“Yuri, it isn’t worth it. They aren’t paying us enough to do this work, under these conditions,” whimpered Orlav. The man was about to break.
“You need to take a longer view, Evgeni. We have many more weapons to sell, and we have several good leads. However, if it will make you feel better, I won’t offer your services as a modification specialist. The buyer takes receipt of the weapons as they are, no repackaging.
“Oh, and as far as payment is concerned, you’re forgetting that Churkin’s failure means he won’t be collecting his portion. I’m sure a fifty percent increase going into your pockets will compensate you for these extraordinary circumstances.”
Orlav’s eyes widened. He hadn’t even thought about that. The allure of that extra cash was just too enticing. He dropped the bag and headed back to the workbench.
10
LAWBREAKERS
It had rained earlier, and Petrov had hoped it would give them some cover, but it stopped at half past midnight, leaving air that seemed even more humid and sticky than before. He fought the urge to creep or slip from shadow to shadow, and also the feeling that they were being foolish.
Samant had it right, Petrov decided. Choose your path and don’t look back. The Indian was slightly in the lead as the two walked toward the torpedo shop where Orlav had been working. Petrov was following Samant’s lead mentally as well as physically. They needed hard information, and this was the only place to get it.
Petrov had called in sick that day, complaining of severe cramps and a long night that had left him feeling “cleaned out and miserable.” The Indian clerk that took the call joked that he might have eaten something a little too hot for his weak Russian stomach. Petrov remarked that it had less to do with too much spice and more about questionable sanitation. Either way, he wouldn’t be in till later in the day, if at all. He did, however, leave specific instructions for the duty foreman to phone him if Orlav showed up on Chakra. He got the call a little after midnight.
The sentry, a corporal, had been relieved an hour earlier, and was still wide awake. If he was surprised at seeing a senior naval officer in the yard at that hour, he hid it well. But Circars was a busy place, and work never stopped, especially now.
As Samant approached, the corporal said formally, “Good evening, sir. State your business.” He’d moved his rifle from slung to port arms, certainly not pointing at anyone, but ready for use. He never got the chance. As the soldier finished his challenge, Samant quickly brought up the can of Mace and sprayed him full in the face.
The corporal had been exercising proper trigger discipline, and Samant’s other hand grabbed his forefinger, and pulled his hand away from the trigger and, incidentally, the grip stock. Petrov, stepping up from behind Samant, grabbed the barrel near the muzzle and twisted the weapon out of the sentry’s grasp.
Choking, eyes burning with pain, the soldier could barely breathe, much less resist the two. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen to the ground if Samant had not pushed him back against the wall.
As Samant supported the soldier’s limp form, Petrov slung the rifle and pulled out a large plastic cable tie and bound the guard’s hands. A short strip of duct tape would keep him quiet. With the soldier secured, Samant pulled out his smartphone and pulled up his photo library.
“This is why those obnoxious security officers keep nagging us not to write down passwords,” he whispered softly in Russian, a cynical smile on his face. “Someone might see them and copy them.” He then quickly punched in the five-digit code for Building 2 with his gloved hands. It didn’t work the first time, and the lock’s display flashed twice. Forcing himself to slow down, Samant pressed the sequence again, and they both heard a satisfying, but surprisingly loud, “clack” as the door unlocked and opened.
Samant and Petrov dragged the limply struggling soldier inside, and Petrov dashed back around the corner to retrieve the bag with their gear.
As the heavy door closed behind them, Petrov found and hit the light switch. In bright illumination, their world expanded from a few nearby shadows to a large workshop. He could see benches, tools, and the bodies of disassembled torpedoes, but he fought the urge to investigate. Their first order of business was their prisoner.
Neither of them had said much since approaching the sentry, and Samant now reminded Petrov with one word: “Chair.” He spoke in Russian. They’d agreed to use Russian as much as possible, in the hope that the soldier didn’t speak the language.
Samant quickly bound the guard’s feet with another cable tie, while Petrov brought over a battered metal chair. Together they hoisted the corporal onto it in a sitting position. A few bungee cords and some more duct tape held him upright, as well as in the chair, and Petrov looped a couple of the bungee cords from the chair to a nearby pipe.
Petrov, also wearing gloves, pulled the man’s head back and, still speaking Russian, said, “Hold still, I’m going to wash your face off.” This was a test to see if the sentry understood Russian. He showed no reaction, coughing and shaking his head as if trying to clear his eyes.
Samant pulled out a water bottle, rinsed the sentry’s face and eyes, still tightly shut. He pulled the tape back carefully and then held the bottle to the guard’s mouth. Samant ordered, “Rinse your mouth and spit,” in Hindi. He let the soldier take a pull from the bottle, then quickly stepped to one side as the corporal spat it out toward Samant’s earlier position.
“You will be better soon,” he said, again in Hindi, and added as he replaced the tape, “Your eyesight will also return.” As a final touch, Petrov pulled a cloth bag out of the duffel, and placed it over the soldier’s head.
With their victim secured and safe, Petrov joined Samant as the two stood and surveyed the interior of the building. Samant had been inside this workshop many times before, and was familiar with its layout. Petrov had seen similar spaces in Russia, and the UGST-M torpedoes made it feel almost like home.
“I see only two torpedoes,” Petrov observed in Russian.
“No surprises there, the modifications are probably done on the others and they’re locked up somewhere,” Samant replied. “I’ll start with the workbench.”
“And I’ll take a closer look at the torpedoes.”
The two UGST-M torpedoes sat disassembled in their dollies. They were massive machines, over twenty-three feet long and weighing over two tons. Moving at fifty knots, they’d do considerable damage to a vessel without the warhead, but the 650 pounds of high explosive they carried would cripple all but the largest vessels.
The warhead wasn’t in the nose, though. That first two feet of the torpedo was separated from the rest of the weapon and was reserved for the sonar homing system in the flattened nose, and the weapon’s computer. The acoustic seeker could listen passively for the right combination of sounds, or send out active pings to search for a contact. The computer was programmed to dig out the tiniest of echoes from a noisy environment littered with countermeasures and decoys. It was smart enough that the torpedo could be described as a killer robot with fins.
The warhead section was missing on the two torpedoes. An empty space almost five feet long showed where the warhead module had been removed. The monofuel propellant tanks, power supply, and propulsion system were all joined together in the larger section that was behind the empty space. Petrov quickly found the nameplate data on the two torpedoes and took photographs with a digital camera. The serial numbers matched two of the weapons that Samant had obtained from the base’s torpedo shop.