by Larry Bond
The ambassador still wasn’t impressed. “LeT’s involvement was decisively revealed by the blast itself. We will pass your information on Dr. Tareen on to our investigators, but I suspect the only way to locate him now would be with a Geiger counter.”
“What about the clues from the barge?” Hardy pressed. “The warheads, the barge itself, the acoustic buoys all give you places to start looking.”
Mishin answered that one. “Yes. Captain Zhikin’s men took extensive photographs of the barge and the acoustic sensor modules.” He looked over to the man in civilian clothes. “Major Tumansky is a specialist in crimes within the defense industry. He has been given broad investigative powers by the president.”
Although relatively young, Tumansky was nearly bald, which only emphasized his broad Slavic features. His English was perfect, to the point where his accent was not Russian, but to Hardy sounded almost Southern. “The serial numbers on the warheads match, and are in the same sequence, as the two you stole twelve years ago. The barge is of a standard type, used for the transport of dry cargo. Over one hundred were manufactured in a factory on the Dvina River. Many are still in use. Before this one was deliberately sunk, all identifying numbers were ground or burned off. Wherever the divers scraped away the marine growth, the barge is still in its original red primer.”
He scowled. “Forensic techniques can be used to recover the information from the surfaces where the information was erased, but not while it is underwater. After the barge is raised, we will make another examination.
“Inquiries at the factory revealed that production of this type of barge ended seven years ago. Their records were poorly maintained and are incomplete. We have assigned men to find and account for all the barges where the factory does have information, and a more thorough investigation, including interrogation of the factory personnel, is in progress.
“The acoustic sensors are still operational, and are part of a defensive barrier that lines our northern coast.” The investigator looked over to Mishin.
Mishin explained, “The chain is monitored from a facility in Severomorsk. We immediately discovered that the location of the sensors, as provided by you and verified by us, is different from where the Northern Fleet headquarters believed them to be. The three surround the barge in a loose circle, instead of forming the northern end of the barrier, spaced much wider apart, and located well to the south.”
Hardy noticed how the Russians were suddenly vague about the spacing and position of the sensors, but that defensive acoustic barrier was not part of the problem, as far as he could tell. But there still was a useful clue. He spoke up. “Your units seemed to have no trouble finding us, so somebody had to know where those sensors actually were located.”
Mishin nodded agreement, but said, “Records of the incident—from the time of detection until the loss of Gepard—were classified after the court-martial of Admiral Yuri Kirichenko.”
“I remember hearing about that. He was commander of the Northern Fleet. Why exactly was he court-martialed?” Patterson asked.
Mishin replied, “The official charge was ‘violating standing fleet orders and using poor judgment.’”
“So pursuing Memphis violated your rules of engagement.”
“Not at first,” Mishin answered, “but once an intruder was some tens of kilometers from our coast, and was definitely moving away, standing orders were to track him, but not attack it again. Instead, against the advice of his chief of staff and other senior officers, when Memphis left the coastal defense zone, the admiral did not recall the pursuing units. Instead, he mobilized more Northern Fleet ships and aircraft.
“Testimony from officers present, and I can corroborate this from my own experience, is that he was fiercely determined to sink the American sub—Memphis—no matter what it took.” Mishin rubbed his temples, as if the memory was stressful.
“Sonars in the pursuing ships heard the sound when Gepard’s torpedoes exploded. At first, it was hoped that meant the American sub had been sunk, but when some time had passed and our submarine failed to report, which was standard practice, Admiral Ventofsky, Commander in Chief of the Russian Navy, ordered the prosecution ended. Even then, Kirichenko did not seem ready to stop, and Ventofsky finally ordered Kirichenko’s chief of staff to take command and organize the search and rescue effort for Gepard.”
Hardy said, “I can only express my deep regret at the loss of your submarine. We did our very best to avoid combat. Our only desire was to leave.”
“After intruding into places you had no business going,” Mishin replied. “Your actions may have been justified, but the Russian Navy has always defended its home waters with vigor, and we will continue to do so.” Mishin looked directly at Patterson as he spoke, and Hardy noticed Vaslev smiling. That message has been successfully delivered.
Hardy bristled and began to speak, but Patterson laid a hand on his arm and he remained silent.
Tumansky continued the narration. “At the court-martial, Kirichenko said that his only motive was to defend Russian territory and punish the intruder—you, but his actions went far beyond what was required. He even invented a story about a spy that the intruding sub had picked up to justify continuing the attacks. His explanation was incredible, but was accepted at the trial because his motivations were essentially irrelevant. The charges were based on his actions, not his reasoning. Now, with this new knowledge, we can see what he was so desperate to protect.
“Once we knew what to look for, we could see that Kirichenko knew where those misplaced acoustic sensors actually were. While his staff took charge of the pursuit, Kirichenko himself gave many of the tactical orders. His initial commands to the fleet sent them well north of the intruder’s reported location. Since your submarine was fleeing north, the exact spacing did not attract attention, especially since our units successfully detected you. Reconstructing it now, using the sensors’ true position, we can see that he was following standard fleet doctrine for the prosecution of a Los Angeles–class nuclear submarine, beginning at the sensors’ true location.”
