Fatal Thunder

6 RUDE AWAKENINGS

The captain paced impatiently on the starboard bridge wing, waiting for the “important officials” the Rosatom main office said were coming. The morning air was crisp, with a light fog on the water, but the sun looked like it would burn through the morning haze in no time. Not a bad day to go to sea, he thought. He just wanted to know why he had to drop everything and prepare his icebreaker for immediate departure. The engineers were working frantically to bring the ship’s two reactors critical, and the main office had already arranged for the provisions Victory would need. Whatever it was, it must be damn important to get Rosatom moving that fast.

His sharp eyes caught the black car as it raced down the pier access road. The car braked hard, coming to an abrupt stop by the ship. His first mate, Timur Markov, opened the door, and two Russian naval officers emerged. Without waiting for Markov, they walked quickly toward the gangplank. “Hmmm,” the captain said softly. “A vice admiral and a senior captain, and in such a rush, this could be most interesting.”

Victory’s master went back into the bridge and prepared to receive his guests. On the chart table were a carafe of hot tea, cups, and a small platter with some biscuits — good, everything was in order. Straightening his sweater, he waited by the ship’s wheel. It was only a couple of minutes later when the door popped open; Markov directed the two naval officers onto the bridge and introduced them to his master.

“Captain, this is Vice Admiral Ivan Loktev, Deputy Commander of the Russian Northern Fleet, and Captain First Rank Viktor Zhikin, Commanding Officer of the 328th Expeditionary Rescue Squad. Admiral, Captain, Captain Yefim Sergievich Gribov, master of the icebreaker 50 Years of Victory.”

“Admiral, Captain, welcome to Victory. May I offer you some tea? Biscuits?”

“Thank you, Comrade Captain,” replied Loktev hastily. “Perhaps later, but time is of primary importance. What is the status of your preparations for getting under way?”

Gribov wasn’t surprised by the admiral’s response, particularly after Gribov heard that the head of the Northern Fleet’s rescue divers was with him. “Admiral, my chief engineer is almost done with the reactor startup checklist. We should be ready to answer all bells within five or six hours. Provisions have already been ordered by Rosatom, and once they arrive my crew can have them loaded in a few hours. All I need to know is how many passengers I’m embarking, and where we are going.”

Loktev’s strained expression eased a little. Motioning to Zhikin, the captain broke out a chart and spread it on the table. Pointing to a spot on the northeast side of Novaya Zemlya, Loktev said, “We need to get Captain Zhikin’s divers to Techeniye Guba as quickly as possible.”

Gribov looked at the chart briefly and nodded. “Not a problem, Admiral. The ice this time of year in the Kara Sea is perhaps fifteen to eighteen centimeters thick. Victory can easily plow through that. The hull is rated for ice two and a half meters thick.”

“How fast can you get there?” The admiral’s face frowned again.

“My maximum speed is just over twenty-one knots, but that is only in open water. Even in thin ice, I have to slow down.” Gribov grabbed a pair of dividers and measured the distance. After calculating the time in his head, he said, “If all goes well, two days.”

The admiral nodded approvingly. “Excellent, Captain! You will be taking Captain Zhikin and twelve of his divers to these coordinates,” explained Loktev as he handed a sheet of paper to Gribov. “Myself and two of my staff will be accompanying them, as well as six Spetsnaz commandos.”

“Spetsnaz?!” Gribov exclaimed. “Admiral, just what are my crew and I getting into here?”

“That is a state secret that you don’t need to know, Captain,” growled Loktev. “Your job is to get Zhikin and his divers to Techeniye Guba. He’ll take care of the rest.”

It felt good to finally relax. Dhankhar sipped his gin and tonic as he looked out across the club’s grounds to the Arabian Sea. The wind was coming off the water; its coolness refreshed the body, while the heady salty air invigorated the senses. The United Services Club was the perfect place to hold their meeting. It was an elite country club. Only serving and retired officers and a few prominent civilians could be members. Foreigners had to receive special permission, well in advance, to even step through the main gate. The club itself was located in the Colaba area of Mumbai. Situated at the far end of the peninsula, the club was deep within the Navy Nagar, or navy preserve, jointly run and policed by India’s armed forces. No one would consider it unusual for the country’s seniormost military officers to congregate at the exclusive club for a round of golf and cocktails. Now, with the eighteen holes behind them, they could get to the business part of their gathering.

