by Larry Bond
A few pedestrians who had seen the chase approached him cautiously. He certainly didn’t think he looked very threatening, and a middle-aged man asked in English, “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” Petrov answered, but then stood up straighter and flexed his arms and legs. Nothing hurt. “I am fine.”
“Who was that?” a woman asked, but he just shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Another man said, “I saw him run down a side street,” and pointed.
The woman said authoritatively, “You should call the police.”
“I will,” Petrov replied, and reached for his cell phone.
No longer needed, the pedestrians dispersed, returning to their errands, but occasionally glancing back at the foreigner.
At the interview in Osinov’s office three days earlier, Ruchkin had given him a card. Petrov fished it out of his wallet and dialed the number. It rang three times before a recorded voice repeated the number and asked the caller to leave a message. Wonderful.
Should he call the local police? It seemed pointless to Petrov. If it was just a random robbery attempt, there was little the police could do. A mask had hidden most of his attacker’s face, but what little Petrov saw hinted that he might have been a foreigner—European or perhaps even Russian.
And why would a foreigner pick another foreigner to rob on a busy street in the early evening? He didn’t like the answer, and called another number.
* * *
They’d met on a busy street corner, and gone into a nearby bar, chosen because it was close and half-filled with customers. They both hoped a public place would be the safest choice. It catered to sports fans, and large-screen TVs at opposite ends of the room were showing cricket and football matches, with the attendant cheers and groans from the patrons. Samant ordered Kingfisher beers for both of them and they found an empty table.
Samant didn’t really say anything until Petrov had finished telling his story a second time. With repetition, his second account had less emotion, and a little more detail. Even so, there was little to work with.
“Now I understand how you feel,” Petrov remarked.
“If you mean that you are now as paranoid as I am, good.” Samant shivered. “I am very glad they missed their chance with you, but now we must both be on guard. I should have expected they would become violent. After all, what’s one life when you’re selling weapons that can kill tens of thousands?”
“I don’t think they know about you, yet. I was the one asking about Orlav, and then I was attacked,” Petrov explained.
“I’ll take precautions anyway,” Samant replied. “And so will you,” he insisted.
Petrov nodded. “I tried to call the SVR—that intelligence agent that questioned me the other day. I haven’t been able to reach him. I haven’t told the local police.”
“Good!” Samant replied. “Even if they believed your suspicions and were willing to investigate, Vice Admiral Dhankhar has enough political influence to deflect their questions completely. And it would confirm his suspicions.”
“I will e-mail Jerry, or perhaps you should.”
“I will,” Samant replied firmly. “We can’t know how closely they’re watching you.”
“I just hope the Americans can do something. I wasn’t expecting immediate results, but it would be good to know they are acting.”
“If they can, I believe they will,” Samant reassured him. “This is as much a threat to the USA as anyone.” He sighed. “And now, more than before, we have to make sure that someone besides us knows.”
9
FATAL ENCOUNTER
1 April 2017
1600 Local Time
The White House
Washington, D.C.
* * *
“E-mail will be the death of me yet,” muttered Joanna Patterson as she scrolled down the three screens of waiting correspondence. It had already been a very long Saturday, and she hadn’t had an opportunity to sneak away and thin out the herd. Fortunately, none appeared to be an April Fools’ joke—she’d already announced that she would personally have the first transgressor shipped to Siberia. Even the president didn’t want to challenge her on that one. Her husband, Lowell, proved himself even wiser by sending a dozen red roses instead. “Peace on Earth begins at home,” said the card.
She scanned the titles as she moved down the list, looking for any obvious “Me First!” messages. Joanna saw Jerry’s e-mail two-thirds of the way down on the third screen. The subject line wasn’t reassuring—“Hostile Intent Demonstrated.” She clicked on the e-mail and began reading; the contents were even less encouraging.
