Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel (16 page)

“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.

28 March 2017

1500 Local Time

INS
Circars
, Eastern Naval Command Headquarters

Visakhapatnam, India

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.

7

INVESTIGATORS

29 March 2017

1215 Local Time

INS
Chakra

Naval Shipyard

Visakhapatnam, India

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.”

29 March 2017

2000 Local Time

INS
Circars
, Eastern Naval Command Headquarters

Visakhapatnam, India

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.”