“How many containers?” Loktev asked.
“There are thirty-five storage cradles in the top layer. I can’t be sure how deep they go because the barge has settled some, but I’d guess two, perhaps as many as three layers. If the lower ones are the same, then we are looking at a potential total of seventy to one hundred and five canisters.”
“My God! That many? This is… this is inconceivable,” groaned a shaken Loktev.
Zhikin nodded slightly as he took another sip of tea. The admiral’s shock was completely understandable — the diver’s report had given the older man quite a jolt — but Zhikin had worse news to deliver. “Unfortunately, sir, that’s just the beginning. We found eight empty storage cradles in the top layer. If the Americans have been truthful to us, and they only took two, then someone has come back since then and retrieved six more. And judging by the small amount of silt in several of the cradles, this was done recently.”
Loktev’s face paled. Stunned, he leaned slowly against the bulkhead for support. He looked back at the diver, his mouth hanging open, speechless.
“One more thing, Comrade Admiral,” added Zhikin slowly. “There was a submarine communications cable near the barge. I followed it out and found an MGK-608 Sever module one hundred meters away, out toward deeper water.”
Loktev’s expression changed to one of confusion. “Is it the one the Americans said they found?”
Zhikin shook his head. “No, sir. According to their report, that one should be much farther away, and to the southwest. This is a different module.”
“Someone must have laid the Sever modules to guard the barge,” Loktev concluded. “But who?”
“I have no idea, sir. But I did get a good look at the module’s nameplate,” remarked Zhikin as he pulled an underwater writing slate from his suit’s breast pocket. “Here is the module’s serial number. With any luck you might be able to trace who authorized its installation, and when. I’m sorry, but that is the best I can do for now.”
The admiral smiled thinly and slapped Zhikin on the shoulder. “You have done well, Viktor Ivanovich. We’ll solve this mystery together. Now, what do you recommend we do next?”
“I have two dive teams ready to go down as we speak, one to retrieve one of the canisters, and the other to do an in-depth inspection of the barge; to gather basic dimensional data and ascertain how deep it sits in the silt. If we begin immediately, we can find out if the canisters hold reentry vehicles within the hour. Then we’ll have a better idea of the recovery effort.”
“Will you retrieve the canisters one at a time?”
Zhikin shook his head vehemently. “No, sir, it’s too risky and would take far too long. Besides, I’m not sure we can even get at the layers underneath without dismantling the upper structure. No, since this barge was designed to resurface, then that’s what I recommend we do. Victory should have the necessary hoses to hook up to the salvage connections; if not, they can be transported by helicopter in a matter of hours. If all goes well, we can blow the ballast tanks dry and have the barge on the surface by tomorrow.”
“Excellent, Captain!” Loktev exclaimed. “We’ll proceed as you suggest. Get your men in the water, and let me know the moment they have recovered one of the canisters. I’ll be on the bridge trying to figure out how I’m going to report this to Northern Fleet headquarters and Moscow. I must construct my message carefully. I’m not sure I would believe it myself if one of my aides were to place it in front of me. This is a political catastrophe of unimaginable proportions.”
Nodding slowly, Zhikin smiled and said, “Comrade Admiral, I do not envy you. I suspect I have the easier of the two tasks.”
Petrov was in the graving dock when his cell phone buzzed. Irritated, he looked and saw he had received a text from his Russian supervisor summoning him to the liaison office immediately. “I don’t have time for such nonsense,” he mumbled to himself. But there was no point in arguing, Igor Osinov was as impatient as he was arrogant and Petrov would only lose more time if he tried to debate the matter with him. Signaling to one of his assistants, Petrov pointed to several deep scars on some of the anechoic coating tiles below the stern pod that would need replacing. Once confident that the man knew what had to be done next, Petrov walked to his car and drove over to the support office by the Russian hostel near the naval base’s main gate.
The drive did little to soothe his aggravation, and Petrov strode angrily into Osinov’s office demanding, “What is it this time, Igor? You know I don’t have the time…”
He stopped in midsentence. Osinov wasn’t alone; there were two men with him, one Indian and the other probably a Russian. There was a fearful expression on Osinov’s face.
“Please close the door, Aleksey,” ordered Osinov; his voice was shaky. Petrov did so, turned, and approached his boss as he gestured to the well-dressed Caucasian.
“Aleksey Igorevich Petrov, this is Foreign Intelligence Service Officer Leonid Nikolayevich Ruchkin from the embassy in New Delhi, he’s here to ask you a few questions.”
Petrov’s eyes darted to the SVR agent; the young man had a friendly demeanor and extended his hand. “I know how much of an inconvenience this is, Captain Petrov, so I will attempt to be brief.”
“It’s been a long time since I was addressed by my rank,” replied Petrov as he shook Ruchkin’s hand.
“But it’s still appropriate, is it not? You did retire honorably, despite the unfortunate incident. Please, be seated, Captain.”
Nodding politely, Petrov took his seat, while Ruchkin pointed toward the Indian. “This is my colleague, Field Agent Tungish Sharma of the Indian Intelligence Bureau. He’ll be observing our discussion.”
“Captain,” greeted Sharma. Petrov reciprocated, but his nerves were on edge. Something wasn’t quite right here; he felt something nagging at him.
Ruchkin wasted no time and launched into his interview. “Captain, in your opinion, is there anything unusual about the refit of INS Chakra?”
Petrov’s reaction was one of amazement. If he had been nervous before, there were now alarm bells going off. The presence of the Indian intelligence agent complicated the situation greatly, and with Samant’s warning ringing in Petrov’s mind, he decided to play it straight.
“Unusual, Agent Ruchkin? The whole damn refit is unusual!”
“How so?”
“The customer cut our time by two-thirds, completely rewrote the refit’s work schedule, and made a mess of it!” vented Petrov. He only hoped his anger would mask his nervousness. “The schedule is so disjointed that there have been times when I had multiple teams trying to make repairs on colocated systems at the same time. If you haven’t been in a submarine, space is at a premium. I don’t have the room for all those people to do their work safely. Especially if hot work is involved.”
The SVR agent’s eyes glanced toward the Indian, who was writing furiously. “Have you been given an explanation for these changes, Captain?”
“Of course not,” snapped Petrov. “I can only assume it has something to do with the Kashmiri incident, but I don’t see how. All I know is that my Indian Navy point of contact, Captain Mitra, has given me precious little time to get a lot of work done.”
“Do any of the repairs seem out of place to you?” asked Ruchkin pointedly.
Struggling to not show the growing anxiety he was feeling, Petrov paused to think the question over. He wanted to tell the SVR agent about his and Samant’s suspicions, but that would expose his friend to Sharma; and every fiber of his being screamed this would be a really bad idea. Petrov prayed to God his expression looked pensive. “No… No, not really,” he lied. “All the work items are valid. If anything there is an overemphasis on tactical systems that I believe is not prudent. There are a number of persistent, but not critical, engineering issues that could use more attention — in my opinion.”