Fatal Thunder

2 CHAOS

This is absurd! How in God’s name do those idiots expect me to do my job! Samant mentally shrieked. He impatiently erased the tangled lines on his production schedule and tried yet another approach. When he pushed his mechanical pencil down on the paper, the thin lead broke — again. And despite his forceful clicking of the eraser, nothing emerged from the narrow point. In utter frustration, Samant flung the mechanical pencil at the wall. Doesn’t anything in this office work as it’s supposed to?! He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He’d been at this fruitless exercise for over three hours. With a resigned sigh, Samant reached the inescapable conclusion that his program would be dead in the water for at least a month, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Soon after Jain’s visit, Samant received an e-mail from Vice Admiral Dhankhar’s chief of staff informing him of the temporary transfer of all his senior engineers and program managers to support the greatly accelerated INS Chakra refit. With only inexperienced junior engineers and naval architects left in the office, there was little hope of getting any meaningful work done. Those “children” needed adult supervision just to find the bathroom, let alone figure out the engine room layout for India’s next class of nuclear submarines. With frustration bubbling up inside him, Samant walked over and poured himself another cup of tea. Sipping the hot Earl Grey, he weighed his very limited set of options. He’d have to carefully word his response to the chief of staff on the impact the transfer would have on his project. It wouldn’t pay to be viewed as a complainer this early in his new assignment.

His new, prestigious assignment. Bah! It was more like hell. Two weeks ago, he was the commanding officer of the hottest boat in the Indian Navy; the most successful submarine captain in India’s history. He and his crew had done very well during the South China Sea campaign, racking up an impressive score of tankers sunk and Chinese oil refineries charred and gutted. Now, he was driving a paper-laden desk, in charge of an undisciplined group of civil servants that debated every order, all the while fighting a grotesquely inefficient bureaucracy that moved at a glacial pace. On Chakra, he was lord and master, but here, he was just one of many medieval nobles struggling to work within the feudal machine that was the Indian Navy. A dubious reward indeed for a job well done. But fate wasn’t done taunting him just yet.

The Advanced Submarine Project’s offices were on the south side of the building, with a clear view to the naval dockyard across the channel. From this lofty position, he could see Chakra as she was being maneuvered by a tug into the dry dock. Grabbing his binoculars from the windowsill, he watched as the crew topside went about their work. He grunted with satisfaction as the men performed their duties flawlessly. Shifting to the bridge, he could see Jain working with the pilot as the submarine inched its way into the dock. Suddenly, a pang of envy flared in Samant. He should be on that bridge right now, he should still be in command, not Jain. Samant shook his head to clear away the growing jealousy. His former first officer was simply following orders and doing his job — a job that Samant had trained him to do properly. Jain was a competent officer, if a bit too informal with the men at times. Whatever was behind Samant’s sudden exile, it wasn’t Jain’s fault. He wasn’t responsible for his captain’s transfer.

Samant then recalled his mother’s gloomy accusation that his current circumstances were entirely of his own making, a natural result of all the bad karma he had accrued during the war. She said he was reaping the “rewards” for all the death and destruction he had caused. A devout Hindu, she had long disagreed with her son’s chosen occupation, claiming it would only bring evil to his life. At times like this, he wondered if there wasn’t more to her words.

The sharp ring of the telephone yanked him from his depressed mood. He grabbed the handset, anxious for some work to drive away the nagging thoughts. “Advanced Submarine Project Office, Captain Samant speaking,” he answered.

“Girish, it’s Aleksey. I won’t ask you how your morning is going, I think I already know. Your people just reported in to me.”

Samant cracked a thin smile, recognizing the voice on the other end of the line. Shifting to English, he replied, “Well, I hope they can be of more use to you than they have been for me. And don’t be afraid to flog them if they get too lazy.”

The chuckle from the handset faded quickly, the voice becoming more firm. “Listen, Girish, I have some serious concerns about the changes to Chakra’s refit. Do you have a moment later today that I can drop by? I need a competent Indian’s perspective on this. The answers I’m getting from my dockyard point of contact don’t make any sense whatsoever.”

“Of course, Aleksey. My schedule is largely clear this afternoon.”

“Excellent! It will be a few hours until we get this boat safely on the blocks. After that I can break free and drive over to your office. Say, thirteen hundred?”

