by Larry Bond
The WC-135 was officially code-named “Constant Phoenix,” but the crew just referred to it by the tail number, “67.” There were only two of them in the air force. The other bird, back home at Offutt Air Force Base, was “93.” A modified C-135, itself derived from the long-obsolete Boeing 707, it carried devices to capture samples of the atmosphere and any fallout particles that might be present.
The big white and gray aircraft, call sign “Windsock,” began to taxi. Nearby, two F-15 fighter escorts came to life and fell in at a respectable distance behind. The U.S. already had overflight rights in Pakistan and had obtained permission from India for this mission, but its course would take Windsock into a shaky cease-fire zone, and right up to the edge of Chinese territory.
Windsock’s transponder would identify it as a U.S. Air Force plane, and both the Pakistani and Indian air defenses would be notified before Windsock entered their airspace. The mission would not violate anyone’s borders, but the Air Force was taking no chances. An E-3 Sentry radar plane and a RC-135 Rivet Joint SIGINT aircraft were already in position to watch and listen for any reaction from Indian or Chinese air defense.
Aerial tankers would orbit off the coast of Pakistan, over the northern Arabian Sea. Windsock would need to refuel during its eleven-hour mission, and the tankers would also keep a flight of four more F-15s on station over the water topped off and ready until Windsock cleared the area and was headed south again.
10 March 2017
1000 Local Time
INS Circars, Eastern Naval Command Headquarters
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
Vice Admiral Badu Singh Dhankhar tried to project an air of calm, in both his tone and his words. “No, Captain, we’re not going to cancel the operation. We owe it to everyone who’s supported us up to this point.”
“Admiral, please, it’s not just the press. That’s bad enough, but the prime minister says there will be a formal inquiry.”
“Of course, but we both know that’s all for show. Everyone is blaming India for the Kashmir incident, and after all, you are the head of the navy’s nuclear weapons program.”
Dhankhar sighed and sat down, but not at his desk. Instead, he used a chair next to Captain Kapil Asrani, and poured more tea. Asrani was taller than the admiral, and younger than Dhankhar by fifteen years, but the admiral wore his rank well. His authority and experience were well known. He’d distinguished himself as a junior officer in the Indo-Pakistani War of 1971. Now almost seventy, and commander of India’s Eastern Naval Command, he was widely respected and liked, a pillar of the fleet.
He paused, as if in calm contemplation, but internally gauging Asrani’s level of agitation. Too much depended on this man. The captain’s office was in charge of developing nuclear warheads for India’s submarine-launched missiles: the Sagarika ballistic missile that would go aboard Arihant, and the Nirbhay cruise missile that could be used by any submarine, and also by aircraft and from ground launchers. Both programs were a long way from being successful, though. The technical challenges were ferocious.
Asrani was smart and well educated, and Dhankhar believed him to be a patriot, but he was also a worrier. The Indian military was in shock over the nuclear explosion in Kashmir, and the entire world was blaming India for it, so it was no surprise that the captain was on edge.
Finally, Dhankhar said, “Tell them your office had nothing to do with the Kashmiri explosion, that the Indian Navy had nothing to do with the explosion, and of course that you had no personal knowledge of the explosion, before the event.” Dhankhar smiled reassuringly. “The first two are certainly true, and the last is only partially false.”
The captain listened, then nodded—reluctantly, but agreeing. “I’ve told bigger lies than that in the past months. You’re right, Admiral. There’s nothing there that leads back to us, and we really don’t know exactly what happened in Kashmir. We can safely continue with the project.”
“Continue, and finish more quickly,” Dhankhar added firmly. He saw Asrani’s surprised expression. “There really is nothing in Kashmir that will lead to us, but an investigation’s questions and probing might accidentally trip over our project. Also, the explosion’s made everyone nervous, and nervous people make mistakes.” He directed a piercing look at Asrani, who nodded again.
Dhankhar said, “Orlav’s been working long hours, but he can do more. We are well into the project, and there have been no surprises or problems. Everyone knows what needs to be done to finish. I think we can be ready within a month.”
The admiral stood and ordered, “Come back to me tomorrow morning with a firm completion date if we abandon the schedule and work at full speed.” Dhankhar saw the captain open his mouth to object, but cut him off. “The quicker we finish, the less exposure and the less risk of accidental discovery. By the time the formal investigation is under way, we’ll be done.”
“Yes, Admiral, I’ll give you a detailed answer tomorrow morning,” Asrani acknowledged, standing. “But what about Chakra’s refit?”
“After you give me our completion date, I’ll go to the yard supervisor and tell him that the refit is being cut short because of ‘heightened tensions’ after the Kashmir explosion. The way everyone’s reacting, that’s certainly believable. I’ll brief Captain Jain myself.”
11 March 2017
1100 Local Time
INS Circars, Engineering Hall, Ship Building Centre
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
Captain Girish Samant found most of his staff in the conference room, huddled around a television tuned to a news channel. The announcers were babbling about the first eyewitness reports from the area, and displaying aerial photos. “Back to work! This has nothing to do with us!”
