by Larry Bond
“Or it could have been done with the full connivance of the Indian government, if perhaps they had received intelligence information about a threat at this terrorist base so dangerous and immediate that the only way to stop it was with a nuclear attack.”
Before Bergen could ask, he continued, “But if that was the case, they’d be arguing self-defense, and presenting the same evidence to the world that had convinced the Indian government to take such drastic action. It might not be a strong defense, but it would be a defense. Of course, the Indian government’s defense right now is that they had nothing to do with the explosion.”
“Is there any evidence of such a dire threat to India, Doctor?” asked the CNN anchor.
The academic said firmly, “Nothing that we have been able to determine. We haven’t found any evidence to justify such an unprecedented action that would be worth the massive blowback the Indian nation and interests are suffering worldwide. Anti-Indian riots in every Muslim country, a wave of arson within India, and fatal attacks against Indian nationals in many ‘civilized’ countries.”
Bergen added, “Our website has a list of countries that have either already instituted economic sanctions or are considering them. There are many more organized boycotts of not only Indian products, but even Bollywood movies and other cultural exports. Even if no new sanctions are enacted, and more are being added every day, the Indian economy is facing the gravest crisis since the country became independent in 1947.
“So, Dr. Bartoz, if we assume India didn’t set off the nuclear bomb, who did? Is there any other possible explanation for this calamity?”
The doctor nodded curtly, “Yes, Jane, there is one hypothesis that is also consistent with the limited facts at hand, although, it is an unpleasant one.”
“And what would that be?”
“That the Lashkar-e-Taiba terrorist group had somehow, from somewhere, acquired a nuclear weapon and accidentally set it off in their own training camp. Similar events have occurred before with other terrorist groups in the manufacturing of suicide vests. And India was just as oblivious to this acquisition as the rest of us.”
Bergen looked amazed; no one had been bold enough to suggest the Pakistani tragedy could have been self-inflicted. “That is a disturbing theory, Doctor. One that has significant implications beyond this disaster.”
“As I said, Jane, it’s an unpleasant hypothesis at best.”
The reporter paused briefly to compose herself before going back to the interview’s question list. “What impact do you think all of this will have on the peace talks?”
“You mean the lack of peace talks. Well, of course the Pakistani delegation left Geneva immediately after they heard the news. Pakistan’s nuclear weapons were already dispersed and deployed because of India’s invasion last fall. There is a very vocal minority in Pakistan that wants to fire a retaliatory weapon into India, preferably at a large city. Of course, the nuclear exchange that would inevitably follow would destroy Pakistan as a nation, but many are so angry that they are willing to commit national suicide.
“The two countries’ armies are rebuilding, and preparing for a new offensive this spring, which is perhaps a month away. With the ‘nuclear threshold’ crossed by this one weapon, there is deep concern that the next offensive will involve more atomic weapons. The Indians missed their best chance to win this conflict last fall, and will be going all-out. The Pakistanis know that, and from their perspective have already suffered one Indian nuclear attack, so they are literally teetering on the edge.”
Bergen looked horrified. “So your greatest concern is that the war between India and Pakistan will become a nuclear war?”
Bartoz replied, “It already is a nuclear war—regardless of who detonated the weapon in Kashmir. It’s unfortunate, and indeed ironic, that in trying to remove the threat of Pakistani terror groups and nuclear weapons, the Indians have significantly increased the chance of suffering such an attack.” He smiled, but only at the irony, and then sighed. “For almost everyone currently alive, Hiroshima and Nagasaki are just historical events, dimmed by the passage of time. Having seen for themselves the effects of just one such weapon, perhaps both sides will consider the potential consequences and take a step back from the abyss.”
13 March 2017
2100 Local Time
Tbilisi, Georgia
* * *
Yuri Kirichenko listened to Dhankhar’s arguments carefully. He’d reluctantly agreed with the admiral that the schedule had to be accelerated. The Kashmir blast was drawing far too much attention to all things nuclear in India. The problem was, he couldn’t refute the man’s logic about the size of his fee, either.
