Fatal Thunder

9 FATAL ENCOUNTER

“E-mail will be the death of me yet,” muttered Joanna Patterson as she scrolled down the three screens of waiting correspondence. It had already been a very long Saturday, and she hadn’t had an opportunity to sneak away and thin out the herd. Fortunately, none appeared to be an April Fools’ joke — she’d already announced that she would personally have the first transgressor shipped to Siberia. Even the president didn’t want to challenge her on that one. Her husband, Lowell, proved himself even wiser by sending a dozen red roses instead. “Peace on Earth begins at home,” said the card.

She scanned the titles as she moved down the list, looking for any obvious “Me First!” messages. Joanna saw Jerry’s e-mail two-thirds of the way down on the third screen. The subject line wasn’t reassuring — “Hostile Intent Demonstrated.” She clicked on the e-mail and began reading; the contents were even less encouraging.

Joanna scrolled down and read Samant’s brief message. It held little additional detail, but the Indian was convinced the attack confirmed his and Petrov’s suspicions. She sighed and shook her head. Yes. The attack, if indeed it wasn’t just a botched mugging, would be an indication, but still it wasn’t proof. She needed hard evidence if she was to advocate getting the U.S. involved. Joanna typed out a quick reply asking Jerry to relay her request. She was about to tell him to keep her apprised when she saw Jerry’s closing line; he was going to be unavailable for the next few days and e-mail contact would be spotty. That could only mean his boat would be at sea. “Damn it,” she whispered. “Talk about really bad timing.”

Briefly, she considered asking the CNO to keep North Dakota tied up to the pier for a few more days, or perhaps even a week, but rejected the idea. Admiral Hughes had already done her a huge favor in getting Jerry to San Diego on short notice, and while he might be understanding about another request, it would be seen for what it was — micromanaging a navy asset. Certainly Captain Simonis, the squadron commander, would be very annoyed with more “rudder orders from Washington.” And then there was Lowell’s stern counsel after their meeting with Jerry, “Don’t try to drag Jerry onto your staff. He’s a submarine commanding officer, and he has a boat to run.”

Sighing deeply, she told Jerry to pass on her e-mail address to Samant and Petrov. Joanna promised she’d do what she could to help them, but repeated the need for firm evidence. She clicked the send button, then reached over for her secure phone. Time to call SECSTATE Lloyd and Randall Foster to see just what the U.S. could, and could not, do to assist the two men in India.

The sights and sounds of the shipyard were unexpectedly refreshing. As soon as Samant walked onto the graving dock, he looked up at his old submarine. INS Chakra sat majestically in the dock on large wooden blocks; there were sparks flying about her sail that made it look like she even had a crown. Chakra looked absolutely huge from the floor of the dock; it never failed to amaze him how deceptively small even a large submarine looked when most of the hull was concealed under water. A loud beep, followed by someone shouting at him, forced Samant to scurry to get out of the way of a forklift carrying a pallet of replacement parts. There were people everywhere as the workmen toiled to get Chakra ready for sea. Sea trials began in five days.

Up ahead, Samant saw Jain inspecting the main sonar dome with one of the foremen. The composite structure surrounding the submarine’s main hull array, and the coating around it, was still dripping wet. Two men with pressure washers stood at a distance, waiting. Jain saw Samant approaching and waved. After reaching for a clipboard, Jain signed a form and gave the workers a thumbs-up. He then jogged over to Samant, stopped short, snapped to attention, and rendered a smart salute. After Samant had returned the honor, he extended his hand. Jain hesitated, then accepted the offer. He seemed a bit flustered.

“How goes the refit, Maahir?” Samant asked while waving to the surrounding activity.

“I hate being in the shipyard, sir. I can’t wait to get back to sea so I can get some rest,” shouted Jain. He looked uneasy.

Samant nodded sympathetically. “I completely understand, shipyard periods can be very stressful. I always found the noise to be irritating.”

Jain smiled slightly while pointing to his earplugs. “These help, a little. What can I do for you, sir?”