Samant’s tone was sharp, almost venomous, and the staffers fled. There were two doors into the conference room, and nobody used the door nearest Samant. In fact, nobody even looked directly at the captain.
Scowling, Samant walked quickly over to the television and turned it off, stopping the offensive chatter. He had no patience for people so easily distracted. They had more important things to do. The program office was behind on a number of mandatory reports, and Samant had called in his entire staff to work on Saturday to catch up. Many of the engineers had complained bitterly about his mad insistence on working extra hours just to keep an arbitrary schedule. This is why it takes India thirty years to design and build a submarine, he fumed.
Samant remembered the papers in his hand. He’d been trying to find one of the financial analysts, to review the cost estimates for the propulsion system, and his search had discovered not only one office empty, but all of the offices, and that had led the Indian captain here.
The analyst’s name was Singh. Samant had to refresh his memory by looking at the report. He’d been in charge of the project for only two days, and was still learning names.
He would have much preferred remaining aboard Chakra, but he could see why Vice Admiral Dhankhar had assigned him here. The reassignment had been unexpected. By rights, he should have remained captain of the sub for another six months before being transferred ashore. He wondered if his predecessor had committed some horrendous blunder, or if Dhankhar had just become fed up with the project’s lack of progress.
The Advanced Submarine Program was India’s second attempt to design and construct a nuclear submarine. The first program had created Arihant, now in service. The second boat, Aridhaman, was under construction, so it could certainly be considered a success, but the follow-on submarine design was taking much too long. By rights, the new program, building on the experience of the first, should have progressed much more quickly. But it wasn’t, as far as he could see.
His mind returned to the meeting with Vice Admiral Dhankhar. It had been straightforward enough—a review of the progress on Chakra’s refit, which had drifted into a discussion of the ongoing truce talks and the course of the war with Pakistan.
India had planned
to eliminate Pakistan as a threat—remove her nuclear capability and destroy the bases in Pakistani territory that supported the terrorist attacks against India. They’d almost succeeded before the weather had closed in and ended the campaign until the spring.
Whatever the government might claim were the reasons for agreeing to truce talks, Samant and the rest of the military knew that the Indian Army had stopped advancing. Pakistani resistance had stiffened as Chinese support increased and the weather worsened. They were inside Pakistani territory, but not far enough. The enemy army, largely intact, still faced them, and their nuclear weapons were still a threat.
The most common scenario for the Kashmir incident held by Indian military personnel, discounting aliens, was that some of the Pakistani nuclear weapons had fallen into the hands of, or been handed over to, Lashkar-e-Taiba, and that somehow, perhaps in preparing a weapon for a future terrorist attack, someone had crossed the blue and red wires.
Dhankhar and Samant had been discussing the frightening implications of that hypothesis when the admiral had suddenly declared, “The real problem is China.”
Samant had immediately agreed, of course. It was universally understood among the military that with China now providing more support to Pakistan, and with the shock of the initial invasion having worn off, a resumption in fighting would find India facing a much more dangerous opponent, and a harder task.
The admiral stated firmly, “If we could prevent the Chinese from backing Pakistan, we could certainly win the military campaign and force the Pakistanis to agree to our terms.”
Samant didn’t like to disagree with admirals. Dhankhar was right, but wishing for China to go away was a waste of effort. China was helping Pakistan, and would continue to do so. That was a reality that India had to live with. Finally, he replied, “Wouldn’t that just widen the war, sir? And this time, India would be fighting alone. We may have missed our chance, sir. Maybe giving the Pakistanis back their territory in return for assurances…”
“And we’ll be right back where we started, Captain,” Dhankhar replied harshly. “I can’t accept that, after so much blood and effort, halfway to our goal.”
Dhankhar had ended the meeting shortly after that, and two days later, Samant had received orders relieving him of command of Chakra and assigning him to be the head of the Advanced Submarine Program, designing India’s next nuclear submarine. It was a logical step in his career, if a little premature, but Samant kept asking himself if there was a connection between the two events.
Instead of putting his foot through the television screen, Samant decided to return to his office. He’d find Singh later, after he’d cooled down a little more. He didn’t mind letting the people under his command know he could get angry, but angry people could make bad decisions.
And his outburst had sent a clear message. The rest of INS Circars might be going insane. They might double the security at the main gate. They might post sentries and institute ID checks at the entrances to every building. They might even close the commissary because they were worried about terrorist attacks, but this office would not follow their example.
Back in his office, he sat down to organize his thoughts. His eyes fell on the large photograph of Chakra, hung on the center of the opposite wall, facing his desk. His new office was almost palatial, compared with the closet-sized space he’d lived and worked in aboard the submarine, but he missed it. He missed being in command of one of the most important units in the Indian Navy.
He still worried about her, too. Was all this confusion affecting the refit? He thought of phoning Jain and visiting for a few minutes, but was reluctant to call. He and Jain had never been that close. It had never seemed appropriate to Samant. Jain would be busy enough without getting a call from his former commanding officer. He might even interpret it as meddling.
Better to focus on the task at hand. Lead by example.
He left to find Singh.
