Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel by Larry Bond

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
    15 March 2017
    0900 EST
    The Oval Office, the White House
    Washington, D.C.
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    Joanna