Fatal Thunder

3 MOVEMENTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fifteen thirty, sir. His office.”

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

“The times be a-changin’,” Hardy said to himself as he opened the e-mail. At first, he sat relaxed. Then he slowly straightened and leaned forward as he reread the message. “Oh my God…”

He punched out a quick e-mail, attached it to Jerry’s, and forwarded it to his wife’s personal account. He then whipped out his smartphone and sent her a text message:

Joanna Patterson felt her smartphone buzz; only a few people knew that number, all of them important. She looked quickly at the screen and saw Lowell’s message. By the time Joanna had finished reading the text, she’d pivoted in midstride and almost ran back to her office. If her husband thought it was important enough to text her at work, it was a big deal. She logged on to her account and read Lowell’s e-mail as she sat down.

The last sentence caused Joanna’s eyebrows to rise. She paged down and quickly read Jerry’s e-mail, and then Petrov’s. When she saw that an Indian submarine captain wanted to meet with Jerry concerning the most recent events, she practically fell out of her chair. Without even blinking, she shouted out to her secretary, “Kathy, call the CNO’s office. I need to speak with Admiral Hughes immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am, and what may I tell his staff is the topic?”

“Tell them I need to ask the CNO to do me a favor.”

They’d obtained commercial satellite photos of the Kashmiri location yesterday. That had fueled one news cycle. From low Earth orbit, the blasted area showed up as a black and gray butterfly shape on the patchy brown and green landscape. The “wings” extended up the mountainsides to the northwest and southeast, while the longer body represented where the blast and heat had been channeled along the valley, running north and south.

The graphics people had arranged to have the outlines of previously existing roads, towns, and villages in the area appear on the image, and then the background would expand, zooming down to explore the shattered landscape. The image quality was good enough to simulate flying over the blast zone at low altitude. As the view swooped over each village or mountain hamlet, the camera would slow, as if searching for survivors. Close in, smoke from fires obscured the view, but even farther out, all that remained were outlines of structures, or a stone foundation. The photo’s field of view was too high to distinguish small details, but debris littered the landscape with a mottled gray and brown.

“Good afternoon and welcome to CNN’s continuing coverage of the Kashmir crisis. I’m Jane Bergen. It’s been just over four days since a nuclear weapon exploded in Kashmir, evidently wiping out a major LeT training camp.

“Our Jim Riviera has just managed to reach Muzaffarabad and is reporting to us live via Skype.”

Bergen’s image shrank to a thumbnail as Riviera’s face, too close to the camera, almost filled the frame. The image quality was poor, marred with flickering horizontal lines and dim lighting, but his voice was clear. “Jane, I reached Muzaffarabad about an hour and a half ago with a government relief column. The Pakistani government’s been very helpful in getting me here. It’s in their interest to show the world the extent of the damage and destruction caused by the explosion, but it’s in stark contrast to their previous policy before the cease-fire.”

Bergen asked, “Jim, what have you been able to find out about casualties?”

There was a moment’s pause before the correspondent replied, a deep frown on his face. “Communications north of here are still almost nonexistent. It’s bad enough here in the capital of the Pakistani-controlled region of Kashmir. Hospitals that were already taxed by civilian war injuries have been slammed with at least three hundred casualties, mostly trauma from flying debris. Closer to ground zero, the death toll is almost one hundred percent. Very few people with injuries have been reported, and only a handful has arrived here in Muzaffarabad. From satellite imagery and local reports, at least a half a dozen villages have been totally wiped off the face of the Earth.”

Bergen’s impassive newscaster’s mask slipped for a moment, and she appeared shaken by the idea. “And the radiation?”

Riviera shook his head. “There wasn’t one piece of radiological monitoring equipment in the convoy I arrived with. They’re scouring the city for equipment from local medical labs that can be used to measure the radiation levels, but the population isn’t waiting.

“The few survivors, many badly injured, that have come here from the north, have told wild stories and created a palpable wave of fear in the city. What little good information there is on dealing with contaminated food and water has been overwhelmed by rumor and folktales, some too wild to even consider — unless you’re very frightened, and that’s the only information you have.”

“Jim, thank you very much for your reporting. Please stay safe.”

