The Trident Deception (43 page)

Christine wrenched her left hand away from Hendricks’s grip, grabbing his left wrist with both hands. She pushed upward with both arms, and the pressure on her neck eased. She soon saw the tip of the knife as she continued to push Hendricks’s hand up and away from her neck.

His lips twisted into a mocking sneer. “Nicely done, Chris. However, there’s one major flaw in your plan.” He lifted his right hand, no longer occupied with pinning her left hand, and wiggled his fingers. He curled his hand into a fist, then smashed it down into her face.

Her mouth ignited in pain, throbbing with each heartbeat as blood oozed from her lips, split open by his punch. But her attention remained focused on the knife, which had closed half the distance toward her neck as the pain coursed through her body.

He pulled his fist back, then brought it down swiftly again in a crushing blow. Christine’s nose crumpled under the force, blood spewing from her nostrils. Searing pain flashed through her face, turning her vision yellow with pinpricks of light dancing across her eyes. She fought through the pain, focusing again on the knife. She could no longer see the tip of the blade.

But she could feel it.

The tip pressed against her neck again, the blade suddenly dull compared to the sharp pain in her nose and mouth. Hendricks pulled his fist back again, but his hand halted in midair.

“That ought to do it.”

His fist opened, his right hand joining his left around the knife handle.

“Good-bye, Christine.”

He pressed down with both hands, and she felt the knife pierce into her neck. Her arms and shoulders strained, pushing up against his hands, struggling to halt the knife’s descent. Blood from her beaten face seeped into her mouth between clenched teeth. Tears of frustration and anger filled her eyes, rage building inside her as she realized she would soon be dead.

Because she was weak.

Because she was naïve.

Because she was
betrayed
.

Her rage broke in a torrent of adrenaline, flooding her body with the resolve to survive. She channeled the white-hot anger into her shoulders, her arms, her grip on his wrists.

The knife’s descent halted.

Christine’s neck burned as the tip of the knife wavered, lacerating the edges of the thin cut in her neck. Hendricks’s eyes widened as she found the strength to match his, the insolence to defy him. The dark pupils of his eyes examined her for a moment. Then he grinned, the corners of his mouth curling up into a familiar smile.

He leaned forward, adding his weight to the strength of his arms.

The knife resumed its descent.

Christine strained to repulse the sharp blade slicing deeper into her flesh, pouring every ounce of strength into her burning muscles, her shoulders and arms shaking from the effort.

But he was too strong.

Although she still strained against his hands, her arms stopped trembling, calm replacing the panic that had strangled her thoughts just seconds ago. She had done everything possible to defend herself. At least there was satisfaction in that.

There was nothing more she could do.

She accepted her fate.

Christine closed her eyes as warm blood pooled beneath her head, spreading slowly across the cold stone tile.

71

HMAS
COLLINS

32 MINUTES REMAINING

“Missile launch transients, bearing zero-zero-two!”

The Sonar Supervisor’s report carried across the
Collins
’s Control Room.

Wilson was standing next to Humphreys behind the combat control consoles; his chest tightened at the words. The hope he had nurtured from the first moments in Stanbury’s office—that he would somehow be able to communicate with the
Kentucky
and not sink her—had been shattered. Now that she had begun launching, the only way to stop her was to attack.

Humphreys had come to that conclusion as well. He wasted no time.

“Firing Point Procedures, contact Master One, One Tube.”

The fire control electronic technicians complied as they determined the target’s solution. It was an easy task since their target was launching missiles—she was dead in the water. The only unknown parameter was range, and the combat system quickly delivered that information.

Humphreys began to receive the expected reports:

“Ship Control correct,” the Officer of the Watch announced, informing Humphreys the submarine was operating within torpedo launch limits.

“Navigation correct,” the Navigator reported, verifying there were no navigational constraints affecting the torpedo run toward its target.