“We paid for six warheads, and you promised six. We received five, so it’s only appropriate that we reduce the payment by one-sixth.” Dhankhar was stating this as a fact, not a request. His possession of the warheads made it difficult for Kirichenko to negotiate. He could threaten to withdraw Orlav, but the technician would balk at the loss of his payment, and besides, Dhankhar might simply offer to hire him directly.
“Very well. Five-sixths of the original amount, payable when Orlav’s work is completed. I’ll be there for the final inspection and transfer of the arming codes. Churkin is currently en route to assist in maintaining security.” He’d debated telling him about Churkin’s movements, but Kirichenko needed to let the Indians know he was doing all he could. They’d already lost one weapon. There could be no more mistakes.
Dhankhar broke the connection, but Kirichenko sat holding the dead phone, lost in thought. The Indians had paid part of their fee up front, of course, but Kirichenko had used almost all of that to cover his expenses, much of it bribes, needed to recover and transport the warheads halfway across Eurasia. And that money was gone. He didn’t think he should ask for a one-sixth refund from the Al Badr militants. He needed to preserve his good relations with people who might be his next customers.
The ex-admiral’s mind was in two places. While part was obviously in India, the rest was up north, in the Kara Sea. He had more warheads to recover and sell, and he needed to learn from his mistakes with the first shipment. His profit from the first batch would be thinner than he liked, but he’d use it to recover more of the warheads next time. With increased security, and delivery only. If he hadn’t promised Orlav’s services adapting the warheads to fit in torpedoes, he’d be out clean and away by now. But then the Indians might not have concluded the deal. Mentally, he shrugged. That was in the past.
Now everything depended on Orlav—in Kirichenko’s opinion, a weak reed to lean on, but the only one available.
The Kashmir blast meant he should pick up his pace, as well. The Kara Sea would be stormy and ice-ridden for several more months, but the first time the weather moderated, he’d have his people ready. He might not be able to get them all next time, but definitely more than six.
14 March 2017
0430 Local Time
USS North Dakota
South China Sea
* * *
The ringing of his stateroom’s phone jolted Jerry to consciousness. He groped for the handset in the dark, finding it by the fourth ring. Pulling it to his face, he muttered, “Captain.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Skipper. But we just received a flash priority message for us to come to PD and establish a video link with Squadron Fifteen.”
“Squadron Fifteen?” he asked groggily. “What time is it?”
“Yes, sir. Commodore Simonis needs to speak to you personally. And it’s zero four thirty, sir,” replied Lieutenant Kiyoshi Iwahashi, the officer of the deck.
“Huh? Right. That was fast,” Jerry grunted while trying to focus on his watch.
“Sir?”
“Never mind, Kiyoshi. Has the XO been informed?”
“He’s next on my list, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Jerry placed the handset back in the cradle, turned on the light, and started to put on his blu
e poopy suit. He heard Thigpen’s phone ring, followed by a loud, but whiny, “Are you kidding me?!”
Once dressed, Jerry made his way to the control room. A very disheveled Thigpen followed close behind. As soon as they entered North Dakota’s command center, a petty officer brought Jerry a steaming cup of coffee. After thanking the young sailor, Jerry walked alongside the officer of the deck and said, “Report, Mr. Iwahashi.”
“Yes, sir. We are on course one seven zero, speed five knots, depth one five zero feet. We currently hold six sonar contacts, all are classified as merchants, and all have very low bearing rates. Combat system TMA indicates none are close; tracks are displayed on the port VLSD. I’ve completed a baffle-clearing maneuver with no additional contacts. ESM and radio are manned and ready. Request permission to come to periscope depth and establish a link with SUBRON Fifteen.”