Bergen turned to face the camera and explained, “For his own safety, CNN has ordered Jim Riviera to limit his exposure time in Muzaffarabad to twelve hours, so he will leave the city tomorrow sometime after dawn for a location outside the fallout zone. He’s brought his own food and water with him, and will consume nothing from the local area. While he is fortunate to have that option, think about the hundreds of thousands of local Kashmiri who do not.”

She drew a breath, as if composing herself, then said, “Our next guest is CNN consultant Dr. Stan Bartoz, a fellow at the Institute for Conflict Resolution. He’s been covering the peace negotiations in Geneva between the two warring countries since they began last October. For the past three days, he’s been wrestling with the same question most of us have: ‘Why did the Indians do this?’”

Bartoz was in his seventies, and lean, almost scrawny. Time had left him with a fringe of white hair. Perhaps in compensation, he had a full beard, with only a few black streaks still holding out.

“Dr. Bartoz, have you been able to devise any scenario that could explain India’s nuclear bombing of a terrorist base in Kashmir?”

Bartoz smiled. “Actually, I and my colleagues have come up with over a dozen theories about the circumstances of the bombing. For example, the act could have been carried out by a rogue element within the Indian armed forces. The government’s denials are genuine — they were as surprised as the rest of the world. Even now, behind the scenes, they’re conducting a fierce investigation and hunt for the parties responsible.”

“Is that what you believe happened?” asked Bergen, almost eagerly.

With a small shake of his head, Bartoz answered, “Probably not, given the tight controls India has on its nuclear weapons, and the large number of people that would have to be involved to launch even one weapon.” Bergen looked disappointed.

“Or it could have been done with the full connivance of the Indian government, if perhaps they had received intelligence information about a threat at this terrorist base so dangerous and immediate that the only way to stop it was with a nuclear attack.”

Before Bergen could ask, he continued, “But if that was the case, they’d be arguing self-defense, and presenting the same evidence to the world that had convinced the Indian government to take such drastic action. It might not be a strong defense, but it would be a defense. Of course, the Indian government’s defense right now is that they had nothing to do with the explosion.”

“Is there any evidence of such a dire threat to India, Doctor?” asked the CNN anchor.

The academic said firmly, “Nothing that we have been able to determine. We haven’t found any evidence to justify such an unprecedented action that would be worth the massive blowback the Indian nation and interests are suffering worldwide. Anti-Indian riots in every Muslim country, a wave of arson within India, and fatal attacks against Indian nationals in many ‘civilized’ countries.”

Bergen added, “Our website has a list of countries that have either already instituted economic sanctions or are considering them. There are many more organized boycotts of not only Indian products, but even Bollywood movies and other cultural exports. Even if no new sanctions are enacted, and more are being added every day, the Indian economy is facing the gravest crisis since the country became independent in 1947.

“So, Dr. Bartoz, if we assume India didn’t set off the nuclear bomb, who did? Is there any other possible explanation for this calamity?”

The doctor nodded curtly, “Yes, Jane, there is one hypothesis that is also consistent with the limited facts at hand, although, it is an unpleasant one.”

“And what would that be?”

“That the Lashkar-e-Taiba terrorist group had somehow, from somewhere, acquired a nuclear weapon and accidentally set it off in their own training camp. Similar events have occurred before with other terrorist groups in the manufacturing of suicide vests. And India was just as oblivious to this acquisition as the rest of us.”

Bergen looked amazed; no one had been bold enough to suggest the Pakistani tragedy could have been self-inflicted. “That is a disturbing theory, Doctor. One that has significant implications beyond this disaster.”

“As I said, Jane, it’s an unpleasant hypothesis at best.”

The reporter paused briefly to compose herself before going back to the interview’s question list. “What impact do you think all of this will have on the peace talks?”

“You mean the lack of peace talks. Well, of course the Pakistani delegation left Geneva immediately after they heard the news. Pakistan’s nuclear weapons were already dispersed and deployed because of India’s invasion last fall. There is a very vocal minority in Pakistan that wants to fire a retaliatory weapon into India, preferably at a large city. Of course, the nuclear exchange that would inevitably follow would destroy Pakistan as a nation, but many are so angry that they are willing to commit national suicide.

“The two countries’ armies are rebuilding, and preparing for a new offensive this spring, which is perhaps a month away. With the ‘nuclear threshold’ crossed by this one weapon, there is deep concern that the next offensive will involve more atomic weapons. The Indians missed their best chance to win this conflict last fall, and will be going all-out. The Pakistanis know that, and from their perspective have already suffered one Indian nuclear attack, so they are literally teetering on the edge.”

