The Inside Scoop: Truthful Investigative Reporting From Around the World Bobsledding in Vietnam, Chapter 12

Dig and Dug stared out the plane’s window as it circled the beautiful mountain valleys surrounding Magas, Ingushetia. Having grown up on the flat prairies of Detroit they were amazed by the majesty of the snowcrested peaks. Stepping off the plane, the arrivals were immediately surrounded by a Kalashnikov toting crowd of warriors shouting, “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.” The sincere jubilation manifested by such serious souls at first meeting was indeed touching even though the destruction brothers had no idea what the words meant. You know, it could have been a Detroit Lions football cheer; after all it was a new world. Escorted into a large hall covered in handwoven carpets, the honored guests were introduced to members of the Caucasus Emirate including Sunni Muslim leaders Dokka Umarov, Movladi Udugov, and Aslambek Vadalov. Dokka, the Emir of the Republic of Ichkeria took pride in the five million dollar price on his head offered by the U.S. The Council of Rebel Commanders sat drinking tea from a glass and staring intently at these strange foreigners they would soon trust with such a sacred mission.

Dig and Dug were flabbergasted by the array of lavish food set before them as they usually ate canned sardines and Meow Mix or in training in Hainan had fallen in love with pet food MREs. The opulent meal began with Sujuk and soups including dovga and sorpa, followed by chanakhi, Ossetian flatbread meat pies, chakhokhbili, shashlyk tarki-tau and adjika red pepper dipping sauce. Toasts abounded and Odd Job and No Job drank glass after glass of extraordinarily strong tea. Dessert included pakhlava, gata and rahat lokum. The guests were disappointed that no alcohol was served as on the long flight they had passed around a copy of the Lonely Planet guide that extolled the famous Caucasus Ararat brandy. The banquet was a wondrous affair that ended when Dokka addressed his sated guests and assorted terrorists, including foreign fighters, and field commanders from a rainbow of jihadist organization that stretched from Mali to Sulu Sea. The mission, Dokka proclaimed was to “Drive the Russians from the Caucasus and establish a Muslim republic under Sharia law. This is a goal we will achieve.” Applause, shouts of the death to the Ruskies, cheering and whistling filled the air amid a loud chorus of Allahu Akbar. Dokka, genuinely agitated, kicked at Dig and Dug as they persisted in rubbing against his legs. Finally, things quieted and Dokka continued, “The next step is to ruin the Olympics for those mudak infidel Ruskies. We will prevail and from our republic under Sharia law we will render the death knell to the Great Satan’s North America fortress, Washington, D.C.” Dokka, much like Ho Chi Minh, displayed his deep scholarship by quoting eloquently from the American Declaration of Independence in support of his proposed actions. Once more the room exploded in overwhelming approval of the plan.

In the briefing that followed, the assassination team soon learned the advantages of long- range planning because the Ingushetia and Chechen fighting jihadists had set up shop in Sochi months before the Olympic Committee had awarded this beach resort the winter games. Signing onto construction crews in the guise of workers from Donetsk, these dedicated soldiers of God secretly closeted weapons in the various sports palaces slowly springing up in the city and in the nearby mountains. After a few days of briefings and field exercises, the team traveled incognito to a hidden outpost close to the massive Russian security ring that surrounding the Olympic city and it outlying facilities. Questions arose. How to break through the ring? How to entry the city? The Triad team need not have worried as an ingenious plan was in place. Odd Job, No Job, Dig and Dug were instructed to swallow a capsule that after forty-five minutes would render them unconscious for several hours. With a degree of trepidation the four carefully placed a pill on their tongues and swallowed. Dokka instructed them to climb into a specially designed SUV and listen carefully to prerecorded instructions on the CD player. As the team sped toward its rendezvous, the car full of killers listened intently to a strange monotonous voice that instructed: “You will crash this vehicle into the concert barrier in front of the Russian guard house. The car is designed to come apart and spill your unconscious bodies onto the highway. Remember, timing is everything; you must hit the barrier exactly as the pill takes effect. The guards will be in the middle of a shift change and you will not be fired upon. As you are carrying Cuban and Venezuelan passports, the Russians, thinking you’re friendly agents, will call an ambulance. That ambulance is driven by one of our best men and you will be delivered to a safe house where you will regain consciousness and pursue your mission. Trust in the plan, good luck, and may God go with you.”

Just as the message ended the CD player in the dash flared and melted into a black plastic gooey ball. The next thing any of the team remembered was having very strong tea forced between their lips. Odd Job, first to open his eyes, saw a man just a few inches from his face who smiled and said, “welcome to Sochi, Allahu Akbar.” Scrapes and bruises were everywhere, but all four of the wolverine assassins was intact, although No Job was a bit worse for the wear as the duct-taped jerry-rigged ejection seats had propelled him down the highway for twenty-five yards at thirty miles an hour. Only a huge pile of discarded Russian ration cans prevented a real tragedy. The ejection seats were yet another victory of low technology in the battle for world domination. But, regardless of life’s little mishaps the mission was on. Well, boys and girls, out of space again and you’ll have to wait till next month to read the stupendous story of the bobsleds first runs at Sochi. Will our heroic Vietnamese team win a medal? Will Bich and Nam find happiness? Remember these are the days of our lives. And please, if you cough up some dough you’ll be bowled over by the BO!

Sincerely, Seamus Farrago