Fatal Thunder

7 INVESTIGATORS

Petrov sat with Anton Kulik, one of the technicians working on the sonar system upgrade. Today he’d been installing new signal-processing boards for the main hull array. Since the sonar cabinets were located in the first compartment, Kulik was one of the few team members who actually interacted with Orlav, as he sometimes worked in the torpedo room, located on the deck above.

“When he’s there at all,” Kulik explained as they ate their lunch. They were in Chakra’s mess deck. Because of the refit, the galley itself was closed, but the Russians had made sure the air conditioning aboard the boat still worked. Even in March, the air outside was a sticky eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit. The mess was sized to feed forty men, so there was plenty of room for the small group of Russian technicians to eat their “tiffins,” boxed lunches bought from vendors or restaurants on the way to work. The British had started the practice in the colonial era and invented the word, but it had become a habit for many Indian workers, and the Russians had quickly adopted the practice. Curried vegetables, rice, and flatbread made a satisfying lunch, especially since most of the Russians either were bachelors or had left their wives back in Russia.

“I’ve brought Orlav a takeout dinner every night for two weeks now.” Working in the same compartment, they were on speaking terms, but Kulik said that Orlav wasn’t really close with any of his countrymen.

“He’s been working that hard? And nobody’s helping him?”

“We’re all busy,” Kulik replied, “but at the last planning meeting Shvetov asked Captain Mitra about Orlav’s progress and his deadline. By rights, Orlav should be reporting to Shvetov, or at least Commander Gandhi. Shvetov is the team leader, after all, but Mitra told Shvetov that Orlav wasn’t his concern, and that his work was a ‘separate project.’ That’s got to be their new missile, the Sagarika.”

“Sagarika is a ballistic missile,” Petrov answered. “You can’t fire it from a torpedo tube.”

“Then they’re using their new Nirbhay cruise missile, or perhaps one of the missile types we’ve supplied to them, like the Klub, and gluing a nuclear warhead on the front. The Klub is fired like a torpedo.” Kulik brightened. “That makes sense. We have to give them technical help on so many other things, so they hired Orlav to do that. What have you found out?”

The question caught Petrov off guard. “Me? What have I found out?”

“Come on! You’ve been pumping me about Orlav the entire meal.” Kulik shrugged. “I don’t mind, but fair’s fair. You have to tell me what you’ve discovered.” He noticed Petrov’s hesitation. “It’s all right. I know you’re curious about what he’s working on. So am I. Everyone on the team is, although we may be the only two who have actually figured it out,” he added with a conspiratorial air.

Petrov hadn’t realized his inquiries had been that transparent. That worried him a little bit, but meanwhile Kulik was waiting for an answer.

“I am curious,” Petrov admitted. “I guess I’m a little concerned about what it means if you’re right.” That was at least half true.

“I’ll tell you what it means,” Kulik answered confidently. “Karachi? BOOM. Hyderabad? BOOM. Quetta? BOOM.”

“If the Indians were to use nuclear weapons, the Pakistanis would as well,” Petrov argued.

“Don’t I know it!” Kulik agreed. “And Vizag would be a great target — a major naval base, and catch Arihant while she’s still being repaired. Since the bomb went off in Kashmir, everyone’s been on edge, with good reason. Something’s going to happen, and it won’t be good. The instant we’re done here, I’m on the first plane going anywhere west. Not east. I don’t want to be caught in the fallout pattern.”

After finishing their meal, they both returned to their work, and even though he was busy, Petrov kept running the conversation over in his head. He’d learned nothing new. What occupied his mind was that his interest in Orlav had been so obvious. He’d tried to be subtle, but obviously failed miserably.

The problem was that before his lunch with Kulik, he’d spent the morning trying to find out what he could about Orlav, first from Captain Mitra, in charge of the project, then at the personnel office, and of course he’d looked around the torpedo shop where the technician spent almost all his time.

