by Larry Bond
“I should say so,” he remarked. “It’s more than four times as large, and with greater destruction within the radius.” Even as he said it, a chill ran up his spine. Was he really awake? But if they wanted to hurt China and end the war, it couldn’t be helped.
“Calculating the measure of effectiveness when groups of targets are involved has been difficult,” she explained. “Kasugi’s made good progress.”
“I think you chose well. I’ll take over the oil infrastructure analysis now, since I won’t have my time taken up with supervisory duties.”
She looked confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Hisagi and Orihara both suggested that you should be the new head of the economic intelligence section. They asked me to concentrate exclusively on the Chinese economic situation. I told them I approved completely. The working group will ratify it shortly.”
“I’m honored by your confidence, sensei. I will do my best.”
* * *
Back at his desk, Komamura plopped several fat folders down, returning each one to its accustomed place. His head was clear, but he could feel his body still waking up, his energy slowly returning. He looked over at the shrine to Admiral Kubo in the corner. His first impulse was to remove it, to remove temptation and banish the sadness, but then he decided he could leave it. He’d said good-bye. It was time to move forward.
He reached for the folder with the Chinese economic data, but still hadn’t put away the hard copy with the ballistic missile targeting requirements. Both Hisagi and Orihara had made it clear that this was a “sensitive” program, meaning that knowledge of its existence should be limited, even within the alliance leadership. It was, literally, a “secret weapon.”
Ballistic missiles were offensive weapons, forbidden by Japan’s postwar constitution, but he’d argued in his book that at some point, Japan would face a circumstance that required their use, and now they found themselves in exactly that situation. Still, for it to come about so quickly, and as a consequence of his writings, was unnerving—a self-fulfilling prophecy?
He reviewed the information again. It was a powerful weapon. Even a handful would do tremendous damage, especially after the new warhead became available in a month’s time. Where before they needed dozens of cruise missiles, or three of the early Ryusei missiles to destroy an area target, the improved version could flatten a refinery with one hit, and destroy a fair amount of the surrounding landscape.
How could they do it? In his new work with the alliance, he’d become familiar with different types of weapons and their general capabilities. He understood how the Ryusei’s warhead worked, with many small charges, even as he shuddered at the damage it would inflict. But the details of the new warhead were not included, which was reasonable. It was still being developed, after all, but it was hard to imagine how anything short of …
* * *
Admiral Orihara had taken over Kubo’s old office, of course, although it held two desks now, for the admiral and his aide. The Hirano estate had never been intended to serve as the headquarters for a multinational military alliance.
Komamura stood silently at the open door for a moment. Orihara had been an aviator, and the model of Tachikaze, Kubo’s first ship, was gone. One wall was covered with photos of different Japanese aircraft. A photo of Kubo, bordered in black, had been added as well.
His aide, a lieutenant, noticed Komamura first, and stood, almost coming to attention. “Yes, Doctor?”
Struggling with several emotions, the professor did not respond right away. Reading Komamura’s troubled expression, Orihara glanced toward his aide. The lieutenant said, “I’ll bring tea,” but Komamura shook his head, still silent. At a nod from the admiral, the aide grabbed a sheaf of papers and quickly left.
“Please, come in,” Orihara urged. Once inside, Komamura closed the door carefully and sat down, feeling the admiral’s eyes on him. He felt painfully aware of what Orihara’s impression of him must be—at best, a melancholy drunk. But that could not be helped. He would not hold back.
Komamura leaned forward and laid the hard copy he’d gotten from Miyazaki in front of Orihara. “By my estimates, the improved warhead for the Ryusei has a yield of about fifteen kilotons. It’s a plutonium implosion design, correct?”
He was watching for Orihara’s reaction, and the admiral seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The improved warhead—”
“Cannot achieve the described level of destruction using any known conventional explosive,” Komamura interrupted. Now that he’d said it out loud, he felt unexpected anger, and fought to control it. “Damage over such a large area can only be achieved by a nuclear weapon.”
Orihara did not answer immediately, but instead picked up the phone and punched a number. After a short pause, he said, “Please ask Minister Hisagi to come to my office immediately.”
As he hung up, Komamura asked, “How did you get permission from the Diet? I was surprised that they approved the ballistic missile, even with a conventional warhead, but this? Wait. Do they even know?”
“The prime minister, the defense minister, and the head of the Japanese Atomic Energy Agency know,” the admiral answered. “As you can imagine, security is extremely tight.”
“Is ‘extremely tight’ good enough?” Komamura asked, his voice rising. He paused for a moment, then spoke more softly. “If China learns of a nuclear weapons program in Japan, it almost guarantees instant devastation.”
There was a knock on the door, and Orihara answered, “Come in.” Hisagi stepped inside quickly, closing the door again.
The admiral announced, “Dr. Komamura has deduced the nature of the Ryusei’s ‘improved’ warhead.”
Hisagi’s face registered surprise, then it went blank for a moment before he carefully responded. “That is unfortunate, Doctor. You were not supposed to be briefed into the project.”