“That will work nicely.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

The morning dragged on and on, and besides drinking a lot of tea, Samant’s only real accomplishment was the successful crafting of a suitably polite response to the chief of staff’s e-mail. He was respectful, but bluntly informed his superior that the program would be unable to accomplish much until his staff returned. However, every effort would be made to keep working those aspects of the schedule that he could with the remaining personnel. Even as he hit the send button, Samant was still struggling to figure out what exactly he could do with all his senior people gone.

At a quarter to one, Samant cleared off his desk in anticipation of his guest. When the clock struck one, Petrov still hadn’t arrived and Samant got up and took another look through the binoculars at Chakra. She was high and dry in the graving dock. Annoyed, he started pacing. Petrov was usually very punctual.

He recalled the first time he met the former Russian submariner, now a technical consultant. Chakra had just returned from her successful war patrol, and had been met on the pier by the Indian Chief of the Naval Staff, Admiral Rajan. After a brief speech welcoming the boat home and praising their efforts during the war, Rajan introduced Samant to Petrov, announcing that Chakra would undergo her delayed refit to upgrade her tactical systems and to repair some of the nagging problems still under warranty. Rajan explained that while Petrov wouldn’t be in charge of the refit, he was the senior Russian advisor and would be available to assist with any issues involving the new Russian equipment being installed on board the boat.

What started out as a working relationship based on mutual respect soon grew into a full-blown friendship. Petrov recognized Samant as a kindred soul, understanding and appreciating his passion and drive. Samant was equally impressed by Petrov’s refreshing professionalism and extensive technical knowledge; he understood not only how the systems worked, but how they should be employed tactically. It wasn’t long before Petrov shared with Samant his checkered past as the only commanding officer of the nuclear attack submarine Severodvinsk. The Indian captain listened with rapt attention as Petrov described the collision with USS Seawolf, Severodvinsk’s impact with the ocean floor, crippling her, and how an ingenious young U.S. naval officer by the name of Jerry Mitchell helped to save him and his crew.

Samant launched himself out of his chair upon hearing Mitchell’s name, shocking Petrov into silence. Without saying a word, Samant walked over to a coffee table and picked up a large photo album. He hurriedly thumbed through the pages, stopped abruptly, and placed the album on the desk beside the Russian. Pointing to a two-page letter, he asked, “Is this the same man?”

Petrov quickly read the letter, and noted the USS North Dakota letterhead; a large smile appeared on his face. “Yes, indeed! So you tangled with my friend Jerry, eh? I’m glad neither one of you were hurt, but I’m also not surprised that your encounters ended in a stalemate. You are both very good submariners.”

“He was an absolute pain in my ass!” grumbled the Indian indignantly.

Petrov laughed. “I believe that was his job, Girish.”

The grimace on Samant’s face slowly lightened to a faint smile. “You should have seen Jain’s and my face when we realized that Mitchell had fired nuclear-armed torpedoes. I never ran away from anything so fast in all my life. Well, that and the angry torpedo barking at my hindquarters.”

“I have it on good authority, Girish, that Jerry was the mastermind behind the U.S. strategy,” Petrov remarked quietly. “He somehow convinced the president of the United States to use nuclear weapons in a very unconventional way. As I said, he is very good. But just as important, he’s an honorable man — like you.”

Samant’s reminiscing was abruptly interrupted by the buzz of his intercom. “Sir, Mr. Petrov is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Miss Gupta. Please send him in.”

A moment later, the door swung open and Petrov slowly walked in. He looked tired. “Good to see you, Aleks sahib. Tea?”

“Please,” responded Petrov as he plopped down in one of the armchairs. “It’s been a long day and it’s only half over. I could use a little pick-me-up. My apologies for being tardy, security throughout Vizag has become incredibly tight and I had to undergo a full search before being allowed into the building.”

Samant nodded his understanding and offered Petrov a steaming cup. “So, tell me, when did you get drafted to oversee Chakra’s refit?”

“Thank you,” Petrov replied gratefully. After downing a few sips, he answered, “Captain Mitra called me into his office on Saturday, two days ago, and informed me of my ‘promotion’ to lead engineer for the refit. He then handed me the maintenance plan and told me they had to shave two months off the schedule. Apparently Vice Admiral Dhankhar wants the boat ready for sea by April tenth.”

