Fatal Thunder

by Larry Bond

  Kirichenko had found Churkin on the wrong side of the law, and had spent a fair amount of bribe money to get Churkin out of jail before he could be sentenced to an impressive number of years in a Georgian prison. Churkin was an ex-Spetsnaz “reconnaissance diver,” skilled in many types of combat as well as underwater work, and a veteran of both the Chechen and Georgian wars. Among other skills, he spoke fluent Arabic.

  Finding someone like Churkin had been vital to Kirichenko’s plans. Under his direction, the commando had personally dived on the barge to bring up the warheads, with the admiral waiting on the boat above. Churkin guarded the warheads on their long trip across a lawless landscape while Kirichenko dickered, bribed, and organized each leg of their trip. Throughout it all, Churkin had been as reliable as a stone monument, because Kirichenko knew the one thing that could hold his loyalty: money.

  Seeing him just a few feet away, so suddenly, Orlav suppressed a chill. Churkin was not only Kirichenko’s right-hand man, he was also his executioner, if need be. The ex-admiral had made it plain to Orlav that if he didn’t perform well, or if he was stupid enough to try and leave, Churkin would happily hunt him down and slit his throat. Eventually.

  “Tell me about Aleksey Petrov,” Churkin ordered.

  Orlav was still fumbling on the floor for the key, and as he picked it up and stood, he turned to face Churkin. “I don’t know the man.” The question puzzled him, and he searched his memory.

  After a moment, he added, “I saw him for the first time last week, when Captain Mitra called us all together and told us we were going to have help with the work. He was the only Russian. The rest were Indians from different departments in the shipyard.”

  He held up his hands. “That’s all I know. Maybe you should speak to some of the others.”

  “I already have,” Churkin replied quickly. “Yesterday. Now I’m talking to you. Has Petrov spoken to you?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen him nearby while you did your work?”

  “No. Never. I think I’ve passed him on the sub a couple of times, but that can’t mean anything.”

  Churkin announced, “He’s been asking questions about you.”

  “What?” A flash of fear ran through him. If they had been discovered …

  “Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to the torpedo shop?”

  “Oh. Yes.” Orlav realized he was still holding the key, and turned back to lock the door. He carefully put the key in his right pocket.

  Churkin stood, and when Orlav looked at him, a little bewildered, finally said impatiently, “So let’s go.”

  Orlav turned and quickly went down the steps and the brick path, then turned right to head for the torpedo shop. The route was simple, and would only take fifteen minutes to walk. Churkin followed easily, and matched Orlav’s pace.

  “So Aleksey Petrov’s been asking questions about what you’re working on, why you don’t report to Gandhi or Shvetov, and so on. I’ll ask you again. Are you sure you haven’t said something to Petrov to arouse his curiosity?”

  Orlav answered firmly, “Definitely not.”

  “To anyone else?”

  “No!” Orlav insisted. “Of course not!” When he could see that Churkin was unconvinced, he added, “I work alone, I eat alone. The only person I say more than ‘Hello’ to is Anton Kulik, and that’s when I ask him to bring me my meals. Maybe the isolation is what attracted Petrov’s attention.”

  “Perhaps,” Churkin admitted, “but I have to find out if anyone else is involved with him, and how much they know. I’m taking over security down here—especially your security until you finish the project.” While Churkin was aware that an SVR agent was the probable source of Petrov’s questions, Churkin had been expressly forbidden to tell Orlav. The whiny technician was already a bundle of nerves and it wouldn’t take much to get him to panic. But Kirichenko also needed to know if Orlav had done something stupid to attract attention to himself. Churkin was satisfied with Orlav’s answers and would report his impressions to the boss.

  Orlav continued walking in dejected silence. The thought of the ex-Spetsnaz thug hanging around, watching his every movement, did not make Orlav feel any more secure. As if he needed another incentive to finish quickly.

  A block or two from the torpedo shop, Churkin suddenly turned and walked down another street. He didn’t even say good-bye, although Orlav was happy to see him go.

