Fatal Thunder

by Larry Bond

  Every misstep caused more eyes to look his way, and yet Operation Vajra depended on absolute stealth. Dhankhar finally admitted to himself that he needed outside assistance if he was to successfully contain this latest disaster. He also had to find a way to rein in this Petrov, who appeared to suspect what was going on. Perhaps Churkin was correct. Petrov was getting too close and in the name of stealth, he had to disappear, one way or another.

  Dhankhar grabbed his cell phone again and looked up the number to the Vajra contact at the Central Bureau of Investigation. He hit the call button and waited impatiently while the phone rang.

  “Deputy Director Thapar,” answered the voice.

  “Ijay, Badu Dhankhar, I have a serious situation at Vizag and I need your assistance.”

  3 April 2017

  1100 Local Time

  Torpedo Shop 2

  Naval Shipyard

  Visakhapatnam, India

  * * *

  Dhankhar marched past the sentry, slowing just enough to return the guard’s salute. After punching in the five-digit access code, the admiral yanked on the door and went inside. It was dark in the workshop, but he could see Orlav working under bright lights at the far end. As Dhankhar approached, it was clear that Orlav hadn’t left the building since that first night after he’d been restricted to the base. The man was disheveled and looked like he hadn’t showered in a few days. Orlav saw the Indian admiral enter and didn’t even bother to wait for his routine question.

  “I’m just about finished with this weapon, Admiral. I have a few things left to install, then I can program the date and that’ll be it. I still have those two weapons to modify, but I don’t see any problems having all five torpedoes ready by April tenth.”

  “Very good, Mr. Orlav. I’m pleased to hear your task is progressing well.”

  Orlav smiled slightly, then looked down into the torpedo’s innards, away from Dhankhar’s gaze. “Sir, I would really like to get a good night’s sleep in my own bed, and a shower. It’s getting tiresome being cooped up here in the workshop every day. And I still need to do the final control console installation on board Chakra.”

  “I understand your discomfort, Mr. Orlav. But your safety is of greater importance to me. Churkin is dead,” announced Dhankhar bluntly.

  Stunned, Orlav dropped the screwdriver he was holding and staggered away from the torpedo. “D … dead!? How!?”

  “He was stabbed. His body was found this morning over by the Russian Hostel. We have no idea who killed him, so I think it’s best that you stay here for the time being. However, I’m concerned about the combat system consoles. How much time do you need to finish the installation?”

  Orlav was still wide-eyed, his face radiating fear; it took him a couple of seconds to respond. “I … I need about two, maybe three hours to install the keypads and then conduct circuit checks in the torpedo compartment.”

  Dhankhar nodded. “Very well, I’ll have a guard escort you to Chakra during the night shift so you can complete your work; there are fewer people on board during that shift. Then afterwards, perhaps we can swing by your bungalow long enough for you to take a shower.”

  “Thank you, sir,” quavered Orlav.

  “You are almost done, Mr. Orlav. In another week, you’ll be somewhere in South America or the Caribbean enjoying the fruits of your labors.” Dhankhar smiled and patted Orlav on the shoulder. “It’s just a little longer. By the way, Kirichenko will be paying you a visit later. Good day, Mr. Orlav.”

  Dhankhar didn’t even wait for Orlav’s reply and walked quickly to the door. After making sure the lock had engaged, the admiral turned to the sentry, pulled a photograph from his pocket, and handed it to the petty officer. “From this point forward, only myself and Kirichenko may enter this workshop. No one else is allowed access, is that clear?”

  “Absolutely, Admiral,” replied the sailor.

  “Very good. Oh, if anyone is particularly obstinate and refuses to comply with your warnings, shoot them.”

  * * *

  Orlav sat dazed and sweating in a near panic. Churkin had been killed. He couldn’t imagine anyone beating the former Spetsnaz commando in a fight—he’d seen him in more than a few barroom brawls. The man could be totally vicious. The Russian engineer struggled with the news of his colleague’s death. It wasn’t that Orlav liked Churkin; on the contrary, he hated the man. But he also feared him. Churkin was a thug—pure muscle, incapable of doing anything but providing security or convincing someone to pay their bills. Kirichenko had found him useful, but that didn’t matter anymore because Churkin was dead.

