Fatal Thunder

10 LAWBREAKERS

It had rained earlier, and Petrov had hoped it would give them some cover, but it stopped at half past midnight, leaving air that seemed even more humid and sticky than before. He fought the urge to creep or slip from shadow to shadow, and also the feeling that they were being foolish.

Samant had it right, Petrov decided. Choose your path and don’t look back. The Indian was slightly in the lead as the two walked toward the torpedo shop where Orlav had been working. Petrov was following Samant’s lead mentally as well as physically. They needed hard information, and this was the only place to get it.

Petrov had called in sick that day, complaining of severe cramps and a long night that had left him feeling “cleaned out and miserable.” The Indian clerk that took the call joked that he might have eaten something a little too hot for his weak Russian stomach. Petrov remarked that it had less to do with too much spice and more about questionable sanitation. Either way, he wouldn’t be in till later in the day, if at all. He did, however, leave specific instructions for the duty foreman to phone him if Orlav showed up on Chakra. He got the call a little after midnight.

The sentry, a corporal, had been relieved an hour earlier, and was still wide awake. If he was surprised at seeing a senior naval officer in the yard at that hour, he hid it well. But Circars was a busy place, and work never stopped, especially now.

As Samant approached, the corporal said formally, “Good evening, sir. State your business.” He’d moved his rifle from slung to port arms, certainly not pointing at anyone, but ready for use. He never got the chance. As the soldier finished his challenge, Samant quickly brought up the can of Mace and sprayed him full in the face.

The corporal had been exercising proper trigger discipline, and Samant’s other hand grabbed his forefinger, and pulled his hand away from the trigger and, incidentally, the grip stock. Petrov, stepping up from behind Samant, grabbed the barrel near the muzzle and twisted the weapon out of the sentry’s grasp.

Choking, eyes burning with pain, the soldier could barely breathe, much less resist the two. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen to the ground if Samant had not pushed him back against the wall.

As Samant supported the soldier’s limp form, Petrov slung the rifle and pulled out a large plastic cable tie and bound the guard’s hands. A short strip of duct tape would keep him quiet. With the soldier secured, Samant pulled out his smartphone and pulled up his photo library.

“This is why those obnoxious security officers keep nagging us not to write down passwords,” he whispered softly in Russian, a cynical smile on his face. “Someone might see them and copy them.” He then quickly punched in the five-digit code for Building 2 with his gloved hands. It didn’t work the first time, and the lock’s display flashed twice. Forcing himself to slow down, Samant pressed the sequence again, and they both heard a satisfying, but surprisingly loud, “clack” as the door unlocked and opened.

Samant and Petrov dragged the limply struggling soldier inside, and Petrov dashed back around the corner to retrieve the bag with their gear.

As the heavy door closed behind them, Petrov found and hit the light switch. In bright illumination, their world expanded from a few nearby shadows to a large workshop. He could see benches, tools, and the bodies of disassembled torpedoes, but he fought the urge to investigate. Their first order of business was their prisoner.

Neither of them had said much since approaching the sentry, and Samant now reminded Petrov with one word: “Chair.” He spoke in Russian. They’d agreed to use Russian as much as possible, in the hope that the soldier didn’t speak the language.

Samant quickly bound the guard’s feet with another cable tie, while Petrov brought over a battered metal chair. Together they hoisted the corporal onto it in a sitting position. A few bungee cords and some more duct tape held him upright, as well as in the chair, and Petrov looped a couple of the bungee cords from the chair to a nearby pipe.

Petrov, also wearing gloves, pulled the man’s head back and, still speaking Russian, said, “Hold still, I’m going to wash your face off.” This was a test to see if the sentry understood Russian. He showed no reaction, coughing and shaking his head as if trying to clear his eyes.

Samant pulled out a water bottle, rinsed the sentry’s face and eyes, still tightly shut. He pulled the tape back carefully and then held the bottle to the guard’s mouth. Samant ordered, “Rinse your mouth and spit,” in Hindi. He let the soldier take a pull from the bottle, then quickly stepped to one side as the corporal spat it out toward Samant’s earlier position.

