Captain Deschamps Depardieu looked ahead gallantly.
Vladivostok, Russia
The cloud engulfing their hill suddenly evaporated and exposed the dazzling sun. Their sunrise often beat Hokkaido by 3 minutes.
Primakov and Korlov however were hooked to their gadgets. From the looks of it, everything was on schedule. Everybody was accounted for and in place. Every aspect of their prep had gone right. Every contingency had been accounted for. It was an odd feeling.
Right there, right then Primakov realized that he was experiencing something extraordinary. A Russian efficiency. Well oiled, well equipped, well planned — Russian efficiency. He played with those words in his mind and felt a tingle. Russian efficiency. During their heyday the KGB planners… his predecessors had probably felt the same.
“Tran Boi Nguyen and his convoy just exited the Hilton,” cackled their local asset, Masaki in Sasebo City, Japan.
“Can we trust this Masaki guy? His dossier says this is his first job,” queried Korlov.
“I wouldn’t worry. He is just a favor,” informed Primakov.
Korlov and Primakov had been eagerly waiting for the Vietnamese delegation. Intelligence reports from the Atlantic confirmed that their Mistral, the Sevastopol had just been Red October-ed by the Americans. The French Ambassador to Moscow had voluntarily turned up at the Kremlin and informed that the ship had gone missing during a ‘training incident’. Apparently the brave Russian officers had sunk with the ship and the young sailors had been rescued.
Zero imagination. Zero.
“Favor? He isn’t in it for the money? What a creep.”
“Samurai Squad, that Vietcong and his buddies just got out of the Hilton. Be ready to pounce in six minutes.”
“Copy that Team Leader,” came the response from Spetsnaz’ Samurai Squad. It consisted of Russian dudes with Asian blood. Today their mission was to impersonate the Vietnamese convoy and ultimately pull off a Jack Sparrow style heist.
“I suppose he reads manga. But he’s not a creep. He has been vetted by both sides.”
“Both sides?” asked Korlov.
“Well, the Japanese are returning the favor. Masaki is their guy, he just doesn’t know it himself.”
“Favor for the cocaine train?”
“Yep.”
“Aren’t the Japanese like snuggle buddies with the Americans? At some point the Americans are going to stay enough is enough.”
“Yeah, but they are beginning to tire of capitalism. Or maybe they want to open a new Toyota factory in Detroit. This is all probably just some bargaining chip…”
“Mhhmm. Sneaky little fucks… boss the USS Green Bay is in position.”
“They are sticking to the route,” said Masaki who had been following the Vietnamese convoy on his unisex motorbike.
“Samurai team… two minutes.”
“Rodger that.”
Maria the Vladivostok office manager stumbled into Primakov’s command center.
“The fuck woman…? We are in the middle of something here. Get out.”
“Kremlin on Line 9, you little shits,” replied Maria. It was her 29th year as a secretary at the Vladivostok office.
“Fuck.” The clock was winding down. Primakov picked up Line 9.
It was the President. “Primakov this is Petrova. I need you to abort.”
“Fuck. Right now? Are you sure Madam?”
“Just do it.”
Primakov signaled Korlov to kill the mission. Weeks of prep down the drain. Russian efficiency…
“ABORT. ABORT…. Samurai Squad stand down!”
“…” static and indecipherable swearing gushed back from Sasebo.
“Masaki I want you to stop too. Right now.”
“Samurai squad… do you copy?”
“….”
“I have stopped. Stopped following,” replied Masaki.
“Good job. Now go get yourself a burger at the nearest McD. That will be all for today, Masaki.”
“Samurai squad…stand down…”
“Base, this is Samurai team leader. Mission Aborted.”
“Madam we just stopped it… But the Vietnamese general is on his way to the base.”
“Great,” said the Russian President, “I want you to go up to Magadan immediately. A navy jet is going to take you there.”
“Magadan? NOOO. Not the Gulag. I was just following orders… Madam…”
“Primakov, will you listen for a sec.”
“At least give us Vorkuta not Magadaaaaan…”
Korlov hissed, “Boss, try for something in Moscow’s suburbs.”
“Relax… a French Navy Mistral, named Dickmude has gone missing in the Sea of Okhotsk.”
Primakov “What now… wait… whaat?”
“The French ambassador made a second unscheduled visit to the Kremlin. Says the ship might have hit an ice berg or something. Apparently it has vanished from Japanese radars. They want our help in the rescue.”
“But there was only one Mistral in the vicinity… and it was the one we were about to steal… Jack Sparrow style…”
Primakov was in despair. First the gulag and now this. Aircraft carriers couldn’t go missing. But… but the Americans didn’t even have another good naval movie. Hunt for Red October was it… It just didn’t add up.
The President interrupted his inner monologue, “That French ship was captained by a dude named Depardieu. Ring a bell?”
“Depardieu… Depardieu…,” Primakov mouthed a do you know wtf the crazy cat lady is talking about to Korlov.
Korlov did a quick search on Yandex.com, “Fat French actor defected to Russia. Apparently for tax evasion,” whispered Korlov. That did ring a bell.
“Damn. Depardieu. I remember. Phony guy who I believe is now a guest of our Federation…”
“Holds the same rank as Snowden….,” whispered Korlov.
“Yep. Apparently Capitaine Depardieu… captain of the missing Mistral — Dixmude is the fourth cousin of Fat Depardieu’s third wife…. Also he is Corsican.”
“Oh… shit… oh… shit… Oh shit…” Primakov sensed something.
President Petrova continued, “Had a very interesting call from one of our Akula sub’s captain. Semyonovich, says he is tracking a quiet ship and it just pulled a Crazy Anelka….”
“On the starboard side?”
“Yes. On the starboard side.”
Primakov was jubilant. “Told you. They all have that one good movie… Total Lack of Imagination… sympathizing with his uncle… pissed off at the egalite liberte horse shit… his own Hunt for Red October…”
The Russian President signed off.
“….and apparently a Ramius fetish…,” interjected Korlov.
“And a Ramius fetish… yeah Lithuanian to Corsican… is like red apples to green apples….”
“Boss, Corsicans are the Lithuanians of France?” asked Korlov.
“Ah… maybe more like Chechens… but whatever…”
“I see.”
“Then again, Corsica could be more like Georgia.”
“Georgia — America or Soviet?”
“Soviet. Duh.”
“Boss, but Corsica is an island… which means Crimea could be the Corsica of Ukraine.”
“Yeah but Crimea isn’t Ukraine anymore. It’s Russian, just like Abkhazia, Transnistria and Kaliningrad.”
“So Crimea is the Corsica of Russia?”
“No. Crime is just Crimea.”