Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel (3 page)

His mind returned to the meeting with Vice Admiral Dhankhar. It had been straightforward enough—a review of the progress on
Chakra’
s refit, which had drifted into a discussion of the ongoing truce talks and the course of the war with Pakistan.

India had planned to eliminate Pakistan as a threat—remove her nuclear capability and destroy the bases in Pakistani territory that supported the terrorist attacks against India. They’d almost succeeded before the weather had closed in and ended the campaign until the spring.

Whatever the government might claim were the reasons for agreeing to truce talks, Samant and the rest of the military knew that the Indian Army had stopped advancing. Pakistani resistance had stiffened as Chinese support increased and the weather worsened. They were inside Pakistani territory, but not far enough. The enemy army, largely intact, still faced them, and their nuclear weapons were still a threat.

The most common scenario for the Kashmir incident held by Indian military personnel, discounting aliens, was that some of the Pakistani nuclear weapons had fallen into the hands of, or been handed over to, Lashkar-e-Taiba, and that somehow, perhaps in preparing a weapon for a future terrorist attack, someone had crossed the blue and red wires.

Dhankhar and Samant had been discussing the frightening implications of that hypothesis when the admiral had suddenly declared, “The real problem is China.”

Samant had immediately agreed, of course. It was universally understood among the military that with China now providing more support to Pakistan, and with the shock of the initial invasion having worn off, a resumption in fighting would find India facing a much more dangerous opponent, and a harder task.

The admiral stated firmly, “If we could prevent the Chinese from backing Pakistan, we could certainly win the military campaign and force the Pakistanis to agree to our terms.”

Samant didn’t like to disagree with admirals. Dhankhar was right, but wishing for China to go away was a waste of effort. China was helping Pakistan, and would continue to do so. That was a reality that India had to live with. Finally, he replied, “Wouldn’t that just widen the war, sir? And this time, India would be fighting alone. We may have missed our chance, sir. Maybe giving the Pakistanis back their territory in return for assurances…”

“And we’ll be right back where we started, Captain,” Dhankhar replied harshly. “I can’t accept that, after so much blood and effort, halfway to our goal.”

Dhankhar had ended the meeting shortly after that, and two days later, Samant had received orders relieving him of command of
Chakra
and assigning him to be the head of the Advanced Submarine Program, designing India’s next nuclear submarine. It was a logical step in his career, if a little premature, but Samant kept asking himself if there was a connection between the two events.

Instead of putting his foot through the television screen, Samant decided to return to his office. He’d find Singh later, after he’d cooled down a little more. He didn’t mind letting the people under his command know he could get angry, but angry people could make bad decisions.

And his outburst had sent a clear message. The rest of INS
Circars
might be going insane. They might double the security at the main gate. They might post sentries and institute ID checks at the entrances to every building. They might even close the commissary because they were worried about terrorist attacks, but this office would not follow their example.

Back in his office, he sat down to organize his thoughts. His eyes fell on the large photograph of
Chakra
, hung on the center of the opposite wall, facing his desk. His new office was almost palatial, compared with the closet-sized space he’d lived and worked in aboard the submarine, but he missed it. He missed being in command of one of the most important units in the Indian Navy.

He still worried about her, too. Was all this confusion affecting the refit? He thought of phoning Jain and visiting for a few minutes, but was reluctant to call. He and Jain had never been that close. It had never seemed appropriate to Samant. Jain would be busy enough without getting a call from his former commanding officer. He might even interpret it as meddling.

Better to focus on the task at hand. Lead by example.

He left to find Singh.

11 March 2017

1700 Local Time

Visakhapatnam, India

Aleksey Petrov often ate at Akshaya’s, in the restaurant district northeast of the naval base and the dockyard. Many of the other Russians working in Visakhapatnam, or “Vizag,” ate there as well. The staff was considerate of foreign sensibilities, toning down the spices below their customary volcanic intensity, and they’d actually tried adding some foreign items to the menu. Luckily, Petrov liked pierogies, and hadn’t had the heart to tell the manager they were Polish, not Russian.

