Moscow Machination Read Free Page B

housed about a thousand gallons of recycled urine.
    Zhen Zhao
read again. In simplified Chinese it read: ‘If in danger, Call out to your
badass supreme leader.’
    Zhen Zhao
began half-heartedly, “Steve Jobs? Oh wait… Mao? Mao… Mao?”
    On her 7 th ‘Mao’, Zhen Zhao and Chang Chou felt a massive explosion under their sweet
bottoms. Nano seconds later, so did the eight hundred other screaming
passengers on the Shenzhen to Beijing, CRH400A.
    The few
unlucky onlookers on the ground and Koba watched as the black train
suddenly exploded and began cluster bombing Guangdong.
    Without
its dance partner, the CRH300A smashed horizontally into China Rail’s stamping
facility. The lack of combustible fuel and the presence of fine German circuit
breakers prevented any ugly fires or explosions. But that just wasn’t enough to
save the facility from complete devastation.
    Meanwhile,
Zhen Zhao was 500 feet up in the air still strapped to her seat. The warm wind,
the industrial scenery and the sudden turn of events made her light headed. But
other than that she was fine. She still had the capability to transmit yellow
fever.
    The last
page on the CRH400A’s manual had explained how the train behaved like a fighter
jet’s cockpit. So, in case of May Day situations (not the Communist one), the
pilots just had to chant ‘Mao, Mao, Mao’ and their seats would eject safely
with a parachute.
    Zhen
turned her head and noticed that Chang her co-pilot was also floating in the
vicinity. A little further she noticed the 800 or so dumbstruck passengers also
in dangling from parachutes.
     As the
parachutes headed for one of the last patches of rice paddies, Zhen realized
she was still holding onto the operator manual. She quickly flipped to the last
pages of the English, German and French sections. The secret Mao page was missing.
    Her relief
was dampened at the thought of Wang’s passengers. Wang could burn… but his
passengers… Chen Chou yelled out, “The early train to Shenzhen… not popular…
mostly Party wives.”
     
     
     
    Moscow
     
    Primakov felt
elated as he rushed back to the SVR-SB’s headquarters on the outskirts of
Moscow. On the way he had an animated conversation with Dementyev, a Moscow
State University economist. As he recited the factories hit, Dementyev made rapid
calculations and deduced that the damages accrued were about size the of Rhode
Island’s GDP.
    “Just
Rhode Island?” Primakov was sorely disappointed. All that effort and something
that wasn’t even an island and sounded like a chicken.
    “Yup.”
    “That’s
not enough…”
    “Well, how
about ½ of Jacksonville or 3/7 th of Portland...”
    “Portland?
What is that? Give me big names… New York, Chicago, Philly, Miami… Dallas”
    “Err… ok.”
    “Seriously
Portland…?”

Chapter 4
    Lubyanka Square, Moscow
     
    Primakov
drove his Volkswagen Jetta across the Moskva River. It was summer in Moscow and
the better samples of the Federation’s demographics were on display. Usually
seeing a sexy runner in tank tops would have been the highlight of his day,
especially considering he spent most of his time in a half abandoned technology
park out in suburban Skolkovo. But everything was gorgeous today, right from the
traffic to the weather to the Muscovites and especially his sweet mission.
    Things
hadn’t felt this way in a long time. He had resigned himself to heading the SVR-SB
and its moronic missions across Siberian shitholes and the raging republics. Even
on the rare ‘stoking a revolution’ missions, the SVR-SB was usually reduced to bombing
sewage treatment plants. Plus, to lay the ground work, one of his men had to
get a job at these places. Modern facilities in Tbilisi and Africa were generally
fine. It was the older ones like Kiev and Helsinki and Warsaw that made his men
squirm.
    And
then Crimea had happened.
    Ever since
the Russo-Ukrainian split his life had taken a turn for the better. He had been
asked to plan several