The Trident Deception Page 9

  The Marine looked at Christine uncomfortably. “The deputy director will be here any minute. It’ll be his call on what to do next.”

  As the Marine finished speaking, a man approached, running down the corridor, stopping next to Christine. He was out of breath as he spoke. “I got here as soon as I could, Chris.”

  Dave Hendricks, the deputy director of the National Military Command Center, was a relatively handsome man in his forties, about six feet tall, of medium build, wearing a blue sport coat and a coordinating tie. After a curt introduction to Agent Kenney and learning the door refused to respond to the Marines’ security code, he attempted to open the door using his code, with the same result.

  “Any ideas?” Christine asked.

  “Blow the door,” Hendricks replied, looking in Agent Kenney’s direction.

  Kenney motioned to the agent beside him, who spoke into his suit jacket sleeve.

  * * *

  Inside the Operations Center, Mike placed the list of names next to the safe, flattening the creases in the paper. He glanced at the safe, the inner door still shut, then at Ron and Andy Bloom, their stiff bodies on the floor. Psychological profiles had been run on all ten men and women who knew the combination to the inner safe, and the names on the list were arranged in order of who was most likely to crack and trade the combination for his or her life. The profiles of Ron and Andy were obviously incorrect. But Hoover had assured him the odds of all ten men and women sacrificing their lives to protect the combination were minuscule, with a 99.7 percent probability one of them would acquiesce. Mike would obtain the combination; it was only a matter of time.

  Mike ran his finger down the list of names to the next one.

  Third time’s the charm.

  * * *

  Outside NMCC, a third CIA agent had arrived with the requested materials, and after placing the small block of C-4 explosive onto the door lock mechanism and inserting the detonator, Agent Kenney headed down the corridor and around the corner into F Ring, where Hendricks and Christine waited with the Marines and the two other agents. The Marines and agents drew their firearms, then Kenney pressed the trigger, its thin wire trailing to the C-4, detonating it in a rumbling explosion. A cloud of smoke engulfed the corridor, debris ricocheting off the walls. The smoke slowly cleared, and a partially open door materialized out of the haze.

  The two Marines surged forward, one stopping on each side of the door. The one on the left peered into the Operations Center, then shoved the door open and moved inside, his weapon pointed across the room.

  “Freeze!”

  The second Marine joined the first, pointing his pistol at a man at the far end of the room. There were about twenty other men and women in the Operations Center, all of them slumped in their chairs or sprawled on the floor. The lone man suddenly pressed something against his neck, then fell to his knees, collapsing against the wall.

  * * *

  As Michael Patton’s vision began to cloud, a warm satisfaction spread through his body. He would have revenge against the country that encouraged the murderers who had extinguished Theresa’s life, the country that supplied the Palestinian groups with the weapons and money that made their terror possible. His rage was intense at first, but he had learned to look at the issue dispassionately, convinced that the laws governing people’s behavior were no different from the laws of physics.

  For every action, there is a reaction.

  Israel had reacted thousands of times to the senseless slaughter of its people, their response diffuse and ineffective by the time it reached the savages who manipulated the strings of hatred. But the savages had crossed the line when their vitriolic hatred took Theresa’s life, and they would soon pay dearly. Hoover had requested a launch order be sent to the Kentucky, and Mike had complied. But he had made one small, yet significant, change to the message.

  As the darkness closed in, Patton was convinced this reaction would make a difference.

  Those responsible would finally suffer the repercussions of their actions.

  It didn’t matter that millions would die in the process.

  Mike had done the right thing.

  He was certain.

  * * *

  One Marine rushed to the front of the room, carefully checking the man for weapons and signs of life, while the other Marine and the three CIA agents checked the other personnel. Christine scanned the facility, assessing the situation, trying to determine the man’s intent and the extent of the damage inflicted. Aside from him, three other men appeared dead, a strange blue tint to their skin. The other men and women were unconscious but appeared alive as far as she could tell.

