Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel (25 page)

She offered him a chair, sat down next to him, and pulled over her laptop so it sat between them. She led off, “There are fifty-seven photos in all, taken on board the Indian submarine
Chakra
, in the naval base’s main torpedo depot, and in the building where the torpedoes are being converted.”

It took longer than she’d like, almost twenty-five minutes. After the first fifteen minutes, he caught her glancing at the clock, and said, “I had Evangeline clear my schedule this evening.”

She frowned. “Won’t that attract some attention?”

“It may,” he admitted, looking around the room, “but I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to keep this under wraps. Are all these people now briefed into the compartment?”

Making a face, she answered, “Briefed, yes. We’re still catching up on the paperwork.”

“Good enough,” responded Myles. “Please continue.”

Patterson picked up where she had left off and highlighted the critical points in each photograph that supported Samant and Petrov’s theory. As she worked her way down to the last six pictures, she paused. “The last photos are the most disturbing, Mr. President, and are the key to Vice Admiral Dhankhar’s plot.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Yes, sir, that bad,” replied Patterson as she clicked to the next picture. Myles gazed at the image; within seconds the expression on his face transformed from curiosity to depression. He let out a long despairing sigh.

“He’s out of his mind!” Myles whispered. “Does he truly believe he can get away with nuking China?”

“If he could have kept it completely under wraps, how would the Chinese know who to blame? The forensic analysis would have shown them to be nuclear weapons from Russia or us, and given the Kashmiri explosion, everything would point to Russia. Would China attack Russia in response based on such scant evidence? Highly unlikely given the fact that Russia’s own retaliatory strike would obliterate China.

“No, sir, it is a very nicely packaged conspiracy. Nothing would explicitly point to India.”

“What are we talking about here as far as damage potential is concerned?”

“A detailed assessment is being worked on, but basically everything within four or five miles of ground zero will likely be leveled. The damage radius will be even greater, and given this is essentially a ground burst, the radioactive fallout could cover thousands of square miles.”

Myles sat stunned. “So what you’re saying is five of China’s busiest export ports would be eliminated, a very large chunk of her shipping capacity destroyed, along with considerable collateral damage. This would almost certainly cause her economy to collapse—the political upheaval would constitute a dire threat to the Communist Party’s hold on power.”

“Yes, Mr. President, that appears to be Dhankhar’s goal.”

President Myles stood, and then began pacing, rubbing his face with his hands. Finally, he took a deep breath, turned back toward Patterson, and asked, “So, where do we stand?”

“In addition to the damage assessment, I have the Navy working on possible avenues of approach to the targets, how fast
Chakra
could go without being easily detected. We also need to try and whittle down the target set. They only have five weapons; there are ten targets on the list. And finally—” She pointed over to another corner. “—Anne Shields from communications is already working on several draft responses for you: What if we catch them in time, what if we catch them but it’s not in time…”

Myles nodded. “So you’ve covered all the bases. What are your recommendations? I’ll understand if they’re a little on the rough side.”

“We have to get Petrov and Samant out of there. And we have to tell the Indians. Right away. Now. We know where the weapons are, and they need to go get them. Gloves off. Surround the base, send in troops. Arrest Dhankhar and Orlav, and this Kirichenko fellow if we can find him, and start squeezing them for answers.”

“Very reasonable,” he agreed. “I’ll phone Andy Lloyd after we’re done here.”

“Sir, I’m glad you’re willing to move so quickly on this, but there’s a lot of analysis…”

“And you’ve got everyone started nicely. Let them do their jobs. Your task now is to convince the Indians, just like you convinced the Russians, that there are bootleg nukes on one of their naval bases, that there’s a nuclear conspiracy in the highest levels of their military, and that if
Chakra
sails with those weapons aboard, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

4 April 2017

1330 Local Time

Hotel Novotel

Visakhapatnam, India

This time they were meeting on ground of Dhankhar’s choosing. Already on the defensive over Churkin’s death, the Russian had agreed without argument to the admiral’s peremptory summons. Besides, with Churkin gone, Kirichenko had no one to canvass the meeting place before he arrived or watch for eavesdroppers. If Dhankhar thought it was safe, that would have to do. If Dhankhar had set a trap for him, there was little he could do to avoid it.