As soon as Iwahashi had completed his status update, Jerry looked at the large flat-screen display hanging on the control room’s forward port side. None of the contacts were headed toward him. They had been tracked for some time and the sonar data said they were all distant. A quick glance at the command workstation confirmed the ship’s course, speed, and depth. With everything as it should be, he ordered, “Very well, OOD, bring the ship to periscope depth and establish a link with SUBRON Fifteen.”
“Bring the ship to periscope depth and establish a link with SUBRON Fifteen, aye, sir,” replied Iwahashi, repeating the order to ensure he heard and understood it correctly. Turning toward the ship control station, he commanded, “Pilot, make your depth six five feet. Copilot, raise number-one photonics mast.”
As the boat took on a slight up angle, Jerry nodded to Thigpen and motioned for them to head to radio. Once inside the small room, the XO leaned over and asked, “Any ideas why the commodore wants us to contact him?”
Jerry shrugged. “If I had to guess, it may have something to do with the Pakistani nuke.” He phrased his answer carefully; he didn’t like lying outright to his XO.
“Isn’t that a little outside of our theater’s area of responsibility?”
“True, but India is in our AOR,” Jerry replied frankly. “Anyway, I’m sure Captain Simonis will graciously answer all our questions.”
“That’ll be a first,” groaned Thigpen.
“Skipper, number one HDR mast has been raised, and I have a signal,” said the radio room watchstander. “The VTC handshake is nearly complete. I should have SUBRON Fifteen up momentarily.”
Jerry acknowledged the report and kept his eyes on the display. Seconds later, the test screen was replaced by the Squadron Fifteen conference room. In the foreground were Captain Charles Simonis, the squadron commander, and his chief staff officer, Captain Glenn Jacobs. There was a small group of tired-looking people behind them.
“Good morning, Captain,” greeted Simonis. “My apologies for the early call, but I have a situation that was dropped into my lap forty-five minutes ago that we need to discuss.”
Simonis’s voice had a definite edge to it. He was not a happy camper. Jerry kept his response casual. “Good morning to you too, sir. What can I do to help you?”
The commodore cut straight to the heart of the matter. “Captain, have you had direct contact with Dr. Patterson recently?”
“No, sir. Per your orders, I have not spoken to or e-mailed her without your permission.”
“I see. Then could you enlighten me as to why she asked the CNO to expedite getting you to San Diego?”
“San Diego?” Jerry asked carefully, trying hard to look confused. “Commodore, I don’t recall ever asking anyone to send me to San Diego. Did Dr. Patterson provide any explanation for her request?”
“No, Captain,” shot Simonis tersely. “Nor does the national security advisor to the president really need to, now does she?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
Simonis sighed deeply; the man was uncomfortable with any kind of Washington political intrigue. And while he greatly valued Jerry’s out-of-the-box thinking and tactical innovations, his close personal ties to the Office of the President of the United States was incredibly annoying. “All right, Captain. Terminate your patrol and return to Guam at best possible speed. I have to get you to San Diego in six days.”
14 March 2017
0900 Local Time
Director General Naval Projects, Ship Building Centre
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
Desam was being irritatingly insistent. “Sir, this is a bad time to go to America.”
“What else can we do, Dr. Desam? You know American suppliers would be much more reliable than the Russians, and have better quality control. A trip to the U.S. was already part of our R-and-D schedule, and with our senior people gone we must do what we can to keep things moving!”
“I don’t know if they’ll be a reliable source after next week, Captain. Did you see what the American Congress wants to do?” Samant’s second-in-charge on the Advanced Submarine Project was a civilian, an academic, which meant Dr. Vishal Desam didn’t necessarily accept his boss’s declarations as the last word to be spoken.
“You watch too much television, Vishal. The American people think we used a nuclear weapon in Kashmir, and their politicians are just pandering to that mood. But more importantly, the current administration has been unusually silent, which means they’re still unsure. I already have an approved visa, and we have the travel funds. There is no reason not to make this trip.” Samant paused for a moment, marshaling his patience. “We’ve discussed this long enough. I’m going.”
