The Trident Deception Read online

  Malone’s head sagged in relief.

  After a long moment, he looked back up and spoke into the receiver. “COMSUBPAC, Kentucky. Thanks for the info. Anything else, over?”

  “Kentucky, COMSUBPAC. You are directed to return to port at best speed. Waterspace assignments will be forthcoming, over.”

  “COMSUBPAC, Kentucky. Understand. Any other instructions, over?”

  “Kentucky, COMSUBPAC. Not at this time, over.”

  “COMSUBPAC, Kentucky. Out.”

  Malone slowly placed the handset back into its holder, leaving his hand there for a moment, reflecting on the last ten days. It was going to be one hell of a patrol report. He looked over at Tom, still on the periscope.

  “Officer of the Deck, bring her down to four hundred feet, ahead full, course zero-eight-zero. We’re heading home.”

  Tom acknowledged Malone’s order, and as the periscope began sliding into its well, he looked up, and Malone could see the relief on Tom’s face as well. The missiles he’d launched had done no harm.

  For the first time in nine days, Lieutenant Tom Wilson smiled.

  He called out to the overhead microphone.

  “All Stations, Conn. Going deep.”

  85

  PENTAGON

  As Christine stood at the window in Hendricks’s office, she ran her finger lightly down the side of her swollen nose, noting the odd angle as it veered to the right. It hurt to move her jaw and she could still taste the ferrous tang of blood in her mouth. The adrenaline from this afternoon had worn off and her body ached. She was exhausted. She wondered why she remained in the Current Action Center. Without any antiballistic missiles, if the Kentucky launched again, all they could do was watch helplessly as Iran was annihilated.

  But Brackman had reminded her about the North Carolina, entering Emerald as the Collins was reported sunk. Even limited to ahead full, the nuclear-powered submarine was quite speedy, and might catch the Kentucky before she launched her remaining missiles. The North Carolina would need to get lucky to find her, though.

  Christine spotted Brackman walking briskly toward Hendricks’s office. He opened the door and spoke quickly. “We’ve got COMSUBPAC online. They’ve contacted the Kentucky.”

  Christine was suddenly no longer weary. She hurried across the Current Action Center, keeping up with Brackman’s long strides. They stopped by the Watch Captain’s workstation, listening to his conversation, which he had put on speakerphone.

  “COMSUBPAC, NMCC. Understand Kentucky has acknowledged the nuclear launch termination order and is proceeding to home port.”

  Relief poured through Christine’s veins, leaving her almost too exhausted to stand. They had finally succeeded.

  The Watch Captain continued, “COMSUBPAC, NMCC. Did they say why they took so long to acknowledge the Launch Termination Order and launched four missiles?”

  “NMCC, COMSUBPAC. We didn’t get into the details. We’ll get a full debriefing when she returns to port.”

  “COMSUBPAC, NMCC. Understand. Anything else?”

  “NMCC, COMSUBPAC. That’s it. You know where to find us.”

  The Watch Captain hung up the secure phone and turned to Captain Brackman and Christine. “What now?”

  Brackman deferred to Christine.

  “Order Pacific Fleet to terminate their order to find and sink the Chinese submarine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The Watch Captain began drafting the required order.

  Christine turned to Brackman. “I’m going to head over to the White House and brief the president. You coming with me or staying here?”

  Brackman surveyed Christine. She was still in her bloodied blouse and hadn’t yet washed the sheen of dried blood from her skin. Her face was a mess, to put it mildly.

  “I’ll escort you back. I’m not sure you’re completely good to go.”

  Christine thanked the Watch Captain for his efforts, then walked with Brackman toward the exit. She stopped at the door, turning to examine the screen at the front of the Current Action Center.

  All evidence of what had almost been the annihilation of seventy million people was gone from the screen. The red and green missile traces had faded, as had the blue circle representing the Collins. Only the Kentucky remained, headed east now, toward home.

  The nightmare was finally over.

