by Larry Bond
“And you promised them some live warheads from the next batch,” Churkin added. “And they were paid handsomely, but you can’t rely on simple greed when stupidity is mixed in.”
Churkin had been responsible for security. He was a former Russian Navy special forces commando. But in addition to his impressive military skills, the navy had learned of his talent for illegal activities, ranging from bootlegging to blackmail. Kirichenko had encountered Churkin back in the nineties, out of the service and on the edge of the law. The ex-commando’s skills had been vital in ensuring first the secrecy of Kirichenko’s stolen stockpile, then its recovery, and now its transport across half of Eurasia.
Starting with their recovery from the Kara Sea, Churkin had shepherded the warheads on their long trip from northern Russia, across the Caspian Sea to Turkmenistan, Afghanistan, and then northern Pakistan, into Kashmir, where one of the six weapons had been discovered to be missing. Churkin had been forced to make sure the rest of the shipment was safe before leaving in pursuit of the thieves, but they had vanished into the landscape. By the time he’d found their trail, he was days behind and too late.
Kirichenko decided it was a good thing he hadn’t been any closer to his goal. Churkin and Kirichenko were not fast friends, but they were kindred souls working for a common purpose—massive financial reward. His loss would have been inconvenient, at least. Kirichenko privately wondered what Churkin’s plan would have been if he’d reached the LeT camp with the warhead inside.
“So why did Jawad steal one of my nuclear warheads? Did this fool Faysal think he could build his own initiator?” Kirichenko asked, almost laughing.
“No, but Faysal knew that Lashkar-e-Taiba had someone who might be able to—someone from the Khan network,” Churkin reported in a dark tone.
“Oh.” Kirichenko understood the implications instantly. A brilliant Pakistani scientist named A. Q. Khan had first helped build Pakistan’s weapon, and then created a nuclear underground network that had provided technology to Iran, Libya, and North Korea—at least. While he’d been under house arrest for a while in Pakistan, he had been freed in 2008. His network had never been dismantled.
Churkin reported, “Those two thieves walked into that Lashkar-e-Taiba camp and were paid ten times the amount for one warhead that you gave Al Badr to transport all six. Jawad was doing his best to drink his way through his half of the money.”
“Did he tell anyone else where they had obtained the warhead?” Loss of one of the six weapons was bad enough, but if the shipment had been compromised …
“Jawad said they didn’t speak to anyone else on the way, not with what they were carrying. It took them some time to reach the LeT camp after they stole the weapon, and if Jawad was telling the truth, they reached it about the same time that the rest of our shipment crossed into Indian territory. Anyone Faysal talked to is now in hell along with him. I’ve also just confirmed the remaining five have reached the coast.”
“And Jawad?” Kirichenko asked.
“Will not talk,” Churkin replied. “I solved his drinking problem.” Kirichenko could almost hear Churkin smiling.
“Then there’s nothing else to be done there. You should get into India as quickly as possible.”
“Understood,” Churkin replied. “I’ll contact you again when I’m across the border.”
12 March 2017
0820 Local Time
Director General Naval Projects, Ship Building Centre
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
Samant looked up from the keyboard when he heard the knock. His office door was open, and Maahir Jain, Samant’s former first officer and now commander of INS Chakra, was standing in the doorway like a child waiting for a parent to notice him.
He couldn’t hide his surprise—it was Sunday and he certainly didn’t expect anyone to drop by his office—but he also suddenly felt great pleasure at seeing his old executive officer, and he let that show as well.
Samant almost leapt up from behind his desk, coming around to offer his hand. “Captain Jain. It’s good to see you! Would you like some tea?” Samant pointed toward the teapot and cups but Jain waved him off.
“I cannot stay long,” he explained apologetically. “I have an appointment with Vice Admiral Dhankhar at nine.” After a moment’s hesitation, he continued, “But I wanted to come by and see how you were faring in your new assignment. The men are asking after you, as well.”