The shop was a large, windowless building, and if the keypad lock wasn’t enough of a deterrent, the armed soldier out front kept him from even lingering in the area. Of course, short of peeking in a nonexistent window, Petrov didn’t have a clue what he could have done or learned. He decided he was a better engineer than a spy.

Girish Samant agreed. “You are indeed a very lousy spy,” he declared as they ate dinner together that night.

They were not eating at Akshaya’s, but a smaller place, away from the shipyard. The Mirakapi had good food, but Petrov had to ask for extra rice to kill the fire from the tandoori chicken he’d ordered.

“And what would you have done?” Petrov retorted. He felt a flash of irritation, but he realized part of it was his competitive nature, one of the things he and Samant had in common.

“The same,” the Indian answered quickly, with a smile. “Until now, I think we were both proud of our lack of guile. Unfortunately, there is no time to learn as we go. If Russian intelligence wanted you to play detective, they should have given you the handbook.”

“Written in invisible ink, no doubt,” grumbled Petrov.

“We will find other ways to gather the information we need.”

Dhankhar listened with frustration. It had been more difficult than usual to get ahold of Kirichenko, and after finally catching him; it was hard to read the man’s reactions over the phone. He never replied quickly, rarely expressed surprise, or anger, or any strong emotion. Dhankhar couldn’t tell by the sound of Kirichenko’s voice how he was taking the news of someone asking questions about Orlav.

“Would Petrov have any other reason to ask questions about Orlav beyond the SVR agent’s request?”

Even though he was on the phone, Dhankhar automatically shook his head. “No. Certainly it has nothing to do with his assignment assisting in Chakra’s refit,” the admiral replied. “Captain Mitra was quite sure, and reported that Petrov asked about Orlav in several different places this morning.”

“Why would the SVR care about Orlav?” Kirichenko asked. “Has he done anything to attract attention to himself?”

“I don’t know,” Dhankhar admitted. “But Petrov is following through on the agent’s request, or he is at least trying. Mitra got his personnel file when he was assigned to assist with Chakra. He’s a retired submarine captain, and now an engineer and naval constructor. No obvious ties to intelligence or law enforcement agencies.”

“I know of him,” Kirichenko said. “He was captain of Severodvinsk, but lost her on his first patrol in a collision with an American submarine. Nineteen men were killed. The investigation found him to be at fault and he was allowed to retire.”

“Is he trying to redeem himself, then?”

“Possibly. We certainly can’t let him find out anything more.” Kirichenko asked, “Has Orlav talked to anyone?”

“No, he works alone in the torpedo shop, and goes back to his apartment every few days to shower and change clothes.”

“Move him out of his apartment. Find quarters for him on the base; keep him away from the other Russians.” Dhankhar felt a flash of irritation at the peremptory order, but then remembered that Kirichenko had also been an admiral, before he left his navy. “Are you sure he never leaves the shipyard?”

“As far as I know. The only places he goes are the torpedo shop, Chakra, and occasionally his apartment, just outside the north gate.”

“That we know of,” Kirichenko replied. “He’s weak-willed, prone to drink and other distractions. That’s why he was kicked out of the Russian Navy. If he’s somehow managed to sneak off and gotten into trouble, it not only affects our schedule, it jeopardizes the security of the entire plan.”

“I don’t have enough people to watch him all day,” the admiral protested. “I’ll be able to constrain his movements if he stays in the shop, but I can’t assign more guards to watch him inside the building. I’ve been able to boost security at the gates after the Kashmiri explosion. That wasn’t hard, but beefing up security inside the base requires that I either bring more people into the project, or a long explanation. Both bring unwanted attention to Mr. Orlav and the torpedo shop — attention we can ill afford.”

“Then do what you can. Visit him at unusual times for the next couple of days. After that, Churkin will be there and he can watch Orlav. Everything depends on that zadnitsa.” Dhankhar’s Russian was good enough to include slang. Kirichenko was not being complimentary.