“Come, Badu,” said Admiral Jal Rajan softly as he placed a hand on Dhankhar’s shoulder. “We are ready to begin the meeting.”

Dhankhar gave out a deep sigh, reluctant to leave his private tranquillity. “It’s so peaceful, Jal. I have so longed for this.”

“I know, my friend. And all of India will eventually enjoy a peace such as this, but only after our work is through. Now, come. You have the lead-off presentation.”

“Aye, sir,” Dhankhar replied, then downed the rest of his drink.

He strode into the conference room filled with a veritable Who’s Who of the Indian military. Admiral Rajan took his seat at the head table to the left of General Nirmal Joshi, Chief of Staff of the Army, and Chairman of the Chiefs of Staff Committee. To Joshi’s right sat Air Chief Marshal Danvir Suri, Chief of Staff of the Air Force, and Lieutenant General Bipin Raina, Chief of the Integrated Defence Staff. These four were the most powerful men in the Indian armed forces, and the driving force behind Operation Vajra.

Named after the thunderbolt wielded by Indra, the Hindu king of the gods, and the god of weather and war, the nuclear strike against China was designed to finish the wounded dragon economically and politically. Although badly bruised by the war with the Littoral Alliance, China still possessed considerable military and economic power. Given time, she would recover. In the meantime, the Chinese waged a proxy war against India by providing substantial aid to Pakistan’s military, as well as the Islamic terrorist groups in the northern tribal region.

Following the U.S.-brokered truce between the Littoral Alliance and China, India suddenly found itself constrained militarily, unable to attack Chinese targets directly. China, on the other hand, was now free to pour resources into the shadow war it had started. As Pakistan’s resistance increased, buoyed by Chinese weapons and supplies, India’s offensive ground to a halt. With casualties rising, the Indian president agreed to peace negotiations and sent a team off to Geneva, despite the Chiefs of Staff Committee’s strong reservations. After months of heated discussions, there was still no resolution in sight, and the army began moving forward with its planned spring offensive.

Then in early January, the Indian minister of defense suggested in a press conference that a return to the status quo antebellum, Pakistan’s primary demand, was not outside the realm of possibility. Furious that their government would even consider abandoning captured territory before the main objectives for the war had been achieved, and after a river of Indian blood had been spilled, senior officers seriously considered a military coup. It was Dhankhar who suggested that the “center of gravity” of the conflict wasn’t the Indian government, or even Pakistan — it was China’s support to the Pakistanis. Without that support, the war would quickly be resolved in India’s favor. Dhankhar then volunteered that he had been in contact with someone who could provide the tools they would need to win, and knew how those weapons could be deployed secretly. The swift strike against China’s battered economy would be completely anonymous, and lethal. If the four men at the head table were the heart of Operation Vajra, Badu Singh Dhankhar was the brain.

“Gentlemen, would you please take your seats?” asked Joshi. As the stragglers shuffled over to their chairs, the general motioned for Dhankhar to come forward.

“First of all, I want to thank you all for coming,” Joshi continued. “I know this was an unexpected trip, but given the circumstances it couldn’t be helped. I would also like to thank our host, Vice Admiral Mehra, Chief of the Western Naval Command. You’ve done well, Pradeep, in arranging these wonderful accommodations on such short notice, but don’t think for a moment that this will excuse you from paying off your wagers on the golf game.”

The collection of men laughed while Mehra feigned disappointment. “Next, we’ll get a status update on Operation Vajra from Vice Admiral Dhankhar. Badu, the floor is yours.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dhankhar bowed toward the army chief of staff. “Gentlemen, soon after the unfortunate incident in Pakistan’s northern tribal region a little over two weeks ago, I spoke with General Joshi, Admiral Rajan, and Air Chief Marshal Suri, recommending that we speed up the timetable for executing Vajra.