I’ll bet they are, Samant thought. He’d used a “firm, but fair” command style, emphasizing discipline and professional knowledge. He’d driven Chakra’s crew hard, and they’d performed, but they always called him “Captain,” never “Skipper.” It hadn’t bothered Samant, who found it hard to make friends. Being a captain wasn’t supposed to be a popularity contest.
As they sat, Samant asked, “Why are you meeting the admiral here and not at the headquarters building on INS Circars? And on Sunday? Is this about Chakra’s progress, or are they going to give you a third stripe, now that you’re in command?”
“You haven’t heard, then?” Jain was surprised. “About the change in the refit schedule?”
Samant, confused, shook his head. “I’ve been trying to focus on getting the program back on schedule and ignored all the bedlam. Bad as it is, I don’t see how it has much to do with what we’re doing.”
“They cut our yard period short, Cap—I mean, sir. We’re to sail on April tenth.”
“What?!” Samant was thunderstruck. He knew exactly what Chakra’s status was, as of a week and a half ago. The tenth of next month? That is insane! “Why?”
“I don’t know, sir. My main concern right now is getting Chakra ready for sea. It’s not just that the boat’s in pieces. I’ve got people on leave and in training, and if we’re going to sea, I’m already behind in arranging for torpedoes and stores…”
“But you’re not going to ask why they’ve made the change?” Samant pressed.
“I’ll let the officers with stars on their shoulders worry about why. I’ve got enough on my plate.”
That didn’t sit right with Samant, but he held his peace. If Jain had asked him to go with him to meet with the admiral and demand an explanation, he would have gone, but Jain didn’t ask.
They talked about other things: an upcoming memorial in June for the men lost on Arihant, some of whom they’d both known, and the progress, or lack of progress, of the war.
It was time for Jain to leave, and Samant tried to put as much warmth into his farewell as he had into the greeting. He did wish Jain well, even if he was worried about Chakra’s fortunes under his command. She wasn’t Samant’s boat anymore, and he had to get used to that.
2
CHAOS
13 March 2017
0845 Local Time
Director General Naval Projects, Ship Building Centre
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
This is absurd! How in God’s name do those idiots expect me to do my job! Samant mentally shrieked. He impatiently erased the tangled lines on his production schedule and tried yet another approach. When he pushed his mechanical pencil down on the paper, the thin lead broke—again. And despite his forceful clicking of the eraser, nothing emerged from the narrow point. In utter frustration, Samant flung the mechanical pencil at the wall. Doesn’t anything in this office work as it’s supposed to?! He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He’d been at this fruitless exercise for over three hours. With a resigned sigh, Samant reached the inescapable conclusion that his program would be dead in the water for at least a month, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Soon after Jain’s visit, Samant received an e-mail from Vice Admiral Dhankhar’s chief of staff informing him of the temporary transfer of all his senior engineers and program managers to support the greatly accelerated INS Chakra refit. With only inexperienced junior engineers and naval architects left in the office, there was little hope of getting any meaningful work done. Those “c
hildren” needed adult supervision just to find the bathroom, let alone figure out the engine room layout for India’s next class of nuclear submarines. With frustration bubbling up inside him, Samant walked over and poured himself another cup of tea. Sipping the hot Earl Grey, he weighed his very limited set of options. He’d have to carefully word his response to the chief of staff on the impact the transfer would have on his project. It wouldn’t pay to be viewed as a complainer this early in his new assignment.
His new, prestigious assignment. Bah! It was more like hell. Two weeks ago, he was the commanding officer of the hottest boat in the Indian Navy; the most successful submarine captain in India’s history. He and his crew had done very well during the South China Sea campaign, racking up an impressive score of tankers sunk and Chinese oil refineries charred and gutted. Now, he was driving a paper-laden desk, in charge of an undisciplined group of civil servants that debated every order, all the while fighting a grotesquely inefficient bureaucracy that moved at a glacial pace. On Chakra, he was lord and master, but here, he was just one of many medieval nobles struggling to work within the feudal machine that was the Indian Navy. A dubious reward indeed for a job well done. But fate wasn’t done taunting him just yet.
