The Trident Deception (44 page)

“Torpedo bears one-eight-zero, drawing aft.”

Good
.

The torpedo hadn’t locked on to the
Kentucky
yet and was still headed toward the submarine’s original position. The question was, Would the torpedo close to within detection range before the
Kentucky
vacated the area?

“Passing twenty knots,” the Helm reported. “Steady course two-seven-zero.”

Malone needed to worry not only about how far away the torpedo was but also at what depth it was searching. They had been launching their missiles when they’d been fired at, so best bet was that the torpedo was searching for them shallow, at the same depth they were currently at. That was something Malone needed to change.

“Dive, make your depth eight hundred feet.”

The
Kentucky
’s deck tilted downward.

HMAS
COLLINS

“Two Tube presets matched. Weapon ready!” the
Collins
’s Weapons Officer reported.

“Ship Control correct!”

“Navigation correct!”

“Fire Control correct!”

“Fire Two Tube!” Humphreys ordered his second torpedo into the water.

Wilson’s ears popped as the submarine impulsed the torpedo from the tube, then rapidly vented its impulse tanks, refilling them to supply the water for the next shot. He listened to Sonar’s reports as they scrutinized their second torpedo, verifying it achieved its milestones.

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

“Fuel crossover achieved.”

“Turning to preset gyro course at high speed.”

Wilson watched the combat control screens update, and a second green ∧ appeared near the
Collins,
speeding toward the static red diamond. But the
Collins
needed to obtain a new bearing on the
Kentucky,
lost once the missile launch had been terminated and the transients had ended. Sending the second torpedo right down the trail of the first would do no good. He needed to know where to steer it.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing three-five-nine!” Sonar’s report of the incoming torpedo blasted across the 27-MC in Control.

“Helm, left full rudder,” Humphreys called out, “steady course three-zero-zero.”

Wilson watched the Helm rotate the rudder to left full, turning the
Collins
out of harm’s way. The incoming torpedo would now pass safely behind them. The
Kentucky
had counterfired, hoping to distract the
Collins,
or even get a lucky hit.

Excellent.

The
Collins
’s first torpedo had been fired at the
Kentucky
’s original solution, with the target bearing 002. Her bearing was now 359. The
Kentucky
was headed west.

Wilson turned to the Weapons Officer. “Report wire continuity.”

“We have the wire to both weapons.”

The first torpedo continued north, toward the
Kentucky
’s original position. Wilson decided to wait on the first fired unit. But he had something special in mind for the second torpedo.

He turned to Humphreys. “Second fired unit—recommend a left twenty-degree steer, slow to medium speed and pre-enable the weapon.”

A confused expression clouded Humphreys’s face as he pondered Wilson’s last recommendation. He wondered why Wilson had requested he turn off the torpedo’s sonar. But he soon nodded his understanding. The
Collins
was engaging the
Kentucky
with inferior weapons—Mod 4 versus Mod 6—as well as inferior submarine speed. Their normal advantage—stealth—had been dealt away by shooting at long range, giving their opponent sufficient warning to evade. Their only hope in this engagement was superior tactics. Thankfully, there was no one more experienced than Wilson.

Humphreys turned to his Weapons Officer. “Insert a left twenty-degree steer, change speed to medium, pre-enable second fired unit.”

The Weapons Officer raised an eyebrow as he repeated the order, then directed one of the fire control electronic technicians to send the three commands.

Wilson studied the contact summary display, ensuring the second unit accepted the new orders, verified with an abrupt veer to the left. The
Kentucky
’s solution had been updated, indicating a western track, flank speed, and that the second fired unit had been vectored to the left in an attempt to intercept the
Kentucky
as it evaded the
Collins
’s first torpedo. After reviewing the updated solution, he was confident of the
Kentucky
’s evasion course and speed.

Depth was another matter.