Samant then noticed that Jain was still at attention; his former first officer was behaving as if he were still in the job. The Indian captain sighed. This wasn’t how he wanted their relationship to be now. Finally, he said, “At ease, Maahir.” The younger man visibly relaxed. Moving closer, Samant spoke with an informal, almost fatherly tone. “Listen, Maahir, you are now the commanding officer of a nuclear submarine, that’s a very exclusive club, and we almost have a quorum right here with just the two of us. I’m not your CO anymore, and we’re not even in the same chain of command. Yes, I’m still a senior officer, but we’re now colleagues, and I’d appreciate it if you would see it that way as well.”

Jain looked down, surprised and confused. It took him a moment, but when he lifted his head, he was smiling. “Thank you, sir. I would be honored.” Samant nodded and gave Jain a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“So, Captain, what brings you to this den of chaos?” asked Jain, more upbeat.

Samant chuckled and shook his head. “I had to get away from my office. The work has been most frustrating as of late.”

Jain looked incredulous. “But, you’re on shore duty now. Why are you coming in on a Sunday? The weather is glorious, you should be on the golf course!”

Samant looked rueful and depressed. “It’s very bad, Maahir. The project office is so damn dysfunctional. I’ve been in every weekend since I was assigned, trying to make some sense of what had been done, and what still needs doing. I’m still not entirely sure what my predecessor did during the two years he was in the post. I’ve managed to get things moving again, but it’s been slow going. I’m not sure what my people hope for more: our being successful or me suffering a heart attack!”

Jain roared with laughter. Samant found he liked the sound. “I see that the great Captain Samant hasn’t changed his stripes!”

“True,” Samant said with a grin and a shrug. “But I see you have.” He reached over and brushed some dust off one of Jain’s new epaulettes. “Congratulations, Commander.”

“Thank you, sir. But I owe this promotion to your gentle tutelage.” Jain smiled sheepishly.

“Gentle? As I recall, I flogged your ass on a regular basis!” teased Samant.

“Yes, sir, you did. Fortunately, the trousers hide the calluses.” Both men laughed heartily, and Samant took another friendly swipe at Jain. It felt good to be back with his old boat.

“Would you like to take a quick tour, sir?” inquired Jain. “I know the crew would appreciate seeing you again. You have been missed. Besides, you look a little homesick.” The smart-ass grin on his face utterly failed to hide the delight Jain felt at razzing his former captain.

Samant rolled his eyes. “Maahir, you’d make a lousy poker player. And while your observation may be correct, you are to repeat it to no one. I do have my reputation to consider.”

“Of course, sir, not a word to any living soul.” The twinkle in Jain’s eye said otherwise. “I’ll inform the sentry that you’ll be up shortly.”

“You’re a cruel man, Captain,” Samant grumbled playfully. “But, thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir,” replied Jain. “Oh, and one more thing. Don’t expect it to be very tidy on board. These shipyard workers are absolute pigs!”

It was now Samant’s turn to chuckle; he knew exactly how Jain felt. Still, it was a little surreal hearing his own words coming from his former first officer. A feeling of satisfaction came over Samant when he returned Jain’s departing salute. As the young captain ran off to his next appointment, Samant turned and walked toward the dock’s wing-wall ladder. He forced himself to walk slowly, holding the excitement he felt inside.

The sentry post was manned by one of the crew’s junior officers and a petty officer. Both were happy to see their old captain, and after a casual check of his ID card, Samant was allowed on board. Climbing down the ladder into central post, he was suddenly overwhelmed by memories, as well as the smell of burnt welding flux and ozone. The space was very crowded, noisy, and hot. Trying to stay out of the workers’ way, he scooted over to the Omnibus combat system consoles. Looking down at the operator’s panel, he saw that the cover plate in the upper left-hand corner on both consoles had been removed and a number of wires now protruded from the openings. It was the exact same panel section that Petrov had shown him earlier.

Samant leisurely surveyed the area, as if trying to relive some past event. He noticed that everyone else was focusing on the ship control and engineer’s stations on the other side of the central post. Slowly, he took his smartphone from his pocket, and after making sure the flash was disabled, quickly took a number of photos of the alterations to the consoles. Pausing briefly to check the results, he repocketed the phone and made his way to the first compartment.

