The Trident Deception (22 page)

I have seen war. I have seen war on land and on sea. I have seen blood running from the wounded. I have seen the dead in the mud. I have seen cities destroyed. I have seen children starving. I have seen the agony of mothers and wives. I hate war.

After a moment, Captain Brackman finally spoke, his words muted by the roar of the adjacent waterfall. “It’s a somewhat appropriate quote considering the circumstances, don’t you think?”

It was more a statement than a question, but Christine nodded nonetheless. As she stood near Brackman in the cool air, she could feel the heat radiating from his body through his thin Windbreaker, could smell the faint scent of his cologne. Her thoughts suddenly wandered. She wondered if he was attracted to her, imagined what it would feel like to have his strong arms wrapped around her. She felt the heat rising in her face and quickly forced the thoughts from her mind, hoping he hadn’t noticed her reddening cheeks. Thankfully, his eyes remained focused on the inscription. After another moment of silence, she looked up toward the overcast sky as a gust of cold wind whipped through the alcove. “So what brings you out of the office on a day like this?”

Brackman glanced around the memorial, verifying no one was close enough to overhear their conversation. “There’s something you need to know. You weren’t the only one alarmed at what Hardison might have been contemplating during our last meeting with the president. I decided to talk with him afterward, and as I was about to knock on his door, I overheard part of his conversation on the phone. It was about Hendricks.”

“What did you hear?” Christine asked slowly.

Brackman’s eyes seemed distant as he continued. “He was making arrangements to silence Hendricks, negotiating the price. He wanted it done after this issue with the
Kentucky
is over, and wanted to be informed when everything was ready. After he hung up, I left quickly—I didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping.”

Christine took a moment to digest what Brackman had revealed, searching for another explanation. “Perhaps you misunderstood,” she suggested. “Are you sure about what you heard?”

“Enough to be confident about what he’s planning.”

A cold wind whipped through the alcove again, swirling around them as Christine contemplated what Brackman had overheard. It was hearsay, conjecture at this point, and there was little she could do except confront Hardison about his intentions. That would be pointless, so she decided instead to watch him closely, searching for any indication he was about to execute his plan, whatever it was. It seemed that as long as the
Kentucky
survived, Dave was safe. After the submarine launched its missiles or was sunk, however, all bets were off.

After a moment, Brackman asked, “Do you have other questions or want me to do anything?”

Christine shook her head slowly.

Brackman placed his hand on her arm, his strong hand squeezing her gently. “Take care, Christine.” He turned and headed toward the fourth gallery and the memorial’s exit.

*   *   *

After remaining in the alcove for another minute, Christine decided to exit through the entrance, pausing temporarily in the first gallery. She hadn’t been to the memorial since the day it was dedicated. She recalled reading perhaps FDR’s most famous quote, spoken during his 1933 inaugural address, which was inscribed in the granite wall of the first gallery. Standing in front of the words, she read them again.

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

Christine realized she didn’t have President Roosevelt’s strength. She was afraid they’d be unable to prevent the
Kentucky
from destroying Iran. She also worried about what Hardison appeared capable of; she feared for Dave’s life. And in the dim recesses of her mind, she feared for her own.

It was getting late. Twilight had arrived, and the Tidal Basin’s white perimeter lighting shimmered on the water’s black surface. Christine pushed the fear from her thoughts, then tucked her head down to protect her face from the wind. Leaving the FDR Memorial behind, she headed back up the Cherry Tree Walk toward the White House, and Kevin Hardison.

5 DAYS REMAINING

34

USS
KENTUCKY

It was just before midnight, with Section 3 relieving the watch, when Commander Brad Malone entered Control.

“Captain in Control,” the Chief of the Watch announced.

As usual, Malone began his midnight tour of the submarine at the top of the Operations Compartment. Glancing around, he verified the enlisted watchstanders had already turned over, while Tom, the oncoming Officer of the Deck, was still reviewing the ship’s status with the offgoing OOD. As the two officers completed their turnover, Malone couldn’t help but notice how much Tom was like his father.