The admiral waited in the lobby, reading the morning’s copy of the
Hindu
, which in spite of its name was published in English. He was tempted to order a gin and tonic, but settled for tea.

Kirichenko was on time, thankfully. Dhankhar didn’t want to waste a lot of time on this.
Chakra
’s mission was actually supposed to trigger a chain of events, and as her sailing date neared, he needed to prepare for those actions. He refused to consider the idea that the plan they had all worked and risked so much for might never happen.

As the Russian approached, the admiral motioned toward the elevator. Dhankhar selected the top floor and the Infinity restaurant. He remained silent as the elevator ascended. When the doors opened, Kirichenko immediately felt better about the venue. The restaurant was a glass-enclosed space on top of the hotel that offered a phenomenal view of the Bay of Bengal. There were many tables open, as the lunch rush had just ended, and Dhankhar chose one close to the glass wall and well away from the remaining diners.

After Kirichenko sat, Dhankhar said simply, “The torpedo shop was broken into last night.”

“Wh—” Kirichenko managed to suppress his initial outburst, but the alarm and surprise showed on his face.

“Two men. They Maced the sentry and tied him up, then rummaged through the place. They sabotaged all the power tools as well. Orlav’s spending precious hours this morning scrounging replacements from all over the shipyard.”

Kirichenko listened uncomprehendingly, still digesting the news. Dhankhar could almost see the wheels turning as the information sank in. “If they saw what was in there…”

“Which they most certainly did, and quite likely photographed everything! Thank heaven the devices were in the secure storage vault. It was probably Petrov, with an Indian accomplice according to the guard; the man was in an Indian naval uniform—a captain. They probably tried to get into the vault, but evidently didn’t have the code. They
did
have the code for the door to the shop itself. They are resourceful,” he admitted.

Kirichenko said unbelievingly, “Discovery…”

“Discovery is the disaster we have all feared, and their actions were no doubt precipitated by your subordinate. As a security operative, Churkin was less than effective. In fact, our security became decidedly worse since his arrival. Did you know the other body found in the basin was the SVR agent, Ruchkin? I’ve been able to suppress the release of this information on the grounds that we can’t alert the criminal. But I can’t keep this hidden for very long, perhaps a week. I’ve also called in some favors from sympathetic friends. I have CBI looking for Petrov and his associate on presumed charges, but if they are as clever as they seem, it’s probably too late.” Dhankhar’s scowl deepened.

He gestured toward the newspaper and turned it so Kirichenko could see the front page. “In fact, I was just checking the front page of the
Hindu
for any articles about us. It would be quite the scoop!” His anger, so carefully controlled, finally surfaced, and he whipped the newspaper at the Russian, aiming for his face.

Kirichenko easily blocked the attack, but not the fury behind it. Dhankhar’s tirade had given him time to process the news and understand their very grave situation. His first fear wasn’t arrest or incarceration. There were few ties between him and the Indian conspiracy, and he was always ready for a quick escape.

But he couldn’t abandon the project. Without Dhankhar’s payment, he was out of business. His small network of informants and helpers depended on steady payments, or it would evaporate—or, worse, turn against him. He’d hoped to keep Churkin’s share of the money and put it to good use, but then he’d had to use half of it to keep that idiot Orlav in line. He’d done so much already, and was ready to do anything to get paid. He’d take care of Petrov and his accomplice himself.

Kirichenko asked, “Where are they now?”

“Out of sight, and well beyond your capabilities,” Dhankhar answered. “Don’t even think of attacking them again,” he warned sternly. “All you’ve done is trip over your own feet.”

“We have to do something!” Kirichenko countered. He spoke softly, but Dhankhar heard fear mixed with his intensity.

