Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel (15 page)

Techeniye Guba

Novaya Zemlya, Russia

Vice Admiral Loktev paced impatiently on the icebreaker’s helicopter deck; the divers had been down for almost half an hour and he was chomping at the bit to know what they had found. Silently he hoped the Americans’ claim was wrong; the alternative would be humiliating beyond words.

“Comrade Admiral,” shouted a deckhand. “The divers are coming up.”

Loktev acknowledged the report and walked to the rope ladder hanging over
Victory
’s port side. The broken ice chunks, crushed by the ship’s massive hull, were being pushed aside by men with long poles to keep a small area clear for the divers to surface through. Soon air bubbles could be seen breaking the dark icy film, and a moment later a man emerged, then another. The divers first swam toward and then crawled on to the ice floe. After removing their fins, masks, and air tanks, they walked to the ladder and hurriedly scurried up. Zhikin had barely reached the deck when Loktev swooped in, demanding a report.

“The Americans’ claims are right, Comrade Admiral.” Zhikin spoke through shivering blue lips. “The barge is exactly where they said it would be, and their description matches what I saw below.”

“And the contents?” pressed Loktev.

Zhikin gladly took a towel offered by one of his men and started walking toward the watertight door and warmth; if the admiral wanted to talk, he could follow him. “There were numerous containers within the barge, each about two meters in length and one meter in diameter. Their appearance is consistent with the description of Pioneer missile reentry vehicle storage canisters, but we won’t know for sure until we get one on board and open it.”

The chilled diver grabbed the door’s handle and yanked on it, and a gush of beautifully warm air engulfed him. Once inside, Loktev removed his
ushanka
and heavy winter mittens, while Zhikin peeled back the dry suit’s hood, disconnected the gloves, and removed the liners. He traded his gear with a waiting lieutenant who stood by with two cups of steaming tea. The hot liquid going down his throat felt amazing. After making sure the lieutenant was out of earshot, Zhikin turned to the admiral and whispered, “The barge is not your normal dry cargo type, sir. It was specifically modified with ballast tanks, fore and aft; there are standard submarine salvage connections on both ends. Comrade Admiral, this barge was designed to be surfaced and retrieved.”

“Any identifying markings? A serial number?”

“None that I could see, but we only looked over the barge’s exterior. There could be markings, or maybe a nameplate, on the inside, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

“How many containers?” Loktev asked.

“There are thirty-five storage cradles in the top layer. I can’t be sure how deep they go because the barge has settled some, but I’d guess two, perhaps as many as three layers. If the lower ones are the same, then we are looking at a potential total of seventy to one hundred and five canisters.”

“My God! That many? This is … this is inconceivable,” groaned a shaken Loktev.

Zhikin nodded slightly as he took another sip of tea. The admiral’s shock was completely understandable—the diver’s report had given the older man quite a jolt—but Zhikin had worse news to deliver. “Unfortunately, sir, that’s just the beginning. We found eight empty storage cradles in the top layer. If the Americans have been truthful to us, and they only took two, then someone has come back since then and retrieved six more. And judging by the small amount of silt in several of the cradles, this was done recently.”

Loktev’s face paled. Stunned, he leaned slowly against the bulkhead for support. He looked back at the diver, his mouth hanging open, speechless.

“One more thing, Comrade Admiral,” added Zhikin slowly. “There was a submarine communications cable near the barge. I followed it out and found an MGK-608 Sever module one hundred meters away, out toward deeper water.”

Loktev’s expression changed to one of confusion. “Is it the one the Americans said they found?”

Zhikin shook his head. “No, sir. According to their report, that one should be much farther away, and to the southwest. This is a different module.”

“Someone must have laid the Sever modules to guard the barge,” Loktev concluded. “But who?”

“I have no idea, sir. But I did get a good look at the module’s nameplate,” remarked Zhikin as he pulled an underwater writing slate from his suit’s breast pocket. “Here is the module’s serial number. With any luck you might be able to trace who authorized its installation, and when. I’m sorry, but that is the best I can do for now.”

The admiral smiled thinly and slapped Zhikin on the shoulder. “You have done well, Viktor Ivanovich. We’ll solve this mystery together. Now, what do you recommend we do next?”