“Initially, I was concerned with all the extra noses probing for the source of the Kashmiri weapon that someone might accidentally stumble across our facility. And, indeed, we did have a close call. Fortunately, two of our civilian colleagues with the Intelligence Bureau and the Central Bureau of Investigation provided sufficient warning to clear the workshop before the investigation team arrived. Assistant Deputy Director Singh and Special Director Thapar, I wish to publicly thank you for your critical services.”

The military officers present applauded heartily as the two civilians nodded their appreciation. Raising his hand, Dhankhar quieted his audience. “However, we are not out of the woods just yet. Even though the Americans’ analysis has categorically demonstrated the nuclear blast was not from an Indian weapon, which did have the beneficial result of terminating the internal investigation, the entire world is now looking for a possible Russian or Chinese source of rogue nuclear weapons. And this, gentlemen, represents an even greater threat to us, as there is a very short line connecting the Russian arms dealer to this august gathering.”

The crowd’s murmurings echoed the mixed feelings they all felt about the U.S. administration’s press release. On the one hand, India was no longer being held accountable for the “despicable act.” But on the other, a multinational effort had been launched to track down the source of the weapon, or weapons, obtained by the Pakistani terrorists. An internal Indian investigation was troubling enough, but it could be handled, and influenced. An international investigation sponsored by the major nuclear powers, and endorsed by Delhi, would be much more difficult to control.

“Therefore, it has been decided to keep to the accelerated schedule. In that vein, I’m pleased to report that the physics packages of the five remaining weapons have been removed from their parent reentry vehicles and the remnants were disposed of at sea. The modifications to the torpedoes are proceeding a little slower than I’d like, but with one less weapon to work on, the job should be done by about the eighth of April.

“INS Chakra is currently in the graving dock at the Vizag naval dockyard, and work to upgrade the fire control system to support the modified torpedoes and install the improved towed array sonar is well under way. Minor repairs to propulsion and secondary systems will also be done, but on a not-to-interfere basis. While the completion of these repairs is not a necessity for the mission, they do need to be done eventually, and doing them now not only enables us to make good use of limited dry-dock resources, but assists in the cover story. All modifications and repairs are on track to support the revised 10 April departure date.

“Chakra will then proceed at her best tactical speed to the initial target area, with the last weapon deployed on or about April twenty-seventh. Three days later, five of China’s busiest ports will be obliterated. This will reduce her export capability by at least half, along with the destruction of several major oil refineries and China’s two largest financial centers. The resulting economic shock will finish what the Littoral Alliance war started, and quite possibly hasten the fall of the communist government, which is under considerable stress. With China in the throes of civil unrest and chaos, her support to Pakistan will be significantly reduced, if not terminated completely. Then we can finish the job we started last year.” The sudden applause forced Dhankhar to pause. As soon as it died down, he continued.

“Finally, you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve successfully renegotiated the final cost of acquiring and modifying five weapons instead of six, and that a refund to your private accounts will be forthcoming. Are there any questions?”

An air force flag officer raised his hand and rose when acknowledged by Dhankhar. “Badu, has there been any additional discussion on saving one or two of these weapons to strike Pakistan directly? We could severely degrade their nuclear retaliatory strike capability with two well-positioned weapons.”

Dhankhar sighed quietly; he’d heard this argument before, many times. “Yes, Uttam, it was briefly discussed and rejected for the same reasons as before. The use of these nuclear weapons must be anonymous, something we would very likely lose if we launched them at Pakistani nuclear targets. Our attack would not possess the element of stealth, and a severely degraded retaliatory strike capability still represents a significant threat. We cannot afford to have them destroy even one of our cities with a parting shot.”

The air force general persisted. “But Badu, thanks to the Pakistani terrorists blowing themselves up, we have an opportunity here to mask our attack behind their incompetence.”

