The Trident Deception (39 page)

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because the enlisted men work in teams, and none of the men will want to let the rest of his team down. I’m confident that once the General Alarm sounds, their training will take over and override any reservations.” The COB paused for a moment. “However, I cannot vouch for the officers. Their roles are different, and you would have better insight than me.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have that insight,” Malone replied. “The only two officers I have a reasonable bead on are the Weps and Assistant Weps. Lieutenant Wilson will do his part. However, the Weps has doubts and may not comply.”

Prashaw raised his eyebrows. “What will you do?”

Malone leaned back in his chair. “That’s where you come in. When we man Battle Stations, I want you to arm yourself.” The COB’s eyes widened as Malone continued. “Take yourself off the watch bill and put Chief Davidson on as Dive. I want you in Control, and if necessary, we’ll head down to MCC to ensure the Weps executes the order given.”

There was a long silence. “And if the Weps refuses?”

Malone stared pensively at his COB. “We’ll cross that bridge when the time comes.”

64

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

1 HOUR REMAINING

Inside the second-story bedroom of a brownstone town house in the Clarendon district of Arlington, with the afternoon sun slanting through the center slit of drawn curtains, the ceiling came into focus as Christine forced her eyes open. Rolling onto her side, she smacked the clock on the nightstand into submission, silencing the annoying alarm as she examined the time: 1
P.M.
Turning onto her back again, she rubbed her eyes, then let her arms fall to the bed. She was still exhausted.

After a six-minute drive home from the Pentagon this morning, she had collapsed onto her bed. She hadn’t even removed her clothes; only her shoes lay discarded on the floor. Her slumber had lasted four hours. More than a nap but hardly a good night’s sleep, and the few hours of downtime left her feeling more tired now than when she had walked into her town house, drained from her all-night vigil in the Current Action Center. She had wanted to return to the Pentagon as soon as possible and had settled on four hours of sleep.

The cobwebs were clearing slowly, and she decided a hot shower followed by a cup of coffee was what she needed. She padded across the bedroom and into the bathroom, turning on the water and letting it heat up while she stripped off her clothes. Stepping into the shower, she pulled the curtain closed and let the warm water spray across her chest.

After increasing the temperature of the water to as hot as she could stand it, she tilted her head forward, letting the water fall down her shoulders and back. As she stood under the almost scalding water, allowing the tension to ease from her shoulders, steam filled the bathroom with a fine, white mist. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face up to the hot water, pulling her hair behind her head as she reached for the shampoo. But her head snapped forward and her eyes popped open when she heard an unusual thump.

She turned off the water and listened closely, but there was nothing but silence. Then she heard the sound again and concluded it was only her next-door neighbors. Christine turned the water back on and worked the shampoo into her hair. As she rinsed off the soap, letting it run down her body, she hoped it would wash away the guilt that had accumulated over the last week. She had been quick to blame others, and rightly so. Someone was executing an elaborate plot to annihilate another country. But the United States was also at fault; their safeguards had been inadequate. One man, turned traitor and armed with relatively unsophisticated aids, had transmitted a valid launch order to one of their nuclear assets.

They were partly culpable—there was no way around it. And if they didn’t stop the
Kentucky,
the United States would be responsible for mass genocide. Making matters worse, she had helped Hardison and the president keep the issue hidden. If they were successful at stopping the
Kentucky
’s launch, she knew they would work together to ensure what had occurred would never become known to the public. The whole situation made her uneasy, participating in a conspiracy to keep the truth hidden.

Christine stood under the hot water, letting the heat seep into her muscles, then shut off the water and pulled back the shower curtain. She grabbed a white bath towel off the rack. The shower had gone a long way toward waking her up. She dried herself, then wrapped the towel tightly around her body. Stepping out of the shower, she opened the door to let the steam dissipate into her bedroom. As she prepared to blow-dry her hair, she wiped the condensation from the mirror. A pale face stared back at her, looking older than she remembered it. The damp, stringy hair, the washed out features from the bathroom’s fluorescent lighting, and the lack of makeup added years to her appearance.