  Shuffling back to the weapon, Orlav tried to get back to work, but his mind just wasn’t on the job. He made slow progress, mumbling to himself over and over again that he couldn’t believe Churkin was dead. Then, as he was installing one of the last cover plates, a stray thought wandered into his mind: If someone had killed Churkin, then that could only mean they were on to them—and that he could be next! Horror filled Orlav as he realized that the only thing standing between him and a trained assassin was the young guard out front.

  In total dismay, Orlav threw the ratchet set on the floor and ran over to his makeshift bed. He grabbed the overnight bag he’d brought and started stuffing his personal gear into it; he’d leave nothing behind that could be linked to him. Then he remembered that he’d touched all the tools. Frantically, he finished stuffing the bag and was just about to begin wiping off the tools when a stern voice shot out of the darkness.

  “And just where do you think you’re going?”

  Orlav stood, shaking, as Kirichenko came into the light. “Yur … Yuri, we need to get out of here! It’s no longer safe!”

  “And you think that by running away this will make the situation better? Really, Evgeni, you need to calm down and start thinking this insane course of action through.”

  “Insane! Yuri! Someone killed Churkin! Who but another assassin could have done that!” screamed Orlav.

  “Possibly, but do you honestly believe you’ll be safer running away from this base? Where would you go? And by doing so, you’d not only have this unknown assassin, but also Dhankhar looking for you with very evil intentions. No, my friend, your chances of survival would be essentially zero. Now, put the bag down and finish your work.”

  “Yuri, it isn’t worth it. They aren’t paying us enough to do this work, under these conditions,” whimpered Orlav. The man was about to break.

  “You need to take a longer view, Evgeni. We have many more weapons to sell, and we have several good leads. However, if it will make you feel better, I won’t offer your services as a modification specialist. The buyer takes receipt of the weapons as they are, no repackaging.

  “Oh, and as far as payment is concerned, you’re forgetting that Churkin’s failure means he won’t be collecting his portion. I’m sure a fifty percent increase going into your pockets will compensate you for these extraordinary circumstances.”

  Orlav’s eyes widened. He hadn’t even thought about that. The allure of that extra cash was just too enticing. He dropped the bag and headed back to the workbench.

  10

  LAWBREAKERS

  4 April 2017

  0100 Local Time

  Naval Shipyard

  Visakhapatnam, India

  * * *

  It had rained earlier, and Petrov had hoped it would give them some cover, but it stopped at half past midnight, leaving air that seemed even more humid and sticky than before. He fought the urge to creep or slip from shadow to shadow, and also the feeling that they were being foolish.

  Samant had it right, Petrov decided. Choose your path and don’t look back. The Indian was slightly in the lead as the two walked toward the torpedo shop where Orlav had been working. Petrov was following Samant’s lead mentally as well as physically. They needed hard information, and this was the only place to get it.

  Petrov had called in sick that day, complaining of severe cramps and a long night that had left him fee
ling “cleaned out and miserable.” The Indian clerk that took the call joked that he might have eaten something a little too hot for his weak Russian stomach. Petrov remarked that it had less to do with too much spice and more about questionable sanitation. Either way, he wouldn’t be in till later in the day, if at all. He did, however, leave specific instructions for the duty foreman to phone him if Orlav showed up on Chakra. He got the call a little after midnight.

  The sentry, a corporal, had been relieved an hour earlier, and was still wide awake. If he was surprised at seeing a senior naval officer in the yard at that hour, he hid it well. But Circars was a busy place, and work never stopped, especially now.

  As Samant approached, the corporal said formally, “Good evening, sir. State your business.” He’d moved his rifle from slung to port arms, certainly not pointing at anyone, but ready for use. He never got the chance. As the soldier finished his challenge, Samant quickly brought up the can of Mace and sprayed him full in the face.