“To what benefit, Uttam?” said General Joshi from the head table. “We all witnessed the scrutiny the world gave us when we were wrongly accused of the Kashmiri explosion. Even if we did improvise a delivery method for the devices, it would leave too many clues. The United States did some fine detective work to prove the weapon wasn’t of Indian origin. Do you honestly believe we could hide a direct attack against Pakistan from all those prying eyes?

“Yes, the LeT terrorists and their Pakistani handlers have a love/hate relationship. But no one would buy the terrorists blowing up Pakistani nuclear strike assets. It’s just too hard to believe, and those prying eyes would once again turn our way. No, Badu is correct. We must use these Russian weapons secretly and efficiently — and that means Chinese targets. This topic is now closed, gentlemen. Thank you, Badu, for your report.”

Dhankhar bowed and started walking back to his seat. He avoided looking in the air force general’s direction; the man had objected to Operation Vajra’s Chinese focus from the very beginning. Rumor had it that he was envious of the navy’s central role, but only the navy had a stealthy platform in the Akula-class submarine. And stealth was absolutely crucial to their ability to pull this gambit off. Dhankhar heard Joshi announce the next agenda item, a review of the central thrust of the spring offensive, but the admiral wasn’t particularly interested. That job was for the army and the air force. Unconcerned, he let his thoughts meander back to the targets and the effect a 150-kiloton warhead would have on them.

Vice Admiral Loktev paced impatiently on the icebreaker’s helicopter deck; the divers had been down for almost half an hour and he was chomping at the bit to know what they had found. Silently he hoped the Americans’ claim was wrong; the alternative would be humiliating beyond words.

“Comrade Admiral,” shouted a deckhand. “The divers are coming up.”

Loktev acknowledged the report and walked to the rope ladder hanging over Victory’s port side. The broken ice chunks, crushed by the ship’s massive hull, were being pushed aside by men with long poles to keep a small area clear for the divers to surface through. Soon air bubbles could be seen breaking the dark icy film, and a moment later a man emerged, then another. The divers first swam toward and then crawled on to the ice floe. After removing their fins, masks, and air tanks, they walked to the ladder and hurriedly scurried up. Zhikin had barely reached the deck when Loktev swooped in, demanding a report.

“The Americans’ claims are right, Comrade Admiral.” Zhikin spoke through shivering blue lips. “The barge is exactly where they said it would be, and their description matches what I saw below.”

“And the contents?” pressed Loktev.

Zhikin gladly took a towel offered by one of his men and started walking toward the watertight door and warmth; if the admiral wanted to talk, he could follow him. “There were numerous containers within the barge, each about two meters in length and one meter in diameter. Their appearance is consistent with the description of Pioneer missile reentry vehicle storage canisters, but we won’t know for sure until we get one on board and open it.”

The chilled diver grabbed the door’s handle and yanked on it, and a gush of beautifully warm air engulfed him. Once inside, Loktev removed his ushanka and heavy winter mittens, while Zhikin peeled back the dry suit’s hood, disconnected the gloves, and removed the liners. He traded his gear with a waiting lieutenant who stood by with two cups of steaming tea. The hot liquid going down his throat felt amazing. After making sure the lieutenant was out of earshot, Zhikin turned to the admiral and whispered, “The barge is not your normal dry cargo type, sir. It was specifically modified with ballast tanks, fore and aft; there are standard submarine salvage connections on both ends. Comrade Admiral, this barge was designed to be surfaced and retrieved.”

“Any identifying markings? A serial number?”

“None that I could see, but we only looked over the barge’s exterior. There could be markings, or maybe a nameplate, on the inside, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

“How many containers?” Loktev asked.

“There are thirty-five storage cradles in the top layer. I can’t be sure how deep they go because the barge has settled some, but I’d guess two, perhaps as many as three layers. If the lower ones are the same, then we are looking at a potential total of seventy to one hundred and five canisters.”

“My God! That many? This is… this is inconceivable,” groaned a shaken Loktev.

