The Trident Deception Page 30

  There was a long silence. “And if the Weps refuses?”

  Malone stared pensively at his COB. “We’ll cross that bridge when the time comes.”

  64

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  1 HOUR REMAINING

  Inside the second-story bedroom of a brownstone town house in the Clarendon district of Arlington, with the afternoon sun slanting through the center slit of drawn curtains, the ceiling came into focus as Christine forced her eyes open. Rolling onto her side, she smacked the clock on the nightstand into submission, silencing the annoying alarm as she examined the time: 1 P.M. Turning onto her back again, she rubbed her eyes, then let her arms fall to the bed. She was still exhausted.

  After a six-minute drive home from the Pentagon this morning, she had collapsed onto her bed. She hadn’t even removed her clothes; only her shoes lay discarded on the floor. Her slumber had lasted four hours. More than a nap but hardly a good night’s sleep, and the few hours of downtime left her feeling more tired now than when she had walked into her town house, drained from her all-night vigil in the Current Action Center. She had wanted to return to the Pentagon as soon as possible and had settled on four hours of sleep.

  The cobwebs were clearing slowly, and she decided a hot shower followed by a cup of coffee was what she needed. She padded across the bedroom and into the bathroom, turning on the water and letting it heat up while she stripped off her clothes. Stepping into the shower, she pulled the curtain closed and let the warm water spray across her chest.

  After increasing the temperature of the water to as hot as she could stand it, she tilted her head forward, letting the water fall down her shoulders and back. As she stood under the almost scalding water, allowing the tension to ease from her shoulders, steam filled the bathroom with a fine, white mist. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face up to the hot water, pulling her hair behind her head as she reached for the shampoo. But her head snapped forward and her eyes popped open when she heard an unusual thump.

  She turned off the water and listened closely, but there was nothing but silence. Then she heard the sound again and concluded it was only her next-door neighbors. Christine turned the water back on and worked the shampoo into her hair. As she rinsed off the soap, letting it run down her body, she hoped it would wash away the guilt that had accumulated over the last week. She had been quick to blame others, and rightly so. Someone was executing an elaborate plot to annihilate another country. But the United States was also at fault; their safeguards had been inadequate. One man, turned traitor and armed with relatively unsophisticated aids, had transmitted a valid launch order to one of their nuclear assets.

  They were partly culpable—there was no way around it. And if they didn’t stop the Kentucky, the United States would be responsible for mass genocide. Making matters worse, she had helped Hardison and the president keep the issue hidden. If they were successful at stopping the Kentucky’s launch, she knew they would work together to ensure what had occurred would never become known to the public. The whole situation made her uneasy, participating in a conspiracy to keep the truth hidden.

  Christine stood under the hot water, letting the heat seep into her muscles, then shut off the water and pulled back the shower curtain. She grabbed a white bath towel off the rack. The shower had gone a long way toward waking her up. She dried herself, then wrapped the towel tightly around her body. Stepping out of the shower, she opened the door to let the steam dissipate into her bedroom. As she prepared to blow-dry her hair, she wiped the condensation from the mirror. A pale face stared back at her, looking older than she remembered it. The damp, stringy hair, the washed out features from the bathroom’s fluorescent lighting, and the lack of makeup added years to her appearance.

  After drying her hair and applying makeup, Christine donned a white satin blouse and a tan skirt. She hurried downstairs, noting the dead bolt was still thrown on the front door. Standing in front of her kitchen pantry, she debated whether to grab a bite to eat now or when she stopped for coffee. A rumble in her stomach made the decision for her. She surveyed the contents on the shelves, but nothing appealed to her, so she pulled a packet from the only open box.

  As she shoved the last of the strawberry Pop-Tart into her mouth, there was a knock on her town house door. She queried her visitor using the intercom and a familiar voice answered, bringing a smile to her face. As she turned toward the front door, it opened, and she remembered that Hendricks still had a key. Her ex-husband stepped into the foyer, holding a small pink gift bag with even brighter pink tissue poking out the top. He gripped the bag tightly, wearing a look on his face she immediately recognized as indecision.