There were far fewer people in the torpedo room, and after chatting with a number of his former crewmen for a few minutes, he went forward to look at the tubes. Acting as if he were doing a routine inspection, Samant went over them as he had done numerous times before. In the background, he could hear some of his men snickering. If they wanted to think their old captain was taking a walk down memory lane, that was fine by him. He opened the wiring junction box for tubes one and three, and feeling behind the circuit board, found the connectors that Petrov had told him about. Samant also noted that there were wires attached to those connectors. Grunting his approval, he finished his normal inspection and proceeded to visit the remaining compartments. Partly because Samant wanted to be true to the story he was creating, and partly because he wanted to see more of his crew. Jain was right; he was homesick.

Refreshed, Samant left the graving dock and headed down the street toward the submarine artificer’s shop. The tour of Chakra was an unexpected but welcomed opportunity, but his primary reason for coming to the shipyard was to find out what he could about the new Russian UGST-M torpedoes. Walking down the narrow street between the workshops, he was surprised by just how crowded it was. For a Sunday, the activity throughout this part of the shipyard was very heavy, almost frantic. Dhankhar must have put the fear of the gods into everyone involved with Chakra’s refit. As he strode into the main weapons shop, Samant immediately picked out the loud voice of the chief weapons officer shouting orders to his men. Commander Fali Gandhi was a ragged-looking, gray-haired engineer in charge of all submarine tactical weapons. A vicious purist, he would have nothing to do with those “abominations of DRDO” — ballistic missiles.

Many years Samant’s senior, Gandhi was nonetheless junior to him in rank. The grizzled, outspoken engineer had often come into conflict with senior officers, and his lack of decorum had adversely affected his chances of promotion. And yet, no one would dream of replacing him… he was that good, and Samant held a deep respect for the man’s abilities. Every weapon Samant took into battle performed exactly as it should, not one failure during his entire patrol. Gandhi had personally assured him that every weapon had been thoroughly checked and had passed muster. He was also quick to accept responsibility if any of the weapons failed to run properly. Aiming them correctly was Samant’s job.

“Commander Gandhi!” shouted Samant. “May I have a word with you, please?”

The older man spun about. A huge grin flashed on his face. “Ah, Captain Samant! What brings you to my workshop on this beautiful Sunday morning? Don’t have anything else better to do?”

Samant just shook his head; for the second time that morning he’d been implicitly accused of having misplaced priorities. “Why is it that everyone assumes that one’s personal work habits have to change when they are on shore duty?”

Gandhi smiled broadly. “Because, my good Captain, they usually do. Your predecessor, Captain Palan, certainly had no problems taking up residency at the East Point Golf Club.”

“I don’t play golf,” snipped Samant.

“Ooh, that’s heresy, Captain.”

“Do you play, Fali?” Samant shot back smugly.

“No, sir, I don’t have the patience for the game. I find it aggravating to hit a ball, lose it, only to hit it and lose it again.”

“That makes two of us. Now can I ask you some torpedo questions?”

“Ah, my favorite topic. But let’s go to my office, it’s too damn noisy out here.”

Samant followed the engineer to the back of the workshop, to a small glass-enclosed space with a single desk, a chair, and numerous filing cabinets. Precariously stacked manuals and drawings lay on almost every available horizontal surface. Gandhi wasn’t very apologetic. “Please forgive the clutter, but this is a workshop, not a fancy corporate office. Tea, sir?”

“No, thank you,” replied Samant as he looked for a place to sit. Gandhi noted this and simply reached over and swept a stack of manuals off the chair.

“Your questions, sir?”

“I understand you have received some UGST-M torpedoes, I was wondering about your first impressions.”

Gandhi leaned on the desk, thinking. “Well, Captain, it started out very rough, five of the first twelve failed their diagnostic tests; that was mid-February. Our admiral was none too happy about that and he yanked the Russians hard to fix the problem. So far it seems to be working. I should have twenty-four weapons ready for Chakra by her departure date.

“As for the weapon itself, it’s got a little more range than the UGSTs we have now. The seeker is supposedly better, but I can’t confirm that until I get some in-water test runs. When that will occur has yet to be determined. Why do you ask?”

Samant leaned forward, rubbing his hands. “I’m working on the next class of nuclear submarines and I can’t get a straight answer from DRDO on our torpedo procurement plans.”

