Gandhi nodded his understanding. “So what do you need from me, sir?”
“How about some good information on the UGST-M?” Samant smiled. “I can’t have my designers working off of sales brochure data. Also, I’d like to get a quick understanding of the acceptance process, just in case I need to add extra time to the acquisition timeline.”
The old engineer smiled, waved his hand, gesturing for Samant to come to the desk. Gandhi pointed at a large open logbook. “Here are the records for the first shipment of UGST-M torpedoes; there are thirty-six in all. These seven have failed testing and need to go back to Mother Russia. This next set of nineteen weapons has completed the new testing protocol and has been accepted. These five are currently in the testing process with the Russian contractor. This last five…”
“Petrov?” asked Samant innocently.
“No, no, he’s in charge of the work on the boat itself. He has nothing to do with weapons. No, a fellow named Orlav does the torpedo work. I almost never see him now; he’s kind of a hermit over in Torpedo Shop Two. I check in on him every now and then.”
“I take it he’s a busy chap.”
“Very,” grunted Gandhi. “Vice Admiral Dhankhar’s revised torpedo acceptance criteria are extensive and they take a lot of time to complete. The Russians are under the gun to have twenty-four weapons ready, they have eight days left.” A devilish smirk popped on his face. “The ‘Old Man’ isn’t giving them a millimeter of wiggle room, he’s holding them to the letter of the contract.”
Gandhi then pulled out the writing shelf on his desk, closed the logbook and shifted it over. Underneath was a thick binder. “This, my dear Captain, is a technical manual for the UGST-M torpedo. You may borrow this for however long you may need it.”
Samant eagerly grabbed the manual, but soon frowned. He opened it, and then let out an exasperated sigh.
“Something wrong, sir?” asked Gandhi. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“I don’t suppose you have this manual in Hindi? Or even English, Commander?” snarled an irritated Samant.
“But I thought you could read Russian, sir?”
“Yes, I can, with some effort. But my designers do not, and I’m not about to read them bedtime stories so they can do their work!”
The engineer started laughing, and even Samant had to reluctantly smile. Gandhi was willing to help; he just had to have a little fun at Samant’s expense. “Wait a moment, sir. I think I can find something that’ll work for you. Just stay here, I’ll be right back.”
“Thank you, Fali.” Samant grimaced.
Still chuckling, Gandhi left his office. As soon as he was out of sight, Samant quickly reopened the logbook to the UGST-M entries and removed his smartphone. After checking to see if anyone was watching, he took photos of the serial numbers and the arrival and transfer dates to Shop Number Two of the five torpedoes still being worked on. He then noticed a new note card taped to the writing shelf. It had a list of five-number sets and what was probably part of a building number. Thinking that they could be access codes, he took a photo, just in case, and put his phone away. Samant then closed the logbook, pulling it over so it covered the note card, and opened the Russian-language tech manual. Gandhi returned less than a minute later.
“Here you go, Captain. The diagrams aren’t as good as the Russian version, but the text is far more readable.”
“Thank you, Fali, I’m sure this will be fine. What my designers need are the numbers; the diagrams are an added benefit. I’ll have my people copy the necessary data immediately and I’ll have this back to you later this week.”
Gandhi waved his hand. “Take your time, sir. We have a few more in the shop to support the work I still need to do.”
Samant thanked the engineer again, shook his hand, and departed with the technical manual. Walking quickly, he made his way back to his office; he had to download the photos from his phone and make copies for Petrov. Samant’s spirit was buoyed; he thought for sure that he now had some of the evidence the Americans had been asking for.
Petrov turned into the parking lot of the Russian Hostel very late. The hydraulic system testing had taken much longer than anticipated, and by the time he’d returned to his temporary home, all the parking spots were full. Frustrated, he headed down the street to the overflow lot two blocks away. Still nervous from the attempted attack the night before, Petrov carefully scanned the streets and buildings as he drove slowly by. He hoped he’d be safer on the base than out and around the busy streets beyond the gates, but he couldn’t be sure of that.
As he pulled into the parking space, Petrov killed the lights immediately, but took his time shutting off the engine and getting out of the car. He needed time for his eyes to become night-adapted. The lighting for the next three hundred meters or so was fairly dim, with only an occasional streetlight providing some illumination. He locked the car and started walking, but instead of using the sidewalk, Petrov walked in the street, his right hand tightly grasping a can of Mace spray.
He forced himself to keep his pace casual. If he looked confident, perhaps that would deter a would-be attacker. Besides, walking slowly meant he made less noise, and that gave him a better chance of hearing someone approaching him. It didn’t take long to pass by the first intersection, although to Petrov it seemed like an unbearably slow process. Soon he was more than halfway to the hostel, and he started to think that maybe he was just imagining things, his nerves rattled by the stress he was under.
Suddenly, there was the sound of gravel crunching underfoot behind him and to his left. As he turned, there was a hard jab on his left rib cage; he heard the fabric of his overalls being ripped. The blow pushed him toward the building to his right; struggling to keep his footing, Petrov pivoted and tried to run, but his assailant grabbed his left shoulder and spun him about. The man’s face was hidden in the shadows, and he was totally silent. Petrov could barely hear him breathing. He struck again, this time landing a solid thrust to Petrov’s rib cage by his heart. The pain was intense and Petrov thought he heard a cracking sound, but the protective stab vest held and the blade was deflected.
Surprised, the assailant hesitated, momentarily confused that his victim hadn’t fallen to the ground. Petrov took advantage of the delay, raised the can of Mace and blasted the contents into the attacker’s eyes just a few inches away. The man only grunted in agony, but the shock caused him to lift his hands, allowing Petrov to break loose. Despite the pain, the attacker doggedly continued his assault. But with his eyesight impaired, and in the darkness, his attacks became undisciplined — wild, slashing wherever he thought his target might be. Petrov was able to dodge or deflect these less-precise thrusts, and after a particularly wide swing, he turned again to try and escape. Unfortunately, the man got hold of Petrov’s left arm and bodily yanked him closer. And even though Petrov was about the same size as his attacker, the latter was far stronger, and Petrov just couldn’t get away.
As he was spun around, Petrov tried to use momentum to his advantage, and threw a vicious right hook at the man’s face. The blow connected on his assailant’s jaw, but it seemed to have little effect. Once again, the man only grunted. But between the assailant’s forceful yank and Petrov’s swing, the Russian engineer’s left foot slipped out from underneath him. Both men were already badly off balance and fell, with Petrov slamming into the asphalt on his left side. The badly bruised areas of his rib cage screamed their displeasure as he bounced. The attacker, being above him at the start of the fall, flew over Petrov and hit the curb. Petrov heard a dull thwack, like a coconut hitting a hard surface, followed by a raspy gurgling sound.