“You will be better soon,” he said, again in Hindi, and added as he replaced the tape, “Your eyesight will also return.” As a final touch, Petrov pulled a cloth bag out of the duffel, and placed it over the soldier’s head.

With their victim secured and safe, Petrov joined Samant as the two stood and surveyed the interior of the building. Samant had been inside this workshop many times before, and was familiar with its layout. Petrov had seen similar spaces in Russia, and the UGST-M torpedoes made it feel almost like home.

“I see only two torpedoes,” Petrov observed in Russian.

“No surprises there, the modifications are probably done on the others and they’re locked up somewhere,” Samant replied. “I’ll start with the workbench.”

“And I’ll take a closer look at the torpedoes.”

The two UGST-M torpedoes sat disassembled in their dollies. They were massive machines, over twenty-three feet long and weighing over two tons. Moving at fifty knots, they’d do considerable damage to a vessel without the warhead, but the 650 pounds of high explosive they carried would cripple all but the largest vessels.

The warhead wasn’t in the nose, though. That first two feet of the torpedo was separated from the rest of the weapon and was reserved for the sonar homing system in the flattened nose, and the weapon’s computer. The acoustic seeker could listen passively for the right combination of sounds, or send out active pings to search for a contact. The computer was programmed to dig out the tiniest of echoes from a noisy environment littered with countermeasures and decoys. It was smart enough that the torpedo could be described as a killer robot with fins.

The warhead section was missing on the two torpedoes. An empty space almost five feet long showed where the warhead module had been removed. The monofuel propellant tanks, power supply, and propulsion system were all joined together in the larger section that was behind the empty space. Petrov quickly found the nameplate data on the two torpedoes and took photographs with a digital camera. The serial numbers matched two of the weapons that Samant had obtained from the base’s torpedo shop.

Petrov then spotted five wooden packing crates lined up along one wall, painted dull gray with large white warnings stenciled in Cyrillic — “Corrosive.” The crates were empty but the wooden supports inside suggested a single large object that was conical in shape. He took several more photos of the crate’s interior and exterior before returning to the torpedoes themselves.

The two torpedo warhead sections sat on the workbench. One of the sections was still empty, but the other had been fitted with a metal framework, bright with machining or scorched black from welding. It was crude work, and Petrov saw Samant examining similar components on a large workbench against the wall. The Indian picked up a half-finished framework and walked over to Petrov.

Silently, the Russian pointed into the torpedo, and Samant held it in the cavity, nodding. “This is how they will mount the device,” he said softly. Petrov had his camera out, and took photos of the warhead sections, and especially the metal framework.

Petrov didn’t have a clue as to what the guts of a nuclear warhead would look like, but he didn’t see anything that was the right size and shape to fit in the modified torpedo warhead section. They’d accomplished much in the first five minutes, but now they spent another fifteen quickly checking every part of the work area. They even searched the corner that Orlav had used as a living area, not that he’d hide a nuclear bomb under his cot.

Finally, Samant pointed to the overhead crane. One spur of the rail ran from where the crates had been opened. Pointing silently, Samant then traced the rails straight to a very solid-looking door ten feet high and eight feet wide. “Storage for the completed torpedoes?” Petrov asked. Samant nodded. If the nukes were anywhere, they were in there.

Just on the remote chance it might work, Samant tried the same code that had opened the door to the shop, without success, then reversed it, tried adding and subtracting one, while Petrov took more photos and looked at his watch.

During the afternoon, they’d planned their break-in meticulously, as only a pair of submariners could. They’d both agreed that if they couldn’t get what they needed in half an hour, they wouldn’t get it at all. According to Petrov’s watch, they had about five minutes left. He tapped Samant on the shoulder and shook his head. The Indian shrugged and sighed, then headed back over to the workbench, rummaging for more clues.

Petrov took the other end, looking through a litter of tools, metal parts, and electronic components. Notes and sheets of paper were tacked up here and there, and he carefully arranged and photographed each one. A folder, half buried under a stack of electronics boxes, attracted his attention. Opening it, he immediately recognized a drawing of the junction box in Chakra’s torpedo room. “This is important. Help me with these.”