The
Kentucky
had been shallow for its strategic launch. But where had she gone, now that she was evading? Had she done the obvious and gone deep? Or had she stayed shallow in an attempt to fool the
Collins
? Or perhaps she was deep, since staying shallow to fool the
Collins
was really the obvious response. The debate was an endless circle. Wilson decided to go with what a submarine captain would instinctively decide in the heat of battle. “Recommend new search depth change, second fired unit.”

Humphreys nodded for the Weapons Officer to accept Wilson’s recommendation.

The Weapons Officer looked up, awaiting Wilson’s order.

“Set search depth to eight hundred feet.”

*   *   *

Wilson retreated to the aft of Control, preparing for the long wait before the opposing torpedoes reached their destination. Unlike in World War II movies, where the submarine fired its torpedo and the enemy ship was sunk in the next scene, modern submarine combat took time. In many scenarios it could take hours to generate a target solution accurate enough to fire on, and firing ranges were usually measured in miles, not yards.

Both of the
Collins
’s torpedoes had been fired from long range. As Wilson watched their torpedoes advance across the combat control display, he did the calculations in his head. Even with the first torpedo traveling at high speed, it would be more than twenty minutes before it caught up to the
Kentucky
. And that’s when the combat would really begin.

Until then, he would wait.

74

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

29 MINUTES REMAINING

As the USS
Kentucky
reacted to the incoming torpedo, securing from their missile launch and fleeing for their lives, Christine struggled for hers on the cold stone floor of her kitchen. With her strength fading as she strained against her ex-husband’s hands, her eyes squeezed shut from the effort, her other senses seemed somehow heightened. A light rain had started falling and she could hear the raindrops pattering softly against the windowpanes. There was the creak of a nearby door and the scrape of metal against stone. The footsteps of passing pedestrians were impossibly loud, almost as if someone were walking across the floor toward her.

“Drop the knife.”

The new voice was male and familiar, but she couldn’t place it. The pressure against her hands suddenly eased, and the sharp pain in her neck faded to a dull throb.

Christine opened her eyes.

Hardison stood above her, the Smith & Wesson Centennial in his hand, pressed against Hendricks’s temple. She realized the sounds she’d heard were her front door opening, Hardison picking up the metal gun from the tile floor, and his footsteps as he approached.

The knife clattered onto the floor next to Christine, the end of the blade covered in blood. Hendricks stood slowly, then leaned against the kitchen counter, looking away. Hardison kept the pistol pointed at Hendricks but he glanced at Christine lying on the floor, concern clear in his eyes.

Christine pressed her hand against her neck, trying to assess the damage. She pulled her hand away, examining the blood on her fingers. She wiped the blood on her blouse, then pressed her fingers against the incision in her neck again. She pulled her hand away slowly. Her fingers were coated in only a thin sheen of blood.

She’d been lucky.

The knife hadn’t sliced through any of her veins or arteries. She winced as she touched her nose, realizing it was broken from the unusual angle. Blood still trickled down the left side of her face, but she could deal with that, as long as her life wasn’t in danger.

“Help me up.” Christine extended her hand toward Hardison, who looked at her incredulously.

“You’re not serious? Stay there until the ambulance gets here.”

“I’m getting up. You can either help me or not.”

Hardison hesitated, then extended a hand, keeping his eyes and gun fixed on Hendricks. He pulled her to her feet, holding on to her until he was sure she was steady.

Christine expected to feel light-headed as she stood but was surprised she felt okay.

No, not okay. Strong, invigorated. She’d been just seconds away from death, but now she had a new lease on life.

She felt exhilarated.

Relieved.

Angry.

She approached the man who’d tried to murder her, stopping an arm’s length away. Curling her right hand into a fist, she punched him in the face with all the force she could muster. Hendricks’s head jolted to the side from the impact. He turned back toward her, blood trickling from split upper and lower lips.

Christine grabbed an ice cube from the freezer and held it against the left side of her nose to stop the bleeding, then turned back toward Hendricks. “Tell me how to disable the missile defense targeting corruption.”

