Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel (6 page)

Myles shook his head, depressed. He really didn’t need this right now; the U.S. economy was still trying to recover from the Sino–Littoral Alliance War. He then looked over at Patterson and noted she hadn’t said a word. “You’re being awfully quiet, Joanna. What do you think?”

I’m trying hard not to,
she thought to herself. But recognizing that that wasn’t a proper answer, she said, “Both Milt’s and Secretary Lloyd’s views are valid, Mr. President, but neither recommendation is free from the possibility of political backlash against the United States. I’m afraid this is a case of choosing what you believe is the lesser of two evils.”

Myles chuckled, his face sporting a tired grin. “That sounds like our good friend, Ray. He always did have a knack of walking a very fine line.”

Joanna looked down, blushing. Being favorably compared to her former boss and predecessor was quite an accolade—Raymond Kirkpatrick was a Jedi master in the policy world. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. President,” she said softly.

“As it was meant to be,” responded Myles. Taking another deep breath and rising, he continued, “Okay, Milt, we’ll withhold the results of the airborne samples for now. But I want a well-crafted and coordinated press release to go out the minute after Joanna gets back to us with the ground-sample analysis.

“Andrew, I want the State Department to reach out, quietly, to our allies, the Littoral Alliance, and yes, even the Russians and the Chinese. Tell them what we are doing, but not what we’ve learned. Ask them for their patience as we evaluate the samples.”

Both Alvarez and Lloyd replied, “Yes, Mr. President.”

“And you, Joanna, I need those ground sample results as soon as you can possibly get them to me. But, they have to be done right. We can’t afford a mistake on this, we have to be extremely confident of our findings.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Good. We’ll also need to release the results of the analyses at the same time, we just can’t make a claim like this and ask the world simply to believe us. I want a succinct, but very basic report that we can release publicly. Remember a lot of non-tech-savvy politicians are going to read this, so we have to make this easy to understand. Got it?”

The three advisors all nodded and headed for the door.

13 March 2017

1955 Local Time

Visakhapatnam, India

Samant took another swig of his cold Kingfisher lager; he badly needed a morale boost. He’d arrived early so he could have some time to unwind; the day had been one long serving of bad karma. Petrov walked in exactly at eight o’clock, signaled the bartender, and ordered, “A Kalyani Black Label, please.”

Samant chuckled as his friend sat down. “Going native on me, Aleksey? I thought you Russians preferred vodka?”

“No, no, Girish, vodka is for cooler climates. In this heat a cold lager is much better.”

“Heat? What are you talking about? It was only thirty-one degrees Centigrade today!”

“Where I come from, we cook at those temperatures,” Petrov said with a wink. The waitress delivered his beer, and after thanking her, he raised his bottle and said, “Nostrovia!”

“Cheers!” replied Samant as they clinked their bottles.

After ordering dinner, and taking a sip or two of beer, Samant finally broke the ice. “So, what luck did you have?”

Petrov smiled as he spoke. “Actually, better than I thought. I confirmed with the naval liaison staff that the only new Russian weapon being added to
Chakra
’s arsenal is the UGST-M torpedo, and that the necessary combat system modifications are actually quite minor. Nothing that requires the changes Dhankhar’s staff has approved.”

Leaning forward, he went on with a hushed voice. “But I also went down to the torpedo compartment and inspected the junction boxes. Tubes one through four, the original fifty-three-centimeter torpedo tubes,
have
the proper boards with the connectors for the new wiring. Tubes five through eight, the converted sixty-five-centimeter torpedo tubes, do not.”

Samant looked puzzled. “I don’t recall seeing any extra connectors. And I’ve inspected those junction boxes numerous times.”

“I’m not surprised, Girish,” Petrov said with another wink. “They’re on the back side of the circuit board. You have to know where to look to find them. The boards appear to be original pieces of equipment. I tried to get the liaison staff to track down the serial numbers, but Osinov refused. He claimed he didn’t have the personnel or time for such foolishness.”

“If the boards were there from the original transfer, why weren’t they replaced? All the other equipment capable of supporting nuclear weapons was removed.”

“I suspect the shipyard just left them in place, because with everything else gone, it wouldn’t matter. They could save a few rubles by not replacing them.”

“Did you ask about the extra wiring?” questioned Samant.