“Fire Control correct,” the Weapons Officer called out. “Primary weapon ready—One Tube. Secondary weapon—Two Tube.”

The
Collins
was ready to engage.

Humphreys looked to Wilson for permission to fire on a U.S. submarine.

But Wilson wasn’t ready.

When the
Kentucky
didn’t acknowledge her Launch Termination Order, he was certain at first it was nothing more than a Radio Room casualty. But his confidence was shaken when Malone departed his moving haven, for reasons still unknown. Even so, every fiber of his being told him Malone and his crew were simply executing launch orders they believed to be valid, and that things were wrong in ways he couldn’t even begin to grasp. Throughout it all, he held on to one firm belief: that he would be able to save his son’s life.

Wilson’s hope they would not have to sink the
Kentucky
had just been crushed, the same way the submarine’s hull would be crushed by the ocean depth a few minutes after the
Collins
fired. He had hoped that somehow the father would return home with the Prodigal Son, at which point he would retire. As they closed on the
Kentucky,
he had measured his love for the Navy, to which he had dedicated thirty years, against his love for his son—and it paled in comparison.

However, as he stood in the Control Room of the Australian submarine, none of that mattered. He had been placed aboard the
Collins
for a purpose. His personal feelings were not relevant. Humphreys and the other men and women in the quiet Control Room stared at him, waiting for his order. Finally, Wilson decided there was no point in waiting any longer. He spoke firmly, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Proceed.”

Humphreys turned to his Weapons Officer. “Fire One Tube.”

The electronic technician at the Weapons Control Console pressed the Fire key on the touch plasma display, sending the fire signal down to the Weapon Stowage Compartment, initiating the launch sequence for tube One.

72

USS
KENTUCKY

31 MINUTES REMAINING

“FOUR, away.”

Tom spoke into the microphone in his left hand, the Trigger still in his right. He had squeezed it four times now, each contraction accompanied by the flexing of the submarine’s deck as the missile left the ship. His mind was numb, his actions and reports automated. He felt divorced from his body, no longer controlling the words he said, the muscles he contracted. The horror of what he had done, what he was continuing to do, reflected from dark brown eyes set within a pale white face.

The ship’s deck steadied as the submarine recovered from the launch of missile FOUR, its first-stage engines igniting now, just above the water’s surface. The starboard missile team was now in place at tube Five, the teams in each level working their way down the port and starboard sides of the ship. Tom brought the microphone to his lips again.

“Prepare FIVE.”

*   *   *

Commander Malone stood in front of the Captain’s Indicator Panel in Control, monitoring the status of the launch. He was proud of his crew, executing this difficult task professionally. Yet at the same time, his stomach churned; he could taste the acid in his mouth.

How could they do this?

How could
he
do this?

As he stood on the hard steel deck of the submarine, his thoughts drifted back to his childhood, when he had knelt in front of the wooden pews in church, thinking about one of the more important axioms he had been taught to believe as a small boy.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you
.

He knew there would be no reconciling what he was doing with the morals that had been ingrained in him as a child. He couldn’t even begin to think of what would soon happen thousands of miles away. But there would be time enough for reflection during the
Kentucky
’s lonely voyage home, which would begin as soon as she discharged her obligation, and her twenty-one missiles. As Malone’s thoughts returned to the status of the missile launch, the next report came across the ship’s announcing system. But it wasn’t the report he expected from MCC, announcing the launch of missile FIVE.

“Torpedo in the water!”

Malone’s heart leapt to his throat as Sonar’s report echoed across Control.

“Torpedo bearing one-eight-two!”

A red bearing line appeared on the combat control displays, signaling the detection of an incoming torpedo. Where that torpedo had come from was answered by Sonar’s next report.

“Heavyweight torpedo, submarine launched!”

73

HMAS
COLLINS
USS
KENTUCKY

30 MINUTES REMAINING

Commander Humphreys peered over the Weapons Officer’s shoulder as the Weps called out, “Own ship’s unit has enabled, active pinging. Solution on Master One holding firm.”

