“Of course, sir, not a word to any living soul.” The twinkle in Jain’s eye said otherwise. “I’ll inform the sentry that you’ll be up shortly.”
“You’re a cruel man, Captain,” Samant grumbled playfully. “But, thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir,” replied Jain. “Oh, and one more thing. Don’t expect it to be very tidy on board. These shipyard workers are absolute pigs!”
It was now Samant’s turn to chuckle; he knew exactly how Jain felt. Still, it was a little surreal hearing his own words coming from his former first officer. A feeling of satisfaction came over Samant when he returned Jain’s departing salute. As the young captain ran off to his next appointment, Samant turned and walked toward the dock’s wing-wall ladder. He forced himself to walk slowly, holding the excitement he felt inside.
The sentry post was manned by one of the crew’s junior officers and a petty officer. Both were happy to see their old captain, and after a casual check of his ID card, Samant was allowed on board. Climbing down the ladder into central post, he was suddenly overwhelmed by memories, as well as the smell of burnt welding flux and ozone. The space was very crowded, noisy, and hot. Trying to stay out of the workers’ way, he scooted over to the Omnibus combat system consoles. Looking down at the operator’s panel, he saw that the cover plate in the upper left-hand corner on both consoles had been removed and a number of wires now protruded from the openings. It was the exact same panel section that Petrov had shown him earlier.
Samant leisurely surveyed the area, as if trying to relive some past event. He noticed that everyone else was focusing on the ship control and engineer’s stations on the other side of the central post. Slowly, he took his smartphone from his pocket, and after making sure the flash was disabled, quickly took a number of photos of the alterations to the consoles. Pausing briefly to check the results, he repocketed the phone and made his way to the first compartment.
There were far fewer people in the torpedo room, and after chatting with a number of his former crewmen for a few minutes, he went forward to look at the tubes. Acting as if he were doing a routine inspection, Samant went over them as he had done numerous times before. In the background, he could hear some of his men snickering. If they wanted to think their old captain was taking a walk down memory lane, that was fine by him. He opened the wiring junction box for tubes one and three, and feeling behind the circuit board, found the connectors that Petrov had told him about. Samant also noted that there were wires attached to those connectors. Grunting his approval, he finished his normal inspection and proceeded to visit the remaining compartments. Partly because Samant wanted to be true to the story he was creating, and partly because he wanted to see more of his crew. Jain was right; he was homesick.
Refreshed, Samant left the graving dock and headed down the street toward the submarine artificer’s shop. The tour of Chakra was an unexpected but welcomed opportunity, but his primary reason for coming to the shipyard was to find out what he could about the new Russian UGST-M torpedoes. Walking down the narrow street between the workshops, he was surprised by just how crowded it was. For a Sunday, the activity throughout this part of the shipyard was very heavy, almost frantic. Dhankhar must have put the fear of the gods into everyone involved with Chakra’s refit. As he strode into the main weapons shop, Samant immediately picked out the loud voice of the chief weapons officer shouting orders to his men. Commander Fali Gandhi was a ragged-looking, gray-haired engineer in charge of all submarine tactical weapons. A vicious purist, he would have nothing to do with those “abominations of DRDO” — ballistic missiles.
Many years Samant’s senior, Gandhi was nonetheless junior to him in rank. The grizzled, outspoken engineer had often come into conflict with senior officers, and his lack of decorum had adversely affected his chances of promotion. And yet, no one would dream of replacing him… he was that good, and Samant held a deep respect for the man’s abilities. Every weapon Samant took into battle performed exactly as it should, not one failure during his entire patrol. Gandhi had personally assured him that every weapon had been thoroughly checked and had passed muster. He was also quick to accept responsibility if any of the weapons failed to run properly. Aiming them correctly was Samant’s job.
“Commander Gandhi!” shouted Samant. “May I have a word with you, please?”
The older man spun about. A huge grin flashed on his face. “Ah, Captain Samant! What brings you to my workshop on this beautiful Sunday morning? Don’t have anything else better to do?”
Samant just shook his head; for the second time that morning he’d been implicitly accused of having misplaced priorities. “Why is it that everyone assumes that one’s personal work habits have to change when they are on shore duty?”
Gandhi smiled broadly. “Because, my good Captain, they usually do. Your predecessor, Captain Palan, certainly had no problems taking up residency at the East Point Golf Club.”
“I don’t play golf,” snipped Samant.
“Ooh, that’s heresy, Captain.”
“Do you play, Fali?” Samant shot back smugly.
“No, sir, I don’t have the patience for the game. I find it aggravating to hit a ball, lose it, only to hit it and lose it again.”
“That makes two of us. Now can I ask you some torpedo questions?”
“Ah, my favorite topic. But let’s go to my office, it’s too damn noisy out here.”
Samant followed the engineer to the back of the workshop, to a small glass-enclosed space with a single desk, a chair, and numerous filing cabinets. Precariously stacked manuals and drawings lay on almost every available horizontal surface. Gandhi wasn’t very apologetic. “Please forgive the clutter, but this is a workshop, not a fancy corporate office. Tea, sir?”
“No, thank you,” replied Samant as he looked for a place to sit. Gandhi noted this and simply reached over and swept a stack of manuals off the chair.
“Your questions, sir?”
“I understand you have received some UGST-M torpedoes, I was wondering about your first impressions.”
Gandhi leaned on the desk, thinking. “Well, Captain, it started out very rough, five of the first twelve failed their diagnostic tests; that was mid-February. Our admiral was none too happy about that and he yanked the Russians hard to fix the problem. So far it seems to be working. I should have twenty-four weapons ready for Chakra by her departure date.
“As for the weapon itself, it’s got a little more range than the UGSTs we have now. The seeker is supposedly better, but I can’t confirm that until I get some in-water test runs. When that will occur has yet to be determined. Why do you ask?”
Samant leaned forward, rubbing his hands. “I’m working on the next class of nuclear submarines and I can’t get a straight answer from DRDO on our torpedo procurement plans.”
“There’s a surprise!” grumbled Gandhi. “They’re still trying to re-create the German SUT torpedo thirty-plus years after the Germans produced it! DRDO’s foolishness is why we are in negotiations to buy the German Sea Hake.”
“I agree, but I need to look at all our options, which means I need to consider Russian weapons as well.”
“Of course. But you do realize, sir, that the Russian torpedoes are considerably longer than NATO standard weapons? That will cause your designers a lot of grief, I would think.”
“Yes, Fali, I’m well aware of that. And while I don’t think it’s likely, I still need to have a rough design of a torpedo room to accommodate a weapon of this size. The powers that be will have to make the decision.”