The Trident Deception Read online

  She focused on the remaining two missiles. Four SM-3s were headed toward the third missile, while four THAADs had been assigned the task of eliminating the fourth missile. She glanced at the Watch Captain’s workstation, expecting to see only the two remaining missiles. But there were now a dozen contacts. The first two missiles had broken up into ten pieces, making the task for the remaining SM-3s and THAADs even tougher.

  The first SM-3 closed on the third missile, in the middle of the debris field. The red and green traces marched slowly toward each other. Then kept on going.

  Christine watched the next SM-3. It missed too.

  The third SM-3 closed on the Kentucky’s missile. The red and green traces intersected, then terminated.

  The third missile had been destroyed.

  Only one missile continued its descent.

  76

  MISSILE FOUR

  15 MINUTES REMAINING

  Seven hundred miles above earth, the Kentucky’s fourth missile, officially referred to by the Kentucky’s crew as missile FOUR, streaked through the stratosphere toward its programmed targets. But missile FOUR had an unofficial name as well. Trident missiles were stored in the submarine’s missile tubes for years between depot overhauls, and missile technicians occasionally performed minor maintenance, entering the missile via an access panel in its side. When entering each new missile for the first time after it rolled off the assembly line, one of the missile techs would stop before exiting, inscribing the missile’s unofficial name on the inside of the graphite epoxy shell of the missile’s third stage. Inside missile FOUR, written in indelible black marker, was its name, along with a message for the recipients of its warheads:

  Pray not for Redemption.

  Redemption reached the apex of its flight path, arching downward on its return to earth. A portal opened in its side, exposing a camera that peered into the heavens.

  Click.

  An image of the stars was compared to the missile’s navigation memory, and a second later, its third-stage engines fired silently in the darkness, rolling the missile to starboard and gently increasing the angle of its downward trajectory. The third-stage engines fired again, halting the missile’s roll and pitch at the desired angles.

  Click.

  Redemption took a second star fix, verifying its flight path had been properly adjusted so that all eight of its warheads, when released, would hit their targets precisely.

  The four restraining clamps around warhead One retracted, followed by a brief pulse of the missile’s third-stage engines. Warhead One separated from Redemption, beginning its lonely journey toward its aim point. The clamps around warhead Two retracted, and the ritual repeated itself seven more times, as Redemption released all eight of its warheads flawlessly, exactly as programmed.

  Four THAAD missiles streaked up through the atmosphere, the first three missing the small warheads and missile FOUR, distracted by the debris from missile THREE. But the last THAAD homed on the desired target, slamming into missile FOUR, breaking it into pieces.

  The THAAD missile had done its job.

  Only a minute too late.

  77

  PENTAGON

  10 MINUTES REMAINING

  Looking up at the display at the front of the Current Action Center, Christine had watched the SM-3s destroy the first three missiles, her relief turning to dismay as eight red traces branched out from the fourth missile. Their task was now impossible, as the eight warheads had blended in with the surrounding debris; a total of twenty-three traces streaked downward. The icons representing their missile defense platforms blinked yellow, indicating they were out of weapons; all except the USS Lake Erie, which still glowed a steady green. But no missiles streaked upward.

  “The Lake Erie is paralyzed,” the Watch Captain announced, looking first at Brackman, then at Christine. “Her Aegis fire control system can’t determine which of the targets are the warheads, and they don’t have enough missiles to target each bogey.”

  “If their fire control system can’t sort out the contacts,” Christine replied, “you’re going to have to.”

  There was a slight hesitation. “And how do I do that?” the Watch Captain asked.

  “Figure it out,” Christine answered.

  The Watch Captain stared at Christine for a moment, then turned back toward his screen. He wiped his palms on his thighs, then squinted at his display. “There has to be something about the eight warheads that distinguishes them from the debris,” he said, talking more to himself than to Christine.

  As Christine and Brackman exchanged worried glances, the Watch Captain picked up an erasable marker and began scribbling information on the Plexiglas next to his workstation. He cycled through the twenty-three targets, annotating information in several columns, then paused to examine the data, placing an asterisk next to one of the target numbers, and then another. He put down the marker, examining the data in front of him.

  There were eight asterisks.

  “That’s the best I can do,” he said, looking up at Christine. “These eight contacts are following the same trajectory, give or take a fraction of a degree. My best guess is these are the warheads.”

  There was no way to tell if the Watch Captain had determined the correct targets, but there was no time to debate the issue. “Order the Lake Erie to engage the tracks you’ve identified.”

  He typed several commands into his workstation, and all but eight tracks on the display in front of them disappeared. A moment later, the Watch Captain replied, “The Lake Erie is engaging.”

  Christine’s eyes lifted up to the main display as a green trace appeared, arching up from the cruiser. Ten seconds later, a second green trace appeared, followed by six more, each fired ten seconds apart, until there were eight tracks curving toward the descending red targets. After the eighth green trace appeared, the Lake Erie’s icon switched from green to yellow. It didn’t take long for Christine to do the math: the Lake Erie had launched only eight SM-3s against eight warheads. Every SM-3 had to hit its target.

