The Trident Deception (17 page)

The
San Francisco
’s Officer of the Deck looked up from the geographic display, then turned to Commander Tyler. “Sir, entering the moving haven now.”

Tyler picked up the 27-MC. “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

USS
KENTUCKY

The
San Francisco
’s arrival at ahead flank had not gone unnoticed.

“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new sonar contact, designated Sierra five-seven, classified submerged, bearing three-five-five.”

On watch as the Officer of the Deck, Tom picked up the 1-MC. “Rig ship for Ultra-Quiet.” Returning the microphone to its bracket, he leaned against the Conn railing. “Helm, ahead one-third.”

Tom listened as the ship’s ventilation systems and other nonessential equipment were secured, with the remaining equipment shifted into its quietest lineup. Meanwhile, the submarine slowed to five knots, reducing the sound of its propeller churning the water. Throughout the ship, the crew terminated all training and maintenance, and placed the watertight doors on the latch so the noise from their opening and closing wouldn’t transmit through the hull into the water.

Malone entered Control. “What have you got?”

Tom twisted the sonar display knob, rotating through the various screens, stopping on the broadband display for the towed array, which had been deployed shortly after receipt of the Strike order. A faint white trace appeared on the monitor, bearing three-five-seven now. “Submerged contact, classification unknown,” Tom answered.

As Malone reviewed the sonar display, the trace faded, its disappearance announced a second later. “Conn, Sonar. Contact has slowed. Loss of Sierra five-seven.”

A submarine’s ability to detect targets was dependent on speed; the faster it traveled, the harder it was to detect contacts due to the water streaming past its sonar. As a submarine prepared to engage in combat, it slowed to increase the range of its sensors and to decrease the amount of sound it transmitted into the water from its propeller.

Tom and Malone knew there were no friendly submarines in the area. The waterspace advisories listed only the
San Francisco,
returning from deployment. But she would pass by several hours from now, far to the north. If this was a submerged contact, it wasn’t Friendly, and an enemy submarine approaching at high speed and then slowing could mean only one thing.

Malone turned to Tom. “Man Battle Stations Torpedo.”

USS
SAN FRANCISCO

The conversations in the Control Room were quiet and disciplined, the watchstanders talking into their headsets, passing information between them. Unlike normal underway operations with only one-third of the crew on watch, the attack submarine was now at Battle Stations, every crew member reporting to his assigned position. There was barely enough room in Control to turn around; every console was manned, with supervisors standing behind them, evaluating the displays.

In Sonar, the entire division of eleven men was crammed into a space not much bigger than two telephone booths stacked on their sides, making the Control Room outside seem spacious in comparison. Tom Bradner manned one of the four consoles, his face illuminated in the darkness as his eyes probed the random static. Slowly, a thin white trace appeared, barely discernible from the background noise. The Sonar Chief worked his way behind Bradner as he attempted to assign an automatic tracker to the trace. But the contact was too weak for the tracker to hold.

“Send bearings to fire control manually,” the chief ordered.

Bradner maneuvered the cursor over the faint white trace, hitting Enter every fifteen seconds, sending the bearings to the Combat Control System and the Fire Control Tracking Party in the Control Room. Meanwhile, the chief turned to his Narrowband Operators, who were pulling the frequencies from the broadband noise, attempting to classify their new submerged contact. As Bradner glanced over at the narrowband display, there was something familiar about the frequencies.

USS
KENTUCKY

“Conn, Sonar. Have a new narrowband contact, designated Sierra five-eight, bearing three-five-nine.”

Tom acknowledged, switching the Conn sonar screen to the narrowband display. Malone looked over Tom’s shoulder, studying the tonals on the monitor.

A moment later, with the signal strength of the frequencies growing stronger, Sonar followed up. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra five-eight is classified
Los Angeles
–class submarine.”

Malone looked up in surprise. “Sonar, Conn. Are you sure?”

“Conn, Sonar. We’re positive. Her tonals correlate to a first-flight 688.”

