Fatal Thunder

by Larry Bond

  “I’m not surprised, Girish,” Petrov said with another wink. “They’re on the back side of the circuit board. You have to know where to look to find them. The boards appear to be original pieces of equipment. I tried to get the liaison staff to track down the serial numbers, but Osinov refused. He claimed he didn’t have the personnel or time for such foolishness.”

  “If the boards were there from the original transfer, why weren’t they replaced? All the other equipment capable of supporting nuclear weapons was removed.”

  “I suspect the shipyard just left them in place, because with everything else gone, it wouldn’t matter. They could save a few rubles by not replacing them.”

  “Did you ask about the extra wiring?” questioned Samant.

  “Of course, I told Osinov that the wiring didn’t appear to support anything and I asked him why I had to do it given the severely shortened schedule. He told me that if the ‘stupid Indians’ wanted the extra wiring routed, then by God we’d route the wiring. He wasn’t going to have another cabling debacle on his hands like the one with the Gorshkov aircraft carrier transfer. Oh, and the wiring work is to be performed by a technician named Evgeni Orlav. Rumor has it he has been working ridiculously long hours in an isolated area of the shipyard, and supposedly reports directly to Dhankhar himself, even though he’s assigned to an Indian naval engineer.”

  The two men paused their discussion as their meals were served. Petrov took a bite while the waitress moved out of earshot. “What did you find out from your masters in Mumbai, Girish?”

  Samant waited as he swallowed. “I had a very unsatisfying discussion this afternoon with both the heads of weapons developments at the Directorate of Naval Design and the assistant chief of naval staff submarine acquisitions. Both said basically the same thing, the only nuclear-armed weapons that will go on Indian submarines are ballistic and land-attack cruise missiles. When I asked about torpedoes or ASW missiles with nuclear warheads, they laughed. Apparently DRDO has some plans, but they are many years in the future. And, of course, there are no intentions to augment Chakra’s weapons capability with any indigenous Indian ordnance—it’s against the contract we have with your nation.”

  Petrov nodded, then wiped his mouth. He looked around the room, checking to see if anyone was taking an interest in their conversation. “Here’s another tidbit for you, Girish. I was told by an Indian engineer that the combat system change was signed by Vice Admiral Bava on March tenth. The engineer was most unhappy with this, as it was a new requirement that interfered with some of his work and he wanted to coordinate scheduling with my technician. Not only does this confirm that a Russian national will do the modification to the combat system, but when this change was approved.”

  “The tenth of March? That’s the very day I was relieved of command!”

  “Coincidence?” responded Petrov skeptically. “I think not. Girish, all these events, the new modification, your reassignment, reactions to the Kashmir blast, everything seems connected. And all these connections come together at Vice Admiral Dhankhar’s doorstep.”

  “I agree that is how it appears, Aleksey. But how do we prove such an incredible theory? If Dhankhar is behind all of this, if he has somehow obtained submarine-launched nuclear weapons and is installing them on Chakra, he can’t be acting alone. He would need support at the most senior levels.”

  “You said that there were numerous senior officers unhappy with the peace negotiations. Are they that unhappy? Do they truly want to crush Pakistan completely?”

  Samant paused briefly, considering his answer. “I’d have to say, yes. There were many flag officers on the Integrated Defence Staff that strongly argued against the truce. Some members even resigned in protest over it.”

  “Then, my friend, I think we have a very big problem,” observed Petrov.

  “But that gets us right back to how do we prove this? I certainly can’t go up my chain of command. If we’re correct, I’d be reporting to the very individuals who are behind this plot. For all I know, the minister of defense himself could be involved. He, too, argued against the truce.” Samant grimaced.

  “I’m afraid my contractor status limits my ability as well,” added Petrov. “Osinov almost threw me out of his office this afternoon. He will tolerate no more delays, or complaints. We are to finish the work we’ve been assigned, and that’s all there is to it. If I push this ‘crazy’ theory, he’ll simply fire me and bring someone in who’ll do the work with no questions asked.”