“Agreed.” Dhankhar didn’t like what Kirichenko was saying, but it was true.

“What about Mitra? I’m assuming you haven’t told him, have you?” The Russian’s tone was accusatory.

“Certainly not,” Dhankhar replied with a righteous tone. “Nothing beyond what I told him at the start. Orlav is working on a secret weapons project authorized by the Defense Ministry. I needed Mitra’s cooperation to secure the torpedo shop, the guards, supplies, as well as having Orlav reporting only to me, while keeping the lead artificer at arm’s length.”

“Good.” Kirichenko asked, “Is Petrov important to finishing Chakra’s refit on time?”

Dhankhar tried to remember what Mitra had said the Russian was doing aboard the sub. “Nothing special, supervisory work, mostly. He’s very good at organizing things, and he’s solved a lot of problems brought on by the truncated refit schedule. But the critical path is the delivery of several items of electronic equipment from Russia. He can’t help with that. Why do you ask?”

“It’s not important,” Kirichenko replied quickly. “Hopefully, his playing detective is not interfering with his work.”

Hardy took Joanna with him this time. She had been unhappy at being excluded from the first meeting, and the presence of the national security advisor would remind the Russians of the importance of this issue to the U.S. The senator still wasn’t completely sure that the Russian government was taking this seriously.

Ambassador Vaslev was waiting for them after they went through security, and they immediately went down one level below ground to what Hardy assumed was a secure conference room. The Russian flag in one corner and the picture of the Russian president on the wall triggered some old Cold War reflexes, but the Russians were trying to be hospitable. Tea had been laid out, as well as pads and pens for notes. The Americans left their phones and other recording devices at security, of course.

The only other person in the room was Colonel Valery Zykov, the SVR station chief. When Vaslev had entered with his two guests in tow, Zykov spoke into a microphone and a flat-screen display on one wall had come to life.

The screen showed three men sitting at a table. Two were in naval uniforms, the other was dressed in civilian clothes. He recognized one of them, Captain Mishin, the naval attaché that he’d briefed a week ago.

Mishin spoke. His English was heavily accented, but understandable. He explained, “After our meeting with you, I flew back to personally brief my superiors. They have made me action officer for this matter, along with Major Tumansky of the FSB.” He was gesturing toward the man in civilian clothes.

“Immediately after I passed your information to the navy, they sent an expedition to verify your story. In spite of some bad weather, an icebreaker was able to reach the location. We did find a barge exactly where you said it would be, as well as the seabed acoustic devices you said detected your submarine.”

He gestured to the other naval officer next to him. “Captain First Rank Zhikin is in charge of the 328th Expeditionary Rescue Squad, and along with others from his unit, dove down to the barge to investigate. He returned from the area just yesterday.”

Although the same rank as Mishin, Zhikin looked older, or possibly just more weathered. He spoke Russian, while Mishin translated. “They found one barge, with three MGK-608 series fixed acoustic sensors around it. Inside the barge, they found many cases identical to the ones in the photographs you provided. They recovered one of the cases, and after taking precautions, opened it. They found a—” Mishin paused for a moment as if gathering his strength. “—nuclear device, just as you described.”

Hardy was watching the diver’s face and could see he was remembering the shock and surprise at the discovery of the case’s contents. Mishin nodded to someone offscreen, and the three men were replaced by a series of underwater photos. The divers had set up lights to illuminate the interior of the barge. He could see rows of cases, then realized there was a second layer, and a chill ran racetracks up and down his back at the thought of that many weapons hidden away for who knows what purpose.

Mishin and the other two Russians reappeared on the screen, and seemed to be waiting for some sort of response from the Americans. Patterson said, “Congratulations on finding and recovering the warheads. Can the Russian government provide assurances to the United States that the weapons are now secure?”

The two naval officers had a quick exchange, and Mishin answered, “I will not presume to speak for my government, but the cases are still being recovered. Captain Zhikin’s divers are finishing their preparations as we speak.”