  The seconds ground by slowly, until the first green trace finally intersected a red one. No one spoke as the tracking systems updated, and Christine’s stomach tightened as she waited. Then the leading red trace, along with the first green one, terminated where they had intersected.

  The first warhead had been destroyed.

  Several watchstanders commented to each other quietly, their attention focused on the remaining threats. One by one, each SM-3 intercepted its target until only one warhead and one SM-3 remained. Christine held her breath as the last of the eight SM-3 missiles intercepted the red trace. But unlike the seven previous intercepts, this time the red and green traces continued.

  “We missed,” the Watch Captain announced. He looked up, defeat on his face. “All platforms report zero assets remaining.”

  The map on the display zoomed in. The warhead was headed toward Tehran. A city with sixteen million people.

  Christine’s heart sank. “There has to be something else we can do.”

  A dour expression filled the captain’s face. “I’m afraid not,” he replied. “We have no more antiballistic missiles in the region.”

  There was something about the Watch Captain’s last statement that caught Christine’s attention. There were no more antiballistic missiles in the region.

  But the cruisers in the Gulf were still heavily armed, and perhaps they carried another weapon they could use against the last warhead. Her mind reached back to her days as a staffer for the Senate Armed Services Committee, being briefed on the new SM-3 missile. It had been developed from a weapon system with a proven track record, modified to give the new missile the extra boost to reach high into the stratosphere. But they didn’t need to reach the stratosphere. The last warhead was only minutes above Tehran, and maybe the original weapon system the SM-3 was developed from would suffice. Searching through her memory, she finally located its name.

  “Do any of the cruisers in the Gulf carry the
SM-2?”

  A perplexed expression spread across the Watch Captain’s face. “Yes, every cruiser carries the SM-2.” His eyes lit up as he continued, “for defense against incoming missiles fired from aircraft and surface ships.” But then concern clouded his face again. “Unfortunately, they don’t have the legs of the SM-3. They’re much shorter-range missiles.”

  “See if any of the cruisers are within range.”

  The officer turned back to his workstation, quickly pulsing the system for the requested data. “The Lake Erie is barely within range.”

  “Order her to engage the last warhead with an SM-2.”

  The Watch Captain tapped a series of touch screen commands. “Order sent and acknowledged.”

  Christine looked up at a red digital clock on the top right corner of the Current Action Center display, rapidly counting down the time to warhead detonation.

  3 minutes remaining

  A few seconds later, a blue trace appeared next to the Lake Erie’s icon, heading toward the lone remaining warhead. The Watch captain pressed a control at his workstation, and the map of the Middle East zoomed in until only Tehran and its surrounding suburbs filled the screen.

  2 minutes remaining

  The red trace from the last warhead continued downward, only inches away from its detonation point above the center of Tehran, while the blue trace representing the SM-2 missile streaked across from the side of the screen.

  1 minute remaining

  If they missed, the last warhead would detonate over Tehran, and a 500-million-degree inferno would vaporize the center of the city and ignite everything within miles, while the shock wave raced outward at the speed of sound, leveling everything in its path. Tehran would become a radioactive wasteland uninhabitable for ten thousand years. The only chance of preventing the holocaust lay with the Lake Erie’s SM-2 missile.

  The clock reached zero.

  The blue and red traces intersected, then started blinking.

  “What happened?” Christine asked.

  “We’ve lost the link to our satellite trackers,” the captain replied. “We’ll have to rely on data from the Lake Erie’s fire control system. We’re attempting to contact her now.”

  The Watch Captain tapped another control on his monitor, energizing the Current Action Center speakers. Random static was interrupted periodically by the CAC requests for information.

  “Lake Erie, this is the National Military Command Center. Report status of intercepting the last warhead.”

  Each request was met with static. Christine wondered if the warhead had detonated, destroying their tracking and communication satellites with the electromagnetic pulse. But then the repeated queries were finally answered …

  “This is USS Lake Erie. We have confirmation the last warhead has been destroyed.”

  Cheers erupted, watchstanders eagerly shaking hands and slapping each other on the back. Brackman stepped toward Christine, pulling her body close against him, then planted a kiss on her lips, one that lingered too long for a simple congratulation.

  Pain sliced across Christine’s mouth as his kiss split open her cut lip.

  Brackman pulled away, a shocked expression on his face. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

  Christine said nothing, simultaneously relieved they had averted disaster and surprised by Brackman’s response. Or was she reading too much into it?

  She turned back to the screen as it zoomed out to a view stretching from the Middle East to the central Pacific Ocean. The red traces representing the Kentucky’s missiles and warheads began to fade, disappearing a few seconds later.

  Why had the Kentucky stopped launching?

  Had the Collins sunk the ballistic missile submarine, or simply scared it away? If the Kentucky survived, she would launch again, and the nightmare would be repeated. Only this time it would be worse; their antiballistic missiles were expended and they had nothing left to defend against the submarine’s remaining twenty missiles.

  The red symbol representing the Kentucky repositioned, updated by satellites that had detected the submarine’s missile launch, placing its estimated position directly on top of the blue symbol representing the Collins. The diesel submarine had indeed found the Kentucky, forcing her to terminate her launch.