Malone had served as Engineer Officer on the USS
Buffalo
under Tom’s old man and had learned almost everything he knew about submarine tactics from the seasoned veteran. When Malone reported as the
Kentucky
BLUE Crew commanding officer, he’d been pleased to discover Tom was one of his junior officers, giving Malone the opportunity to pass along the valuable insight he’d received from Tom’s father. Tom had been a quick learner, easily grasping complex tactical concepts, qualifying as Officer of the Deck earlier than most, and establishing himself as the most capable junior officer in the Wardroom.

Malone felt a sense of pride in the fine officer Tom had become—the same pride, he was sure, felt by the young officer’s mother and father. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he could depend on Tom, no matter what the circumstance.

Malone continued his midnight tour, stopping in Radio and Sonar, then dropped down to the second level of the Operations Compartment. The doors to the officer staterooms were closed. As the smell of fresh pastries wafted up from below, Malone descended another level and entered Crew’s Mess. In the adjacent Galley, the Night Baker was busy cooking the desserts for tomorrow’s meals. Petty Officer Ted Luther had just pulled six apple pies out of the upper oven and was busy crimping the dough along the edges of the next batch.

Luther seemed not to notice the Captain’s arrival in Crew’s Mess and Malone continued his midnight tour, heading down to the lowest of the four levels in the Operations Compartment. On duty tonight as the Torpedoman of the Watch was 3rd Class Machinist Mate John Barber, sitting under the Weapon Control Console by the ship’s four torpedo tubes. Barber, alone on watch with thirteen green warshot torpedoes in their stows, stood as Commander Malone entered the Torpedo Room.

“Good morning, Captain.”

“Morning, Barber. How are things going?”

“Good, sir. The only issue we have is a small hydraulic leak from tube Three flood valve.”

Malone stopped by Barber, kneeling on the deck grate to get a clear view of the offending valve, just as a drop of hydraulic fluid fell from the valve body into the bilge.

“What’s the plan?” Malone asked as he regained his feet.

“The chief wants to tag out the tube on the morning watch and replace the valve’s internal O-rings. I’m working on the danger tagout now.”

“Who’s doing the maintenance?”

“I am, sir.” Barber’s eyes brightened with pride. “It’ll be my first valve rebuild.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Malone replied. “I’ll stop by in the morning to see how things turned out.”

Malone headed aft toward the ladder leading up to the next level, passing between the
Kentucky
’s warshot torpedoes on his way. The nineteen-foot-long, two-ton MK 48 Mod 6 torpedoes the ship carried were the mainstay weapons of the U.S. Submarine Force, being slowly upgraded to the even more advanced Mod 7 torpedo, carried by the fast-attack submarines in small quantities. As Malone passed between the warshot torpedoes on both sides, there was something reassuring, yet frightening, about the torpedo’s autonomous nature, so different from the World War II version.

World War II torpedoes were straight runners, not much more than a bomb propelled though the water in a straight line. The crew’s job was to calculate the bearing rate and range of its intended target, then shoot the torpedo at the required lead angle, not much different from a quarterback judging the distance and speed of his receiver cutting across the field, throwing the ball to the spot where the receiver and the ball would converge.

Today’s torpedoes were artificially intelligent weapons with their own sonars and computerized brains. After launch, they would analyze the returns from the sonar in their noses, sorting through what could be a submarine or a surface ship, or a decoy launched or trailed behind them. Reassuring in their capability, the torpedoes also had an independent nature that was quite disconcerting. They could not distinguish between friend and foe, and there was always the possibility a torpedo, while searching for its intended target, could lock on to the submarine that fired it.

There were safeguards to prevent that, as well as a guidance wire attached to the MK 48 torpedoes the U.S. submarines fired. The thin copper wire, dispensed from both the torpedo and a spool in the torpedo tube, carried data between the torpedo and the submarine’s Combat Control System. Over the guidance wire, the crew could send new commands after the torpedo had been launched, changing its initial course, depth, or other search parameters. Likewise, the torpedo would send information back to the submarine: status reports as it searched the ocean and details on the decoy or target it was evaluating or had decided to attack.

