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.
Orlav didn’t even know where the Indians were going to use the weapons, nor did he really care. For the sake of Chakra’s crew, he hoped the torpedoes had all been fired and the sub was well away from the area. A 150-kiloton subsurface detonation would shatter anything underwater for miles.
“Your boss says Churkin will be here in Vizag soon, to oversee security.”
Orlav shrugged. “What does he have to supervise? I live in this workshop now, and you’re the first person I’ve seen in two days. I don’t even get to say hello to Kulik anymore. He just gives my meals to the sentry,” he groused.
The admiral was used to Orlav’s complaining. Besides, it gave Dhankhar a chance to speak Russian again. “I think Churkin’s job will be to make sure you don’t have any visitors.” He added, “Does Churkin have any useful skills? Perhaps he could perform some of the basic mechanical tasks, while you do the finer work.”
The technician just shuddered and quickly refused, replying, “I can finish without his help. I’ll find ways to be more efficient.” After a moment’s pause, Orlav asked, “When will we be paid?”
Dhankhar was surprised. “I’m sure you know it’s when the work is finished.”
“Of course,” Orlav replied, “but I meant exactly when? Is that changed because of the new schedule?”
“Ah.” Dhankhar explained, “No, that hasn’t changed. When you are paid is for your boss to decide.”
“And he can’t pay me until you pay him, hence my question.”
The admiral stated formally, “When you report that the torpedoes are ready to be loaded, Kirichenko and I will inspect your work. If I am satisfied, I will order the funds transferred to his account in whatever one of those Caribbean islands he’s using. And you’ve got your own account, correct?”
“Yes,” Orlav answered, smiling. “And after that, the only question is whether I live in Bali or Miami. No more working on things that explode, no more ugly wife and her greedy in-laws, no more Moscow weather.”
Dhankhar patted Orlav on the shoulder, and said, “Back to it, then,” and turned to leave. The power drill’s screech followed him outside.
He didn’t like Orlav, or his boss. They were mercenaries, peddlers of death for personal profit. Dhankhar’s plan meant killing thousands, maybe tens of thousands of Chinese, but he’d settled matters within his own conscience months ago. Final victory over India’s longtime enemy, and security against both terrorist and nuclear attack from Pakistan, was a worthy goal. The Chinese had chosen to involve themselves, and now they would pay for their poor judgment.
4
REASONING
Joanna Patterson had gotten used to it. First President Myles, then Secretary of State Lloyd when he arrived a few minutes later, and now Secretary of Defense Geisler, newly arrived, listened to her report, shook his head, and said almost the same thing: “I was hoping for a different result. I suppose this has been verified?”
Glancing over toward Myles and Lloyd and smiling, she replied, “Twice.” Although she was the national security advisor, Patterson had been a scientist first, and was perfectly capable of explaining the report — defending it, actually. Politicians were often reluctant to abandon their opinions when confronted with unpalatable facts.
The other two had already heard her spiel, but it wouldn’t hurt for them to hear it again. Their fault, really, for not wanting to wait for the SECDEF in the first place. “The ground samples from the blast area still can’t tell us exactly which country made the bomb, but they can tell us about the method used to produce the fissionable material in the bomb. The Indians and Pakistanis produce plutonium using the same method, a heavy-water reactor; the plutonium from the Kashmir detonation came from a different type of reactor, a light-water-cooled, graphite-moderated one. Traces of the elements left from the explosion also show the bomb contained both uranium and plutonium. India has only used plutonium in their nuclear weapons, while the Pakistanis have historically gone down the highly enriched uranium route. They have yet to detonate a plutonium weapon.