Zhikin nodded slightly as he took another sip of tea. The admiral’s shock was completely understandable — the diver’s report had given the older man quite a jolt — but Zhikin had worse news to deliver. “Unfortunately, sir, that’s just the beginning. We found eight empty storage cradles in the top layer. If the Americans have been truthful to us, and they only took two, then someone has come back since then and retrieved six more. And judging by the small amount of silt in several of the cradles, this was done recently.”

Loktev’s face paled. Stunned, he leaned slowly against the bulkhead for support. He looked back at the diver, his mouth hanging open, speechless.

“One more thing, Comrade Admiral,” added Zhikin slowly. “There was a submarine communications cable near the barge. I followed it out and found an MGK-608 Sever module one hundred meters away, out toward deeper water.”

Loktev’s expression changed to one of confusion. “Is it the one the Americans said they found?”

Zhikin shook his head. “No, sir. According to their report, that one should be much farther away, and to the southwest. This is a different module.”

“Someone must have laid the Sever modules to guard the barge,” Loktev concluded. “But who?”

“I have no idea, sir. But I did get a good look at the module’s nameplate,” remarked Zhikin as he pulled an underwater writing slate from his suit’s breast pocket. “Here is the module’s serial number. With any luck you might be able to trace who authorized its installation, and when. I’m sorry, but that is the best I can do for now.”

The admiral smiled thinly and slapped Zhikin on the shoulder. “You have done well, Viktor Ivanovich. We’ll solve this mystery together. Now, what do you recommend we do next?”

“I have two dive teams ready to go down as we speak, one to retrieve one of the canisters, and the other to do an in-depth inspection of the barge; to gather basic dimensional data and ascertain how deep it sits in the silt. If we begin immediately, we can find out if the canisters hold reentry vehicles within the hour. Then we’ll have a better idea of the recovery effort.”

“Will you retrieve the canisters one at a time?”

Zhikin shook his head vehemently. “No, sir, it’s too risky and would take far too long. Besides, I’m not sure we can even get at the layers underneath without dismantling the upper structure. No, since this barge was designed to resurface, then that’s what I recommend we do. Victory should have the necessary hoses to hook up to the salvage connections; if not, they can be transported by helicopter in a matter of hours. If all goes well, we can blow the ballast tanks dry and have the barge on the surface by tomorrow.”

“Excellent, Captain!” Loktev exclaimed. “We’ll proceed as you suggest. Get your men in the water, and let me know the moment they have recovered one of the canisters. I’ll be on the bridge trying to figure out how I’m going to report this to Northern Fleet headquarters and Moscow. I must construct my message carefully. I’m not sure I would believe it myself if one of my aides were to place it in front of me. This is a political catastrophe of unimaginable proportions.”

Nodding slowly, Zhikin smiled and said, “Comrade Admiral, I do not envy you. I suspect I have the easier of the two tasks.”

Petrov was in the graving dock when his cell phone buzzed. Irritated, he looked and saw he had received a text from his Russian supervisor summoning him to the liaison office immediately. “I don’t have time for such nonsense,” he mumbled to himself. But there was no point in arguing, Igor Osinov was as impatient as he was arrogant and Petrov would only lose more time if he tried to debate the matter with him. Signaling to one of his assistants, Petrov pointed to several deep scars on some of the anechoic coating tiles below the stern pod that would need replacing. Once confident that the man knew what had to be done next, Petrov walked to his car and drove over to the support office by the Russian hostel near the naval base’s main gate.

The drive did little to soothe his aggravation, and Petrov strode angrily into Osinov’s office demanding, “What is it this time, Igor? You know I don’t have the time…”

He stopped in midsentence. Osinov wasn’t alone; there were two men with him, one Indian and the other probably a Russian. There was a fearful expression on Osinov’s face.

“Please close the door, Aleksey,” ordered Osinov; his voice was shaky. Petrov did so, turned, and approached his boss as he gestured to the well-dressed Caucasian.