She looked puzzled. “Preparations?”

Through Mishin, Zhikin explained, “The barge had settled into the silt and we had to do a little excavating before we could attempt to raise it. It has been modified with a ballast system similar to that of a submarine. Hoses have been attached to fittings and high-pressure air will displace the water, and the barge will rise to the surface. They’re waiting for a tug and armed escort from Severomorsk. They should arrive tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a lot of work. Wouldn’t it be easier to have the divers just bring up the cases?”

When Mishin translated her question, Zhikin shook his head sharply and spoke. “Far too many dives, even if they bring up two at a time.”

Patterson’s expression matched the worry in her tone. “Exactly how many warheads did you find aboard the barge?”

Vaslev cut in. “That is not important. What matters is how many have been taken. I will say on behalf of the Russian Federation that the warheads from the barge are under our control, and under the terms of the INF treaty, will be destroyed as soon as feasible.”

“It is important,” she insisted. “According to that same treaty, the destruction must be done in the presence of observers. Since the treaty also requires reporting the number of warheads to be destroyed, withholding the number found would be in violation of the treaty, and destroying them without observers present would be a cause for grave concern. The number also tells us something about whoever put them there.”

Mishin and Vaslev exchanged looks, and Vaslev nodded. The Russians were not willing to be viewed as breaking the treaty, not under these circumstances, and she was right. Besides, the Americans would find out eventually. Mishin replied, “There appeared to be sixty-two aboard the barge. If the cases that were taken were the same as the ones we found, then the barge could have held seventy.” Mishin looked very unhappy.

Hardy’s mind whirled at the thought of so many weapons at risk. No wonder they didn’t want to say how many were involved.

“So hopefully, there’s no more than six taken, and one’s been accounted for, although that’s small comfort to the people in Kashmir,” Patterson observed.

The ambassador said carefully, “The Russian Federation is making every effort to locate and recover the missing warheads. Major Tumansky is our liaison with the FSB, and the president has ordered every law enforcement agency in Russia to assist in the investigation. In the last week, what has the United States discovered?”

Hardy answered. “That Evgeni Orlav, identified as a former Russian naval officer, has never entered or passed through U.S. territory or contacted any of our embassies.”

Vaslev shrugged. “That’s all?”

“All we had was that name,” Hardy replied. “And like so many other clues, it led straight into Russia. But we have also been working from a different angle. We keep a careful watch on terrorist communications, especially anything that might relate to nuclear matters.”

“Of course,” Vaslev agreed.

“Normally, with so many terrorist groups worldwide, our ability to watch everyone is very thin. But the explosion in Kashmir gave us a time and a location. We managed to find a communication regarding a Pakistani scientist, a Dr. Tareen. We know he taught nuclear physics at Islamabad at the same time that A. Q. Khan was there. The communication was from one Lashkar-e-Taiba group to another in Kashmir the day before the explosion.”

The ambassador still wasn’t impressed. “LeT’s involvement was decisively revealed by the blast itself. We will pass your information on Dr. Tareen on to our investigators, but I suspect the only way to locate him now would be with a Geiger counter.”

“What about the clues from the barge?” Hardy pressed. “The warheads, the barge itself, the acoustic buoys all give you places to start looking.”

Mishin answered that one. “Yes. Captain Zhikin’s men took extensive photographs of the barge and the acoustic sensor modules.” He looked over to the man in civilian clothes. “Major Tumansky is a specialist in crimes within the defense industry. He has been given broad investigative powers by the president.”

Although relatively young, Tumansky was nearly bald, which only emphasized his broad Slavic features. His English was perfect, to the point where his accent was not Russian, but to Hardy sounded almost Southern. “The serial numbers on the warheads match, and are in the same sequence, as the two you stole twelve years ago. The barge is of a standard type, used for the transport of dry cargo. Over one hundred were manufactured in a factory on the Dvina River. Many are still in use. Before this one was deliberately sunk, all identifying numbers were ground or burned off. Wherever the divers scraped away the marine growth, the barge is still in its original red primer.”

