The Trident Deception Page 37

  There, but for the grace of God, go I.

  Nonetheless, he was relieved. They had survived, and now they had to clear the area quickly in case there were other warships or aircraft nearby, which would no doubt converge on the explosion. But first they had to slow from ahead flank, allowing their sonar signature to melt back into the ocean.

  “Helm, ahead standard. Left full rudder, steady course two-seven-zero.”

  Malone paused, then addressed the watchstanders in the Control Room. “Attention in Control. I intend to clear datum to the west for several hours. Once we’re a safe distance away and have confirmed there are no contacts nearby, we’ll slow and launch our remaining missiles. Carry on.”

  The eyes of his men lingered on him for a few seconds before they returned their attention to their workstations.

  Malone stepped down from the Conn as the Kentucky traversed quietly away from the explosion reverberating through the ocean depths.

  80

  PENTAGON

  At the small table in Hendricks’s office, Christine sat alone with her thoughts. She had ignored Brackman’s advice to seek medical attention, determined to remain at the Current Action Center until they received word on the Kentucky’s and Collins’s fates. Shortly after the Kentucky launched four missiles and her position updated on top of the Collins, SOSUS reported an underwater explosion in the vicinity.

  One of the submarines had been sunk.

  Which one was unknown. The Collins had not yet radioed in, and with each passing minute, the likelihood the Kentucky had survived grew. The tension was mounting in the Current Action Center, as they had no antiballistic missiles remaining. Their only hope hinged on the Collins.

  The door opened and Brackman entered. It was clear from the expression on his face that he’d brought news. Christine rose from her chair as he spoke.

  “We’ve picked up a submarine emergency distress beacon in the vicinity of the explosion.”

  Christine looked for clues in Brackman’s expression, noting his pale face.

  Her words came out slowly. “Which submarine?”

  “The emergency beacon is from the Collins.”

  A pit formed in her stomach. They had failed.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “The Kentucky will clear datum,” Brackman replied, “knowing that others in the area will converge on the explosion and begin their search there. Once she’s safely away, she’ll launch her remaining missiles.”

  “How long do we have?”

  “No way to know for sure.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  “We’ve already vectored in our P-3Cs and laid an extensive sonobuoy field, but we haven’t picked up anything so far. We’ll keep looking. But now that the Kentucky is in Emerald, free to travel in any direction—”

  “I know,” Christine finished the sentence for him. “The odds of finding her are minuscule.” There was an uneasy silence before she continued. “Are you sure there are no more antiballistic missiles in the region?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re checking with 5th Fleet on the possibility of reloading the cruisers in theater, but from what I know of Trident submarine protocols, even if we have the SM-3 assets and can reload, there’s no way we’ll be ready before the Kentucky resumes launching.”

  There was another awkward silence. Finally, Brackman said, “I’m sorry, Christine.” Then he turned and left, closing the door behind him.

  Christine approached the window in Hendricks’s office, examining the CAC screen. The Kentucky’s estimated position was a red circle again instead of a teardrop shape, centered at the location of the torpedo explosion. In the center of the circle, the blue icon symbolizing the Collins blinked rapidly for a few seconds, then disappeared. She wondered what the crew on the Collins had thought and felt as the cold water rushed into their submarine, dragging them down into the dark, frigid ocean. She shuddered, hoping they died quickly and painlessly. Then she realized she had done everything possible to ensure the crew on the Kentucky shared that same fate.

  Yet the Kentucky had survived—and would soon launch her remaining missiles.

  81

  USS KENTUCKY

  One hundred miles north of Enewetak Atoll, a collection of forty coral reef islands surrounding a deep central lagoon, a dark shape drifted up from the ocean depths. The object, lost in the shadows of the early morning light shimmering on the ocean’s surface, rose at a ten-degree angle, its main engines silent, slowing during the ascent until it came to rest several hundred feet below the ocean waves. Valves in the black metal skin of the warship opened and closed as water was sucked into and purged from its internals, keeping the ship steady at launch depth. The towed array, no longer streaming behind the ship, drifted down until it came to a vertical rest, hanging from the submarine like a spider’s thin, silky thread.