“Aleksey Igorevich Petrov, this is Foreign Intelligence Service Officer Leonid Nikolayevich Ruchkin from the embassy in New Delhi, he’s here to ask you a few questions.”

Petrov’s eyes darted to the SVR agent; the young man had a friendly demeanor and extended his hand. “I know how much of an inconvenience this is, Captain Petrov, so I will attempt to be brief.”

“It’s been a long time since I was addressed by my rank,” replied Petrov as he shook Ruchkin’s hand.

“But it’s still appropriate, is it not? You did retire honorably, despite the unfortunate incident. Please, be seated, Captain.”

Nodding politely, Petrov took his seat, while Ruchkin pointed toward the Indian. “This is my colleague, Field Agent Tungish Sharma of the Indian Intelligence Bureau. He’ll be observing our discussion.”

“Captain,” greeted Sharma. Petrov reciprocated, but his nerves were on edge. Something wasn’t quite right here; he felt something nagging at him.

Ruchkin wasted no time and launched into his interview. “Captain, in your opinion, is there anything unusual about the refit of INS Chakra?”

Petrov’s reaction was one of amazement. If he had been nervous before, there were now alarm bells going off. The presence of the Indian intelligence agent complicated the situation greatly, and with Samant’s warning ringing in Petrov’s mind, he decided to play it straight.

“Unusual, Agent Ruchkin? The whole damn refit is unusual!”

“How so?”

“The customer cut our time by two-thirds, completely rewrote the refit’s work schedule, and made a mess of it!” vented Petrov. He only hoped his anger would mask his nervousness. “The schedule is so disjointed that there have been times when I had multiple teams trying to make repairs on colocated systems at the same time. If you haven’t been in a submarine, space is at a premium. I don’t have the room for all those people to do their work safely. Especially if hot work is involved.”

The SVR agent’s eyes glanced toward the Indian, who was writing furiously. “Have you been given an explanation for these changes, Captain?”

“Of course not,” snapped Petrov. “I can only assume it has something to do with the Kashmiri incident, but I don’t see how. All I know is that my Indian Navy point of contact, Captain Mitra, has given me precious little time to get a lot of work done.”

“Do any of the repairs seem out of place to you?” asked Ruchkin pointedly.

Struggling to not show the growing anxiety he was feeling, Petrov paused to think the question over. He wanted to tell the SVR agent about his and Samant’s suspicions, but that would expose his friend to Sharma; and every fiber of his being screamed this would be a really bad idea. Petrov prayed to God his expression looked pensive. “No… No, not really,” he lied. “All the work items are valid. If anything there is an overemphasis on tactical systems that I believe is not prudent. There are a number of persistent, but not critical, engineering issues that could use more attention — in my opinion.”

Ruchkin momentarily stopped the interview as he wrote some notes. Petrov glanced over at Osinov, who was literally shielding his eyes to prevent contact with the SVR agent. There was no doubt in Petrov’s mind that his supervisor would have a piece of his rear end later.

“So, Captain,” resumed Ruchkin. “How did you become the lead engineer for this refit? The position is not in your contract.”

“You’re correct, Agent Ruchkin, my original assignment was as a submarine technology liaison with the Indian Navy to assist in planning modifications and upgrades for their Russian-produced submarines — which includes INS Chakra. I also provided some consulting to India’s design teams for their next nuclear submarine, mostly in the propulsion plant area. Captain Mitra essentially drafted me to be the lead engineer because I have the technical and tactical experience on Project 971 submarines. I was a starpom, ah, excuse me, first officer, on K-157 Vepr. My understanding was the radical reduction of the refit schedule required someone with more experience be assigned to oversee the refit. I just happened to be handy.”

“I see. Well, Captain, I do appreciate the candor you provided in your answers. It’s not often I find someone willing to speak their mind so freely. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Osinov?”

“What? Oh, yes, absolutely, Agent Ruchkin.” Petrov tried hard not to smirk. He would still get an ass chewing over this, but nothing official would come of it.

“One last thing, Captain,” said Ruchkin as he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Do you recognize this man?”