Samant came over and angled a work light to point at the folder, then pulled each sheet of paper out of the way when Petrov said he was ready. They were running late, if his watch was right.

“Done,” Petrov announced softly. He had just started to put the camera away when he noted a separate piece of folded-up paper tucked underneath the schematics. Petrov removed the crinkled paper and slowly opened it. Flattening it out and turning it around, the men leaned over to look at its contents — and no sooner had they begun reading than both drew a sharp breath. The paper held a list: Hong Kong, Shanghai, Dalian, Qingdao, and half a dozen more. All of them were Chinese ports, but this was a collection of the top ten busiest ports, the heart of China’s export economy.

Samant shook his head in awe. “The man is insane!” he whispered. “He’s not planning on attacking Pakistan, he’s going after China!”

Petrov stood overwhelmed as well, his mouth hanging open. He hadn’t had a clue that Dhankhar was planning anything so bold. The implications were staggering.

Samant waved his hands frantically at the paper. “Take a picture! Take a picture!” he exclaimed in a hushed voice. Petrov took a dozen, just to be safe. He then looked at his watch and saw that they had long overstayed their welcome. He pointed repeatedly at his wrist; Samant nodded and began refolding the paper and carefully putting it exactly where they’d found it.

While Samant put the folder back under the electronic boxes, Petrov took one last look around the room for anything useful. He was frustrated that they weren’t able to find and photograph the devices themselves, but the evidence was overwhelming that they were here, almost certainly in that locked vault. He and Samant had discussed the idea of sabotage. If they could damage the nukes, they’d at least delay the plotters, who were obviously on a tight schedule.

Theoretically, if they removed the right component, or bent the correct widget, they’d render the nuclear device unusable. But neither was expert enough to know exactly what to do. They both knew enough about nuclear weapons to know that they were fitted with anti-tamper circuits, and contained several kilograms of high explosive, used to start the nuclear reaction. If they fiddled with the wrong widget, they could trigger what was called a “low-order detonation” — no nuclear reaction, but a conventional explosion that would scatter bits of radioactive and toxic uranium and plutonium over a sizable part of the base, mixed with the two of them.

Their captive was silent, but was breathing, and occasionally testing his bonds. He’d be released when his relief discovered him at 0400. With a nod from Samant, Petrov opened the door and pretended to look like he was checking for rain before stepping out.

The coast was clear, no sign of anyone nearby. Samant followed. He turned the lights off so they didn’t draw attention to the building. The hooded prisoner wouldn’t know the difference.

Once out of the building, they set a brisk pace, and headed straight for the gate, five or six blocks away. After retrieving the camera from the duffel, Petrov tossed the bag into a trash dumpster. Next, he took the memory chip out of the camera and replaced it with an empty one.

Meanwhile, Samant used his cell phone to call the number Patterson had given him in their e-mail exchange yesterday. It was late afternoon in Washington, and he heard her answer on the second ring. “This is Patterson.”

“We have the proof. We will be at Cyberpatnam, the Internet café I mentioned in the e-mail.”

“I have the address. Stay there and keep a low profile. Someone will come for you. Call me back in an hour if they don’t.”

“Understood.”

The gate to the shipyard faced Port Main Road, and was four lanes wide. At this hour, there were only two uniformed soldiers on duty, both lounging near the guard shack in the center of the street. The two burglars waited for what seemed like years until a car turned in to the gate. With the guards distracted and their night vision degraded, Petrov and Samant forced themselves to walk at a normal pace across the short distance to the pedestrian exit. Then they were outside on the street. Petrov’s watch said 0155.

Samant’s Maruti sedan was parked in a small lot outside the shipyard, and Petrov only partly relaxed once they were moving. The police might be looking for this car, and if they’d had any distance to go, he would have worried more. But Cyberpatnam was just two miles to the east, back toward the business district. They’d already covered half the distance to the place, especially the way Samant was driving.