“What you are going to do is assist Orlav. This latest catastrophe has slowed him down, and put us all on borrowed time. I don’t care whether it’s wiring circuits or making coffee, get in that shop and do whatever you need to help him finish. I’ve spent most of the morning speaking to Mitra and others at the shipyard. They’ll have
Chakra
ready to sail at ten hundred hours on the seventh. I will come to the shop at zero seven hundred hours. I’ll expect to see five completed torpedoes, ready for loading. And no more prorating. Unless I see five, you won’t get a single kopek. That’s the only language you seem to understand—money.”

Dhankhar sat back in his chair. Kirichenko was silent for a moment, but when he began to speak, the admiral cut him off sharply. “We are finished. Get out.”

Retrieving the newspaper, he barely noticed when Kirichenko left.

11

ALARM RAISED

4 April 2017

1400 Local Time

En Route to U.S. Consulate General

Hyderabad, India

Petrov kept gazing out the window as the SUV slowly arced off of National Highway 9. The traffic had been unexpectedly heavy since early morning and their progress had been agonizingly slow; they were already two hours late. Now the traffic was getting even more congested and the frustrated driver decided to take an alternate route to the consulate. Stiff and achy, the Russian shifted his body gently, trying to find a more comfortable position. His bruised left side was not pleased with being strapped in a car for twelve hours and it was protesting. As he leaned against the doorjamb, his eyes caught sight of a huge medieval-looking building. It seemed out of place; its size and ancient European architecture was in stark contrast to the modern buildings that surrounded it.

“That’s Amrutha Castle,” Samant volunteered quietly. “It’s a hotel, and a reasonable one at that. The regular rooms are a little on the small side, but that shouldn’t bother an old submariner like you.” A thin fatigued smile was on his face.

“Well, it certainly looks impressive,” said Petrov. A sudden yawn interrupted his next words. Yielding to it, he stretched himself carefully before asking, “Did you have a good nap?”

Samant shook his head, extending his back as much as he could with his seat belt on. “Not really. I dozed in and out over the last six hours or so. This isn’t the most comfortable of vehicles to sleep in, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the chaos our visit will cause. Dhankhar must surely know who broke into the torpedo shop by now. He’ll be livid, of course, but he will also be afraid. That makes him even more dangerous.”

“We took the best shot with what we had, Girish,” Petrov replied firmly. “And it was as good as we could have hoped for. I think you’re just impatient at having to wait so long to see the results of our shot. Torpedoes are a lot quicker at telling you if they hit or missed their target.”

Samant grinned. “I suppose you are right. But disengaging as we did also means we are out of contact with our target, and that concerns me.”

“Gentlemen, pardon the interruption,” interjected McFadden, “but we are almost there. The consulate is just on the other side of Hussain Sagar Lake, and we should arrive in about ten minutes.”

Without thinking, Petrov turned his head a little too quickly, and a jolt of pain shot up his left side. “That’s good to hear, Mr. McFadden,” he gasped. “I think I’ve had just about enough of this.”

McFadden nodded. “Understood, sir. We’ll have a doctor take a look at your injuries as soon as we can. The Consul General, Mr. Erik Olson, would like to meet with you first and fill you in on the president’s intentions.”

“Has Dr. Patterson said anything more about the photos we sent her?” asked Samant.

“No, Captain. The last message I received from her said they had successfully downloaded all the files. The pictures were clear, the content excellent, and that they’d be working all night putting together the case to present to the Indian government. That was…” McFadden glanced at his smartphone, noting the time of Patterson’s e-mail. “… six o’clock our time this morning.”

“That’s eight hours ago!” grumbled Samant. “I would certainly hope more has been done since then!”

“I’m confident of that, sir, but Dr. Patterson gave explicit orders that there would be no further discussions on this issue until you and Captain Petrov were safely within the consulate. That’s why we are meeting with the consul general as soon as we arrive.”

Samant grunted his understanding and leaned back into his seat. Edgy with impatience, he struggled to keep his mind occupied for the last few minutes and looked out onto the man-made lake. As soon as he did, he found himself staring directly at the eighteen-meter sculpture of Gautama Buddha atop a small island just offshore. The serene face of the “enlightened one” had a calming effect on Samant, and although he was not particularly religious, he took it as a good omen. Silently, he offered up a short prayer for a favorable outcome to the “whole bloody mess.”