The Trident Deception Page 25

  The Kentucky was safe. For the moment.

  At least until she headed east, back under the P-3C sonobuoy fields, or west, under the surface ships. Which direction she would head was never really a question, though; the Kentucky had received a launch order, and she would continue west, toward Emerald and launch range. However, now that they knew the P-3Cs and presumably the surface ships were Weapons Free in water the submarine owned, the crew could plan accordingly. Even so, the situation raised more questions than answers.

  “Why the hell did they shoot at us?” the Weps asked.

  “They didn’t know they were shooting at us,” the XO replied. “It’s obvious there’s something else going on out here—that our conventional forces are involved in some sort of engagement.”

  “They should not have been Weapons Free in water we owned.” The Nav reinforced the Weps’s question. “The P-3C should never have been authorized to launch a torpedo in the first place.”

  “If they even know we own the water,” the XO explained. “Not even fast-attack submarines are told what water ballistic missile submarines own. Only the N9 shop back in Pearl knows which operating areas have been assigned to Tridents. And there’s no telling what kind of coordination is occurring between our strategic and conventional forces right now. I bet it’s chaotic as hell up there.”

  “I think the XO’s right,” Malone said. “COMSUBPAC sent several 688s into our moving haven during our transit to Sapphire to make sure there were no other submarines nearby. And now the P-3Cs and surface ships are prosecuting submarines. That means there’s a threat out here somewhere, and we need to be alert for it.”

  “Speaking of threats,” the Nav added, pointing to the displays on the ship’s combat control consoles, “we still have to pass through the surface ship barrier.”

  Tom looked up at the submarine’s sonar and combat control displays, the picture to the west a jumble of contacts, impossible to sort out.

  “We could transmit a message, asking COMSUBPAC to clear a lane for us,” the Weps suggested.

  The XO shot Lieutenant Pete Manning a disapproving glance. “Our protocols are clear. You of all people should know we cannot transmit after we’ve received a launch order.”

  “To hell with protocols,” the Weps spat back. “We almost got sunk by one of our own P-3Cs. And now we have to travel underneath surface ships and their helicopters, which’ll no doubt drop another torpedo if they detect us. We need to transmit a message to COMSUBPAC asking for their help.”

  “I don’t advise it,” the Nav said, this time agreeing with the XO. “This close to surface ships and aircraft, there’s a high probability our transmission would be detected. And these guys appear to be in a shoot-first-ask-questions-later mood. It’s likely they’ll send another torpedo our way as soon as they detect a radio transmission from a submerged contact.”

  Malone ended the discussion. “We will not transmit this close to surface ship and air contacts. I’m not going to risk getting another torpedo rammed down our throat. We’ll take our chances transiting under the surface ships. We’ve trained for this, and now that we know they mean business, we won’t be caught off guard.” Malone looked at the ship’s clock above the Quartermaster’s stand. “Two more days before we launch, gentlemen, and one last task—pass through this ASW barrier.”

  Malone turned to the Weps. “Speaking of launching, we need to determine the extent of damage to our strategic launch systems. Run the system through its paces. The XO and I will get us past the surface ships.”

  The Weps tersely acknowledged the Captain’s order, then left Control.

  “Now let’s put the ship back into a fighting posture,” Malone announced. “Officer of the Deck, man Battle Stations Torpedo silently.”

  Moments later, as the submarine was brought to full manning again, Malone assumed the Conn and examined the sound velocity profile above the Ship Control Panel. There was a moderate thermal layer just below the ocean’s surface. Taking the ship’s height into account, Malone ordered the Kentucky’s keel to an optimal depth while they transited under the surface warships, hiding in the shadow zone beneath the layer.

  “Dive, make your depth three hundred feet. Helm, ahead two-thirds. Left ten degree rudder, steady course two-six-five.”

  Tom joined Malone at the front of the Conn as the Kentucky began to pick up speed, the deck pitching downward.

  2 DAYS REMAINING

  53

  JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  “Good evening, Prime Minister.”

