The Trident Deception Page 28

  “Watch Leader, Commcen. Incoming message from the FEG.”

  A moment later, a radioman entered Control, handing a message to Humphreys. Wilson noted a startled expression on the Captain’s face as he read the message. He handed it to Wilson. A few sentences down, his heart leapt to his throat. Tom was still alive. But then the somber realization set in. The Kentucky had made it past the surface ships, and the P-3Cs had expended most of their sonobuoys. The Collins was the most capable asset remaining.

  Humphreys walked over to the navigation chart, Wilson joining him.

  Wilson handed the message to the Petty Officer of the Watch. “Plot these coordinates.”

  The leading seaman obliged, measuring off the longitude and latitude, drawing a small circle around the new point on the chart. The seaman leaned back out of the way as Wilson and Humphreys examined the target’s updated position.

  With the original large area of uncertainty, Wilson hadn’t been sure they would find the Kentucky. But with the new fifty-kilometer-radius AOU—even accounting for the increased time it would take to close the distance—they would find the Kentucky. What Wilson didn’t know, however, was whether they would find her before or after she launched.

  Humphreys turned to the radioman. “Acknowledge receipt and inform the FEG we will enter the target’s AOU in nine hours.” Turning to the Officer of the Watch, Humphreys ordered the ship down from periscope depth. “Make your depth one hundred meters and increase speed to ahead flank, course zero-nine-five. Load all torpedo tubes.”

  * * *

  Down in the Weapon Stowage Compartment, Chief Marine Technician Kim Durand, the Weapons Chief aboard the Collins, supervised the Torpedo Reload Party. Upon receipt of War Patrol orders, they would normally have loaded all six of the submarine’s torpedo tubes. But their target was far away, and the analog Mod 4 torpedoes had a nasty habit of overheating when powered up inside the tubes for more than a few hours at a time. Her Captain had decided instead to load their torpedoes when they were closer to their target. They were apparently closing in on it now.

  The first torpedo had been loaded into tube One when Captain Wilson stopped by the Weapon Stowage Compartment. Shortly after the American’s arrival on board, the crew learned they were chasing a Chinese copy of the U.S. Trident submarine. In the American captain’s eyes she had expected to see the excitement of the hunt, the steely determination to find and sink their adversary. But she saw none of that—only an unexplainable sadness. There was more to this mission than their Captain and the American were letting on.

  Kim knew this mission would be dangerous once they engaged their target. Even with the long range of their Heavyweight torpedoes—they could travel over twenty miles before running out of fuel—you had to get close to your opponent to sink the knife in. That meant you could be stabbed in return. Unfortunately, there were no flesh wounds in submarine combat. It was pretty much a binary result: You either got hit and died, or the torpedo missed and you survived. Kim hoped they would survive the upcoming battle, but she and the rest of the crew knew there was no way to predict how things would turn out.

  And so, in the face of uncertainty, the crew’s confidence was unshakable. The marine technicians in the reload party were already making bets on which torpedo would sink their target. The second torpedo was already halfway into tube Two, being pushed forward steadily by the hydraulic ram temporarily attached to the back of the torpedo, and Kim ran her hand along the smooth, cold aluminum skin of the torpedo as it traveled into its new stowage location. As the nineteen-foot-long torpedo disappeared into the tube, Chief Kim Durand transferred a kiss from her hand to its tail, wishing it luck. Her bet would ride on the torpedo in tube Two.

  As Captain Wilson left the Weapon Stowage Compartment, Kim wondered if somewhere to the east, her counterpart on their target was doing the same.

  60

  USS KENTUCKY

  18 HOURS REMAINING

  It was almost 0100 GMT aboard the Kentucky when the crew submerged after inspecting their missile hatches; time for Tom’s evening watch as Officer of the Deck. The six-hour watch elapsed uneventfully as the Kentucky continued its inexorable march toward Emerald. After being relieved at midnight, Tom now toured through Missile Compartment Lower Level on his after-watch tour, checking the bilges for evidence of leaks and examining the ship’s equipment for malfunctions. As he passed the ten-foot-tall gas generators—soda-can-shaped cylinders filled with water that would be transformed instantly to steam by an explosive charge—he still found it hard to believe that simple steam could pop the sixty-five-ton missile above the ocean’s surface like a giant cork gun.