Samant bowed his head slightly as he drank. “Yes, Jain told me as much. That’s nowhere near enough time to get all the work done, even if you could get every technician in the shipyard working on her. What I don’t understand is, what’s the rush? Why does the admiral want the boat to go to sea so early?”

Petrov paused, a look of concern on his face. “It gets even more bizarre, Girish. I have a single day for sea trials — one day, and most of the testing involves the sonar and weapon systems upgrades.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Samant scowled. “How can you possibly test the propulsion plant and auxiliary systems repairs in a single day?”

“We can’t. A lot of that work will have to be deferred. Captain Mitra was very specific about that; only those repairs that can be completed within the revised schedule will be considered.”

Samant shook his head in amazement; none of this made any sense. What were Dhankhar and his staff thinking? Unable to offer any explanation for the radical schedule change, Samant sat silent, thinking and drinking his tea. After a few moments, a visibly uncomfortable Petrov spoke quietly. “I’ll understand if you can’t tell me, Girish, but I have to ask. Are there any near-term plans to recommence hostilities against Pakistan? Do I need to worry about a submarine that will be going into combat?”

The blunt questions caught Samant completely unawares; Petrov was definitely out of bounds, but he completely understood why the Russian had asked. Initially suspicious, the Indian looked carefully at his friend; then he saw the haunted look in Petrov’s eyes. The man desperately wanted to know if the decisions he’d have to make could result in the loss of another submarine. The ghosts of Severodvinsk still clung to him.

“Honestly, Aleks, I don’t know of any plans to start the fighting again — not that there couldn’t be some contingency plans being considered. There are a number of very frustrated senior officers who are unhappy with the peace negotiations. Our friend, Dhankhar, is one of them. But I can’t see why this would require Chakra’s refit to be accelerated. Besides, Pakistan’s navy has been badly mauled. There isn’t a whole lot left, and nothing that would require an Akula-class submarine to take care of it.”

Samant’s answer appeared to ease Petrov’s worried expression, but not entirely. The Russian finished his tea, stood, and faced his host. “Then I have one last question for you, Girish. And I don’t mean to be offensive, or seek access to India’s state secrets, but it is a rather sensitive subject, so I must beg your pardon in advance.”

“Certainly,” replied Samant, now deeply curious.

Petrov took a deep breath, bracing himself before speaking. “Is it the Indian Navy’s intention to put nuclear weapons on Chakra?”

“WHAT!?” shouted a stunned Samant as he leapt to his feet. “How can you even suggest such a thing!”

Petrov remained calm. Samant’s reaction was completely justified; the question did sound like an accusation. “Bear with me, Girish. I will explain my reasons in a moment. Now, please, will you answer the question?”

Fuming, Samant struggled to get his anger under control. Friend or not, Petrov’s insinuation was insulting. Several tense seconds went by before the Indian captain responded, and even then it was through clenched teeth. “I know of no nuclear weapons that can be fired from Chakra’s torpedo tubes. We currently lack the ability to make warheads that small, that’s why we’ve concentrated on ballistic missiles. Even if the Nirbhay cruise missile were ready now for submarine launch, which it isn’t, it would probably be conventionally armed. Besides, such a modification would be a gross violation of our agreement with your country.”

“Agreed, on both counts. So, why have I been ordered to install the ability for the combat system to pass data to a nuclear-armed weapon?”

The fury on Samant’s face dissolved into disbelief. “You must be mistaken, Aleksey. My country doesn’t have a suitable weapon.”

“Am I? Look here, Girish,” said Petrov as he rolled out several detailed schematics of the fire control system.

“Here are the two Omnibus combat system consoles as currently configured on Chakra. The weapon data transfer wiring exits the back of the consoles at this point, runs to these junction boxes in the torpedo compartment, and ultimately feeds into the tubes, here. Now, note the changes on this schematic.

“See here? These are new wires that need to be installed, and they run to the existing junction boxes. But note the new panel section on the Omnibus console. The last time you saw them, this section was plated over.”

Samant studied the plans carefully and frowned. “This wasn’t part of the original refit plan I reviewed eight months ago. I specifically recall requesting the old CRTs be replaced with flat-screen displays and I was told there weren’t going to be any substantial changes to the fire control system.”

“Exactly, Girish, and that’s the heart of my problem. These changes are very recent. But more importantly, on Russian Navy submarines, that is where the nuclear weapon control panel is located. It allows the commanding officer to unlock a weapon so it can receive start-up power, launch data, and also satisfies the final control interlock, allowing the warhead to arm.”