  Near the man at the front of the Operations Center was a small circular trash can with a charred black residue inside, and a sheet of paper with random letters and numbers lay next to the radio communication panel at the front of the room. Christine’s eyes shot toward the adjacent safe, spotting the two open doors, the inside barren. She immediately looked back at the communication panel, where a small green light blinked, indicating a successful transmission.

  It took barely a second for her to realize what the man had done.

  “Shut down all transmitters! Do not relay that message!”

  Hendricks reached for the phone, but Christine knew it was already too late.

  12

  USS KENTUCKY

  PENTAGON

  It was midnight aboard the Kentucky. Tom slept in his stateroom under two blankets; it was always cold in the Operations Compartment, the space kept cool to keep the electronic consoles from overheating. The stateroom was small—calling officer’s berthing aboard a submarine a stateroom was misleading. The eight-by-eight-foot room was cramped, housing three beds stacked on top of each other against one wall, two desks with ledges that folded up out of the way when not in use, and a pull-down sink. The three men couldn’t stand at the same time without bumping into each other. Still, it was far better than enlisted berthing, where each man claimed a six-foot bunk, a five-inch-deep compartment under the mattress for storing clothes and personal articles, and a three-foot-tall locker for hanging dress uniforms.

  As the senior officer in the stateroom, Tom claimed the middle bunk and Lieutenant (JG) Herb Carvahlo took the bottom, leaving newly reported Ensign Lopez to climb into and out of the top rack. Each bunk was a seventy-eight-by-thirty-inch aluminum coffin with one open side, adorned with a sliding curtain drawn shut when it was time to sleep. A bunk light, for reading in bed, was mounted on the bottom of Ensign Lopez’s rack, a scant twelve inches above Tom’s face.

  Tom slept lightly, turning onto his side. He and the rest of the crew were still adjusting to Greenwich mean time, but they would never fully acclimate. Aside from the senior officers and chiefs, the crew lived an eighteen-hour day, divided into three sections: six hours on watch and twelve off. But even if Tom had been sleeping soundly, the announcement blaring across the 1-MC would have jolted him awake.

  Alert One! Alert One! reverberated throughout the ship.

  Tom bolted out of bed as Ensign Lopez landed on the deck beside him. Carvahlo rolled out from his rack at their feet, the three of them throwing on their blue coveralls hanging behind their stateroom door. The three men hurried to Control, arriving just as Malone and the XO entered, followed quickly by the rest of the officers not on watch.

  Based on the 1-MC announcement, Tom knew they had just received an Emergency Action Message, but the Kentucky would remain in its normal watch section rather than manning Battle Stations Missile while the message was decoded. Most EAMs were informational in nature, keeping the crew abreast of political and military strife anywhere in the world with the potential to escalate to nuclear war. They would man Battle Stations Missile only upon receipt of a strike order. The watchstanders in Control waited for the submarine’s officers, operating in pairs, to decode the EAM, most likely just another routine informational message.

  Tom paired up with Carvahlo, forming the first decryption team, stoppi
ng at the forward section of Control outside the Op Center, a small room adjacent to Radio. Chief Davidson, the Radio Division Chief, eyed Tom through the peephole and opened the door, allowing Tom and Carvahlo entrance to the cramped space, capable of holding only the three of them. Tom went to the safe containing the codebooks, entered the combination, and yanked open the door. Pulling three codebooks from the safe, he handed two to the decryption teams outside the Op Center and the third to Carvahlo. He and Carvahlo would break the message, while the other two teams stood by in case additional transmissions were received.

  Chief Davidson exited the Op Center from the back door that opened into Radio, returning a moment later with the EAM, ripped off one of the Radio Room printers. Tom and Carvahlo sat at a table in the Op Center and began decrypting the random letters and numbers, character by character, translating them into English. Carvahlo wrote the decrypted message in the codebook, occasionally glancing up as Tom confirmed the proper translation of each section. Carvahlo’s pen slowed and his hand began trembling as he translated the last portion of the message. He looked up at Tom, doubt and fear in his eyes. Tom put his hand around Carvahlo’s, steadying his roommate’s hand.