  “Then who can we turn to for help? And it has to be done quietly, otherwise we’ll be discovered,” grumbled Samant.

  Suddenly a smile flashed across Petrov’s face. “I think I know just who might be able to assist us. Tell me, Girish, have you ever been to America?”

  13 March 2017

  2330 Local Time

  USS North Dakota

  South China Sea

  * * *

  Jerry felt the boat take on a moderate down angle as they descended from periscope depth. With the last submarine broadcast of the day on board, the crew could now settle down for a quiet midwatch. As much as Jerry liked to be in the control room during PD evolutions, he had stayed in his stateroom for this one, finishing up the E-5 evaluations that were due in a couple of days. Besides, having the captain always in control sent the wrong message. His crew had to know he trusted them, and that meant leaving them to do their work without him constantly looking over their shoulders.

  Settling into his chair, he grabbed his iPad and thumbed through the digital library. The idea of doing some recreational reading before going to bed sounded really good right now. He’d barely kicked back when the Dialex phone rang. Sighing, he picked it up. “Captain,” he answered.

  “Captain, Officer of the deck,” said Lieutenant Junior Grade Quela Lymburn. “The evening broadcast has been downloaded into your in-box. The commo reports nothing earth-shattering, mostly administrative traffic, but we did receive some personal e-mail.”

  The last part caught Jerry’s attention. “Thank you, Q. I’ll be turning in shortly, so keep her between the buoys.”

  “Yessir, good night, sir.”

  Jerry hung up and immediately logged on to his ship’s account. He bypassed the official message traffic and went straight to his e-mail folder. Opening it, he found several messages waiting for him. Most were from Emily, one was from his sister Clarice, and at the bottom of the list was an e-mail from Aleksey Petrov.

  “Petrov,” he whispered. “I haven’t heard from him in quite a while.” Curious, Jerry opened Petrov’s e-mail first and began reading it. Soon a deep frown formed on his face. He glanced up at the bulkhead clocks. One was set for Washington, D.C., time, and he shook his head. He quickly typed out a three-word response, “Received. Understood. Standby,” followed immediately by forwarding the e-mail to his friend and mentor Lowell Hardy.

  Placing the two e-mails in the outgoing folder, he logged out and headed to control. Normally, he’d have to wait for the next communication cycle to get these messages out, or get the captain’s permission. Since he was the captain, he’d kick the e-mails out now. Sometimes it’s good to be the king.

  3

  MOVEMENTS

  13 March 2017

  1310 EST

  Hart Senate Office Building

  Washington, D.C.

  * * *

  “… and no, I’m not going to support a resolution on India at this time! We know almost nothing about what the hell is going on over there!” bellowed Senator Lowell Hardy as he burst through the door into his outer office.

  “But Senator, both party leaders are in unusual agreement about this issue,” croaked Theodore Locklear, Hardy’s chief of staff.

  “Based on what, Theo? The presumption that India nuked Pakistan? How about a little evidence before we start passing legislation?”

  “Sir, I understand your reluctance, but it’s a nonbinding resolution. It’s really just for show, to demonstrate to the American public
the Senate can act in a bipartisan manner.”

  “Oh that’s wonderful! We’ll hold hands, sing ‘Kumbaya,’ and then collectively look stupid! I’m sure that will be very encouraging to the U.S. public … not!” Hardy stopped just inside his personal office, turned, and thrust a finger at Locklear’s nose. “Do you know what usually happens when one attempts a fast-draw shot from the hip, Theo?”

  The chief of staff shook his head; he was used to his boss’s occasional outbursts—a personality quirk left over from his days as a submarine commanding officer. But to Hardy’s credit, he had warned Locklear when he interviewed for the chief of staff job that he’d have to patiently listen to the senator when he had to vent, or as Hardy put it, “perform a steam generator bottom blowdown.”