“I have two dive teams ready to go down as we speak, one to retrieve one of the canisters, and the other to do an in-depth inspection of the barge; to gather basic dimensional data and ascertain how deep it sits in the silt. If we begin immediately, we can find out if the canisters hold reentry vehicles within the hour. Then we’ll have a better idea of the recovery effort.”

“Will you retrieve the canisters one at a time?”

Zhikin shook his head vehemently. “No, sir, it’s too risky and would take far too long. Besides, I’m not sure we can even get at the layers underneath without dismantling the upper structure. No, since this barge was designed to resurface, then that’s what I recommend we do.
Victory
should have the necessary hoses to hook up to the salvage connections; if not, they can be transported by helicopter in a matter of hours. If all goes well, we can blow the ballast tanks dry and have the barge on the surface by tomorrow.”

“Excellent, Captain!” Loktev exclaimed. “We’ll proceed as you suggest. Get your men in the water, and let me know the moment they have recovered one of the canisters. I’ll be on the bridge trying to figure out how I’m going to report this to Northern Fleet headquarters and Moscow. I must construct my message carefully. I’m not sure I would believe it myself if one of my aides were to place it in front of me. This is a political catastrophe of unimaginable proportions.”

Nodding slowly, Zhikin smiled and said, “Comrade Admiral, I do not envy you. I suspect I have the easier of the two tasks.”

28 March 2017

1130 Local Time

Naval Shipyard

Visakhapatnam, India

Petrov was in the graving dock when his cell phone buzzed. Irritated, he looked and saw he had received a text from his Russian supervisor summoning him to the liaison office immediately. “I don’t have time for such nonsense,” he mumbled to himself. But there was no point in arguing, Igor Osinov was as impatient as he was arrogant and Petrov would only lose more time if he tried to debate the matter with him. Signaling to one of his assistants, Petrov pointed to several deep scars on some of the anechoic coating tiles below the stern pod that would need replacing. Once confident that the man knew what had to be done next, Petrov walked to his car and drove over to the support office by the Russian hostel near the naval base’s main gate.

The drive did little to soothe his aggravation, and Petrov strode angrily into Osinov’s office demanding, “What is it this time, Igor? You know I don’t have the time…”

He stopped in midsentence. Osinov wasn’t alone; there were two men with him, one Indian and the other probably a Russian. There was a fearful expression on Osinov’s face.

“Please close the door, Aleksey,” ordered Osinov; his voice was shaky. Petrov did so, turned, and approached his boss as he gestured to the well-dressed Caucasian.

“Aleksey Igorevich Petrov, this is Foreign Intelligence Service Officer Leonid Nikolayevich Ruchkin from the embassy in New Delhi, he’s here to ask you a few questions.”

Petrov’s eyes darted to the SVR agent; the young man had a friendly demeanor and extended his hand. “I know how much of an inconvenience this is, Captain Petrov, so I will attempt to be brief.”

“It’s been a long time since I was addressed by my rank,” replied Petrov as he shook Ruchkin’s hand.

“But it’s still appropriate, is it not? You did retire honorably, despite the unfortunate incident. Please, be seated, Captain.”

Nodding politely, Petrov took his seat, while Ruchkin pointed toward the Indian. “This is my colleague, Field Agent Tungish Sharma of the Indian Intelligence Bureau. He’ll be observing our discussion.”

“Captain,” greeted Sharma. Petrov reciprocated, but his nerves were on edge. Something wasn’t quite right here; he felt something nagging at him.

Ruchkin wasted no time and launched into his interview. “Captain, in your opinion, is there anything unusual about the refit of INS
Chakra
?”

Petrov’s reaction was one of amazement. If he had been nervous before, there were now alarm bells going off. The presence of the Indian intelligence agent complicated the situation greatly, and with Samant’s warning ringing in Petrov’s mind, he decided to play it straight.

“Unusual, Agent Ruchkin? The whole damn refit is unusual!”

“How so?”

“The customer cut our time by two-thirds, completely rewrote the refit’s work schedule, and made a mess of it!” vented Petrov. He only hoped his anger would mask his nervousness. “The schedule is so disjointed that there have been times when I had multiple teams trying to make repairs on colocated systems at the same time. If you haven’t been in a submarine, space is at a premium. I don’t have the room for all those people to do their work safely. Especially if hot work is involved.”