Virtually all the Russians in Vizag worked either at the naval base or the dockyard, and often met at Akshaya’s, sharing conversation—usually news from home and complaints about the heat and humidity.

Today the talk was all about work. The Russians who worked at the dockyard as technicians or consultants were in an uproar. At noon, Captain Mitra, in charge of the work on
Chakra
, had called everyone into the shipyard and announced that the sub’s refit was to be cut short. She had to be ready for sea in four weeks!

“‘By April tenth,’ Mitra announced,” Ivanov reported, “as if it was that easy! Admiral Dhankhar was there, too, looking as if he was afraid Mitra wouldn’t recite his speech properly.”

Anton Kulik, an electronics technician and former sonar officer, complained, “It doesn’t make sense. I’m still routing the new cabling. Some of the new components aren’t even on hand yet. Mitra says anything that can’t be finished by April tenth should just be closed up as best we can.”

“Why?” Petrov asked. He was just as puzzled as the others, but not as emotionally attached to the refit work. He worked over in the Engineering Hall as a consultant on submarine technology; that is, until this afternoon. Now he was a special advisor to Mitra.

“The heightened tensions after the Kashmir blast require
Chakra
to be operational as soon as possible, according to Mitra.” Ivanov sounded angry, as if he’d been insulted. “Was that the best excuse they could come up with?”

“Maybe they’re nervous about having both nuclear subs in the dockyard at the same time,” Petrov said, shrugging. “It’s not a good reason to end the refit early, but it’s easier to believe.”

“No, that doesn’t make any sense,” Suslov said, shaking his head. “The entire reason they scheduled the refit was because they knew
Chakra
wouldn’t play a big part in the war with Pakistan. That hasn’t changed, as far as I can see.”

Everyone at the table, Petrov included, nodded agreement. The Indian Navy had definitely wanted
Chakra
to be refitted. Preparations had included over a year of planning, negotiations with Russia and money spent for parts and equipment to be fitted into the sub, more money to prepare the dockyard—it would fill a book. To suddenly abandon the project like this was more than just a bad decision.

Many of the Russians intended to go back to the dockyard after dinner. “It’s long hours for me, but not as bad as Orlav,” Kulik remarked. “I’m supposed to take his dinner back to him. He’s working in the first compartment—maybe an all-nighter.”

Petrov had heard of Evgeni Orlav, a weapons technician in his forties. He was an electronics technician working on the torpedo tubes’ interface with the fire control system. “What’s he working on that’s so urgent?” he asked.

Kulik shrugged as he paid his dinner bill. “It’s something the Indians have him doing and he won’t talk about it at all. He’ll complain about his ugly wife and her enormous family all night, but he never talks shop.

“Orlav really works for Dhankhar, not Commander Gandhi. The admiral put him on the refit team, and Orlav makes his progress reports directly to the admiral. He’s either in the first compartment working on the gear aboard the sub, or he’s in one of the torpedo shops, ‘conducting tests’ he says.”

Kulik lowered his voice. “I think the Indians have a nuclear cruise missile ready to deploy, or at least test, and Orlav’s installing the interface.”

Petrov nodded. “I didn’t think their cruise missile was ready yet. But perhaps the development schedule has been moved up, and that’s why they’re cutting the refit short,” he reasoned.

Kulik was noncommittal. “That’s not the type of thing I’d want to hurry. Whatever it is, after Mitra made his announcement, the admiral pulled Orlav aside and they spoke for a while. Orlav wasn’t happy. I’m betting Dhankhar told him to get the work done and to sleep after
Chakra
’s finished.”

11 March 2017

1900 Local Time

Tbilisi, Georgia

Yuri Kirichenko heard the satellite phone buzz and almost snatched it from the cradle. Only one person had the number for that phone. He turned it on and said, “Jascha Churkin! So, you’re alive.”

“Just barely. I was in Ghori, just under five kilometers away, but across a small mountain from the blast. The flash and the shock wave were still beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I may start believing in God again. Most of Ghori was flattened. Since then, I’ve been traveling south and waiting for the ionization cloud to disperse. This is the first time I’ve been able to get through.”