  Although Tom remained outwardly calm, he struggled to keep his breathing steady. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They all knew what the submarine carried; what they were trained to do. They would launch if ordered. But did anyone really believe they would receive that order? It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, either. There was supposed to be ample warning: political unrest or conventional armed conflict that spiraled out of control. Informational messages would stream across the broadcast, keeping the ballistic missile submarines at sea informed. DEFCON would be gradually increased, the Mod-Alert submarines shifting to Alert status and the remaining ballistic missile submarines sortied to sea. They would have time to prepare mentally, ready when the order finally arrived. Not like this …

  The message had decoded properly. But it still had to be authenticated, the codes in the EAM compared to sealed codes stored in the doubled-walled safe aboard the Kentucky. Tom stood and spun the tumbler on the double safe, ensuring Carvahlo couldn’t observe the combination, and opened the outer door. He looked away as Carvahlo spun the tumbler to the inner door and opened the safe. Reaching in, Tom retrieved a thin two-inch-square packet, looking remarkably like a wet-nap, with the appropriate markings identified in the EAM. Taking the EAM and the codebook, both Tom and Carvahlo held on to the small authenticator and exited the Op Center, turning over custody of the open safe to the next pair of officers.

  As they approached Malone and the XO on the Conn, the watchstanders in Control eyed them carefully, aware from Carvahlo’s pale face that something was wrong. Tom stopped at the edge of the Conn and handed the message and the codebook to the Captain.

  Tom’s mouth was dry, his tongue thick. He spoke slowly, trying not to let his voice quaver. “We’ve received a combined Informational and Strike message. The message is a properly formatted, valid EAM.”

  Malone’s face betrayed no hint of emotion. He stood rigidly, staring at the decryption team in front of him. The XO stood next to Malone, his eyes wide, staring first at Tom, then at Malone. The Captain lowered his eyes to the codebook, which he placed between himself and the XO, waiting for the XO’s acknowledgment.

  After a long moment, the XO spoke. “Ready,” he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Ready, sir.”

  The submarine’s Commanding and Executive Officers reviewed the decoded message together in silence, verifying each section had been properly decrypted.

  “The message is a properly formatted, valid EAM,” the XO announced.

  “I concur,” Malone said.

  Tom’s eyes had drifted to the deck as the Captain and the XO verified the message was valid. But now he looked up at Malone and the XO again. It all came down to the next step. A valid EAM was only half of the requirement. For the crew to launch, it also had to be authentic—the codes at the bottom of the message had to match the codes inside the sealed authenticator. Tom prayed they didn’t.

  “Request permission to authenticate.”

  “Authenticate,” Malone replied.

  Tom peeled open the wafer he had retrieved from the safe, revealing the authentication codes. He called them out, one by one, comparing them to the codes contained in the EAM.

  The codes matched.

  “The message is authentic.” Tom forced the words out of his mouth.

  “I concur,” the XO said, followed by Malone.

  Malone stared at the decrypted EAM, digesting the message’s contents. Every pair of eyes in Control, even those of the two planesmen, rested on the ship’s Captain, awaiting his response. The submarine’s ventilation and cooling fans whirred softly in the background, and the sonar screens flickered silently behind him. Malone finally looked up and asked the decryption team to formally inform him and the XO of their orders.

  “What are the launch instructions?”

  * * *

  Inside the National Military Command Center, less than a minute had passed since Hendricks began breaking the coded message, yet it already seemed like hours. Christine paced nervously behind him, pausing to glance over his shoulder with each pass. The deputy director’s pen moved quickly as he broke the encryption, character by character, writing the message in English into the codebook. But even the English on the paper told Christine nothing; the strategic and nuclear terms were foreign to her. “What does it say?”