The SVR agent’s eyes glanced toward the Indian, who was writing furiously. “Have you been given an explanation for these changes, Captain?”

“Of course not,” snapped Petrov. “I can only assume it has something to do with the Kashmiri incident, but I don’t see how. All I know is that my Indian Navy point of contact, Captain Mitra, has given me precious little time to get a lot of work done.”

“Do any of the repairs seem out of place to you?” asked Ruchkin pointedly.

Struggling to not show the growing anxiety he was feeling, Petrov paused to think the question over. He wanted to tell the SVR agent about his and Samant’s suspicions, but that would expose his friend to Sharma; and every fiber of his being screamed this would be a really bad idea. Petrov prayed to God his expression looked pensive. “No … No, not really,” he lied. “All the work items are valid. If anything there is an overemphasis on tactical systems that I believe is not prudent. There are a number of persistent, but not critical, engineering issues that could use more attention—in my opinion.”

Ruchkin momentarily stopped the interview as he wrote some notes. Petrov glanced over at Osinov, who was literally shielding his eyes to prevent contact with the SVR agent. There was no doubt in Petrov’s mind that his supervisor would have a piece of his rear end later.

“So, Captain,” resumed Ruchkin. “How did you become the lead engineer for this refit? The position is not in your contract.”

“You’re correct, Agent Ruchkin, my original assignment was as a submarine technology liaison with the Indian Navy to assist in planning modifications and upgrades for their Russian-produced submarines—which includes INS
Chakra
. I also provided some consulting to India’s design teams for their next nuclear submarine, mostly in the propulsion plant area. Captain Mitra essentially drafted me to be the lead engineer because I have the technical and tactical experience on Project 971 submarines. I was a
starpom
, ah, excuse me, first officer, on K-157
Vepr
. My understanding was the radical reduction of the refit schedule required someone with more experience be assigned to oversee the refit. I just happened to be handy.”

“I see. Well, Captain, I do appreciate the candor you provided in your answers. It’s not often I find someone willing to speak their mind so freely. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Osinov?”

“What? Oh, yes, absolutely, Agent Ruchkin.” Petrov tried hard not to smirk. He would still get an ass chewing over this, but nothing official would come of it.

“One last thing, Captain,” said Ruchkin as he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Do you recognize this man?”

Petrov took the photo and studied it carefully. The picture was an official photograph of a middle-aged man in a Russian naval uniform. He looked a little old to be a captain third rank, but it was not uncommon in the Russian Navy for some officers to advance more slowly, particularly in the noncommand specialty fields. “No. I don’t believe I’ve seen this man before.”

Ruchkin’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure, Captain? He is a Russian national assigned to the refit project.”

Petrov saw the Indian agent’s eyes widen a bit. He began moving slowly, attempting to get a better view of the photograph. “I’m sorry, Agent Ruchkin. But if this man is working on
Chakra
, I haven’t seen him. But I must remind you I’ve only been in the job for about three weeks. I haven’t met every one of my countrymen working on this boat. In fact, I’ve intentionally limited myself to contact with my assistants, as there is just so much work to do.”

“Understandable. Well, then, perhaps you’ve heard his name: Evgeni Orlav?”

Petrov tried to keep his eyes on Ruchkin, but Sharma seemed visibly annoyed. Was the Russian SVR agent venturing off a previously agreed track? Or was Ruchkin trying to catch him in a well-laid trap? Again, Petrov’s instinct was to play it safe. “Oh, yes, I have heard the name. He’s a torpedo specialist, or so I’m told, but he doesn’t report to me. Mr. Orlav does most of his work off-hull, and his immediate supervisor is an Indian naval engineer, Commander Fali Gandhi, I believe.”

“Don’t you find that odd that you haven’t seen him?” pressed Ruchkin.

Petrov shook his head. “No, not particularly. According to the contract he’s to inspect and test the new UGST-M torpedoes that were recently purchased by India, and to run tests on
Chakra
’s combat system to ensure the system can pass tactical information to the new weapons. Most of his work would keep him off-hull and in one of the weapons repair shops.”