“You’re certain of this, Aleksey?”

“Absolutely, my friend. I have many, many years of experience with this system. Even so, I’ve tried to come up with a viable alternative explanation. So far, I haven’t found one.”

“Have you raised this issue with Captain Mitra?”

“Yes, of course. I made a polite inquiry about the modifications this morning. Although, I, ah, didn’t mention the part about nuclear weapons,” replied Petrov with a cynical grin. “Mitra said the combat system upgrade is for a new indigenous Indian weapon system that will be available in the near future. He said he wasn’t at liberty to discuss it with me.”

“What new weapon?” Samant grumbled. “The advanced torpedo DRDO has been working on is for European submarine designs. It’s completely incompatible with Russian submarine torpedo tubes. That’s why we chose to acquire the improved UGST-M torpedo…”

“Which is of Russian design and manufacture,” finished Petrov. “And one other thing. It appears that only Russian technicians are making this modification. Unfortunately, the maintenance package our countries agreed to has a vague clause regarding the replacement of torpedo tube interface wiring as needed. I can’t say this modification is outside the scope of the contract.”

“This… this is incredible!” stammered Samant. “Who approved this change?”

“Vice Admiral Bava, Dhankhar’s chief of staff, is the only signature on the modified refit documentation.”

“No one from the Controller of Warship Production and Acquisition Office signed off on it?”

“Correct,” Petrov answered as he rolled up the plans. Samant rubbed his forehead and started pacing, his mind reeling.

Petrov watched as his friend walked behind the desk, a deep scowl on his face.

“Girish,” pleaded Petrov, “I would like nothing more than to think this is just a clever kickback scheme to skim off some money from the refit funding, God knows there’s been plenty of that in the past. But, given the nature of the modifications and the insanely truncated schedule, it’s not at all consistent with simple graft. My gut instinct says something is dreadfully wrong here.”

Samant stopped, and nodded slightly. Then, straightening himself, he said, “What do you want me to do, Aleksey?”

Relieved, Petrov moved closer. His speech was more animated. “Your office has two masters, one here in Vizag, the other in Mumbai. If you could make some discreet inquiries to the Directorate of Naval Design and the assistant chief of naval staff submarine acquisitions concerning new submarine torpedo tube launched weapons, I believe we’ll be able to either confirm or deny my suspicions. I will do likewise through the Russian naval support liaison office, although I’m not confident I’ll get much help.”

“Very well, Aleksey. I will make the calls as soon as you leave. When should we try to get together again?”

“Later this evening, at Akshaya’s, say twenty hundred hours. We’ve had dinner there before; so no one will think it unusual. And if I’m wrong, dinner is on me.”

Joanna Patterson fought to control her excitement as she strode down the hallway to the Oval Office. She had pleaded with the president’s chief of staff, Milt Alvarez, for just ten minutes of the president’s time. That’s all she said she needed to pass on the results of the aerial sampling analysis; after that she’d have the president’s undivided attention. The single piece of paper in the folder she carried was a bombshell.

She barely noticed the lone Marine standing guard, and she didn’t realize she had entered the outer office until the president’s secretary greeted her. “Go right on in, Dr. Patterson. The president is expecting you.”

“Thanks, Evangeline. As my husband is fond of saying, stand by for heavy rolls.”

“Are you going to ruin my president’s schedule — again, Doctor?” remarked McDowell with a smirk.

“Very likely, ma’am… Sorry.”

A Secret Service agent opened the door and Patterson walked in to find the president, Alvarez, and Secretary of State Andrew Lloyd watching the TV. Alvarez waved her over, pointed to the flat screen, and whispered, “The Indian ambassador to the UN is concluding his speech.”

“Oh, lovely. I bet that’s going over well,” Joanna said with a wince. Alvarez’s pursed lips and the sharp shaking of his head confirmed her cynical prediction.

“…our war with Pakistan is a righteous one as they attacked us again, without provocation. The Pakistani government’s denial that they had nothing to do with the terrorists that struck our naval bases last year is flimsy at best. Their policy of harboring terrorists, arming them, and protecting them from outside retribution clearly shows the Pakistani regime’s true intent. And while India chose to respond militarily this time, as is our right, we have scrupulously followed the rules of war as laid out in international conventions.