  86

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  17 HOURS LATER

  In a darkened alcove between the West Wing and the Executive Residence of the White House, Press Secretary Lars Sikes leaned against the cool wall, dabbing the perspiration on his forehead with his handkerchief. Beneath the floor where he stood, abandoned for forty years, lay the swimming pool built in 1933 for Franklin Delano Roosevelt to accommodate his therapy for polio, the crippling disease he had contracted at the age of thirty-nine. But Sikes’s thoughts today were focused instead on the room on the other side of the wall against which he leaned. Inside the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room, more than one hundred reporters were crammed into a space with forty-eight permanent seats, the overflow of bodies lining the walls and back of the small room.

  Leaning quietly against the wall besides Sikes were the president’s chief of staff on one side and his national security adviser on the other. Sikes had been shocked when he entered the Oval Office yesterday evening and Christine, sitting in the chair across from the president’s desk, turned to greet him. Her features lay shrouded in the darkness this morning, and Sikes wasn’t sure who was more thankful, he or Christine. In the early morning hours preceding today’s briefing, they had explained what had happened and had drilled him in preparation for the grilling he was about to endure. During his two-year tenure as press secretary, he had prepared for hundreds of briefings, but none of the topics had been as disturbing as the ones he’d be discussing today.

  Hardison checked his watch. “It’s time.”

  Sikes took a deep breath, then opened the door and briskly entered the room, stopping in front of the black-and-gold oval emblem of the White House affixed to the blue curtain backdrop. Placing his hands on each edge of the podium, he maintained a casual demeanor, his posture relaxed, nodding as his eyes greeted the more prominent reporters in the front row. After waiting an appropriate amount of time for the conversation to die down, he cleared his throat to signal the beginning of today’s briefing.

  “Yesterday, at approximately two P.M. eastern standard time, we conducted a successful no-notice test of our ballistic missile defense systems. Four missiles were launched from a Trident ballistic missile submarine operating in the Pacific Ocean, and her missiles and test warheads were destroyed by our Terminal High Altitude Area Defense battery and SM-3 antiballistic missiles launched from Aegis-class cruisers in the Persian Gulf.”

  A flurry of hands went into the air, and Sikes signaled a reporter in the front row.

  “How many antiballistic missiles were required to shoot down the four missiles?”

  “We will not comment on the details of this test launch,” Sikes replied, “except that it was a resounding success.”

  “What units were involved?” another reporter interjected.

  “As I said, the details will not be disclosed.”

  “Why did Iran initiate a countrywide civil disaster evacuation drill the day before the test launch?” a reporter from the Washington Post asked. “And then the four test missiles were fired at Iran. That’s a strange coincidence.”

  Sikes resisted the urge to run his finger inside his shirt collar as he answered, “Our administration has been working hard to strengthen diplomatic relations with Iran. When we learned of the military’s plans to test our ballistic missile defense systems, we informed the countries in the vicinity so they wouldn’t be alarmed. Iran choose to fold our exercise into a national disaster drill for realism purposes, and the administration is very pleased our two countries were able to work together on these exercises to our mutual benefit. Next topic.”

  Sikes scanned the audience, and he
quickly pointed to a reporter in the second row. The woman asked, “What about the Australian submarine that hasn’t reported in? Is the United States involved in any way?”

  “Well, of course we’re involved, but only in the search-and-rescue phase. We’re assisting our Australian friends in every way we can, and our thoughts and prayers are with them as we search for the Collins, presumed lost with all hands.”

  A reporter in the back row was eagerly waving his hand, and Sikes acknowledged him.

  “What about the report of a reactor meltdown on the fast-attack submarine North Carolina?”

  “There was no reactor meltdown,” Sikes replied, thankful they had quickly shifted to the last essential topic. “Yes, there was a malfunction in her reactor control circuitry and the reactor overheated. But she was on a shakedown cruise, and these kinds of problems are what we attempt to discover after extensive shipyard maintenance. There’s a kernel of truth to this rumor, in that the North Carolina’s reactor was damaged and will require replacement, but there was no core meltdown. The submarine is safely on the surface, being towed back to Puget Sound Naval Shipyard in Washington State.”

