The Trident Deception (18 page)

“Will everyone be on station in time?”

“Yes, sir, assuming the
Kentucky
proceeds at twelve knots or less. But it’s unlikely the
Kentucky
is traveling that fast. She doesn’t need to reach Emerald in a hurry, she just needs to get there. So my bet is she’s taking her time, nice and quiet, making our job that much harder.”

“What are our odds, Murray?”

Wilson contemplated the admiral’s question, stacking up the capabilities of the entire Pacific Fleet against the lone
Kentucky
. But then Wilson replayed Stanbury’s question in his mind, replacing one of the words.

What are
their
odds?

Wilson shrugged. “It’s probably going to come down to luck.”

23

USS
KENTUCKY

“What the hell was all that about?”

Malone asked the rhetorical question aloud as he was joined by the XO, the Nav, and Tom at the Quartermaster’s stand in Control, reviewing the solutions on the chart for the 688s that had crossed their path multiple times. Three 688s had cut back and forth across the
Kentucky
’s moving haven, the middle 688 almost ramming the
Kentucky
on her first pass. Malone, having spent his first three tours on 688s, understood fast-attack tactics well. These 688s were prosecuting, looking to engage. But whom?

The XO shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve been ordered to launch, so maybe SUBPAC vectored in a few 688s to ensure no one was in our area who could pick us up, or even worse, was already trailing us.”

“But who would be interested in tracking us?” the Nav asked. “We’ve been assigned a target package against Iran, not Russia or China. They’re the only two countries with the ability to find us in the open ocean.”

“They don’t know what our target package is,” Malone replied. “I’m sure both Russia and China intercepted our strike message. They can’t break it, but they know someone has been ordered to launch. And I bet that’s making them pretty nervous. With the president dead and Washington destroyed, I bet everyone’s on pins and needles, hoping we got it right and are retaliating against the right country.”

Malone fell silent for a moment before continuing. “Take her up to periscope depth, Tom. I want to download the fast-attack broadcast. Find out what the hell is going on up there.”

*   *   *

“No close contacts!”

Twenty minutes later, the
Kentucky
was at periscope depth, and Tom slowed his revolutions on the scope, shifting between high and low power as he searched the early morning horizon and sky for surface ships and aircraft. Malone sat in his chair on the Conn, monitoring the ascent to PD.

“Conn, Nav. Satellite fix received.”

Tom acknowledged Nav Center as he waited for Radio to download the broadcast, continuing his alternating high and low power sweeps of the horizon. A few minutes later, the expected report came over the 27-MC.

“Conn, Radio. Download complete.”

Tom replied immediately, “All stations, Conn. Going deep.” After flipping up the periscope handles, he lowered the scope into its well. “Helm, ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth three hundred feet.”

The
Kentucky
’s deck pitched downward as the submarine began its descent. A few minutes later, as the
Kentucky
settled out at three hundred feet, one of the radiomen approached Malone with the message board. The Captain flipped through the messages quickly, stopping on the last one. After what seemed like forever, Malone rose and handed the clipboard to Tom, then left Control without a word. Tom flipped to the last message. It was only the weekly news summary. But after reading the first few paragraphs, he realized it was unlike any news summary he’d ever read.

It would normally have contained snippets of significant events, entertainment news, and sports scores. But there was none of that this week. The message provided information on the detonation of the nuclear bomb in Washington, D.C., and the gruesome aftermath. The damage and death toll were staggering; the entire city had been either destroyed or rendered uninhabitable, and the death count was now over three hundred thousand. Deadly radiation levels extended into both Virginia and Maryland, and the D.C. suburbs had been evacuated. Article after article detailed the destruction wreaked by the nuclear explosion, and the evidence linking the attack to Iran.

Tom closed the message board and handed it back to the radioman, who would route the board through the Wardroom and Chief’s Quarters and post a copy of the weekly news summary outside Crew’s Mess. The
Kentucky
’s crew would soon fully grasp what had been done to their country, and appreciate the role they would play in America’s retaliation.