“Mr. President, members of the General Assembly, let me be absolutely clear on this. India has not resorted to the use of nuclear weapons, nor do we need to. We have consistently upheld our part of the bargain during this cease-fire; the same cannot be said of Pakistan. The fact that the explosion was at a well-known Lashkar-e-Taiba stronghold can only suggest that the Pakistani government has lost its feeble grasp of reality and has begun to arm its homegrown terrorists with nuclear weapons…”

“And it goes downhill from here,” sighed Myles as he turned off the TV.

“Wow! I fully expected India to deny using a nuclear weapon,” Lloyd sneered. “But to accuse Pakistan of giving nukes to terrorists, that takes a lot of moxie!”

“The ambassador certainly played the part well,” commented Alvarez. “He almost had me believing India didn’t set off the nuke.”

“Probably because they didn’t,” interrupted Joanna. The heads of all three men snapped in her direction, a shocked expression on their faces.

“Dr. Patterson, you’re not suggesting…” Lloyd spoke hesitantly.

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Secretary. What I’m saying is the data we have so far doesn’t support the theory that it was an Indian nuclear device.”

Myles sighed deeply again, and with a weary voice said, “Okay, Joanna, just cut to the bottom line.”

Patterson placed the folder on the president’s desk. “Mr. President, this is the executive summary of the analysis of the airborne samples collected by the WC-135 Constant Phoenix aircraft. The fallout cloud contained traces of both uranium 235 and 238, as well as multiple isotopes of plutonium. However, the ratio of the plutonium isotopes is not consistent with the manufacturing process used by India. Nor is the use of uranium consistent with Indian nuclear weapon design; they have historically used only plutonium.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Joanna, but plutonium is made in a nuclear reactor and then refined, so isn’t all weapons-grade plutonium the same?” Myles asked as he began skimming the report.

“You’re correct, sir, plutonium is produced in nuclear reactors. But different reactor types produce different ratios of the various isotopes. Even weapons-grade plutonium still has some of the undesired isotopes in the material,” Joanna replied. “The isotope ratios in the airborne samples we collected are not consistent with a heavy-water reactor that India uses to produce their plutonium. The sample, however, is consistent with a graphite-moderated, light-water reactor.”

“And who uses that type of reactor to make plutonium?”

“We do, Mr. President… as well as Russia and China.” Joanna watched as Myles dropped the file, his face pale.

“Oh my God,” Lloyd whispered.

“How… how accurate are those results, Joanna?” groaned Alvarez.

“Postdetonation forensic analysis is not nearly as accurate as having the nuclear material itself, Milt. I can’t say where the plutonium came from, but we can be reasonably confident about the reactor type that produced the material.”

“Is there any way to verify the analysis, Joanna?” asked the president.

“Yes, sir. The ground samples collected from areas near the blast site are already in country and are en route to Homeland Security’s National Technical Nuclear Forensics Center. We should have the lab results in a couple of days. If they are consistent with the airborne samples, then there will be little room for doubt.”

“The question then, lady and gentlemen, is do we say anything right now?” solicited Myles.

“We can’t possibly release this preliminary data without verification!” blasted Alvarez. “If the analysis of the ground samples contradicts these results, we’ll look like fools.”

“I’m very sympathetic to your views, Milt, but the world in general, and Muslim nations in particular, already holds India guilty of nuking Pakistan — there have been demands for strenuous economic sanctions across the globe,” Lloyd warned. “And anti-Hindu violence is running rampant worldwide, even in the European Union. If we don’t say anything, we will be responsible for the injury or death of innocent people!”

“It can’t be helped, Mr. Secretary. We have to be very careful here, because the alternative explanation is even worse,” cautioned Alvarez. “Before we go to the world with this information, we need to have our ducks in a very straight line, because once we say India didn’t set off the nuke, the only other possible conclusion is that a Pakistani terrorist group possess nuclear weapons — weapons that quite possibly came from China.”

Lloyd groaned and rubbed his forehead. The chief of staff had a very good, but totally distasteful, point. The Pakistani government had repeatedly claimed that the LeT terrorists were operating under probable Chinese influence. If the U.S. were to indirectly corroborate that view, and then suggest that the LeT terror group had nuclear weapons, India might be compelled to conduct a preemptive strike to counter an unprecedented and unacceptable threat. One nuclear blast could become many.

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.

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?”

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.