  As Christine stared at the two symbols, one on top of the other, she knew the two submarines were engaged in a duel to the death, and that only one would return home.

  78

  USS KENTUCKY

  HMAS COLLINS

  USS KENTUCKY

  “Conn, Sonar. Incoming torpedo is approaching our second countermeasure.”

  Leaning against the Fusion Plot, Malone studied the track of the incoming torpedo, which had circled their first countermeasure before continuing on, forcing the Kentucky to launch a second one. His assessment the torpedo had been launched from long range had been correct. It was launched over thirty minutes ago, giving the Kentucky time to move away before the torpedo could arrive and lock on to them. Where the torpedo had come from, however, remained a mystery.

  Who had launched it? And why? Then Malone received the information that answered the first question.

  “Conn, Sonar. Incoming torpedo is a Mark 48. Mod 4!”

  Malone froze.

  Impossible!

  They had been fired on by an Australian submarine!

  There were only three countries that carried the MK 48 Mod 4 Torpedo in their arsenal—Australia, Canada, and the Netherlands. This far out in the Pacific meant an Australian submarine had attacked them.

  He called into the overhead mike. “Sonar, Conn. Are you positive? A Mark 48 Mod 4?”

  “Conn, Sonar,” the Sonar Supervisor replied. “No doubt about it, sir.”

  Malone was temporarily at a loss for words as he analyzed the situation. Although he now knew who had attacked them, the why was unknown. Unfortunately, he had scant time to ponder the answer. He would have to wait until the Kentucky was out of harm’s way. His attention returned to the torpedo chasing them as the Sonar Supervisor’s voice carried across Control.

  “Torpedo is slowing. Entering reattack pattern around our second countermeasure.”

  Malone peered intently at the geographic display, which showed a red ∧ circling the blinking white dot representing their torpedo decoy. By the time the torpedo figured things out, hopefully the Kentucky would be long gone.

  “Torpedo bearings continue to draw aft. Torpedo is circling ship’s countermeasure.”

  Exactly as planned.

  Now they could slow and begin to prosecute the offending submarine. But Malone’s relief was cut short by a new report from Sonar.

  “Upshift in Doppler. Torpedo is turning toward us!”

  The torpedo had either figured out their countermeasure was a decoy and had picked up the Kentucky speeding away, or had been wire-guided toward them. Malone marked off the distance between the countermeasure and the Kentucky’s current position.

  Four thousand yards.

  It was directly behind the Kentucky, and there was no way they could outrun it. The best they could do was dump another countermeasure behind them and hope the torpedo would be distracted long enough for the Kentucky to slip away. But as they launched another decoy, Malone knew the MK 48 would not be fooled for long.

  As expected, the MK 48 torpedo barely sniffed the new countermeasure, which was exactly like the last two it had encountered. Its search algorithms then identified a possible submarine directly ahead. Another ping verified it, and the torpedo shortened its ping interval and increased speed to maximum.

  The operators in Kentucky’s Sonar Room observed the characteristic change in the torpedo’s behavior and reported it. “Torpedo is increasing speed and range gating!” Sonar followed up a second later.

  “Torpedo is homing! One thousand yards and closing!”

  Silence gripped Control, broken periodically by Sonar’s reports of the torpedo’s closure in two-hundred-yard increments. Malone noted the time of the
initial torpedo report, then glanced at the time displayed on the nearest combat control console. He ran the calculations through his head, trying to determine the proper course of action.

  “Eight hundred yards!”

  He struggled with the decision to Emergency Blow, filling the water around them with a massive burst of air. The air pockets would distort the torpedo’s sonar pings, blinding it momentarily while the Kentucky ascended rapidly upward, hopefully out of the torpedo’s sonar range before the torpedo passed through the bubbles and regained contact.

  “Six hundred yards!”

  But if the Kentucky blew, they’d end up on the surface, vulnerable and noisy, unable to submerge again immediately as they waited for the main ballast tanks to vent the air trapping the submarine on the surface. They’d be a sitting duck.

  “Four hundred yards!”

  But if they maintained course, the torpedo would eventually close on the Kentucky, blasting a hole into the Engine Room. Only one course of action held any promise. But what if he was wrong? He couldn’t debate it further. He had run out of time.

  Malone made his decision, calling out calmly, “Steady as she goes.”

  “Two hundred yards!”

  The Diving Officer turned, looking to the Captain for direction.

  “One hundred yards!”

  But then Sonar followed up with the report Malone had been hoping for.

  “Torpedo is slowing!”

  A few seconds later, Sonar confirmed Malone’s calculations.

  “Torpedo has shut down!”

  The torpedo had been fired from long range, and had closed on their countermeasures before turning toward the Kentucky. Heavyweight torpedoes carried a lot of fuel and could chase their target across long distances. But not far enough. By the narrowest of margins, the torpedo had exhausted its fuel before reaching its target. Now the Kentucky could fight back. “Helm, ahead two-thirds.”

  The Kentucky began to slow, bringing its sonar systems back into play. Now they would find and destroy the submarine that almost sank them.

  HMAS COLLINS