7 DAYS REMAINING

24

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Transformed from a screened-in porch into a sunroom by First Lady Grace Coolidge in the 1920s, the Solarium sitting atop the White House Promenade offers a breathtaking view of the White House Ellipse, the Washington Monument, and the Jefferson Memorial. However, the spectacular weather, inspiring view, and sunlight streaming into the room this afternoon failed to dispel the dark, strained mood within. Standing in front of the Solarium windows, the president, framed by a clear blue sky, awaited news on the search for the
Kentucky
.

Christine and Hardison had arrived with an update, standing with the usual four-foot separation between them, as if they were polarized magnets. On Christine’s other side stood Brackman, almost close enough for their hands to touch. As she prepared to brief their failed attempt to locate the
Kentucky,
the president spoke first.

“What now?”

Christine hesitated. The look on their faces must have conveyed their first attempt to sink the
Kentucky
had failed. She turned to Brackman, who answered the president’s question at her cue.

“The Navy is setting up a three-layer picket line near the border of the
Kentucky
’s patrol area. We’ve sortied every ship and submarine available in the Pacific, and assigned every P-3C squadron to PAC Fleet. But we also need to prepare in case the
Kentucky
reaches her patrol area and launches. We have a few missile defense capabilities we could deploy to the Middle East.”

“And they are?”

“There’s THAAD, or Terminal High Altitude Area Defense, a kinetic energy hit-to-kill system. We have three batteries, and we can position the launchers anywhere we need them.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“We have the Aegis Ballistic Missile Defense System, which uses an SM-3 missile fired from our
Aegis
-class cruisers and destroyers. The destroyers have been assigned to the picket line near Emerald, but we have several cruisers in the Western Pacific right now.”

“What about the Patriot missile batteries?” the president asked. “Can we use those?”

“Unfortunately not,” Brackman replied. “They’re designed for short- and medium-range missiles. The
Kentucky
carries intercontinental missiles, which almost reach a low orbit before returning to earth. They’ll be traveling so fast during their descent that Patriot missiles will be ineffective.”

The president frowned. “Get the cruisers and THAAD batteries into position.”

“Yes, Mr. President. But I have to advise you, it’s an impossible task to destroy all twenty-four missiles. Our BMD systems operate well until the first intercept. Once the first missile is destroyed and breaks into fragments, the following interceptors will have difficulty differentiating between the debris and the remaining missiles. And as more missiles are destroyed, the problem becomes exponentially more complex. We simply don’t have enough interceptors or time to eliminate all twenty-four missiles and their warheads.”

“So, to paraphrase your assessment,” the president replied, “if the
Kentucky
launches, we’re screwed.”

Brackman nodded. “Screwed is an understatement.”

25

EL PASO, TEXAS

Midafternoon in southwest Texas, home to Fort Bliss and the Army’s 11th Air Defense Artillery Brigade. Off to the east, a brief thunderstorm that had brought so much promise and so little rain had moved on, letting the hot sun shine down again through broken clouds. The warm rain had evaporated as quickly as it fell, steam rising from the baked ground, creating the kind of oppressive humidity and stifling heat that knocks down even the Texas-size bugs. Just off Jeb Stuart Road, hanging from the windows of a single-story, cinder-block building, air conditioners stripped moisture from the heavy air, water dripping onto the ground below. Inside the plain white building, Sergeant Alan Kent leaned back in his chair under one of the air-conditioner vents, feet propped up on his desk, newspaper in hand, counting down the minutes until the workday ended and liberty commenced.

It’d been a quiet morning and an even slower afternoon. As Kent flipped from the sports section to the entertainment pages, Corporal Bruce Cherry, seated nearby at the message terminal, looked up from his boredom as a solitary radio message appeared in his queue. Not bothering to read more than the header, Cherry hit Print, grabbing the message as it was pushed from the printer.

“Sarge, movement orders coming in.”