  65

  USS KENTUCKY

  52 MINUTES REMAINING

  It was exactly 1808 Greenwich mean time when the USS Kentucky crossed the imaginary line separating Sapphire and Emerald. At that precise moment, Malone stood on the Conn waiting for the report from MCC, confident the analysis would return the expected results. They had done the calculations several times—the last of the ship’s missiles would be in launch range the second they entered Emerald. Still, Malone was putting the strategic weapon system through its paces, verifying the Kentucky’s missiles were in range prior to setting Battle Stations.

  “Conn, MCC.” The Weps’s voice echoed from the 21-MC. “The ship is within launch range of the assigned target package.”

  Even though Malone had been waiting for the report, the announcement caught him off guard. He felt unprepared for the order he must give. He had gone through the routine many times, both at the Trident Training Facility in Bangor and aboard the Kentucky; he had the words memorized. But they jumbled through his mind as he prepared to make the 1-MC announcement, refusing his attempts to place them in the proper order. Fortunately, the launch procedures lay on the shelf at the edge of the Conn, opened to the appropriate page. He forced his eyes to focus, but the words remained blurry. It was as if his subconscious was delaying the launch, if only for a moment.

  Over the last eight days, he had told himself repeatedly that he would be able to execute the strike order when they reached Emerald. He would focus on the task and not let the thought of what would happen thirty minutes later destroy his concentration. But as he stood on the Conn, the images of the death and destruction their missiles would wreak upon humanity flooded into his mind in vivid colors. In the end, he would be ultimately responsible for what they had done.

  But he was responsible, he told himself again. He was responsible for ensuring the strike order was executed.

  It was as straightforward as that.

  Only the force of his words failed to carry the same conviction they had earlier. Malone looked up, searching for the strength to begin, the face of every man in Control turned toward him, waiting for his command.

  Yes, that was the key.

  His command.

  When he had been offered command of the USS Kentucky, BLUE Crew, he knew full well the damage this warship could inflict. He could have declined, but had instead accepted his command, and with it, the responsibility to execute the lawful orders of the president of the United States of America. And he had received that lawful order.

  It was as straightforward as that.

  This time, his thoughts carried the necessary conviction, and the words on the page slowly came into focus. Malone picked up the 1-MC microphone, making the announcement he had been dreading since receipt of their launch order eight days ago.

  “Man Battle Stations Missile for Strategic Launch. Spin up all missiles with the exception of tubes Eight, Ten, and Twelve.”

  Throughout the ship, the crew manned their Battle Stations, with the section on watch making the initial preparations for missile launch.

  “Helm, all stop,” the Officer of the Deck ordered. “Dive, bring the ship to launch depth. Prepare to hover.”

  The Helm and the Diving Officer acknowledged, and the main engines went quiet as the Kentucky took a ten-degree up angle, coming shallow and
slowing in preparation for launch.

  The Kentucky’s angle leveled off as the submarine coasted to a dead stop. After engaging the hovering computers, the Diving Officer announced, “The ship is hovering at launch depth.”

  Personnel streamed into Control and toward their watch stations throughout the ship, preparing to launch their missiles and defend themselves from the sudden appearance of any adversary. In MCC, Tom and the Weps were joined by a half dozen missile techs, each with a specific responsibility for operating the launch systems, while four-man teams of missile techs formed up in Missile Compartment Upper Level and Lower Level, trained to manually operate the missile tube hydraulics if an electrical fault occurred.

  Standing on the Conn, Malone awaited the report from the Chief of the Watch that the Kentucky was at Battle Stations. At that point they would begin the strategic launch procedures.

  * * *

  While the ship’s ascent to launch depth and order to man Battle Stations Missile were duly recorded in the ship’s log, what weren’t recorded were the actions of the submarine’s Chief of the Boat, who had unlocked the Forward Small Arms Locker as the crew manned Battle Stations.