The
Kentucky
’s crew was well trained in torpedo employment, but its main mission was launching ballistic missiles. As Malone ascended to Operations Compartment 3rd Level and headed aft toward the Missile Compartment, his thoughts turned from the ship’s tactical weapons to her strategic ones; the twenty-four missiles she carried. After reaching the watertight door leading into the Missile Compartment, he ascended another level and stopped in Missile Control Center, where two missile techs stood watch at all times. The cool air greeted him as he entered; the air-conditioning system kept MCC around 60 degrees, dissipating the heat generated from the rows of computers that controlled the launch systems.

After reviewing the status of the strategic launch systems, Malone left MCC and entered the Missile Compartment on its third of four levels, passing by the nine-man bunk rooms between each pair of missile tubes, their curtains drawn. Continuing aft, he traveled through the Reactor Compartment passageway and entered the Engine Room. He decided to stop by Maneuvering, a ten-by-ten-foot Control Room where the Engineering Officer of the Watch and three of the nine enlisted personnel stood watch.

The three enlisted watchstanders in Maneuvering managed the reactor, electric, and steam plants. The Reactor Operator in the middle adjusted the height of the reactor’s control rods, which controlled the rate of fission and core temperature, as he also controlled the speed of the pumps that pushed cooling water through the core. The Electrical Operator on the right controlled the submarine’s two electrical turbine generators, producing electricity as steam passed through their turbines, as well as two motor-generators connected to the submarine’s battery. The Throttleman on the left monitored the steam plant and controlled its most important valves—the main engine throttles, which he spun open to the appropriate point based on the propulsion bell rung up by the Helm in Control.

Malone reviewed the status of the propulsion plant, then continued his tour of the engineering spaces, stopping in Engine Room Upper Level between the submarine’s main engines. It was here, between the two twenty-foot-tall turbines, that Malone felt the strength of his ship. It wasn’t in the nuclear weapons they carried that would destroy others, or the torpedoes that would protect them. It was the Engine Room, creating the drinkable water and oxygen they needed to survive, generating the electricity that brought the ship to life, and the propulsion that would carry them away from danger.

Commander Brad Malone held his hands out to his sides, feeling the heat radiate off the main engines, replacing the chill in his bones created by the always cool Operations Compartment. Here, between the main engines, not far from Maneuvering, where he had started his career as a junior officer almost twenty years ago, he felt at peace. Only a few short days ago, looking at the twenty-nine-point cribbage hand, he had expected this, his last patrol, to be his most rewarding one. But the nuclear launch order had changed everything.

Malone sighed heavily as he dropped his hands, then headed forward.

35

USS
NORTH CAROLINA

“Pilot, ahead two-thirds.”

Commander Gallagher stood next to his Officer of the Deck as he ordered the submarine to slow from ahead full to ten knots, preparing to search the surrounding waters again. After heading west at ahead flank for twenty-eight straight hours, they had slowed as they entered the back edge of their target’s Area of Uncertainty. Finding nothing, they had proceeded toward the center of the AOU. But the target’s AOU was large and growing bigger by the hour, so Gallagher had elected to use the sprint and drift tactic, cutting across the AOU at ahead full, slowing to ahead two-thirds periodically to search for their target.

The
North Carolina
was vulnerable during her ahead full sprints, her sensors blunted, but Gallagher was reassured by the stealthy nature of his new submarine. The
North Carolina,
the fourth in the
Virginia
-class, was quieter at ahead full than a 688 was tied to the pier. And he was certain they were much quieter than their target, even if the Chinese counterfeit they were chasing was as quiet as the Trident design they had copied. The
North Carolina
’s only vulnerability, Gallagher figured, was the weapons she carried. Or lack thereof.

Gallagher had just toured the barren Torpedo Room; the submarine’s only two warshots were loaded into Torpedo Tubes One and Two. But at least they were the new Mod 7 variant, the most capable in the U.S. arsenal. However, in less than a minute, both bullets could be spent with no guarantee they would find their mark, leaving the
North Carolina
defenseless. Additionally, they were far from the proficient crew they’d be after a six-month workup for a WESTPAC deployment. Fortunately, Gallagher was the most seasoned fast-attack CO on the waterfront.