by Larry Bond
“The next page has an analysis of the material,” she prompted.
He found it quickly enough. It was even marked with a sticky note with the word “Mixed.” After a description of how the material had been removed and analyzed, it listed the chemical composition of the metal: isotopes of uranium and plutonium, lithium, traces of chemicals that had been used in the extraction process. Jerry understood it well enough. It was the same physics he’d studied learning how to run a reactor—just applied to a different purpose.
Patterson leaned forward and offered Jerry another document, with its own colorful security markings. “Here’s the report on the air and soil samples from the Kashmir explosion. Look at the table on page fifteen.”
Jerry studied the table in question. It listed the substances in the samples, and the two key elements, uranium and plutonium, both present, and in exactly the same proportions. But it was the yellow sticky note that drove it home; the plutonium isotope ratios were identical to the ones of the material in the Russian reentry vehicle.
He sat back in his chair, trying to fit this into what he already knew. “We were still at sea when I saw the news reports about the blast not being from an Indian weapon. That meant rogue nukes, and of course I thought about the ones we found, but this proves it.”
“It’s from the barge, or one just like it,” Patterson replied.
“I’d bet on the barge,” Jerry answered, “but I don’t know if it’s much help to know where the weapon came from.”
Patterson nodded. “You’re right. In fact, the only thing it really tells us is that we’re probably dealing with more than one loose nuke. Master Chief Reynolds said there were dozens on that barge.”
Jerry shivered at the thought. It had been years since they’d discovered the thing. Had whoever put them there gone back for some of them? All of them?
“Knowing, or having a strong suspicion we know, where the bomb came from gives us another lead to run down.”
“Straight into Russia,” Jerry completed.
Patterson’s desk phone buzzed, and Kathy Fell’s voice came over the speaker. “Senator Hardy’s here.”
As she said “Thank you” to her secretary, Patterson nodded to Jerry, who got up and unlocked the door. As he opened it, he quickly stepped to one side, and Senator Lowell Hardy (D-CT), Commander, USN, retired, stepped inside. Jerry closed and locked the door again as Hardy gave his wife a small hug and a peck on the cheek. She was as tall as Hardy, which meant they both were taller than Jerry, but he was used to that. Hardy had always been a big man, although with his retirement from the navy, some parts had gotten even bigger, and he fought a continual battle with his middle.
Hardy had been Jerry’s first skipper, aboard Memphis, and while their relationship had not started out well, Jerry now regarded the retired submarine captain as one of his closest friends and a mentor.
He greeted Jerry warmly. “It’s good to see you, Jerry. I’ll get the lowdown on Emily and the house later. I assume since you wanted me here instead of the house…” He saw the security markings on the documents Joanna offered him, and immediately sat down. Jerry took another chair to the side.
Patterson reprised Jerry’s report at the Pentagon, and then her discovery about the likely identity of the Kashmir bomb. He skimmed the sampling report as she talked. “I hadn’t seen the classified version of this yet,” he remarked after she finished. “I wouldn’t have thought to compare this with the analysis of the warheads we recovered.”
She accepted the compliment with a small smile, but her expression changed to concern. “If you agree that the barge is the most likely source for the Kashmiri warhead, then the next logical step is to tell someone. As soon as Jerry started talking at the Pentagon, I suspected the connection, but I couldn’t mention it then, because Admiral Hughes isn’t briefed in, and I had to double-check to make sure that Geisler and Foster were both on the list.” She tapped the folder for emphasis.
The “Rainfall” incident had been “deeply compartmented,” which meant that if you didn’t need to know about it, you didn’t even know that it existed. Revelation of the recovery of two nuclear warheads from a sunken barge in Russian waters, even if limited to the classified community, would create as many problems as it tried to solve. There was also the unwelcome fact that nothing stayed classified in Washington forever. They’d managed to keep Rainfall secret by ruthlessly limiting the number of individuals on the “need to know” list. If the list grew longer, the risk of public disclosure would become very real.
Hardy chewed on the idea for a moment, then observed, “Knowing where the bomb comes from simplifies the search tremendously. And everyone needs to know that there is a very real chance that more than one weapon is involved.” He stood, and then started pacing. Her office was big enough that he could go a fair distance in one direction before turning, and he made two full circuits before continuing to speak.
“You’re going to have to take this out of its box, so the community can start investigating. No choice.” He paused for a moment. “Politically, this is one secret that doesn’t embarrass anybody, except the Russians. There will be hell to pay if they find out. At least we’d be revealing it at a time of our own choosing. That lets us have a response prepared in case it does go public.”
Patterson put the documents back in her desk safe as she spoke. “I’ll be briefing the president on both of these tomorrow morning.” She turned to face Hardy. “Lowell. I have to have recommendations for President Myles when he hears about this. What do you think I should advise him to do?”
“I think you already know the answer, Joanna. Brief anyone who’s working on the Kashmir explosion into Rainfall, and keep looking for something that will corroborate or explain what Jerry’s reported. There’s a lot to do before we understand what’s going on. I’ll bet our bio on this Vice Admiral Dhankhar isn’t even current.”