Irritation flashed across Malone’s face, replaced an instant later with relief. A friendly submarine meant they had nothing to worry about, aside from the embarrassment of a ballistic missile submarine being detected, which seemed a distinct possibility based on the growing signal strength of the contact. But then the irritation returned. Someone had screwed up. Either the
Kentucky
wasn’t in its assigned moving haven, the other submarine wasn’t, or the Watch Officers had routed a fast attack directly through the
Kentucky
’s water. “Nav, get over here!”

The Navigator maneuvered his way across the crowded Control Room, speaking as he reached the Captain, already knowing the question he’d be asked. “I double-checked, sir. We’re definitely in our assigned moving haven. Someone else screwed up.”

“Have we received any waterspace advisories, rerouting a 688 nearby?”

“No, sir. Only standard message traffic since the strategic strike message.”

Malone looked back at the sonar display, then at the combat control screens as the crew’s three fire control technicians worked potential solutions for the contact. The FTs studied the dual flat-panel displays in front of them, each hand on a track ball, quickly selecting and adjusting parameters faster than the untrained eye could follow. Hovering behind the three FTs, the XO examined their solutions, then tapped one of the fire control techs on the shoulder.

“Promote to Master solution.”

The fire control tech acknowledged, and the contact displays updated with a new solution for contact Sierra five-eight. The XO and Malone studied the screen. “Contact is on an intercept course,” the XO said, “projected to pass within one thousand yards.”

“She’ll detect us for sure,” Malone replied. “Damn glad she’s one of ours.”

22

FORD ISLAND, HAWAII

Sitting squarely in the center of Pearl Harbor, with Battleship Row along its southeastern shore and aircraft carrier moorings to the west, Ford Island was the focal point of the surprise Japanese attack on December 7, 1941. Two hours after the first torpedo bombers descended for their runs down Southeast Loch, the U.S. Pacific Fleet lay in ruins, all eight battleships and ten other warships sunk or heavily damaged. Today, a memorial sits atop the USS
Arizona
to honor the 1,102 men who rest in a watery grave in the shallows off Ford Island.

Twenty-four years before the attack, Battery Adair was constructed on the northeastern corner of the island, its twin six-inch Armstrong guns firing north. After the battery was decommissioned and its guns removed in 1925, officer housing was constructed at the scenic location overlooking Waimalu and Aiea, with one residence sitting directly atop Battery Adair’s emplacement. Inside the home, a narrow stairway leads to the main corridor of what was once Battery Adair, the passageway’s two ninety-degree turns leading to twin casemated bunkers that still guard the northern overland approach to the harbor.

With dawn breaking to the east and the trade winds just beginning to stir, a blue ’72 Mustang rolled to a stop in front of this house. After a short walk up a winding path lined with white and pink impatiens, Murray Wilson knocked on the door of COMSUBPAC’s home. A moment later, Admiral Stanbury’s wife answered. It seemed she had been up for some time, as her gray hair was neatly arranged and her makeup applied. Then Wilson wondered if she just hadn’t yet gone to bed; her eyes conveyed a fatigue that contradicted the early morning hour.

“He couldn’t sleep,” she said as she opened the door wider. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Stanbury.” Wilson entered the foyer, removing his khaki dress uniform hat, nodding his respect.

“I’m sorry, Murray.” Betty hugged him and kissed his cheek. “I seem to have forgotten my manners this morning.”

There was an awkward silence as Wilson fidgeted with the hat in his hands. He had brought news. News he didn’t want to deliver. He wondered if Betty could see the pain in his eyes, if she could discern the torment he was desperately trying to hide. If he couldn’t hide it from Betty, there was no way he could conceal it from Claire.

Betty placed her hand on his arm. “It looks like you’ve been up all night as well. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

After an all-nighter in the Operations Center drinking weak yet somehow burned coffee, Betty’s offer sounded wonderful. “That’d be great.”

“John is in the study. I’ll bring it to you there.”