Wilson reviewed the solution for the
Kentucky
, represented by a red half circle on the combat control screen. Their torpedo, a green ∧, was rapidly closing in on the
Kentucky
. Unfortunately, they’d been forced to fire at long range in an attempt to disrupt additional missile launches, and that would give the
Kentucky
an opportunity to evade, even starting from dead in the water.

Ideally, Wilson would have preferred to fire a warning shot and call it a day. However, submarine warfare was usually a duel to the death. Now that the
Kentucky
had been attacked, Malone and his crew would do everything within their ability to sink the
Collins,
and the
Collins
had no choice but to do the same.

Only one submarine would survive.

Commander Humphreys intended to ensure that submarine was the
Collins
.

The first torpedo was on its way. A second torpedo would follow.

“Firing Point Procedures, Two Tube, contact Master One.”

USS
KENTUCKY

“Secure from strategic launch!”

Malone began issuing orders to his crew, transitioning the ship from its vulnerable strategic launch posture, dead in the water, to a viable submarine killer.

“Helm, ahead flank! Steady course two-seven-zero!”

“Launch countermeasure!”

The submarine’s propeller surged into action, churning the water as it strained to accelerate the
Kentucky
to maximum speed, and a countermeasure was ejected to maintain the incoming torpedo focused on where the
Kentucky
had been rather than where it was headed.

“Flood all torpedo tubes. Open muzzle doors, tubes One through Four!”

Returning his attention to the Captain’s Indicator Panel, Malone waited for the red lights to extinguish, signaling the disarming of the gas generators and the closing of the ship’s missile tube hatches. All indications switched back to their normal dark status.

“Conn, Torpedo Room. Tubes flooded down, muzzle doors open.”

The
Kentucky
had completed her transition—her missile hatches were shut and torpedo tube doors open. She was ready to fight back.

“Rapid counterfire! Bearing one-eight-two, tube Two!”

The
Kentucky
had no solution on the target—only the bearing of the incoming torpedo. But Malone couldn’t wait to gain the target on sonar and for the submarine’s combat control algorithms to calculate the contact’s solution. He needed to shoot now and would settle for a shot back down the bearing of the torpedo.

“Solution ready!” The XO verified the correct bearing had been assigned to the torpedo.

“Weapon ready!” the Weapons Control Coordinator called out.

“Ship ready!” the Navigator announced.

“Shoot!” Malone ordered.

Malone listened to the whirr of the submarine’s torpedo ejection pump and the characteristic sound of the four-thousand-pound torpedo being ejected from the submarine’s torpedo tube, accelerating from rest to thirty knots in less than a second.

Inside Sonar, Petty Officer DelGreco and the other sonar techs relayed orders and reports between them, simultaneously attempting to lock on to the threat submarine’s sonar signature, track its incoming torpedo, and monitor the status of their outgoing unit. Sonar referred to their torpedo as “own ship’s unit” so their reports wouldn’t be confused with information about an incoming torpedo.

“Own ship’s unit is in the water, running normally.”

“Fuel crossover achieved.”

“Turning to preset gyro course.”

“Shifting to medium speed.”

The
Kentucky
’s torpedo turned to the ordered bearing and began the search for its target. But while they held the outgoing and incoming torpedoes, they had not yet detected another submarine.

“Hold no contacts.”

Either the threat submarine was far away or a quiet contact. Or both.

As the
Kentucky
increased speed to evade the incoming torpedo, Malone knew he’d soon render his sonar systems useless, blinded by the submarine’s turbulent passage through the water, unable to detect the enemy and any additional torpedo launches. But worrying about subsequent launches would have to wait. The
Kentucky
had to survive the first incoming torpedo before she could concern herself with another. Malone focused his attention on the announcements from Sonar, reporting the bearing of the torpedo every ten seconds.