She nodded. “That’s what I thought, but it’s nice to have a reality check.” She stood up, and reached for her purse. “If we head straight for the restaurant, we can still make our reservation.”
5
CASCADE
23 March 2017
0830 EST
The Oval Office, the White House
Washington, D.C.
* * *
“Don’t even think of saying no to me, Senator. You’ve already done that once, when you turned down that ambassador’s posting.” President Myles saw Hardy look toward Patterson. “And don’t blame your wife for this one. Andy Lloyd came up with this, and I agreed.”
Senator Hardy started to say something, then closed his mouth. After a thoughtful pause, he replied, “Mr. President, it’s not that I’m refusing to do it. I just don’t know that I’m the best person to be communicating what will undoubtedly be a very unpleasant message, and I certainly can’t predict how the Russians will react.” His tone mixed unhappiness with uncertainty.
They were seated in the Oval Office, on two couches facing each other. President Myles and Secretary of State Lloyd were on one, Patterson and Hardy on the other. There was a low table with a coffee service between them. Nobody had touched it.
Lloyd spoke up. “Senator, I’m still trying to grasp that we’ve had two Russian nuclear bombs in our possession for years, and that many more have been lying hidden on the seabed. And that’s on top of a possible conspiracy by part of the Indian military to use some of said weapons.”
“Too many questions, not enough answers,” Myles remarked.
Lloyd nodded emphatically. “Exactly. Any more clues and we won’t even be sure of our own names. We need answers, and I believe we don’t have a lot of time.”
“Until early April, at least, if Petrov and Samant are correct,” Patterson replied.
“I disagree,” Lloyd countered. “If there is a conspiracy, and they’ve changed the schedule once, they could do it again. And there has been one detonation already. We don’t know if it was deliberate or accidental, but the risk of a s
econd explosion heaven knows where can’t be ignored. Even if it’s not on U.S. soil, it could still affect our interests in a dozen different ways, none of them good.”
Myles explained, “Until Dr. Patterson briefed me yesterday, I was willing to go with the simplest theory—that somehow a Chinese weapon had been given or fallen into LeT’s clutches, and they suffered an epic fail while preparing it for use. The intelligence community seems to be leaning that way.”
Hardy sniffed. “Based on nothing but supposition.”
“But it was consistent with all the facts,” Myles replied, “or it was until Dr. Patterson shows up with not one, but two revelations. That was before we called you here.
“I hadn’t forgotten about the barge you found, but the match between the two reports can’t be ignored. The information that Commander Mitchell provided, that’s another matter. It’s largely based on rumor and speculation.” He raised one hand as Hardy tried to reply. “But we’ll run it down, as best we can. Our intelligence coverage in India is thin, at best. But Andy and I agreed that the connection between the Kashmir explosion and the barge is much stronger, and takes precedence.”
“Your wife just recommended that we needed to tell people about the barge if we were going to get anywhere,” Secretary Lloyd explained. “And I realized we had to tell the Russians. That’s when we called you.”
Lloyd added, “And there’s another consideration. I understand why the previous administration did not want to tell the Russians about this when we first discovered the hidden weapons. But since then, we haven’t been able to find out anything else, and now we have evidence that at least some of those bombs are no longer on the seabed. If we sit on this any longer, and another bomb goes off anywhere, we will bear some of the responsibility. We need the Russians to understand the urgency of the issue, that’s why I thought it would be best to have the captain of the U.S. submarine that actually took the weapons explain it to them. It’s all about credibility, Senator.”
“So we tell the Russians about the barge.” Hardy stated flatly. “The problem is, as soon as we say when and where, they’ll link it to the loss of their sub.”
“It can’t be avoided,” Myles replied. “And the official position of the U.S. government is that their submarine was lost while making an unprovoked attack on one of our vessels. And you did not fire a single weapon in your defense. Gepard was sunk by one of her own torpedoes, decoyed away from Memphis.
“If they want to kick up a fuss, first they have to explain about the barge and its contents, and why Gepard was attacking one of our subs in international waters. And we can do that privately, or publicly.”
“I can’t predict, or even guess, how the Russians will react, Mr. President.” Patterson’s expression showed her worry.
Myles was more optimistic. “One of the reasons I picked you as my national security advisor was because you’ve dealt with the Russians successfully. You persuaded them to work with us when Severodvinsk was crippled on the Arctic seabed.”
Lloyd said, “I think they’ll react every way we can imagine. Anger, embarrassment, denial, and fear. They may even demand we return the warheads.”
“Which I would happily do,” Myles added. “It costs a pretty penny to keep those things secure. There might even be a few reporters around for the handover.” He turned to face Hardy directly. “So I will ask you again: Will you meet with the Russians and tell them about the barge?”
“I’ll set it up in a secure room at the State Department building,” Lloyd added hopefully. His tone became more serious. “They need to know about this.”
Hardy looked over at his wife. She looked as worried as he did, but nodded silently.
23 March 2017
1630 EST
State Department, Harry S. Truman Building
Washington, D.C.
