Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel (24 page)

Samant came over and angled a work light to point at the folder, then pulled each sheet of paper out of the way when Petrov said he was ready. They were running late, if his watch was right.

“Done,” Petrov announced softly. He had just started to put the camera away when he noted a separate piece of folded-up paper tucked underneath the schematics. Petrov removed the crinkled paper and slowly opened it. Flattening it out and turning it around, the men leaned over to look at its contents—and no sooner had they begun reading than both drew a sharp breath. The paper held a list: Hong Kong, Shanghai, Dalian, Qingdao, and half a dozen more. All of them were Chinese ports, but this was a collection of the top ten busiest ports, the heart of China’s export economy.

Samant shook his head in awe. “The man is insane!” he whispered. “He’s not planning on attacking Pakistan, he’s going after China!”

Petrov stood overwhelmed as well, his mouth hanging open. He hadn’t had a clue that Dhankhar was planning anything so bold. The implications were staggering.

Samant waved his hands frantically at the paper. “Take a picture! Take a picture!” he exclaimed in a hushed voice. Petrov took a dozen, just to be safe. He then looked at his watch and saw that they had long overstayed their welcome. He pointed repeatedly at his wrist; Samant nodded and began refolding the paper and carefully putting it exactly where they’d found it.

While Samant put the folder back under the electronic boxes, Petrov took one last look around the room for anything useful. He was frustrated that they weren’t able to find and photograph the devices themselves, but the evidence was overwhelming that they were here, almost certainly in that locked vault. He and Samant had discussed the idea of sabotage. If they could damage the nukes, they’d at least delay the plotters, who were obviously on a tight schedule.

Theoretically, if they removed the right component, or bent the correct widget, they’d render the nuclear device unusable. But neither was expert enough to know exactly what to do. They both knew enough about nuclear weapons to know that they were fitted with anti-tamper circuits, and contained several kilograms of high explosive, used to start the nuclear reaction. If they fiddled with the wrong widget, they could trigger what was called a “low-order detonation”—no nuclear reaction, but a conventional explosion that would scatter bits of radioactive and toxic uranium and plutonium over a sizable part of the base, mixed with the two of them.

Their captive was silent, but was breathing, and occasionally testing his bonds. He’d be released when his relief discovered him at 0400. With a nod from Samant, Petrov opened the door and pretended to look like he was checking for rain before stepping out.

The coast was clear, no sign of anyone nearby. Samant followed. He turned the lights off so they didn’t draw attention to the building. The hooded prisoner wouldn’t know the difference.

Once out of the building, they set a brisk pace, and headed straight for the gate, five or six blocks away. After retrieving the camera from the duffel, Petrov tossed the bag into a trash dumpster. Next, he took the memory chip out of the camera and replaced it with an empty one.

Meanwhile, Samant used his cell phone to call the number Patterson had given him in their e-mail exchange yesterday. It was late afternoon in Washington, and he heard her answer on the second ring. “This is Patterson.”

“We have the proof. We will be at Cyberpatnam, the Internet café I mentioned in the e-mail.”

“I have the address. Stay there and keep a low profile. Someone will come for you. Call me back in an hour if they don’t.”

“Understood.”

The gate to the shipyard faced Port Main Road, and was four lanes wide. At this hour, there were only two uniformed soldiers on duty, both lounging near the guard shack in the center of the street. The two burglars waited for what seemed like years until a car turned in to the gate. With the guards distracted and their night vision degraded, Petrov and Samant forced themselves to walk at a normal pace across the short distance to the pedestrian exit. Then they were outside on the street. Petrov’s watch said 0155.

Samant’s Maruti sedan was parked in a small lot outside the shipyard, and Petrov only partly relaxed once they were moving. The police might be looking for this car, and if they’d had any distance to go, he would have worried more. But Cyberpatnam was just two miles to the east, back toward the business district. They’d already covered half the distance to the place, especially the way Samant was driving.