  * * *

  After sinking the Collins, Malone continued west for two hours. Finally convinced there was sufficient distance between the submarine and the explosion, the Kentucky had come shallow, its crew manning Battle Stations. The Kentucky had not yet completed its mission; there were still seventeen missiles to be launched.

  The Chief of the Watch reported the ship was at Battle Stations Missile, and Malone, standing on the Conn, 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.”

  The XO spoke into the 21-MC handset, repeating the Captain’s order.

  Malone left Control and, after opening the safe in his stateroom, returned a minute later with seventeen 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, then flipped up the Permission to Fire toggle switch. The panel activated, the status lights illuminating for Missile Tubes Five through Twenty-Four.

  One by one, the missiles were brought online, with the exception of the missiles in tubes Eight, Ten, and Twelve. Malone monitored the progress of the missile gyro spin-up until the indicating lights for seventeen missiles illuminated. The next column of lights toggled from black to red as each missile accepted its target package, carrying the impact coordinates for their warheads. The third column of lights on the Captain’s Indicator Panel turned red as the missile techs in Missile Compartment Lower Level armed the gas generators. One by one, seventeen gas generators were armed.

  The USS Kentucky was ready to launch again. All that remained was Malone’s final order. One final command, and seventeen missiles would streak through the atmosphere toward their destination. Malone turned to his phone talker next to him, who would pass the order—You have permission to fire—to MCC.

  * * *

  Standing in MCC, his shoulders sagging, Tom Wilson held the Trigger in his hand, hanging listless by his side. His eyes were blank, a vacant gaze aimed at the Launch Control Panel, awaiting his Captain’s order. Nearby, Petty Officer Tryon, along with the other missile techs, stared at Tom. Tom knew what they were thinking, but didn’t really care. Hours earlier, he had struggled with the launch decision, and it had boiled down to the commitment he made when he took the oath of office, to follow the lawful orders of a superior officer, and in this case, the president of the United States. What he hadn’t bargained on, however, was the personal toll that commitment would take.

  The realization that commitment would erase the lives of millions of innocent men, women, and children was something he hadn’t anticipated. From the moment he squeezed the Trigger that first time, he knew he couldn’t live with what he had done. Whether it was one more time or seventeen more times, it didn’t matter.

  He would launch the remaining missiles when ordered. He would sort through the rest later.

  * * *

  Malone stood in Control
, his hands on each side of the Captain’s Indicator Panel. Next to him, the phone talker waited expectedly for his order to launch.

  Malone hesitated.

  It didn’t make sense.

  An Australian submarine had attacked them. Why? For the last two hours, he had tried to piece together the unusual events of the past ten days, believing this was the key. Why did they attack? Were they trying to prevent them from launching?

  Suddenly, the disparate pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Except—they hadn’t received a Launch Termination Order. Why not? Their Radio Room was perfectly operational. Malone shook his head.

  It didn’t make sense.

  He surveyed the men in Control. His crew was at Battle Stations Missile, and the Kentucky was hovering at launch depth. His phone talker stood next to him, his finger over the button on his mouthpiece, waiting to pass the Launch order.

  Malone reviewed the events over the last ten days again. The unexpected Launch order, the strange encounter with the 688s, the mysterious stationary object, the attack by the P-3C, and now the Australian submarine.

  It didn’t make sense.

  However, their protocols were clear. They would execute their mission unless they received a Launch Termination Order. His hands were tied.

  Finally, he made his decision.

  He flipped down the Permission to Fire toggle switch.

  Looking at the Chief of the Watch, he said, “Secure from Battle Stations Missile.” He turned to the Officer of the Deck. “Make preparations to proceed to periscope depth.”