Bergen looked horrified. “So your greatest concern is that the war between India and Pakistan will become a nuclear war?”

Bartoz replied, “It already is a nuclear war — regardless of who detonated the weapon in Kashmir. It’s unfortunate, and indeed ironic, that in trying to remove the threat of Pakistani terror groups and nuclear weapons, the Indians have significantly increased the chance of suffering such an attack.” He smiled, but only at the irony, and then sighed. “For almost everyone currently alive, Hiroshima and Nagasaki are just historical events, dimmed by the passage of time. Having seen for themselves the effects of just one such weapon, perhaps both sides will consider the potential consequences and take a step back from the abyss.”

Yuri Kirichenko listened to Dhankhar’s arguments carefully. He’d reluctantly agreed with the admiral that the schedule had to be accelerated. The Kashmir blast was drawing far too much attention to all things nuclear in India. The problem was, he couldn’t refute the man’s logic about the size of his fee, either.

“We paid for six warheads, and you promised six. We received five, so it’s only appropriate that we reduce the payment by one-sixth.” Dhankhar was stating this as a fact, not a request. His possession of the warheads made it difficult for Kirichenko to negotiate. He could threaten to withdraw Orlav, but the technician would balk at the loss of his payment, and besides, Dhankhar might simply offer to hire him directly.

“Very well. Five-sixths of the original amount, payable when Orlav’s work is completed. I’ll be there for the final inspection and transfer of the arming codes. Churkin is currently en route to assist in maintaining security.” He’d debated telling him about Churkin’s movements, but Kirichenko needed to let the Indians know he was doing all he could. They’d already lost one weapon. There could be no more mistakes.

Dhankhar broke the connection, but Kirichenko sat holding the dead phone, lost in thought. The Indians had paid part of their fee up front, of course, but Kirichenko had used almost all of that to cover his expenses, much of it bribes, needed to recover and transport the warheads halfway across Eurasia. And that money was gone. He didn’t think he should ask for a one-sixth refund from the Al Badr militants. He needed to preserve his good relations with people who might be his next customers.

The ex-admiral’s mind was in two places. While part was obviously in India, the rest was up north, in the Kara Sea. He had more warheads to recover and sell, and he needed to learn from his mistakes with the first shipment. His profit from the first batch would be thinner than he liked, but he’d use it to recover more of the warheads next time. With increased security, and delivery only. If he hadn’t promised Orlav’s services adapting the warheads to fit in torpedoes, he’d be out clean and away by now. But then the Indians might not have concluded the deal. Mentally, he shrugged. That was in the past.

Now everything depended on Orlav — in Kirichenko’s opinion, a weak reed to lean on, but the only one available.

The Kashmir blast meant he should pick up his pace, as well. The Kara Sea would be stormy and ice-ridden for several more months, but the first time the weather moderated, he’d have his people ready. He might not be able to get them all next time, but definitely more than six.

The ringing of his stateroom’s phone jolted Jerry to consciousness. He groped for the handset in the dark, finding it by the fourth ring. Pulling it to his face, he muttered, “Captain.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Skipper. But we just received a flash priority message for us to come to PD and establish a video link with Squadron Fifteen.”

“Squadron Fifteen?” he asked groggily. “What time is it?”

“Yes, sir. Commodore Simonis needs to speak to you personally. And it’s zero four thirty, sir,” replied Lieutenant Kiyoshi Iwahashi, the officer of the deck.

“Huh? Right. That was fast,” Jerry grunted while trying to focus on his watch.

“Sir?”

“Never mind, Kiyoshi. Has the XO been informed?”

“He’s next on my list, sir.”

“Very well. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Jerry placed the handset back in the cradle, turned on the light, and started to put on his blue poopy suit. He heard Thigpen’s phone ring, followed by a loud, but whiny, “Are you kidding me?!”

Once dressed, Jerry made his way to the control room. A very disheveled Thigpen followed close behind. As soon as they entered North Dakota’s command center, a petty officer brought Jerry a steaming cup of coffee. After thanking the young sailor, Jerry walked alongside the officer of the deck and said, “Report, Mr. Iwahashi.”

