She’d come up with the idea of using a U.S. nuclear submarine to survey the waters there for leaks from nuclear waste dumped there by the Soviets. The problem had already been reported, but only partially. With the endurance and resources of a nuclear sub, they could thoroughly document the problem, and present the Russians with hard evidence that would compel them to clean up their mess. It would be both an environmental and a political win.
The newly elected President Huber had signed off on the idea, and given her the submarine Memphis for the work. She’d learned a lot, both about submariners and herself. Lowell had been captain of Memphis, she remembered fondly.
But they’d found far more than just radioactive waste. A barge deliberately scuttled off the east coast of Novaya Zemlya had contained dozens of nuclear warheads, reentry vehicles for Russian missiles that should not have existed, weapons hid in secret, in violation of the nuclear disarmament treaties, and then presumably dumped after the fall of the Soviet regime.
She and the others aboard Memphis had spent hours trying to puzzle out the motives of the ones who had loaded and sunk the barge. It was reasonable that if the warheads had been built “off the books,” then the Soviets would be eager to get rid of them as quickly and quietly as possible, to avoid any repercussions that would come with the warheads’ discovery.
But it was more complicated than that. While divers were recovering two of the warheads and bringing them back to Memphis, they’d discovered an acoustic sensor nearby, planted on the seabed. Somebody in the Russian government was keeping watch over the barge, and had the resources to send surface ships, aircraft, and even a nuclear sub in pursuit.
Memphis had run, and fought for her life. Patterson still remembered precisely how scared she’d been. In the end, they’d escaped, bringing the warheads home. They’d all been thoroughly debriefed, and of course warned not to discuss the matter, and as far as she knew, the matter had stopped there. Nothing had ever appeared in the public arena. The Russians had never complained about somebody stealing their warheads. The U.S. had never challenged the Russians on them, either. Not much to gain, and it would reveal too much about what the U.S. knew.
As national security advisor, she could now ask the different intelligence agencies if they’d found out anything more about the source of the secret warheads.
And the answer would probably be nothing. The only place they could look for clues about the warheads’ origin was inside Russia, and she could imagine no Russian secret more sensitive or closely guarded than this. The mere act of searching risked compromising those involved, and might reveal to the Russians that the U.S. knew about the barge and its frightening contents.
Still, she couldn’t ignore the possibility.
Jerry had let Samant pick the place. He wanted the Indian to feel comfortable, in a place he’d chosen. And it looked like the guy liked Mexican. Ortega’s was a family restaurant, very close to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot. It was a popular place, evidently — almost full at dinnertime with a mix of customers in uniforms and civilian clothes. Jerry was in mufti.
He had a photo of Samant from the dossier he’d gotten months ago, when the Indian submariner had been an opponent, possibly an enemy. He’d reviewed the file again on the plane flight from Guam: The top performer in any situation, the only Indian to graduate from the British “Perisher” submarine command course. One of India’s best. Having maneuvered and fought against him, Jerry respected his skill and aggressiveness, but for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why Samant wanted to meet face-to-face.
He was grateful for the photograph; it was a good likeness, and he spotted the Indian officer in a booth. Samant was studying his smartphone as he approached, and Jerry could see what looked like a photo of him.
Samant stood as Jerry approached and offered his hand. His smile seemed a little forced, but Jerry was sure his was the same. He said “Thank you for coming” as they shook hands.
Jerry sat as Samant slid a menu across the table, and a waitress showed up almost immediately. Grateful for the distraction, Jerry ordered. He noticed that the Indian ordered quickly, sure of his choice. “Have you had Mexican food before?”
“Yes,” Samant answered quickly. “There are several Mexican restaurants in Vizag, or Visakhapatnam, the city where I live, although this is much better. At my hotel yesterday, someone recommended this place, and I had dinner here last night as well. It’s quite good.”
He paused for a moment, then picked up something hidden from Jerry’s view and placed it on the table, in front of the American. It was a small, flat box, wrapped with silver string. “A small gift, to thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
As Jerry picked it up, Samant added, “And also an apology, for trying to kill you.”
Jerry laughed as he untied the string and opened the box. Inside was a flat silver pendant, covered with an intricate, interwoven design. Samant explained, “Aleksey Petrov said your wife is expecting your first child soon. The pendant has a mehndi design, normally applied in henna to the hand or foot. It’s a Hindu custom to draw designs like this on the expectant mother at the baby shower. This particular design is a charm for a healthy birth.”
Jerry was surprised and moved. His mind flashed to Emily, back in Guam. Every calculation had shown that radiation from the Kashmir blast would never reach that far east, but new fathers don’t need a reason to worry. Did Samant understand his concern as well? “Emily will love it, I’m sure. Thank you for such a thoughtful gift.” He added, smiling, “Apology accepted.”
Samant’s face echoed the smile, but it still looked forced. He explained, “I find I am still angry at how your submarine frustrated so many of my attacks. I know you were doing your duty, just as I was mine. While logic and reason say it was nothing personal, I don’t like to lose.”
“No good submarine skipper does, Captain. You were a formidable opponent, and as I recall, I ended up running away with my tail between my legs a couple of times. I’m glad it’s over.”
Samant scowled. “The problem is, it may not be over. Our war with Pakistan continues, and now the Kashmir explosion reveals a new danger that could be even worse.”
“What?” Jerry was confused. “But the news has been good! The samples my government collected prove India could not have made the bomb. Now we are looking for loose nukes, which is still bad, but it’s not India’s fault, and no obstacle to the peace talks resuming. And my first name is ‘Jerry,’ by the way.”
Samant sighed, leaned forward, and spoke more softly, “Captain Jerry, I believe we are involved in the Kashmir explosion, at least indirectly.”
Warned by the Indian’s manner, Jerry managed to stifle his immediate response, but after a moment, asked in the same quiet tone, “So your government is using bootleg nuclear…”
“No, no, not the government, but perhaps some within my navy, possibly even higher in the military hierarchy. A conspiracy.” He described Vice Admiral Dhankhar’s strange actions right before, and after, the blast, and his own unexpected early transfer off Chakra. Then he added what Petrov had told him about Chakra’s refit — including his discovery of the recently ordered modifications to the combat system consoles. He finished with his concerns about Evgeni Orlav, the Russian weapons specialist.