  In addition to all the depressing thoughts whirling in his head, Orlav was disappointed by Churkin’s visit. The Russian engineer had been looking forward to the morning walk from his new quarters, a chance to organize his thoughts for the day’s labor. Instead, Mr. Buzzkill had not only ruined the tranquillity of the moment, but managed to increase his paranoia. A great start to the day.

  Forget Petrov. He just wanted to keep clear of Churkin.

  31 March 2017

  1830 Local Time

  District Central Library

  Visakhapatnam, India

  * * *

  Kirichenko had insisted on meeting in a completely random location. Dhankhar hated what seemed like pointless cloak-and-dagger games, but then he remembered that Kirichenko had been underground for over a decade, and that he was peddling nuclear weapons he’d stolen from his own government. The man had every right to be paranoid.

  The admiral hadn’t found out where they would meet until just half an hour before the appointed time, when Kirichenko had phoned him and simply said, without preamble, “The public library on High School Road.”

  High School Road was a major thoroughfare that led west away from the water into the city. He’d driven by the place more times than he could count. “I know it,” he’d replied, and the Russian had hung up without another word.

  They always made this business glamorous and exciting in the movies, but Dhankhar just checked out with his flag secretary for the day and drove out the front gate. The streets were still busy with the evening rush hour, but the library was only a few miles away. Fifteen minutes early, he pulled into a bank parking lot a short distance from the library.

  He started to walk in a direction away from his destination, intending to circle the block, to check for anyone following him, then stopped, laughed, and headed straight for the library.

  Dhankhar had no way of telling if he was indeed being followed, and even if he was, there was nothing he could do about it. Abort the meeting, he supposed, but that would be pointless. A tail, especially by the authorities, would mean that they’d already been discovered, and that Vajra was doomed. He chose to believe that for the moment their plan was still secret.

  He’d never seen the Russian, and wasn’t sure that he could recognize his voice. Kirichenko always kept the calls as short as possible, and Dhankhar could not be sure, but suspected that he used some device to alter his voice.

  On the other hand, Dhankhar’s photo was easily available on the Internet. He had an aide who made sure that it was included with all the base press releases. He’d just have to wait until Kirichenko approached him.

  He walked up the steps seven minutes before the 7:00 P.M. meeting time and tried to act like he needed a book. The library’s reading area was busy, a mix of schoolchildren and adults at almost every table. He didn’t see anyone immediately that looked like an ex-Russian admiral, and climbed the steps to the second floor.

  This was the reference section, and much less populated. He slowly walked past the rows of bookcases, looking for he wasn’t sure who, but certain he hadn’t seen him.

  A voice in Russian behind him almost made him jump. “Good evening, Admiral. Please follow me.” He turned to see a heavily built man with close-cropped black hair already walking away, and Dhankhar quickly followed him to one side of the second floor. A row of audio listening booths lined one wall, and his guide led the admiral to one end. Inside, a gray-haired man with sharp features nodded and stood.

  Dhankhar opened the door and stepped inside, while his guide, and presumably Kiriche
nko’s associate, lounged outside but nearby. Skimming quietly through a book, as if he could actually read Hindi, he would make sure Dhankhar and Kirichenko were not distrurbed.

  Kirichenko didn’t bother with pleasantries. “My colleague Mr. Churkin,” he said, indicating the man outside their door, “has been investigating Mr. Aleksey Petrov for us. Have you learned anything new since our last conversation?”

  “I’ve seen him working on Chakra and in the shipyard. It’s hard to hear what he’s talking about without getting too close to him, but he seems to be intent on his tasks. He hasn’t gotten near Orlav or the torpedo shop.”

  “That is good, but Churkin can now take over the security for Orlav and your project. That will let you focus on making sure the refit is completed on schedule.”

  “Ended is more like it. There was so much work that had to be abandoned. If this project wasn’t so important…”

  “The only thing that matters, as far as I can see, is that Chakra is seaworthy and can fire torpedoes. My job will be to keep Orlav on task and on time. Churkin has papers identifying him as a representative of a Russian arms company, the Morteplotekhnika Research and Design Institute. They manufacture the engines for the UGST-M torpedo, so that should answer any questions about his comings and goings. Can you arrange for an official base pass and whatever other authorizations he needs?”

