Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel (8 page)

14 March 2017

0430 Local Time

USS
North Dakota

South China Sea

The ringing of his stateroom’s phone jolted Jerry to consciousness. He groped for the handset in the dark, finding it by the fourth ring. Pulling it to his face, he muttered, “Captain.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Skipper. But we just received a flash priority message for us to come to PD and establish a video link with Squadron Fifteen.”

“Squadron Fifteen?” he asked groggily. “What time is it?”

“Yes, sir. Commodore Simonis needs to speak to you personally. And it’s zero four thirty, sir,” replied Lieutenant Kiyoshi Iwahashi, the officer of the deck.

“Huh? Right. That was fast,” Jerry grunted while trying to focus on his watch.

“Sir?”

“Never mind, Kiyoshi. Has the XO been informed?”

“He’s next on my list, sir.”

“Very well. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Jerry placed the handset back in the cradle, turned on the light, and started to put on his blue poopy suit. He heard Thigpen’s phone ring, followed by a loud, but whiny, “Are you kidding me?!”

Once dressed, Jerry made his way to the control room. A very disheveled Thigpen followed close behind. As soon as they entered
North Dakota
’s command center, a petty officer brought Jerry a steaming cup of coffee. After thanking the young sailor, Jerry walked alongside the officer of the deck and said, “Report, Mr. Iwahashi.”

“Yes, sir. We are on course one seven zero, speed five knots, depth one five zero feet. We currently hold six sonar contacts, all are classified as merchants, and all have very low bearing rates. Combat system TMA indicates none are close; tracks are displayed on the port VLSD. I’ve completed a baffle-clearing maneuver with no additional contacts. ESM and radio are manned and ready. Request permission to come to periscope depth and establish a link with SUBRON Fifteen.”

As soon as Iwahashi had completed his status update, Jerry looked at the large flat-screen display hanging on the control room’s forward port side. None of the contacts were headed toward him. They had been tracked for some time and the sonar data said they were all distant. A quick glance at the command workstation confirmed the ship’s course, speed, and depth. With everything as it should be, he ordered, “Very well, OOD, bring the ship to periscope depth and establish a link with SUBRON Fifteen.”

“Bring the ship to periscope depth and establish a link with SUBRON Fifteen, aye, sir,” replied Iwahashi, repeating the order to ensure he heard and understood it correctly. Turning toward the ship control station, he commanded, “Pilot, make your depth six five feet. Copilot, raise number-one photonics mast.”

As the boat took on a slight up angle, Jerry nodded to Thigpen and motioned for them to head to radio. Once inside the small room, the XO leaned over and asked, “Any ideas why the commodore wants us to contact him?”

Jerry shrugged. “If I had to guess, it may have something to do with the Pakistani nuke.” He phrased his answer carefully; he didn’t like lying outright to his XO.

“Isn’t that a little outside of our theater’s area of responsibility?”

“True, but India is in our AOR,” Jerry replied frankly. “Anyway, I’m sure Captain Simonis will graciously answer all our questions.”

“That’ll be a first,” groaned Thigpen.

“Skipper, number one HDR mast has been raised, and I have a signal,” said the radio room watchstander. “The VTC handshake is nearly complete. I should have SUBRON Fifteen up momentarily.”

Jerry acknowledged the report and kept his eyes on the display. Seconds later, the test screen was replaced by the Squadron Fifteen conference room. In the foreground were Captain Charles Simonis, the squadron commander, and his chief staff officer, Captain Glenn Jacobs. There was a small group of tired-looking people behind them.

“Good morning, Captain,” greeted Simonis. “My apologies for the early call, but I have a situation that was dropped into my lap forty-five minutes ago that we need to discuss.”

Simonis’s voice had a definite edge to it. He was not a happy camper. Jerry kept his response casual. “Good morning to you too, sir. What can I do to help you?”

The commodore cut straight to the heart of the matter. “Captain, have you had direct contact with Dr. Patterson recently?”

“No, sir. Per your orders, I have not spoken to or e-mailed her without your permission.”

“I see. Then could you enlighten me as to why she asked the CNO to expedite getting you to San Diego?”