  Assignments to six submarines, split evenly between fast attacks and boomers, Steve Prashaw had worked his way up from Deck Gang on the Greenville to Chief of the Boat, the crown jewel of an enlisted submariner’s career. Although promotion to master chief had its professional privileges, nothing compared to the personal reward of serving as COB on a submarine, running the boat for the Captain, and the responsibility and respect that went with it.

  But that satisfaction could come crashing down in a single event. Prashaw didn’t know how the rest of the Submarine Force would receive them upon their return home—as heroes or as villains for executing their mission. He suspected it would be something in between, professional admiration marred with personal revulsion. But if one of their crew was murdered in order to execute their mission …

  Prashaw cleared his mind, returning his attention to the order he’d been given. Perusing the assortment of weapons in the small arms locker, he selected a 9mm Llama semiautomatic pistol. The shotguns and rifles were meant for topside watches and would be unwieldy in the submarine’s confined spaces. As he counted the number of rounds in the clip, he wished they still used the Colt 45 handgun. The 45 had been abandoned in favor of the 9mm due to the propensity for the Colt’s first round to jam. But Prashaw believed the Colt would have proved valuable today. The first round jamming would have given both parties a final opportunity to reconsider their actions.

  Unfortunately, the 9mm was what the Kentucky carried, and the COB reluctantly inserted the clip into the pistol. Sliding the pistol into a holster strapped around his waist left a sour taste in his mouth. The submarine’s small arms were supposed to be used to repel boarders. They were meant to protect the crew, not harm them.

  * * *

  As Malone stood on the Conn, waiting patiently for the ship to man Battle Stations, the COB arrived and stopped beside the Chief of the Watch; that he carried a firearm was not lost on the personnel in Control. Malone’s eyes drifted to the pistol. He hoped its use would not be necessary, that the Weps would fulfill his part in the strategic launch.

  The Chief of the Watch reported the ship was at Battle Stations Missile.

  Malone reflected for a moment about what he and his crew were about to do, then he picked up the 1-MC. “Set condition One-SQ for strategic launch. This is the Commanding Officer. The release of nuclear weapons has been directed.”

  Malone waited for the XO to repeat the order. But he just stood there, his eyes shifting between the other officers in Control and the COB—and darting down to the pistol holstered on the master chief’s waist. The XO’s delay was unusual; they had simulated their missile launch many times and he always immediately passed the duplicate order over the 21-MC.

  As Malone waited for the XO, he suddenly realized he had gotten it all wrong. He had been focused on the Weps, unsure whether he would execute his order. However, if the Weps refused, he could be replaced and his combination to the Trigger retrieved from the safe in the Op Center and handed over to his successor.

  He had overlooked the more obvious threat. The crew would not respond to a strategic launch order unless that identical order was given by two men. The first man was the submarine’s Commanding Officer. The second man was its Executive Officer. But unlike the Weps, the XO could not be relieved and replaced. Unless Lieutenant Commander Bruce Fay repeated the order, the crew would not initiate the launch sequence.

  Malone broke into a cold sweat. The XO was the second in command, authorized to relieve the submarine’s Commanding Officer if there was sufficient cause. Malone knew he couldn’t be relieved for executing their strike order, but he had no idea how the crew would react if the XO made the attempt. And he didn’t know where the loyalty of the other officers, all Academy grads like the XO, resided.

  As the thought of what the Executive Officer might do permeated his thoughts, he realized that nine of the other fourteen officers were in Control, surrounding him; even the Officer of the Deck, who had moved behind him on the Conn. The ship’s Navigator, free to float between Radio and Control to coordinate the message decryption, seemed out of place, standing slightly behind the COB, on the same side as his firearm. The other five officers were stationed in the key nerve centers of the ship: the EOOW in Maneuvering, the Weps and Tom in MCC, with the remaining two officers in Sonar and Radio. Even if Tom sided with the CO, he would be overruled by the more senior department head. The other officers could easily take over the Kentucky; with thirteen officers issuing orders, the rest of the crew would most likely follow.

