The Trident Deception Page 14

  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 furio
usly 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.”

  27

  PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII

  On the second floor of the COMSUBPAC N7 building, Captain Murray Wilson sat behind his desk, chewing a mouthful of a ham and cheese sandwich as he studied the three-by-four-foot sheet of trace paper on his desk. He was exhausted, having been up thirty hours since his phone call from Stanbury the previous morning, and his eyelids were becoming heavier by the minute. Not for the first time, he wished his office had windows, so he could look across the submarine wharves, the bright midday sun reflecting off the blue surface of Southeast Loch. But due to the classification of the information the N7 organization routinely dealt with, the entire building had not a single window, to prevent satellite or local recon from obtaining photos of the material within.

  However, if someone had been able to photograph the material on Wilson’s desk, he would have been as perplexed as he was. The Prospective Commanding and Executive Officers had reconstructed the twenty engagements between the Kentucky and Houston during last week’s Submarine Command Course, and the information, if correct, was even more disturbing than Wilson initially thought. Each reconstruction depicted the paths traveled by the two submarines, showing where each ship was detected and the launching of torpedoes and decoys. The reconstruction of the most perplexing encounter of all, the third engagement on the first day, was on top of the stack, one corner held down by an empty coffee cup, another by the second half of Wilson’s sandwich.

  The Kentucky had defeated the Houston all three times that first day, and the fast-attack submarine, convinced there was an acoustic deficiency giving away its position—a bearing gone bad on one of their pumps or perhaps a sound short between their machinery and hull—had retreated to the far corner of its operating area that night for sound-monitoring runs. After adjusting their towed array to the appropriate length, the Houston’s crew had driven in circles, first turning to port and then to starboard, their towed array lining up opposite them in the large underwater racetrack. Like a dog chasing its tail, the Houston had circled for hours analyzing its acoustic signature, looking for whatever had been giving away its position.

  But there was nothing. The Houston was quiet, even stealthier than the standard 688 class submarine. With renewed confidence, the crew engaged the Kentucky the following day, convinced they had been defeated the first three times by sheer coincidence, lucky detections by the surprisingly capable ballistic missile submarine. But the next six days delivered the same discouraging results. The Kentucky detected and shot first every time, while the Houston picked up the Trident submarine only when it launched its torpedoes or after it increased speed while evading the Houston’s counterfire. It was as if the Kentucky were invisible, emitting not a single frequency of sufficient strength for the Houston’s sonar system to track.

  It just didn’t make sense. The Kentucky’s crew was skilled, but the odds of detecting the Houston first on every encounter were staggering. In the heat of battle, Wilson had focused his attention on the Houston’s Sonar division, convinced the recent influx of new personnel had diluted the fast attack’s capability. But now, looking over the third reconstruction and the stack of sonar printouts on his desk, it seemed impossible the Kentucky had passed within one thousand yards and not been detected.

  Lieutenant Jarred Crum stopped beside Wilson, dropping off a fresh cup of coffee. He could see the dark circles forming under Wilson’s eyes, and had watched the Captain’s head droop occasionally as he studied the reconstructions and sonar recordings. But this time the lieutenant delivered more than just hot coffee. “Sir, the electronic recordings from the range just arrived. I have them loaded on the computer.”

  “Thanks, Jarred.” Wilson took a sip of the steaming coffee. “Put the third run on-screen.”

  Crum fired up the monitor on the far wall with the remote. Two submarines appeared on the bird’s-eye view of the encounter, one blue, the other red, closing in on each other as they searched the ocean for their adversary. The Houston had luckily been pointed directly at the Kentucky, presenting the ballistic missile submarine with a nose-on profile, making the fast attack even harder to detect than usual, its Engine Room and propeller masked by the quiet bow. The Kentucky, unaware of the rapidly closing fast attack, continued its search until she finally detected the inbound submarine, evidenced by the Kentucky’s course reversal. Moments later, a MK 48 Exercise torpedo sped toward the Houston.

  The Kentucky’s launch preparations had taken time, and the Houston had blindly plowed on, closing to within one thousand yards before the Kentucky’s torpedo launch transients lit up the Houston’s sonar screens. Wilson glanced down at the trace paper on his desk, shocked at how accurately his students had reconstructed the engagement.

  “Something’s not right here.” Wilson turned to Crum. “At first I thought we had a Helen Keller sonar shack on the Houston, but look at these printouts.” He picked up the top folder from the stack on hi
s desk. “There’s nothing here. Not a single tonal from the Kentucky.”

  Crum reviewed the Houston’s sonar recordings as Wilson flipped through the printouts, then shrugged. “This is the first time we’ve had a Trident participate in Command Course ops for a few years. They’re quieter than our 688s and get periodic upgrades. Maybe she really is that quiet now.”

  Wilson looked up at the monitor again. It showed the Houston passing one thousand yards abeam of the Kentucky before the ballistic missile submarine sped away. “It’s like the Kentucky is a black hole. Like she doesn’t exist.” Wilson shook his head as he folded up the track reconstruction. “Get me Admiral Caseria at NAVSEA. Someone needs to take a look at this.”

  28

  WASHINGTON NAVY YARD

  In the southeast corner of Washington, D.C, on the northern bank of the Anacostia River, lies the oldest naval base in the country. Established in 1799, the Washington Navy Yard became the nation’s most important shipyard, building the majority of the nascent country’s first navy. Although new ships no longer slide down the slipways into the river, the Navy Yard is now home to Naval Sea Systems Command, responsible for the design of every U.S. warship and the equipment and weapons they carry.

  On the second floor of a four-story redbrick building is the office of Program Executive Officer (Submarines), responsible for all things submerged—new submarines, sonar, combat control, and electronic surveillance systems, as well as new torpedoes and torpedo decoys. As Rear Admiral Steve Caseria looked out his window at the Anacostia River flowing lazily toward the Potomac, he had a simple thought for a complex problem.

  You get what you pay for.

  Like a molting snake shedding its skin, several of the new Virginia-class submarines had lost portions of their anechoic coating, a rubberlike material covering the hull that helps isolate machinery sounds inside the submarine from the surrounding ocean. After an extended deployment, the USS Virginia returned to port with several sections of its hull missing their sound-silencing coating. The following two Virginia-class submarines were also affected, and an investigation determined the new bonding technique, implemented to save money, was not as effective as required. The process was changed for the fourth and following submarines, returning to the more expensive, but better, adhesion formula. Admiral Caseria realized he had learned the painful lesson many before him had learned.