Gong actually took out a small notepad and began scribbling his brain fart. He made a big show of his ballpoint pen not working and jerked it around for a while. It took him 45 to get it all down. Luckily, by then, some sort of sanity had returned to the Premier’s office.
The Premier motioned the interns to get out.
“Ok so what’s the Russian motive here? Why are they suddenly cuddling with the Japanese and Germans? Who, right now are threatening a new set of sanctions against Russia?”
“Well it’s a classic cry for help,” replied the smug Hu Gong.
“So you are certified physiologist now? First with the love theory and now this… I think I need a drink.” Premier Xiannian opened his bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of Maker’s Mark and two glasses.
Gong began, “Don’t you see, we shouldn’t have voted against them on Ukraine… Crimea.”
“But we didn’t. We abstained at the UN vote.”
“Exactly. What do you think, ‘you are either a friend of the Federation or not’ means? Plus that gas pipeline.”
“But we can’t just sit down and take this Russian shit. I will look weak to the Politburo. We need to retaliate.”
“I know, I know. I found something from Anna Petrova’s past in Volgograd.”
“What?”
“Pictures.”
“Huh?”
“Oooh yeah. Trust me, they are not shots of her saluting the Mamayev Kurgan.”
“Mama what? Wait is that code for dirty pictures? Come on Hu…”
“No Premier, not dirty pictures. I will let you know when my team has developed this ‘initiative’ into something potent…”
“Just spill it right now, I am your boss,” pleaded Premier Xiannian.
“Sure whatever. I thought you wanted probable deniability when it came to the operations of MSS. You know if something went wrong?”
The Chinese Premier sighed.
“Trust me…the moment I have something concrete, you will know… here have another drink.”
The premier gulped down the smooth liquid as Gong refilled his glass.
Chapter 7
NATO, Brussels
Before the Crimean rapture, everything had been dainty in Europe. Things had been so dainty, that the French had agreed to sell aircraft carriers to the Russian Navy. Super dainty.
And then Crimea had happened.
Not willing to arm Russia with anything from the 21st century, the French had followed NATO’s aka America’s orders and suspended the sale of the Mistral ships.
As everything was fair in war, both sides had agreed to let the matter slide — at least for the time being. But despite such assurances, everyone knew something was bound to happen sooner or later… one way or the other.
The first Mistral ship, the Vladivostok was undergoing live trials with Russian sailors and the second ship, ironically named Sevastopol, was 80% done. The boats were moored at the docks of Saint-Nazaire, in western France. Saint-Nazaire itself was on the Atlantic Coast, far away from Russian infested waters.
Gathered at NATO headquarters, were Lefebvre the French rep to NATO, Doug Sanders the American rep, a Jean Bernard from DGSE — the French Intelligence and the NATO Secretary, Norwegian Torgeir Larsen.
“Obviously a Spetsnaz black ops?” said Richard Lefebvre.
Everyone nodded in agreement. Despite the Russians backing off, everyone knew that some kooky Russian analyst was cooking up a scheme as they spoke, to abduct the Mistrals.
Irrespective of the effectiveness of the Spetsnaz, the French still felt good about protecting the ships. Despite being completed, the Vladivostok and Sevastopol weren’t like an Audi or a Camry, where one could just hotwire it, gas it and drive it into a sunset.
Even if the Russians did manage to get them out of the harbor, there was always the French Navy, the US Atlantic Fleet and a zillion other hostile air aircraft. Without armor, weapons or communications, the chances of a Russian breakout seemed bleak.
“Unless you guys take the ships out into the sea… for training… we can cross that one out,” noted Torgeir Larsen.
“Oui. Obviously we have stopped all excursions,” agreed Lefebvre.
Torgeir Larsen unsure about the presence of the DGSE Intelligence guy, prodded “So Jean, you have anything to add?”
“Well, we have been keeping tabs on the sailors’ quarters. Monitoring calls, movements that sort of thing. Nothing so far. The other thing we are monitoring is new house rentals or purchases by anyone sounding Russian, Ukrainian or Belarusian. Nothing there either. Overall we feel good about the ships. That’s all I got.”
“Ok, now that we know the Russians aren’t stealing it, what do we do with the ships?” the NATO General Secretary, tried to move the meeting forward.
“Obviously we could sell them off to some neutral or allied country.”
The American Sanders finally spoke, “But why even return the money to Russia. Let them roil over it. I don’t give a flying fuck.” Sanders returned to the delicious croissants.
“Yes Doug, that’s what we all want. But we still need to explore the possibilities… right?” said Torgeir the Norwegian.
“Hmmm. Ok, so why can’t you Frenchies, just induct these boats into your own navy? All you would have to do is rewrite the Cyrillic crap with oui and non, oui?” observed Sanders.
American Doug Sanders owned these types of meetings in Brussels as NATO equaled United States plus token contributions from limeys, frenchies, krauts, micks and the ones that got voted in each year.
“Non, Monsieur. The French public doesn’t like weapons or wars. They think our 4 Mistrals are more than enough.”
“Jeez alright, alright. Once again we have to save your soft, untanned asses.”
“Oui.”
Doug Sanders preened, “Before this super productive meeting, I had a word with NATO’s Supreme Allied Commander. He had a few mind blowing suggestions.”
“Oui?” said one of the Frenchmen. The Norwegian had given up.
“Well, we obviously can’t sell your wine cooler to Brazil, China or India. Apparently they are in a freaky four way called BRICS with Russia. That just leaves…”
“Non, Monsieur it’s a five way.”
“Ah, you dirty Euros, always pushing the limits…” Sanders tried to high five Lefebvre.
“Non. Monsieur… BRICS is BRIC plus S, where S is South Africa.”
“Thanks for the lesson, Frenchie. Yeah, I guess they are out too.”
“Oui, Monsieur,” replied Jean.
“So, where was I, ya that leaves what… the Saudis, Australians and maybe the Israelis? But then again, those guys are going to want to refit and retrofit the shit out of the boats. We want none of that. It has to be quick and easy. Plus we don’t feel real comfy about putting boats into the Middle East.”
“Oui. But so what is le solution, Monsieur?”
“Are you suggesting we wreck billions of euros worth of ship?” Larsen the Norwegian tried again.
“Easy fellas. The allied commander says I get to choose what happens to the ships. See I’m married to his third daughter… so… mmm, wish I had seen the second daughter first you know, the BMIs on that chick are off the charts man…”
“I see… wait does it mean she is so fat and her stats are off the charts or… off the charts in a good way… English is confusing?” said DGSE Jean.