“Yes, sir. We are on course one seven zero, speed five knots, depth one five zero feet. We currently hold six sonar contacts, all are classified as merchants, and all have very low bearing rates. Combat system TMA indicates none are close; tracks are displayed on the port VLSD. I’ve completed a baffle-clearing maneuver with no additional contacts. ESM and radio are manned and ready. Request permission to come to periscope depth and establish a link with SUBRON Fifteen.”

As soon as Iwahashi had completed his status update, Jerry looked at the large flat-screen display hanging on the control room’s forward port side. None of the contacts were headed toward him. They had been tracked for some time and the sonar data said they were all distant. A quick glance at the command workstation confirmed the ship’s course, speed, and depth. With everything as it should be, he ordered, “Very well, OOD, bring the ship to periscope depth and establish a link with SUBRON Fifteen.”

“Bring the ship to periscope depth and establish a link with SUBRON Fifteen, aye, sir,” replied Iwahashi, repeating the order to ensure he heard and understood it correctly. Turning toward the ship control station, he commanded, “Pilot, make your depth six five feet. Copilot, raise number-one photonics mast.”

As the boat took on a slight up angle, Jerry nodded to Thigpen and motioned for them to head to radio. Once inside the small room, the XO leaned over and asked, “Any ideas why the commodore wants us to contact him?”

Jerry shrugged. “If I had to guess, it may have something to do with the Pakistani nuke.” He phrased his answer carefully; he didn’t like lying outright to his XO.

“Isn’t that a little outside of our theater’s area of responsibility?”

“True, but India is in our AOR,” Jerry replied frankly. “Anyway, I’m sure Captain Simonis will graciously answer all our questions.”

“That’ll be a first,” groaned Thigpen.

“Skipper, number one HDR mast has been raised, and I have a signal,” said the radio room watchstander. “The VTC handshake is nearly complete. I should have SUBRON Fifteen up momentarily.”

Jerry acknowledged the report and kept his eyes on the display. Seconds later, the test screen was replaced by the Squadron Fifteen conference room. In the foreground were Captain Charles Simonis, the squadron commander, and his chief staff officer, Captain Glenn Jacobs. There was a small group of tired-looking people behind them.

“Good morning, Captain,” greeted Simonis. “My apologies for the early call, but I have a situation that was dropped into my lap forty-five minutes ago that we need to discuss.”

Simonis’s voice had a definite edge to it. He was not a happy camper. Jerry kept his response casual. “Good morning to you too, sir. What can I do to help you?”

The commodore cut straight to the heart of the matter. “Captain, have you had direct contact with Dr. Patterson recently?”

“No, sir. Per your orders, I have not spoken to or e-mailed her without your permission.”

“I see. Then could you enlighten me as to why she asked the CNO to expedite getting you to San Diego?”

“San Diego?” Jerry asked carefully, trying hard to look confused. “Commodore, I don’t recall ever asking anyone to send me to San Diego. Did Dr. Patterson provide any explanation for her request?”

“No, Captain,” shot Simonis tersely. “Nor does the national security advisor to the president really need to, now does she?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

Simonis sighed deeply; the man was uncomfortable with any kind of Washington political intrigue. And while he greatly valued Jerry’s out-of-the-box thinking and tactical innovations, his close personal ties to the Office of the President of the United States was incredibly annoying. “All right, Captain. Terminate your patrol and return to Guam at best possible speed. I have to get you to San Diego in six days.”

Desam was being irritatingly insistent. “Sir, this is a bad time to go to America.”

“What else can we do, Dr. Desam? You know American suppliers would be much more reliable than the Russians, and have better quality control. A trip to the U.S. was already part of our R-and-D schedule, and with our senior people gone we must do what we can to keep things moving!”

“I don’t know if they’ll be a reliable source after next week, Captain. Did you see what the American Congress wants to do?” Samant’s second-in-charge on the Advanced Submarine Project was a civilian, an academic, which meant Dr. Vishal Desam didn’t necessarily accept his boss’s declarations as the last word to be spoken.

“You watch too much television, Vishal. The American people think we used a nuclear weapon in Kashmir, and their politicians are just pandering to that mood. But more importantly, the current administration has been unusually silent, which means they’re still unsure. I already have an approved visa, and we have the travel funds. There is no reason not to make this trip.” Samant paused for a moment, marshaling his patience. “We’ve discussed this long enough. I’m going.”