“Of course, I told Osinov that the wiring didn’t appear to support anything and I asked him why I had to do it given the severely shortened schedule. He told me that if the ‘stupid Indians’ wanted the extra wiring routed, then by God we’d route the wiring. He wasn’t going to have another cabling debacle on his hands like the one with the
Gorshkov
aircraft carrier transfer. Oh, and the wiring work is to be performed by a technician named Evgeni Orlav. Rumor has it he has been working ridiculously long hours in an isolated area of the shipyard, and supposedly reports directly to Dhankhar himself, even though he’s assigned to an Indian naval engineer.”

The two men paused their discussion as their meals were served. Petrov took a bite while the waitress moved out of earshot. “What did you find out from your masters in Mumbai, Girish?”

Samant waited as he swallowed. “I had a very unsatisfying discussion this afternoon with both the heads of weapons developments at the Directorate of Naval Design and the assistant chief of naval staff submarine acquisitions. Both said basically the same thing, the only nuclear-armed weapons that will go on Indian submarines are ballistic and land-attack cruise missiles. When I asked about torpedoes or ASW missiles with nuclear warheads, they laughed. Apparently DRDO has some plans, but they are many years in the future. And, of course, there are no intentions to augment
Chakra
’s weapons capability with any indigenous Indian ordnance—it’s against the contract we have with your nation.”

Petrov nodded, then wiped his mouth. He looked around the room, checking to see if anyone was taking an interest in their conversation. “Here’s another tidbit for you, Girish. I was told by an Indian engineer that the combat system change was signed by Vice Admiral Bava on March tenth. The engineer was most unhappy with this, as it was a new requirement that interfered with some of his work and he wanted to coordinate scheduling with my technician. Not only does this confirm that a Russian national will do the modification to the combat system, but when this change was approved.”

“The tenth of March? That’s the very day I was relieved of command!”

“Coincidence?” responded Petrov skeptically. “I think not. Girish, all these events, the new modification, your reassignment, reactions to the Kashmir blast, everything seems connected. And all these connections come together at Vice Admiral Dhankhar’s doorstep.”

“I agree that is how it appears, Aleksey. But how do we prove such an incredible theory? If Dhankhar is behind all of this, if he has somehow obtained submarine-launched nuclear weapons and is installing them on
Chakra
, he can’t be acting alone. He would need support at the most senior levels.”

“You said that there were numerous senior officers unhappy with the peace negotiations. Are they
that
unhappy? Do they truly want to crush Pakistan completely?”

Samant paused briefly, considering his answer. “I’d have to say, yes. There were many flag officers on the Integrated Defence Staff that strongly argued against the truce. Some members even resigned in protest over it.”

“Then, my friend, I think we have a very big problem,” observed Petrov.

“But that gets us right back to how do we prove this? I certainly can’t go up my chain of command. If we’re correct, I’d be reporting to the very individuals who are behind this plot. For all I know, the minister of defense himself could be involved. He, too, argued against the truce.” Samant grimaced.

“I’m afraid my contractor status limits my ability as well,” added Petrov. “Osinov almost threw me out of his office this afternoon. He will tolerate no more delays, or complaints. We are to finish the work we’ve been assigned, and that’s all there is to it. If I push this ‘crazy’ theory, he’ll simply fire me and bring someone in who’ll do the work with no questions asked.”

“Then who can we turn to for help? And it has to be done quietly, otherwise we’ll be discovered,” grumbled Samant.

Suddenly a smile flashed across Petrov’s face. “I think I know just who might be able to assist us. Tell me, Girish, have you ever been to America?”

13 March 2017

2330 Local Time

USS
North Dakota

South China Sea

Jerry felt the boat take on a moderate down angle as they descended from periscope depth. With the last submarine broadcast of the day on board, the crew could now settle down for a quiet midwatch. As much as Jerry liked to be in the control room during PD evolutions, he had stayed in his stateroom for this one, finishing up the E-5 evaluations that were due in a couple of days. Besides, having the captain always in control sent the wrong message. His crew had to know he trusted them, and that meant leaving them to do their work without him constantly looking over their shoulders.

Settling into his chair, he grabbed his iPad and thumbed through the digital library. The idea of doing some recreational reading before going to bed sounded really good right now. He’d barely kicked back when the Dialex phone rang. Sighing, he picked it up. “Captain,” he answered.