The Advanced Submarine Project’s offices were on the south side of the building, with a clear view to the naval dockyard across the channel. From this lofty position, he could see Chakra as she was being maneuvered by a tug into the dry dock. Grabbing his binoculars from the windowsill, he watched as the crew topside went about their work. He grunted with satisfaction as the men performed their duties flawlessly. Shifting to the bridge, he could see Jain working with the pilot as the submarine inched its way into the dock. Suddenly, a pang of envy flared in Samant. He should be on that bridge right now, he should still be in command, not Jain. Samant shook his head to clear away the growing jealousy. His former first officer was simply following orders and doing his job—a job that Samant had trained him to do properly. Jain was a competent officer, if a bit too informal with the men at times. Whatever was behind Samant’s sudden exile, it wasn’t Jain’s fault. He wasn’t responsible for his captain’s transfer.
Samant then recalled his mother’s gloomy accusation that his current circumstances were entirely of his own making, a natural result of all the bad karma he had accrued during the war. She said he was reaping the “rewards” for all the death and destruction he had caused. A devout Hindu, she had long disagreed with her son’s chosen occupation, claiming it would only bring evil to his life. At times like this, he wondered if there wasn’t more to her words.
The sharp ring of the telephone yanked him from his depressed mood. He grabbed the handset, anxious for some work to drive away the nagging thoughts. “Advanced Submarine Project Office, Captain Samant speaking,” he answered.
“Girish, it’s Aleksey. I won’t ask you how your morning is going, I think I already know. Your people just reported in to me.”
Samant cracked a thin smile, recognizing the voice on the other end of the line. Shifting to English, he replied, “Well, I hope they can be of more use to you than they have been for me. And don’t be afraid to flog them if they get too lazy.”
The chuckle from the handset faded quickly, the voice becoming more firm. “Listen, Girish, I have some serious concerns about the changes to Chakra’s refit. Do you have a moment later today that I can drop by? I need a competent Indian’s perspective on this. The answers I’m getting from my dockyard point of contact don’t make any sense whatsoever.”
“Of course, Aleksey. My schedule is largely clear this afternoon.”
“Excellent! It will be a few hours until we get this boat safely on the blocks. After that I can break free and drive over to your office. Say, thirteen hundred?”
“That will work nicely.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
* * *
The morning dragged on and on, and besides drinking a lot of tea, Samant’s only real accomplishment was the successful crafting of a suitably polite response to the chief of staff’s e-mail. He was respectful, but bluntly informed his superior that the program would be unable to accomplish much until his staff returned. However, every effort would be made to keep working those aspects of the schedule that he could with the remaining personnel. Even as he hit the send button, Samant was still struggling to figure out what exactly he could do with all his senior people gone.
At a quarter to one, Samant cleared off his desk in anticipation of his guest. When the clock struck one, Petrov still hadn’t arrived and Samant got up and took another look through the binoculars at Chakra. She was high and dry in the graving dock. Annoyed, he started pacing. Petrov was usually very punctual.
He recalled the first time he met the former Russian submariner, now a technical consultant. Chakra had just returned from her successful war patrol, and had been met on the pier by the Indian Chief of the Naval Staff, Admiral Rajan. After a brief speech welcoming the boat home and praising their efforts during the war, Rajan introduced Samant to Petrov, announcing that Chakra would undergo her delayed refit to upgrade her tactical systems and to repair some of the nagging problems still under warranty. Rajan explained that while Petrov wouldn’t be in charge of the refit, he was the senior Russian advisor and would be available to assist with any issues involving the new Russian equipment being installed on board the boat.