  The corporal had been exercising proper trigger discipline, and Samant’s other hand grabbed his forefinger, and pulled his hand away from the trigger and, incidentally, the grip stock. Petrov, stepping up from behind Samant, grabbed the barrel near the muzzle and twisted the weapon out of the sentry’s grasp.

  Choking, eyes burning with pain, the soldier could barely breathe, much less resist the two. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen to the ground if Samant had not pushed him back against the wall.

  As Samant supported the soldier’s limp form, Petrov slung the rifle and pulled out a large plastic cable tie and bound the guard’s hands. A short strip of duct tape would keep him quiet. With the soldier secured, Samant pulled out his smartphone and pulled up his photo library.

  “This is why those obnoxious security officers keep nagging us not to write down passwords,” he whispered softly in Russian, a cynical smile on his face. “Someone might see them and copy them.” He then quickly punched in the five-digit code for Building 2 with his gloved hands. It didn’t work the first time, and the lock’s display flashed twice. Forcing himself to slow down, Samant pressed the sequence again, and they both heard a satisfying, but surprisingly loud, “clack” as the door unlocked and opened.

  Samant and Petrov dragged the limply struggling soldier inside, and Petrov dashed back around the corner to retrieve the bag with their gear.

  As the heavy door closed behind them, Petrov found and hit the light switch. In bright illumination, their world expanded from a few nearby shadows to a large workshop. He could see benches, tools, and the bodies of disassembled torpedoes, but he fought the urge to investigate. Their first order of business was their prisoner.

  Neither of them had said much since approaching the sentry, and Samant now reminded Petrov with one word: “Chair.” He spoke in Russian. They’d agreed to use Russian as much as possible, in the hope that the soldier didn’t speak the language.

  Samant quickly bound the guard’s feet with another cable tie, while Petrov brought over a battered metal chair. Together they hoisted the corporal onto it in a sitting position. A few bungee cords and some more duct tape held him upright, as well as in the chair, and Petrov looped a couple of the bungee cords from the chair to a nearby pipe.

  Petrov, also wearing gloves, pulled the man’s head back and, still speaking Russian, said, “Hold still, I’m going to wash your face off.” This was a test to see if the sentry understood Russian. He showed no reaction, coughing and shaking his head as if trying to clear his eyes.

  Samant pulled out a water bottle, rinsed the sentry’s face and eyes, still tightly shut. He pulled the tape back carefully and then held the bottle to the guard’s mouth. Samant ordered, “Rinse your mouth and spit,” in Hindi. He let the soldier take a pull from the bottle, then quickly stepped to one side as the corporal spat it out toward Samant’s earlier position.

  “You will be better soon,” he said, again in Hindi, and added as he replaced the tape, “Your eyesight will also return.” As a final touch, Petrov pulled a cloth bag out of the duffel, and placed it over the soldier’s head.

  With their victim secured and safe, Petrov joined Samant as the two stood and surveyed the interior of the building. Samant had been inside this workshop many times before, and was familiar with its layout. Petrov had seen similar spaces in Russia, and the UGST-M torpedoes made it feel almost like home.

  “I see only two torpedoes,” Petrov observed in Russian.

  “No surprises there, the modifications are probably done on the others and they’re locked up somewhere,” Samant replied. “I’ll start with the workbench.”

  “And I’ll take a closer look at the torpedoes.”

  The two UGST-M torpedoes sat disassembled in their dollies. They were massive machines, over twenty-three feet long and weighing over two tons. Moving at fifty knots, they’d do considerable damage to a vessel without the warhead, but the 650 pounds of high explosive they carried would cripple all but the largest vessels.

  The warhead wasn’t in the nose, though. That first two feet of the torpedo was separated from the rest of the weapon and was reserved for the sonar homing system in the flattened nose, and the weapon’s computer. The acoustic seeker could listen passively for the right combination of sounds, or send out active pings to search for a contact. The computer was programmed to dig out the tiniest of echoes from a noisy environment littered with countermeasures and decoys. It was smart enough that the torpedo could be described as a killer robot with fins.