“San Diego?” Jerry asked carefully, trying hard to look confused. “Commodore, I don’t recall ever asking anyone to send me to San Diego. Did Dr. Patterson provide any explanation for her request?”

“No, Captain,” shot Simonis tersely. “Nor does the national security advisor to the president really need to, now does she?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

Simonis sighed deeply; the man was uncomfortable with any kind of Washington political intrigue. And while he greatly valued Jerry’s out-of-the-box thinking and tactical innovations, his close personal ties to the Office of the President of the United States was incredibly annoying. “All right, Captain. Terminate your patrol and return to Guam at best possible speed. I have to get you to San Diego in six days.”

14 March 2017

0900 Local Time

Director General Naval Projects, Ship Building Centre

Visakhapatnam, India

Desam was being irritatingly insistent. “Sir, this is a bad time to go to America.”

“What else can we do, Dr. Desam? You know American suppliers would be much more reliable than the Russians, and have better quality control. A trip to the U.S. was already part of our R-and-D schedule, and with our senior people gone we must do what we can to keep things moving!”

“I don’t know if they’ll be a reliable source after next week, Captain. Did you see what the American Congress wants to do?” Samant’s second-in-charge on the Advanced Submarine Project was a civilian, an academic, which meant Dr. Vishal Desam didn’t necessarily accept his boss’s declarations as the last word to be spoken.

“You watch too much television, Vishal. The American people think we used a nuclear weapon in Kashmir, and their politicians are just pandering to that mood. But more importantly, the current administration has been unusually silent, which means they’re still unsure. I already have an approved visa, and we have the travel funds. There is no reason not to make this trip.” Samant paused for a moment, marshaling his patience. “We’ve discussed this long enough. I’m going.”

Desam had been working on the project for over ten years, and Samant valued the corporate knowledge his deputy possessed, but he just didn’t seem to grasp Samant’s authoritarian leadership style.

“But it’s not too late to change your mind, sir. We should at least get some more information…”

“That’s
why
I’m going over there, to get information!” Samant barked sharply. “It shouldn’t take a week to prepare for two meetings with potential vendors in America. This is why…”

“… it takes us thirty years to build a submarine.” Desam completed the sentence.

Samant’s vexation was replaced by amusement, and he smiled. “Just keep what’s left of our team focused, and away from the television. I’ll be back in about a week.”

Defeated, Desam left, and Samant went back to work. The trip to America actually did involve meeting with representatives of two companies that might be useful to his project, and he had to prepare for them, as well as specific guidance for his people before he left the project in Desam’s care for a few days.

Both meetings were in the western United States, in the state of California. Sandwiched between them, he’d see Jerry Mitchell. There was something very wrong and ominous going on, and now the only one he believed he could trust was an American he’d once tried to kill. But Petrov had spoken highly of Mitchell, and reassured Samant that he wouldn’t hold a grudge. A strange combination of dread and anticipation arose at the thought of meeting the American submarine captain face-to-face.

Samant’s discussion with Petrov had convinced him the trip to America was the best course of action, and once he’d made that kind of decision, he never looked back. But he did find himself constantly looking over his shoulder.

Whatever Dhankhar was planning to do, he’d decided to exclude Samant, but keep him close by. Was that so the admiral could keep an eye on him? Was Desam, his own deputy, making reports to Dhankhar? Someone else in his office? Anyone at all? Once the seeds of suspicion were planted in his mind, they flourished, and their fruit was not clarity, but confusion.

He reviewed his conversation with Desam, looking for possible slipups, or things the engineer had said that hinted that he knew more than he was saying. Samant knew nothing of spycraft, but suddenly it seemed that he couldn’t trust anyone.

It was because of Vice Admiral Dhankhar. Before this, Dhankhar had been the one man in the Indian Navy Samant would have trusted implicitly. The admiral was as famous and respected as an officer could properly be.

Samant had served with him before, as a junior officer when Dhankhar was captain of the submarine
Kalvari
, a rattletrap Russian Foxtrot boat that they’d had to keep running with little more than their wits. The submarine had been turned into refrigerators and razor blades long ago, but the memories were fresh, of a dedicated officer and a fine commander. His peers on other boats had envied Samant’s posting.