The area right around the shipyard was industrial, and there was little traffic at that time of night except for an occasional truck. At the halfway mark, they reached Convent Junction, a traffic circle and a major crossroads. The cross street, Port Gymkhana Club Road, neatly divided the industrial and business districts. Past that point, the roadside was lined with stores and offices, and the streets were still quite busy. Petrov was a little relieved, both for the anonymity of a crowd, and that traffic was actually moving freely. Daytime traffic in Vizag could be glacial.

As his tension eased, stray thoughts popped into Petrov’s mind. “I wish we could have done something to slow them down.”

“I managed to cause them some trouble,” Samant replied smugly as he drove.

“But the warheads were locked away.”

“Orlav won’t be able to do any work for a while, though.” Petrov could see him smiling broadly even in the dim light. “I cut the cords on all his power tools and took them with us in the duffel.”

Petrov laughed, imagining Orlav’s face when he saw Samant’s handiwork.

They had to park about a block away, but the nighttime crowds didn’t slow them at all. The café offered food as well as coffee and tea, and they paid for the drinks and snacks with a minimum of fuss; they also purchased some rental time on one of the café’s machines.

While Samant logged on, Petrov reinserted the valuable memory card and connected his camera to a USB port on the computer. They’d talked about what to do with the images for hours, and finally worked out a procedure: First they’d log onto a cloud file storage service account they’d established that afternoon; then they uploaded not only Petrov’s photographs but the ones Samant had taken earlier aboard Chakra and at the weapons depot. While the images were being uploaded, Samant drafted an e-mail to Jerry Mitchell and Joanna Patterson from a recently created e-mail address with the link to the account.

At Patterson’s express request, they did not send the pictures to the media or any official agency. Both Petrov and Samant had resisted at first, arguing for as wide a distribution as possible. She had pointed out, however, that Dhankhar and the others were still free to act, and Kirichenko, the man who had peddled the bombs, was still on the loose. The sound and fury that would follow from the disclosure of the plot to the public, or even to other government agencies, would only complicate their search for all the plotters. Patterson then appealed to their submariner nature, arguing that “running silent” was the best course of action — for now.

She also promised Samant that his government would be officially notified very soon, in a way Dhankhar could not interfere or control, and reassured Petrov that the Russian government would be fully informed. In the end, the two men agreed. After all, if the Americans didn’t come through, they’d still have the cloud storage sites, and the memory card.

After the first e-mail was sent, Petrov relaxed a little. The information was out there. He and Samant had done what they needed to do. He still kept looking at his watch, though, and had turned his chair so he could see the street. Samant was already uploading the photos on to a second, different cloud service.

Petrov didn’t know what to expect. The only thing he could be sure of was that whoever came through the door, it wouldn’t be the man who had tried to kill him twice. Samant had wondered aloud earlier if there might be someone new hunting for him now. In the movies, the second opponent was always much more dangerous than the first. And what if they sent more than one? After all, they didn’t know the size of the conspiracy. Those thoughts had not been helpful.

They were uploading the photos for a third time, to a cloud storage service in Germany, when two Caucasian men walked in. One was in his mid-thirties, and blond. The other was a little younger, with dark crew-cut hair. Both were dressed in jeans and casual shirts, but the younger man wore a jacket, in spite of the heat. They were obviously looking for someone. The younger man paused just inside the door, placing himself where he could see both the interior of the café and the street. The older man, after only a moment’s hesitation, headed toward Petrov and Samant.

Samant, focused on the keyboard, hadn’t seen them, and Petrov tapped him gently on one arm. “Company.” His tone carried a warning.

“I need two more minutes. Keep him occupied,” Samant said bluntly.

Petrov was determined to do just that, but couldn’t do more than stand and position himself between the approaching stranger and the seated Samant. The stranger didn’t appear threatening, and had both hands in sight. He wouldn’t try anything here, in a public place, would he?

The stranger, still looking directly at Petrov, reached around to his back. Petrov braced himself for some sort of attack. Lacking anything else, he slid a nearby chair in front of him. Of course, if the stranger had a gun…

There was a dark object in his hand, and while Petrov was still trying to recognize it, the stranger stopped, a good six feet away from Petrov and his defensive furniture.