Desam had been working on the project for over ten years, and Samant valued the corporate knowledge his deputy possessed, but he just didn’t seem to grasp Samant’s authoritarian leadership style.

“But it’s not too late to change your mind, sir. We should at least get some more information…”

“That’s why I’m going over there, to get information!” Samant barked sharply. “It shouldn’t take a week to prepare for two meetings with potential vendors in America. This is why…”

“…it takes us thirty years to build a submarine.” Desam completed the sentence.

Samant’s vexation was replaced by amusement, and he smiled. “Just keep what’s left of our team focused, and away from the television. I’ll be back in about a week.”

Defeated, Desam left, and Samant went back to work. The trip to America actually did involve meeting with representatives of two companies that might be useful to his project, and he had to prepare for them, as well as specific guidance for his people before he left the project in Desam’s care for a few days.

Both meetings were in the western United States, in the state of California. Sandwiched between them, he’d see Jerry Mitchell. There was something very wrong and ominous going on, and now the only one he believed he could trust was an American he’d once tried to kill. But Petrov had spoken highly of Mitchell, and reassured Samant that he wouldn’t hold a grudge. A strange combination of dread and anticipation arose at the thought of meeting the American submarine captain face-to-face.

Samant’s discussion with Petrov had convinced him the trip to America was the best course of action, and once he’d made that kind of decision, he never looked back. But he did find himself constantly looking over his shoulder.

Whatever Dhankhar was planning to do, he’d decided to exclude Samant, but keep him close by. Was that so the admiral could keep an eye on him? Was Desam, his own deputy, making reports to Dhankhar? Someone else in his office? Anyone at all? Once the seeds of suspicion were planted in his mind, they flourished, and their fruit was not clarity, but confusion.

He reviewed his conversation with Desam, looking for possible slipups, or things the engineer had said that hinted that he knew more than he was saying. Samant knew nothing of spycraft, but suddenly it seemed that he couldn’t trust anyone.

It was because of Vice Admiral Dhankhar. Before this, Dhankhar had been the one man in the Indian Navy Samant would have trusted implicitly. The admiral was as famous and respected as an officer could properly be.

Samant had served with him before, as a junior officer when Dhankhar was captain of the submarine Kalvari, a rattletrap Russian Foxtrot boat that they’d had to keep running with little more than their wits. The submarine had been turned into refrigerators and razor blades long ago, but the memories were fresh, of a dedicated officer and a fine commander. His peers on other boats had envied Samant’s posting.

If Dhankhar had turned, then everyone was suspect, and obviously other people had to be involved.

And Vice Admiral Dhankhar was involved in something very wrong, a plan that involved Chakra and quite possibly rogue nuclear weapons, and it was secret from most of the navy. Samant fervently hoped that he was wrong, that he’d completely misjudged the situation, but the odds seemed against that.

He had to plan ahead, to find ways to cover for the time he’d spend with Jerry Mitchell. There must be no paper trail, no gaps in his schedule. He couldn’t let them know he suspected anything.

Vice Admiral Dhankhar returned the sentry’s salute, then showed the corporal both his base pass and his navy ID card. There’d been a lot of grumbling about the new security measures, but Dhankhar had found that overreaction to the Kashmir incident was a good cover for the increased protection he had added to a few special locations.

Like this torpedo repair facility, for instance. Instead of “Torpedo Shop 2,” the building’s sign could read “Nuclear Weapons Magazine.” A sentry at the door, blissfully unaware of what he was guarding, seemed appropriate after the arrival of the Russian warheads.

Dhankhar punched in the five-digit code and entered the windowless building. Most of the interior was open, and brightly lit. There were a few offices at one end of the long work hall. The walls were lined with workbenches and machine tools, while the rail for an overhead crane ran the length of the work floor.

The admiral’s gaze immediately went to the warheads, in five somewhat battered-looking wooden crates, placed neatly against one wall, each a meter square by two meters long. He’d been present when they arrived, and had assisted Orlav as the technician checked each one. They hadn’t installed the initiators yet. That would not be done until each physics package, the actual nuclear device, was removed from its reentry vehicle and installed in a torpedo.

A sound of metal screeching showed Orlav’s location, bent over a torpedo’s warhead housing on a workbench. The technical challenges involved in adapting the device to a torpedo were relatively simple. Once removed from the reentry vehicle, the physics package was smaller and weighed less than the torpedo’s explosive warhead it replaced. In fact, they’d have to add some ballast to make sure the torpedo’s center of gravity didn’t change.