  Irritation momentarily flashed across Hendricks’s face. “I’m working as fast as I can, Chris. Just give me a minute.”

  Christine resumed her pacing. The two of them were alone in NMCC, aside from the seventeen unconscious and four dead men and women. Medical help had been summoned, which would arrive momentarily, greeted by the pair of Marines and the three CIA agents waiting outside. Christine didn’t want anyone listening to her conversation with Hendricks; until the message was decoded and they knew what they were dealing with, she wanted to be sure no one else became aware of the contents of the transmission.

  Hendricks’s pen stopped moving. “Dear God,” he said quietly.

  Christine peered over his shoulder. “What does the message say?”

  The phone beside Hendricks rang. “Yes?” Hendricks was silent for a few seconds. “I see.” He hung up and looked up at Christine. “We were too late. The message went out.”

  “What does it say?”

  “The Kentucky has been directed to launch.”

  Christine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. One of their submarines had been ordered to launch its missiles? Her knees turned weak and panic stabbed at her. Visions of a hasty, but well-deserved, retaliation, followed by an all-out nuclear war, flashed though her mind. Steadying herself, she gripped Hendricks’s shoulder, then sank into the chair next to him, her thoughts blank for a few seconds. But then her mind snapped into action.

  “How many missiles were released?”

  “All twenty-four.”

  “Against who?”

  Hendricks checked the message again. “She’s been assigned an Iranian target package. Her missiles will destroy the entire country.”

  Christine blinked several times, trying to comprehend what one of their Trident submarines had been directed to do. Annihilate an entire country. But relief washed over her at the same time. Iran could not retaliate, and the United States was safe. That selfish thought was accompanied by guilt; while America would emerge unscathed, Iran would be reduced to an uninhabitable wasteland. They had to stop the launch, somehow countermand the order before the Kentucky acted. “How long before they launch?”

  “If the Kentucky is within range, she’ll begin launching within minutes.”

  “We have to stop it. Can you send a cancellation message?”

  Hendricks’s eyes went to the empty safe, then to the charred residue in the trash can. “That man knew what he was doing. He destroyed all the authentication codes. I
f we send a message without the correct codes, the Kentucky will ignore it.”

  Christine began pacing again. “Is there a backup set of codes somewhere?”

  “There is, but it’ll take two hours to get them here. I’ll have the message ready to go with the exception of entering the authentication codes. But if the Kentucky is within range, there’s nothing we can do to stop her from launching.”

  Christine realized their only hope was that the Kentucky was not within launch range and would not get there within the next two hours. She looked up at the electronic display at the front of the Operations Center. Four Trident submarines were at sea in the Pacific and another four in the Atlantic. In each ocean, two submarines were in their patrol areas while two were either en route or returning. But instead of their name or hull number, each submarine symbol was labeled with a set of random characters and numbers. Which one was the Kentucky?

  “What fleet is the Kentucky assigned to?” Christine asked.

  “Pacific.”

  “Get me the SUBPAC Strategic Watch Officer.”

  * * *

  A moment later, Hendricks handed the secure handset to Christine, and a man’s voice warbled over the long-distance encrypted line. “Lieutenant Commander Coleman, SUBPAC Strategic Watch Officer.”

  “This is Christine O’Connor, National Security Adviser. I need to know if the Kentucky is in her patrol area.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. But I can’t provide that information over the phone.”

  Christine lost control, yelling into the receiver, “This is a secure phone, and if you don’t want to end up at admiral’s mast by the end of the day, you damn well better answer my question! Is the Kentucky inside her patrol area!” Her face had turned red and her fingers white as she gripped the phone.

  There was silence on the line for a few seconds before the Watch Officer answered. “No.”

  “Will she reach her patrol area in the next two hours?”

  Silence on the line again.

  “Answer my question! I don’t want to know where the submarine is, just if she’ll reach her patrol area in the next two hours! Yes or no!”