The area right around the shipyard was industrial, and there was little traffic at that time of night except for an occasional truck. At the halfway mark, they reached Convent Junction, a traffic circle and a major crossroads. The cross street, Port Gymkhana Club Road, neatly divided the industrial and business districts. Past that point, the roadside was lined with stores and offices, and the streets were still quite busy. Petrov was a little relieved, both for the anonymity of a crowd, and that traffic was actually moving freely. Daytime traffic in Vizag could be glacial.

As his tension eased, stray thoughts popped into Petrov’s mind. “I wish we could have done something to slow them down.”

“I managed to cause them some trouble,” Samant replied smugly as he drove.

“But the warheads were locked away.”

“Orlav won’t be able to do any work for a while, though.” Petrov could see him smiling broadly even in the dim light. “I cut the cords on all his power tools and took them with us in the duffel.”

Petrov laughed, imagining Orlav’s face when he saw Samant’s handiwork.

They had to park about a block away, but the nighttime crowds didn’t slow them at all. The café offered food as well as coffee and tea, and they paid for the drinks and snacks with a minimum of fuss; they also purchased some rental time on one of the café’s machines.

While Samant logged on, Petrov reinserted the valuable memory card and connected his camera to a USB port on the computer. They’d talked about what to do with the images for hours, and finally worked out a procedure: First they’d log onto a cloud file storage service account they’d established that afternoon; then they uploaded not only Petrov’s photographs but the ones Samant had taken earlier aboard
Chakra
and at the weapons depot. While the images were being uploaded, Samant drafted an e-mail to Jerry Mitchell and Joanna Patterson from a recently created e-mail address with the link to the account.

At Patterson’s express request, they did not send the pictures to the media or any official agency. Both Petrov and Samant had resisted at first, arguing for as wide a distribution as possible. She had pointed out, however, that Dhankhar and the others were still free to act, and Kirichenko, the man who had peddled the bombs, was still on the loose. The sound and fury that would follow from the disclosure of the plot to the public, or even to other government agencies, would only complicate their search for all the plotters. Patterson then appealed to their submariner nature, arguing that “running silent” was the best course of action—for now.

She also promised Samant that his government would be officially notified very soon, in a way Dhankhar could not interfere or control, and reassured Petrov that the Russian government would be fully informed. In the end, the two men agreed. After all, if the Americans didn’t come through, they’d still have the cloud storage sites, and the memory card.

After the first e-mail was sent, Petrov relaxed a little. The information was out there. He and Samant had done what they needed to do. He still kept looking at his watch, though, and had turned his chair so he could see the street. Samant was already uploading the photos on to a second, different cloud service.

Petrov didn’t know what to expect. The only thing he could be sure of was that whoever came through the door, it wouldn’t be the man who had tried to kill him twice. Samant had wondered aloud earlier if there might be someone new hunting for him now. In the movies, the second opponent was always much more dangerous than the first. And what if they sent more than one? After all, they didn’t know the size of the conspiracy. Those thoughts had not been helpful.

They were uploading the photos for a third time, to a cloud storage service in Germany, when two Caucasian men walked in. One was in his mid-thirties, and blond. The other was a little younger, with dark crew-cut hair. Both were dressed in jeans and casual shirts, but the younger man wore a jacket, in spite of the heat. They were obviously looking for someone. The younger man paused just inside the door, placing himself where he could see both the interior of the café and the street. The older man, after only a moment’s hesitation, headed toward Petrov and Samant.

Samant, focused on the keyboard, hadn’t seen them, and Petrov tapped him gently on one arm. “Company.” His tone carried a warning.

“I need two more minutes. Keep him occupied,” Samant said bluntly.

Petrov was determined to do just that, but couldn’t do more than stand and position himself between the approaching stranger and the seated Samant. The stranger didn’t appear threatening, and had both hands in sight. He wouldn’t try anything here, in a public place, would he?