  “You end up with a bloody hole in your foot!” thundered Hardy in conclusion as he removed his suit coat, tossed it on the easy chair, and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

  “Look, I have no problem acting when there is evidence that something needs to be done. We have no indications, no evidence—just rumor and innuendo, so sitting on one’s hands is a perfectly reasonable thing to do.”

  “Yes, sir,” Locklear replied mechanically. Then, with a hint of humor in his voice, he said, “Have you successfully completed your bottom blow, sir?”

  Hardy chuckled and slapped Locklear on the shoulder, “Yes … yes, I have. Smart-ass.”

  “Then what would you like me to tell the majority leader?”

  “Please let him know that I would be more than happy to support such a resolution … after I’m provided with some factual data that indicates India’s culpability. You can candy-coat it as much as you’d like, but that is the gist that needs to get across. Now, I’m going to check my e-mail and grab some lunch before my meeting with Senator Kirk at … ah…”

  “Fifteen thirty, sir. His office.”

  “Right, got it. And, Theo, thanks.” Locklear smiled, nodded, then turned and left. Hardy dropped bodily into his chair, and logged on to his Senate e-mail account. He grimaced when he saw the contents of his in-box. Thank God his secretary screened the account and would flag him when she felt he needed to personally deal with an e-mail. There were a few, but nothing that required immediate action. He switched over to his personal account, one used only by family and friends and not easily attributed to him directly; there were considerably fewer messages. But about halfway down the page, he saw an e-mail from Jerry Mitchell. The senator shook his head. Receiving e-mail from an individual on a submarine at sea seemed … well, it just seemed wrong!

  “The times be a-changin’,” Hardy said to himself as he opened the e-mail. At first, he sat relaxed. Then he slowly straightened and leaned forward as he reread the message. “Oh my God…”

  He punched out a quick e-mail, attached it to Jerry’s, and forwarded it to his wife’s personal account. He then whipped out his smartphone and sent her a text message:

  Just forwarded you an email from Jerry to your personal account.

  Please read ASAP!

  Love, Me.

  13 March 2017

  1330 EST

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  * * *

  Joanna Patterson felt her smartphone buzz; only a few people knew that number, all of them important. She looked quickly at the screen and saw Lowell’s message. By the time Joanna had finished reading the text, she’d pivoted in midstride and almost ran back to her office. If her husband thought it was important enough to text her at work, it was a big deal. She logged on to her account and read Lowell’s e-mail as she sat down.

  Darling,

  Please read the last email very carefully. Petrov sent Jerry a request for a meeting with a mutual acquaintance of theirs. Yes, the email is vague, but this is Alex we’re talking about. I believe he has demonstrated sufficient credibility with us in the past that we owe him the benefit of the doubt. I know it’ll be a pain for the Navy, but I believe it’s in our best interest to accept the invitation. BTW, Petrov is currently in India.

  Love,

  Lowell

  The last sentence caused Joanna’s eyebrows to rise. She paged down and quickly read Jerry’s e-mail, and then Petrov’s. When she saw that an Indian submarine captain wanted to meet with Jerry concerning the most recent events, she practically fell out of her chair. Without even blinking, she shouted out to her secretary, “Kathy, call the CNO’s office. I need to speak with Admiral Hughes immediately.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and what may I tell his staff is the topic?”

  “Tell them I need to ask the CNO to do me a favor.”

  13 March 2017

  1600 EST

  CNN

  * * *

  They’d obtained commercial satellite photos of the Kashmiri location yesterday. That had fueled one news cycle. From low Earth orbit, the blasted area showed up as a black and gray butterfly shape on the patchy brown and green landscape. The “wings” extended up the mountainsides to the northwest and southeast, while the longer body represented where the blast and heat had been channeled along the valley, running north and south.

  The graphics people had arranged to have the outlines of previously existing roads, towns, and villages in the area appear on the image, and then the background would expand, zooming down to explore the shattered landscape. The image quality was good enough to simulate flying over the blast zone at low altitude. As the view swooped over each village or mountain hamlet, the camera would slow, as if searching for survivors. Close in, smoke from fires obscured the view, but even farther out, all that remained were outlines of structures, or a stone foundation. The photo’s field of view was too high to distinguish small details, but debris littered the landscape with a mottled gray and brown.

