by Larry Bond
“As for the weapon itself, it’s got a little more range than the UGSTs we have now. The seeker is supposedly better, but I can’t confirm that until I get some in-water test runs. When that will occur has yet to be determined. Why do you ask?”
Samant leaned forward, rubbing his hands. “I’m working on the next class of nuclear submarines and I can’t get a straight answer from DRDO on our torpedo procurement plans.”
“There’s a surprise!” grumbled Gandhi. “They’re still trying to re-create the German SUT torpedo thirty-plus years after the Germans produced it! DRDO’s foolishness is why we are in negotiations to buy the German Sea Hake.”
“I agree, but I need to look at all our options, which means I need to consider Russian weapons as well.”
“Of course. But you do realize, sir, that the Russian torpedoes are considerably longer than NATO standard weapons? That will cause your designers a lot of grief, I would think.”
“Yes, Fali, I’m well aware of that. And while I don’t think it’s likely, I still need to have a rough design of a torpedo room to accommodate a weapon of this size. The powers that be will have to make the decision.”
Gandhi nodded his understanding. “So what do you need from me, sir?”
“How about some good information on the UGST-M?” Samant smiled. “I can’t have my designers working off of sales brochure data. Also, I’d like to get a quick understanding of the acceptance process, just in case I need to add extra time to the acquisition timeline.”
The old engineer smiled, waved his hand, gesturing for Samant to come to the desk. Gandhi pointed at a large open logbook. “Here are the records for the first shipment of UGST-M torpedoes; there are thirty-six in all. These seven have failed testing and need to go back to Mother Russia. This next set of nineteen weapons has completed the new testing protocol and has been accepted. These five are currently in the testing process with the Russian contractor. This last five…”
“Petrov?” asked Samant innocently.
“No, no, he’s in charge of the work on the boat itself. He has nothing to do with weapons. No, a fellow named Orlav does the torpedo work. I almost never see him now; he’s kind of a hermit over in Torpedo Shop Two. I check in on him every now and then.”
“I take it he’s a busy chap.”
“Very,” grunted Gandhi. “Vice Admiral Dhankhar’s revised torpedo acceptance criteria are extensive and they take a lot of time to complete. The Russians are under the gun to have twenty-four weapons ready, they have eight days left.” A devilish smirk popped on his face. “The ‘Old Man’ isn’t giving them a millimeter of wiggle room, he’s holding them to the letter of the contract.”
Gandhi then pulled out the writing shelf on his desk, closed the logbook and shifted it over. Underneath was a thick binder. “This, my dear Captain, is a technical manual for the UGST-M torpedo. You may borrow this for however long you may need it.”
Samant eagerly grabbed the manual, but soon frowned. He opened it, and then let out an exasperated sigh.
“Something wrong, sir?” asked Gandhi. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“I don’t suppose you have this manual in Hindi? Or even English, Commander?” snarled an irritated Samant.
“But I thought you could read Russian, sir?”
“Yes, I can, with some effort. But my designers do not, and I’m not about to read them bedtime stories so they can do their work!”
The engineer started laughing, and even Samant had to reluctantly smile. Gandhi was willing to help; he just had to have a little fun at Samant’s expense. “Wait a moment, sir. I think I can find something that’ll work for you. Just stay here, I’ll be right back.”
“Thank you, Fali.” Samant grimaced.
Still chuckling, Gandhi left his office. As soon as he was out of sight, Samant quickly reopened the logbook to the UGST-M entries and removed his smartphone. After checking to see if anyone was watching, he took photos of the serial numbers and the arrival and transfer dates to Shop Number Two of the five torpedoes still being worked on. He then noticed a new note card taped to the writing shelf. It had a list of five-number sets and what was probably part of a building number. Thinking that they could be access codes, he took a photo, just in case, and put his phone away. Samant then closed the logbook, pulling it over so it covered the note card, and opened the Russian-language tech manual. Gandhi returned less than a minute later.