“And your search for the missing warhead is now moot. What about the thieves?”

“I found them. Faysal is radioactive gas, but I located Jawad at Muzaffarabad, living a most un-Islamic life. He was drunk.”

“Jawad? From our escort? The short one?”

“And his friend Faysal, who Jawad said was an ‘electronics expert.’ The little thug was following us at a distance, and brought the substitute crate. He even had the correct markings on the outside.”

“Morons,” Kirichenko muttered, “and yet not. This plan was supposed to be foolproof. The warheads were worthless to the militants from Al Badr we hired. I must have explained to them three times that without the initiators, the warheads were just dead metal.”

“And you promised them some live warheads from the next batch,” Churkin added. “And they were paid handsomely, but you can’t rely on simple greed when stupidity is mixed in.”

Churkin had been responsible for security. He was a former Russian Navy special forces commando. But in addition to his impressive military skills, the navy had learned of his talent for illegal activities, ranging from bootlegging to blackmail. Kirichenko had encountered Churkin back in the nineties, out of the service and on the edge of the law. The ex-commando’s skills had been vital in ensuring first the secrecy of Kirichenko’s stolen stockpile, then its recovery, and now its transport across half of Eurasia.

Starting with their recovery from the Kara Sea, Churkin had shepherded the warheads on their long trip from northern Russia, across the Caspian Sea to Turkmenistan, Afghanistan, and then northern Pakistan, into Kashmir, where one of the six weapons had been discovered to be missing. Churkin had been forced to make sure the rest of the shipment was safe before leaving in pursuit of the thieves, but they had vanished into the landscape. By the time he’d found their trail, he was days behind and too late.

Kirichenko decided it was a good thing he hadn’t been any closer to his goal. Churkin and Kirichenko were not fast friends, but they were kindred souls working for a common purpose—massive financial reward. His loss would have been inconvenient, at least. Kirichenko privately wondered what Churkin’s plan would have been if he’d reached the LeT camp with the warhead inside.

“So why did Jawad steal one of my nuclear warheads? Did this fool Faysal think he could build his own initiator?” Kirichenko asked, almost laughing.

“No, but Faysal knew that Lashkar-e-Taiba had someone who might be able to—someone from the Khan network,” Churkin reported in a dark tone.

“Oh.” Kirichenko understood the implications instantly. A brilliant Pakistani scientist named A. Q. Khan had first helped build Pakistan’s weapon, and then created a nuclear underground network that had provided technology to Iran, Libya, and North Korea—at least. While he’d been under house arrest for a while in Pakistan, he had been freed in 2008. His network had never been dismantled.

Churkin reported, “Those two thieves walked into that Lashkar-e-Taiba camp and were paid ten times the amount for one warhead that you gave Al Badr to transport all six. Jawad was doing his best to drink his way through his half of the money.”

“Did he tell anyone else where they had obtained the warhead?” Loss of one of the six weapons was bad enough, but if the shipment had been compromised …

“Jawad said they didn’t speak to anyone else on the way, not with what they were carrying. It took them some time to reach the LeT camp after they stole the weapon, and if Jawad was telling the truth, they reached it about the same time that the rest of our shipment crossed into Indian territory. Anyone Faysal talked to is now in hell along with him. I’ve also just confirmed the remaining five have reached the coast.”

“And Jawad?” Kirichenko asked.

“Will not talk,” Churkin replied. “I solved his drinking problem.” Kirichenko could almost hear Churkin smiling.

“Then there’s nothing else to be done there. You should get into India as quickly as possible.”

“Understood,” Churkin replied. “I’ll contact you again when I’m across the border.”

12 March 2017

0820 Local Time

Director General Naval Projects, Ship Building Centre

Visakhapatnam, India

Samant looked up from the keyboard when he heard the knock. His office door was open, and Maahir Jain, Samant’s former first officer and now commander of INS
Chakra
, was standing in the doorway like a child waiting for a parent to notice him.

He couldn’t hide his surprise—it was Sunday and he certainly didn’t expect anyone to drop by his office—but he also suddenly felt great pleasure at seeing his old executive officer, and he let that show as well.