  The steam impulse was essential, as the missile’s engine could not ignite while it was in the tube; the 1,400-degree heat from the exhaust would melt through the bottom of the submarine. So the missile launch system was designed to eject the missile above the ocean’s surface, where the first-stage motor would ignite, pushing the missile and its eight 475-kiloton warheads into the stratosphere on the journey toward its target.

  As Tom completed his journey through the Missile Compartment, he climbed the forward ladder two decks and stepped through the watertight door into the Operations Compartment, stopping outside Missile Control Center. He punched in the cipher lock combination, then entered MCC to review the strategic weapon system status. Two missile techs were on watch, seated at the Launch Control Panel, monitoring the condition of each missile and tube.

  “How are you guys doing?”

  “Fine, sir,” one of the missile techs replied, glancing briefly at Tom before returning his attention to the console.

  Tom reviewed the logs as the two missile techs sat quietly, neither one engaging the lieutenant in conversation. The missile techs would normally have peppered him with questions, eager to talk to anyone except the bloke sitting beside them, stuck together on the same watch cycle for weeks on end. It didn’t take long to run out of things to talk about once they got past the What did you do last summer? phase. But neither man seemed in the mood for conversation, which was consistent with what Tom had noticed throughout the submarine. He finished reviewing the logs in silence, then handed the clipboard back to the nearest petty officer.

  As Tom stepped out of MCC, a burst of commotion greeted his ears. Angry shouts came from the Crew’s Mess, and he entered to find the two missile techs who had accompanied him topside, Kreuger and Santos, holding a third missile tech, Walworth, who was struggling to free himself. Reynolds, who had been Tom’s phone talker topside, stood across from the three, holding his hand to his nose, blood running down his face.

  “I’m gonna rip your fucking head off!” Walworth shouted, the veins in his neck bulging as he struggled against Santos and Kreuger’s firm grip. “Don’t even think about not doing your job when the time comes!”

  The submarine’s Chief of the Boat entered the Crew’s Mess, stopping at the entrance. “What the hell is going on!” The COB’s question hung in the air as the twenty enlisted men stared at him. “Speak up!”

  “I was just talking,” Reynolds said, “about what we’re gonna have to do in a few hours—”

  “You fuckin’ coward!” Walworth renewed his struggle against the two men holding him.

  “Shut up, Walworth,” the COB said. “If you don’t give it a rest, you’ll be confined to berthing for a week.” The COB turned back to the injured missile tech. “Go on, Reynolds.”

  “We were talking, and I said I didn’t know if I could go through with it when the Captain gave the order, and then Walworth flipped out on me.”

  The COB turned back to Walworth, who had settled down somewhat after the COB’s threat. “You’re confined to your rack until further notice. Get out of here.”

  Kreuger and Santos released Walworth, who glared at Reynolds as he left Crew’s Mess.

  “I’ll do my job when the time comes, COB,” Reynolds said. “I was just mouthing off.”

  The COB stared at Reynolds for a moment before spe
aking. “Walworth’s from D.C. His family still lives there. Lived there, to be more exact. He won’t know if they’re still alive until we return to port.”

  “Shit, COB,” Reynolds said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, now you do. All of you.” The COB’s eyes scanned across Crew’s Mess, making contact with each man. “And Walworth’s not the only one. I won’t tolerate any more discussion about what we are or aren’t going to do when we reach Emerald. I know it won’t be easy, but we’ve trained for this. We all knew there was the potential this would happen, that we’d be ordered to execute the mission this ship was designed for, and this crew is going to execute that mission. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, COB,” each of the men replied.

  “Get to Medical, Reynolds. Kreuger, track down the Corpsman.”

