Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel (21 page)

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.

“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.