The stranger, still looking directly at Petrov, reached around to his back. Petrov braced himself for some sort of attack. Lacking anything else, he slid a nearby chair in front of him. Of course, if the stranger had a gun …

There was a dark object in his hand, and while Petrov was still trying to recognize it, the stranger stopped, a good six feet away from Petrov and his defensive furniture.

“My name is Paul McFadden. I’m from the U.S. Consulate in Hyderabad.” He opened the object and offered it to Petrov. It was his identification, and Petrov had heard enough American-accented English to recognize it when it was spoken. Almost collapsing into the chair with relief, Petrov took the credentials with his left hand and offered his right. Mr. McFadden was assigned to the political-economic section of the consulate.

As they shook hands, McFadden said, “We have a car outside, and a long way to go.” Samant was standing up behind him, and handed Petrov the camera. McFadden turned and headed toward the door, with Petrov and Samant close behind. McFadden hadn’t introduced his companion, who waited until the other three had passed, eyes on the café, before going outside himself.

McFadden headed toward a well-used SUV, a dark green Tavera illegally parked in front of the café. A third man was waiting by the driver’s-side door. He was older, and also had the short haircut of a military man. He waited outside the car, scanning the street, until McFadden reached the door. By the time the others had belted in, they were moving. McFadden took his cell out, and after pressing a key, waited a moment, and then said, “We have them. We’re moving now.”

Sitting in the backseat, Petrov smiled and reached over to shake Samant’s hand. The Indian wasn’t smiling, though, and Petrov knew that his feelings were very different. Petrov had sought safety in a foreign land suddenly turned hostile. But however justified, Samant was collaborating with a foreign country against his own military. His future was uncertain, as was India’s, especially if the conspiracy succeeded. Samant might not be the type to regret his choices, but they came with an uncertain cost.

After a short conversation, McFadden put the cell phone away. “Once we’re out of town, the traffic will be light, and we should make good time. We should arrive at the consulate a little before noon. You should both try to get some sleep.”

“Can you please confirm that Dr. Patterson got our e-mails?”

“Yes, she told my boss that the files were being downloaded right now.”

The last bit of tension left him, and fatigue washed over Petrov. It would be a ten-hour drive to Hyderabad, and he thought he might sleep through all of it.

3 April 2017

1915 EST

The White House

Washington, D.C.

Cursing her lack of forethought, Patterson had commandeered a secure conference room after looking at the first few photos, bumping a legislative planning session, and probably whatever came after it. She’d had Allison Gray move operations down there, while her secretary Kathy started calling people.

President Myles walked in, unexpected and unannounced; the sudden quiet near the door caught her attention. She started to stand, along with everybody else in the room, but Myles motioned for them to sit down. “Back to work!” he said with a stern tone, but he was smiling.

Everyone else sat down, but Patterson broke off her conversation with the State Department rep and came over to where Myles was standing. “Mr. President, we’re preparing a briefing for you now…”

“If this information is as hot as it seems, minutes may count,” Myles answered. “I don’t need a polished briefing. From what you told me before, the information is definite.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Refreshingly so. I’ve spent the past hour calling in people from agencies all over the government. I’m asking them to find something that might suggest that these
aren’t
nuclear weapons.”

She gestured, sweeping her arm wide to include the entire room. “I’ve got people from the CIA and DIA, of course, but also state, energy, and defense.” She pointed to one corner, where a young man and woman were arguing over a laptop keyboard. “Those two are from the NSA and Homeland Security. Now that we’ve downloaded the photographs,” she paused, “several times, I might add, those two are in charge of deleting the accounts from the cloud and making sure nobody else has downloaded the photos.”

“What about the two men who took these?”

She glanced at the wall clock. “They’re still driving from Vizag to our consulate in Hyderabad. They won’t get there until about noon local time.”

“And they are out of any danger? And our people with them?”

“Aside from the hazards of traffic in India,” she answered, smiling.

“Good,” Myles replied. “Now, show me the photos.”

“Sir,” she protested, “we need to put these in context…”

“Which will take hours, or more likely days. Just show me what you got.”