“So the commander of the Northern Fleet was involved in the scheme.” Patterson sounded surprised, even incredulous.
Mishin was defiant. “Admiral Yuri Kirichenko has always been seen as an able commander who made a reckless, and deadly, mistake. Over three decades of faithful service saved him from demotion and possibly a fine or even prison. At the time, it was thought nothing would have been gained by criminal punishment. Instead, he was allowed to retire immediately, without a pension.”
“And where is the former admiral now?” Patterson asked.
Tumansky explained, “That is what my investigators are trying to find out. After the court-martial, he moved into a small house near the Severomorsk naval base. For a while, he kept in touch with a few friends and associates. He didn’t have any family. Eventually, contacts with those he knew became less frequent, and finally rare. A member of his staff stopped by his house one day, about half a year after the court-martial, to find it vacant. He left no word with anyone we’ve spoken to. We’re tracing his bank records and other documentation, but that all ended about the same time.”
“In other words, he’s vanished,” Patterson concluded.
“While doing his best to not leave any tracks,” Tumansky agreed. “But we have many other paths to follow. He didn’t load and hide the barge by himself, and there are many questions regarding the warheads. Their manufacture was so highly classified that there may be only a few people now who knew they even existed. Are these seventy all that were made? Who ordered their production?”
Tumansky sighed. “It’s easy for me to believe that these warheads were manufactured in secret. Even with the end of the Soviet regime, Russia’s defense industry is compartmentalized and divided to an absurd degree, all in the name of secrecy. In my seventeen years as a chief investigator, I’ve only dealt with a handful of security violations, but hundreds of cases of graft and malfeasance.
&nb
sp; “Because of that secrecy, only a few records were kept, and most of them are now missing. Our investigation has only started, but so far nobody in the government or military claims to have any knowledge of these weapons. But somehow Kirichenko knew.” Tumansky sounded frustrated, but added, “Once I find that link, we’ll use it to track down Kirichenko and the rest of his helpers.”
Patterson asked, “I’d like to get complete information on the good admiral, please. Photos, fingerprints, and his contacts of course.”
Both Vaslev and the Russians in Moscow looked puzzled, and asked, “Why?”
“So that we can see if he ever came to the U.S., of course. He’s had twelve years to go anywhere he wanted. For all we know, he’s been living in Cincinnati. Also, we can reexamine our intelligence to see if the admiral has appeared, probably under another name, somewhere else. Now that we have someone to look for, if he or his group have been peddling stolen Russian nuclear weapons, we may find their trail.”
Even as Patterson asked for the file, Tumansky scowled, then had a rapid-fire dialogue with Mishin—in Russian. Vaslev also chimed in, after she finished making her request.
Vaslev answered for them. “We can give you the basic information on him immediately, but the file will have to be reviewed by the Director of the FSB…”
“And sanitized, I imagine,” she interrupted with a critical tone.
Vaslev shrugged. “Surely you understand, the file contains sensitive information, and might reveal techniques…”
She almost laughed. “What information could possibly be more sensitive than a renegade Russian admiral selling bootleg Russian nuclear weapons? Ambassador, gentlemen, the quicker we get the file, and the more information it contains, the better chance we have of stopping them before there’s another—and possibly worse—catastrophe.”
The ambassador didn’t respond immediately, and she added, “Whatever is in the file will have limited distribution to those directly involved in this investigation. It is in the United States’ interest to keep this matter quiet, for the time being.” There was an edge to her voice, and she kept Vaslev centered in her gaze.
In Russian, Mishin spoke first, then Tumansky, addressing Vaslev. Hardy couldn’t understand Russian, but their tone indicated she’d managed to convince them. Vaslev finally nodded, and then said, “All right, Dr. Patterson, on my authority, you will have the file this afternoon.”
8
ARRIVALS
31 March 2017
0715 Local Time
INS Circars
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
Evgeni Orlav was delighted with his luck. Instead of sleeping on a cot in the torpedo shop, or traveling back to his run-down apartment, he’d spent the night in luxury, on the orders of Vice Admiral Dhankhar.
Not that he’d been very polite about it, Orlav remembered. Dhankhar had shown up late last night at the shop. Orlav had been in the middle of test-fitting one of the mounts inside a torpedo body when the admiral had come in, standing silently until the technician had put down his tools.
“When you’re ready to stop work for the night, tell the sentry outside. He’ll have a driver take you to your new quarters, here on the base.”
Orlav had been surprised, and started to ask a question, but the Indian cut him off, adding, “All your personal effects have been moved out of your apartment and brought here. Now there is no need for you to leave the base.”
Dhankhar had been almost scowling as he spoke, and when he finished, Orlav simply said, “All right, I understand,” and Dhankhar had left.
Orlav didn’t like Dhankhar, and knew it was mutual. He was the kind of officer that had always caused problems for Orlav back in his navy days—stiff-necked martinets who believed their rank actually meant something. All they thought about were rules and duty, and believed everyone else should be the same way. They’d made life so miserable for him he’d actually missed his wife and her family. At least his in-laws wouldn’t give him grief for taking a drink now and then.