“There’s a surprise!” grumbled Gandhi. “They’re still trying to re-create the German SUT torpedo thirty-plus years after the Germans produced it! DRDO’s foolishness is why we are in negotiations to buy the German Sea Hake.”

“I agree, but I need to look at all our options, which means I need to consider Russian weapons as well.”

“Of course. But you do realize, sir, that the Russian torpedoes are considerably longer than NATO standard weapons? That will cause your designers a lot of grief, I would think.”

“Yes, Fali, I’m well aware of that. And while I don’t think it’s likely, I still need to have a rough design of a torpedo room to accommodate a weapon of this size. The powers that be will have to make the decision.”

Gandhi nodded his understanding. “So what do you need from me, sir?”

“How about some good information on the UGST-M?” Samant smiled. “I can’t have my designers working off of sales brochure data. Also, I’d like to get a quick understanding of the acceptance process, just in case I need to add extra time to the acquisition timeline.”

The old engineer smiled, waved his hand, gesturing for Samant to come to the desk. Gandhi pointed at a large open logbook. “Here are the records for the first shipment of UGST-M torpedoes; there are thirty-six in all. These seven have failed testing and need to go back to Mother Russia. This next set of nineteen weapons has completed the new testing protocol and has been accepted. These five are currently in the testing process with the Russian contractor. This last five…”

“Petrov?” asked Samant innocently.

“No, no, he’s in charge of the work on the boat itself. He has nothing to do with weapons. No, a fellow named Orlav does the torpedo work. I almost never see him now; he’s kind of a hermit over in Torpedo Shop Two. I check in on him every now and then.”

“I take it he’s a busy chap.”

“Very,” grunted Gandhi. “Vice Admiral Dhankhar’s revised torpedo acceptance criteria are extensive and they take a lot of time to complete. The Russians are under the gun to have twenty-four weapons ready, they have eight days left.” A devilish smirk popped on his face. “The ‘Old Man’ isn’t giving them a millimeter of wiggle room, he’s holding them to the letter of the contract.”

Gandhi then pulled out the writing shelf on his desk, closed the logbook and shifted it over. Underneath was a thick binder. “This, my dear Captain, is a technical manual for the UGST-M torpedo. You may borrow this for however long you may need it.”

Samant eagerly grabbed the manual, but soon frowned. He opened it, and then let out an exasperated sigh.

“Something wrong, sir?” asked Gandhi. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“I don’t suppose you have this manual in Hindi? Or even English, Commander?” snarled an irritated Samant.

“But I thought you could read Russian, sir?”

“Yes, I can, with some effort. But my designers do not, and I’m not about to read them bedtime stories so they can do their work!”

The engineer started laughing, and even Samant had to reluctantly smile. Gandhi was willing to help; he just had to have a little fun at Samant’s expense. “Wait a moment, sir. I think I can find something that’ll work for you. Just stay here, I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you, Fali.” Samant grimaced.

Still chuckling, Gandhi left his office. As soon as he was out of sight, Samant quickly reopened the logbook to the UGST-M entries and removed his smartphone. After checking to see if anyone was watching, he took photos of the serial numbers and the arrival and transfer dates to Shop Number Two of the five torpedoes still being worked on. He then noticed a new note card taped to the writing shelf. It had a list of five-number sets and what was probably part of a building number. Thinking that they could be access codes, he took a photo, just in case, and put his phone away. Samant then closed the logbook, pulling it over so it covered the note card, and opened the Russian-language tech manual. Gandhi returned less than a minute later.

“Here you go, Captain. The diagrams aren’t as good as the Russian version, but the text is far more readable.”

“Thank you, Fali, I’m sure this will be fine. What my designers need are the numbers; the diagrams are an added benefit. I’ll have my people copy the necessary data immediately and I’ll have this back to you later this week.”

Gandhi waved his hand. “Take your time, sir. We have a few more in the shop to support the work I still need to do.”

Samant thanked the engineer again, shook his hand, and departed with the technical manual. Walking quickly, he made his way back to his office; he had to download the photos from his phone and make copies for Petrov. Samant’s spirit was buoyed; he thought for sure that he now had some of the evidence the Americans had been asking for.