Petrov took the photo and studied it carefully. The picture was an official photograph of a middle-aged man in a Russian naval uniform. He looked a little old to be a captain third rank, but it was not uncommon in the Russian Navy for some officers to advance more slowly, particularly in the noncommand specialty fields. “No. I don’t believe I’ve seen this man before.”

Ruchkin’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure, Captain? He is a Russian national assigned to the refit project.”

Petrov saw the Indian agent’s eyes widen a bit. He began moving slowly, attempting to get a better view of the photograph. “I’m sorry, Agent Ruchkin. But if this man is working on Chakra, I haven’t seen him. But I must remind you I’ve only been in the job for about three weeks. I haven’t met every one of my countrymen working on this boat. In fact, I’ve intentionally limited myself to contact with my assistants, as there is just so much work to do.”

“Understandable. Well, then, perhaps you’ve heard his name: Evgeni Orlav?”

Petrov tried to keep his eyes on Ruchkin, but Sharma seemed visibly annoyed. Was the Russian SVR agent venturing off a previously agreed track? Or was Ruchkin trying to catch him in a well-laid trap? Again, Petrov’s instinct was to play it safe. “Oh, yes, I have heard the name. He’s a torpedo specialist, or so I’m told, but he doesn’t report to me. Mr. Orlav does most of his work off-hull, and his immediate supervisor is an Indian naval engineer, Commander Fali Gandhi, I believe.”

“Don’t you find that odd that you haven’t seen him?” pressed Ruchkin.

Petrov shook his head. “No, not particularly. According to the contract he’s to inspect and test the new UGST-M torpedoes that were recently purchased by India, and to run tests on Chakra’s combat system to ensure the system can pass tactical information to the new weapons. Most of his work would keep him off-hull and in one of the weapons repair shops.”

“Pardon me, Captain, but why isn’t something so important as a submarine’s main weaponry of more concern to you? Isn’t it one of the key requirements in the new refit schedule?”

The snide remarks angered Petrov, and he let it show. The SVR agent was intentionally goading him. “Agent Ruchkin, as I have said before, I have many things that need to be done before the sea trials in a little over a week. I must carefully pick the work elements that would benefit the most from my limited time. Mr. Orlav’s job is not overly complex, but it is very time-consuming. The contract specifications are especially strict, requiring each torpedo be stripped down and thoroughly checked, and then pass three complete diagnostic tests before the weapon will be accepted. This takes time, a lot of time, time I do not have. If the Indian engineer was not satisfied with Orlav’s work, I’d hear about it, and then I would get involved. I have heard nothing from the Indians about Orlav’s performance.”

Ruchkin nodded, a smile once again on his face. “Thank you, Captain. I won’t keep you from your duties any longer. I wish you good luck in completing the refit. It sounds like you’re a very busy man. But I would appreciate it if you would keep Mr. Orlav in mind as you go about your work. Here’s my card. Feel free to call me at any time.”

Petrov took the card and quickly bid Ruchkin and Sharma farewell; he wanted to get out of sight before he lost his composure. Fighting to walk at a casual pace, he made a beeline to his car, and calmly started to drive away. It was only after he was out of sight of the liaison office that his hands started to shake.

The problem with taking even a short break was that the paperwork didn’t stop flowing while one was away. The pile had continued to build relentlessly, and a mass of correspondence and reports awaited Dhankhar when he returned. He’d breathed a heavy sigh at the sight of the imposing mound, hung up his jacket, and dug into the backlog. The admiral had managed to plow his way through most of the stack on his desk when an aide knocked on his door.

“Begging your pardon, sir. I know you didn’t want to be disturbed, but a Mr. Bapat from the United Services Club is on the phone. He insists that he needs to speak to you. It concerns your last visit.”

Dhankhar’s initial irritation at the intrusion was replaced by curiosity. The combination of the man’s name and the club was a prearranged code that a member of the Vajra group wanted to speak with him. “Very well, please forward the call.”

As soon as the phone rang, Dhankhar grabbed it. “Vice Admiral Dhankhar here; how may I help you, Mr. Bapat?”