“I’m not surprised. You certainly knew what my reaction would be. I’m repelled by the very idea.” Looking at the two, he asked harshly, “Are either of you truly Japanese?”
Both reacted to the insult as if they’d been slapped. The use of nuclear weapons in World War II had scarred Japan’s national psyche. You didn’t have to have family near Hiroshima or Nagasaki, or have met someone suffering from radiation-induced illness. It was enough to have been born and raised in Japan.
Orihara answered carefully, “Your opinion is respected, Doctor, even now, but this was a matter of national and alliance policy. You were never part of the decision process.”
Suddenly he felt helpless. He’d caught Orihara’s slight—“even now”—and the admiral had referred to him as an academic, instead of the “sensei” everyone else used. His message was clear. I don’t care who you are.
“I cannot imagine a Japan that possesses nuclear weapons. What about the other alliance members? Do they know?”
Hisagi answered, “They all know. Like the ballistic missiles, the weapons will be jointly owned, and based in all of the alliance countries.”
“Why not just procure some Indian ballistic missiles, then?”
“India has reservations and refused. The other nations agreed that it would be better if we developed our own nuclear technology. These will be alliance weapons, not just Japanese. We’ve had the technical capability; we’ve just chosen not to develop them.
“It will proceed very quickly. The MOX fuel used in our nuclear reactors is seven percent weapons-grade plutonium. We already have several labs at work chemically separating the element, and we only need a few kilograms for a small implosion warhead. The Indians have agreed to provide assistance, as well.”
Komamura remembered the officer working with Kasugi. “And you’re already picking out targets. It’s unbelievable.”
“We have no intention of using them,” Hisagi protested, “but think, sensei. Not a single ballistic missile has fallen on Indian soil. The reason is obvious, as is the solution. Deterrence works,
and these will be our shield against future attacks.”
“Unless the Chinese decide that seven more nations with nuclear weapons is too many,” Komamura argued. “We are frighteningly vulnerable now, with a secret worse than the existence of the alliance initially was. Remember our fears then of being discovered? If China learns of the program, she’ll immediately strike every location she can think of that might be involved in their development.”
Komamura’s own words frightened him. “And how will the alliance make them public?” he continued. “A secret deterrent is useless. How many weapons do we need to have a credible deterrent against an established nuclear superpower?”
He paused, then shook his head. “No, China will never let us get that far. Even if they don’t discover the program before it becomes operational, the moment the alliance announces it has nuclear weapons, the Chinese will have to strike!”
Hisagi and Orihara both looked grim. The minister replied respectfully, but firmly. “Your arguments, and more, were debated at length, and the decision was made by our national leaders, as is their duty.
“This is at least in part because of your work, sensei. As long as we were willing to let America guarantee our security, Japan could limit her armed forces. If we are to stand by ourselves now, as part of a military alliance, then we should build whatever we need for a proper defense.”
“Please, let me speak to the prime minister,” Komamura pleaded.
“What will you do, question his heritage as well?” Orihara responded harshly. “Put your skills to work and show us a way to break the Chinese economy. If we can do that quickly enough, then all of this is moot. One more opinion will not change anything. Events have moved forward. There is no looking back.”
13 September 2016
1300 Local Time
By Water
Halifax, Nova Scotia
He titled the piece “Shattered Trident.” Christine’s source, whom he’d dubbed “Deep Voice,” didn’t send something every day, but everything he sent was a blockbuster. The latest one had arrived less than three hours ago, and Christine was waiting for him to proof and polish the piece before giving it to her.
There. He always forced himself to read completely through each posting one final time before sending it. With the last few corrections made, he hit the “Send” link and checked his watch.
She’d use the text he wrote almost verbatim, now that she’d given him a few journalism tutorials, but she’d still have to assemble the “visuals.” That probably meant the 4:00 P.M. feed. He wouldn’t post the article until then. Their arrangement was simple. CNN was the source, so CNN got the scoop.
All the news channels, and probably many of the intelligence services, now watched his blog closely. He wasn’t the only source of information about the war, but he had broken enough stories now so that he was a known authority—an authority with excellent sources.
This article would only reinforce his blog’s status. Laird’s source had given them The Plan: a complete copy of the Chinese operations order for something called “Trident.” While the military details were fascinating, the underlying purpose and goal were frightening. It was bad enough that China had intended to seize most of the disputed territory in the South China Sea by force, but beyond that, those in the East China Sea, and then the Yellow Sea. China’s leaders had big ambitions.
What if the plan had succeeded? He tried to imagine the entire western Pacific under Communist Chinese hegemony. This posting would change the world’s attitude about China. It could have as much effect on China’s fortunes as a traditional bombing campaign.
He’d better proofread it again.
As Mac read, he imagined what the Chinese spokesman would say. It was certain that they’d be barraged with questions, just as the Littoral Alliance spokesman had been besieged after his last major release. A detailed analysis of China’s oil infrastructure and its impact on the economy had spiked Littoral Alliance claims of imminent victory, changing the public debate almost overnight. He imagined that was Deep Voice’s real goal, although Mac couldn’t see that the pronouncements by the two warring factions had improved. Each side just used what it wanted and ignored any inconvenient facts.