After drying her hair and applying makeup, Christine donned a white satin blouse and a tan skirt. She hurried downstairs, noting the dead bolt was still thrown on the front door. Standing in front of her kitchen pantry, she debated whether to grab a bite to eat now or when she stopped for coffee. A rumble in her stomach made the decision for her. She surveyed the contents on the shelves, but nothing appealed to her, so she pulled a packet from the only open box.

As she shoved the last of the strawberry Pop-Tart into her mouth, there was a knock on her town house door. She queried her visitor using the intercom and a familiar voice answered, bringing a smile to her face. As she turned toward the front door, it opened, and she remembered that Hendricks still had a key. Her ex-husband stepped into the foyer, holding a small pink gift bag with even brighter pink tissue poking out the top. He gripped the bag tightly, wearing a look on his face she immediately recognized as indecision.

65

USS
KENTUCKY

52 MINUTES REMAINING

It was exactly 1808 Greenwich mean time when the USS
Kentucky
crossed the imaginary line separating Sapphire and Emerald. At that precise moment, Malone stood on the Conn waiting for the report from MCC, confident the analysis would return the expected results. They had done the calculations several times—the last of the ship’s missiles would be in launch range the second they entered Emerald. Still, Malone was putting the strategic weapon system through its paces, verifying the
Kentucky
’s missiles were in range prior to setting Battle Stations.

“Conn, MCC.” The Weps’s voice echoed from the 21-MC. “The ship is within launch range of the assigned target package.”

Even though Malone had been waiting for the report, the announcement caught him off guard. He felt unprepared for the order he must give. He had gone through the routine many times, both at the Trident Training Facility in Bangor and aboard the
Kentucky;
he had the words memorized. But they jumbled through his mind as he prepared to make the 1-MC announcement, refusing his attempts to place them in the proper order. Fortunately, the launch procedures lay on the shelf at the edge of the Conn, opened to the appropriate page. He forced his eyes to focus, but the words remained blurry. It was as if his subconscious was delaying the launch, if only for a moment.

Over the last eight days, he had told himself repeatedly that he would be able to execute the strike order when they reached Emerald. He would focus on the task and not let the thought of what would happen thirty minutes later destroy his concentration. But as he stood on the Conn, the images of the death and destruction their missiles would wreak upon humanity flooded into his mind in vivid colors. In the end, he would be ultimately responsible for what they had done.

But he
was
responsible, he told himself again. He was responsible for ensuring the strike order was executed.

It was as straightforward as that.

Only the force of his words failed to carry the same conviction they had earlier. Malone looked up, searching for the strength to begin, the face of every man in Control turned toward him, waiting for his command.

Yes, that was the key
.

His command.

When he had been offered command of the USS
Kentucky,
BLUE Crew, he knew full well the damage this warship could inflict. He could have declined, but had instead accepted his command, and with it, the responsibility to execute the lawful orders of the president of the United States of America. And he had received that lawful order.

It was as straightforward as that.

This time, his thoughts carried the necessary conviction, and the words on the page slowly came into focus. Malone picked up the 1-MC microphone, making the announcement he had been dreading since receipt of their launch order eight days ago.

“Man Battle Stations Missile for Strategic Launch. Spin up all missiles with the exception of tubes Eight, Ten, and Twelve.”

Throughout the ship, the crew manned their Battle Stations, with the section on watch making the initial preparations for missile launch.

“Helm, all stop,” the Officer of the Deck ordered. “Dive, bring the ship to launch depth. Prepare to hover.”

The Helm and the Diving Officer acknowledged, and the main engines went quiet as the
Kentucky
took a ten-degree up angle, coming shallow and slowing in preparation for launch.

The
Kentucky
’s angle leveled off as the submarine coasted to a dead stop. After engaging the hovering computers, the Diving Officer announced, “The ship is hovering at launch depth.”