Just received an urgent email from Samant. Someone tried to attack Petrov this evening. The assailant appeared to be a Caucasian, not Indian. Petrov believes he was a Russian. Alex has reported the attempted assault to the Russian embassy, but not the local military police. Samant believes it would attract too much attention. If this wasn’t a random act of violence, then someone is worried that Alex knows something. Is there anything we can do to help?
Joanna scrolled down and read Samant’s brief message. It held little additional detail, but the Indian was convinced the attack confirmed his and Petrov’s suspicions. She sighed and shook her head. Yes. The attack, if indeed it wasn’t just a botched mugging, would be an indication, but still it wasn’t proof. She needed hard evidence if she was to advocate getting the U.S. involved. Joanna typed out a quick reply asking Jerry to relay her request. She was about to tell him to keep her apprised when she saw Jerry’s closing line; he was going to be unavailable for the next few days and e-mail contact would be spotty. That could only mean his boat would be at sea. “Damn it,” she whispered. “Talk about really bad timing.”
Briefly, she considered asking the CNO to keep North Dakota tied up to the pier for a few more days, or perhaps even a week, but rejected the idea. Admiral Hughes had already done her a huge favor in getting Jerry to San Diego on short notice, and while he might be understanding about another request, it would be seen for what it was—micromanaging a navy asset. Certainly Captain Simonis, the squadron commander, would be very annoyed with more “rudder orders from Washington.” And then there was Lowell’s stern counsel after their meeting with Jerry, “Don’t try to drag Jerry onto your staff. He’s a submarine commanding officer, and he has a boat to run.”
Sighing deeply, she told Jerry to pass on her e-mail address to Samant and Petrov. Joanna promised she’d do what she could to help them, but repeated the need for firm evidence. She clicked the send button, then reached over for her secure phone. Time to call SECSTATE Lloyd and Randall Foster to see just what the U.S. could, and could not, do to assist the two men in India.
2 April 2017
0900 Local Time
Naval Dockyard
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
The sights and sounds of the shipyard were unexpectedly refreshing. As soon as Samant walked onto the graving dock, he looked up at his old submarine. INS Chakra sat majestically in the dock on large wooden blocks; there were sparks flying about her sail that made it look like she even had a crown. Chakra looked absolutely huge from the floor of the dock; it never failed to amaze him how deceptively small even a large submarine looked when most of the hull was concealed under water. A loud beep, followed by someone shouting at him, forced Samant to scurry to get out of the way of a forklift carrying a pallet of replacement parts. There were people everywhere as the workmen toiled to get Chakra ready for sea. Sea trials began in five days.
Up ahead, Samant saw Jain inspecting the main sonar dome with one of the foremen. The composite structure surrounding the submarine’s main hull array, and the coating around it, was still dripping wet. Two men with pressure washers stood at a distance, waiting. Jain saw Samant approaching and waved. After reaching for a clipboard, Jain signed a form and gave the workers a thumbs-up. He then jogged over to Samant, stopped short, snapped to attention, and rendered a smart salute. After Samant h
ad returned the honor, he extended his hand. Jain hesitated, then accepted the offer. He seemed a bit flustered.
“How goes the refit, Maahir?” Samant asked while waving to the surrounding activity.
“I hate being in the shipyard, sir. I can’t wait to get back to sea so I can get some rest,” shouted Jain. He looked uneasy.
Samant nodded sympathetically. “I completely understand, shipyard periods can be very stressful. I always found the noise to be irritating.”
Jain smiled slightly while pointing to his earplugs. “These help, a little. What can I do for you, sir?”
Samant then noticed that Jain was still at attention; his former first officer was behaving as if he were still in the job. The Indian captain sighed. This wasn’t how he wanted their relationship to be now. Finally, he said, “At ease, Maahir.” The younger man visibly relaxed. Moving closer, Samant spoke with an informal, almost fatherly tone. “Listen, Maahir, you are now the commanding officer of a nuclear submarine, that’s a very exclusive club, and we almost have a quorum right here with just the two of us. I’m not your CO anymore, and we’re not even in the same chain of command. Yes, I’m still a senior officer, but we’re now colleagues, and I’d appreciate it if you would see it that way as well.”