*   *   *

Already dressed in his khakis, Rear Admiral (Upper Half) John Stanbury sat behind the desk in his study, staring out the window at the Admiral Clarey Bridge leading to the main island. The whole thing seemed surreal.
Hunt down one of his own submarines.
It had eaten away at him throughout the long night, and as the three 688s closed in on the
Kentucky
’s moving haven, the room had closed in on him.

Betty had awoken as he rose from bed and kept him company in the kitchen, sharing coffee throughout the night, keeping his mind occupied to the best of her ability. She had offered him leftover crumb cake, but he couldn’t eat. Even though he was hungry, the thought of food made him nauseated.

Stanbury was still stunned by the order to sink the
Kentucky
. Somewhere, somehow, someone had gotten it all wrong. But he had followed his orders and set his best man to the task. He hoped Wilson’s fast-attack scenario had achieved the desired effect without the loss of a submarine and its crew.

There was a knock on the door, which Stanbury acknowledged without turning. Wilson entered, followed a moment later by Betty carrying a silver tray with two cups of coffee, cream, and sugar. Placing the tray on the desk without a word, she eyed both men before withdrawing.

Wilson waited for permission to speak, but Stanbury ignored him. He didn’t want to hear the news. If the fast attacks had been successful in their attempt to communicate with the
Kentucky,
he should have received a report from the Operations Center that the
Kentucky
was returning to port. But no report had been received. After another minute of waiting, he could put it off no longer. He looked up at Wilson.

Wilson cleared his throat. “We didn’t find her, sir. She’s not in her moving haven. The
San Francisco
picked up a contact, but it turned out to be one of the other 688s.”

The words sank in slowly. Stanbury grappled with the unexpected news. And the implication. No submarine would leave its assigned moving haven—the rule was inviolate. The
Kentucky
had left her moving haven and was now working her way west, toward Emerald and launch range.

Stanbury gestured to the chair across his desk and poured cream into his coffee, then pushed the tray toward Wilson, assessing the demeanor of his most capable captain. Until this moment, the only logical explanation for the
Kentucky
’s failure to respond to the launch termination order was a Radio Room casualty. The idea that her crew might be in on the plot had never held credence. Until now. Why had the
Kentucky
left her moving haven? This was unexpected. He could tell Wilson was having trouble dealing with the new information. The cup shook in his hand as he took a sip of coffee.

“What are you thinking, Murray?”

“Still trying to wrap my head around things, Admiral. Did the
Kentucky
really leave her moving haven, or did we just miss her?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think it matters. What does is they’ve received a nuclear launch order and they’re going to launch. And we have to stop them.” Stanbury paused for a moment, then continued, “Are you still on board?”

Wilson gently swirled the coffee in his cup as he contemplated the admiral’s question. It’d been a long day and an even longer night. His irritation at not being called immediately had been replaced by a conflicting array of emotions, pitting his parental responsibility to protect his family against his moral responsibility to protect millions of others. In the end, he had been requested to make a simple decision. One that he now wondered whether he could follow through on.

One hundred and sixty verses millions.

Was the decision as simple as he pretended, his son on the wrong end of a math inequality? Perhaps the real question, he wondered, was which side of the inequality became stronger with his participation? The situation was too complex to answer at the moment, and Admiral Stanbury needed an answer. Morally, at least, the answer was clear.

“I’m on board, Admiral.”

There was an almost imperceptible nod from the older man, acknowledging Wilson’s difficult decision. “What do we do now?”

Placing his cup on the desk, Wilson answered, “We stick to the plan. We’re currently setting up a three-layer picket-line defense across the entrance to Emerald. Submarines in the front line, P-3Cs in the middle, then surface ships with their helicopters and dipping sonars. The surface ship assets are on their way—the
Nimitz
and
Reagan
Strike Groups are heading out from San Diego, joining the
Stennis
from Washington. The
George Washington
is surging from Japan, and the
Lincoln
Strike Group is being routed back from the Indian Ocean. As far as fixed-wing assets go, we’re pulling in every P-3C squadron worldwide to create a sonobuoy barrier of sufficient density and length.”