“Here you go, Captain. The diagrams aren’t as good as the Russian version, but the text is far more readable.”
“Thank you, Fali, I’m sure this will be fine. What my designers need are the numbers; the diagrams are an added benefit. I’ll have my people copy the necessary data immediately and I’ll have this back to you later this week.”
Gandhi waved his hand. “Take your time, sir. We have a few more in the shop to support the work I still need to do.”
Samant thanked the engineer again, shook his hand, and departed with the technical manual. Walking quickly, he made his way back to his office; he had to download the photos from his phone and make copies for Petrov. Samant’s spirit was buoyed; he thought for sure that he now had some of the evidence the Americans had been asking for.
2 April 2017
2200 Local Time
Russian Hostel
INS Circars
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
Petrov turned into the parking lot of the Russian Hostel very late. The hydraulic system testing had taken much longer than anticipated, and by the time he’d returned to his temporary home, all the parking spots were full. Frustrated, he headed down the street to the overflow lot two blocks away. Still nervous from the attempted attack the night before, Petrov carefully scanned the streets and buildings as he drove slowly by. He hoped he’d be safer on the base than out and around the busy streets beyond the gates, but he couldn’t be sure of that.
As he pulled into the parking space, Petrov killed the lights immediately, but took his time shutting off the engine and getting out of the car. He needed time for his eyes to become night-adapted. The lighting for the next three hundred meters or so was fairly dim, with only an occasional streetlight providing some illumination. He locked the car and started walking, but instead of using the sidewalk, Petrov walked in the street, his right hand tightly grasping a can of Mace spray.
He forced himself to keep his pace casual. If he looked confident, perhaps that would deter a would-be attacker. Besides, walking slowly meant he made less noise, and that gave him a better chance of hearing someone approaching him. It didn’t take long to pass by the first intersection, although to Petrov it seemed like an unbearably slow process. Soon he was more than halfway to the hostel, and he started to think that maybe he was just imagining things, his nerves rattled by the stress he was under.
Suddenly, there was the sound of gravel crunching underfoot behind him and to his left. As he turned, there was a hard jab on his left rib cage; he heard the fabric of his overalls being ripped. The blow pushed him toward the building to his right; struggling to keep his footing, Petrov pivoted and tried to run, but his assailant grabbed his left shoulder and spun him about. The man’s face was hidden in the shadows, and he was totally silent. Petrov could barely hear him breathing. He struck again, this time landing a solid thrust to Petrov’s rib cage by his heart. The pain was intense and Petrov thought he heard a cracking sound, but the protective stab vest held and the blade was deflected.
Surprised, the assailant hesitated, momentarily confused that his victim hadn’t fallen to the ground. Petrov took advantage of the delay, raised the can of Mace and blasted the contents into the attacker’s eyes just a few inches away. The man only grunted in agony, but the shock caused him to lift his hands, allowing Petrov to break loose. Despite the pain, the attacker doggedly continued his assault. But with his eyesight impaired, and in the darkness, his attacks became undisciplined—wild, slashing wherever he thought his target might be. Petrov was able t
o dodge or deflect these less-precise thrusts, and after a particularly wide swing, he turned again to try and escape. Unfortunately, the man got hold of Petrov’s left arm and bodily yanked him closer. And even though Petrov was about the same size as his attacker, the latter was far stronger, and Petrov just couldn’t get away.
As he was spun around, Petrov tried to use momentum to his advantage, and threw a vicious right hook at the man’s face. The blow connected on his assailant’s jaw, but it seemed to have little effect. Once again, the man only grunted. But between the assailant’s forceful yank and Petrov’s swing, the Russian engineer’s left foot slipped out from underneath him. Both men were already badly off balance and fell, with Petrov slamming into the asphalt on his left side. The badly bruised areas of his rib cage screamed their displeasure as he bounced. The attacker, being above him at the start of the fall, flew over Petrov and hit the curb. Petrov heard a dull thwack, like a coconut hitting a hard surface, followed by a raspy gurgling sound.