  Most of the reporters still had their hands raised, many of them shouting questions. But Sikes had addressed the relevant topics. He smiled and waved, ignoring their animated gestures and requests to answer additional questions. He turned away from the podium and retreated toward the exit. The cover story for the Kentucky’s near destruction of Iran had been carefully constructed, with all parties briefed and their silence assured. But there was always the possibility they had overlooked something.

  He hoped to God they hadn’t.

  87

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  2 DAYS LATER

  On the south lawn of the White House, a Marine in dress blues stood by the entrance to a Sea King helicopter painted in the characteristic two-tone white over green presidential livery. As the downdraft from the five-bladed rotor rippled across the blades of grass, still wet from the morning’s dew, Christine and Hardison ducked their heads as they followed the president from the Rose Garden toward the waiting helicopter. Saluting the staff sergeant, the president, followed by Christine and Hardison, climbed up the access stairs into Marine One.

  Once the stairs were retracted and the entrance sealed, the sound of the helicopter’s twin engines faded entirely. Marine One was well insulated, the padded walls and ceiling allowing its passengers the luxury of talking in normal tones during flight. Hardison eased into his seat, joining Christine across from the president. He sat unusually close to her, their arms almost touching, something he would not have done two days earlier.

  Christine had to admit she had misjudged him. Two days ago, Hardison had stopped by the Command Center to discuss Hendricks’s continued silence, assured by a hefty financial incentive. There was something about her ex-husband’s response that caught Hardison’s attention; he had dealt with crooked politicians long enough to recognize feigned honesty and indignation. But there was something more he couldn’t place. He had decided to discuss his thoughts with Christine before she returned to the Pentagon, arriving at her town house in the nick of time.

  As far as Hendricks’s brutal attack went, it appeared he hadn’t done any long-lasting damage. Christine’s split lips had sealed into vertical scabs matching the thin cut in her neck, and her nose had been straightened but remained swollen, joined now by a pair of moderately black eyes as her body began the healing process. Hardison seemed relieved that Christine’s beauty hadn’t been permanently marred, and she couldn’t help but notice the subtle change in his demeanor.

  Christine’s thoughts returned to the present as Marine One lifted off for its short trip to Andrews Air Force Base southeast of Washington and its rendezvous with Air Force One, waiting to take the president to Berlin for his meeting with the German chancellor. Glancing out the starboard windows, Christine spotted two of the four identical Sea Kings accompanying the president on his trip, already shifting their positions in an endless shell game, obscuring the location of the president from would-be assassins on the ground.

  Now that they were en route to Andrews, the president prepared to address the matter they had been unable to resolve in the Oval Office earlier this morning. Hours after the Kentucky’s missiles were shot down, Prime Minister Rosenfeld had come clean, explaining everything to the president over a secure line. Christine had led the effort to craft a satisfactory response to Israel’s transgression, as well as what to do about the pending assembly of Iran’s first nuclear weapon. The president had finally agreed, on Christine’s firm insistence, to transfer the bunker-busting bombs Israel had requested. The weapon facility had been destroyed only a few hours ago. Satellites had detected the residual radiation commensurate with a fifty-kiloton nuclear weapon, confirming the destruction of Iran’s first nuclear bomb.

  Although the president had agreed with most of Christine’s plan to respond to Israel’s transgression, he hadn’t agreed to the risky final element. They would land at Andrews in a few minutes, and it was clear the president intended to resolve the matter by then.

  “Israel has promised appropriate action will be taken,” he said. “We should leave it at that.”

  Christine replied, “You may be able to leave it at that, but I cannot. It’s personal.”