“Good afternoon, Admiral, this is Shiv Singh. I need to speak to you on a secure line.” Dhankhar immediately recognized the voice of the assistant deputy director in the Indian Intelligence Bureau.

“One moment please,” replied Dhankhar as he opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a smart card with an embedded microprocessor. He inserted the card into his phone and punched in his ID number. Moments later the phone’s display read SECURE.

“Shiv, the call is now secure. What’s the problem?”

“Admiral, one of our agents just reported in that he accompanied a Russian Foreign Intelligence Service officer this morning as he interrogated a Russian engineer involved with Chakra’s refit. The SVR agent was most interested in knowing if there was anything unusual or odd about it.”

Dhankhar sat up straight. Singh now had his undivided attention. “Go on.”

“The engineer is a retired Russian naval officer, his name is Aleksey Petrov. According to the report he’s a former submariner, my agent said the SVR officer addressed him as ‘captain.’ I looked up his visa information; he’s an engineering consultant here to facilitate planning future upgrades to Russian-built submarines. Apparently, Captain Mitra of the naval dockyard brought this Russian on to expedite Chakra’s refit.”

“That was a most unfortunate decision by Mitra,” growled Dhankhar quietly. “A senior Russian naval officer with submarine experience could be a significant risk to our plan. What did this Petrov tell the SVR agent?”

Singh ran down the list of questions and responses about Chakra’s refit during the meeting. It was clear that Petrov thought that the refit’s priorities were skewed and there was a lot of work to do in very little time. Singh then concluded with some of the agent’s personal observations. “He noted that Mr. Petrov seemed particularly whiny about conflicting work requirements and safety issues, and that he was visibly angry about those aspects of the refit.”

“All that means is that Petrov is a competent engineer and manager. His concerns about the refit have been echoed by many of my own people,” remarked Dhankhar. “They aren’t pleased with the changes I’ve made as well. Any indication Petrov is aware of the true nature of Chakra’s modifications?”

“No, sir. Nothing leaps out from the report; he seems to be mostly concerned with managing the entire confused effort — very much a big-picture man. Although, our agent was not happy with the SVR officer when he went beyond the prearranged plan. He showed Petrov a picture of a Russian national, who apparently is supporting the refit. Petrov didn’t recognize the photo, but he was familiar with the name: Evgeni Orlav.”

At the mention of Orlav’s name, Dhankhar’s blood ran cold. The SVR agent’s presence demonstrated that the Russians suspected something, but what? Did they know about their plan? Had they somehow managed to track down Kirichenko or one of his minions? For the first time, Dhankhar felt fear. This couldn’t be just a coincidence, could it? The Indian admiral struggled to keep his cool as he asked, “What did Petrov say?”

“That he hadn’t seen Orlav, nor was it likely he would given his duties. Petrov didn’t seem concerned about the man because he hadn’t heard any complaints from Orlav’s Indian supervisor. Petrov claimed he didn’t have the time to deal with issues that didn’t require his attention. However, the SVR officer did ask Petrov to keep his eyes open. There was an implicit request by the SVR agent to contact him if he came upon anything.”

“I see,” replied Dhankhar quietly. “Thank you, Shiv, for this information. I’d appreciate a copy of the official report as soon as it is completed. Oh, and please alert the four councilmen of this incident. They should be aware as well.”

“Yes, sir. I will do so immediately. Good-bye, Admiral.”

As Dhankhar put his smart card away, he realized his hands were cool and clammy. His heart was beating at a rapid pace. The possibility of discovery when they were so close to completing their task was unnerving and unacceptable. Their goal was vital, but the situation was hazy and unclear. The Russians were asking dangerous questions, but the casual manner of the interrogation suggested they didn’t really know what was going on. Could it just be a coincidence after all? He really didn’t know much about Kirichenko and his people. An overreaction now could be just as deadly as doing nothing at all.

Dhankhar looked at his watch and then picked up his cell phone. It was time he made another call.