  “Good afternoon and welcome to CNN’s continuing coverage of the Kashmir crisis. I’m Jane Bergen. It’s been just over four days since a nuclear weapon exploded in Kashmir, evidently wiping out a major LeT training camp.

  “Our Jim Riviera has just managed to reach Muzaffarabad and is reporting to us live via Skype.”

  Bergen’s image shrank to a thumbnail as Riviera’s face, too close to the camera, almost filled the frame. The image quality was poor, marred with flickering horizontal lines and dim lighting, but his voice was clear. “Jane, I reached Muzaffarabad about an hour and a half ago with a government relief column. The Pakistani government’s been very helpful in getting me here. It’s in their interest to show the world the extent of the damage and destruction caused by the explosion, but it’s in stark contrast to their previous policy before the cease-fire.”

  Bergen asked, “Jim, what have you been able to find out about casualties?”

  There was a moment’s pause before the correspondent replied, a deep frown on his face. “Communications north of here are still almost nonexistent. It’s bad enough here in the capital of the Pakistani-controlled region of Kashmir. Hospitals that were already taxed by civilian war injuries have been slammed with at least three hundred casualties, mostly trauma from flying debris. Closer to ground zero, the death toll is almost one hundred percent. Very few people with injuries have been reported, and only a handful has arrived here in Muzaffarabad. From satellite imagery and local reports, at least a half a dozen villages have been totally wiped off the face of the Earth.”

  Bergen’s impassive newscaster’s mask slipped for a moment, and she appeared shaken by the idea. “And the radiation?”

  Riviera shook his head. “There wasn’t one piece of radiological monitoring equipment in the convoy I arrived with. They’re scouring the city for equipment from local medical labs that can be used to measure the radiation levels, but the population isn’t waiting.

  “The few survivors, many badly injured, that have come here from the north, have told wild stories and created a palpable wave of fear in the city. What little good information there is on dealing with contaminated food and water has been overwhelmed by rumor and folktales, some too wild to even
consider—unless you’re very frightened, and that’s the only information you have.”

  “Jim, thank you very much for your reporting. Please stay safe.”

  Bergen turned to face the camera and explained, “For his own safety, CNN has ordered Jim Riviera to limit his exposure time in Muzaffarabad to twelve hours, so he will leave the city tomorrow sometime after dawn for a location outside the fallout zone. He’s brought his own food and water with him, and will consume nothing from the local area. While he is fortunate to have that option, think about the hundreds of thousands of local Kashmiri who do not.”

  She drew a breath, as if composing herself, then said, “Our next guest is CNN consultant Dr. Stan Bartoz, a fellow at the Institute for Conflict Resolution. He’s been covering the peace negotiations in Geneva between the two warring countries since they began last October. For the past three days, he’s been wrestling with the same question most of us have: ‘Why did the Indians do this?’”

  Bartoz was in his seventies, and lean, almost scrawny. Time had left him with a fringe of white hair. Perhaps in compensation, he had a full beard, with only a few black streaks still holding out.

  “Dr. Bartoz, have you been able to devise any scenario that could explain India’s nuclear bombing of a terrorist base in Kashmir?”

  Bartoz smiled. “Actually, I and my colleagues have come up with over a dozen theories about the circumstances of the bombing. For example, the act could have been carried out by a rogue element within the Indian armed forces. The government’s denials are genuine—they were as surprised as the rest of the world. Even now, behind the scenes, they’re conducting a fierce investigation and hunt for the parties responsible.”

  “Is that what you believe happened?” asked Bergen, almost eagerly.

  With a small shake of his head, Bartoz answered, “Probably not, given the tight controls India has on its nuclear weapons, and the large number of people that would have to be involved to launch even one weapon.” Bergen looked disappointed.