  “Of course,” Dhankhar nodded. “They’ll be at the security office near the front gate by noon tomorrow.”

  “Good.” Kirichenko stood, and seemed almost eager to leave. “That should be it, then. If you see Churkin, don’t speak to him, or acknowledge his presence, unless it is absolutely necessary. You’ve never met.”

  “I understand,” Dhankhar answered. He started to stand as well, but Kirichenko motioned to him to remain sitting. “I’d appreciate it if you’d remain here for a few minutes after we leave.”

  “All right,” Dhankhar answered, willing enough. The two Russians disappeared quickly.

  It was a sensible request, he thought. They should enter and leave separately, so any surveillance would not see them together. But of course, if they were already under surveillance, it could be too late. The real reason he asked me to remain, he realized, is that if I’m arrested, I can’t tell anyone where they went after leaving here.

  1 April 2017

  1935 Local Time

  INS Circars

  Visakhapatnam, India

  * * *

  Churkin had decided to act quickly, at Kirichenko’s urging. Not that he disagreed. Petrov was trouble waiting to happen, and the sooner he was gone, the better. Kirichenko had provided him with the address of the Russian Hostel where Petrov lived and the locations of his office and his workstation in the shipyard. Normally, Churkin would observe someone for a few days before taking any action, but in this situation, time was critical.

  Petrov lived alone in the apartment. Churkin could easily break in and wait for him. There might even be something valuable there, which he would be happy to take. The police would classify it as a robbery gone bad—the unfortunate victim surprised the intruder.

  But Churkin didn’t like it. Although he’d wear gloves, even in this heat, there was no way he could avoid leaving trace evidence behind. Also, he didn’t know enough about the people living nearby. He might be seen breaking in, and once inside, he had no way to know what was going on outside the apartment.

  Churkin also didn’t like sitting and waiting. It was passive, and required patience. He’d never liked waiting. And he couldn’t be sure when Petrov would return. What if he went out drinking after work?

  The real problem was taking his eyes off the target. Churkin had access to the base, and could certainly find Petrov at work, not that he’d do anything there. But once he’d found the man, it was against Churkin’s instincts to lose sight of him, even if it was intentional, even if it was to set up an ambush.

  Simpler was always better, in Churkin’s experience.

  He’d been given photos of Petrov from his personnel file, and had no trouble finding him as he came off Chakra in midmorning. He was taller than Churkin, but not by much, and the ex-commando saw nothing that would make him a difficult target. According to Kirichenko, he was an ex-submariner, and now a consultant. This should be easy.

  By himself, it was difficult tracking someone’s movements without being noticed, but the engineer kept it simple. He spent the workday either on the submarine or in his office. Petrov worked late, and it was well after dark before he headed for the main gate. All the better, Churkin thought. He wasn’t terribly worried about being seen, but the darkness had a comfortable feeling for him. He was in his element.

  Unexpectedly, Petrov boarded a local bus. Churkin got on as well, using the other door. The vehicle was nearly full at that hour, and it was simple to keep out of Petrov’s sight while keeping track of when he left the bus.

  Petrov got off in a small shopping district. Better and better, thought Churkin. An assault and robbery here would appear completely random.

  Lights from the street and the storefronts gave a fair amount of illumination, but there were plenty of shadows. There were other people on the sidewalks, and traffic, but the streets weren’t crowded. Best of all, he didn’t see a single policeman or any other sign of law enforcement.

  Churkin felt his excitement building. He wanted to remain calm. He wouldn’t need adrenaline for this job, but his target had only minutes to live, and Churkin loved these moments. As he walked, he slipped on a pair of light-colored gloves, made of the thinnest material he could find. His hands would start sweating soon, but he would be done before that was a problem. He was actively hunting now, waiting for the foot traffic to thin out, marking escape routes …

  There. Ahead of Petrov, a recessed storefront created a wide alcove, deep enough for the inset corner to be almost completely shadowed. Churkin was ten or twelve meters behind Petrov. He could build up a little speed to catch up, and then use that momentum to shove his target into a corner. They’d be hidden from anyone up ahead, and it would be over in seconds.