If Dhankhar had turned, then everyone was suspect, and obviously other people had to be involved.

And Vice Admiral Dhankhar was involved in something very wrong, a plan that involved
Chakra
and quite possibly rogue nuclear weapons, and it was secret from most of the navy. Samant fervently hoped that he was wrong, that he’d completely misjudged the situation, but the odds seemed against that.

He had to plan ahead, to find ways to cover for the time he’d spend with Jerry Mitchell. There must be no paper trail, no gaps in his schedule. He couldn’t let them know he suspected anything.

14 March 2017

1000 Local Time

Torpedo Shop 2

Naval Shipyard

Visakhapatnam, India

Vice Admiral Dhankhar returned the sentry’s salute, then showed the corporal both his base pass and his navy ID card. There’d been a lot of grumbling about the new security measures, but Dhankhar had found that overreaction to the Kashmir incident was a good cover for the increased protection he had added to a few special locations.

Like this torpedo repair facility, for instance. Instead of “Torpedo Shop 2,” the building’s sign could read “Nuclear Weapons Magazine.” A sentry at the door, blissfully unaware of what he was guarding, seemed appropriate after the arrival of the Russian warheads.

Dhankhar punched in the five-digit code and entered the windowless building. Most of the interior was open, and brightly lit. There were a few offices at one end of the long work hall. The walls were lined with workbenches and machine tools, while the rail for an overhead crane ran the length of the work floor.

The admiral’s gaze immediately went to the warheads, in five somewhat battered-looking wooden crates, placed neatly against one wall, each a meter square by two meters long. He’d been present when they arrived, and had assisted Orlav as the technician checked each one. They hadn’t installed the initiators yet. That would not be done until each physics package, the actual nuclear device, was removed from its reentry vehicle and installed in a torpedo.

A sound of metal screeching showed Orlav’s location, bent over a torpedo’s warhead housing on a workbench. The technical challenges involved in adapting the device to a torpedo were relatively simple. Once removed from the reentry vehicle, the physics package was smaller and weighed less than the torpedo’s explosive warhead it replaced. In fact, they’d have to add some ballast to make sure the torpedo’s center of gravity didn’t change.

Instead of the sophisticated fusing of the original weapon, designed to arm it once it was in flight toward a NATO target, the torpedo would have a simple timer. The crew would have no control over the time of detonation. Of course, the new device would have its own safety protocols and redundancies, but Dhankhar’s plan envisioned all the weapons detonating at the same time, so a simple timer was the best option.

Orlav had already designed the new timers, and built six—that was before they’d heard about the theft of one of the bombs. That work had gone quickly, compared with what he was doing now.

Captain Third Rank Evgeni Orlav was a nuclear weapons specialist, or had been before his discharge from the Russian Navy as it downsized. He’d worked on reentry vehicles much like these many times on the warhead bus of submarine launched ballistic missiles. He understood the physics package as well as anyone who didn’t have to actually design them.

But he was “not a metalworker,” as he complained regularly to Dhankhar. He’d lost a lot of time learning how to fabricate the “mount,” the framework that would hold each package inside the torpedo. The admiral had insisted that Orlav do the work himself. He would not bring in another individual to help, or even send pieces of the work to someone outside the shop. Too many questions would be asked.

Orlav had been making slow progress before, but with the schedule change, slow progress would not be enough. Longer hours were the only solution.

Dhankhar noticed a sleeping bag in one corner, as well as the remains of several takeout meals. He doubted that the Russian had left the building since their conversation two days ago.

It was several minutes before Orlav paused and looked up from his work. He was startled by the admiral’s appearance, but not enough to drop the power tool. Removing his goggles, Orlav said, “It’s too soon to give you another progress report, but there aren’t any new problems.”

Dhankhar nodded. “That’s fine. I have the timer data for you.”

“Oh. All right.” The time the weapons would detonate would be hard-wired into the timers, and then the weapons would be sealed. On the outside, they would look like standard Russian-made UGST-M torpedoes that were used by
Chakra
. Orlav’s one lucky break had been that the manuals for the torpedoes were in Russian.