  This situation was beyond unusual.

  He would contact COMSUBPAC.

  * * *

  “No close contacts!”

  The crew had secured from Battle Stations Missile, and Tom was stationed as Officer of the Deck again. The ascent to periscope depth was uneventful, and as Tom rotated quickly on the periscope, he observed no ships on the horizon. A quick aerial search verified the absence of air contacts, and Tom settled into a low-power search as Malone spoke into the overhead microphone.

  “Radio, Conn. Line up for EHF comms. Patch communications to the Conn.”

  Radio acknowledged, then reported over the 27-MC a moment later. “Conn, Radio. Request Number One periscope.”

  Malone turned to Tom. “Switch periscopes.”

  “Switch periscopes, aye.” Tom turned the port periscope until it faced forward, calling out as he reached up and twisted the periscope locking ring, “Lowering Number Two scope.” He stepped to his right. “Raising Number One scope.” The starboard periscope began rising as the port scope settled into its well, and Tom’s eye was soon pressed against the starboard periscope eyepiece, turning slowly clockwise as he continued his search of the horizon.

  Tom called out, “Radio, Conn. Number One scope is raised.”

  Radio replied a moment later, “Conn, Radio. EHF is lined up to the Conn.”

  Malone pulled the red phone from its holster on the Conn, pressing it against his face as he spoke. “COMSUBPAC, this is Kentucky actual. Request to speak to N9, over.”

  Malone waited for a response, but there was nothing but silence. He tried again. “COMSUBPAC, this is USS Kentucky’s commanding officer. Request to speak to N9, over.”

  Silence again. There was something odd about the silence too. Clean. No static. Just … silence.

  Malone glanced at the overhead microphone as he spoke. “Radio, Conn. Are you sure we’re lined up properly? It doesn’t sound like we’re getting through.”

  Radio responded a moment later. “Conn, Radio. Everything looks good in here.”

  Malone located the Messenger of the Watch, standing on the port side of Control. “Find Chief Davidson and have him report to Control.”

  A quick acknowledgment, and the young man was on his way, scouring the ship for the submarine’s Radio Chief. A few minutes later, Chief Davidson arrived in Control.

  “Radio problem, Captain?”

  “Maybe,” Malone answered. “Can’t get through on EHF comms. And no static either. I need you to check the lineup in Radio.”

  “Aye, sir.” Chief Davidson headed into Radio, and a moment later, his voice came across the 27-MC. “Conn, Radio. This is Chief Davidson. I’ve verified the lineup is proper. I’d like you to give it another try.”

  Malone pulled the red handset from its holster again. “COMSUBPAC, this is Kentucky actual. Request to speak to N9, over.”

  Silence.

  Chief Davidson’s voice carried across the 27-MC again. “Conn, Radio. Everything’s working fine on our end. Must be a problem shore-side or with the spot satellite. Perhaps we should try again after we finish launching.”

  Malone shook his head, then called out, “Radio, Conn. Line up UHF SATHICOM to the Conn.” He turned to Tom. “We’ll need a multi-function mast.”

  “Aye, sir,” Tom replied. “Chief of the Watch. Raise Number Two Multi-Function.”

  The Chief of the Watch complied, and the port multi-function antenna was soon raised from the submarine’s sail. A few seconds later, Radio’s report echoed over the 27-MC. “Conn, Radio. UHF SATHICOM is patched to the Conn.”

  Malone pressed the handset against his face. “COMSUBPAC, this is Kentucky actual. Request to speak to N9, over.”

  Silence. Clean. No static.

  Malone’s grip on the handset tightened.

  “COMSUBPAC, this is Kentucky actual. Request to speak to N9, over.”

  Silence.

  Malone slammed the handset back in its holster, then strode into the Radio Room.

  Chief Davidson was hunched over one of the radio consoles with the first class leading petty officer, on watch with Petty Officer Greene, manning the other console. Davidson turned as Malone entered.