  The COB eyed Tom for a second before he left, and Tom waited a few seconds longer as the men returned to their seats, talking quietly.

  Shaking off the unpleasant experience, Tom toured next through officer berthing, stopping outside the Weapons Officer’s stateroom. After knocking softly, he opened the door and peered inside. The stateroom lights were off except for the small fluorescent bulb above the Weps’s desk. He sat in his chair reviewing a stack of paperwork, his face illuminated while the rest of the small stateroom faded into darkness. The Weps looked up as Tom opened the door.

  “Do you have a few minutes, Weps?”

  “Sure.” The Weps turned sideways in his chair, noticing Tom’s solemn face. “What’s on your mind?”

  Tom turned the chair to the other desk around and sat facing his department head, his eyes toward the deck. “Walworth just busted Reynolds’s nose in the Crew’s Mess. Reynolds said he had doubts about completing his duties during Battle Stations Missile, and Walworth flew off the handle.” Tom looked up. “Do you have doubts, Weps? About whether you’ll execute the order we’ve been given?”

  The Weps put down his pen and stared at Tom for a long moment. “That’s a good question,” he finally answered. “The crew is starting to feel the pressure, the burden of our mission, and they have it easy. Most of their efforts are vaguely tied to the actual launch. Turn a valve here, flip a switch there. But everyone’s effort culminates in one action. Mine.

  “I’m the one who has to unlock the firing trigger. And I’m the one who has to squeeze the damn thing. Over and over, twenty-one times, knowing that I’m erasing the lives of millions of people with each squeeze. I try to imagine I won’t think about that tomorrow. The Captain will give the order, and the crew, including me, will follow that order, just like we’ve trained.” The Weps leaned forward, close to Tom, lowering his voice. “But do I know that for sure? No, I don’t. And I won’t know until I’m standing in MCC, the trigger in my hand, and we get a green board on the first missile. I’ll know then, and only then.”

  Tom swallowed hard. He’d felt the same trepidation growing inside him as the ship crept closer to Emerald. While only the Captain, XO, and Weps played a direct role in the launch, as Assistant Weapons Officer, Tom would join the Weps in Missile Control Center, verifying the correct target packages were assigned, the missiles spun up properly, and all launch prerequisites met. He would do his part, a small cog in the wheel of effort it took to prepare each missile for launch, thankful nothing hinged directly on him.

  But Tom could sense the wobble in that wheel. The crew was no longer the well-oiled machine that would respond automatically to a nuclear strike order. And as each day passed and the ship approached closer to Emerald, the wobble had increased. He was no longer confident the crew would execute its mission when the time came. What he had seen in Crew’s Mess, and what the Weps had just confided to him, strengthened his doubt.

  “So what about you?” the Weps asked. “Do you think we should follow the Captain’s order and launch our missiles?” The older man pulled back slightly, as if measuring Tom up, assessing his openness to whatever idea he was contemplating. Alarm bells went off in the back of Tom’s head. They were treading on dangerous ground, openly discussing the prospect of not following the Captain’s order, an order handed down by the president himself. There was a word for it, a word that clearly captured the essence of what they would be doing if they refused to obey the order of a superior officer aboard a naval vessel.

  Mutiny.

  And Tom knew, as sure as the man sitting across from him, that there were many in the crew who shared the same reservations, were hesitant to follow through and complete the submarine’s mission. All they lacked was leadership. Leadership from one or both of the men sitting in this small stateroom. And the more officers who refused the Captain’s order, the more enlisted men would follow until even if the resistance were docile—simply refusing to execute their duties as opposed to taking over the ship—the officer and enlisted ranks would be decimated, leaving insufficient personnel to accomplish the launch.

  Is that what the Weps was contemplating? Rallying like-minded men to refuse to execute the Captain’s order, thereby preventing the Kentucky’s launch?

  A mutiny?