11 March 2017
1700 Local Time
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
Aleksey Petrov often ate at Akshaya’s, in the restaurant district northeast of the naval base and the dockyard. Many of the other Russians working in Visakhapatnam, or “Vizag,” ate there as well. The staff was considerate of foreign sensibilities, toning down the spices below their customary volcanic intensity, and they’d actually tried adding some foreign items to the menu. Luckily, Petrov liked pierogies, and hadn’t had the heart to tell the manager they were Polish, not Russian.
Virtually all the Russians in Vizag worked either at the naval base or the dockyard, and often met at Akshaya’s, sharing conversation—usually news from home and complaints about the heat and humidity.
Today the talk was all about work. The Russians who worked at the dockyard as technicians or consultants were in an uproar. At noon, Captain Mitra, in charge of the work on Chakra, had called everyone into the shipyard and announced that the sub’s refit was to be cut short. She had to be ready for sea in four weeks!
“‘By April tenth,’ Mitra announced,” Ivanov reported, “as if it was that easy! Admiral Dhankhar was there, too, looking as if he was afraid Mitra wouldn’t recite his speech properly.”
Anton Kulik, an electronics technician and former sonar officer, complained, “It doesn’t make sense. I’m still routing the new cabling. Some of the new components aren’t even on hand yet. Mitra says anything that can’t be finished by April tenth should just be closed up as best we can.”
“Why?” Petrov asked. He was just as puzzled as the others, but not as emotionally attached to the refit work. He worked over in the Engineering Hall as a consultant on submarine technology; that is, until this afternoon. Now he was a special advisor to Mitra.
“The heightened tensions after the Kashmir blast require Chakra to be operational as soon as possible, according to Mitra.” Ivanov sounded angry, as if he’d been insulted. “Was that the best excuse they could come up with?”
“Maybe they’re nervous about having both nuclear subs in the dockyard at the same time,” Petrov said, shrugging. “It’s not a good reason to end the refit early, but it’s easier to believe.”
“No, that doesn’t make any sense,” Suslov said, shaking his head. “The entire reason they scheduled the refit was because they knew Chakra wouldn’t play a big part in the war with Pakistan. That hasn’t changed, as far as I can see.”
Everyone at the table, Petrov included, nodded agreement. The Indian Navy had definitely wanted Chakra to be refitted. Preparations had included over a year of planning, negotiations with Russia and money spent for parts and equipment to be fitted into the sub, more money to prepare the dockyard—it would fill a book. To suddenly abandon the project like this was more than just a bad decision.
Many of the Russians intended to go back to the dockyard after dinner. “It’s long hours for me, but not as bad as Orlav,” Kulik remarked. “I’m supposed to take his dinner back to him. He’s working in the first compartment—maybe an all-nighter.”
Petrov had heard of Evgeni Orlav, a weapons technician in his forties. He was an electronics technician working on the torpedo tubes’ interface with the fire control system. “What’s he working on that’s so urgent?” he asked.
Kulik shrugged as he paid his dinner bill. “It’s something the Indians have him doing and he won’t talk about it at all. He’ll complain about his ugly wife and her enormous family all night, but he never talks shop.
“Orlav really works for Dhankhar, not Commander Gandhi. The admiral put him on the refit team, and Orlav makes his progress reports directly to the admiral. He’s either in the first compartment working on the gear aboard the sub, or he’s in one of the torpedo shops, ‘conducting tests’ he says.”
Kulik lowered his voice. “I think the Indians have a nuclear cruise missile ready to deploy, or at least test, and Orlav’s installing the interface.”
Petrov nodded. “I didn’t think their cruise missile was ready yet. But perhaps the
development schedule has been moved up, and that’s why they’re cutting the refit short,” he reasoned.
Kulik was noncommittal. “That’s not the type of thing I’d want to hurry. Whatever it is, after Mitra made his announcement, the admiral pulled Orlav aside and they spoke for a while. Orlav wasn’t happy. I’m betting Dhankhar told him to get the work done and to sleep after Chakra’s finished.”
11 March 2017
1900 Local Time
Tbilisi, Georgia
* * *
Yuri Kirichenko heard the satellite phone buzz and almost snatched it from the cradle. Only one person had the number for that phone. He turned it on and said, “Jascha Churkin! So, you’re alive.”
“Just barely. I was in Ghori, just under five kilometers away, but across a small mountain from the blast. The flash and the shock wave were still beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I may start believing in God again. Most of Ghori was flattened. Since then, I’ve been traveling south and waiting for the ionization cloud to disperse. This is the first time I’ve been able to get through.”
“And your search for the missing warhead is now moot. What about the thieves?”
“I found them. Faysal is radioactive gas, but I located Jawad at Muzaffarabad, living a most un-Islamic life. He was drunk.”
“Jawad? From our escort? The short one?”
“And his friend Faysal, who Jawad said was an ‘electronics expert.’ The little thug was following us at a distance, and brought the substitute crate. He even had the correct markings on the outside.”
“Morons,” Kirichenko muttered, “and yet not. This plan was supposed to be foolproof. The warheads were worthless to the militants from Al Badr we hired. I must have explained to them three times that without the initiators, the warheads were just dead metal.”