  Stopping next to one of the large gray communication cabinets, Malone surveyed the racks of complex gear. “Chief, there’s no way both EHF and UHF systems are down. And something tells me there’s a Launch Termination Order we haven’t received. That means there’s something’s wrong with our Radio Room. Tear this place apart and figure it out.”

  “Sir,” Davidson replied, “our Radio Room is fully operational. We’re copying the broadcast every time we go to PD.”

  “Don’t argue with me. Run a complete set of diagnostics. There’s something squirrelly going on with our comms.”

  Greene turned sideways in his chair, a puzzled expression on his face, looking first at the Captain, then at Davidson, then at the Antenna Patch Panel. “Sir,” Greene began.

  “It’s not important,” Davidson interrupted, shooting Greene a stern look.

  “What’s not important?” Malone asked.

  Davidson replied, “Greene was about to mention the card we installed last Refit. Gives us a new diagnostics capability.”

  Malone turned to Greene. “Where?”

  Greene pointed to the Antenna Patch Panel.

  Malone motioned for Petty Officer 1st Class Rob Mushen to open the panel.

  Mushen unscrewed the knurl knobs and opened the panel. Pulling a small flashlight from a nearby toolbox, he examined the cabinet internals, spotting the card Chief Davidson had installed during the previous Refit.

  “What the…”

  “What is it, Mushen?”

  “There’s a card in here, just like Chief said, but I’m not aware of any modifications authorized to this cabinet.” Malone clenched his hands into fists as Mushen examined the card and other modifications to the cabinet. “There are some wiring changes as well. As best as I can tell, our antennas are cut off and everything is rewired to this card.”

  Malone swiveled toward Davidson, grabbing him by the collar of his coveralls, slamming him up against the Radio Room cabinets. “What the fuck have you done?”

  Davidson said nothing for a moment as Malone glared at him, then replied calmly, “What someone should have done long ago. And proud of it. I helped my country defend itself from those intent on destroying it.”

  “Your country?” Malone r
epeated. “What country is that?”

  Davidson looked away.

  Malone shoved Davidson to the deck. He picked up the 27-MC. “Officer of the Deck, Captain. Have the COB and two armed petty officers report to Radio.” Turning to Mushen, he said, “Get this Radio Room operational ASAP.”

  Mushen’s acknowledgment was interrupted by Tom’s excited voice over the 27-MC.

  “Radio, Conn. Captain. Sonar reports a new contact, Sierra two-four, bearing zero-nine-five. High-speed submerged contact!”

  82

  USS NORTH CAROLINA

  With his fast-attack submarine at Battle Stations, Commander Dennis Gallagher stood behind the Officer of the Deck’s Tactical Workstation, his attention focused on the sonar display. The Engineer hovered beside him, the urgency of his report written on his face. But Gallagher knew what the Eng was about to tell him; as he pushed the North Carolina past its limits, red alarms were flashing throughout the Engine Room.

  Four days earlier, the reactor had scrammed due to a dropped control rod, one they had been unable to relatch. Gallagher had informed Naval Reactors, but as the North Carolina headed home for repairs, he was stunned by the response. He had been directed to turn around and proceed west, authorized to operate at ahead full, exceeding the reactor’s temperature limit. Navy leadership had apparently decided they were willing to accept the destruction of the North Carolina’s core, if that gave them the chance to locate and sink their target. But by operating the reactor at the higher temperature, they were deliberately hurling themselves toward the precipice of a reactor meltdown, and they would soon reach a point from which they could not pull back.

  Despite the authorization from Naval Reactors, Gallagher was uneasy; he had been ordered to commit heresy. No submarine had ever deliberately violated reactor operating limits—that was a fundamental rule ingrained into every officer and enlisted man. But the order had been given, along with new criteria beyond which reactor operation would not be allowed. From the look on the Engineer’s face, they were approaching that limit.