“…”
“…”
“…”
“Maybe Sardinia is the Corsica of Italy.”
“No that’s why they have Sicily…”
“…”
“…”
“Let’s just go catch that plane to Magadan.”
Chapter 27
Le Bourget, Paris
The world’s largest airshow alternated each year between the British town of Farnborough and Le Bourget in France. The who’s who of aviation turned out in full force to try and push one government’s debt to another government.
This year, the star attraction was the F-35. Sarah McAllister was caught flaunting the jet’s private parts to a bunch of robed Sheiks when Doug Sanders arrived. The robed guys, from their beard rubbing frequency, seemed to be on the fence.
Apparently, the French were throwing black Friday deals on their Mirages. The defection of their Mistral Dickmude to Russia had incensed them and they blamed it on the Americans. Strike 1.
TO add fuel to the fire, the French had learned from TMZ that the NBA star who wanted to party on the Sevastopol in Miami wasn’t LeBron. They had become annoyed. Perhaps Kobe or Dwight. Nope. Tony Parker?? Meh. Not a Frenchman… Not an active player? Retired? Mon Dieu. Could it be…? Could it be… Swoosh Jordan? OMG…? Nope. At least Shaq? Non Monsieur, “Il est Dennis Rodman.”
Now that was Strike 2 and 3 in one blow.
“Foutre Vous. Not that freak show. Non. Non,” cried the French President.
In response to this American rod move, the French had lost their collective shit and decided to heavily undercut the F-35s. Tit for tat. The head of the DGSE had cried and barfed… crarfed for hours. In a two hours ensuing the Rod insult, 18,573 ‘foutre vous’ were recorded by the DGSE’s surveillance of the French Government. The NSA counted 18,635.
Burned by the Rodman, the French had unloaded over 200 defective Mirages to Burkina Faso and Gabon.
Realizing that a few big Bs were at stake Doug Sanders dived in head long to save the F-35s.
“Honorable Highness, Enchanter of Camels, Guardian of the Double Humps, I hope my simple colleague from the State Department hasn’t bored the shit out of your entourage.”
“Pardon,” said one of the robed dudes.
“Hey Doug, nice to see you too. But srsly wtf?” shriek-whispered Sarah.
“Is there anything on the F-35 that’s better than the Raptor?” asked someone from the robed posse.
“Let me show you the $1.4 million Macchiato maker… we call it the Black Mistress…”
Forty five minutes later, the Americans had moved a dozen F-35s off the lot. Feeling exuberant, Undersecretary McAllister said, “A drink Doug? Champaign?”
“Hmmm, bet that Dassault booth has a few crates left.”
“Probably the only thing the French should be peddling.”
During the walk through the soiree, they noticed several countries trying to push their wares. Diplomats, skimpy male models, Secretaries, acrobats, CEOs , pimps, Members of Parliament, skimpy models, jugglers, jokers and even a fake Elvis were all touting the intricacies of some million dollar system.
A quick walk by the various booths reiterated several things. The Swedes had IKEAed their Grippens. Only newbies to war like Brazil, went after the pretty looking Swedish jets. Despite the desert love, the A380 was dead… and incredibly the 787 was getting assaulted both over and under by the revived A330 and the miraculous A350. Having had a fly away date of six months for the past six years, no one went near the hapless Chinese C919s. And for some reason, Bombardier’s C-Series… bravely squared off against Seattle and Toulouse… oh Canada.
Drinking out of their bottles the Doug and the Sarah came across a deserted Israeli pavilion.
“Where the hell is everybody?”
The greatest radars in existence stood unloved and untended. A solemn Ariel waved at Sarah.
“Hey Ariel, why so serious?”
“God she is hot. Who is that?” asked Doug.
“Behave.”
Ariel Katz was one of the assistants to the Israeli Defense Minister.
A sullen Ariel replied, “It’s the Russians. They have some new revolutionary radar…”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you were Is-really hot?” blurted Doug.
Sarah punched Doug’s ribs in a seemingly friendly way and said, “Doug, get outta here. Go check out the Czech pavilion. Seems they have a new Tatra vehicle to challenge our Hummer. Plus they usually have Pilsners on tap…”
A traitorous cock block. Fuck. Plus he was like married. Boohoo. Doug decided to go Czech out the Czechs. “Righto… see you… and you too… Ariel… God, is it getting hot in here or is it just you….”
“Out.”
Sarah and Ariel watched as Doug Sanders bumped and staggered around the potent Israeli radars.
“So whats the deal with this Russian radar?”
“Don’t know. The Russian Foreign Minister Luzkhov is about to make a presentation.”
“Luzkhov is back? Thought he was in a gulag.”
“Guess he was released. Presentation starts…” Ariel checked Le Bourget’s brochure, “… right about now.”
“Well. I am going to go check out the radar. You coming?”
“Nah, I am holding fort here.”
“Well see you in DC.” Sarah gave Ariel a light Israeli style peck.
“Take the other exit and just keep going all the way south. 1 mile… I think. Heard they are put up next to the sanitation plant.”
Sarah McAllister exited the Israeli pavilion from the second entrance and hurried towards the Russian pavilion. Unlike the inner areas which housed the sexy jets, the open tarmac housed the belugas — C-17s, A400s, A380s. And there was no one in sight for the next couple of miles. Just humongous planes.
She hurried as elegantly as her position allowed her to. Getting caught out of breath and frumpy was the last thing she wanted.
Half way through a Xian Y-20, a parallel lane of A380s opened up. Confused she checked her Le Bourget brochures. They were in French. Of course. Fuck. Such a French move. Eventually she found a mechanic-y looking guy dozing under the nose of an Air France A380.
The Undersecretary coughed.
The mechanic dude groggily opened his eyes, “Oui Madame?”
“Russia… Russia pavilion… Where?”
“Mercy Madame.”
“Sanitation plant… bad smell…,” she held her nose to signify stench.
The mechanic shook his head, “Mercy Madame.”
“White, blue and red flag… sil vous plait.”
“Oui Madame, Oui. Mais Mercy.”
“Fucks sake dude, Blanc — Bleu — Rouge,” she followed it up with a fluttering flag gesture.
“Oui Madame, La France,” the pumpkin flashed a proud Gallic smile.
The Russian Bleu was lighter and the flag’s stripes were the other way and there was no elegant way to explain it.
As she was about to give up on the Frenchmen, Sarah heard thumping footsteps behind her. It was Doug.
“Saraaaah. The Russians…”
“Yes I know…”
Doug was already ten feet ahead of her.
“Follow me… Luuuuzkhov began five minutes ago…”
The Undersecretary from the State Department took off her heels and ran after her American colleague. She planned to stuff the Le Bourget brochures into a Mirage’s exhaust.
Ten minutes later they rushed into the jam packed Russian hangar. Luzkhov looked different. He was prancing around in jeans, sneakers and a black turtleneck.
“…today… I give you… the Gaydar.”
Chapter 28