  Rosenfeld’s stride faltered as he entered his office. A large, burly man sat in a chair in front of his desk, his back to the prime minister. A gray ringlet of hair, encircling a bald dome on top of the man’s head, tapered down the back of a wide neck that spread into broad, sloping shoulders. Without seeing his face, Rosenfeld recognized the man—Ariel Bronner.

  Head of the Metsada.

  Rosenfeld was surprised to find anyone in the building this late, much less in his office. It was 9 P.M. He wondered how Bronner knew he was working late tonight, then stopped midthought.

  Stupid question.

  The Metsada was the special-operations arm of the Mossad, fielding the agents that made Israel’s espionage possible. Rosenfeld harbored no doubt the Metsada kept tabs on him as well, and that Bronner could ascertain Rosenfeld’s whereabouts with little effort.

  Rosenfeld suddenly noticed Hirshel Mekel, his executive assistant, sitting in one of the chairs against the wall, his eyes darting between Bronner and the prime minister. Regaining his composure, Rosenfeld walked past Bronner, stopping behind his desk to face the man who had never once, in Rosenfeld’s six years as prime minister, visited his office. Bronner’s massive shoulders transitioned to thick, muscular arms ending in large scarred hands that wrapped around the end of the chair’s armrests. Rosenfeld had never reviewed Bronner’s field file, but he had no doubt the man had squeezed the life out of more than one person before he was promoted to a management position.

  Glancing at Mekel, Rosenfeld looked for a clue to explain Bronner’s visit. Mekel’s tense posture told him Bronner was upset. Mekel must have been caught snooping around the Metsada’s headquarters. Rosenfeld decided to ignore that small but relevant fact as he settled into his chair and addressed the man in front of him. “What can I do—”

  Bronner raised his index finger, cutting off Rosenfeld’s question. He spoke slowly, pronouncing each word clearly. “The next time you desire information from the Metsada without using proper protocols, I advise you to not send an amateur.”

  Rosenfeld briefly considering denying Bronner’s accusation. But why? After all, the Metsada worked for him. And as both prime minister and a father, he was entitled to whatever information the Metsada had gathered on the suicide bombing that killed his daughters. Perhaps he had made a poor decision, assigning Mekel a task he was ill prepared for, probing within the secretive organization for additional information. But he needed to resolve the discrepancy between the report Kogen had delivered and the later version obtained by Mekel. However, Bronner had a point, and it looked like this discussion would go nowhere unless Rosenfeld acknowledged it.

  “I apologize, Ariel. I should have come directly to you. But I was … afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  Rosenfeld didn’t answer immediately. Bronner had asked a straightforward question, but one that forced Rosenfeld, for the first time, to address his true fear. It was possible a simple administrative issue had created the discrepancy between the two reports. But he knew, almost to a certainty, that the earlier report had been altered by someone within the Mossad—either Kogen or even the man sitting in front of him. There was no way around it now.

  “I didn’t know whom I could trust.”

  Bronner’s eyes narrowed. “You have good reason to fear, Levi.”

  Rosenfeld’s body stiffened, unclear what Bronner meant by his comment, uncertain about whom he couldn’t trust. Bronner? Or someone else? He eased
back in his chair, attempting to hide his apprehension. “Explain.”

  Bronner glanced at Mekel, then nodded toward the door. Mekel sprang from his chair, bolting out of Rosenfeld’s office, slamming the door behind him in his haste.

  The Metsada chief’s grip on the chair armrests tightened. “You were wise to be suspicious, Levi. The report Kogen provided you was not reviewed or approved by me, and the content of that document is inaccurate. It was altered to blame Iran for the death of your daughters, when no such evidence exists.”

  Rosenfeld tried to ignore the panic rising inside him. The implications of Bronner’s statement were multifaceted, and his mind went in several directions simultaneously. But he grabbed control of his thoughts, forcing himself to stick to the simplest track for the time being: collecting the facts.

  “Who is responsible? And why was it changed to blame Iran?”

  “I’m afraid I have distressing news, Prime Minister. The suicide bomber was recruited not by Iran but by the Metsada, without my knowledge.”

  Even though he was fairly certain he hadn’t moved, Rosenfeld felt his body recoil. Why would the Metsada murder his children? But Rosenfeld was unable to concentrate on why for the moment. There was a much more pressing question. If the order hadn’t been given by Bronner, then …

  Rosenfeld’s eyes hardened. “Who?”

