Free Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel by Larry Bond Page A

Centre
    Visakhapatnam, India
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    Desam was being irritatingly insistent. “Sir, this is a bad time to go to America.”
    “What else can we do, Dr. Desam? You know American suppliers would be much more reliable than the Russians, and have better quality control. A trip to the U.S. was already part of our R-and-D schedule, and with our senior people gone we must do what we can to keep things moving!”
    “I don’t know if they’ll be a reliable source after next week, Captain. Did you see what the American Congress wants to do?” Samant’s second-in-charge on the Advanced Submarine Project was a civilian, an academic, which meant Dr. Vishal Desam didn’t necessarily accept his boss’s declarations as the last word to be spoken.
    “You watch too much television, Vishal. The American people think we used a nuclear weapon in Kashmir, and their politicians are just pandering to that mood. But more importantly, the current administration has been unusually silent, which means they’re still unsure. I already have an approved visa, and we have the travel funds. There is no reason not to make this trip.” Samant paused for a moment, marshaling his patience. “We’ve discussed this long enough. I’m going.”
    Desam had been working on the project for over ten years, and Samant valued the corporate knowledge his deputy possessed, but he just didn’t seem to grasp Samant’s authoritarian leadership style.
    “But it’s not too late to change your mind, sir. We should at least get some more information…”
    “That’s why I’m going over there, to get information!” Samant barked sharply. “It shouldn’t take a week to prepare for two meetings with potential vendors in America. This is why…”
    “… it takes us thirty years to build a submarine.” Desam completed the sentence.
    Samant’s vexation was replaced by amusement, and he smiled. “Just keep what’s left of our team focused, and away from the television. I’ll be back in about a week.”
    Defeated, Desam left, and Samant went back to work. The trip to America actually did involve meeting with representatives of two companies that might be useful to his project, and he had to prepare for them, as well as specific guidance for his people before he left the project in Desam’s care for a few days.
    Both meetings were in the western United States, in the state of California. Sandwiched between them, he’d see Jerry Mitchell. There was something very wrong and ominous going on, and now the only one he believed he could trust was an American he’d once tried to kill. But Petrov had spoken highly of Mitchell, and reassured Samant that he wouldn’t hold a grudge. A strange combination of dread and anticipation arose at the thought of meeting the American submarine captain face-to-face.
    Samant’s discussion with Petrov had convinced him the trip to America was the best course of action, and once he’d made that kind of decision, he never looked back. But he did find himself constantly looking over his shoulder.
    Whatever Dhankhar was planning to do, he’d decided to exclude Samant, but keep him close by. Was that so the admiral could keep an eye on him? Was Desam, his own deputy, making reports to Dhankhar? Someone else in his office? Anyone at all? Once the seeds of suspicion were planted in his mind, they flourished, and their fruit was not clarity, but confusion.
    He reviewed his conversation with Desam, looking for possible slipups, or things the engineer had said that hinted that he knew more than he was saying. Samant knew nothing of spycraft, but suddenly it seemed that he couldn’t trust anyone.
    It was because of Vice Admiral Dhankhar. Before this, Dhankhar had been the one man in the Indian Navy Samant would have trusted implicitly. The admiral was as famous and respected as an officer could properly be.
    Samant had served with him before, as a junior officer when Dhankhar was captain of the submarine Kalvari , a rattletrap Russian