Hendricks glared at her. “I’m afraid my account is password protected.”

“Tell me the password.”

He looked away.

“Tell me the password and how to disable whatever you’ve done, or I swear I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

“You already know the password.” His voice was vacant as he spoke.

“Could you be more specific?”

Hendricks turned back to Christine, his eyes suddenly aware he’d said too much. “That’s all I’m going to tell you.”

“Fine, have it your way,” she said, mimicking the words he’d used when he’d tried to force her into her study. She held her hand out toward Hardison. “Give me the gun.”

Hardison shot a glance at Christine. “No. I’m not going to let you kill him if he doesn’t talk.”

“I don’t have time to argue with you, Kevin. Millions of lives depend on reversing what he’s done, and he’s either going to tell me how to fix it, or die. It’s that simple.”

“It’s not that simple.” Hardison stepped away from Christine, moving to the other side of the kitchen island. He eyed the phone on the counter next to him as he maintained his arm extended, the gun pointed at Hendricks. “I’m going to call the police and get you some medical attention. There’ll be no more talk about killing Hendricks.”

“What the hell, Kevin,” Christine said. “Up to now, you’ve been trying to kill him. Now you want to protect him?”

“I already explained this, Christine. I didn’t try to kill him. I only wanted to silence him, to offer financial incentives to ensure his loyalty. I’ll lower myself to bribery, but not murder. I can’t believe you thought I wanted to kill him.”

“You didn’t arrange for that car that almost ran him over outside Whitlow’s?”

“That was my handiwork,” Hendricks said. “
You
would’ve been killed, saving me all this trouble, if you hadn’t reacted so quickly.”

“The car was aiming for
me
?”

“Right at you. I had you pinned between me and my car, but you jumped out of the way just in time. And you thought Hardison was trying to kill
me
. You’re so blind, Chris.”

Christine pursed her lips together for a second before replying. “Yes, it appears I haven’t been particularly observant.” Her attention wavered between Hardison and Hendricks, irritated by both her incorrect assessment of Hardison’s intentions, and his refusal to hand her the revolver.

As Hardison reached for the phone, his hand holding the gun suddenly jerked backward. Blood splattered Christine’s face as the revolver fell to the floor, sliding to the back of the kitchen. There was a bullet hole in Hardison’s right wrist. He clutched his wrist with his other hand, crying out in pain as blood oozed between his fingers. Christine reversed the trajectory of Hardison’s gun, following the path toward the front door. A man stood in the foyer pointing a gun at Hardison, a silencer screwed into the barrel.

Christine was not a woman with an extraordinary amount of patience, and by now, she was clear out.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asked.

The man swiveled his gun toward her.

“It’s about time you got here,” Hendricks said as he walked past Christine. “It seems I always have to take matters into my own hands, waiting for the professional help to arrive.” He retrieved the gun from the floor, then stopped beside Christine. “If my friend had arrived on time”—he paused, his eyes probing hers—“it would have been much easier on you.” He looked across the kitchen. “And if you hadn’t stumbled in here, Kevin…”

Hendricks addressed the man at the front door. “Kill them. I need to clean up and get back to the Pentagon. Make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“There’s been a change in plans,” the man said, his pistol still aimed at Christine.

Christine wondered who the man was. A professional, from the look of him, someone she and Hardison had no chance of outwitting or overpowering. As she prepared to take a bullet from the man across the room, cold water trickled down the side of her face, and she realized she still held the ice cube against her nose to stop the bleeding.

What’s the point?

She tossed the ice cube across the kitchen toward the sink and heard the distinctive whisper of a silencer as the ice left her hand. The ice cube seemed to float in midair, arching gracefully toward the sink in slow motion until it hit the stainless-steel basin with a sharp, high-pitched
tink.

Christine didn’t feel the bullet enter her body. She waited for the pain to materialize, spreading through her body like a crack spidering across a broken window. She waited for her strength to fade, for her knees to buckle, for her body to crumple to the ground.