  She could barely contain her fury. She had been relieved at first, the threat of a nuclear holocaust unleashed by one of their own submarines finally eliminated. But then a lump formed in her throat as her thoughts turned to the men and women aboard the Collins. Men and women who now rested in their watery graves, leaving behind parents, husbands and wives, and children who would never see them again.

  Someone would be held accountable. That much was clear. And having come within seconds of losing her life, Christine believed she was vested in that retribution.

  The president sighed. “What are the details?”

  Christine handed him a manila folder. “It’s ready to implement, pending your approval.”

  The president opened the folder, skimmed the first page, then lifted it up to read the second. Halfway down the page, his eyes shot toward Christine. “You’re not serious?”

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  He turned to his chief of staff. “What do you think, Kevin?”

  “I have my reservations, sir. But considering the circumstances, I agree with Christine’s plan.”

  Christine’s eyes went from Hardison to the president, and as Marine One landed, the president seemed on the verge of committing.

  The president stood to transfer to Air Force One, then shook Christine’s hand. “Good luck. And be careful.”

  88

  EIN KAREM, ISRAEL

  3 DAYS LATER

  It was almost noon, the sun climbing into a clear blue sky above the rolling Judean hills west of Jerusalem, when a black Mercedes S600 turned onto a narrow gravel driveway lined with towering umbrella pines. After a two-hundred-yard drive down the winding path, the car’s heavy suspension swaying over the uneven surface, the sedan pulled to a stop in front of a sprawling hilltop villa, the lunchtime destination for the American national security adviser and her driver, William Hoover.

  Earlier this morning, as Christine stepped onto the tarmac at Ben Gurion International Airport, she had been surprised when she was greeted by the same man who had threatened to kill her if she ever tried to track him down. However, circumstances had changed somewhat over the last three days, and the “agreement” the United States had dictated to its ally in the Middle East required she be met by a man of Hoover’s background. After reviewing how things would unfold at lunch, she had stepped into the back of the sedan for the short trip to her destination. Hoover sensed her nervousness and tried to ease her apprehension, talking incessantly the entire trip, his eyes flitting between the road and the rearview mirror. However, he fell silent as he climbed out of the sedan, opening the rear door for his quiet passenger, who had not said a word in response.
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  On the flagstone patio behind his villa, Israeli intelligence minister Barak Kogen sat at a table neatly prepared with two place settings. As he waited for his guest, he leaned back in his chair, looking west over the patio’s waist-high limestone wall. The heavy rain that had quenched the parched countryside a fortnight earlier had left behind a bright green carpet of new flora, and in a few weeks the rockrose and thorny broom would turn the hillsides a pastel pink, white, and yellow. However, with the departure of the overcast skies, the days had turned unseasonably warm, the heat almost uncomfortable. Thankfully, a glass pitcher of iced tea, resting in the center of the table, would quench his thirst once his guest, Ariel Bronner, head of the Metsada, arrived.

  The doorbell rang and Kogen called out, “In back. Come join me.”

  A woman appeared around the corner of the villa, following a stone pathway to the back of the house. Kogen stood abruptly. “Who are you? And where is Ariel?”

  “I’m Christine O’Connor,” the woman replied in English, “national security adviser to the president of the United States. Ariel was called away and he asked me to meet with you instead.”

  Kogen suddenly recognized Christine, eyeing her suspiciously. His unexpected guest was attractive, although she wore her makeup a bit too heavy for his taste, concealing faint black circles under her eyes.

  “Ariel’s waiting for your call,” she said. “He’ll confirm.”

  Pulling out his cell phone, Kogen dialed Bronner’s office. CALL FAILED appeared on the display, and he noticed the antenna had no signal strength. He looked up at Christine. “I’ll have to use a landline to call Ariel. I’ll be back shortly.” He entered the villa and returned a moment later, his shoulders relaxed, a friendly smile on his face.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the table. Christine took the proffered chair while Kogen settled in beside her. “So what brings you to my villa in place of my Metsada chief, Miss O’Connor?”