“Captain, Officer of the deck,” said Lieutenant Junior Grade Quela Lymburn. “The evening broadcast has been downloaded into your in-box. The commo reports nothing earth-shattering, mostly administrative traffic, but we did receive some personal e-mail.”

The last part caught Jerry’s attention. “Thank you, Q. I’ll be turning in shortly, so keep her between the buoys.”

“Yessir, good night, sir.”

Jerry hung up and immediately logged on to his ship’s account. He bypassed the official message traffic and went straight to his e-mail folder. Opening it, he found several messages waiting for him. Most were from Emily, one was from his sister Clarice, and at the bottom of the list was an e-mail from Aleksey Petrov.

“Petrov,” he whispered. “I haven’t heard from him in quite a while.” Curious, Jerry opened Petrov’s e-mail first and began reading it. Soon a deep frown formed on his face. He glanced up at the bulkhead clocks. One was set for Washington, D.C., time, and he shook his head. He quickly typed out a three-word response, “Received. Understood. Standby,” followed immediately by forwarding the e-mail to his friend and mentor Lowell Hardy.

Placing the two e-mails in the outgoing folder, he logged out and headed to control. Normally, he’d have to wait for the next communication cycle to get these messages out, or get the captain’s permission. Since he was the captain, he’d kick the e-mails out now. Sometimes it’s good to be the king.

3

MOVEMENTS

13 March 2017

1310 EST

Hart Senate Office Building

Washington, D.C.

“… and no, I’m not going to support a resolution on India at this time! We know almost nothing about what the hell is going on over there!” bellowed Senator Lowell Hardy as he burst through the door into his outer office.

“But Senator, both party leaders are in unusual agreement about this issue,” croaked Theodore Locklear, Hardy’s chief of staff.

“Based on what, Theo? The presumption that India nuked Pakistan? How about a little evidence before we start passing legislation?”

“Sir, I understand your reluctance, but it’s a nonbinding resolution. It’s really just for show, to demonstrate to the American public the Senate can act in a bipartisan manner.”

“Oh that’s wonderful! We’ll hold hands, sing ‘Kumbaya,’ and then collectively look stupid! I’m sure that will be very encouraging to the U.S. public … not!” Hardy stopped just inside his personal office, turned, and thrust a finger at Locklear’s nose. “Do you know what usually happens when one attempts a fast-draw shot from the hip, Theo?”

The chief of staff shook his head; he was used to his boss’s occasional outbursts—a personality quirk left over from his days as a submarine commanding officer. But to Hardy’s credit, he had warned Locklear when he interviewed for the chief of staff job that he’d have to patiently listen to the senator when he had to vent, or as Hardy put it, “perform a steam generator bottom blowdown.”

“You end up with a bloody hole in your foot!” thundered Hardy in conclusion as he removed his suit coat, tossed it on the easy chair, and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

“Look, I have no problem acting when there is evidence that something needs to be done. We have no indications, no evidence—just rumor and innuendo, so sitting on one’s hands is a perfectly reasonable thing to do.”

“Yes, sir,” Locklear replied mechanically. Then, with a hint of humor in his voice, he said, “Have you successfully completed your bottom blow, sir?”

Hardy chuckled and slapped Locklear on the shoulder, “Yes … yes, I have. Smart-ass.”

“Then what would you like me to tell the majority leader?”

“Please let him know that I would be more than happy to support such a resolution … after I’m provided with some factual data that indicates India’s culpability. You can candy-coat it as much as you’d like, but that is the gist that needs to get across. Now, I’m going to check my e-mail and grab some lunch before my meeting with Senator Kirk at … ah…”

“Fifteen thirty, sir. His office.”

“Right, got it. And, Theo, thanks.” Locklear smiled, nodded, then turned and left. Hardy dropped bodily into his chair, and logged on to his Senate e-mail account. He grimaced when he saw the contents of his in-box. Thank God his secretary screened the account and would flag him when she felt he needed to personally deal with an e-mail. There were a few, but nothing that required immediate action. He switched over to his personal account, one used only by family and friends and not easily attributed to him directly; there were considerably fewer messages. But about halfway down the page, he saw an e-mail from Jerry Mitchell. The senator shook his head. Receiving e-mail from an individual on a submarine at sea seemed … well, it just seemed wrong!