Desam had been working on the project for over ten years, and Samant valued the corporate knowledge his deputy possessed, but he just didn’t seem to grasp Samant’s authoritarian leadership style.
“But it’s not too late to change your mind, sir. We should at least get some more information…”
“That’s why I’m going over there, to get information!” Samant barked sharply. “It shouldn’t take a week to prepare for two meetings with potential vendors in America. This is why…”
“… it takes us thirty years to build a submarine.” Desam completed the sentence.
Samant’s vexation was replaced by amusement, and he smiled. “Just keep what’s left of our team focused, and away from the television. I’ll be back in about a week.”
Defeated, Desam left, and Samant went back to work. The trip to America actually did involve meeting with representatives of two companies that might be useful to his project, and he had to prepare for them, as well as specific guidance for his people before he left the project in Desam’s care for a few days.
Both meetings were in the western United States, in the state of California. Sandwiched between them, he’d see Jerry Mitchell. There was something very wrong and ominous going on, and now the only one he believed he could trust was an American he’d once tried to kill. But Petrov had spoken highly of Mitchell, and reassured Samant that he wouldn’t hold a grudge. A strange combination of dread and anticipation arose at the thought of meeting the American submarine captain face-to-face.
Samant’s discussion with Petrov had convinced him the trip to America was the best course of action, and once he’d made that kind of decision, he never looked back. But he did find himself constantly looking over his shoulder.
Whatever Dhankhar was planning to do, he’d decided to exclude Samant, but keep him close by. Was that so the admiral could keep an eye on him? Was Desam, his own deputy, making reports to Dhankhar? Someone else in his office? Anyone at all? Once the seeds of suspicion were planted in his mind, they flourished, and their fruit was not clarity, but confusion.
He reviewed his conversation with Desam, looking for possible slipups, or things the engineer had said that hinted that he knew more than he was saying. Samant knew nothing of spycraft, but suddenly it seemed that he couldn’t trust anyone.
It was because of Vice Admiral Dhankhar. Before this, Dhankhar had been the one man in the Indian Navy Samant wou
ld have trusted implicitly. The admiral was as famous and respected as an officer could properly be.
Samant had served with him before, as a junior officer when Dhankhar was captain of the submarine Kalvari, a rattletrap Russian Foxtrot boat that they’d had to keep running with little more than their wits. The submarine had been turned into refrigerators and razor blades long ago, but the memories were fresh, of a dedicated officer and a fine commander. His peers on other boats had envied Samant’s posting.
If Dhankhar had turned, then everyone was suspect, and obviously other people had to be involved.
And Vice Admiral Dhankhar was involved in something very wrong, a plan that involved Chakra and quite possibly rogue nuclear weapons, and it was secret from most of the navy. Samant fervently hoped that he was wrong, that he’d completely misjudged the situation, but the odds seemed against that.
He had to plan ahead, to find ways to cover for the time he’d spend with Jerry Mitchell. There must be no paper trail, no gaps in his schedule. He couldn’t let them know he suspected anything.
14 March 2017
1000 Local Time
Torpedo Shop 2
Naval Shipyard
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
Vice Admiral Dhankhar returned the sentry’s salute, then showed the corporal both his base pass and his navy ID card. There’d been a lot of grumbling about the new security measures, but Dhankhar had found that overreaction to the Kashmir incident was a good cover for the increased protection he had added to a few special locations.
Like this torpedo repair facility, for instance. Instead of “Torpedo Shop 2,” the building’s sign could read “Nuclear Weapons Magazine.” A sentry at the door, blissfully unaware of what he was guarding, seemed appropriate after the arrival of the Russian warheads.
Dhankhar punched in the five-digit code and entered the windowless building. Most of the interior was open, and brightly lit. There were a few offices at one end of the long work hall. The walls were lined with workbenches and machine tools, while the rail for an overhead crane ran the length of the work floor.