He scowled. “Forensic techniques can be used to recover the information from the surfaces where the information was erased, but not while it is underwater. After the barge is raised, we will make another examination.

“Inquiries at the factory revealed that production of this type of barge ended seven years ago. Their records were poorly maintained and are incomplete. We have assigned men to find and account for all the barges where the factory does have information, and a more thorough investigation, including interrogation of the factory personnel, is in progress.

“The acoustic sensors are still operational, and are part of a defensive barrier that lines our northern coast.” The investigator looked over to Mishin.

Mishin explained, “The chain is monitored from a facility in Severomorsk. We immediately discovered that the location of the sensors, as provided by you and verified by us, is different from where the Northern Fleet headquarters believed them to be. The three surround the barge in a loose circle, instead of forming the northern end of the barrier, spaced much wider apart, and located well to the south.”

Hardy noticed how the Russians were suddenly vague about the spacing and position of the sensors, but that defensive acoustic barrier was not part of the problem, as far as he could tell. But there still was a useful clue. He spoke up. “Your units seemed to have no trouble finding us, so somebody had to know where those sensors actually were located.”

Mishin nodded agreement, but said, “Records of the incident — from the time of detection until the loss of Gepard—were classified after the court-martial of Admiral Yuri Kirichenko.”

“I remember hearing about that. He was commander of the Northern Fleet. Why exactly was he court-martialed?” Patterson asked.

Mishin replied, “The official charge was ‘violating standing fleet orders and using poor judgment.’”

“So pursuing Memphis violated your rules of engagement.”

“Not at first,” Mishin answered, “but once an intruder was some tens of kilometers from our coast, and was definitely moving away, standing orders were to track him, but not attack it again. Instead, against the advice of his chief of staff and other senior officers, when Memphis left the coastal defense zone, the admiral did not recall the pursuing units. Instead, he mobilized more Northern Fleet ships and aircraft.

“Testimony from officers present, and I can corroborate this from my own experience, is that he was fiercely determined to sink the American sub—Memphis—no matter what it took.” Mishin rubbed his temples, as if the memory was stressful.

“Sonars in the pursuing ships heard the sound when Gepard’s torpedoes exploded. At first, it was hoped that meant the American sub had been sunk, but when some time had passed and our submarine failed to report, which was standard practice, Admiral Ventofsky, Commander in Chief of the Russian Navy, ordered the prosecution ended. Even then, Kirichenko did not seem ready to stop, and Ventofsky finally ordered Kirichenko’s chief of staff to take command and organize the search and rescue effort for Gepard.”

Hardy said, “I can only express my deep regret at the loss of your submarine. We did our very best to avoid combat. Our only desire was to leave.”

“After intruding into places you had no business going,” Mishin replied. “Your actions may have been justified, but the Russian Navy has always defended its home waters with vigor, and we will continue to do so.” Mishin looked directly at Patterson as he spoke, and Hardy noticed Vaslev smiling. That message has been successfully delivered.

Hardy bristled and began to speak, but Patterson laid a hand on his arm and he remained silent.

Tumansky continued the narration. “At the court-martial, Kirichenko said that his only motive was to defend Russian territory and punish the intruder — you, but his actions went far beyond what was required. He even invented a story about a spy that the intruding sub had picked up to justify continuing the attacks. His explanation was incredible, but was accepted at the trial because his motivations were essentially irrelevant. The charges were based on his actions, not his reasoning. Now, with this new knowledge, we can see what he was so desperate to protect.

“Once we knew what to look for, we could see that Kirichenko knew where those misplaced acoustic sensors actually were. While his staff took charge of the pursuit, Kirichenko himself gave many of the tactical orders. His initial commands to the fleet sent them well north of the intruder’s reported location. Since your submarine was fleeing north, the exact spacing did not attract attention, especially since our units successfully detected you. Reconstructing it now, using the sensors’ true position, we can see that he was following standard fleet doctrine for the prosecution of a Los Angeles—class nuclear submarine, beginning at the sensors’ true location.”