* * *
Ambassador Arkady Vaslev didn’t know what to expect when his car arrived at the State Department building, but it certainly wasn’t Secretary Lloyd’s chief of staff, Ron Davis, waiting for them at the main entrance. “Ambassador Vaslev, Captain Mishin, Mr. Zykov, thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Vaslev shook his offered hand, and replied carefully, “Your request was most urgent, but not very informative. It is hard to prepare for a meeting when you don’t know what it is about.”
The summons arriving that morning had requested an immediate meeting on an “urgent and critical matter.” It had asked not only for the ambassador’s presence, but also that the naval attaché and the deputy cultural attaché attend.
Requesting Mishin’s presence implied a naval or maritime topic, but while Valery Zykov might hold the title of “deputy cultural attaché,” he was actually the station chief for the Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR, Russia’s overseas intelligence arm. Vaslev had long suspected that American intelligence had deduced Zykov’s true role, but to have them ask for his presence by name confirmed that fact. Why did they want a known intelligence operative at the meeting?
Davis, a career diplomat, chatted amiably as he passed them through security and down the hall to a secure conference room, if the armed guard at the door was any indication. He snapped to attention as the group came into view.
The room was a small briefing theater, with the seats facing a large screen on one wall. A tall, heavily built man with thinning gray hair stood to one side. Davis introduced him as Senator Lowell Hardy, of Connecticut, a retired submarine captain. “He has information vital to both our governments to share with you.”
The Russians were offered chairs in the front row. As Vaslev moved to take his seat, motion to the side caught his eye, and he noticed two people sitting down in the back; he immediately recognized them as Secretary of State Lloyd and Vice President Randall.
They hadn’t been introduced, but had simply come in after the Russians and silently taken their seats. The implication was clear. This matter was of the highest importance.
The moment all three Russians were sitting, Hardy took the podium and the lights dimmed. Vaslev noticed that Davis was assisting Hardy, and there were no other assistants or aides in the room.
Hardy’s voice was strong, and he appeared to speak a little slowly, perhaps in deference to his audience. “In 2005, I was the commanding officer of USS Memphis, a Los Angeles–class nuclear submarine homeported in New London.” A photo of the sub flashed onto the screen, a record shot that would be more familiar to Mishin and Zykov than to the ambassador.
The photo was replaced by a map of the Barents and Kara Seas. “In May 2005, we left on a patrol that took us into the Kara Sea.” A dotted red line appeared on the map, showing the sub’s path. “Our orders were to survey several areas off the east coast of Novaya Zemlya for radioactive waste dumped in those waters by the Soviet and Russian governments, and measure the levels of contamination.”
Vaslev bristled a little at the idea of an American submarine so close to the Russian coast. It happened all the time, but nobody in Russia liked Yankee subs spying on them. This “radioactive survey” sounded like a typical cover story. But why go to all this trouble to tell such a fairy tale?
“In the areas we’d been assigned to search, we used remotely operated submersibles to locate and photograph debris, and to measure the levels of radiation.” The map was replaced by underwater photos of junk, most of it barely recognizable as machinery or waste containers. “We will provide you with a copy of the survey’s findings.”
So it wasn’t a cover story; but now irritation at the sub’s presence mixed with concern. Radioactive material had been dumped indiscriminately during the Soviet era, and to a lesser extent, afterward. Bellona and other environmental groups had complained about the issue for years, but had never been able to provide such detailed information.
This could be troublesome, but hardly rose to the level of vital national interest. And “urgent”? This happened years ago …
Hardy was describing the search with the ROVs. “… en
d of our mission, one of the last sites to survey was in Techeniye Guba.” The map came back on the screen, and Vaslev followed the sub’s track to the marked location. He looked closer, and remarked carefully, “It appears that the site is within twelve miles of our coast.” The edge of Russia’s territorial waters was also marked on the map.
Hardy frowned, but answered, “We did send the ROVs inside the twelve-mile limit, but Memphis remained outside. Our only intention was to photograph whatever was there and take radiation samples. You will be interested in what we found,” he added mysteriously.
Several photographs, taken at close range, of the barge were accompanied by an artist’s sketch of the entire object. It was a medium-sized barge, intact, resting on its bottom on the seabed. “We took water and soil samples, of course, and that’s when everything changed.”
Hardy reached into the podium and took out a document, which he offered to Vaslev. “This contains the gamma-ray spectrum analysis we collected near the barge. The many others we’d taken up to that point are listed in the official study I’ve already mentioned. They showed cesium, strontium, cobalt—typical components of spent fuel or radioactive waste. This sample had had a particularly dominant isotope of one element: plutonium 239, in concentrations consistent with a nuclear weapon.”
Hardy paused to let that sink in. “Photographs taken by the remote vehicle showed the inside of the barge filled with cases. They did not look like waste drums. On my own authority, I brought Memphis in closer to the site. We sent out divers who entered the barge and opened one of the cases. This is what they found inside.”
Vaslev, still reeling from the idea of American divers operating covertly inside Russian territorial waters, saw a photograph, in poor lighting, of a cone-shaped object. A diver to one side let him judge the size: almost two meters long and slightly less than a meter across at the base. The poor-quality image was replaced by another, presumably of the same object, out of the water in normal lighting. It was dull green or black, and detail photos of the base showed white Cyrillic lettering.