Jain looked down, surprised and confused. It took him a moment, but when he lifted his head, he was smiling. “Thank you, sir. I would be honored.” Samant nodded and gave Jain a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“So, Captain, what brings you to this den of chaos?” asked Jain, more upbeat.
Samant chuckled and shook his head. “I had to get away from my office. The work has been most frustrating as of late.”
Jain looked incredulous. “But, you’re on shore duty now. Why are you coming in on a Sunday? The weather is glorious, you should be on the golf course!”
Samant looked rueful and depressed. “It’s very bad, Maahir. The project office is so damn dysfunctional. I’ve been in every weekend since I was assigned, trying to make some sense of what had been done, and what still needs doing. I’m still not entirely sure what my predecessor did during the two years he was in the post. I’ve managed to get things moving again, but it’s been slow going. I’m not sure what my people hope for more: our being successful or me suffering a heart attack!”
Jain roared with laughter. Samant found he liked the sound. “I see that the great Captain Samant hasn’t changed his stripes!”
“True,” Samant said with a grin and a shrug. “But I see you have.” He reached over and brushed some dust off one of Jain’s new epaulettes. “Congratulations, Commander.”
“Thank you, sir. But I owe this promotion to your gentle tutelage.” Jain smiled sheepishly.
“Gentle? As I recall, I flogged your ass on a regular basis!” teased Samant.
“Yes, sir, you did. Fortunately, the trousers hide the calluses.” Both men laughed heartily, and Samant took another friendly swipe at Jain. It felt good to be back with his old boat.
“Would you like to take a quick tour, sir?” inquired Jain. “I know the crew would appreciate seeing you again. You have been missed. Besides, you look a little homesick.” The smart-ass grin on his face utterly failed to hide the delight Jain felt at razzing his former captain.
Samant rolled his eyes. “Maahir, you’d make a lousy poker player. And while your observation may be correct, you are to repeat it to no one. I do have my reputation to consider.”
“Of course, sir, not a word to any living soul.” The twinkle in Jain’s eye said otherwise. “I’ll inform the sentry that you’ll be up shortly.”
“You’re a cruel man, Captain,” Samant grumbled playfully. “But, thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir,” replied Jain. “Oh, and one more thing. Don’t expect it to be very tidy on board. These shipyard workers are absolute pigs!”
It was now Samant’s turn to chuckle; he knew exactly how Jain felt. Still, it was a little surreal hearing his own words coming from his former first officer. A feeling of satisfaction came over Samant when he returned Jain’s departing salute. As the young captain ran off to his next appointment, Samant turned and walked toward the dock’s wing-wall ladder. He forced himself to walk slowly, holding the excitement he felt inside.
The sentry post was manned by one of the crew’s junior officers and a petty officer. Both were happy to see their old captain, and after a casual check of his ID card, Samant was allowed on board. Climbing down the ladder into central post, he was suddenly overwhelmed by memories, as well as the smell of burnt welding flux and ozone. The space was very crowded, noisy, and hot. Trying to stay out of the workers’ way, he scooted over to the Omnibus combat system consoles. Looking down at the operator’s panel, he saw that the cover plate in the upper left-hand corner on both consoles had been removed and a number of wires now protruded from the openings. It was the exact same panel section that Petrov had shown him earlier.
Samant leisurely surveyed the area, as if trying to relive some past event. He noticed that everyone else was focusing on the ship control and engineer’s stations on the other side of the central post. Slowly, he took his smartphone from his pocket, and after making sure the flash was disabled, quickly took a number of photos of the alterations to the consoles. Pausing briefly to check the results, he repocketed the phone and made his way to the first compartment.