“My name is Paul McFadden. I’m from the U.S. Consulate in Hyderabad.” He opened the object and offered it to Petrov. It was his identification, and Petrov had heard enough American-accented English to recognize it when it was spoken. Almost collapsing into the chair with relief, Petrov took the credentials with his left hand and offered his right. Mr. McFadden was assigned to the political-economic section of the consulate.

As they shook hands, McFadden said, “We have a car outside, and a long way to go.” Samant was standing up behind him, and handed Petrov the camera. McFadden turned and headed toward the door, with Petrov and Samant close behind. McFadden hadn’t introduced his companion, who waited until the other three had passed, eyes on the café, before going outside himself.

McFadden headed toward a well-used SUV, a dark green Tavera illegally parked in front of the café. A third man was waiting by the driver’s-side door. He was older, and also had the short haircut of a military man. He waited outside the car, scanning the street, until McFadden reached the door. By the time the others had belted in, they were moving. McFadden took his cell out, and after pressing a key, waited a moment, and then said, “We have them. We’re moving now.”

Sitting in the backseat, Petrov smiled and reached over to shake Samant’s hand. The Indian wasn’t smiling, though, and Petrov knew that his feelings were very different. Petrov had sought safety in a foreign land suddenly turned hostile. But however justified, Samant was collaborating with a foreign country against his own military. His future was uncertain, as was India’s, especially if the conspiracy succeeded. Samant might not be the type to regret his choices, but they came with an uncertain cost.

After a short conversation, McFadden put the cell phone away. “Once we’re out of town, the traffic will be light, and we should make good time. We should arrive at the consulate a little before noon. You should both try to get some sleep.”

“Can you please confirm that Dr. Patterson got our e-mails?”

“Yes, she told my boss that the files were being downloaded right now.”

The last bit of tension left him, and fatigue washed over Petrov. It would be a ten-hour drive to Hyderabad, and he thought he might sleep through all of it.

Cursing her lack of forethought, Patterson had commandeered a secure conference room after looking at the first few photos, bumping a legislative planning session, and probably whatever came after it. She’d had Allison Gray move operations down there, while her secretary Kathy started calling people.

President Myles walked in, unexpected and unannounced; the sudden quiet near the door caught her attention. She started to stand, along with everybody else in the room, but Myles motioned for them to sit down. “Back to work!” he said with a stern tone, but he was smiling.

Everyone else sat down, but Patterson broke off her conversation with the State Department rep and came over to where Myles was standing. “Mr. President, we’re preparing a briefing for you now…”

“If this information is as hot as it seems, minutes may count,” Myles answered. “I don’t need a polished briefing. From what you told me before, the information is definite.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Refreshingly so. I’ve spent the past hour calling in people from agencies all over the government. I’m asking them to find something that might suggest that these aren’t nuclear weapons.”

She gestured, sweeping her arm wide to include the entire room. “I’ve got people from the CIA and DIA, of course, but also state, energy, and defense.” She pointed to one corner, where a young man and woman were arguing over a laptop keyboard. “Those two are from the NSA and Homeland Security. Now that we’ve downloaded the photographs,” she paused, “several times, I might add, those two are in charge of deleting the accounts from the cloud and making sure nobody else has downloaded the photos.”

“What about the two men who took these?”

She glanced at the wall clock. “They’re still driving from Vizag to our consulate in Hyderabad. They won’t get there until about noon local time.”

“And they are out of any danger? And our people with them?”

“Aside from the hazards of traffic in India,” she answered, smiling.

“Good,” Myles replied. “Now, show me the photos.”

“Sir,” she protested, “we need to put these in context…”

“Which will take hours, or more likely days. Just show me what you got.”

She offered him a chair, sat down next to him, and pulled over her laptop so it sat between them. She led off, “There are fifty-seven photos in all, taken on board the Indian submarine Chakra, in the naval base’s main torpedo depot, and in the building where the torpedoes are being converted.”

It took longer than she’d like, almost twenty-five minutes. After the first fifteen minutes, he caught her glancing at the clock, and said, “I had Evangeline clear my schedule this evening.”