Petrov turned into the parking lot of the Russian Hostel very late. The hydraulic system testing had taken much longer than anticipated, and by the time he’d returned to his temporary home, all the parking spots were full. Frustrated, he headed down the street to the overflow lot two blocks away. Still nervous from the attempted attack the night before, Petrov carefully scanned the streets and buildings as he drove slowly by. He hoped he’d be safer on the base than out and around the busy streets beyond the gates, but he couldn’t be sure of that.

As he pulled into the parking space, Petrov killed the lights immediately, but took his time shutting off the engine and getting out of the car. He needed time for his eyes to become night-adapted. The lighting for the next three hundred meters or so was fairly dim, with only an occasional streetlight providing some illumination. He locked the car and started walking, but instead of using the sidewalk, Petrov walked in the street, his right hand tightly grasping a can of Mace spray.

He forced himself to keep his pace casual. If he looked confident, perhaps that would deter a would-be attacker. Besides, walking slowly meant he made less noise, and that gave him a better chance of hearing someone approaching him. It didn’t take long to pass by the first intersection, although to Petrov it seemed like an unbearably slow process. Soon he was more than halfway to the hostel, and he started to think that maybe he was just imagining things, his nerves rattled by the stress he was under.

Suddenly, there was the sound of gravel crunching underfoot behind him and to his left. As he turned, there was a hard jab on his left rib cage; he heard the fabric of his overalls being ripped. The blow pushed him toward the building to his right; struggling to keep his footing, Petrov pivoted and tried to run, but his assailant grabbed his left shoulder and spun him about. The man’s face was hidden in the shadows, and he was totally silent. Petrov could barely hear him breathing. He struck again, this time landing a solid thrust to Petrov’s rib cage by his heart. The pain was intense and Petrov thought he heard a cracking sound, but the protective stab vest held and the blade was deflected.

Surprised, the assailant hesitated, momentarily confused that his victim hadn’t fallen to the ground. Petrov took advantage of the delay, raised the can of Mace and blasted the contents into the attacker’s eyes just a few inches away. The man only grunted in agony, but the shock caused him to lift his hands, allowing Petrov to break loose. Despite the pain, the attacker doggedly continued his assault. But with his eyesight impaired, and in the darkness, his attacks became undisciplined — wild, slashing wherever he thought his target might be. Petrov was able to dodge or deflect these less-precise thrusts, and after a particularly wide swing, he turned again to try and escape. Unfortunately, the man got hold of Petrov’s left arm and bodily yanked him closer. And even though Petrov was about the same size as his attacker, the latter was far stronger, and Petrov just couldn’t get away.

As he was spun around, Petrov tried to use momentum to his advantage, and threw a vicious right hook at the man’s face. The blow connected on his assailant’s jaw, but it seemed to have little effect. Once again, the man only grunted. But between the assailant’s forceful yank and Petrov’s swing, the Russian engineer’s left foot slipped out from underneath him. Both men were already badly off balance and fell, with Petrov slamming into the asphalt on his left side. The badly bruised areas of his rib cage screamed their displeasure as he bounced. The attacker, being above him at the start of the fall, flew over Petrov and hit the curb. Petrov heard a dull thwack, like a coconut hitting a hard surface, followed by a raspy gurgling sound.

Staggering to his feet, Petrov had no intention of seeing if his attacker was alive, and he took off down the street toward the hostel’s entrance. He slowed to a fast walk as he rounded the corner into the light and slowly pushed the lobby door open. The night manager was busy looking at his computer screen and hardly noticed a thing as Petrov walked to the stairwell. Once inside his room, Petrov locked and bolted the door. His heart was beating like a scared rabbit’s and he found himself struggling to breathe normally; his body shook uncontrollably.

Slowly, painfully, he took off his shredded overalls and the protective vest. There were deep gouges in two of the left panels, and he had two huge bruises on his left chest and side. Petrov then opened the refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of vodka. Sitting down on his bed, he took several deep swigs and tried to make sense of what had just happened. That someone wanted him dead was beyond doubt, but who? His assailant wasn’t an Indian; the man was white and large. Petrov suspected he was a Russian, or possibly Eastern European, but that didn’t answer the fundamental question of who wanted him dead. Could it have been the SVR agent, Ruchkin? He certainly would’ve been trained in hand-to-hand fighting. Petrov desperately tried to remember how big Ruchkin had been, and whether or not that vague memory matched the shadowy image of his attacker. Nothing made sense.