Staggering to his feet, Petrov had no intention of seeing if his attacker was alive, and he took off down the street toward the hostel’s entrance. He slowed to a fast walk as he rounded the corner into the light and slowly pushed the lobby door open. The night manager was busy looking at his computer screen and hardly noticed a thing as Petrov walked to the stairwell. Once inside his room, Petrov locked and bolted the door. His heart was beating like a scared rabbit’s and he found himself struggling to breathe normally; his body shook uncontrollably.
Slowly, painfully, he took off his shredded overalls and the protective vest. There were deep gouges in two of the left panels, and he had two huge bruises on his left chest and side. Petrov then opened the refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of vodka. Sitting down on his bed, he took several deep swigs and tried to make sense of what had just happened. That someone wanted him dead was beyond doubt, but who? His assailant wasn’t an Indian; the man was white and large. Petrov suspected he was a Russian, or possibly Eastern European, but that didn’t answer the fundamental question of who wanted him dead. Could it have been the SVR agent, Ruchkin? He certainly would’ve been trained in hand-to-hand fighting. Petrov desperately tried to remember how big Ruchkin had been, and whether or not that vague memory matched the shadowy image of his attacker. Nothing made sense.
He fished his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Samant. The phone rang several times before a sleepy voice answered in Hindi, “Hello?”
“Girish, it’s me, Aleksey, I was just attacked near the Russian Hostel. I think it was the same man that tried yesterday.”
Petrov heard bedding being pulled rapidly aside. “Are you all right, Aleks?”
“I’ve got some ugly bruises, but otherwise in one piece. And thank you. The protective vest you gave me saved my life.” Petrov paused as he took another sip. “Girish, I think I may have killed a man tonight.”
“What!? How!?”
Petrov gave a quick summation of the attack, how well the vest worked, the Mace, and the lucky fall that allowed him to escape, and possibly killed his assailant. “… it sounded like his head hit something very hard, and then there was a nasty gurgling sound. I didn’t stay to see how badly he was hurt, or if he was even alive. I just ran for my life.”
“By the gods, you are a fortunate man!” said Samant, sounding shocked. “Where are you now?”
“I’m in my room at the Russian Hostel. Do you think I’m safe here?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore, Aleks, but it’s clear they know where to find you. And your attacker was able to get on the base.” Samant paused briefly as he considered their options. The situation was beginning to spiral out of control. Finally, he broke the silence and said, “I’m coming over now to pick you up. You should be safer here in my flat. Pack all the things you wore tonight into a bag, and don’t forget the Mace spray. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
3 April 2017
0830 Local Time
INS Circars, Eastern Naval Command Headquarters
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
An angry sigh hissed past Dhankhar’s lips as he paged through the security report. Two bodies had been found within the base’s perimeter earlier that morning. Both were white males, probably Russian, and both had serious knife wounds to the chest. One was found over by the graving dock, facedown in a shallow basin, the other by the Russian Hostel. Neither body had any identification, but the second one had nearly fifteen thousand rupees in his pocket. There were photos of the dead men’s faces attached to the back of the report. One man had a particularly horrid gash on his forehead. Shaking his head in frustration, he whispered a single word, “Kirichenko!”
The admiral grabbed his cell phone and punched up the Russian’s number, grumbling that the man had better answer this time. Remarkably, Dhankhar heard Kirichenko’s voice after the third ring. “Yes.”
“Mr. Kirichenko, this is Vice Admiral Dhankhar. Just what manner of mischief are you raising on my naval base?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Admiral, has there been some trouble?”
“Trouble?” Dhankhar asked incredulously. “I would call the discovery of two dead men, very likely Russian nationals, within the base perimeter trouble. Is this the work of your man, Churkin?”
