The Trident Deception Read online

  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 a
round 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.

  A year earlier, he was finishing up his three-year tour as commanding officer of the USS Chicago and had received orders to the Pentagon. But then the incoming CO of the North Carolina pulled up lame, disqualified from submarine service due to a second episode of kidney stones. After a quick reshuffling, Gallagher ended up with orders to the Virginia-class submarine, happy to have postponed what would surely be a tortuous tour of duty with the Washington brass. On a submarine base, commander was a prestigious rank. But Gallagher had heard the horror stories about the Pentagon, where senior Navy captains made coffee for the admirals, and commanders ran out for the sugar and stir sticks.

  Thankfully, all that would wait, and in the meantime he had put his considerable experience to work. He had done two WESTPAC deployments while in command, and combined with his western runs as a JO and department head on Pearl Harbor–based 688s, he had more deployments under his belt than any other submarine commanding officer.

  As his crew prepared to search the surrounding water, Gallagher looked up at the digital display of the submarine’s course, speed, and depth on the Ship Control Panel. The North Carolina had finished coasting down to ten knots, slowing now for the fourth time, having just passed the center of the target’s AOU. As a faint white trace began to materialize on the towed array display, the Officer of the Deck picked up the 27-MC microphone.

  “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

  36

  USS KENTUCKY

  USS NORTH CAROLINA

  USS KENTUCKY

  On his way forward, Malone dropped down into Engine Room Lower Level. On watch in the bowels of the Engine Room was Petty Officer 3rd Class Bob Murphy. Halfway aft along the center passageway, Murphy examined a test tube held up to the light. Having just added two drops of silver nitrate to the water, Murphy gently swirled the test tube, checking for the milky-white evidence of a leak from the Main Seawater System, which cooled the steam back to water after it passed through the large turbines. After a negative result, Murphy emptied the clear fluid into the hazardous waste bucket, looking up in surprise at the submarine’s Commanding Officer, who had snuck up on him as he concentrated on his analysis, the whirr of the condensate pumps masking the sound of his arrival.

  “Hi, Captain.”

  Malone saw himself in the tall and lanky nineteen-year-old, who was from Dawson, Iowa, one hundred miles south of Malone’s hometown of Fenton. There wasn’t much difference between the Captain and the enlisted man standing before him, Malone figured. If not for a single conversation, he would have enlisted in the Navy right out of high school like Murphy, rather than receiving his commission as an officer. During his junior year in high school, he had considered enlisting, but his guidance counselor urged him to apply for a Navy ROTC scholarship instead. A year later, at age eighteen, he donned a Navy uniform for the first time as he entered Purdue University as a midshipman.

  That was a long time ago, and his life had almost come full circle. Following this patrol, he would remove his uniform for the last time, returning to the home he’d left behind twenty-four years ago. The two men, one’s career beginning while the other’s ended, talked for a few minutes about Murphy’s family back in Iowa. After a while, Malone checked his watch; it was almost 0100. The two offgoing watch officers would soon be knocking on his stateroom door. He bid farewell to Petty Officer Murphy and headed forward.

  USS NORTH CAROLINA

  Standing behind his OOD at his Tactical Workstation, Gallagher studied the faint white trace on the towed array display, waiting for the results of Sonar’s analysis. The faint trace meant the contact was either quiet or distant, and he wouldn’t know which until after the North Carolina’s first maneuver, watching what happened to the target’s bearing rate. But before he turned the ship, he would verify the contact was submerged. They couldn’t afford to waste time maneuvering for every trace picked up by Sonar.

&nbs
p; The report from Sonar answered Gallagher’s question. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra five-seven is classified submerged.”

  Gallagher turned to his Officer of the Deck. “Man Battle Stations silently.”

  Standard protocols for manning Battle Stations—a shipwide 1-MC announcement followed by the loud bong, bong, bong of the General Alarm—would reverberate into the water through the submarine’s steel hull, potentially alerting the target if it was close and its sonar capable. So Gallagher had ordered Battle Stations manned silently. The Messenger and Auxiliary Electrician Forward hurried down to berthing, one swinging through the officer staterooms and Chief’s Quarters before joining the other in enlisted berthing, quickly rousing the crew. Four minutes later, the last watch station reported in.

  The North Carolina was ready for combat.

  Gallagher decided to wait before turning the ship, giving Sonar time to analyze the frequencies being emitted by the contact. Once the ship began its turn, the towed array would become unstable, snaking back and forth for several minutes. Only after it had straightened back out would its frequencies and bearings be reliable.

  Finally, the report came across the 27-MC. “Conn, Sonar. The contact has standard Trident tonals.”

  They had found their target.

  “Pilot, left twenty degrees rudder, steady course one-eight-zero.”

  Gallagher began the process of nailing down the target’s course, speed, and range, then turned his attention to his weapons. The torpedo tubes were flooded down and pressurized, but he had kept the outer doors shut during their sprint and drifts, as the flow noise across the open torpedo tubes would have been noticeable at ahead full. But that was okay, he had concluded. The North Carolina had improved outer door mechanisms, which opened much more quietly than those on other submarine classes. Now that they had found their adversary, it was time to make final preparations.