He fished his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Samant. The phone rang several times before a sleepy voice answered in Hindi, “Hello?”

“Girish, it’s me, Aleksey, I was just attacked near the Russian Hostel. I think it was the same man that tried yesterday.”

Petrov heard bedding being pulled rapidly aside. “Are you all right, Aleks?”

“I’ve got some ugly bruises, but otherwise in one piece. And thank you. The protective vest you gave me saved my life.” Petrov paused as he took another sip. “Girish, I think I may have killed a man tonight.”

“What!? How!?”

Petrov gave a quick summation of the attack, how well the vest worked, the Mace, and the lucky fall that allowed him to escape, and possibly killed his assailant. “…it sounded like his head hit something very hard, and then there was a nasty gurgling sound. I didn’t stay to see how badly he was hurt, or if he was even alive. I just ran for my life.”

“By the gods, you are a fortunate man!” said Samant, sounding shocked. “Where are you now?”

“I’m in my room at the Russian Hostel. Do you think I’m safe here?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore, Aleks, but it’s clear they know where to find you. And your attacker was able to get on the base.” Samant paused briefly as he considered their options. The situation was beginning to spiral out of control. Finally, he broke the silence and said, “I’m coming over now to pick you up. You should be safer here in my flat. Pack all the things you wore tonight into a bag, and don’t forget the Mace spray. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

An angry sigh hissed past Dhankhar’s lips as he paged through the security report. Two bodies had been found within the base’s perimeter earlier that morning. Both were white males, probably Russian, and both had serious knife wounds to the chest. One was found over by the graving dock, facedown in a shallow basin, the other by the Russian Hostel. Neither body had any identification, but the second one had nearly fifteen thousand rupees in his pocket. There were photos of the dead men’s faces attached to the back of the report. One man had a particularly horrid gash on his forehead. Shaking his head in frustration, he whispered a single word, “Kirichenko!”

The admiral grabbed his cell phone and punched up the Russian’s number, grumbling that the man had better answer this time. Remarkably, Dhankhar heard Kirichenko’s voice after the third ring. “Yes.”

“Mr. Kirichenko, this is Vice Admiral Dhankhar. Just what manner of mischief are you raising on my naval base?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Admiral, has there been some trouble?”

“Trouble?” Dhankhar asked incredulously. “I would call the discovery of two dead men, very likely Russian nationals, within the base perimeter trouble. Is this the work of your man, Churkin?”

“Quite possibly,” replied Kirichenko coolly. “Jascha told me yesterday that he had been following a Russian national that was poking his nose into places where he shouldn’t. Do you have any identifying information on these men? Photos perhaps?”

Dhankhar was amazed at how calm Kirichenko’s voice was; the news was nothing more than a trivial incident to him, a matter of course in his business marketing death. “Yes, there are photos of the two individuals. Stand by while I send them to you.”

The admiral pulled up the electronic copy of the report, deleted all the text and sent the photos to Kirichenko’s anonymous e-mail account. “There, you should have them shortly. According to the security report, both men probably died from a single knife wound to the chest.”

“Well, that certainly sounds like Churkin,” admitted Kirichenko. “He prefers using a blade over any type of firearm. Ah, there is the e-mail.”

There was a brief silence over the phone as Kirichenko looked over the photographs. After a few seconds, Dhankhar heard him take a deep breath, followed by a hushed, “Well, that represents an unfortunate complication.”

“What? What is it?”

“The second photo is Churkin,” replied Kirichenko flatly.

“Churkin? How is this possible? Wasn’t he a commando?”

“Yes, Spetsnaz, and quite skilled at hand-to-hand combat. He was convinced that Petrov was getting too close to our operation, asking too many questions. Jascha was planning on taking him out, making it look like a mugging.”

“Could this Petrov have defeated Churkin?”

“Ridiculous!” Kirichenko exclaimed. There was a hint of insult in his voice. “Captain Petrov was a submariner, not a special operations soldier. There is nothing that I know of in his past that even suggests he had anything but a rudimentary knowledge of self-defense. It’s far more likely Churkin misidentified someone he thought was Petrov who possessed the skills to kill him.”