Instead of the sophisticated fusing of the original weapon, designed to arm it once it was in flight toward a NATO target, the torpedo would have a simple timer. The crew would have no control over the time of detonation. Of course, the new device would have its own safety protocols and redundancies, but Dhankhar’s plan envisioned all the weapons detonating at the same time, so a simple timer was the best option.

Orlav had already designed the new timers, and built six — that was before they’d heard about the theft of one of the bombs. That work had gone quickly, compared with what he was doing now.

Captain Third Rank Evgeni Orlav was a nuclear weapons specialist, or had been before his discharge from the Russian Navy as it downsized. He’d worked on reentry vehicles much like these many times on the warhead bus of submarine launched ballistic missiles. He understood the physics package as well as anyone who didn’t have to actually design them.

But he was “not a metalworker,” as he complained regularly to Dhankhar. He’d lost a lot of time learning how to fabricate the “mount,” the framework that would hold each package inside the torpedo. The admiral had insisted that Orlav do the work himself. He would not bring in another individual to help, or even send pieces of the work to someone outside the shop. Too many questions would be asked.

Orlav had been making slow progress before, but with the schedule change, slow progress would not be enough. Longer hours were the only solution.

Dhankhar noticed a sleeping bag in one corner, as well as the remains of several takeout meals. He doubted that the Russian had left the building since their conversation two days ago.

It was several minutes before Orlav paused and looked up from his work. He was startled by the admiral’s appearance, but not enough to drop the power tool. Removing his goggles, Orlav said, “It’s too soon to give you another progress report, but there aren’t any new problems.”

Dhankhar nodded. “That’s fine. I have the timer data for you.”

“Oh. All right.” The time the weapons would detonate would be hard-wired into the timers, and then the weapons would be sealed. On the outside, they would look like standard Russian-made UGST-M torpedoes that were used by Chakra. Orlav’s one lucky break had been that the manuals for the torpedoes were in Russian.

Orlav didn’t even know where the Indians were going to use the weapons, nor did he really care. For the sake of Chakra’s crew, he hoped the torpedoes had all been fired and the sub was well away from the area. A 150-kiloton subsurface detonation would shatter anything underwater for miles.

“Your boss says Churkin will be here in Vizag soon, to oversee security.”

Orlav shrugged. “What does he have to supervise? I live in this workshop now, and you’re the first person I’ve seen in two days. I don’t even get to say hello to Kulik anymore. He just gives my meals to the sentry,” he groused.

The admiral was used to Orlav’s complaining. Besides, it gave Dhankhar a chance to speak Russian again. “I think Churkin’s job will be to make sure you don’t have any visitors.” He added, “Does Churkin have any useful skills? Perhaps he could perform some of the basic mechanical tasks, while you do the finer work.”

The technician just shuddered and quickly refused, replying, “I can finish without his help. I’ll find ways to be more efficient.” After a moment’s pause, Orlav asked, “When will we be paid?”

Dhankhar was surprised. “I’m sure you know it’s when the work is finished.”

“Of course,” Orlav replied, “but I meant exactly when? Is that changed because of the new schedule?”

“Ah.” Dhankhar explained, “No, that hasn’t changed. When you are paid is for your boss to decide.”

“And he can’t pay me until you pay him, hence my question.”

The admiral stated formally, “When you report that the torpedoes are ready to be loaded, Kirichenko and I will inspect your work. If I am satisfied, I will order the funds transferred to his account in whatever one of those Caribbean islands he’s using. And you’ve got your own account, correct?”

“Yes,” Orlav answered, smiling. “And after that, the only question is whether I live in Bali or Miami. No more working on things that explode, no more ugly wife and her greedy in-laws, no more Moscow weather.”

Dhankhar patted Orlav on the shoulder, and said, “Back to it, then,” and turned to leave. The power drill’s screech followed him outside.

He didn’t like Orlav, or his boss. They were mercenaries, peddlers of death for personal profit. Dhankhar’s plan meant killing thousands, maybe tens of thousands of Chinese, but he’d settled matters within his own conscience months ago. Final victory over India’s longtime enemy, and security against both terrorist and nuclear attack from Pakistan, was a worthy goal. The Chinese had chosen to involve themselves, and now they would pay for their poor judgment.