“Quite possibly,” replied Kirichenko coolly. “Jascha told me yesterday that he had been following a Russian national that was poking his nose into places where he shouldn’t. Do you have any identifying information on these men? Photos perhaps?”
Dhankhar was amazed at how calm Kirichenko’s voice was; the news was nothing more than a trivial incident to him, a matter of course in his business marketing death. “Yes, there are photos of the two individuals. Stand by while I send them to you.”
The admiral pulled up the electronic copy of the report, deleted all the text and sent the photos to Kirichenko’s anonymous e-mail account. “There, you should have them shortly. According to the security report, both men probably died from a single knife wound to the chest.”
“Well, that certainly sounds like Churkin,” admitted Kirichenko. “He prefers using a blade over any type of firearm. Ah, there is the e-mail.”
There was a brief silence over the phone as Kirichenko looked over the photographs. After a few seconds, Dhankhar heard him take a deep breath, followed by a hushed, “Well, that represents an unfortunate complication.”
“What? What is it?”
“The second photo is Churkin,” replied Kirichenko flatly.
“Churkin? How is this possible? Wasn’t he a commando?”
“Yes, Spetsnaz, and quite skilled at hand-to-hand combat. He was convinced that Petrov was getting too close to our operation, asking too many questions. Jascha was planning on taking him out, making it look like a mugging.”
“Could this Petrov have defeated Churkin?”
“Ridiculous!” Kirichenko exclaimed. There was a hint of insult in his voice. “Captain Petrov was a submariner, not a special operations soldier. There is nothing that I know of in his past that even suggests he had anything but a rudimentary knowledge of self-defense. It’s far more likely Churkin misidentified someone he thought was Petrov who possessed the skills to kill him.”
“What about the other man?” questioned Dhankhar. “The photo doesn’t match Petrov’s security badge picture.”
“I don’t know who it is. But it would be prudent to run the photo through your database of Russian nationals working on Chakra’s refit.”
Dhankhar bristled at the obvious suggestion. “I’m sure the naval police are working on that as we speak. I’ll be sure to keep you apprised of their findings. What do we do about Petrov?”
Kirichenko sighed. “If you can find a way to arrest him, or even detain him, that would be helpful. Unfortunately, I can’t think of a good reason to justify his arrest without drawing unwanted attention to Churkin. He had access to the naval base under an alias that was approved by your office.”
“I can revoke Petrov’s access to the base. Claim he’s under investigation for fraud or some other petty crime.”
“Which would only have the effect of confirming some of his suspicions and pushing him to blather what he knows to the Russian embassy. No, he hasn’t said anything because he’s either unsure of what he knows, or he lacks enough proof to get anyone to listen to him. It would be better if you just overload his schedule with administrative meetings and reports—keep him busy. How soon before Chakra leaves the graving dock?”
“We are to float her out in two days,” responded Dhankhar.
“You may want to think about moving your deployment date up a bit,” Kirichenko suggested. “You may be running out of time.”
“I’ll consider your recommendation, but I find it hard to believe that you are all that concerned about my mission. I think you’re just worried about being paid, Mr. Kirichenko.”
“That too, Admiral. But it’s considered bad business practice to leave behind unhappy customers. I have a contract to keep, and you have my word that I shall fulfill all the requirements.”
“Very well, then. Besides moving up the departure date, what do you suggest we do now?”
“Keep on course, and see if Orlav can speed things up a bit. I was planning on coming out to the base tomorrow to check in on his work. But given these recent events, I’ll be there this afternoon.”
After hanging up, Dhankhar sat quietly contemplating his options—there weren’t many. While his scheme hadn’t been exposed, yet, the chances of this happening were growing, all because of a curious Russian. But his problems weren’t due to just a single Russian. No, this whole debacle was because Kirichenko and his people were sloppy. First, they lost control of a nuclear weapon that the fools in Pakistan accidentally set off, and now Kirichenko’s right-hand man, a Spetsnaz commando, lay dead in the base morgue.