Petrov then spotted five wooden packing crates lined up along one wall, painted dull gray with large white warnings stenciled in Cyrillic — “Corrosive.” The crates were empty but the wooden supports inside suggested a single large object that was conical in shape. He took several more photos of the crate’s interior and exterior before returning to the torpedoes themselves.
The two torpedo warhead sections sat on the workbench. One of the sections was still empty, but the other had been fitted with a metal framework, bright with machining or scorched black from welding. It was crude work, and Petrov saw Samant examining similar components on a large workbench against the wall. The Indian picked up a half-finished framework and walked over to Petrov.
Silently, the Russian pointed into the torpedo, and Samant held it in the cavity, nodding. “This is how they will mount the device,” he said softly. Petrov had his camera out, and took photos of the warhead sections, and especially the metal framework.
Petrov didn’t have a clue as to what the guts of a nuclear warhead would look like, but he didn’t see anything that was the right size and shape to fit in the modified torpedo warhead section. They’d accomplished much in the first five minutes, but now they spent another fifteen quickly checking every part of the work area. They even searched the corner that Orlav had used as a living area, not that he’d hide a nuclear bomb under his cot.
Finally, Samant pointed to the overhead crane. One spur of the rail ran from where the crates had been opened. Pointing silently, Samant then traced the rails straight to a very solid-looking door ten feet high and eight feet wide. “Storage for the completed torpedoes?” Petrov asked. Samant nodded. If the nukes were anywhere, they were in there.
Just on the remote chance it might work, Samant tried the same code that had opened the door to the shop, without success, then reversed it, tried adding and subtracting one, while Petrov took more photos and looked at his watch.
During the afternoon, they’d planned their break-in meticulously, as only a pair of submariners could. They’d both agreed that if they couldn’t get what they needed in half an hour, they wouldn’t get it at all. According to Petrov’s watch, they had about five minutes left. He tapped Samant on the shoulder and shook his head. The Indian shrugged and sighed, then headed back over to the workbench, rummaging for more clues.
Petrov took the other end, looking through a litter of tools, metal parts, and electronic components. Notes and sheets of paper were tacked up here and there, and he carefully arranged and photographed each one. A folder, half buried under a stack of electronics boxes, attracted his attention. Opening it, he immediately recognized a drawing of the junction box in Chakra’s torpedo room. “This is important. Help me with these.”
Samant came over and angled a work light to point at the folder, then pulled each sheet of paper out of the way when Petrov said he was ready. They were running late, if his watch was right.
“Done,” Petrov announced softly. He had just started to put the camera away when he noted a separate piece of folded-up paper tucked underneath the schematics. Petrov removed the crinkled paper and slowly opened it. Flattening it out and turning it around, the men leaned over to look at its contents — and no sooner had they begun reading than both drew a sharp breath. The paper held a list: Hong Kong, Shanghai, Dalian, Qingdao, and half a dozen more. All of them were Chinese ports, but this was a collection of the top ten busiest ports, the heart of China’s export economy.
Samant shook his head in awe. “The man is insane!” he whispered. “He’s not planning on attacking Pakistan, he’s going after China!”
Petrov stood overwhelmed as well, his mouth hanging open. He hadn’t had a clue that Dhankhar was planning anything so bold. The implications were staggering.
Samant waved his hands frantically at the paper. “Take a picture! Take a picture!” he exclaimed in a hushed voice. Petrov took a dozen, just to be safe. He then looked at his watch and saw that they had long overstayed their welcome. He pointed repeatedly at his wrist; Samant nodded and began refolding the paper and carefully putting it exactly where they’d found it.
While Samant put the folder back under the electronic boxes, Petrov took one last look around the room for anything useful. He was frustrated that they weren’t able to find and photograph the devices themselves, but the evidence was overwhelming that they were here, almost certainly in that locked vault. He and Samant had discussed the idea of sabotage. If they could damage the nukes, they’d at least delay the plotters, who were obviously on a tight schedule.
Theoretically, if they removed the right component, or bent the correct widget, they’d render the nuclear device unusable. But neither was expert enough to know exactly what to do. They both knew enough about nuclear weapons to know that they were fitted with anti-tamper circuits, and contained several kilograms of high explosive, used to start the nuclear reaction. If they fiddled with the wrong widget, they could trigger what was called a “low-order detonation” — no nuclear reaction, but a conventional explosion that would scatter bits of radioactive and toxic uranium and plutonium over a sizable part of the base, mixed with the two of them.
Their captive was silent, but was breathing, and occasionally testing his bonds. He’d be released when his relief discovered him at 0400. With a nod from Samant, Petrov opened the door and pretended to look like he was checking for rain before stepping out.
The coast was clear, no sign of anyone nearby. Samant followed. He turned the lights off so they didn’t draw attention to the building. The hooded prisoner wouldn’t know the difference.
Once out of the building, they set a brisk pace, and headed straight for the gate, five or six blocks away. After retrieving the camera from the duffel, Petrov tossed the bag into a trash dumpster. Next, he took the memory chip out of the camera and replaced it with an empty one.
Meanwhile, Samant used his cell phone to call the number Patterson had given him in their e-mail exchange yesterday. It was late afternoon in Washington, and he heard her answer on the second ring. “This is Patterson.”
“We have the proof. We will be at Cyberpatnam, the Internet café I mentioned in the e-mail.”
“I have the address. Stay there and keep a low profile. Someone will come for you. Call me back in an hour if they don’t.”
“Understood.”
The gate to the shipyard faced Port Main Road, and was four lanes wide. At this hour, there were only two uniformed soldiers on duty, both lounging near the guard shack in the center of the street. The two burglars waited for what seemed like years until a car turned in to the gate. With the guards distracted and their night vision degraded, Petrov and Samant forced themselves to walk at a normal pace across the short distance to the pedestrian exit. Then they were outside on the street. Petrov’s watch said 0155.
Samant’s Maruti sedan was parked in a small lot outside the shipyard, and Petrov only partly relaxed once they were moving. The police might be looking for this car, and if they’d had any distance to go, he would have worried more. But Cyberpatnam was just two miles to the east, back toward the business district. They’d already covered half the distance to the place, especially the way Samant was driving.
The area right around the shipyard was industrial, and there was little traffic at that time of night except for an occasional truck. At the halfway mark, they reached Convent Junction, a traffic circle and a major crossroads. The cross street, Port Gymkhana Club Road, neatly divided the industrial and business districts. Past that point, the roadside was lined with stores and offices, and the streets were still quite busy. Petrov was a little relieved, both for the anonymity of a crowd, and that traffic was actually moving freely. Daytime traffic in Vizag could be glacial.