow had come knocking, he had jumped blindly.

  However, in the ensuing six months, his Moscow dreams had crumpled like a reversing mushroom cloud. He had realized that the SVR-SB had no authority, no funds, Peter da Great era equipment, terrible recruits and a knack of being at the wrong place at the wrong time… by design.

  Still, at least he was in Moscow, not on the outskirts of Magadan spying on some Uzbek laborer levelling a pothole on the Road of Bones.

  The SVR Officer, Boris Babichev couldn’t keep a straight face as Marko and Volokov fumbled with their tasks. It was 1AM in Moscow and he was about to win 5Gs. He was exultant. The towering Babichev was the antithesis of the five foot five, hundred thirty pound, Primakov.

  5 large… even in roubles… was a neat sum. Could he make rent? Primakov quietly prayed to his Communist Manifesto.

  To begin with, no one had expected the South China mission to get this far. In the past, Russian ops inside China had largely been hands off affairs involving local dissidents, probably Uighurs, locally sourced weapons and perhaps a Dissidents 101 guide from Moscow.

  Primakov however, had felt that arming dissidents was akin to being passive aggressive. So blasé. No skin in the game. He wanted to try something different. Having served for long stretches in the bowels of the Federation, he had become intimately familiar with the Russia – China border crossings across Siberia. After further analysis he had opted for the remote Blagoveshchensk – Heihe crossing in the Far East. Primakov during his tours, had noticed that the babushkas crossing into China were rarely frisked. However, convincing Marko and Volokov on the upsides of cross dressing had been a bit challenging.

  When Marko had ran back to pick up the steel box, Officer Babichev was certain he had won the 5Gs. He half expected the goons to get crushed by the trains. That right there was a parlay for another two thousand roubles.

  But as insane as it seemed, Marko and Volokov had successfully placed the pieces in the right place. When Marko had thumbed his phone, Babichev had gone nuts.

  “Da, da, da!!!” giggled Primakov.

  “Did your clowns just complete their mission? WTF,” Babichev snarled.

  “Audi is out of the radius” intoned Primakov.

  “I know.”

  “So what are you waiting for? Activate the shit.” cried, Primakov.

  “I just can’t believe it. Those sons of….”

  A red phone rang on Babichev’s desk.

  Babichev answered. The call lasted about 0.044 seconds. It was the authorization. Babichev fuzzed over the controls and hit a blue knob.

  The two trains were already visible to the Koba satellite. One, mellow white and fast. One sleeker, blacker and faster.

  Babichev got up from his desk in disgust, grabbed Primakov by the collar and mumbled, “Next time you… creep.”

  Primakov brushed off the baboon and turned back to the unfolding madness 8000 Kms away.

  Chapter 3

  Guangdong Province, Southern China

  30 year old Zhen Zhao watched as the industrial landscape blitzed by at a rate of 400Km/hr. She wondered if she was still pretty enough. She was. She had more than enough to sustain the yellow fever epidemic sweeping the contiguous states. But her recent breakup with a co-worker had left her a nervous wreck. He, a Wang, had dumped her for a younger co-worker. Such a cliché.

  As Zhen Zhao raced northwards, Wang the dumper dude, was also screaming through Guangdong province, but unlike Zhen Zhao, he was doing an earthly 280 an hour in the other direction. Zhen Zhao and Wang were ‘pilots’ for the CSR trains. Their trysts had begun innocently when they had met at a layover in Hong Kong. And then a couple of weeks later in Kunming and then again in Beijing. It had been very laissez-faire, lot of bedtime and the occasional dumpling. And then out of the blue, Wang had ended it after falling for the young trainee. To add insult to injury he had mentioned something gross involving love.

  Zhen Zhao had already one upped the bastard by acing the certification tests to become a CRH400A pilot. Wang had failed it. Twice. Haha. But still, being the dumpee rather than the dumper hurt. So ever since the breakup, she had actively avoided Wang by volunteering for the unsexy Western routes like Xiamen, Kashgar and even Lhasa. All that sort of changed today.

  Before starting out of Shenzhen on the new CRH400A, she had checked up on Wang’s schedule. Lo and behold the Wang was heading straight at her... in a CRH300. They were scheduled to cross twenty minutes out of Shenzhen Station. The train manifest also suggested that there was a young trainee with Wang.

  As the trains headed towards each other, Zhen Zhao figured at a relative speed of 680Km/hr. and a visual range of 2 Kms, she would be spending 10.8 seconds in the presence of Wang and his shiny new girlfriend. 10.8 sec? 10.8 sec was a freakin eternity while staring at exes. Zhen Zhao pulled up the operator’s manual, a 4 incher, and proceeded to the simplified Chinese section.

  “Even on our indigenously developed trains, English, French, German and Spanish come before Chinese. What’s with that?” Zhen Zhao observed causally.

  A Datsun manufacturing facility followed by Isuzu whizzed by on the west.

  Her co-pilot Chen Chou replied, “That’s probably the order on the Shinkansen manuals.”

  Zhen Zhao ignored the comment and quickly thumbed through to the section involving speed limits.
She soon figured that the CRH400A should be quite stable up to about 440Km/hr. At 440Km/hr the relative speed went up to 720Km/hr and the time share went down from 10.8 to 10.0 seconds.

  “Eight tenths of a second? Sounds good enough…” mumbled Zhen Zhao as she began urging the throttle. Zhen Zhao’s CRH400A was already twenty minutes out of Shenzhen and was about to come face to face with the inferior Canadian Wang carrier. Zhen Zhao tensed and pushed the throttle further.

  Chen Chou her co-pilot enamored with a bootlegged copy of Angry Birds didn’t feel the slight surge in velocity. The CRH400A was real smooth.

  Connected by the ultra-strong steel cable the two little boxes lay attached to the high speed tracks. The signal from Koba the satellite, activated the boxes. The boxes were programmed to levitate and grab onto the underbelly of the trains’ first car. One of them had the scheming Zhen Zhao while the other had a smooching Mr. Wang.

  10 sec

  As the CRH300 came into view, Zhen Zhao leaned forward and tried to make out the contents of the oncoming train’s cockpit. In the slower Chinese railroads, passing train drivers often waved at each other as. Zhen Zhao had no intention of waving as she readied her finger.

  9 sec

  The little boxes, began their check thru procedures.

  8 sec

  Wang was standing at the front edge of the cockpit. Brushing the CRH300’s controls. If it was ship it would have been its bow. His trainee stood close behind him.

  7 sec

  Zhen Zhao craned her neck and squinted hard.

  6 sec

  Mr. Wang was in a bliss. This was one for the books.

  5 sec

  As a kid Zhen Zhao had seen the Titanic at a mall in Shenzhen. She had thought it was just okay. Nothing much to write about, especially since the good bits had been taken out by the Politburo.

  Unlike Zhen Zhao, 18 year old Wang and his parents had watched the Titanic in Hong Kong. And unlike Shenzhen, free Hong Kong had shown all the good bits. It had inspired him. It had inspired little Wang, inspired him to become a captain. A captain of anything that had bow on it. And here he was.