13 September 2016
1430 Local Time
Pearl Harbor-Hickam Joint Base
Hawaii
Commander Garcia, the sub base XO, met Patterson’s plane at Hickam with a private car. During the five-minute ride to the sub base, he briefed her on the security. “With the war, we were already at a very high level. The special weapons requirements are on top of that, of course, but they’re not attracting the kind of attention they would normally.”
Even as he described them, the car stopped at the gate to the part of Pearl Harbor that housed the sub base. A marine sentry examined all their identification thoroughly while a dog handler walked around the car. They even checked the trunk and searched her overnight bag.
The techs had decided to do the work at the base’s torpedo shop. While moving twelve nuclear warheads from inactive storage was not a simple process, moving twelve Mark 48 torpedoes was even harder, and there simply wasn’t room at the special weapons shop for twelve torpedoes, each nearly twenty feet long and weighing almost two tons.
There was more security at the torpedo shop itself, the building literally surrounded with marines, weapons at the ready. And was that a machine-gun position?
More salutes, and more identity checks at the door, but at least she’d left her overnight bag in the car. Inside, she was greeted by Captain Marino, the sub base commander, and Colonel Thomas, head of the technical team. “My people will supervise loading the torpedoes onto each sub, and the arming.”
“Did you have any problems with the authorization process?” she asked. She’d been briefed about the strict rules controlling what the United States called “special weapons.” There was the two-man rule, requiring that all work on a nuclear device, however trivial, be done by two people, and thoroughly documented, of course. Each weapon also had to be under positive control at all times. This meant that until it was to be launched at a target, a weapon was guarded at all times and could not be armed, which required authorization from the president.
Thomas explained, “President Myles has signed an executive order declaring that this use of nuclear weapons is not an attack on any country, but a ‘controlled detonation for peaceful purposes.’ The SECDEF has also verified the order. Each weapon will be prepped just before it’s put in the tube, in the presence of the sub’s captain, weapons officer, you, and myself.”
That was why she was there. She was the president’s personal representative. She carried the Permissive Action Link, or PAL security codes, for the nuclear warheads. This was definitely not the way things were done normally. But the submarines’ fire control system lacked the ability to insert the PAL code while at sea, so the codes would have to be manually entered just as the torpedo was loaded into the tube. Without a proper PAL code, a warhead could not be armed. It would be by her action that eight nuclear weapons would be detonated in the South and East China Seas. It didn’t seem quite real.
“Once we verify that the weapon is properly prepared, it goes in the tube and we padlock the tube door. The only way it leaves the tube is either by being fired, or offloaded when the sub returns to base. The captain and weapons officer of each sub will have access to the keys, in case of emergencies.”
“But the subs only have four torpedo tubes,” Patterson protested. “You’ll be tying up two of them until they get back to port. Can’t they wait to load them until they’re in position to fire?”
“Not and maintain positive control, ma’am. Too many people have access to the torpedo room. And we’ll be using three tubes, actually,” Thomas clarified. He ignored her alarmed expression.
“Each sub will have a third weapon as a spare, in case there’s a problem with either of the first two. So, yes, until they fire, they will only have one tube available for se
lf-defense. But once they do shoot, they can unlock the tube doors and use them normally.”
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or more concerned. Of course, the four boats would not be looking for a fight when they sailed, but poor Santa Fe demonstrated that plans didn’t always work out.
They walked down the length of the shop, escorted by Warrant Four Harris, the officer in charge of the facility. The interior was crowded with not only navy torpedomen, but the nuclear weapons specialists of Thomas’s team. Complex mechanisms filled every corner of the shop. The sounds of different tools combined to form a constant background to their conversation.
Harris explained that the warhead sections from the torpedoes were easily removed and replaced with an exercise module. It was a straightforward process, and was covered by established maintenance procedures. “We normally separate the sections as part of a torpedo’s overhaul.”
“They fit?” Patterson asked. It was obvious they did, but she was curious.
Harris nodded. “Easily. We’re using W-80 warheads from Air Force B61 tactical nukes. The device is smaller in diameter and shorter, so volume isn’t an issue. It’s also not that far off weight-wise. The real challenge was securely mounting the warhead inside and then figuring out how to ballast the weapon so the torpedo’s center of gravity didn’t shift. That would have thrown the guidance completely off.”
They reached the far end of the shop, where the torpedoes already converted were being cased for shipment. Thomas said, “We’ll start loading the weapons onto the trucks shortly. There’s a C-17 prepped and waiting to take the weapons, you, my team, and our security detachment to Guam. If you’d like to rest, Warrant Officer Harris’s office—”
“That’s fine,” Patterson answered. “I’d like to stay here, if that’s all right. I’ll keep out of the way.” Maybe if she watched for a while, it would begin to sink in. She’d been going through the motions, doing what needed to be done, but the enormity of it all was overwhelming. She couldn’t decide if she was in shock or had just become numb.