“What about the other man?” questioned Dhankhar. “The photo doesn’t match Petrov’s security badge picture.”

“I don’t know who it is. But it would be prudent to run the photo through your database of Russian nationals working on Chakra’s refit.”

Dhankhar bristled at the obvious suggestion. “I’m sure the naval police are working on that as we speak. I’ll be sure to keep you apprised of their findings. What do we do about Petrov?”

Kirichenko sighed. “If you can find a way to arrest him, or even detain him, that would be helpful. Unfortunately, I can’t think of a good reason to justify his arrest without drawing unwanted attention to Churkin. He had access to the naval base under an alias that was approved by your office.”

“I can revoke Petrov’s access to the base. Claim he’s under investigation for fraud or some other petty crime.”

“Which would only have the effect of confirming some of his suspicions and pushing him to blather what he knows to the Russian embassy. No, he hasn’t said anything because he’s either unsure of what he knows, or he lacks enough proof to get anyone to listen to him. It would be better if you just overload his schedule with administrative meetings and reports — keep him busy. How soon before Chakra leaves the graving dock?”

“We are to float her out in two days,” responded Dhankhar.

“You may want to think about moving your deployment date up a bit,” Kirichenko suggested. “You may be running out of time.”

“I’ll consider your recommendation, but I find it hard to believe that you are all that concerned about my mission. I think you’re just worried about being paid, Mr. Kirichenko.”

“That too, Admiral. But it’s considered bad business practice to leave behind unhappy customers. I have a contract to keep, and you have my word that I shall fulfill all the requirements.”

“Very well, then. Besides moving up the departure date, what do you suggest we do now?”

“Keep on course, and see if Orlav can speed things up a bit. I was planning on coming out to the base tomorrow to check in on his work. But given these recent events, I’ll be there this afternoon.”

After hanging up, Dhankhar sat quietly contemplating his options — there weren’t many. While his scheme hadn’t been exposed, yet, the chances of this happening were growing, all because of a curious Russian. But his problems weren’t due to just a single Russian. No, this whole debacle was because Kirichenko and his people were sloppy. First, they lost control of a nuclear weapon that the fools in Pakistan accidentally set off, and now Kirichenko’s right-hand man, a Spetsnaz commando, lay dead in the base morgue.

Every misstep caused more eyes to look his way, and yet Operation Vajra depended on absolute stealth. Dhankhar finally admitted to himself that he needed outside assistance if he was to successfully contain this latest disaster. He also had to find a way to rein in this Petrov, who appeared to suspect what was going on. Perhaps Churkin was correct. Petrov was getting too close and in the name of stealth, he had to disappear, one way or another.

Dhankhar grabbed his cell phone again and looked up the number to the Vajra contact at the Central Bureau of Investigation. He hit the call button and waited impatiently while the phone rang.

“Deputy Director Thapar,” answered the voice.

“Ijay, Badu Dhankhar, I have a serious situation at Vizag and I need your assistance.”

Dhankhar marched past the sentry, slowing just enough to return the guard’s salute. After punching in the five-digit access code, the admiral yanked on the door and went inside. It was dark in the workshop, but he could see Orlav working under bright lights at the far end. As Dhankhar approached, it was clear that Orlav hadn’t left the building since that first night after he’d been restricted to the base. The man was disheveled and looked like he hadn’t showered in a few days. Orlav saw the Indian admiral enter and didn’t even bother to wait for his routine question.

“I’m just about finished with this weapon, Admiral. I have a few things left to install, then I can program the date and that’ll be it. I still have those two weapons to modify, but I don’t see any problems having all five torpedoes ready by April tenth.”

“Very good, Mr. Orlav. I’m pleased to hear your task is progressing well.”

Orlav smiled slightly, then looked down into the torpedo’s innards, away from Dhankhar’s gaze. “Sir, I would really like to get a good night’s sleep in my own bed, and a shower. It’s getting tiresome being cooped up here in the workshop every day. And I still need to do the final control console installation on board Chakra.”

“I understand your discomfort, Mr. Orlav. But your safety is of greater importance to me. Churkin is dead,” announced Dhankhar bluntly.