She frowned. “Won’t that attract some attention?”

“It may,” he admitted, looking around the room, “but I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to keep this under wraps. Are all these people now briefed into the compartment?”

Making a face, she answered, “Briefed, yes. We’re still catching up on the paperwork.”

“Good enough,” responded Myles. “Please continue.”

Patterson picked up where she had left off and highlighted the critical points in each photograph that supported Samant and Petrov’s theory. As she worked her way down to the last six pictures, she paused. “The last photos are the most disturbing, Mr. President, and are the key to Vice Admiral Dhankhar’s plot.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Yes, sir, that bad,” replied Patterson as she clicked to the next picture. Myles gazed at the image; within seconds the expression on his face transformed from curiosity to depression. He let out a long despairing sigh.

“He’s out of his mind!” Myles whispered. “Does he truly believe he can get away with nuking China?”

“If he could have kept it completely under wraps, how would the Chinese know who to blame? The forensic analysis would have shown them to be nuclear weapons from Russia or us, and given the Kashmiri explosion, everything would point to Russia. Would China attack Russia in response based on such scant evidence? Highly unlikely given the fact that Russia’s own retaliatory strike would obliterate China.

“No, sir, it is a very nicely packaged conspiracy. Nothing would explicitly point to India.”

“What are we talking about here as far as damage potential is concerned?”

“A detailed assessment is being worked on, but basically everything within four or five miles of ground zero will likely be leveled. The damage radius will be even greater, and given this is essentially a ground burst, the radioactive fallout could cover thousands of square miles.”

Myles sat stunned. “So what you’re saying is five of China’s busiest export ports would be eliminated, a very large chunk of her shipping capacity destroyed, along with considerable collateral damage. This would almost certainly cause her economy to collapse — the political upheaval would constitute a dire threat to the Communist Party’s hold on power.”

“Yes, Mr. President, that appears to be Dhankhar’s goal.”

President Myles stood, and then began pacing, rubbing his face with his hands. Finally, he took a deep breath, turned back toward Patterson, and asked, “So, where do we stand?”

“In addition to the damage assessment, I have the Navy working on possible avenues of approach to the targets, how fast Chakra could go without being easily detected. We also need to try and whittle down the target set. They only have five weapons; there are ten targets on the list. And finally—” She pointed over to another corner. “—Anne Shields from communications is already working on several draft responses for you: What if we catch them in time, what if we catch them but it’s not in time…”

Myles nodded. “So you’ve covered all the bases. What are your recommendations? I’ll understand if they’re a little on the rough side.”

“We have to get Petrov and Samant out of there. And we have to tell the Indians. Right away. Now. We know where the weapons are, and they need to go get them. Gloves off. Surround the base, send in troops. Arrest Dhankhar and Orlav, and this Kirichenko fellow if we can find him, and start squeezing them for answers.”

“Very reasonable,” he agreed. “I’ll phone Andy Lloyd after we’re done here.”

“Sir, I’m glad you’re willing to move so quickly on this, but there’s a lot of analysis…”

“And you’ve got everyone started nicely. Let them do their jobs. Your task now is to convince the Indians, just like you convinced the Russians, that there are bootleg nukes on one of their naval bases, that there’s a nuclear conspiracy in the highest levels of their military, and that if Chakra sails with those weapons aboard, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

This time they were meeting on ground of Dhankhar’s choosing. Already on the defensive over Churkin’s death, the Russian had agreed without argument to the admiral’s peremptory summons. Besides, with Churkin gone, Kirichenko had no one to canvass the meeting place before he arrived or watch for eavesdroppers. If Dhankhar thought it was safe, that would have to do. If Dhankhar had set a trap for him, there was little he could do to avoid it.

The admiral waited in the lobby, reading the morning’s copy of the Hindu, which in spite of its name was published in English. He was tempted to order a gin and tonic, but settled for tea.

Kirichenko was on time, thankfully. Dhankhar didn’t want to waste a lot of time on this. Chakra’s mission was actually supposed to trigger a chain of events, and as her sailing date neared, he needed to prepare for those actions. He refused to consider the idea that the plan they had all worked and risked so much for might never happen.