“So the commander of the Northern Fleet was involved in the scheme.” Patterson sounded surprised, even incredulous.

Mishin was defiant. “Admiral Yuri Kirichenko has always been seen as an able commander who made a reckless, and deadly, mistake. Over three decades of faithful service saved him from demotion and possibly a fine or even prison. At the time, it was thought nothing would have been gained by criminal punishment. Instead, he was allowed to retire immediately, without a pension.”

“And where is the former admiral now?” Patterson asked.

Tumansky explained, “That is what my investigators are trying to find out. After the court-martial, he moved into a small house near the Severomorsk naval base. For a while, he kept in touch with a few friends and associates. He didn’t have any family. Eventually, contacts with those he knew became less frequent, and finally rare. A member of his staff stopped by his house one day, about half a year after the court-martial, to find it vacant. He left no word with anyone we’ve spoken to. We’re tracing his bank records and other documentation, but that all ended about the same time.”

“In other words, he’s vanished,” Patterson concluded.

“While doing his best to not leave any tracks,” Tumansky agreed. “But we have many other paths to follow. He didn’t load and hide the barge by himself, and there are many questions regarding the warheads. Their manufacture was so highly classified that there may be only a few people now who knew they even existed. Are these seventy all that were made? Who ordered their production?”

Tumansky sighed. “It’s easy for me to believe that these warheads were manufactured in secret. Even with the end of the Soviet regime, Russia’s defense industry is compartmentalized and divided to an absurd degree, all in the name of secrecy. In my seventeen years as a chief investigator, I’ve only dealt with a handful of security violations, but hundreds of cases of graft and malfeasance.

“Because of that secrecy, only a few records were kept, and most of them are now missing. Our investigation has only started, but so far nobody in the government or military claims to have any knowledge of these weapons. But somehow Kirichenko knew.” Tumansky sounded frustrated, but added, “Once I find that link, we’ll use it to track down Kirichenko and the rest of his helpers.”

Patterson asked, “I’d like to get complete information on the good admiral, please. Photos, fingerprints, and his contacts of course.”

Both Vaslev and the Russians in Moscow looked puzzled, and asked, “Why?”

“So that we can see if he ever came to the U.S., of course. He’s had twelve years to go anywhere he wanted. For all we know, he’s been living in Cincinnati. Also, we can reexamine our intelligence to see if the admiral has appeared, probably under another name, somewhere else. Now that we have someone to look for, if he or his group have been peddling stolen Russian nuclear weapons, we may find their trail.”

Even as Patterson asked for the file, Tumansky scowled, then had a rapid-fire dialogue with Mishin — in Russian. Vaslev also chimed in, after she finished making her request.

Vaslev answered for them. “We can give you the basic information on him immediately, but the file will have to be reviewed by the Director of the FSB…”

“And sanitized, I imagine,” she interrupted with a critical tone.

Vaslev shrugged. “Surely you understand, the file contains sensitive information, and might reveal techniques…”

She almost laughed. “What information could possibly be more sensitive than a renegade Russian admiral selling bootleg Russian nuclear weapons? Ambassador, gentlemen, the quicker we get the file, and the more information it contains, the better chance we have of stopping them before there’s another — and possibly worse — catastrophe.”

The ambassador didn’t respond immediately, and she added, “Whatever is in the file will have limited distribution to those directly involved in this investigation. It is in the United States’ interest to keep this matter quiet, for the time being.” There was an edge to her voice, and she kept Vaslev centered in her gaze.

In Russian, Mishin spoke first, then Tumansky, addressing Vaslev. Hardy couldn’t understand Russian, but their tone indicated she’d managed to convince them. Vaslev finally nodded, and then said, “All right, Dr. Patterson, on my authority, you will have the file this afternoon.”