Stunned, Orlav dropped the screwdriver he was holding and staggered away from the torpedo. “D… dead!? How!?”

“He was stabbed. His body was found this morning over by the Russian Hostel. We have no idea who killed him, so I think it’s best that you stay here for the time being. However, I’m concerned about the combat system consoles. How much time do you need to finish the installation?”

Orlav was still wide-eyed, his face radiating fear; it took him a couple of seconds to respond. “I… I need about two, maybe three hours to install the keypads and then conduct circuit checks in the torpedo compartment.”

Dhankhar nodded. “Very well, I’ll have a guard escort you to Chakra during the night shift so you can complete your work; there are fewer people on board during that shift. Then afterwards, perhaps we can swing by your bungalow long enough for you to take a shower.”

“Thank you, sir,” quavered Orlav.

“You are almost done, Mr. Orlav. In another week, you’ll be somewhere in South America or the Caribbean enjoying the fruits of your labors.” Dhankhar smiled and patted Orlav on the shoulder. “It’s just a little longer. By the way, Kirichenko will be paying you a visit later. Good day, Mr. Orlav.”

Dhankhar didn’t even wait for Orlav’s reply and walked quickly to the door. After making sure the lock had engaged, the admiral turned to the sentry, pulled a photograph from his pocket, and handed it to the petty officer. “From this point forward, only myself and Kirichenko may enter this workshop. No one else is allowed access, is that clear?”

“Absolutely, Admiral,” replied the sailor.

“Very good. Oh, if anyone is particularly obstinate and refuses to comply with your warnings, shoot them.”

Orlav sat dazed and sweating in a near panic. Churkin had been killed. He couldn’t imagine anyone beating the former Spetsnaz commando in a fight — he’d seen him in more than a few barroom brawls. The man could be totally vicious. The Russian engineer struggled with the news of his colleague’s death. It wasn’t that Orlav liked Churkin; on the contrary, he hated the man. But he also feared him. Churkin was a thug — pure muscle, incapable of doing anything but providing security or convincing someone to pay their bills. Kirichenko had found him useful, but that didn’t matter anymore because Churkin was dead.

Shuffling back to the weapon, Orlav tried to get back to work, but his mind just wasn’t on the job. He made slow progress, mumbling to himself over and over again that he couldn’t believe Churkin was dead. Then, as he was installing one of the last cover plates, a stray thought wandered into his mind: If someone had killed Churkin, then that could only mean they were on to them — and that he could be next! Horror filled Orlav as he realized that the only thing standing between him and a trained assassin was the young guard out front.

In total dismay, Orlav threw the ratchet set on the floor and ran over to his makeshift bed. He grabbed the overnight bag he’d brought and started stuffing his personal gear into it; he’d leave nothing behind that could be linked to him. Then he remembered that he’d touched all the tools. Frantically, he finished stuffing the bag and was just about to begin wiping off the tools when a stern voice shot out of the darkness.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

Orlav stood, shaking, as Kirichenko came into the light. “Yur… Yuri, we need to get out of here! It’s no longer safe!”

“And you think that by running away this will make the situation better? Really, Evgeni, you need to calm down and start thinking this insane course of action through.”

“Insane! Yuri! Someone killed Churkin! Who but another assassin could have done that!” screamed Orlav.

“Possibly, but do you honestly believe you’ll be safer running away from this base? Where would you go? And by doing so, you’d not only have this unknown assassin, but also Dhankhar looking for you with very evil intentions. No, my friend, your chances of survival would be essentially zero. Now, put the bag down and finish your work.”

“Yuri, it isn’t worth it. They aren’t paying us enough to do this work, under these conditions,” whimpered Orlav. The man was about to break.

“You need to take a longer view, Evgeni. We have many more weapons to sell, and we have several good leads. However, if it will make you feel better, I won’t offer your services as a modification specialist. The buyer takes receipt of the weapons as they are, no repackaging.

“Oh, and as far as payment is concerned, you’re forgetting that Churkin’s failure means he won’t be collecting his portion. I’m sure a fifty percent increase going into your pockets will compensate you for these extraordinary circumstances.”

Orlav’s eyes widened. He hadn’t even thought about that. The allure of that extra cash was just too enticing. He dropped the bag and headed back to the workbench.