Personnel streamed into Control and toward their watch stations throughout the ship, preparing to launch their missiles and defend themselves from the sudden appearance of any adversary. In MCC, Tom and the Weps were joined by a half dozen missile techs, each with a specific responsibility for operating the launch systems, while four-man teams of missile techs formed up in Missile Compartment Upper Level and Lower Level, trained to manually operate the missile tube hydraulics if an electrical fault occurred.

Standing on the Conn, Malone awaited the report from the Chief of the Watch that the
Kentucky
was at Battle Stations. At that point they would begin the strategic launch procedures.

*   *   *

While the ship’s ascent to launch depth and order to man Battle Stations Missile were duly recorded in the ship’s log, what weren’t recorded were the actions of the submarine’s Chief of the Boat, who had unlocked the Forward Small Arms Locker as the crew manned Battle Stations.

Assignments to six submarines, split evenly between fast attacks and boomers, Steve Prashaw had worked his way up from Deck Gang on the
Greenville
to Chief of the Boat, the crown jewel of an enlisted submariner’s career. Although promotion to master chief had its professional privileges, nothing compared to the personal reward of serving as COB on a submarine, running the boat for the Captain, and the responsibility and respect that went with it.

But that satisfaction could come crashing down in a single event. Prashaw didn’t know how the rest of the Submarine Force would receive them upon their return home—as heroes or as villains for executing their mission. He suspected it would be something in between, professional admiration marred with personal revulsion. But if one of their crew was murdered in order to execute their mission …

Prashaw cleared his mind, returning his attention to the order he’d been given. Perusing the assortment of weapons in the small arms locker, he selected a 9mm Llama semiautomatic pistol. The shotguns and rifles were meant for topside watches and would be unwieldy in the submarine’s confined spaces. As he counted the number of rounds in the clip, he wished they still used the Colt 45 handgun. The 45 had been abandoned in favor of the 9mm due to the propensity for the Colt’s first round to jam. But Prashaw believed the Colt would have proved valuable today. The first round jamming would have given both parties a final opportunity to reconsider their actions.

Unfortunately, the 9mm was what the
Kentucky
carried, and the COB reluctantly inserted the clip into the pistol. Sliding the pistol into a holster strapped around his waist left a sour taste in his mouth. The submarine’s small arms were supposed to be used to repel boarders. They were meant to protect the crew, not harm them.

*   *   *

As Malone stood on the Conn, waiting patiently for the ship to man Battle Stations, the COB arrived and stopped beside the Chief of the Watch; that he carried a firearm was not lost on the personnel in Control. Malone’s eyes drifted to the pistol. He hoped its use would not be necessary, that the Weps would fulfill his part in the strategic launch.

The Chief of the Watch reported the ship was at Battle Stations Missile.

Malone reflected for a moment about what he and his crew were about to do, then he picked up the 1-MC. “Set condition One-SQ for strategic launch. This is the Commanding Officer. The release of nuclear weapons has been directed.”

Malone waited for the XO to repeat the order. But he just stood there, his eyes shifting between the other officers in Control and the COB—and darting down to the pistol holstered on the master chief’s waist. The XO’s delay was unusual; they had simulated their missile launch many times and he always immediately passed the duplicate order over the 21-MC.

As Malone waited for the XO, he suddenly realized he had gotten it all wrong. He had been focused on the Weps, unsure whether he would execute his order. However, if the Weps refused, he could be replaced and his combination to the Trigger retrieved from the safe in the Op Center and handed over to his successor.

He had overlooked the more obvious threat. The crew would not respond to a strategic launch order unless that identical order was given by two men. The first man was the submarine’s Commanding Officer. The second man was its Executive Officer. But unlike the Weps, the XO could not be relieved and replaced. Unless Lieutenant Commander Bruce Fay repeated the order, the crew would not initiate the launch sequence.