  His steps quickened, and he pulled a cloth around his neck up to cover his nose and mouth. Petrov was still walking, facing away, completely unsuspecting. Pinned in a dark corner, he’d never see the man who killed him.

  Churkin had closed more than half the distance, and was still picking up speed. With only the briefest thoughts, he reached back for the knife he’d concealed under his loose-fitting shirt. The sheath hung just beneath his neck and shoulders, handle facing up and easy to grab. He’d spent time yesterday modifying the sheath and practicing drawing the knife quickly.

  He had to conceal it along his back because of its length. He’d gone into several shops yesterday looking for a double-edged blade at least sixteen centimeters long, his minimum. He’d finally found a nice one, almost as long as his hand and sharply pointed. He’d had others like it before, and experience told him what to look for. It was more properly a dagger, and so narrow it could almost be called a stiletto. It was perfect.

  Churkin’s left hand was out in front, raised to catch Petrov behind the shoulder blades and propel him into the darkest part of the corner. His right hand, with the knife, was down near his waist. Experience had taught him how to come in low, just above the waist, and stab up. The long blade would pierce the heart.

  A young couple stepped out of the store, just ahead of Churkin. He automatically angled a little left, and saw he would clear the two, but they both looked directly at him, and saw the knife in his hand.

  He ignored the couple. They were no threat to him. But the man shouted, and used one arm to shove his wife or girlfriend back behind him. She was screaming, and Petrov started to turn toward the noise. Churkin angled more to the left, still trying to aim for his back, but Petrov was turning too quickly, so after half a step, Churkin changed his plans, raising the knife slightly. He’d catch Petrov in front, in the belly, still under the rib cage, and just as lethal.

 
* * *

  Petrov not only saw the couple making so much noise, he spotted someone charging toward him at a full run. He didn’t see the knife at first, but automatically tried to move out of the way, backing up and moving sideways, away from the storefront. More confused and surprised than afraid, he raised his hands to fend off his—attacker?

  * * *

  Still two meters away, Churkin cursed his luck. Petrov was bringing his arms up. It was not a trained defensive move, but it meant there was almost no chance of a quick kill, not against someone who was aware of his assailant. He could see Petrov’s eyes widening; he’d finally seen Churkin’s knife. Petrov called out, “Knife!,” but it was in Russian.

  Then he surprised Churkin. Instead of bracing to meet the attack, he turned and fled down the street. Churkin, already at speed, tried to grab him by the shoulder, or just Petrov’s shirt collar, but missed by inches.

  Spurred by fear, Petrov flew down the street, still shouting, first in Russian, then also in English, for help, not that his situation needed any explanation. Churkin kept pace with him for almost half a block, but both men were in good physical condition, and Petrov had a slight edge in height, and that longer stride helped him open the distance, first from inches to a foot, and then more.

  Other passersby had seen the pair now, running full tilt down the sidewalk, and Churkin realized that even if he caught up with Petrov, his murder would be neither quick nor quiet. Keeping up speed, he turned right down a cross street with less traffic, and then left into an alley that he could see ran the length of the block. By the time he’d reached the other end and emerged, the neck scarf and gloves were off and the knife was back in its sheath. The loose-fitting shirt, bright-colored, was gone to reveal a similar, darker one underneath. He slowed his pace, and looked behind him for any sign of pursuit.

  Then he tried to figure out what to do next. Kirichenko will not be happy.

  * * *

  Petrov ran for another half block before he realized that he was no longer being chased. Winded, he leaned against a storefront. His surprise at the sudden and completely unexpected attack magnified his fear. He reached up to brush his hair back and discovered his hand was shaking. If not for being braced against the building, his entire body might be doing the same thing.