What started out as a working relationship based on mutual respect soon grew into a full-blown friendship. Petrov recognized Samant as a kindred soul, understanding and appreciating his passion and drive. Samant was equally impressed by Petrov’s refreshing professionalism and extensive technical knowledge; he understood not only how the systems worked, but how they should be employed tactically. It wasn’t long before Petrov shared with Samant his checkered past as the only commanding officer of the nuclear attack submarine Severodvinsk. The Indian captain listened with rapt attention as Petrov described the collision with USS Seawolf, Severodvinsk’s impact with the ocean floor, crippling her, and how an ingenious young U.S. naval officer by the name of Jerry Mitchell helped to save him and his crew.
Samant launched himself out of his chair upon hearing Mitchell’s name, shocking Petrov into silence. Without saying a word, Samant walked over to a coffee table and picked up a large photo album. He hurriedly thumbed through the pages, stopped abruptly, and placed the album on the desk beside the Russian. Pointing to a two-page letter, he asked, “Is this the same man?”
Petrov quickly read the letter, and noted the USS North Dakota letterhead; a large smile appeared on his face. “Yes, indeed! So you tangled with my friend Jerry, eh? I’m glad neither one of you were hurt, but I’m also not surprised that your encounters ended in a stalemate. You are both very good submariners.”
“He was an absolute pain in my ass!” grumbled the Indian indignantly.
Petrov laughed. “I believe that was his job, Girish.”
The grimace on Samant’s face slowly lightened to a faint smile. “You should have seen Jain’s and my face when we realized that Mitchell had fired nuclear-armed torpedoes. I never ran away from anything so fast in all my life. Well, that and the angry torpedo barking at my hindquarters.”
“I have it on good authority, Girish, that Jerry was the mastermind behind the U.S. strategy,” Petrov remarked quietly. “He somehow convinced the president of the United States to use nuclear weapons in a very unconventional way. As I said, he is very good. But just as important, he’s an honorable man—like you.”
* * *
Samant’s reminiscing was abruptly interrupted by the buzz of his intercom. “Sir, Mr. Petrov is here to see you.”
“Thank you, Miss Gupta. Please send him in.”
A moment later, the door swung open and Petrov slowly walked in. He looked tired. “Good to see you, Aleks sahib. Tea?”
“Please,” responded Petrov as he plopped down in one of the armchairs. “It’s been a long day and it’s only half over. I could use a litt
le pick-me-up. My apologies for being tardy, security throughout Vizag has become incredibly tight and I had to undergo a full search before being allowed into the building.”
Samant nodded his understanding and offered Petrov a steaming cup. “So, tell me, when did you get drafted to oversee Chakra’s refit?”
“Thank you,” Petrov replied gratefully. After downing a few sips, he answered, “Captain Mitra called me into his office on Saturday, two days ago, and informed me of my ‘promotion’ to lead engineer for the refit. He then handed me the maintenance plan and told me they had to shave two months off the schedule. Apparently Vice Admiral Dhankhar wants the boat ready for sea by April tenth.”
Samant bowed his head slightly as he drank. “Yes, Jain told me as much. That’s nowhere near enough time to get all the work done, even if you could get every technician in the shipyard working on her. What I don’t understand is, what’s the rush? Why does the admiral want the boat to go to sea so early?”
Petrov paused, a look of concern on his face. “It gets even more bizarre, Girish. I have a single day for sea trials—one day, and most of the testing involves the sonar and weapon systems upgrades.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Samant scowled. “How can you possibly test the propulsion plant and auxiliary systems repairs in a single day?”
“We can’t. A lot of that work will have to be deferred. Captain Mitra was very specific about that; only those repairs that can be completed within the revised schedule will be considered.”
Samant shook his head in amazement; none of this made any sense. What were Dhankhar and his staff thinking? Unable to offer any explanation for the radical schedule change, Samant sat silent, thinking and drinking his tea. After a few moments, a visibly uncomfortable Petrov spoke quietly. “I’ll understand if you can’t tell me, Girish, but I have to ask. Are there any near-term plans to recommence hostilities against Pakistan? Do I need to worry about a submarine that will be going into combat?”