  There was no way to predict how Malone and the rest of the crew would react. It could get ugly. Very ugly and downright dangerous with two lockers of small arms aboard: several dozen rifles, shotguns, and pistols in one locker forward, another one aft. And the Weps knew that Tom, as Assistant Weapons Officer, held the key to one of those lockers. The Chief of the Boat, who would undoubtedly side with the Captain, held the other.

  Tom had gotten more than he bargained for when he knocked on the Weps’s door. He had wanted reassurance from the more senior officer, putting his doubt to rest, but it had headed in an unexpected direction. Tom wasn’t sure where the conversation would lead to next.

  But before he could reply, the Weps continued. “It’s only a rhetorical question, Tom. No need for you to answer.” The Weps returned his attention to the thick stack of papers on his desk. “Is there anything else I can help you with tonight?”

  Tom replied no, then thanked the Weps for his time and left, relieved they had not continued the discussion.

  * * *

  As the door closed, Lieutenant Pete Manning placed his pen on the desk. He had sensed the young lieutenant across from him, as conflicted as he appeared, was not amenable to participating in a blatant refusal to follow orders. He had suspected as much and had not planned on revealing his thoughts to Tom until he had unexpectedly broached the subject. He didn’t know what Tom would do with what he had heard, but he figured it would have no impact on how things would go tomorrow.

  He shoved aside the papers on his desk, certain he would lie in his rack tonight unable to fall asleep as he stared at the picture of his wife and two sons taped to the rack above him. He would think about the millions of families, just like his, who would no longer exist when he went to sleep the next night. Assuming, of course, he followed the Captain’s order.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Tom’s after-watch tour was complete and he rapped firmly on the Captain’s stateroom door. Lieutenant (JG) Carvahlo stood beside him, waiting to report their relief to the ship’s Commanding Officer. Malone acknowledged through the stateroom door, and the two offgoing watch officers entered.

  Malone lay on his rack, his hands clasped behind his head on his pillow, staring absently at the overhead. He seemed unaware he had authorized his offgoing watch officers entrance to his stateroom and that they were awaiting his signal to proceed. Tom glanced at the small TV mounted on the bulkhead—it was dark. Beside the monitor, the navigation repeater displayed the ship’s course, speed, and depth in red numbers, blinking silently as the Kentucky’s speed fluctuated a tenth of a knot.

  Malone sat up suddenly on the edge of his bed, nodding to his two watch officers to begin. Carvahlo gave his report first. “Sir, I’ve been relieved as Engineering Officer of the Watch by Lieutenant Vecchio. The reactor plant is in two-loop operation, natural circulation, normal temperature and pressure. Answering bells on
both main engines. The electric plant is in a normal full-power lineup. No out-of-spec readings on any watch station. That’s all I have, sir.”

  Tom’s report followed. “I’ve been relieved as Officer of the Deck by Lieutenant Costa. The ship is at four hundred feet, ten knots, course two-five-eight. Sonar held only one contact on the towed array, classified merchant. The ship remains Alert at Four-SQ. That’s all I have, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Malone said.

  Carvahlo left the stateroom and Tom began to follow, then stopped and turned back toward Malone, shutting the Captain’s door. “Sir, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about. During my postwatch tour, there was a fight in Crew’s Mess.”

  “Yes, I know. The COB stopped by.”

  “Sir, I don’t think this is an isolated incident. The crew’s on edge.”

  “I know, Tom.” Malone examined the face of the junior officer in front of him, concern and doubt clearly evident. “Have a seat.”

  After a lengthy silence, Malone continued. “Receiving a launch order this far in advance is the worst thing that could have happened. The weeklong delay has given the crew time to reflect on the order we’ve received and what it means. For some, the delay won’t matter. When we man Battle Stations, they’ll fall into their routine, doing their best not to think about what they’re actually doing. For others, like Walworth, this is revenge, an opportunity to lash back at those responsible for the destruction of our capital and the death of family and friends. And then there are those in between, torn by the thought of the almost incomprehensible devastation this ship will unleash upon mostly innocent men, women, and children.”

  “What about you, sir? Where do you fall?”