The mount had fit properly, and feeling satisfied with himself, Orlav had decided to break for the night. It was almost midnight, and he was curious, and a little concerned about where he was going to sleep. He didn’t trust Dhankhar in the slightest. Well, if his new lodgings were that bad, he still had the cot here at the shop.
Stepping outside, Orlav told the sentry he was finished, and within a few minutes a jeep appeared and parked nearby. The driver said it was just a couple of kilometers away. Even this late, the night air was warm and thick with humidity. Holding out a hand as they drove, Orlav could feel moisture collecting on his fingers.
Truth be told, he wouldn’t miss his “apartment” in town. Right, more like a prison cell. It was just one room, with barely enough floor space for a bed and a table. The toilet and shower were communal, just down the hall, and the entire building reeked of curry and sweat. Even with what the management called air conditioning, everything was sticky with moisture.
He’d picked it because many of the other Russians also lived there and commuted together. They lived there because it was cheap, and it let them send more money home to Russia. He needed the “cheap” part, and as for sending money home …
The character of the base changed quickly from an industrial appearance to residential as the shipyard’s shops were replaced by neat one- and two-story barracks and office buildings. At that hour, there was little traffic, but the soldier was dutifully obeying the fifteen-kilometers-per-hour speed limit, which gave Orlav time to take in the sights.
He was surprised when they stopped in front of a white-painted brick bungalow. It sat near one end of a row of similar houses, all with neat gardens and red tile roofs. He’d been in the service long enough, and been on enough military bases, to recognize that the quarters were meant for senior officers. A brick walkway ended in steps that led up to a screened-in porch. A small nameplate said it was number forty-seven, but the space for the occupant’s name was empty.
The driver said, “The admiral says you will live here until your work is finished.”
Nodding his understanding, Orlav got out of the jeep, a little surprised but accepting. The screen door opened with what sounded like a deafening screech in the late-night quiet, and he stepped through to the shadowed front door. A polished brass knocker gleamed in the faint light from the street.
The door was unlocked, and after finding the light switch, Orlav found himself in a sitting room, not only completely furnished, but also tastefully decorated. He stopped in the doorway, hand still on the knob, transfixed. This was not only better than his apartment, it was better than his home in Moscow, and much better than the place he’d grown up in Rybinsk, with ten people and three generations in a three-room apartment.
He could see a small kitchen in an alcove to his left. An open door to the right beckoned, and he went through to find a bedroom, as nicely appointed as the rest of the house. The bed was already made up, as in a fine hotel.
This is how I want to live, Orlav thought, with an intensity that almost surprised him. Someday soon, I’ll be able to have a house like this, with enough money so I don’t have to scrape to get a meal.
A set of keys lay on the bed, next to a folded note. It was in Dhankhar’s handwriting. The admiral’s spoken Russian was fair, but his Cyrillic lettering was like that of a child, each letter carefully drawn. “This house will let you get proper rest while staying close to your work. Do not leave the base until you are finished.”
Orlav crumpled the note, and after a quick search, tossed it in a nearby wastebasket. He liked this place. He would keep it neat.
The search also revealed two battered suitcases and a couple of boxes sitting in a corner of the bedroom, his belongings from the apartment. He wondered who had moved him out. How had they gotten the key to his apartment? Although he didn’t know any details, it was clear that the admiral’s conspiracy extended into every arm of the Indian government, including law enforc
ement. Maybe one of Dhankhar’s confederates had shown up and flashed a badge.
It took him only a few minutes to unpack, and he hurried a little. The bed reminded him of his fatigue, and promised a much better night’s rest than he’d had in a long time.
He fell asleep wondering if they’d gotten his security deposit back.
* * *
He’d awakened after the best sleep he’d had in months, certainly since starting this job. The rumbling of his stomach reminded him that he was hungry. There was no food in the house, of course, but he always ate breakfast at the shop, while he set up for the day’s work. He’d even obtained a small refrigerator and a plug-in teapot. As he dressed, he wondered if he should bring those things back to the bungalow, and have a proper breakfast here in the morning. But that might take longer.
It was great to have such a nice place to live, and to think about such mundane things.
Remembering to take his key, he had stepped outside and turned to lock the door when a harsh Russian voice came out of nowhere. “So you’re finally up. No wonder you’re not finished yet.”
Startled, Orlav dropped the key and quickly knelt, fumbling to pick it up. At the same time, he looked around for the source of the voice. To his right, sitting in a wicker chair on the screened-in porch, was Jascha Churkin.
Churkin seemed pleased with the surprise he’d given Orlav, and said, “Good morning.” His pleasant tone did not make Orlav feel any better.
Where Orlav was thin, almost scrawny, Churkin was built like a wrestler or a weight lifter. They were about the same height, but the ex-commando outweighed him by fifteen kilos, and none of it was fat. His black hair was cut very short, and dark eyes gave life to a face that had seen more than a few fights. When Churkin smiled, which he was doing now, Orlav could see a few gold teeth, and also a few gaps.