As the Russian approached, the admiral motioned toward the elevator. Dhankhar selected the top floor and the Infinity restaurant. He remained silent as the elevator ascended. When the doors opened, Kirichenko immediately felt better about the venue. The restaurant was a glass-enclosed space on top of the hotel that offered a phenomenal view of the Bay of Bengal. There were many tables open, as the lunch rush had just ended, and Dhankhar chose one close to the glass wall and well away from the remaining diners.

After Kirichenko sat, Dhankhar said simply, “The torpedo shop was broken into last night.”

“Wh—” Kirichenko managed to suppress his initial outburst, but the alarm and surprise showed on his face.

“Two men. They Maced the sentry and tied him up, then rummaged through the place. They sabotaged all the power tools as well. Orlav’s spending precious hours this morning scrounging replacements from all over the shipyard.”

Kirichenko listened uncomprehendingly, still digesting the news. Dhankhar could almost see the wheels turning as the information sank in. “If they saw what was in there…”

“Which they most certainly did, and quite likely photographed everything! Thank heaven the devices were in the secure storage vault. It was probably Petrov, with an Indian accomplice according to the guard; the man was in an Indian naval uniform — a captain. They probably tried to get into the vault, but evidently didn’t have the code. They did have the code for the door to the shop itself. They are resourceful,” he admitted.

Kirichenko said unbelievingly, “Discovery…”

“Discovery is the disaster we have all feared, and their actions were no doubt precipitated by your subordinate. As a security operative, Churkin was less than effective. In fact, our security became decidedly worse since his arrival. Did you know the other body found in the basin was the SVR agent, Ruchkin? I’ve been able to suppress the release of this information on the grounds that we can’t alert the criminal. But I can’t keep this hidden for very long, perhaps a week. I’ve also called in some favors from sympathetic friends. I have CBI looking for Petrov and his associate on presumed charges, but if they are as clever as they seem, it’s probably too late.” Dhankhar’s scowl deepened.

He gestured toward the newspaper and turned it so Kirichenko could see the front page. “In fact, I was just checking the front page of the Hindu for any articles about us. It would be quite the scoop!” His anger, so carefully controlled, finally surfaced, and he whipped the newspaper at the Russian, aiming for his face.

Kirichenko easily blocked the attack, but not the fury behind it. Dhankhar’s tirade had given him time to process the news and understand their very grave situation. His first fear wasn’t arrest or incarceration. There were few ties between him and the Indian conspiracy, and he was always ready for a quick escape.

But he couldn’t abandon the project. Without Dhankhar’s payment, he was out of business. His small network of informants and helpers depended on steady payments, or it would evaporate — or, worse, turn against him. He’d hoped to keep Churkin’s share of the money and put it to good use, but then he’d had to use half of it to keep that idiot Orlav in line. He’d done so much already, and was ready to do anything to get paid. He’d take care of Petrov and his accomplice himself.

Kirichenko asked, “Where are they now?”

“Out of sight, and well beyond your capabilities,” Dhankhar answered. “Don’t even think of attacking them again,” he warned sternly. “All you’ve done is trip over your own feet.”

“We have to do something!” Kirichenko countered. He spoke softly, but Dhankhar heard fear mixed with his intensity.

“What you are going to do is assist Orlav. This latest catastrophe has slowed him down, and put us all on borrowed time. I don’t care whether it’s wiring circuits or making coffee, get in that shop and do whatever you need to help him finish. I’ve spent most of the morning speaking to Mitra and others at the shipyard. They’ll have Chakra ready to sail at ten hundred hours on the seventh. I will come to the shop at zero seven hundred hours. I’ll expect to see five completed torpedoes, ready for loading. And no more prorating. Unless I see five, you won’t get a single kopek. That’s the only language you seem to understand — money.”

Dhankhar sat back in his chair. Kirichenko was silent for a moment, but when he began to speak, the admiral cut him off sharply. “We are finished. Get out.”

Retrieving the newspaper, he barely noticed when Kirichenko left.