  “Barak Kogen, Prime Minister. It appears he wanted to ensure you would authorize the destruction of Natanz, and he killed your daughters to influence your decision.”

  Like a dam breaking under the strain of evidence, the truth flooded into Rosenfeld’s mind. Several days ago, a seed of suspicion had been planted when he read the draft report Mekel had obtained, but he had refused to acknowledge the possibility. The thought that his own intelligence minister was somehow involved in subterfuge concerning his daughters’ deaths, along with the underlying implication, was too disturbing to contemplate. So he had sent Mekel inside the Mossad, looking for more definitive evidence. In the meantime, that seed of suspicion had sprouted like a strangler fig, the horror of the seedling’s true nature revealed by Bronner’s accusation.

  It was possible Bronner was lying, deflecting blame onto Kogen. But one look at the Metsada chief told Rosenfeld he didn’t need a polygraph to know Bronner was telling the truth. Rosenfeld had been betrayed by his own intelligence minister. A man he depended upon to keep Israel and its people safe. A man who had stood beside him as his daughters were lowered into their graves, consoling him in his grief. A man driven by such hatred that any means was justified to achieve the end. Even the murder of children.

  His children.

  Anger welled up inside. As he contemplated his recourse, he realized Bronner shared the same emotion. “What will you do?”

  “I cannot let this stand, Prime Minister. I must take appropriate action, with your concurrence.” Kogen had betrayed the Metsada, and Bronner appeared to consider that betrayal far more significant than what Kogen had done to Rosenfeld.

  Rosenfeld responded quickly. “You have full discretion in this matter.” He was about to excuse Bronner, but it looked like his Metsada chief had more to say. “Is there something else?”

  “I’m afraid so, Prime Minister. The Metsada has learned the Kentucky’s launch message was modified by the American. It directed the launch of all twenty-four missiles against Iran. Instead of only Natanz being destroyed, 192 warheads will be released in a pattern designed to destroy the entire country.”

  Rosenfeld was at a loss for words as he processed Bronner’s statement, panic stabbing into him as he realized their Mossad plot had been manipulated into destroying an entire country. Seventy million people annihilated in a nuclear holocaust. Suddenly, the nuclear weapon being assembled by Iran became irrelevant. The Metsada operation had to be stopped. “Can you terminate the operation, turn off the Kentucky’s launch?”

  Bronner shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Prime Minister. In that respect, Kogen did not deceive you. There is nothing we can do. Whether or not the missiles are launched is now up to the crew of that submarine, and the American navy searching for them.”

  Rosenfeld nodded somberly, and Bronner rose from his chair and left. Rosenfeld stared into space, his entire body numb from the revelation of his intelligence minister’s treachery and the change to the Kentucky’s launch order. Kogen had murdered his children, then manipulated him in the midst of his anguish. Rosenfeld had made his decision to destroy Natanz while he was suffocating in grief, authorizing the Mossad’s operation. An operation that would now destroy an entire country.

  He buried his face in his hands.

  What have I done?

  54

  USS KENTUCKY

  Standing in the darkness in Missile Compartment Upper Level under the access hatch to the world outside, Tom tightened the safety harness strapped across his chest. Nearby, he could hear the breathing of Petty Officer Tryon and three other missile technicians standing alongside him, likewise wearing safety harnesses, waiting for word to open the hatch. One of the missile techs shifted his stance, his shoe squeaking on the steel deck; the five of them had changed into their sneakers for the 4 A.M. trip topside. As Tom’s eyes completed their adjustment to the darkness, he waited for the order to emerge into the night to inspect the damage from the MK 54 torpedo.

  There was no doubt the torpedo had inflicted significant damage. Twenty-seven hours ago, as the Kentucky prepared to pass under the surface ship barrier, increasing speed to ahead two-thirds, Sonar had detected flow tonals once the ship reached eight knots. The submarine’s superstructure covering the top of the Missile Compartment had been damaged in the explosion, and the twisted metal wreckage was whistling in the wind, so to speak, as the water flowed over what had once been a smooth, even surface. The Captain had limited the Kentucky’s speed to seven knots during the transit, expertly threading the submarine beneath the surface ships. The tension had been high, especially as the helicopters periodically repositioned, dropping their dipping sonars beneath the ocean’s thermal layer. Fortunately, none had stopped for a listen close enough to detect the Kentucky.