  Is that what the Weps and the XO had been discussing? Details of their plan to ignore the launch order and relieve him of command? The arrival of the COB with his firearm had undoubtedly thrown a wrench into their plan, but they had apparently prepared for the possibility, the Nav hovering dangerously close, his presence beside the COB seemingly unnoticed by the senior enlisted man.

  Finally, the XO reached up and retrieved the 21-MC handset, his eyes continuing to shift between the other Academy grads and the COB.

  Malone held his breath. Would the XO repeat the strike command, or order something altogether different?

  The XO placed the 21-MC to his mouth, pausing as his eyes settled on Commander Brad Malone, the USS Kentucky’s commanding officer—for the moment.

  Malone’s pulse raced.

  The seconds ticked by like hours.

  Then the XO spoke forcefully into the handset. “Set condition One-SQ for strategic launch. This is the Executive Officer. The release of nuclear weapons has been directed.”

  * * *

  The crew responded instantly, turning toward their consoles and focusing on the remaining actions that would make the Kentucky’s missiles ready for launch.

  Malone let out a silent sigh of relief. His imagination had run away from him; the stress of executing the ship’s launch order was beginning to affect his judgment. Returning his attention to the impending launch, he left Control, opened the safe in his stateroom, and returned a minute later with twenty-one keys, each hanging from a green lanyard, which he handed to a missile tech waiting to arm the missile tube gas generators.

  A moment later, two junior officers arrived in Control with the CIP key, which they handed over to Malone. He held the key in his hand for a moment before inserting it into the Captain’s Indicator Panel. He turned the key ninety degrees counterclockwise, then flipped up the Permission to Fire toggle switch. The panel activated, the status lights illuminating for Missile Tubes One through Twenty-Four.

  One by one, the missiles were brought online, spinning up their inertial navigation systems. Malone monitored the progress of the missile gyro spin-up until the lights for twenty-one missiles illuminated, indicating they had successfully communicated with the submarine’s navigation system. Every missile except the ones in tubes Eight, Ten, and Twe
lve were awake now and knew their exact position on earth. The next column of lights slowly toggled from black to red as each missile accepted its target package, carrying the impact coordinates for the eight warheads each one carried.

  The third column of lights on the Captain’s Indicating Panel turned red as the techs in Missile Compartment Lower Level armed the explosives in the gas generators, which would generate the steam that would impulse the missiles out of the submarine to just above the ocean’s surface. One by one, twenty-one gas generators were armed.

  The USS Kentucky was ready to launch.

  All that remained was Malone’s final order. And once that order was given, it would be out of his hands. The Weapons Officer and his missile techs would take over, preparing and launching each missile. If there was one last opportunity to turn back, this was it. But Malone had made his decision three years ago. He had made a commitment then, and he would follow through now.

  Malone turned to the watchstander next to him. “Phone talker to Weapons. You have permission to fire.” The phone talker repeated Malone’s order, then passed it to MCC over the sound-powered phone circuit.

  Control grew quiet; the launch sequence had been set into motion.

  Malone had done his part.

  The Executive Officer had done his.

  Would the Weapons Officer and missile techs do theirs?

  Malone listened to the first order going out over the MCC communication circuit.

  “Prepare ONE.”

  The indicating light for Missile Tube One muzzle hatch turned green, indicating the muzzle hatch had been opened and was now locked in place. The starboard missile team relayed its report back to Missile Control Center.

  “ONE, ready.”

  Silence gripped Control as the crew awaited the ignition of Missile Tube One’s gas generator and the flexing of the keel as the sixty-five-ton missile was impulsed out of the tube. Malone stared at the Captain’s Indicator Panel, waiting for the last light to turn green, which would happen when the Weapons Officer squeezed the Trigger.