“Why?” Petrov asked. He was just as puzzled as the others, but not as emotionally attached to the refit work. He worked over in the Engineering Hall as a consultant on submarine technology; that is, until this afternoon. Now he was a special advisor to Mitra.
“The heightened tensions after the Kashmir blast require Chakra to be operational as soon as possible, according to Mitra.” Ivanov sounded angry, as if he’d been insulted. “Was that the best excuse they could come up with?”
“Maybe they’re nervous about having both nuclear subs in the dockyard at the same time,” Petrov said, shrugging. “It’s not a good reason to end the refit early, but it’s easier to believe.”
“No, that doesn’t make any sense,” Suslov said, shaking his head. “The entire reason they scheduled the refit was because they knew Chakra wouldn’t play a big part in the war with Pakistan. That hasn’t changed, as far as I can see.”
Everyone at the table, Petrov included, nodded agreement. The Indian Navy had definitely wanted Chakra to be refitted. Preparations had included over a year of planning, negotiations with Russia and money spent for parts and equipment to be fitted into the sub, more money to prepare the dockyard — it would fill a book. To suddenly abandon the project like this was more than just a bad decision.
Many of the Russians intended to go back to the dockyard after dinner. “It’s long hours for me, but not as bad as Orlav,” Kulik remarked. “I’m supposed to take his dinner back to him. He’s working in the first compartment — maybe an all-nighter.”
Petrov had heard of Evgeni Orlav, a weapons technician in his forties. He was an electronics technician working on the torpedo tubes’ interface with the fire control system. “What’s he working on that’s so urgent?” he asked.
Kulik shrugged as he paid his dinner bill. “It’s something the Indians have him doing and he won’t talk about it at all. He’ll complain about his ugly wife and her enormous family all night, but he never talks shop.
“Orlav really works for Dhankhar, not Commander Gandhi. The admiral put him on the refit team, and Orlav makes his progress reports directly to the admiral. He’s either in the first compartment working on the gear aboard the sub, or he’s in one of the torpedo shops, ‘conducting tests’ he says.”
Kulik lowered his voice. “I think the Indians have a nuclear cruise missile ready to deploy, or at least test, and Orlav’s installing the interface.”
Petrov nodded. “I didn’t think their cruise missile was ready yet. But perhaps the development schedule has been moved up, and that’s why they’re cutting the refit short,” he reasoned.
Kulik was noncommittal. “That’s not the type of thing I’d want to hurry. Whatever it is, after Mitra made his announcement, the admiral pulled Orlav aside and they spoke for a while. Orlav wasn’t happy. I’m betting Dhankhar told him to get the work done and to sleep after Chakra’s finished.”
Yuri Kirichenko heard the satellite phone buzz and almost snatched it from the cradle. Only one person had the number for that phone. He turned it on and said, “Jascha Churkin! So, you’re alive.”
“Just barely. I was in Ghori, just under five kilometers away, but across a small mountain from the blast. The flash and the shock wave were still beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I may start believing in God again. Most of Ghori was flattened. Since then, I’ve been traveling south and waiting for the ionization cloud to disperse. This is the first time I’ve been able to get through.”
“And your search for the missing warhead is now moot. What about the thieves?”
“I found them. Faysal is radioactive gas, but I located Jawad at Muzaffarabad, living a most un-Islamic life. He was drunk.”
“Jawad? From our escort? The short one?”
“And his friend Faysal, who Jawad said was an ‘electronics expert.’ The little thug was following us at a distance, and brought the substitute crate. He even had the correct markings on the outside.”
“Morons,” Kirichenko muttered, “and yet not. This plan was supposed to be foolproof. The warheads were worthless to the militants from Al Badr we hired. I must have explained to them three times that without the initiators, the warheads were just dead metal.”
“And you promised them some live warheads from the next batch,” Churkin added. “And they were paid handsomely, but you can’t rely on simple greed when stupidity is mixed in.”
Churkin had been responsible for security. He was a former Russian Navy special forces commando. But in addition to his impressive military skills, the navy had learned of his talent for illegal activities, ranging from bootlegging to blackmail. Kirichenko had encountered Churkin back in the nineties, out of the service and on the edge of the law. The ex-commando’s skills had been vital in ensuring first the secrecy of Kirichenko’s stolen stockpile, then its recovery, and now its transport across half of Eurasia.
Starting with their recovery from the Kara Sea, Churkin had shepherded the warheads on their long trip from northern Russia, across the Caspian Sea to Turkmenistan, Afghanistan, and then northern Pakistan, into Kashmir, where one of the six weapons had been discovered to be missing. Churkin had been forced to make sure the rest of the shipment was safe before leaving in pursuit of the thieves, but they had vanished into the landscape. By the time he’d found their trail, he was days behind and too late.
Kirichenko decided it was a good thing he hadn’t been any closer to his goal. Churkin and Kirichenko were not fast friends, but they were kindred souls working for a common purpose — massive financial reward. His loss would have been inconvenient, at least. Kirichenko privately wondered what Churkin’s plan would have been if he’d reached the LeT camp with the warhead inside.
“So why did Jawad steal one of my nuclear warheads? Did this fool Faysal think he could build his own initiator?” Kirichenko asked, almost laughing.
“No, but Faysal knew that Lashkar-e-Taiba had someone who might be able to — someone from the Khan network,” Churkin reported in a dark tone.
“Oh.” Kirichenko understood the implications instantly. A brilliant Pakistani scientist named A. Q. Khan had first helped build Pakistan’s weapon, and then created a nuclear underground network that had provided technology to Iran, Libya, and North Korea — at least. While he’d been under house arrest for a while in Pakistan, he had been freed in 2008. His network had never been dismantled.
Churkin reported, “Those two thieves walked into that Lashkar-e-Taiba camp and were paid ten times the amount for one warhead that you gave Al Badr to transport all six. Jawad was doing his best to drink his way through his half of the money.”
“Did he tell anyone else where they had obtained the warhead?” Loss of one of the six weapons was bad enough, but if the shipment had been compromised…
“Jawad said they didn’t speak to anyone else on the way, not with what they were carrying. It took them some time to reach the LeT camp after they stole the weapon, and if Jawad was telling the truth, they reached it about the same time that the rest of our shipment crossed into Indian territory. Anyone Faysal talked to is now in hell along with him. I’ve also just confirmed the remaining five have reached the coast.”
“And Jawad?” Kirichenko asked.
“Will not talk,” Churkin replied. “I solved his drinking problem.” Kirichenko could almost hear Churkin smiling.
“Then there’s nothing else to be done there. You should get into India as quickly as possible.”
“Understood,” Churkin replied. “I’ll contact you again when I’m across the border.”