There were far fewer people in the torpedo room, and after chatting with a number of his former crewmen for a few minutes, he went forward to look at the tubes. Acting as if he were doing a routine inspection, Samant went over them as he had done numerous times before. In the background, he could hear some of his men snickering. If they wanted to think their old captain was taking a walk down memory lane, that was fine by him. He opened the wiring junction box for tubes one and three, and feeling behind the circuit board, found the connectors that Petrov had told him about. Samant also noted that there were wires attached to those connectors. Grunting his approval, he finished his normal inspection and proceeded to visit the remaining compartments. Partly because Samant wanted to be true to the story he was creating, and partly because he wanted to see more of his crew. Jain was right; he was homesick.
* * *
Refreshed, Samant left the graving dock and headed down the street toward the submarine artificer’s shop. The tour of Chakra was an unexpected but welcomed opportunity, but his primary reason for coming to the shipyard was to find out what he could about the new Russian UGST-M torpedoes. Walking down the narrow street between the workshops, he was surprised by just how crowded it was. For a Sunday, the activity throughout this part of the shipyard was very heavy, almost frantic. Dhankhar must have put the fear of the gods into everyone involved with Chakra’s refit. As he strode into the main weapons shop, Samant immediately picked out the loud voice of the chief weapons officer shouting orders to his men. Commander Fali Gandhi was a ragged-looking, gray-haired engineer in charge of all submarine tactical weapons. A vicious purist, he would have nothing to do with those “abominations of DRDO”—ballistic missiles.
Many years Samant’s senior, Gandhi was nonetheless junior to him in rank. The grizzled, outspoken engineer had often come into conflict with senior officers, and his lack of decorum had adversely affected his chances of promotion. And yet, no one would dream of replacing him … he was that good, and Samant held a deep respect for the man’s abilities. Every weapon Samant took into battle performed exactly as it should, not one failure during his entire patrol. Gandhi had personally assured him that every weapon had been thoroughly checked and had passed muster. He was also quick to accept responsibility if any of the weapons failed to run properly. Aiming them correctly was Samant’s job.
“Commander Gandhi!” shouted Samant. “May I have a word with you, please?”
The older man spun about. A huge grin flashed on his face. “Ah, Captain Samant! What brings you to my workshop on this beautiful Sunday morning? Don’t have anything else better to do?”
Samant
just shook his head; for the second time that morning he’d been implicitly accused of having misplaced priorities. “Why is it that everyone assumes that one’s personal work habits have to change when they are on shore duty?”
Gandhi smiled broadly. “Because, my good Captain, they usually do. Your predecessor, Captain Palan, certainly had no problems taking up residency at the East Point Golf Club.”
“I don’t play golf,” snipped Samant.
“Ooh, that’s heresy, Captain.”
“Do you play, Fali?” Samant shot back smugly.
“No, sir, I don’t have the patience for the game. I find it aggravating to hit a ball, lose it, only to hit it and lose it again.”
“That makes two of us. Now can I ask you some torpedo questions?”
“Ah, my favorite topic. But let’s go to my office, it’s too damn noisy out here.”
Samant followed the engineer to the back of the workshop, to a small glass-enclosed space with a single desk, a chair, and numerous filing cabinets. Precariously stacked manuals and drawings lay on almost every available horizontal surface. Gandhi wasn’t very apologetic. “Please forgive the clutter, but this is a workshop, not a fancy corporate office. Tea, sir?”
“No, thank you,” replied Samant as he looked for a place to sit. Gandhi noted this and simply reached over and swept a stack of manuals off the chair.
“Your questions, sir?”
“I understand you have received some UGST-M torpedoes, I was wondering about your first impressions.”
Gandhi leaned on the desk, thinking. “Well, Captain, it started out very rough, five of the first twelve failed their diagnostic tests; that was mid-February. Our admiral was none too happy about that and he yanked the Russians hard to fix the problem. So far it seems to be working. I should have twenty-four weapons ready for Chakra by her departure date.