  After passing under the last of the surface ships, Malone had continued west for another twelve hours, far enough away to risk surfacing the ship in the darkness to inspect the damage. Inside the submarine, the strategic weapon system was fully operational with the exception of tubes Ten and Twelve. Water was draining from the bottom of those tubes, evidence that the muzzle hatches were no longer watertight and that the plastic protective nose cones over the missiles were cracked.

  Tubes Ten and Twelve were out of commission. Whether the adjacent tubes were operational was uncertain, and Malone had decided a visual inspection was the only way to determine for sure if tubes Eight and Fourteen could be opened without the screech of a damaged muzzle hatch giving away the submarine’s position while it was most vulnerable, dead in the water preparing to launch its missiles.

  As the Assistant Weapons Officer, Tom was responsible for leading the inspection team topside. Joining him were the three most senior missile techs, who were familiar with the seven-ton missile tube muzzle hatches and the powerful hydraulic systems that operated them. Tryon and Tom would inspect the aft missile tubes while Petty Officers 1st Class Kreuger and Santos would examine the forward tubes. A fourth missile tech, Petty Officer 2nd Class Reynolds, manned the sound-powered phones, relaying information to and from the ship’s Captain in Control.

  Reynolds spoke into his mouthpiece. “Proceed topside, aye.”

  Petty Officer Tryon illuminated the hatch with a red lens flashlight as Tom climbed the ladder and spun the access hatch handle counterclockwise, watching the hatch lugs retreat. Once they were clear, Tom pulled hard on the release and shoved upward. He climbed a few more rungs, pushing the heavy spring-loaded hatch back until it locked fully open. Warm, moist ocean air flowed down through the hatch, and the young lieutenant breathed deeply, inhaling fresh air for the first time since the Kentucky submerged
south of Oahu.

  Stopping with his chest just above the submarine’s deck, Tom leaned against the hatch and shined his flashlight along the deck, searching until he located the safety track. Hooking his harness into the track that ran the full length of the ship, he climbed topside, pulling his deck clip a few feet forward so the missile techs behind him could also hook in.

  Like the other four men, Tom wore a life preserver under his safety harness in case a wave broke over the top of the Missile Compartment deck, washing him overboard. If that happened, drowning wasn’t the only danger he faced. The life preserver would keep him afloat and the safety harness would keep him close to the ship instead of drifting off into the darkness, but he would be repeatedly smashed against the ship’s steel hull by the strong ocean waves, battering his body and breaking bones if he wasn’t hauled out of the cold water quickly enough. More than one sailor who had fallen overboard died not because he had drowned but because his body had been beaten to a pulp by the rough seas.

  As Tom waited for the missile techs, he peered forward along the missile deck, barely able to distinguish the submarine’s silhouette in the darkness. The ship’s sail was pitch-black—the Bridge was unmanned, the watch stationed belowdecks, and the navigation lights remained deenergized. The only light came from the clear night sky, which was illuminated by densely packed stars shining more brightly than he had ever seen. As he stood on the submarine’s deck, he felt as if he were balancing on a fulcrum—admiring God’s work, an awe-inspiring creation, while standing on the fruit of mankind’s labor, capable of unimaginable destruction.

  The four missile techs joined Tom topside and he led the way forward, scanning his flashlight across the deck until he came to a gaping hole in the superstructure. The damage was more extensive than Tom had expected. A twelve-foot-diameter section of the superstructure on the port side was missing, the edges of the circular scar marked with twisted steel plates and support stanchions. The MK 54 torpedo had hit the submarine near the top of the superstructure, where it rounded off from the flat deck and curved down toward the ship’s beam. The exterior skin of the ship had absorbed the bulk of the explosion as well as forcing the torpedo to detonate several feet away from the ship’s pressure hull. The Kentucky had been lucky indeed.