Cherry handed the message to Kent, who, after reading the first paragraph, dropped his feet to the floor. Placing the orders on his desk, he continued reading the directive, hunched over the piece of paper.

Kent looked up. “What’s the status of Alpha Battery, 4th Regiment?”

“The THAAD battery?”

“Yep.”

“Fully operational.”

“Get Major Dewire on the phone. Tell him to get Alpha Battery packing. They’re headed to the Middle East.”

26

USS
LAKE ERIE

Captain Mary Cordeiro stood on the Bridge of her ship, hands clasped behind her back, feet planted wide. While other members of the Bridge watch held on to equipment consoles to steady themselves, Cordeiro refused. After twenty-four years in the Navy, two-thirds of that at sea, she knew when to flex her knees and shift her weight as the storm battered her five-hundred-foot-long cruiser, a small gray speck on the stormy seas.

As Cordeiro peered through the Bridge windows into the darkness, another forty-foot wave broke over the fo’c’sle, crashing against the Bridge with enough force to send tremors through the ship. The wave swept by the
Lake Erie,
the current tugging at the ship’s rudder. Seaman Brian McKeon, on watch at the Helm, struggled to keep the ship headed into the monstrous waves. Sweeping rapidly back and forth, the window wipers worked furiously in a futile attempt to clear the sheets of water deluging the Bridge windows. Just as the water thinned enough to see the bow, faintly illuminated by the ship’s mast headlight, the ship plunged down again into the dark seas.

Abandoned in the Indian Ocean, the
Lake Erie
loitered on station, awaiting orders. The rest of the
Erie
’s carrier strike group had headed east a few days ago at flank speed, but 5th Fleet seemed to have forgotten about the cruiser, and the
Lake Erie
had been riding out the storm, just shy of typhoon strength, for the better part of the night. Another three hours and they’d be through the worst of it.

As the ship plunged through the heavy seas, Cordeiro’s thoughts were disrupted by her Communications Officer, appearing next to her with a message in hand. “Ma’am. This in from 5th Fleet.”

Cordeiro read the message.

Finally
.

But her orders sent them northwest, into the Strait of Hormuz, instead of east with the rest of her carrier strike group.

Prepare for ballistic missile defense of the Persian Gulf region.

The SM-3 missile system carried aboard the
Lake Erie
had performed well during its operational testing, but those had been canned scenarios. Would the ship be able to maintain its vigilance twenty-four hours a day, detect and then intercept an incoming missile with no notice? A much more difficult scenario.

Cordeiro walked over to the navigation chart, mentally laying out a course to the Persian Gulf. They needed to turn west, but had to continue north until the worst of the storm passed. She looked up at Seaman McKeon. Another wave broke across the fo’c’sle, smashing against the Bridge windows. McKeon struggled to keep the ship on course, his hands turning white as he maintained the rudder amidships. But the waves approached from just off the port bow, and the ship drifted to starboard as it rode up the waves, twisting back to port as it dropped into the deep trough.

Cordeiro approached McKeon, and she couldn’t help but notice the expression on the young man’s face. The mere presence of the ship’s Captain in the same compartment as a newly reported seaman was enough to cause queasiness in a young sailor’s stomach. A direct conversation would strike fear, and a reprimand—sheer terror.

She stopped beside McKeon. “Don’t fight the waves. The goal is to keep the
ship
straight, not the rudder.” Placing her hand on the helm next to McKeon’s, she continued, “Relax your grip. I’ve got it. Now feel what I’m doing.”

Cordeiro eased off the helm as the next wave approached, allowing the rudder to move in the direction the seas pushed it, then she shifted the rudder across midships as the
Lake Erie
crested the wave and began her dive down the steep swell. The ship’s bow slowed its swaying with each passing wave, finally steadying on course, in contradiction to the rudder that shifted beneath them.

“Understand?”

McKeon replied affirmative, and Cordeiro released the helm, returning it to the seaman’s control. She stepped back, watching him adjust the rudder, his actions becoming more fluid with each passing wave.

“Steady as you go, McKeon. You’re doing just fine.”