  The warhead section was missing on the two torpedoes. An empty space almost five feet long showed where the warhead module had been removed. The monofuel propellant tanks, power supply, and propulsion system were all joined together in the larger section that was behind the empty space. Petrov quickly found the nameplate data on the two torpedoes and took photographs with a digital camera. The serial numbers matched two of the weapons that Samant had obtained from the base’s torpedo shop.

  Petrov then spotted five wooden packing crates lined up along one wall, painted dull gray with large white warnings stenciled in Cyrillic—“Corrosive.” The crates were empty but the wooden supports inside suggested a single large object that was conical in shape. He took several more photos of the crate’s interior and exterior before returning to the torpedoes themselves.

  The two torpedo warhead sections sat on the workbench. One of the sections was still empty, but the other had been fitted with a metal framework, bright with machining or scorched black from welding. It was crude work, and Petrov saw Samant examining similar components on a large workbench against the wall. The Indian picked up a half-finished framework and walked over to Petrov.

  Silently, the Russian pointed into the torpedo, and Samant held it in the cavity, nodding. “This is how they will mount the device,” he said softly. Petrov had his camera out, and took photos of the warhead sections, and especially the metal framework.

  Petrov didn’t have a clue as to what the guts of a nuclear warhead would look like, but he didn’t see anything that was the right size and shape to fit in the modified torpedo warhead section. They’d accomplished much in the first five minutes, but now they spent another fifteen quickly checking every part of the work area. They even searched the corner that Orlav had used as a living area, not that he’d hide a nuclear bomb under his cot.

  Finally, Samant pointed to the overhead crane. One spur of the rail ran from where the crates had been opened. Pointing silently, Samant then traced the rails straight to a very solid-looking door ten feet high and eight feet wide. “Storage for the completed torpedoes?” Petrov asked. Samant nodded. If the nukes were anywhere, they were in there.

  Just on the remote chance it might work, Samant tried the same code that had opened the door to the shop, without success, then reversed it, tried adding and subtracting one, while Petrov took more photos and looked at his watch.

  During the afternoon, they’d planned their break-in meticulously, as only a pair of submariners could. They�
��d both agreed that if they couldn’t get what they needed in half an hour, they wouldn’t get it at all. According to Petrov’s watch, they had about five minutes left. He tapped Samant on the shoulder and shook his head. The Indian shrugged and sighed, then headed back over to the workbench, rummaging for more clues.

  Petrov took the other end, looking through a litter of tools, metal parts, and electronic components. Notes and sheets of paper were tacked up here and there, and he carefully arranged and photographed each one. A folder, half buried under a stack of electronics boxes, attracted his attention. Opening it, he immediately recognized a drawing of the junction box in Chakra’s torpedo room. “This is important. Help me with these.”

  Samant came over and angled a work light to point at the folder, then pulled each sheet of paper out of the way when Petrov said he was ready. They were running late, if his watch was right.

  “Done,” Petrov announced softly. He had just started to put the camera away when he noted a separate piece of folded-up paper tucked underneath the schematics. Petrov removed the crinkled paper and slowly opened it. Flattening it out and turning it around, the men leaned over to look at its contents—and no sooner had they begun reading than both drew a sharp breath. The paper held a list: Hong Kong, Shanghai, Dalian, Qingdao, and half a dozen more. All of them were Chinese ports, but this was a collection of the top ten busiest ports, the heart of China’s export economy.

  Samant shook his head in awe. “The man is insane!” he whispered. “He’s not planning on attacking Pakistan, he’s going after China!”

  Petrov stood overwhelmed as well, his mouth hanging open. He hadn’t had a clue that Dhankhar was planning anything so bold. The implications were staggering.

  Samant waved his hands frantically at the paper. “Take a picture! Take a picture!” he exclaimed in a hushed voice. Petrov took a dozen, just to be safe. He then looked at his watch and saw that they had long overstayed their welcome. He pointed repeatedly at his wrist; Samant nodded and began refolding the paper and carefully putting it exactly where they’d found it.